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 NOV 1 5 2008
 
 LI B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 V. 1
 
 Sweethearts and Wives.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/sweetheartswives01powe
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 h 
 
 MARGUERITE A. POWER. 
 
 " For love Is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals 
 thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame. 
 
 " Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a 
 man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be 
 contemned." 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES, 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 London : 
 
 Saunders, Otley, and Co., Conduit Street. 
 
 1861.
 
 F. Shoberl, Printer, 37, Dean Street, Soho, W. j
 
 9 2115 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 
 The Temples 
 
 • 
 
 r- 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 
 The Lanes 
 
 . 
 
 V 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 4 
 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 'k. 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 Iny 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 -■- 
 
 The Blokes . 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Agatha 
 
 page 1 
 
 . 21 
 
 . 32 
 
 47 
 
 . 61 
 
 ^
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Agatha Soliloquises . . page 76 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Agatha's Visit . . .92 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Hyperion , , . .108 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Hamlet and Horatio . . .125 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Selene . . . .140 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 The Wife . . . .155 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 The Sweetheart . . .167 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 A Game of Strategy . . 184
 
 CONTENTS* 
 
 CHAPTEK XIV. 
 Man versus Woman 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 A Sheep in Wolfs Clothing 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 Brother and Sister 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 Concerning Marriage under Difficulties 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 The Back Drawing-room 
 
 Vll 
 
 page 200 
 
 . 217 
 
 . 233 
 
 . 254 
 
 . 275
 
 n
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE TEMPLES. 
 
 Lord Amesbury sat by the fire in his study 
 at Burymeade Chase in the "gloamin"' of a 
 late December day, the book it was getting 
 too dark to read lying open on his knees, 
 and his eyes fixed on the glowing mass of 
 wood and coal that filled the big fireplace 
 before him, and that made all the interior of 
 the room glow too, like a smithy when the 
 bellows is at work. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 This light is sufficient to show you a face 
 to which you can see such an hour and such 
 surroundings are especially agreeable : a con- 
 templative face rather under forty, having a 
 full, smooth, somewhat rounded forehead, 
 with the light-brown hair thinning a little at 
 the temples ; large-orbited, gray, often-ab- 
 stracted eyes, a fine nose, cheeks, and chin, 
 and a peculiarly amiable though somewhat 
 irresolute mouth. An eminently handsome, 
 pleasing, and aristocratic face, but one that 
 belongs to a man more given to reflection 
 than action. 
 
 To this add a tall, slight figure, easy 
 almost to languor in its movements, and feet 
 and hands of the purest type, and Lord 
 Amesbury is before you ; leaning back in his 
 very easy chair with his fine feet crossed 
 before him, one fine hand laid on the open 
 book, the other unconsciously playing with
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 3 
 
 the ears of a beautiful retriever that lies on 
 the rug beside him. 
 
 I hate winter, yet I must confess it does 
 bring some delightful hours to those who 
 can shut out cold and gloom, and ensconce 
 themselves in an atmosphere where warmth, 
 and taste, and luxury combine to satisfy, at 
 once, one's sensuous and refined susceptibili- 
 ties. 
 
 To sit — the day's employments ended, the 
 day's dull light extinguished — in one's own 
 dear room, in one's own dear chair, watching 
 the firelight glowing lovingly on the gold- 
 lettered backs of one's own dearest books, 
 and pet bits of furniture, and much-beloved 
 odds and ends, and knick-knacks useful and 
 useless — to enjoy these with all your whole 
 heart till you begin to wish, just a little, that 
 you had somebody after your own heart to 
 enjoy them with you; and then to hear a 
 
 B 2
 
 4 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 sound that betokens an arrival ! Who can 
 it be? Somebody pleasant, probably : it is 
 chiefly bores or idle folks who, having 
 nothing to do to employ themselves during 
 the few daylight hours, think themselves 
 privileged to hinder other people's employ- 
 ments by morning visits in winter. The nice 
 ones, the sympathetic ones, the ones who, 
 having something to do worth doing, have 
 generally something to say worth hearing, 
 and who know the delights of an hour's 
 confidential chat by the firelight, seldom 
 come out much before five o'clock. 
 
 Well, I'll suppose it is one of these. He 
 or she comes in, takes the other snug place 
 you keep for such visitors, and you both 
 draw closer to the fire, and smile at each 
 other, and feel so happy and so genial 
 towards each other, that the least provoca- 
 tion in the world would make you stretch
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 5 
 
 out your hands and indulge in mutual shakes 
 for any length of time without any earthly 
 reason for such indulgence. And then how 
 you talk ! How perfectly agreeable you both 
 are — how perfectly agreeable you make each 
 other — how confidential you get — how all 
 the fibres of your physical and mental frame 
 yield and relax and lose their strain and their 
 tension ! 
 
 "Sir, we had good talk," said Johnson, 
 speaking of some social gathering : and faint 
 as are my sympathies for that burly, dirty, 
 tyrannical worthy — who was much given to 
 roar down any talk that threatened to be 
 better than his own — I must confess that I 
 think those four words expressed the enjoy- 
 ments of the meeting better than the most 
 elaborate eulogy could have done. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Lord Amesbury is 
 sitting alone in his study, waiting without
 
 6 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 the least impatience — he is never impatient 
 — till I come back to him. 
 
 Wheels sound on the gravel drive before 
 the window, and Sappho pricks her black 
 ears, runs to the casement, puts her paws on 
 the ledge, looks out, gives her tail a wave or 
 two, and comes back to inform her master 
 that the visitor is one with whom she is on 
 terms of friendship. 
 
 Presently the door opens, and the guest, 
 announced as Dr. Lane, enters; greeted by 
 Sappho with friendly wrigglings, and re- 
 peated thrusts of her cold, damp nose into 
 his hand — and by her master with a cordial 
 shake of the hand she has left free. 
 
 '' Chilly evening, my lord ; hah ! Christ- 
 mas coming on ! " the visitor says, approach- 
 ing the fire and rubbing his hands vigor- 
 ously. "Miss Temple out riding, I hear. 
 Won't hurt her if she's well wrapped up and
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 7 
 
 don't go too slow ; keep up the circulation, 
 nothing better, nothing better, possibly ; 
 plenty of air, exercise, amusement, and port 
 wine — that's the regimen for her." 
 
 " You really feel sure there's nothing seri- 
 ously wrong ? I would fain hope so ; but at 
 times she seems so languid, so dispirited ; 
 looks so ill, complains so of pain in the side, 
 palpitations of the heart — her appetite is so 
 capricious : seeing this, it is impossible not 
 to feel uneasy." 
 
 Dr. Lane was a short man, a somewhat 
 stout man, with incipient wrinkles of a solid 
 character round his waist when his frocfk 
 coat was buttoned — as it generally was — and 
 an elderly man, having strongly-marked lines 
 about his eyes and mouth, and a quantity of 
 iron-gray hair, with whiskers and bushy eye- 
 brows to match. His eyes, also gray, twin- 
 kled with the kindliest of genial humours ;
 
 8 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 his mouth and the lower part of his face be- 
 tokened a love of the good things of this 
 life, but the remarkable benevolence of the 
 mouth's expression entirely saved it from 
 coarseness or sensuali|;y, and all the lines 
 that surrounded it and the eyes, instead of 
 giving hardness to the face, seemed merely 
 so many reminiscences of the sly smiles or 
 joyous laughter, vrhose frequency seemed 
 mainly to have produced them. 
 
 Standing on the rug beside Lord Ames- 
 bury, with his back to the fire, he looked up 
 to the aristocratic face far above him, with 
 one of the arch smiles ill-suppressed. 
 
 " ril stake my head on it there's nothing 
 seriously wa^ong ! My lord, you have little 
 experience of young girls' natures : I have 
 much, at home and abroad. At your daugh- 
 ter's age the nerves and the imagination are 
 hard at work; if they've nothing to work
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 9 
 
 upon — nothing to distract their attention 
 from themselves — they run wild and the 
 result is frequently all the symptoms you 
 describe. Now, Miss Temple has nothing to 
 do — that's the fact — nothing she is forced to 
 do, and she has not energy to resolve to 
 make work for herself, and compel herself to 
 do it, and to stick to it — few girls of a sen- 
 sitive temper ment have. 
 
 *'My lord, we all want work — must have 
 it, if it's only for its own sake. Like medi- 
 cine, it's often unpalateable, often hard to 
 take, but, you see, we sicken without it. 
 Here am I, getting an old man, and a fat 
 man, and a man that dearly loves his fireside 
 and his evening nap by it, and his good bed ; 
 and that growls like a bull-dog when a pa- 
 tient, with whom often there's nothing really 
 the matter, drags him out in all weathers, or 
 at any hour of the night. 
 
 B 5
 
 10 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 *' Well, if I were by myself — which heaven 
 forbid — I dare say I should sometimes lack 
 courage for all this ; but, having a lot of 
 young mouths to feed, I must do it, and 
 when once it's done, bless you, I feel twice 
 as good a man for having done it ! If I sat 
 by the fire all day, and slept in my bed all 
 night, I know I should begin to fancy I had 
 twinges of gout and touches of dispepsia 
 and threatenings of apoplexy, and the Lord 
 knows what ! — and very likely I should have 
 'em too! No; Miss Temple is just a little 
 delicate, wants bracing and occupation, and 
 something to do and to think of; give her 
 these, and I'll answer for her health." 
 
 " Ay, but my dear Dr. Lane, how am I 
 to give them to her ? that's just the question! 
 My poor child, being the only one, and 
 having lost her mother so young, is — if you 
 call it so, as I suppose you do — a little
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 11 
 
 spoilt, and I can't, now she's getting a 
 woman, change my whole system with her, 
 and exercise an authority I did not impose 
 on her as a child. I can't 7nake a girl going 
 on to sixteen eat and drink, and take exer- 
 cise, and work, and think ! — But here she 
 comes !" Lord Amesbury added, as the sound 
 of horses' feet passed the window. " I'll 
 ring for the lamp, that you may see her 
 without being particularly called upon to 
 look at her." 
 
 The lamp came, and an instant after, a 
 slight, unformed girl in a riding-habit en- 
 tered, throwing up the veil which shrouded 
 her face. 
 
 ** Oh, papa ! uncle and I have had such a 
 delightful gallop ! " 
 
 Seeing the doctor, she stopped short, and 
 with a little embarrassment gave him her 
 hand, while the sparkle of her eye and the
 
 12 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 smile on her lip faded, though the glow on 
 her cheek refused to be so easily disposed 
 of. 
 
 The doctor glanced at Lord Amesbury, 
 who escaped the glance by looking at his 
 daughter. 
 
 "I'm delighted to hear it, my darling. 
 If you would but take such a ride every 
 day!" 
 
 "I wish I could, papa; but it would 
 knock me up dead in a week," and she 
 coughed, putting her hand to her side. 
 
 " My child, you have stayed out too late ! 
 That was very imprudent; I wonder Jolm 
 didn't think of it ! he might !" 
 
 " Oh ! it wasn't his fault ! " the girl said, 
 gradually dropping into the languid, listless, 
 suffering manner that had now become 
 almost habitual to her. " We wanted to 
 find a short cut home and lost our way.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 13 
 
 It can't be helped ; I dare say it won't make 
 me worse than before," and taking off her 
 hat wearily, and flinging it on the ground, 
 (of which occasion of exercising herself in 
 her profession, Sappho availed herself by 
 retrieving the hat and presenting it to her 
 mistress) she dropped into her father's easy 
 chair, and sighed heavily as one on whom 
 the cares and sufferings of life lay hard. 
 
 Dr. Lane might have thought of Lady 
 Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 " with boundless wealth, 
 But sickening of a vague disease," 
 
 But I'm afraid Dr. Lane with his narrow 
 income as a country practitioner, and his 
 six children, had not much time for reading 
 Tennyson. But tact and experience sup- 
 plied to him what might be wanting in lite-
 
 14 Sweethearts arid Wives. 
 
 rary attainments ; so he said, with a pro- 
 foundly sympathising air, 
 
 " Dear, dear ! this is not as it should be ! 
 I had hoped to find you better. I know we 
 can't expect you to get well all at once, but 
 
 still Let me feel the pulse — a little 
 
 brisker — that's well! but it may be the 
 exercise ; stili, if we get that even, by the 
 exercise, it is so much gained against the 
 enemy. Now, don't you think you could 
 take this exercise every day, even at the risk 
 of a little fatigue ? " 
 
 The patient shook her head. 
 
 " No, I know I couldn't ! " 
 
 ''That's a pity. You see, when young 
 ladies are ailing and fall into this feeble 
 state — can't move, can't eat — one can't tell 
 what may come of it. They don't grow, 
 don't develope, get faded, puny, nay some- 
 times become deformed ; it is a very sad
 
 Sweethearts mid Wives, 15 
 
 look out — very sad indeed ! " and the doctor 
 looked solemn and shook his head ominously, 
 while the patient, somewhat roused from her 
 languor, scanned his face with anxious 
 curiosity. 
 
 At this momsnt the door opened to a new- 
 arrival . 
 
 John Temple was Lord Amesbury's elder 
 brother by two years ; but, though his 
 mother had been a woman of low birth who 
 had died in his infancy, the late Lord Ames- 
 bury had always acknowledged him, and his 
 younger but more fortunate brother had, 
 from the time he was able to understand 
 their mutual relations, treated him, not only 
 with fraternal affection, but with a delicate 
 consideration for his trying position that 
 never for a moment was abandoned. 
 
 John Temple was a man of a widely differ- 
 ent stamp to his brother. Tall, like him, he
 
 16 Sweethearts and Whes, 
 
 was much more muscular: his dark hair 
 grew curl J, thick, and low on a flatter and 
 far less elevated brow ; his dark eyes were 
 deep-set, and had an habitually restless, 
 scrutinising expression ; his face was short, 
 pale, though not of a sickly hue ; his jaw 
 square and massive, and his mouth firm and 
 resolute. 
 
 To ordinary observers, there w^as a look of 
 power about the face that was sufficiently 
 imposing ; but to those more acute, it was 
 evident that that powder was not equally 
 balanced, and that it lay more in the will 
 than in the intellect. His movements, un- 
 like his brother's, were active and brusque, 
 his manner grave and taciturn, and his speech 
 abrupt. 
 
 On entering the room he shook hands, 
 with the briefest of salutations, with the 
 Doctor, stirred the fire violently, ran his
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 1 7 
 
 fingers quickly through his curly hair, and 
 placed himself in the middle of the hearth 
 with his back to the fire and his hands 
 behind him. 
 
 " Hah ! you're there ! " were his first 
 words, addressed to Sappho, who on his en- 
 trance had most unwillingly crawled from 
 her snug berth on the rug, and who now lay 
 under a chair at a little distance, blinking 
 with the strangely-mingled expression of 
 penitence, humility, and conscious ill-usage, 
 dogs are wont to assume in the presence of 
 those they fear. 
 
 " There's one of the best retrievers in the 
 country ruined by petting ! a dog worth 
 twenty pounds, if she's worth six- pence, 
 turned into a useless cur ! " 
 
 " Uncle, what a shame ! Why are you 
 always so bard on Saph ? Come here, my
 
 18 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 pretty one ! " and Horatia Temple stooped 
 and held out her hand. 
 
 Sappho licked her lips, tapped her tail au- 
 dibly on the floor, and taking a wide circuit 
 of John Temple, came to her mistress with 
 bent head and wriggling body. 
 
 Mr. Temple looked down on the pet with 
 a countenance of d slike and supreme con- 
 tempt. 
 
 " Bah ! sneaking cur ! fit for nothing but 
 hanging now ! " 
 
 Meanwhile Lord Amesbury and Dr. Lane 
 had been keeping up the conversation. 
 
 "And Robert?" asked the former, "how 
 is he getting on ? " 
 
 " Famously, famously ! He's no fool, the 
 lad, I can assure you ! I have the best re- 
 port of him from Mr. Masters, the architect ; 
 * Intelligent and industrious' — that's what he 
 says — his very words — and he * doubts not
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 19 
 
 will be an ornament to his profession.' And 
 that's from a man who always says less than 
 he thinks ! He's coming down this very day, 
 for his Christmas at home ; I'm going, pre- 
 sently, to meet him at the station." 
 
 " Indeed ! I'm delighted to hear it ! You'll 
 bring him to see us? I wish you, and he, 
 and your daughter, would come and eat your 
 Christmas dinner with us ; Horatia would 
 like so much to see more of Miss Lane." 
 
 " You're very good, very good indeed, my 
 lord ; I'm much flattered," he added with a 
 bow to Horatia, " but, you see, we never 
 dine from home on Christmas day; I've 
 never done it since I was married — and it 
 would be such a heartbreak to the little ones 
 to be left alone ! " 
 
 " I see, I see ! Well, you'll come some 
 other day — any one you like — Christmas 
 falls on Tuesday — will Thursday do ? "
 
 20 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 '' Do capitally ! With pleasure, with plea- 
 sure ! Well, it's getting on to six, I must be 
 off to the station. Good-bye, my lord; good- 
 bye. Miss Temple; your servant, Mr. Tem- 
 ple. I'll call again in a few days, and see if 
 my patient has been trying to exert her- 
 self!"
 
 Sweethearts and JVives. 21 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE LANES. 
 
 The Doctor trotted his pony down leisurely 
 to the station, and confiding it to the care of 
 an urchin who was wont to loiter about in the 
 hope of obtaining such jobs, he proceeded to 
 the platform to Avait the arrival of the London 
 train, which was to bring him, after an in- 
 terval of nearly six months' absence, his eldest 
 son. 
 
 Robert was the only child of his first wife, 
 who, after havino- been loved and toiled for
 
 22 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 through an engagement of seven years, had 
 survived her marriage barely one, dying soon 
 after her son's birth. 
 
 Very fond and very proud was the Doctor 
 of the young man, now three-and-twenty, and 
 very good right had he to be so ; and really, 
 where so many of us are proud of our chil- 
 dren, and of all that belongs to us without 
 the slightest right for such pride, you will 
 allow the weakness, admitting it to be one 
 very pardonable. 
 
 Dr. Lane had loved his first wife with all 
 the depth and strength of his heart, and her 
 loss had almost broken it. But he was not a 
 man who, having known the comforts of such 
 a home as, in the position he occupied more 
 especially, a wife alone could bring about him, 
 could contemplate the idea of going back for 
 ever to the loneliness of his old bachelor life, 
 or of confiding his child, while he was occu-
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 23 
 
 pied with his professional duties, solely to 
 menial care. 
 
 So when Robert was between three and 
 four, and that his father could no longer bear 
 the solitude of his home and the dirty pina- 
 fores of his son, he began to look about him 
 for some one who would set these matters 
 right effectually, and ere long found exactly 
 what he required, in the person of a pretty, 
 sensible, staid damsel of five-and-twenty. 
 
 An excellent wife she made him, and an 
 excellent mother to Robert and to five chil- 
 dren of her own, that followed within the 
 next twelve years ; then, when her eldest 
 daughter. Ivy, was fourteen, and her youngest, 
 Mary, was two, her health, never robust, 
 failed her, and she faded away and died 
 quietly, as women often die, without any one 
 being able to name any specific malady that 
 has killed them. Then it was on the frail
 
 S4 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 shoulders of Ivy that fell the chief weight of 
 household and maternal cares : how they hore 
 it, remains to be seen. 
 
 The rest of the family consisted at the period 
 of which I write, two years after Mrs. Lane's 
 death, of a boy of fourteen, George, home 
 from school for the Christmas holidays; Hope, 
 a girl of twelve ; a second boy, Harry, of 
 nine, and Mary, yet bearing the habitual 
 appellation of baby, though four years old. 
 
 Up and down the platform the Doctor 
 walked, stamping to keep his feet warm. 
 
 Hazlehurst was a quiet little station, trou- 
 bled with small traffic beside what itself fur- 
 nished, and that was not much to speak qf. 
 The first turn in any of the roads or lanes 
 that led to it, so shut out all indication of 
 its existence, that you might fancy yourself a 
 hundred miles from any railway at all ; for 
 the line here lay through a cutting, and only
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 25 
 
 at times the roar of the train's march, or the 
 shrill warning of its whistle informed you of 
 its vicinity. In the intervals between the 
 passing of the trains, a spirit of repose, 
 amounting almost to drowsiness, lay on the 
 station. The ticket- giver, a gaunt lad, with 
 hollow cheeks, strongly marked gums, and 
 thin red hair; yet, withal, of a supercilious 
 carriage, and, in his manner, as he silently 
 threw you your ticket, rung on the counter 
 the coin you offered in exchange, or briefly 
 afforded you any information you required, 
 showing a half resigned consciousness that he 
 was born for better things, came out of his 
 box, and lounged gloomily over the small fire 
 in winter, or on the sunny platform in summer, 
 quite heedless of comers and goers. The 
 civil station-master went on with the cultiva- 
 tion of his little garden as if he had not the 
 least anticipation of being disturbed therein 
 VOL. I. C
 
 26 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 for the rest of the day. Other fustian or 
 corduroy jacketed officials hung about, smok- 
 ing, or read old newspapers the trains had 
 coni'eyed there, or held long conversations on 
 the subjects of wheat, 'taters, prices, and 
 wages, with small farmers or labourers out of 
 work, who, somehow, found the station, espe- 
 cially about evening, lay in the way of their 
 business, or vaguely hoped that a visit there 
 might put them in the way of " hearing 
 something to their advantage." 
 
 Then came a distant bur-r-r along the 
 line ; you found that the unappreciated ticket- 
 giver had, in a melancholy and self-devoted 
 manner, conveyed himself back into his box, 
 and was, without a complaint, or the smallest 
 evidence of hurry, calmly, not to say con- 
 temptuously, delivering tickets and change to 
 one or two agonized individuals, who, come 
 what hour they would to the station, were
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 27 
 
 always labouring under the terrible convic- 
 tion of being just too late. 
 
 You saw the station-master prepare to lay- 
 aside his pruning-knife and bundle of strings 
 of bass-mat ; the official charged with that 
 office ring his bell, the rest break off, one in 
 the middle of the account of the man who 
 beat his wife to death at Islington (in respect 
 of which event he thinks, perhaps, if the 
 victim had such a tongue as some women he 
 know'd on, there might be a good deal to be 
 said 'tother side o' the question), some in the 
 discussion of the causes and cure of the 
 potato disease, or the problem, wiser and 
 more dispassionate heads have, almost since 
 the expulsion of Adam from Paradise, failed 
 to solve, that of how the land is to be made 
 feed all those living on it. 
 
 Meanwhile the bar-r-r gets louder, in- 
 creasing, as it emerges from the tunnel, to a 
 
 C 2
 
 58 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 roar ; everybody stands quietly expectant on 
 the platform ; on comes the train bearing 
 down on them in a way that makes timid 
 travellers retire a few paces, and women take 
 a tighter grasp of their children's hands ; and 
 with strong yet tempered majesty, ''Light- 
 ning," or " Boreas," or " Spitfire," draws up 
 before the station, with its attendant line of 
 carriages, to the inmates of which an official 
 shouts something that sounds as much like 
 Hazlehurst as it does like Rhadamanthus, and 
 doors are opened and shut, and a few people 
 get in or get out, and friends being left behind 
 shout to friends departing to ''be sure to 
 write," a mode of communication which has, 
 apparently, first struck the speaker as feasible 
 at that moment of supreme adieux. 
 
 But the Doctor has been pacing up and 
 down more than ten minutes, and is getting 
 decidedly impatient ; after the third reference
 
 Siveethearts and Wives, 29 
 
 to his watch, drawn out with considerable 
 effort from the recesses of his waistcoat 
 pocket, where it lies buried under much 
 wrapping, he stops in front of the bench 
 where the station-master, in default of more 
 active exercise in his favourite occupation, is 
 reading the '' Gardener's Chronicle," and 
 remarks that the train is late. 
 
 The civil functionary touches his hat, rises, 
 deposits the journal in his pocket, looks up 
 the line and assents, with an air of being in 
 some degree responsible for the delay, and 
 penitent thereat ; which disarms the Doctor, 
 and induces him, in an unguarded moment, to 
 inquire if the venerable maternal parent of 
 his interlocutor still suffer from her old 
 attacks. Now, the station-master being of 
 necessity much from home, and of a confiding 
 turn of mind, is wholly unsuspicious of the 
 fact that the "attacks" in question proceed
 
 30 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 from the elderly lady's too frequent habit of 
 keeping her spirits up by pouring spirits 
 down, while the circumstance is well known 
 to the Doctor, though his consideration for 
 the son's feelings prevents him from hinting 
 such knowledge. The account of the ancient 
 dame's sufferings, therefore, seems little 
 likely to wile away the tedious moments, 
 and the Doctor's impatience is fast reaching 
 its climax, when a sound, half boom, half 
 bur-r-r, borne on the still evening air a long 
 way down the cutting, greets his eager ears, 
 and soon two red eyes that, owing to the 
 misty darkness shutting out all stationary 
 objects by which their speed might be mea- 
 sured, seem to advance but slowly, come 
 steadily along the line ; and in another minute 
 father and son, who would like much to 
 embrace, were not such a proceeding un- 
 worthy the dignity of men and Britons, shake
 
 Siveethearts and Wives, 31 
 
 hands as if they never could have enough of 
 it, and talk and laugh, and ask questions in 
 the fulness of their hearts, without quite 
 knowing what they are saying, or the least 
 expecting to get answers. And then Robert's 
 portmanteau secured, the two walk off to- 
 gether, and the Doctor, in his joy, gives a 
 brio'ht shillinor to the astonished and de- 
 lighted urchin, who feels, let us hope, for 
 the honour of human nature, a twinge of 
 remorse for having lightened the tediousness 
 of his watch by teasing the pony all the 
 time he has had the charge of her ; and she, 
 enchanted to be released from such custody, 
 and to find her head turned homew^ards, puts 
 her shoulder to the collar in right good 
 earnest, and without need of word or lash, 
 trots home at such a pace, that you may see 
 the steam rise from her white through the 
 gray mist of the winter's evening.
 
 32 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IVY. 
 
 Ivy Lane is not yet seventeen ; on her, as I 
 have said, devolves the care of the whole 
 household ; and where children are much 
 more numerous than servants, where the 
 means are not large, and where comfort and 
 order are looked upon as the grand desidera- 
 tum, such a responsibility, with its attendant 
 cares, lies not light on frail young shoulders. 
 But Ivy has got used to it, and smiles when 
 you pity her, and works on, as she does 
 everything, with all her heart.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 33 
 
 I have never seen but one face like Ivy's, 
 and I find it difficult to render in words any- 
 thing like a correct idea of its peculiarities. 
 The forehead was large altogether, but the 
 temples were particularly developed; the eyes, 
 of a liquid gray, well-opened, and with remark- 
 ably extended pupils, were also very large; and 
 the nose fine and delicate almost to excess, so 
 closely was the skin drawn over tlie bone, yet 
 happily escaped any disposition to the aquiline. 
 
 The mouth, the chin, and the whole of the 
 lower part of the face, had the peculiarity of 
 being fined down into what, in a less harmo- 
 nious face, would have shown the slight dis- 
 proportion they, according to rule, held to 
 the upper. Yet, as in certain pictures of 
 Reynolds's, this very disproportion added a 
 new charm, by the importance it gave to the 
 more intellectual portion of the face, and the 
 excessive refinement it indicated. 
 
 5
 
 34 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 Her hair was a light brown, very silky, 
 long, and thick, with reflections of a reddish 
 gold on it; her eyebrows darker, her eye- 
 lashes almost black. Her skin was of that 
 translucent fairness you see in the interior of 
 the newly-broken shell of a fresh e,gg, with a 
 pale pink colour coming and going in the 
 cheek ; a skin through which every blue vein 
 is distinctly visible, and that is too thin and 
 clear ever to show a fixed dead white. 
 
 But the expression was, perhaps, the most 
 remarkable thing in the face. Whether it 
 was altogether natural, or increased by the 
 anxieties of her daily life, it is hard to say ; 
 but there it was, rarely relaxing but in sleep. 
 An expression of timid earnestness, amount- 
 ing almost to eagerness ; you saw it, above all, 
 in the large clear eyes, but it was visible, too, 
 in the mouth, seldom closed — as in the 
 mouth of one who listens — and appearing
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 35 
 
 ever ready to interrogate; an expression 
 such as I remember to have seen in the face 
 of a singularly intelligent deaf and dumb 
 child, who sought to read in the faces and 
 gestures of all around her the meaning their 
 words were powerless to convey to her. 
 
 Her figure was entirely in character with 
 her face ; rather below than above the middle 
 height, slight, active, and agile ; rapid in all 
 its movements, with the airy grace of a bird, 
 and though yet too thin, perfectly propor- 
 tioned : and she had little, long, slender, 
 taper hands, with rosy palms and beau- 
 tifully-finished nails and finger-tips ; and 
 fine, nervous, arched feet, that seemed ever 
 ready to spring off to the performance 
 of some forgotten task, some unperformed 
 duty. 
 
 Such was Ivy Lane in her seventeenth 
 year; strangely contrasted in appearance
 
 36 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 with the homely household over which she 
 presided, yet not less strangely fitted for the 
 task she had to perform in it, so far as skill, 
 willingness, and untiring energy could go. 
 It might be a question how the constant 
 strain, thus early laid on mind and body, 
 might, in the course of years, affect her ; as 
 yet, however, she showed no evidence of its 
 doing so unfavourably. 
 
 George, the next in age, was a goodish- 
 looking, curly-headed lad, whose natural 
 taste for practical jokes, cricket, and foot- 
 ball, two years at a public school had notably 
 developed. 
 
 Then came Hope, beautiful Hope, wdth 
 large dark hazel eyes, and nut-brown hair, 
 and rich carnation colouring; beginning, at 
 twelve years old, to have a pretty clear con- 
 sciousness of the fact that she was beautiful, 
 and betraying it by a rage for sticking the
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 37 
 
 most incongruous ornaments on her simple 
 dress, and in the introduction of constant 
 novelties of a fantastic character in the 
 modes of dressing her hair; a custom per- 
 sisted in, despite the gentle remonstrances of 
 Ivy and the criticisms, more facetious than 
 complim^entary, of her father and George. 
 
 Harry was a good boy, a plodding boy; 
 steady, honest, dull, and dirty. And Mary 
 was a fine, healthy, wholesome child, 
 thoroughly good-tempered, though she could 
 get in a rage on occasions, as all vigorous 
 children of her years are wont to do : com- 
 fortable to nurse and kiss, and taking nursing 
 and kissing kindly. 
 
 Ivy is just finishing her preparations for 
 the arrival of her father and brother. I pre- 
 sent her as she comes from the kitchen, 
 where she has been makino: the famous win- 
 ter salad that Robert's heart rejoices in with
 
 38 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 the roast chicken, and supervising the culi- 
 nary department in general. 
 
 Her cheeks are flushed with warmth and 
 excitement, and happy expectation, and her 
 eyes look larger, and brighter, and more ear- 
 nest than ever, as she comes into the little 
 sitting-room untying the large white linen 
 apron that has been put on during her late 
 labours to preserve the spotlessness of her 
 neat linsey-woolsey gown. She looks round 
 the room, draws the curtains closer, stirs the 
 fire into a roaring glow, and sweeps back 
 the few embers that have fallen since that 
 operation was last performed. 
 
 " Georgy, dear, as soon as you hear the 
 chaise you'll run and open the door. Hopie, 
 dear child, for goodness sake try and do 
 something to your hair before they come ! 
 it's a perfect sight ! And that glass brooch, 
 and that sash ! what will Robert say ! Now,
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 39 
 
 Harry, my man, you must get your boat out 
 of the way, and clear off all those chips and 
 shreds, and, above all things, have a clean 
 face and hands. Baby, my bird, come here 
 and let me take off your dirty pinafore — 
 that's a lady ! Kiss sissy — love her well — 
 both arms- — that's it — that's the way to kiss 
 brother Robbie ! Well," with another look 
 round the room, ** they may come now as 
 soon as they like !" 
 
 The measured trot of the pony and the 
 roll of the wheels soon made themselves 
 heard, and a general cry of " Here they 
 are!" attended with much excitement, fol- 
 lowed. Georgy rushed to perform his part 
 of the programme, nearly oversetting Harry, 
 who had a peculiar knack of always employ- 
 ing his person or his chattels as stumbling- 
 blocks in all seasons of stir or hurry, Hopie, 
 who had made a triflinof alteration in her
 
 40 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 coiffure, gave a last glance at the little old- 
 fashioned oval mirror over the mantelpiece, 
 to judge of the effect, and then followed Ivy, 
 who, bearing baby in her arms, as the only 
 chance of her escaping being run down and 
 overwhelmed in the general melee about to 
 ensue in the narrow entrance, sped to greet 
 the travellers. 
 
 Not without difficulty did the family make 
 its way back to the sitting-room, where 
 Robert, duly installed in the best arm-chair, 
 with baby on his knee, looking up with shy 
 inquiry in his face, and the other children 
 grouped round him, sat, the universal centre 
 of lovino' and admirino- attention. 
 
 His father, with a beaming face, stood 
 with his back to the fire contemplating the 
 cluster of fair young heads. Ivy, with feel- 
 ings hardly less parental (though Hopie's 
 glass brooch and lingering touch of self-con-
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 41 
 
 sciousness disturbed her a little), sat on the 
 opposite side of the hearth, bent forward, 
 with her elbows on her knees, and such a 
 world of love -in her eyes that it softened 
 into melting tenderness the quick anxiety 
 that was now becoming almost their habitual 
 expression. 
 
 Robert looked at her with admiring affec- 
 tion. 
 
 *' What a woman you have grown. Ivy, 
 since I was here last." 
 
 *' Yes, hasn't she?" said the Doctor, turn- 
 ing, literally, the light of his countenance on 
 her ; ^' and such a housewife, keeps us all in 
 such order ! bullies 7ne worst of all — don't 
 you, old childy ?" 
 
 Blushing, and with yet more liquid eyes, 
 Ivy wound her arms round her father's by no 
 means slender form, and stood with her cheek 
 leaning on his breast, while he stroked down
 
 42 SweetlieaTts and Wives. 
 
 the rich nut-brown hair in a silence that was 
 only broken when baby, not feehng quite at 
 ease on the strange brother's knee, and in- 
 spired with an idea by Ivy's movement, 
 quietly slid down from her post, and standing 
 at her father's feet with upturned eyes and 
 arms, mutely petitioned to " be taken." 
 
 ^' You great lump of love !" the Doctor 
 said, " must you be really a baby all your 
 life ? You're getting far too big and heavy 
 to be nursed, especially by your fat old father 
 after a hard day's work." 
 
 Nevertheless he took her in his arms, from 
 which altitude she contemplated her brother 
 more at her ease. 
 
 One more stealthy run into the kitchen, 
 one more rapid glance over the dinner 
 arrangements, one more final word of direc- 
 tions to the cook, and to the brisk little 
 handmaid who formed, with an out-door
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 43 
 
 boy to tend garden, cow, and pony, the whole 
 of the Lane establishment, and Ivy, with a 
 mind at ease as concerned the prandial pre- 
 parations, returned to relieve her father's 
 hungry impatience with the assurance that 
 dinner was just coming in. 
 
 They sat down to it four, Georgy as visitor, 
 being admitted to the honour of sharing the 
 "big people's" feast; while by the fire sat 
 Hopie, her whole attention engrossed in the 
 dressing of a doll in a costume she would 
 fain herself have adopted ; a costume of a 
 composite, not to say fantastic order, bearing 
 resemblance, in its different parts, to the 
 Elizabethan, the Turkish, and the Swiss 
 peasant. 
 
 Opposite to her Harry, on the hearthrug, 
 toiled with grave laboriousness on the 
 hemming of the sails of a boat, the building 
 of which had unceasingly occupied his hours
 
 44 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 of leisure during the last fortnight, and over 
 which he had broken so many penknife 
 blades, scarified his hands in so cruel a manner, 
 and strewn the house and yard with so pro- 
 digious an amount of shavings, chips, rags, 
 and general litter, that Ivy's patience had 
 many times been hardly put to the proof. 
 There he sat, rosy and fat, his brows, in the 
 intensity of his attention, contracted, his 
 tongue working about the interior of his 
 jaws, the stumpy dirty fingers of his left 
 hand holding the rag with an elaborate awk- 
 wardness of which no words could give any 
 description, while those of the right were yet 
 more painfully occupied in passing the needle 
 to and fro through the fabric, half a stitch at 
 a time, as work on a frame is executed. 
 
 Meanwhile baby employed herself in light 
 skirmishing about the room, alternately inter- 
 rupting the labours of Hopie and Harry, by
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 45 
 
 vain endeavours to fit different articles of the 
 doll's attire on herself, and tumbling over the 
 boat-builder's legs, and by making little 
 visits not exempt from foraging views, to the 
 dinner table, till warned by a glance from 
 Ivy that such conduct w^as not considered 
 consistent with a promise to be as good as 
 gold, if allowed to remain in the room during 
 dinner. With a sigh of resignation, there- 
 fore, she took a seat beside Harry on the 
 rug, and conned a picture-book, m.aking her 
 criticisms thereon aloud, but without any 
 regard to the degree of attention accorded to 
 her by the company. 
 
 After dinner, questions on matters of 
 house-interest all asked and answered. Dr. 
 Lane mentioned Lord Amesbury's invitation, 
 and his wish that his daughter might better 
 her acquaintance with Ivy. Ivy blushed, as 
 was her wont, whenever there was a question
 
 46 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 of herself, and said she should like it, if she 
 had time; but she hadn't time, unfortunately. 
 " But, my child, we must contrive to make 
 a little time for you," the Doctor said ; " I 
 can't have you a slave perpetually, and this 
 will not only do you good, which, of course 
 is the last thing you would think of in the 
 matter, but is likely to do much more good 
 to this poor, wayward, spoiled child, who 
 being used to nothing but petting and idle- 
 ness, wants to have brought before her such 
 examples and such realities as none better 
 than you can bring. So next time I go, I'll 
 take you. Robert would do well to walk up 
 to Burymeade before the end of the week. 
 When Lord Amesbury speaks kindly and 
 with interest of anybody, he means it."
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 47 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE BLARES. 
 
 John Temple seldom interfered or interested 
 himself much in the in-door arrangements of 
 the Burymeade household ; but, as Lord 
 Amesbury's pursuits Avere chiefly sedentary, 
 and, as such, entirely opposed to his brother's 
 tastes, it perfectly suited both that Mr. 
 Temple should take on himself the whole 
 charge of stable, coach-house, and sporting 
 department; and, as we have seen in the 
 case of Sappho, any interference with his
 
 48 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 rule or privileges, even on the part of Lord 
 Amesburj himself, was, to his umbrageous 
 temper, a cause of offence not easily for- 
 gotten or forgiven; and many a curse and 
 kick had warned the poor dog, all uncon- 
 scious of offence, that she must learn to give 
 him she had first regarded as her master, a 
 wide berth. 
 
 A party had been invited to spend the 
 Christmas at the Chase ; but though all the 
 invitations had long been sent out, and all 
 the answers duly received, it was not till the 
 day after that on which this tale begins, that 
 Mr. Temple chose to make any inquiries in 
 the matter. And this he did while sitting 
 alone with his niece shortly after breakfast. 
 
 "Who are coming?" Horatia said, in 
 answer to his question; " let me see. There's 
 the Armytages, and Lord Ascham and 
 Charley, and Lady Georgina Grant and her
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 49 
 
 daughter, and Mr. Trevelyan, and Sir Eichard 
 Linton, and — who else ? Oh ! the Blakes." 
 
 '' The Blakes ?" 
 
 ■'^Yes." 
 
 " I thought your father didn't like them." 
 
 " No, he doesn't, much. But when we 
 were in town in the summer, they were very 
 civil, and always asking us, and so he thought 
 we must ask them once while we were 
 here." 
 
 " And don't you like them ?" 
 
 " Middling. Mr. Blake is too smooth and 
 sweet for me, and I can't help thinking the 
 mother a bit of an intriguante. '' 
 
 " But— Miss Blake ?" 
 
 "I don't know what to make of her. 
 She's so magnificently handsome, that her 
 beauty dazzles me, and I can hardly, when 
 I'm with her, see or think of anything else 
 but of that and her wonderful fascination. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 SweethearU and Wives. 
 
 But when I am away from her — I feel — I 
 don't know how or why — that I don't care 
 about her — that I don't quite believe in her." 
 " Upon my word !" John said, resuming 
 " The Times," with a short, dry laugh, " you 
 seem to have a flattering opinion of your 
 friends ! the father a humbug, the mother an 
 intriguante, the daughter — why is it that 
 women must always pick flaws in each 
 other?" 
 
 " In the first place, uncle, they are not my 
 friends. In the second, you ask my opinion 
 point blank, and I can but give it, or at least 
 my impression, which I do without prejudice, 
 OT any desire to ' pick flaws.' Possibly, if I 
 knew Agatha Blake better, L might like her 
 better. We shall see." 
 
 John Temple vouchsafed no answer, but 
 continued to read "The Times," as if its 
 perusal had chased alFother subjects from his
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 51 
 
 mind. But as he rose to pay his morning 
 visit to the stables and kennel, he paused for 
 an instant with the door in his hand, and 
 inquired, 
 
 " When do they all come, and who comes 
 first?" 
 
 *'Sir Richard and the Grants come to- 
 morrow, the Armytages, Mr. Trevelyan, Lord 
 Ascham and Charley on Thursday, and I'm 
 not sure whether the Blakes come on that 
 day or Saturday ; we shall hear, probably, 
 by to-morrow's post." 
 
 Mr. Temple proceeded with even a quicker 
 step than was his wont to the stables. 
 
 *' How gets on Shamrock ?" he asked of 
 the groom ; " that leg all right again?" 
 
 " All right, sir," the man replied, rubbing 
 down the member in question. " 'Twasn't 
 nothin' but just a little swellin'; the bandage 
 has set it all right at once; /know'd there 
 
 D 2 
 
 SnV;^ .
 
 52 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 wasn't no harm in it. Bless you, sir, he's as 
 sound as e'er a hoss alive, and as fresh as a 
 four-year-old; look at the coat of him, sir; like 
 a lookin' glass, and he not dipt this season. 
 He'd be all the better of a little work, sir." 
 
 " I intend to give him some ; I mean him 
 to carry a lady to the hounds." 
 
 " She must be an uncommon rider, sir, to 
 mount Shamrock, 'specially fresh as he is 
 now," the man said, doubtfully. 
 
 '' Never you mind about that," his master 
 replied, and proceeded on his tour of in- 
 spection. 
 
 In due time the guests were assembled at 
 Burymeade Chase ; but as only the Blakes 
 are likely to play any important part in this 
 chronicle, I shall confine myself to describing 
 them alone. 
 
 Mr. Blake might be considered, with equal 
 justice, as the son of somebody or the son of
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 53 
 
 nobody. He might be regarded in the latter 
 point of view, inasmuch as his parentage was 
 a mystery, to which he never alluded, and 
 which no one had ever been able to fathom ; 
 while, on the other hand, as it was quite 
 clear that some unseen, though powerful 
 protection was exercised over him with a 
 more than ordinary interest and constancy, 
 it seemed probable that the former conclusion 
 was no less well founded. 
 
 Mr. Blake, at four or five-and-fifty, was a 
 smooth-spoken, insinuating gentleman, with 
 a bald head, a tolerable stock of general 
 information, of considerable skill as a lin- 
 guist, very plausible manners, and some expe- 
 rience, if not much talent, as a diplomatist, 
 be having followed that career in various 
 foreign courts since the mysterious protec- 
 tion had got him appointed attache at Paris, 
 when a mere boy ; since which, despite his
 
 54 Sweethearts arid Wives. 
 
 having no family, no visible interest, little 
 money and but ordinary abilities, he had 
 worked his way up with a steadiness, a con- 
 stancy, and a success that never failed him. 
 
 At Venice, he had fallen in with the beau- 
 tiful daughter of an old and noble family, 
 possessed of considerable influence, and some 
 fortune, and here his usual luck attended 
 him, for on his making his proposals, the 
 result of the renseignements taken by the 
 family was an immediate consent to the 
 union, on the single condition that any 
 daughters springing from it should follow 
 the religion of the mother; a condition to 
 which Mr. Blake agreed without the smallest 
 difficulty, and which Mrs. Blake, residing in 
 a Protestant country, saw^ not the slightest 
 necessity for the execution of. 
 
 Mrs. Blake still retained much of her 
 beauty, and of the peculiar fascination that
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 55 
 
 belongs to Venetian women ; a fascination 
 which to men is generally irresistible, and 
 which, it was said, had been exercised on 
 various occasions, with infinite success, in the 
 still further advancement of her husband's 
 fortunes, and in the interests of the family 
 generally. 
 
 Of the two children born to this favoured 
 couple, the elder, a son, was following in his 
 father's footsteps with all his father's good 
 luck; and the second, the Agatha Blake 
 mentioned a few pages back, was doing her 
 best to turn her very remarkable beauty 
 and powers of fascination to the utmost 
 advantage. 
 
 Yet she had reached the age of five-and- 
 twenty, not unsought, assuredly, but un- 
 matched, and without any present prospect 
 of changing her state. 
 
 Somehow or other, men, generally speak-
 
 56 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 ing, were afraid of her; not as a partner at a 
 ball, not in the hunting-field, not as the 
 principal character in private theatricals, 
 charades, tableaux, &c., but certainly, with 
 the exception of some few whom she suc- 
 ceeded in enthralling past all exercise of 
 their natural powers of judgment, men did 
 feel, instinctively, that the qualities she 
 possessed would not stand the wear and 
 tear of daily life. Do what she would, mix 
 as she might in the best society, her claims 
 to do so unquestioned, she could never get 
 rid of that faint and undefined, yet still 
 perceptible dash of adventurism — to coin a 
 word for the occasion — that hung about the 
 whole family. 
 
 More than this, as with most women of 
 Italian blood, her influence rarely extended 
 beyond her presence, and many a man who, 
 over-night, at a ball, had come dangerously
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 57 
 
 near losing his head to the point of popping 
 the question, heartily rejoiced next morning 
 that that little instinctive sense of mistrust 
 that had never, even in the moment of his 
 wildest infatuation, wholly deserted him, had 
 saved him from so committing himself. 
 
 Yet there were exceptions to this rule, 
 and John Temple was one. He had met 
 her in London (whither he seldom went, 
 his moody disposition, and abrupt speech and 
 manners, increased by a constant conscious- 
 ness of the falseness of his position, causing 
 him to find little enjoyment in society), and 
 though these meetings were few, and dated 
 two years back, she had made an impression 
 on him that had never been effaced. 
 
 He had never attempted to improve the 
 acquaintance, had never sought her, or paid 
 her any attention. But after seeing her 
 some half a dozen times, gazing at her at a 
 
 D 5
 
 58 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 distance till every tint, and lineament, and 
 expression of her face, every wave of her 
 warm auburn hair, every line and turn of her 
 splendid figure was known to and remem- 
 ])ered by him, he suddenly, like some wild 
 creature that has been stricken and retires to 
 the deepest part of the forest to die or be 
 healed, as nature may decide, left London 
 and returned alone to Burymeade, whence 
 nothing could induce him to stir up to the 
 present'period. 
 
 His niece's announcement of the Blakes' 
 anticipated arrival came upon him with an 
 unexpectedness that almost shook his wonted 
 power of self-control. 
 
 In former years. Lord Amesbury, who had 
 passed some of his early life in the diplo- 
 macy, had been under Mr. Blake, but no 
 very cordial feeling had ever existed between 
 them, and as Lord Amesbury had early left
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 59 
 
 the career, and that Mr. Blake's duties kept 
 him chiefly abroad, they had nearly lost sight 
 of each other for long. 
 
 Meeting, however, in London, Lord Ames- 
 bury being a widower, and in all respects a 
 particularly eligible match, Mr. Blake's remi- 
 niscences of their early acquaintance took the 
 most expansive and affectionate turn. He 
 had a thousand recollections of the happy 
 days of their youth ; his wife clothed her 
 handsome face in sweetest smiles for the 
 friend of her husband, and Agatha put forth 
 her fairest looks, her most winning ways, her 
 sweetest songs for the benefit — exclusively 
 for the benefit of the spoiled darling, to win 
 whose heart was to have the clue that led 
 the way straight to her father's. How far 
 she succeeded, we have already seen. Still, 
 Lord Amesbury, kind-hearted, goodnatured, 
 and little given to vanity and suspicion —
 
 60 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 especially free from that vanity and suspicion 
 common to vulgar minds in all conditions of 
 life, that might lead him to think that to the 
 advantages of his position he might attribute 
 any friendly demonstrations on the part of 
 those less highly placed, felt something like a 
 vague sense of gratitude to these people for 
 their goodwill, and in a manner bound to 
 repay hospitalities which had afforded him 
 small satisfaction, and which had been much 
 more freely and frequently offered than 
 accepted.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives » 61 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AGATHA. 
 
 It was the night of the arrival of the Blakes 
 at Burymeade Chase, and John Temple sat 
 down by the fire in bis room, buried in a 
 profound reverie. 
 
 Put into words it might have run thus : — 
 *' Sometimes a man seeks his destiny, 
 sometimes it follows him. A destiny we all 
 have — the thing is to find it out, and having 
 found it, to pursue it straight on with might 
 and main, straight on to the end, whatever
 
 62 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 that may be. If we turn to the right, or to 
 the left ; if we hesitate, if we allow ourselves 
 to be baffled by obstacles, we do not, it is 
 true, alter the main course of our destiny ; 
 but we lose time, we weaken ourselves and 
 put further off the goal we desire to reach. 
 But we must do nothing hastily, and never, 
 if possible, make a step we shall have to 
 retrace. 
 
 " I dared not think, when two years ago I 
 saw that girl, that she could ever be to me 
 more than the dream she has through those 
 two years been, and believing thus, and feel- 
 ing how frightfully strong was the hold she 
 already had on me, I knew there was nothing 
 for it but to fly while the power to do so was 
 left me. So I fled from my destiny, and 
 now my destiny has pursued and found me 
 out, and brought her before me. 
 
 " Before me, in all her incomparable loveli-
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 63 
 
 ness. What a woman ! what a perfect crea- 
 tion ! what a very incarnation of woman's 
 perfections. 
 
 " Nothing meagre, nothing incomplete, no- 
 thing faint, or cold, or pale about her ! every 
 shape, every tint full and rich, and bounte- 
 ous, and glowing ! her very hair as instinct 
 with life, and light, and warmth as sunbeams ! 
 and those red-brown eyes, and those lips and 
 teeth, and the dimple at the corner of her 
 mouth. 
 
 " I might have guessed it was not for no- 
 thing that the memory of all these haunted 
 me, kept as vivid and as distinct in my heart 
 as to-day I saw them. Well, I am persuaded 
 now that the possession of that woman is 
 the destiny that lies before me, and slowly 
 and steadily, and in the face of every earthly 
 obstacle, so long as we both shall live, I will 
 pursue it. And from this day forth, come
 
 64 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 what may, as mine one day, mine, sooner or 
 later, I regard her." 
 
 Agatha's thoughts ran in a strain not 
 quite in accordance with John Temple's. 
 
 She sat, the maid who served her and her 
 mother dismissed, in the luxurious room pre- 
 pared for her, the volumes of the hair that 
 was truly "a glory to her" sweeping down 
 nearly to the ground, her eyes reflectively 
 fixed on the fire, and thus ran her cogita- 
 tions — 
 
 " To be mistress of this house, with a title, 
 a splendid fortune, an assured position, and a 
 good, easy man for a husband — a handsome 
 man, and a gentleman too. Very pleasant, 
 and well worth the trying for, if the chances 
 of success seem to strengthen. But I have 
 tried so often, and failed so often — it is such 
 wearisome, sickening work ! and to be drilled 
 by father, and trained by mother, and petted
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 65 
 
 or snubbed according to the amount of hope 
 or disappointment I cause. Heaven knows 
 whatever I get, I shall have earned it hardly. 
 Sometimes I get so heart-sick, so disgusted 
 with the whole thing, that I feel as if I should 
 like to throw up the game—'jeter mon bonnet 
 par dessus les moulins, and if I could find 
 some one I really cared for, and that cared 
 for me, and would give himself to me heart 
 and soul, without reserve or thought for any- 
 thing on earth but me, I should like to say to 
 him, ' Take me, I am yours to live or to die,' 
 and go away where never a scheme, or a 
 wile, or a thought of the world, and les con- 
 venances, and interest, and Mrs. Grundy 
 could ever come near us more. Reste it 
 savoir though, how long that would last ! 
 there's the difficulty. I'm afraid I was not 
 born — most certainly not bred — to live like 
 .the enchanted princes, on love and spring
 
 66 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 water, and that I should find such fare dread- 
 fully lowering to the system, both moral and 
 physical, after a time. 
 
 " So I suppose I must resign myself to 
 trying what I can do to become Lady Ames- 
 bury. 
 
 " Quaint sort of man that John Temple. 
 Seems of a slightly bearish temperament; yet 
 there's something striking about the man 
 that interests me. I've half a mind to try 
 the taming of him : it's a sort of conquest I 
 should like to make — something to bring a 
 strong, stern, resolute, half tamed animal like 
 that to lick one's hand and lie at one's feet, 
 and fawn for a smile and cower at a frown ! 
 to rule Hercules with a distaff. But, like all 
 other pleasures, this too may have its draw- 
 back, in the difficulty of disposing of Her- 
 cules when one's had enough of the game; 
 it's awkward when he takes it au serieux^
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 67 
 
 and wonH be put off by your telling him it 
 was all a mistake, and you meant nothing by 
 it. Well, well ! time enough to think of all 
 this to-morrow : meanwhile it's past twelve 
 now, and I shall get no beauty-sleep to- 
 night." 
 
 And gathering up the volumes of her mag- 
 nificent hair with such movements of the full 
 white round arms, as it was really a pity 
 should have been expended on the peeping 
 elves of night, Miss Blake finished her noc- 
 turnal toilette, and betook herself to her 
 couch, on which she slept a sleep quite as 
 sound as that of innocence is reported 
 to be. 
 
 " The Mertonshawe hounds will be out 
 to-morrow. Miss Blake," Lord Amesbury 
 said, next morning at breakfast ; " if you are 
 disposed to have a run, I have no doubt we 
 can mount you — eh, John V
 
 68 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 " I have a horse set apart for Miss Blake," 
 John replied tersely. 
 
 Such a smile sent across the table. 
 
 " How very good of you, Mr. Temple ; 
 but, without boasting, I must tell you I can 
 ride a good horse — I mean not a * lady's 
 horse,' that can only amble on the turf. So, 
 if there is a choice, you may safely trust me 
 on any animal you would ride yourself." 
 
 "I know that," John said bluntly, " and 
 the horse I have chosen is the best in the 
 stable — the one I generally do ride to hounds 
 myself. You'll not find a better horse in 
 the whole field." 
 
 " Really ! but you are too good. I can't 
 bear the thought of depriving you of him — 
 it seems so selfish !" 
 
 '* You're quite welcome, I'm sure," he 
 replied, and bending over his plate, he pro- 
 ceeded to finish his breakfast in silence.
 
 - Sweethearts and Wives. Q^ 
 
 " Now if this man will put himself in the 
 way of being enslaved, is it my fault?" 
 thouo;ht Ao^atha. 
 
 "Do jou hunt?" she inquired, turning to 
 Horatia. 
 
 " I ?" Miss Temple exclaimed, with a look 
 of amazement not unmingled with reproach 
 at such a question ; " to attempt it would 
 kill me ! why, I've hardly strength for a long 
 canter;" then suddenly recollecting Dr. 
 Lane's ominous predictions, she added, " but 
 I think I'm a little stronger, perhaps, than I 
 was — maybe I may get round again next 
 year." 
 
 " Dear, dearest child ! how could I be so 
 thoughtless as to ask you such a question, 
 knowing — as who knows better — how deli- 
 cate you are ! but though I can see you are 
 still far from strong, the country air, or 
 something, I don't know what, has — the word
 
 70 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 will out — so embellie a little friend of mine 
 that I sometimes forget, in looking at her, 
 that she is still an invalid." 
 
 Horatia blushed and laughed. A compli- 
 ment from a woman, and a beautiful woman, 
 is what so few of " the sex " can resist. A 
 compliment from a man, unless very skilfully 
 or happily paid, and by one not given to 
 such flowers of speech, is of little import, 
 sometimes, even, it is ridiculous or offensive ; 
 but from a woman it much more rarely comes 
 amiss. 
 
 Agatha, too, had a way of paying com- 
 pliments that, at the time at least, was 
 irresistible; they came out as if they were 
 the irrepressible expression of her feelings, 
 and she never followed them up with any 
 further flattery, but turned to some other 
 subject, as if, her mind relieved by this 
 vent to her admiration, she could have no
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 71 
 
 motive to follow it up, no object to gain 
 further. 
 
 It was Sunday, and, breakfast concluded, 
 Lord Amesbury asked who was for church. 
 Agatha had half a mind to plead the fatigue 
 of yesterday's journey, and to spend the 
 morning lying on the sofa in her room 
 reading a French novel. But wiser reflec- 
 tions came to her aid. 
 
 " Lord Amesbury," she thought, " is evi- 
 dently a church-going man ; ergo, he would 
 expect any Lady Amesbury to be a church- 
 going woman ; ergo, I must needs go, for the 
 sake of example ! What fun ! I, Agatha 
 Blake, setting an example of piety and pro- 
 priety to the good folks of Burymeade, 
 Hazlehurst, and Mertonshawe !" 
 
 The idea, however, so occupied her mind, 
 that she, half unconsciously, from that mo- 
 ment fancied herself the point de mire
 
 72 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 of village eyes ; not as the London helle, 
 the beautiful Miss Blake, the fairest of 
 all the fair guests assembled at Bury- 
 meade ; but as the future Lady Ames- 
 bury, the Lady Bountiful of the place, the 
 centre of all attention, the object of all 
 reverence, the shining example for all. She 
 assumed a staid step and dignified demea- 
 nour; she only just held her gown high 
 enough to keep it out of the mud, without 
 taking any pains to show her slender, 
 arched foot and firm slight ancles; she 
 suppressed the slightest tendency to yawn 
 through the service, and even through the 
 maunderinof verbose sermon which the old 
 purblind rector subsequently delivered ; she 
 dropped half-a-crown into the poor-box, and 
 so edifying in all respects was her de- 
 meanour, that it quite succeeded in im- 
 pressing the congregation in general with a
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 73 
 
 sense of her moral worth and dignified supe- 
 riority. 
 
 And the beauty of the thing was, that all 
 the time she was practising this little game, 
 she could hardly be said to be aware that it 
 was a game and a piece of arrant hypocrisy. 
 For the time being she threw herself into the 
 part she enacted so entirely, that she felt as 
 if she were really the personage she, to her- 
 self, represented. She even caught herself 
 (with a certain sense of self-gratulation) 
 frowning down Mr. Trevelyan's attempt to 
 make her laugh when the old clergyman 
 indulged in peculiarities of diction and pro- 
 nunciation, and when the boys sang three 
 notes ahead of the organ ! She then wandered 
 off into vague speculations of what she would 
 do, one day, in training voices and organ to 
 keep harmony; her eye being pleasantly 
 struck by the sight of an old woman's scarlet 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 cloak, she, in the same speculative manner, 
 resolved that she would, next Christmas, dole 
 out, with coals, beef, and blankets, a certain 
 number of red cloaks to the most picturesque- 
 lookino^ old women in the neio^hbourhood. 
 
 Looking up, at last, from her reverie 
 towards the close of the sermon, her eyes met 
 those of a face not far from her, but which, 
 in the decorum of her conduct, she had not 
 yet noticed. 
 
 The eyes were so very beautiful, they 
 belonged to a face so striking in its whole 
 character and expression, and their look of 
 intense and passionate admiration was so 
 unmistakable, that Agatha's dropped before 
 them, and a genuine blush overspread her 
 face ; nay, so strong was the influence the eyes 
 exercised over her, that she could think of 
 nothing but their look for the rest of the 
 discourse ; and while she desired again to
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 75 
 
 encounter it, she dared not turn hers in that 
 direction, from the very consciousness that it 
 was still, hardly with any intermission, bent 
 upon her. 
 
 E2
 
 76 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AGATHA SOLILOQUISES. 
 
 The Thursday succeeding Christmay Day, on 
 which the Lanes were to dine at the Chase, 
 duly came round, and the night being fine and 
 mild, and the hire of flys high in Hazlehurst, 
 the Doctor drove himself, his son and daughter 
 up to Burymeade in the pony-chaise ; Dick, 
 the groom, gardener, and cow-keeper, being 
 sent on in advance to take it back. 
 
 Ivy's toilette, the black silk gown she had 
 had made (with two bodies) for slighter
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 77 
 
 mourning after her mother's death, and the 
 .rose-coloured camellias — one in her beautiful 
 hair, the other in her bosom — which had been 
 presented to her as a Christmas offering by 
 Mr. Chaplin, a certain old friend of the 
 family, was not likely to suffer much from 
 such mode of transport, and, slight as she 
 looked, she had no dread of night air, albeit 
 at Christmas. 
 
 As she came into the room, leaning on her 
 father's arm, in the fashion still extant in 
 most country places, Lord Amesbury ad- 
 vanced to meet her, took her hand, with a 
 cordial "Merry Christmas and happy New 
 Year," and placed her near his daughter; 
 then, to let her recover from the little flutter 
 of nervous agitation into which her sudden 
 introduction into so brilliant a circle had 
 thrown her, he turned to address himself to 
 her father and brother.
 
 78 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 There was something so singularly sympa- 
 thetic in Ivy's face, that, independent of its 
 beauty, it won the interest of all who looked 
 on it. 
 
 Horatia, without having, in such things at 
 least, any tendency whatever to exclusiveness 
 or fine ladyism, had yet, with her indolence 
 of disposition and habitual apathy, enter- 
 tained some dread as to the notion of having 
 to occupy herself with the little country 
 girl, who knew nobody, and who, doubtless, 
 would be so lost among all those smart 
 people, that it would be no easy matter to 
 find subjects of entertainment for her. Still, 
 as she looked at the sweet, pure face beside 
 her, with its lovely timid eyes and half- 
 opened lips, she felt drawn to it in a way 
 that made the task of doing the honours 
 lose half its tediousness. 
 
 " I was so sorry. Miss Lane," she said.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 79 
 
 " that you could not join our Christmas Day 
 party; but I dare say you had a much 
 merrier one at home." 
 
 Ivy thought so too, contrasting her own 
 recollections of the home-festivities with 
 those her young hostess's looks and tone 
 seemed to express regarding the rejoicings 
 at Burymeade. 
 
 " It was very merry, certainly," Ivy said — 
 she could not bring herself to express a 
 regret she did not feel — " the children en- 
 joyed it so thoroughly, that it made it de- 
 lightful to us. My brother brought down 
 from town all sorts of pretty things for a 
 Christmas tree, and the little things never 
 having seen anything of the kind before, you 
 may fancy their enchantment !" 
 
 Horatia envied her for being so easily 
 amused. Children bored he7' ; she had not 
 the strength, she said, to bear with them.
 
 80 Sweethearts aud Wives, 
 
 " You have several young brothers and 
 sisters ? I see them at church with you." 
 
 ^' Oh, yes ; but there is still one younger 
 than any of those. Baby doesn't go to 
 church yet ; she is only four." 
 
 *'One still younger! don't you find it very 
 fatiguing and distracting to have children 
 constantly about you? Dr. Lane says you 
 give up most of your time to them." 
 
 " Oh, dear no, I like it ! you can't think 
 how interesting it is, and how good they are ! 
 I should think it dreadful to be in a house 
 where there were no children, or, at all 
 events, no one to look after especially." 
 
 " I suppose then," Horatia said, smiling 
 partly in amusement, a very little in irony, 
 " you would rather nurse sick people, or 
 attend on some venerable victim of de- 
 crepitude than have nothing of the kind 
 to do?"
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 81 
 
 " Yes, really ! I suppose that's my ' voca- 
 tion.'" 
 
 How very odd, thought Horatia ; but some 
 one addressing her at that moment, she was 
 obliged to turn her attention elsewhere. 
 
 At a little distance Agatha Blake, reclin- 
 ing in an easy chair, had recognised, the 
 instant the Lanes had entered the room, the 
 eyes that last Sunday at church had so 
 strangely affected her ; recognised them with 
 that same thrill that again, as before, made 
 her drop her's and colour like a school- 
 girl. 
 
 An impulse she could not resist, drew her 
 to the side of Ivy, who made room for her on 
 the sofa, with a sweet, appealing smile. 
 
 " Miss Lane," Agatha said, with that look 
 and manner of her's, that were capable of 
 making an impertinence seem an act of 
 graciousness, " it would be so good of you to 
 
 £ 5
 
 82 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 tell me the names of the strangers who dine 
 here to-day ; I mean, of course, the people of 
 the place. One is apt to make such awkward 
 mistakes if one don't know these things. I 
 suppose those," glancing slightly towards a 
 group, " are your father and brother? I should 
 guess the latter relationship from the like- 
 ness, anywhere." 
 
 ''Do you think me like Robert?" Ivy said, 
 blushing with pleasure. 
 
 " Oh, certainly, something about the eyes, 
 especially ; your's are the same eyes femi- 
 ninised. Does your brother live here? has 
 he any profession ?" 
 
 Ivy told the simple little story of her 
 brother's profession and prospects, proudly 
 adding Mr. Masters's report of his pupil, and 
 Agatha listened with an interest that for 
 once, when listening to a tale of humble 
 domestic life, was not feigned.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 83 
 
 ** May I introduce Robert to you ?" Ivy 
 asked timidly, when her little narrative came 
 to a conclusion ; "he would be so proud and 
 happy to know you !" 
 
 " I should be very glad to know him, and 
 your father also." 
 
 Ivy telegraphed to Robert, who came up, 
 quite quietly, and with no more disturbance 
 in his manner than if that drawing-room 
 were as familiar to him as the little parlour 
 at home. 
 
 The introduction took place ; Robert bowed 
 low in silence, Agatha murmured a word or 
 two, and after the exchange of a few common- 
 places, dinner was announced. There was an 
 instant of hesitation, Robert half drew back, 
 Agatha sat still ; then, no one else approach- 
 ing, and an expectant glance from her indi- 
 catino^ that the offer of his arm would be no 
 presumption, it was made and accepted, and
 
 84 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 they passed, with the crowd, into the dining- 
 room. 
 
 Dinner over, and the ladies assembled in 
 the drawing-room, Agatha again sought Ivy. 
 
 " I hear you have such charming little 
 brothers and sisters, Miss Lane; I should like 
 so much to see them. May I come and see 
 you all? when should I be likely to find you 
 at home ?" 
 
 " Oh," Ivy said, delighted, "" if you would 
 only name a day and hour, of course we 
 should be only too delighted to make a point 
 of being at home ! would to-morrow suit you, 
 or Saturday?" 
 
 " Saturday would do very well ; shall we 
 say three o'clock ?" 
 
 " By all means. But I'm afraid you'll be 
 disappointed in the children, maybe ; / think 
 them — never mind what — and they are such 
 good darlings; but you mustn't expect too
 
 Sweethearts and Wives* 85 
 
 much of them; they're not beauties, except 
 Hopie ; I do think any one must admire her ! 
 but, please, if you do, don't say so before 
 her — she's a vain little puss, and fond of 
 dress. But she'll outgrow all that ; you 
 know she can't help knowing how pretty she 
 is, for even if people don't tell her, she's 
 quick enough to see when they admire her, 
 and she's too young yet to have her little 
 head rightly balanced about all these things," 
 
 Agatha could not help laughing. 
 
 " Don't be angry with me, but when I see 
 your face and figure, and hear you talk in 
 this matronly fashion, I can't for the life of 
 me help being amused. It can hardly be 
 impertinent, I think, to ask how old you 
 are?" 
 
 " I shall be seventeen in February." 
 
 '* And there is no one but you to attend to 
 all these children, and teach them ?"
 
 86 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 " Oh, the boys go to school — one to a 
 public, the other to a day school, and then 
 an old friend of ours, Mr. Chaplin, helps me 
 with Hopie, oh, a great deal. He is a 
 drawing-master, by profession, but he is very 
 well educated, and knows a quantity of 
 things besides drawing, and he has known us 
 all since we w^ere born, and as he has but 
 few regular pupils, and is so very kind, aud 
 so fond of us, he comes for a couple of 
 hours nearly every day, and teaches Hopie 
 history, and geography, and arithmetic, and 
 French, and drawing. He taught me most 
 of the things I know — I can't tell what we 
 should do without him. But I'm boring you 
 with all these histories." 
 
 " No, you are not, indeed ! I suppose 
 having all these duties to attend to, do, as 
 they say, make one happy," Agatha went on, 
 half to Ivy, half to herself. '' You seem to
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 87 
 
 me to be one of the happiest persons I ever 
 met. Are you always so ?" 
 
 " Nearly. Of course I have my little 
 troubles, like other people; but I have far 
 more blessings than trials." 
 
 Agatha sat musing for a time, and her 
 thoughts were to this effect : — 
 
 " I wonder if I have really been making a 
 mistake all my life — if I have been running 
 after the shadow, and that this is the sub- 
 stance? And yet, a life of poverty, and 
 slavery, and self-denial; no excitement, no 
 admiration, no delightful sense of beauty and ^ 
 power; a mere narrow, anxious, reflected 
 existence, full of small cares, small thoughts, 
 small interests. After all, it is, I take it, 
 simply an affair of temperament, and pro- 
 bably what makes this sweet little creature 
 happy, would make me miserable. Oh, if 
 Roberto had, with those eyes, four or five
 
 88 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 thousand a-year ! — nay, I'd rather have him 
 with two, than any man I know with twenty. 
 
 " Curious, how one may go on for years and 
 years flirting with this man, setting one's cap 
 at that, fancying one has a sneaking kindness 
 for one, and a preference for another, and 
 believing in one's heart and conscience that 
 love is, after all, a myth; so that, if there 
 are a few romantic tetes ewaltees whose hot 
 brains arrive at the boiling point under the 
 influence of the tender passion, we ordinary 
 mortals in ordinary life are quite too cool- 
 headed and wise in our own generation to 
 make such fools of ourselves, and the only 
 way in which love can trouble us, will be in 
 little passing fits, as the hooping-cough and 
 measles trouble children, leavino- them safe 
 and free from such visitations in years of 
 discretion. 
 
 "Then, all of a sudden, steps in Car;sar, and
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 89 
 
 the heart that for some twenty years odd has 
 beaten as tranquilly as the pendulum of a 
 clock, starts up wildly within us, and says, 
 Hail, master ! take me, make me, break me ; 
 I am yours to live and to die ! 
 
 " And then the Csesar, of whose existence 
 we yesterday dreamt not, suddenly becomes 
 the man, 
 
 " The Jupiter of men, 
 The demi- Atlas of the earth, the arm 
 And burgonet of man ;" 
 
 and everything he says, and does, and looks, 
 finds an echo and a response in our hearts, 
 and draws them — draws them ; till they are 
 his in every fibre, and that everything on the 
 earth seems imbued and coloured with the 
 tint of his existence, and we think that to 
 live without him would be a mere vegetation 
 not worthy the name of life. 
 
 " Well may Rousseau say, ' Pour une
 
 90 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 femme ordinaire, tout homme est toujours 
 un homme ; mais pour celle dont le ccBur 
 aime il n'y a point d'homme que sont 
 amant.' 
 
 " In his presence and atmosphere we are 
 transformed ; all things become new, and 
 living, and significant, and glimpses of un- 
 earthly felicity are accorded us. 
 
 " And then we are startled by a knock at 
 the door, and in comes World- Wisdom, in 
 white cravat and varnished boots, with Mrs. 
 .Grundy on his arm; and the two set upon 
 Csesar, and with hisses and laughter, not 
 Homeric, remind you, with taunts and jeers, 
 that he couldn't keep you in gloves and 
 shoes, and out they turn him, and shut the 
 door ; and you sit down and cry your heart 
 out, and feel that you've lost the one chance 
 of your life, and wish you had never seen 
 Csesar, and then dry your eyes, and put on
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 91 
 
 your best bib and tucker, and just a little 
 touch of rouge, lest your eyes should look 
 red and your cheeks white, and prepare to 
 do your best to captivate Lord Nob or Tom 
 Snob, who have a-piece ten or twenty thou- 
 sand a year."
 
 95 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AGATHA'S VISIT. 
 
 On Saturday, Ivy had " her children " in due 
 array to receive Miss Blake's visit. 
 
 It was not without some considerable diffi- 
 culty that all things were arranged wholly to 
 her satisfaction. Georgy, being at that 
 stage of boyish development that thinks 
 itself bound to regard woman as very de- 
 cidedly indeed the weaker vessel, in fact, a 
 creature of so feeble and fantastic an organi- 
 sation as to be wholly unworthy the serious
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 93 
 
 attention or consideration of the nobler sex, 
 at first declined to make his appearance at 
 all, and then strenuously objected to the 
 notion of putting on his Sunday costume 
 instead of his every-day one, which exhibited 
 a paucity of buttons, and symptoms of hard 
 service at the knees and elbows. Hopie's 
 rage for peculiar hair-dressing and redundant 
 ornament, it cost poor Ivy yet more pains to 
 suppress; and though Harry was perfectly 
 ready and willing, as far as in him lay, to 
 obey any instructions issued by his sister on 
 the subject of his attire and personal appear- 
 ance generally, he laboured under a peculiar 
 difficulty in this respect ; that, namely, of 
 never having been able to perfect himself in 
 the arts of washing his face and hands or of 
 brushing his hair satisfactorily, or of keeping 
 his clothes decent, and his boots properly
 
 94 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 laced, and free from holes for any reasonable 
 length of time. 
 
 Baby, too, in the pride of a new blue 
 merino frock, that m.ade her white skin look 
 whiter still, had surreptitiously removed her 
 pinafore before the proper time, and in 
 foraging in the kitchen, had upset a cup of 
 milk down the front of the cerulean garment 
 in question. 
 
 These domestic difficulties were, notwith- 
 standing, duly surmounted before the tall, 
 old, brown clock in the hall struck three ; 
 and Ivy, having thrown a beech log on the 
 already glowing fire, given a final loving 
 toucb to the bouquet of greenhouse flowers 
 brought her, to grace the room on this occa- 
 sion, by Mr. Chaplin, who had knocked up a 
 miniature conservatory at his bachelor cot- 
 tage, and who managed, between it and his 
 little garden, to have, all the year round, the
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 95 
 
 most beautiful flowers in Hazleliurst, sat 
 down, with her work in her hands — she could 
 never be idle, even in the stray moments she 
 might have made leisure ones — and prepared, 
 with what calm she might, to receive her 
 visitor. 
 
 Robert took the arm-chair on the other 
 side of the fireplace, with a book in his hand 
 (the Doctor was out on his rounds), and the 
 brother and sister sat opposite to each other 
 in silence, till interrupted by the entrance of 
 Georgy, in an ostentatiously marked state of 
 ennui. 
 
 " Here's ten minutes past three," remarked 
 that young gentleman, yawning loudly, and 
 stretching his arms over his head, " and this 
 girl's not come yet. Rigging herself out, I 
 suppose, and dawdling, and mincing, and 
 giving herself airs ! I wish she'd stay at 
 home, and not come bothering here ! Who.
 
 96 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 wants her, I should like to know? Not /, 
 for one !" 
 
 " If you thmk it manly to be brutal, 
 George, you're under a mistake you'd do well 
 to correct as soon as possible !" broke in 
 Robert, with a flash in his eye, and a rapidity 
 and energy of utterance very rare with him, 
 especially when addressed to his brothers and 
 sisters. Ivy looked up from her work, 
 Georoe stared at his brother in considerable 
 astonishment, and Robert, stuggling to con- 
 tain himself, leant back again in the chair, 
 and resumed his book. Georgy sat down on 
 a footstool, and peeped at the back of the 
 volume, then laughing under his breath 
 secretly, drew Ivy's attention to the title on 
 the cover ; it was upside down ! 
 
 A ring at the door, and Robert sprang to 
 his feet, took a turn in the room, and sat
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 97 
 
 down again ; in another moment. Miss Blake 
 was announced. 
 
 She had walked from Buryraeade, and the 
 exercise and fresh wintry air had added 
 increased splendour to her magnificent co- 
 louring and radiant eyes. Even Georgy, 
 standing aloof and staring at her, could not 
 resist the inward admission that she was 
 " stunning." 
 
 She kissed Ivy, with a laughing apology 
 for so doing, gave her hand shyly to Robert, 
 and smiled a bright smile at Georgy, who 
 was instantly covered with confusion, felt 
 that he was a "muff" of the first water for 
 being moved by a woman's smile, and then 
 recovered to wish she would try him again, 
 now that he was better prepared to stand it. 
 
 *'-Well, and where are these babes?" 
 Agatha said, the first greetings and inquiries 
 over; *' am I not to see them?" 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 " Oh ! surely," Ivy replied; '' but our room 
 is so small, that I was afraid we should be 
 all tumbling over one another, if I had them 
 in at first. Georgy, dear, will you call 
 them ?" 
 
 Georgy went on his mission, and Agatha 
 looked round the room. 
 
 " What a pretty, dear, quaint little room, 
 and this nice old-fashioned furniture ! I think 
 your cottage lovely. You have a garden, I 
 see," walking to the window, '' a good large 
 one, and such a charming view beyond. In 
 summer this must be a delightful little nest." 
 
 *'It is very cheerful," Ivy said ; " we have 
 plenty of sunshine, and yet those large trees 
 at the bottom of the garden give a delightful 
 shade when we want it." 
 
 At this moment the vision of baby, 
 who had just recovered from a bad cold, 
 scampering bareheaded, and with no extra
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 99 
 
 covering, among the now damp trees in ques- 
 tion, made Ivy, with a hasty apology to 
 Agatha, rush off in pursuit of the truant, 
 and Miss Blake and Robert were left alone. 
 The former returned to her seat, and a few 
 moments of silence ensued. It was broken 
 by Robert. 
 
 "• You live in London, Miss Blake?" 
 
 '' Yes, in Curzon Street." 
 
 " May I ever hope to see you there ? or 
 am I too presumptuous ? I know so little of 
 of the ways of your world, that you must 
 forgive me if I sin through ignorance of 
 them. Won't yoQ?" 
 
 A half-sad smile, a pleading look from the 
 eyes she never could encounter without 
 emotion, made her exclaim — 
 
 " Pray do not talk of forgiveness ! I shall 
 be delighted to see you, if you will take the 
 trouble to call." 
 
 F 2
 
 100 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 " Trouble ! how good you are. How won- 
 derfully unspoilt you are !" 
 
 The entrance of Ivy, driving before her 
 the juvenile troop, put a stop to further 
 effusion; and as the children, one by one, 
 were presented, Agatha found something 
 suitable and agreeable to say of and to each, 
 and ended by taking baby on her knee, and 
 displaying (but not the least ostentatiously) 
 to her admiring eyes, the charms and trinkets 
 attached to her watch-chain. 
 
 She was not acting now ; not consciously 
 or intentionally, that is to say; all that apper- 
 tained to Robert, all that he held dear, 
 every one whose blood ran in his veins, every 
 object that was interesting or familiar to him, 
 had already a hold on her heart, a claim to 
 her attention. 
 
 " The person love does to us fit, 
 
 Like manna, has the taste of all in it."
 
 SweetJiearts mid Wives. 101 
 
 And though all that she was now doing, and 
 saying, and thinking, was utterly opposed to 
 the ordinary tenor of her deeds, words, and 
 thoughts, it was to the momentary transfor- 
 mation this sudden, new-born love had 
 wrought in these and in her whole nature, 
 not to any wilful hypocrisy, that the change 
 was to be attributed. 
 
 It was past four when the growing dark- 
 ness warned Agatha that it was time to go. 
 
 " You cannot walk home by yourself, Miss 
 Blake," Robert said ; " it will be quite dark 
 before you get to Burymeade. You must let 
 me have the pleasure of escorting you." 
 
 " Will you ?" Agatha replied, looking up, 
 almost for the first time, with a frank, open 
 smile in his face. That hour of wholesome, 
 simple, familiar intercourse with him and his 
 had put her at ease in his presence, as she 
 had never been before.
 
 102 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 They walked out into the twilight, and she 
 took his offered arm. 
 
 " You don't know how many conquests 
 you have left behind you," Robert said ; '' I 
 am so happy. I shall be able now to hear 
 you talked of, and praised, and admired 
 constantly, till I see you again. How very 
 good of you to come to our poor little house, 
 and to take such notice of us, to be so kind 
 to those poor children !" 
 
 "Oh, I came to please myself; I wanted 
 to see them, and to know your sister better. 
 She quite captivated me the other night ; she 
 looked so delicate, and sweet, and pure 
 among all the other women, such a pearl 
 among gaudy stones of inferior value, that I 
 can't tell you what an impression her appear- 
 ance alone made on me. Then when I came 
 to talk to her, she interested me still further.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 103 
 
 In my world, as you call it, I don't see any- 
 thing like her." 
 
 Agatha felt a thorough democrat at that 
 moment. 
 
 " How delighted I am that you understand, 
 that you appreciate her! yes, darling little 
 Ivy, she is really one in a thousand ; I know 
 but one woman to compare with her in my 
 eyes" (Agatha dropped her's at the look he 
 gave on her upturned face), " she is the very 
 soul of our household ; not an hour of the 
 day but what her care, her skill, her tender- 
 ness, her unselfishness, are put to the proof. 
 With all your sex's extraordinary power of 
 self-devotion, my experience has not yet 
 brought before me any such instance of the 
 virtue as I see in her case. She lives for 
 others and in others so entirely, that when 
 she is ill, the only possible way my father 
 can find to make her take proper care of
 
 104 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 herself, is to represent what would become of 
 the household if, through any neglect of his 
 instructions, she should really incapacitate 
 herself for any length of time for attendance 
 on her duties. 
 
 '* You may fancy what she is to my father, 
 and, though I am so little at home, to me ; 
 young as she is, many years younger than I 
 am, she is like a mother as vrell as a sister to 
 me, in a thousand little tender, thoughtful 
 cares. 
 
 " But I have no right to trouble you with 
 all this egotistic talk ; you must forgive me 
 if I bore you, by remembering that it is your 
 own gentle, kindly expressions of interest in 
 me and mine, that have called it forth. I 
 don't commonly talk so to strangers." 
 
 " Strangers ! is that a kind word ?" As she 
 spoke, there was the faintest possible pressure 
 on his arm ; he could not resist the impulse
 
 Siveethearts and Wives. 105 
 
 that seized him, and induced him suddenly to 
 clasp the hand that caused it, and to bend 
 down with a murmured word that sounded 
 like " angel !" 
 
 A large dark body suddenly barred their 
 course, and John Temple's voice, husky with 
 suppressed passion, greeted them. 
 
 " Miss Blake, I thought you would be 
 benighted, alone, and I came to meet you. I 
 see I need not have taken the trouble !" 
 
 He did not mean to say anything so ab- 
 absurdly rude, and Agatha's embarrassed, 
 and Robert's slightly derisive laugh, lashed 
 him to fury. 
 
 " However, as I have come," he went on, 
 struggling to keep his temper, **let me take 
 care of you the rest of the way." 
 
 The look, the words, the action of offering 
 his arm were distinctly meant to convey to 
 Robert that he was free to go about his busi- 
 
 F 5
 
 106 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 ness ; but the latter was resolved to show at 
 once that he understood the hint, and had no 
 intention of taking it. 
 
 " Miss Blake has been kind enough to 
 accept ray escort so far, I trust she will allow 
 me to accompany her to the door," 
 
 The two men walked on, Agatha between 
 them, trying to keep up an indifferent con- 
 versation, till they reached the stone steps 
 that led to the hall door ; here Robert took 
 off his hat to bid her farewell. John Temple 
 walked up the steps stiffly and rang the 
 bell. 
 
 '' Good-bye," Agatha said, unmistakably 
 returning the pressure of Robert's hand, 
 " thanks — a thousand ! I hope I shall soon 
 see you again?" 
 
 " Very soon, if I may !" the door opened 
 and she went in. Robert paused a second, 
 and then was off into the darkness, quite
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 107 
 
 unconscious of John Temple's surly salute, 
 never thinking even of returning it. His 
 manner all that evening and the next day, 
 was a strange mixture of gravest preoccupa- 
 tion and most unusual excitement. 
 
 " I say, Ivy,*' Georgy said to his sister, 
 " I've found out a thing ; Bob's spoony on 
 that London girl." 
 
 *' Georgy, how can you talk such non- 
 sense !" Ivy answered. But the nonsense 
 gave her many an anxious thought.
 
 108 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HYPERION. 
 
 " Very soon," Robert had said, in reply to 
 Agatha's expressed wish for an early meeting. 
 But this meeting, he felt, could hardly take 
 place before he went with Ivy to pay the 
 visite de digestion at Burymeade, and a cer- 
 tain consciousness made him shy of attempt- 
 ing to hasten this. It was, therefore, a great 
 relief to him when on Tuesday morning at 
 breakfast, the Doctor opened the subject. 
 " I say. Ivy, you and Robert ought to be
 
 Sweethearts and IVives, 109 
 
 thinking of calling at the Chase; to-day's 
 fine, you might as well walk up together in 
 the afternoon. As I am there so often pro- 
 fessionally, a formal visit for me is unneces- 
 sary." 
 
 It was settled so, and between two and 
 three the brother and sister arrived. 
 
 Robert's heart beat high, as Ivy asked if 
 Miss Temple was at home. 
 
 The footman hesitated a moment; Miss 
 Temple was at home, but she was not very 
 well — he did not know if she was able to 
 receive visitors. 
 
 " I suppose," Ivy said, timidly appealing 
 to Robert, " we ought to ask for Miss 
 Blake?" 
 
 '' Certainly !" 
 
 Miss Blake was at home, and they were 
 shown into the morning room, where they 
 found her, with one or two other of the
 
 110 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 guests. John Temple was holding a skein 
 of silk on his large, powerful hands, for her 
 to wind, and she was laughing at his awk- 
 wardness — as well she might ! 
 
 But when the Lanes were announced, she 
 stopped laughing, and the colour rushed to 
 her cheeks, and to hide it she dropped her 
 bobbin, and could not find it among the 
 flounces of her dress, and John Temple, after 
 a glance at her and then at Robert, got up 
 hastily and left the room. 
 
 She rose to meet Ivy, and took her hand 
 in both her's, and greeted her warmly ; then 
 she turned to Robert, with that shy look 
 that, perhaps, no other man had ever seen 
 her wear. Probably if one of the wary 
 suitors before mentioned had encountered it, 
 she would not now have been Agatha Blake ; 
 for it was very lovely, that involuntary ac- 
 knowledgment of tender womanly weakness,
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. Ill 
 
 far more captivating than her most regal 
 airs or sunniest glances of encouragement. 
 
 " I am so sorry to hear Miss Temple is 
 ill/' Ivy began ; " 1 fear her health is very 
 delicate." 
 
 " She is not strong," Agatha replied, " but 
 the fact is, she wants something to employ, 
 and occupy, and interest her — in short, an 
 object in life." 
 
 By this time the one or two lounging 
 guests had left the room, and Agatha, alone 
 with her visitors, they could all talk more 
 freely. 
 
 " So papa seems to think. I wish some- 
 thing could be done for her." 
 
 " You could do something for her, you 
 bright, busy little bee. I'm sure association 
 with you would be of more service to the 
 poor child than anything I know, except — 
 falling in love, and she's too young for that
 
 112 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 yet. When that time comes, she will find 
 something to fill her mind and her heart, 
 beside hypochondriac fancies. But here she 
 comes ; I was sure she would like to see 
 you." 
 
 Horatia entered, wrapped in a shawl, and 
 languidly greeted the visitors. She had 
 begun to get tired of remaining in her room, 
 and a little break, she felt, was desirable. 
 So she allowed Ivy's tender, skilful, active 
 little hands, ever instinctively ready to be of 
 service, to place her comfortably on the sofa, 
 and to arrange the cushions in the most 
 perfectly easy manner, and to put a footstool 
 exactly in the right place. 
 
 " How kind you are ! and how delightfully 
 you do everything," Horatia said, really 
 touched and grateful. " One would think 
 you had done nothing but nurse sick people 
 always, you are so clever at it. You have
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 113 
 
 indeed, as you said the other night, a voca- 
 tion." 
 
 Meantime, as in duty bound, Agatha enter- 
 tained Robert : their talk ran on flowers, 
 which abounded in the room. 
 
 " You are fond of flowers, Mr. Lane ?" 
 Horatia said ; " and you," turning to Ivy, " I 
 am sure you must be. You had the other 
 evening two of the finest camellias I ever saw ; 
 did you grow them V 
 
 " Oh, dear no ! we have no greenhouse ; 
 they were given to me. Yes, I dote on 
 flowers." 
 
 " Then you must take some home with 
 you. Agatha, dear ! it would be so very good 
 of you to go to the conservatory and cut 
 some for Miss Lane — no one makes such 
 lovely bouquets as you, and I know you like 
 it. I'm sure Mr. Lane will hold the basket
 
 114 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 for jou ; it's there, on that table, with the 
 scissors in it." 
 
 How Robert and Agatha blessed her. Like 
 dutiful children sent on an errand, they went 
 off to the conservatory, which was a spacious 
 and beautiful one, opening from the room, 
 and employed in summer as a morning room. 
 
 Horatia was glad to get rid of them ; she 
 wanted to have Ivy all to herself, and to talk 
 to her of her maladies, sure she would find in 
 her a sympathetic listener. 
 
 " How long do you stay here ?" was 
 Robert's first question, when he and Agatha 
 were alone. 
 
 "Alas! only till Saturday. We are en- 
 gaged to two or three places when we leave 
 this. I shall hate them all !" and she stripped 
 the leaves off a sprig of myrtle she had just 
 gathered, and flung the stem, with two or 
 three little leaflets at the top, petutantly
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 115 
 
 from her. Robert picked it up and put it in 
 his bosom. 
 
 " But come," she said, " we must do our 
 little chatelaine's bidding; will you hold 
 down that branch of camellia while I cut some 
 of the blossoms." 
 
 He did so, and keeping down the bough 
 with one hand, and holding the basket for 
 her with the other, his head bent, her's 
 upraised, their faces were separated by a very 
 small space. 
 
 "I must see you again before you go," 
 Robert murmured. '' How?" 
 
 "I don't know. Shall I come and bid 
 your sister good-bye ?" 
 
 " Yes ! and let me bring you home, will 
 you — on Friday?" 
 
 " Friday, about three, I'll come." 
 
 " Don't let that Mr. Temple know, if you
 
 116 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 can help it — ^he'll be coming to meet you. I 
 hate that man !" 
 
 " Why ?" As if she did not know ! 
 
 " What reason can I have for hating him 
 but that he loves you ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, he doesn't ! and if he did ?" 
 
 The shy, tender look, accorded, then in- 
 stantly withdrawn, filled up the sentence. 
 
 Talk of the devil ! at the entrance of the 
 conservatory, John Temple stood scowling at 
 them ; then, as if feeling that he was unable 
 at that moment to control himself, he turned 
 abruptly, and went back into the room. 
 
 " Did I not tell you he loved you ?" Robert 
 said, naively, unconscious that he was taking 
 to himself the credit of exciting Mr. Temple's 
 jealousy. 
 
 Agatha was much too quick and too experi- 
 enced to let the little trait pass unobserved. 
 But she only smiled, and said —
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 1 1 7 
 
 " I hope he didn't hear us !" 
 
 " Impossible ! I saw him the moment he 
 appeared." 
 
 " Tant mieiix. But we must reallj make 
 haste. They'll think it odd if we stay much 
 longer." 
 
 When a man and woman of Agatha's and 
 Robert's ages, or anything like them, admit, 
 one to the other, that they are subjecting 
 themselves to possible comments in the outer 
 world, a huge barrier is removed between 
 them ; a vast, and in some degree, decisive 
 step is taken. None knew this better than 
 Agatha; but she cared nothing now. She 
 had flunof herself on the outflowino^ tide, 
 reckless for the moment, to what unknown 
 seas it might drift her, on what far shores 
 she might be cast 
 
 Reflection might, doubtless would, bring 
 other thoughts. But at present this new
 
 118 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 strange, all-powerful influence was on her and 
 in her, and she abandoned herself to it. It was 
 so delightful, in her busy, scheming, ambitious, 
 unsatisfied life, to discover suddenly a new 
 sensation such as she had never experienced, 
 never dreamt of; such a luxury to revel in 
 it ; so novel to feel the self-respect, the devo- 
 tion of true, warm, perfectly disinterested 
 passion, that she could not or would not look 
 beyond to consequences, either for herself or 
 her lover. 
 
 Strain a cord as tightly as you may, the 
 touch of a hand will make it vibrate ; nor 
 can you still it while the influence lasts. 
 
 The flowers gathered, Agatha and Robert 
 returned to the morning room, where, much 
 to their relief, for Agatha wished to make the 
 appointment for Friday with Ivy, and would 
 not have done it before Mr. Temple, they
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 119 
 
 found the two girls alone. Shortly after, Ivy 
 rose to go. 
 
 " I've hardly seen you at all to-day !" 
 Agatha exclaimed, half reproachfully ; " and 
 I'm going away on Saturday for ever and a 
 day, and goodness knows when we may meet 
 again." 
 
 ''Are you going so soon?" Ivy replied, 
 endeavouring to look sorry, the little hypo- 
 crite, but relieved in her heart. "I must 
 try then, to come and see you before you 
 go." 
 
 "No, no; you've something else to do than 
 running after nae. I'll come on Friday, and 
 bid you and the babes good-bye." 
 
 Ivy could but express gratitude and satis- 
 faction. 
 
 " Do come and see me as often as you 
 can," Horatia said, holding her hand, '* you 
 are such a comfort to me. I know we were
 
 120 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 made to be friends, and I want — I shall 
 want," suddenly correcting herself " a friend 
 so much when Agatha is gone. The first 
 day I'm well enough, I'll drive down to your 
 cottage." 
 
 Friday brought Agatha, punctual to her 
 appointment. Georgy, who had dressed him- 
 self unbidden to receive her, contrived " pro- 
 miscuously" to be in the front garden as she 
 arrived, and opened the gate for her; for 
 which he was rewarded with such sweet 
 thanks, and so bright a smile, than in an 
 instant all the chivalry of the knights of 
 Gloriana thrilled in the boy's breast, and had 
 the step of the trim little maid coming to 
 open the door been that of dragon, giant, or 
 magician, he w^ould have stood to face the 
 monster bravely. 
 
 The visit ended, and tender adieux made,
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 121 
 
 Agatha and Robert proceeded on the way 
 back to Biirjmeade. 
 
 '' When shall you be in town again ?" 
 Robert asked. 
 
 "Not to settle before Easter. But w^e 
 shall be in Curzon Street off and on for a few 
 days at a time frequently." 
 
 "But how can I know when you are there? 
 I should be afraid of calling to inquire too 
 often." 
 
 " Yes/' Agatha said, deliberatively, " that 
 wouldn't do. I must write to you !" 
 
 Another barrier down, another giant stride 
 made, and again in all consciousness. 
 
 " You are an angel ! what am I, what have 
 I done, to obtain, I dare not say merit, such 
 happiness. Is it, tell me, is it possible that I 
 may ever hope to make this hand," he carried 
 it to his lips, " mine ? Such a hand ! so 
 living, so small, so palpitating — like a warm, 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 soft little bird in mine. One word — the 
 shadow of a hope — is all I ask !" 
 
 " Ask nothing !" Agatha said, in a voice 
 choked with emotion, " nothing that has 
 regard to the future. For the present — I 
 love you, Robert, with all my heart and soul 
 — I loved you the first day I saw you, I never 
 — so help me God! — loved another man ! you 
 are to me more than life, and parents, and 
 friends, and fame, and fortune, and all the 
 world beside! Is not this enough, Robert?" 
 
 The sudden chanoinfy of her tone from 
 passion to pleading, the love that swam in 
 her upturned eyes, the way she clasped her 
 hands on his arm, hanoinof on it ! 
 
 He pressed her to his breast, till he almost 
 took her breath away. 
 
 " You give me heaven, and ask me if it is 
 enough! command me, I am yours — your 
 slave, your creature for ever ! in joy and
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 123 
 
 sorrow, in hope and despair, only yours, 
 Agatha, my Agatha, my own Agatha !" 
 
 Slowly they resumed their walk, planning 
 how to meet and correspond : it was no sur- 
 prise, no mortification to Robert that all 
 thought of communicating the state of affairs 
 to Agatha's parents must be utterly rejected. 
 
 They must contrive to keep off even the 
 possibility of a suspicion of their attachment 
 till — Doomsday, it might be; meanw4iile 
 they had enough in their hearts to feed on 
 for the present. 
 
 Robert parted with her before they reached 
 the door. 
 
 " I shall see you again," he said ; " I will 
 be at the station when you start. Heaven 
 bless my own sweet love !" 
 
 Agatha went straight to her own room, 
 and flinging back her hat and cloak, sat down 
 
 G 2
 
 124 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 by the fire to dream. But such indulgence 
 was not long allowed her. 
 
 " Agatha ! I wish to heavens you would 
 not be wandering about the country, and 
 coming home by yourself in the dark !" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Blake's voice, differently modu- 
 lated to what it was in the drawing-room ; 
 '' what will people say ?" 
 
 " Oh, mamma, I'm tired of caring about 
 what people say ; do let me alone ! I know 
 all you've got on your mind. I haven't 
 caught Lord Amesbury, and I'm not likely to 
 catch him, and I've thrown away my advan- 
 tages, and all the rest of it. Oh, Lord ! to 
 be a dairy maid, and have peace and quiet- 
 ness !"
 
 SiveethearU and Wives. 125 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HAMLET AND HORATIO. 
 
 The winter had gone by, and April, full ot 
 those promises that May, in our climate, 
 so seldom fulfils, had commenced. KW the 
 visitors had long departed from Burymeade 
 Chase ; even John Temple had taken it into 
 his head to go to town, and Lord Amesbury 
 and his daughter were left in the house alone, 
 and though they had been for some time 
 purposing to follow Mr. Temple's example, 
 the execution of the plan was indefinitely 
 delayed.
 
 126 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 The intercourse between Ivy and Horatia 
 Temple had grown into a regular intimacy 
 within the last three months. Spoilt child as 
 the latter was, she was found to have, on 
 better acquaintance, many estimable and 
 many endearing qualities. She was generous, 
 perfectly truthful, high-principled and warm- 
 hearted, with great delicacy of feeling, a 
 total absence of undue piide of birth or 
 station, and, apart from her hypochondriasm, 
 of affectation. 
 
 Natural indolence, unhappily fostered by 
 the very advantages of her position, and a 
 want of proper control, proved the bane of 
 her existence, and from it sprang nearly all 
 her faults and all her discontentments. 
 
 In Ivy Lane she found whatever was want- 
 ing in herself. Her active cheerfulness, her 
 sweet, bright temper, her being always ready 
 with resource and comfort on all occasions,
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 127 
 
 her sympathetic nature, everything about her 
 proved strongly attractive to Horatia, and 
 her consciousness of Ivy's superiority, no less 
 than her natural delicacy, placed their friend- 
 ship on a footing of perfect equality. There 
 was no thought of patronage on the one 
 side, none of dependence on the other ; and 
 thus the intimacy, encouraged by the fathers 
 of both, ripened into something more than 
 the mere temporary association called friend- 
 ship, by girls of their ages. 
 
 Fain would Horatia have secured Ivy to 
 herself altogether, and Lord Amesbury had 
 ventured, very delicately, to touch on the 
 subject to the Doctor. 
 
 But it could not be; Ivy could not be 
 spared from those whose claims on her stood 
 before the claims of all others, and the 
 unwillinofness of Horatia to encounter the
 
 128 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 separation with her friend was the chief cause 
 of the delay in returning to town. 
 
 It was Easter, and Georgj was home again 
 for the holidays, if possible in higher spirits, 
 and more ready for mischief than ever. All 
 day he was about in the woods and fields, 
 followed, like a shadow, by the admiring 
 Harry, who ever contrived to be the only 
 sufferer in the adventures into which his elder 
 brother led him. In birds-nesting, it was 
 Harry who tumbled down from the trees ; in 
 letting off home-manufactured fireworks, it 
 was Harry who burnt himself; in trapping 
 linnets, goldfinches and blackbirds, it was 
 Harry who scratched his hands with the 
 wires, and so besmeared himself with bird- 
 lime, that he became unapproachable. .In 
 fishing, boating, cricketing, football, it was 
 always the same ; he caught his line in every 
 branch on the shore, in every weed in the
 
 Sweethearts and^ Wives. 12P 
 
 river; he tumbled into the water; he got fi 
 blow of a cricket *ball that swelled up one of 
 his eyes for a week, and as to his shins, to 
 discover the natural colour of the skin be- 
 tween the bruises, would have been a task 
 no learned doctor could have accomplished. 
 
 More than this, his clothes, always worn 
 out weeks before the new ones were due, 
 became, under these circumstances, mere 
 rags ; and many a night, when his tired head 
 had lain for hours on the pillow, did Ivy sit 
 up, patching, darning, and sewing on buttons, 
 to render it possible for the every-day suit to 
 be put on on the morrow. 
 
 But do what he might, George was always 
 sure of one supporter and admirer. Mr. 
 Chaplin, the old friend of the family; Mr. 
 Chaplin, the instructor of youth, the excel- 
 lent, steady, high-principled, moral man ; 
 Mr. Chaplin, past sixty, grave almost to 
 
 G 5
 
 130 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 sternness, in speech and aspect, a man much 
 after the fashion, in outward seeming, of the 
 author of "• Rasselas," entertained for George, 
 not in spite of, but partly bv reason of his 
 peculiar propensities, an attachment only 
 equalled by his affection for Ivy. 
 
 Constantly as he at all times frequented 
 the cottage, when George was at home, his 
 visits were yet more prolonged — more frequent 
 they could hardly be — than usual, and he gene- 
 rally contrived to have " looked up" some- 
 thing likely to be of service, or to afford 
 gratification to his favourite. Sometimes a 
 set of fishing flies, that looked strangely 
 fresh and bright to have lain away for 
 years in a forgotten receptacle, were pro- 
 duced ; sometimes a book on boyish sports, 
 which, miraculous to say, had been preserved 
 all through, and ever since Mr. Chaplin's own 
 boyhood, with unstained cover, un thumbed
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 131 
 
 leaves, and having his name written in it 
 in exactly the same hand-writing he used 
 now. 
 
 But the great delight of Mr. Chaplin's life 
 was to drop in of an evening (he could hardly 
 ever, except on birthdays and fete days, be 
 persuaded to dine with them, his digestion on 
 all other occasions not accommodating itself 
 to their hours), and sitting in a quiet corner 
 of the room to listen, while the Doctor in- 
 dulged in his evening nap, to George's half 
 sottO'VOce narratives of his school adventures, 
 delivered ostensibly for the edification of 
 Hopie and Harry, but always with an eye to 
 the silent auditor who, with a book which he 
 was not reading, or leaning back in his chair, 
 with his big hands clasped on his ample 
 waistcoat, lost not a syllable of the dis- 
 course. 
 
 On such occasions, it was great to see Mr.
 
 132 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 Chaplin. He preserved his countenance won- 
 derfully, and never laughed aloud — Georgy 
 could never attain this much-desired triumph ; 
 but at certain moments his eyes became 
 almost invisible in the puckers, and wrinkles, 
 and crossing lines that surrounded them ; his 
 mouth pursed itself up, his cheeks were 
 blown out, like those of a cherubim, his face 
 grew purple, a convulsive heaving shook his 
 whole frame, and occasionally a smothered 
 inward sound, but violently compressed and 
 kept down, would make itself faintly audible. 
 Then George would season his discourse a 
 little more highly, till at times Ivy felt her- 
 self called upon to remonstrate gently, and the 
 Doctor would make some warning movement, 
 indicative of an intention to wake up pre- 
 sently. 
 
 " k fine boy, a very fine boy !" Mr. 
 Chaplin would say, shaking his head, with an
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 133 
 
 air of profound conviction, when any of the 
 neighbours ventured to remark that his 
 favourite was a bit of a pickle ; " plenty of 
 fun in him ; I like a boy who's a little wild, 
 shows he's life and spirit ; I don't like your 
 model boys, ma'am ; they don't make model 
 men, ma'am, that I can tell you. Sneaks, 
 ma'am, most of them sneaks, or poor creatures, 
 poor milk-sop creatures, that. had better have 
 been put underground at once, than reared to 
 make less bread for better men. Besides, 
 ma'am, they'll have their- fling at one time or 
 another, and of one sort or another, and 
 hadn't they better have it out in sky- 
 larking as boys, than in drinking and gaming, 
 and the deuce knows what, as hobbedehoys? 
 I'm glad to see young Harry plucking up a 
 spirit; the boy had been too much with 
 women ; even Ivy, though there's not her 
 match in the three kingdoms, isn't up to
 
 1 34 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 rearing boys — no woman is; and the fellow 
 was getting soft — soft, ma'am. He'll get all 
 right though, when he goes to school with 
 George." 
 
 At Ivy's recommendation, Horatia had 
 begun to take drawing-lessons from Mr. 
 Chaplin. She had no very marked artistic 
 talent, but the thing afforded a certain 
 amount of occupation and amusement, and 
 she promised to be a creditable, if not a very 
 brilliant pupil. The style she adopted too, 
 being that of landscape, afforded her father 
 and Ivy many excuses for getting her out 
 on sketching excursions, and as the spring 
 advanced, various pic-nics and other out-door 
 amusements were planned for the coming fine 
 days; and in Ivy's society, and in those new 
 and wholesome interests, she besfan to forofet 
 her invalid fancies, and to look beyond the 
 narrow circle of her own individuality.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 135 
 
 " I suppose," Horatia said one day to her 
 friend, " that there are a great many poor in 
 the village and in the neighbourhood ?" 
 
 " Not a great many very poor. Lord 
 Amesbury is so good a landlord, and the 
 place is so well off in various respects, that 
 there is not much real poverty among those 
 who choose to work and are steady." 
 
 " You don't belong to the district visiting 
 party ; I suppose you haven't time?" 
 
 " Yes ; and not only that, but papa does 
 not approve the general system of district 
 visiting." 
 
 "No! why not?" 
 
 " He says if it could be carried on by 
 persons entirely fitted for it ; people of great 
 good sense and thorough knowledge and 
 experience of the poor, their necessities, 
 ideas and feelings; people, especially, of ex- 
 treme discretion^ who were particularly careful
 
 1S6 STdeethearts and Wives. 
 
 of not intruding where they were neither 
 welcome nor wanted, it might do good. 
 Otherwise he thhiks it decidedly mischievous, 
 both to the visitors and the visited. Where 
 it is carried on by young, ignorant, inex- 
 perienced people, as it generally is, it is 
 extremely apt to degenerate into a sort of 
 habit of gadding about, neglecting positive 
 home duties for very problematical duties 
 abroad ; and it is no less likely, even more so, 
 to make the prouder and more independent 
 poor feel a sense of being intruded upon and 
 taken liberties with, and the meaner and less 
 deserving, it renders cringing, dependent, and 
 idle. 
 
 " Then some of the young ladies about 
 here will teach, or pretend to teach, in the 
 school, and set the schoolmaster, a really 
 clever, good, sensible man, exactly suited for 
 the office, at his wit's end ; and they will
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 137 
 
 give money, and food, and clothes to people 
 who are without, simply because they find it 
 easier and pleasanter to live on charity than 
 to work; and when anybody attempts to 
 enlighten them, they set up a cry and fall 
 upon him in a body. 
 
 " Two years ago, old Mr. Horton had a 
 curate, Mr. Wilmot, one of the most rational, 
 sensible, excellent, and sincerely charitable of 
 men. He and the schoolmaster tried to 
 make head against what papa calls the ' reli- 
 gious dissipation' party, or at least to bring 
 them to reason. The result was, that these 
 charitable ladies, who were perfectly aware 
 that the poor young curate — a gentleman and 
 a scholar, whose widowed mother had pinched 
 herself almost of the necessaries of life to 
 give her son a college education — had nothing 
 to depend upon, he and his sister (for his 
 mother had died, and with her a litle pen-
 
 138 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 sion) but the eighty pounds a-year he had 
 from Mr. Horton ; these ladies, so lavish of 
 money and sympathy to unworthy objects, 
 never gave the poor foolish old rector rest or 
 peace till he sent away Mr. Wilmot, and put 
 in a protege of their own, a man after their 
 own heart, who follows their cue, is ' truly 
 pious,' as they say, and cares no more about 
 the poor than as the instruments by which he 
 can recommend himself. 
 
 " When papa knows, and he always does 
 know, of any really deserving objects of 
 charity, he tells me, and then I visit them, if 
 he thinks it advisable, and we all do what we 
 can for them. 
 
 " But as to gadding about to poor people's 
 houses indiscriminately, and bothering them, 
 and asking them set questions, he won't hear 
 of it." 
 
 " Yes, I see all that's very bad ; but I
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 139 
 
 should like to do something for the poor, 
 What would be the best way to do it ?" 
 
 " Well, at present, if you will let papa 
 guide you, as he does me, or if you would 
 really interest yourself in the schools, under 
 the schoolmaster's advice, you might do an 
 immensity of good. Shall I speak to them 
 about it, or had you not better do so your- 
 self?" 
 
 But this was too decided a step for Horatia 
 to undertake all at once. So she deputed 
 Ivy to inform her of the first opportunity that 
 presented itself for her to afford assistance 
 through Ivy or the Doctor, an office the 
 former gladly charged herself with.
 
 140 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SELENE. 
 
 April passed away, May arrived, and was 
 fast advancing towards June, and still Lord 
 Amesbury and his daughter lingered at 
 Burymeade with no apparent intention of 
 quitting it. 
 
 Ivy continued to spend there as much time 
 as she could spare from her home duties, and 
 no little pic-nic or excursion was ever taken 
 in which she could not join. Indeed, Horatia, 
 who despite Ivy's precepts and Ivy's example,
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 141 
 
 could not acquire the great gift in which 
 nature had, unhappily, made her wholly defi- 
 cient, the gift of self-reliance, seemed daily to 
 lean on her more and more ; and though her 
 life was now a far healthier, happier, and 
 better regulated one than it had been a year 
 ago, thanks to Ivy, there was too much reason 
 to fear that the wholesome influence removed, 
 there was hardly in Horatia sufficient stability 
 of character to assure her against falling 
 back into her old hopeless, helpless mode of 
 thought and existence. 
 
 John Temple still remained in London, and 
 as, at the best of times he was not communi- 
 cative, nor was his pen ever that of a ready 
 writer, at the Chase they knew little of his 
 movements, nor, if the truth must be owned, 
 was he greatly missed there. 
 
 It was the first of June, and Ivy was going 
 to spend the afternoon and dine with her
 
 142 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 friend. She had more time to-day than was 
 usual with her, for her father dined out, both 
 boys were at school, Harry having accompa- 
 nied his brother there after the Easter, vaca- 
 tion, and Hopie had joined a birthday party 
 of one of her intimates. Leave, therefore, 
 had been accorded to the tidy little maid 
 to take baby with her to an early tea with 
 her father. Lord Amesbury's head game- 
 keeper ; a treat which was pretty equally 
 divided between the two ; to say nothing of 
 the pride and satisfaction caused thereby to 
 Jane's father, a sort of sylvan Mr. Peggotty, 
 to her mother, a lady who though no longer 
 in her pristine youth, continued to follow the 
 custom she had adopted some twenty years 
 previously, of adding a new member to the 
 household about every eighteen months, and 
 of Jane's (consequently) extremely numer- 
 ous brothers and sisters.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 143 
 
 Everybody was gone on their separate way, 
 when Ivy, with her pretty little straw bonnet, 
 so neatly trimmed by her own dexterous 
 hands with the brightest of blue ribbons, her 
 fresh blue-spotted muslin gown, made by the 
 same workwoman, and her black silk scarf, 
 came down stairs, ready to start on her plea- 
 sant expedition. Still there were some final 
 directions to be given to the remaining ser- 
 vant, in case papa should be home before her, 
 and would like tea; a look to be cast over 
 the state of household matters in general, 
 and a run into the garden to gather the first 
 moss rosebud of the year, which, appearing 
 on a certain tree, exposed to the south-west, 
 and sheltered from all chill breezes, had been 
 watched by her for many days, and preserved 
 as an offering to Mr. Chaplin, at whose cot- 
 tage she proposed to leave it on her way to 
 the Chase. Then, as moss roses have a
 
 144 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 marked tendency to let their heads be 
 snapped off on the smallest possible provoca- 
 tion, it had to be delicately enclosed in a 
 little roll of white paper ; and all these pre- 
 parations took so much time, as small things 
 always do, that Ivy could not get away till 
 half an hour later than she had proposed. 
 
 The rosebud, however, duly presented, 
 admired, and placed in a specimen glass of 
 fresh water on Mr. Chaplin's table, she has- 
 tened her steps, and arrived at Bury mead e, 
 where she found Horatia watching for her at 
 the window. 
 
 Her father was with Lord Amesbury, 
 Horatia told her, and a few minutes after 
 the two entered the room where the girls 
 were sitting. 
 
 " Miss Temple, not going out this lovely 
 day ?" the Doctor exclaimed ; " surely that is 
 a pity!"
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 145 
 
 '' Oh, yes," Horatia said, " I've only been 
 waiting for Ivy ; we're going out in the pony 
 carriage directly ; I hate to go anywhere 
 without her!" and she kissed Ivy's cheek 
 tenderly. 
 
 " Shall I call for you this evening, on my 
 way home, child?" Dr. Lane said to his 
 daughter, and he was going away. 
 
 " No, no," Lord Amesbury interposed ; 
 " we'll see her home safely — don't be afraid." 
 
 The day passed by, as it usually did, in 
 quiet, tranquil enjoyment. 
 
 Lord Amesbury was more than commonly 
 agreeable, less absorbed, gayer than was his 
 wont. The sio^ht of his dauo:hter's wonderful 
 improvement, the influence of Ivy's sweet, 
 sympathetic nature, the delicious summer 
 weather, seemed to have infused new life into 
 him, and when ten o'clock arrived. Ivy found 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 the tirae had passed with extraordinary rapi- 
 dity. 
 
 " Oh, must you go ?" Horatia exclaimed, 
 with the half provoked, half coaxing tone she 
 knew Ivy found it so hard to resist. 
 
 '* Oh, it's so early ! one little quarter of 
 an hour, do /" But Ivy was inexorable ; she 
 had promised to be home in good time, and 
 she could but barely be that now. 
 
 " You said," Ivy added timidly to Lord 
 Amesbury, *'you would be good enough to 
 send some one home with me ?" 
 
 *' I said I'd see you home safely," her host 
 replied ; '' so I will." 
 
 " Oh, but," Ivy exclaimed, in embar- 
 rassment, '*I can't bear to take you out! 
 really " 
 
 " My promise is as binding as your's. Ivy," 
 he replied with a smile ; "as soon as you 
 have your bonnet on, you will find me ready.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 147 
 
 You don't mind walking home this lovely 
 night?" 
 
 " Oh, I like it !" 
 
 In a pleased little flutter, Ivy tied on her 
 bonnet, and was down in five minutes. She 
 found Lord Araesbury, hat in hand, waiting 
 for her. 
 
 It was bright, white, glorious moonlight, as 
 they left the house, and the lawns and the 
 park were so laden with dew that, but for the 
 trees standing up out of them, they looked 
 almost like sheets of water. Here and there 
 glow-worms sparkled, and a nightingale 
 filled the silence with his unapproachable 
 music. 
 
 Ivy made some remark on the lovely night, 
 but her companion replied vaguely; his 
 gaiety seemed to have deserted him, and after 
 one or two further slight attempts at conver- 
 sation on Ivy's part, they fell into silence. 
 
 H 2
 
 148 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 " Don't fancy me so stupid and inattentive 
 as I seem, Ivy," Lord Amesbury said, after a 
 pause. " The fact is, I have something very 
 particular to say to you, and I have taken 
 this occasion to say it. Will you listen 
 to me ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes!" 
 
 '' You are not frightened ?" he went on, 
 feeling her hand trembling on his arm ; 
 " timid little bird ! nay, if I frighten you, I 
 have done !" 
 
 "No, no! I am not frightened, only 
 
 never mind, go on." 
 
 " Ivy, since you have been coming and 
 going in my house, like a messenger of joy 
 and peace and happiness to me and mine, I 
 have learned every day more and more to 
 feel that I, no more than Horatia, can do 
 without you. I do not appeal to you now 
 merely for her sake, all-essential as you are
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 149 
 
 to her, in every way ; but, Ivy, notwithstand- 
 ing all the years that are between us, not- 
 withstanding the grave, gray life I have for 
 so long lived, I am neither old enough, nor — 
 must I say? — wise enough to be satisfied 
 with your society on its present footing. 
 Ivy, dear little Ivy ! will you think it ridi- 
 culous, if I tell you I love you most ten- 
 derly ? if I say, Ivy, will you be my wife ?" 
 
 There was a pause of some seconds. 
 
 " Have I pained — have I annoyed you, 
 Ivy ? dear child, speak to me ! surely yoii 
 are not angry with me ?" 
 
 " Oh, no !" she looked up, and he saw the 
 tears on her face glistening in the moonlight. 
 " Oh ! no, indeed ! do not think that !" 
 
 The earnestness, the evident desire to 
 reassure him, were so strong in her face and 
 voice, that it gave him courage again. 
 
 " Will you not answer me, then. Ivy ?
 
 150 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 Just yes or no — come ! one word, one syl- 
 lable only." 
 
 There was an evident struggle ; at last she 
 said — 
 
 "I would say yes — but, how can I be 
 spared at home ?" 
 
 " My darling little Ivy ! do you mean to 
 say that you intend to sacrifice yourself, 
 your whole existence to your family? Besides, 
 do you not see — have you not sufficient con- 
 fidence in me to feel that my greatest delight 
 will be to aid and benefit my Ivy's kin in 
 every possible way, as the best mode of 
 securing her happiness and affection ? Nay, 
 dear child, this is but a short-sighted view of 
 the case — indeed it 'is. Do you not feel it 
 to be so r 
 
 Ivy listened, half convinced. 
 
 " Have you said anything to papa ?" she 
 inquired, at length.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 151 
 
 " Not a word ! I would not breathe a 
 syllable of the matter to any one till I had 
 spoken to you. I wished to leave you wholly 
 free and unbiassed." 
 
 They walked on a few steps further ; then 
 Lord Amesbury stopped. 
 
 " Well, Ivy ! oh, Ivy ! is it not to be yes ?" 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 " Dearest, dearest little wife !" He bent 
 down, and in the pure chaste moonlight 
 kissed the pure chaste brow on which it 
 shone, and which was held up to him with 
 such sweet, loving trustfulness. 
 
 She was not the least shy now. Not the 
 least timid or fluttered ; she leant on him 
 confidently, and smiled when he spoke to 
 her, and answered with a calm, earnest 
 seriousness. She told him, in reply to his 
 questions, that she loved him, she hardly 
 knew yet how much — it was still new to
 
 152 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 her to regard her affection for him in that 
 light — but she felt it was very dearly ; that 
 she was very happy, and that she had in him 
 boundless faith and trust. She said she 
 feared there would be times when he might 
 be disappointed in her; that she felt how 
 young, how ignorant, how helpless she was 
 to undertake the duties her new position 
 would bring on her. But he might trust 
 always to her efforts and her intentions, and 
 he must be patient with her, and help her 
 where the path was difficult. 
 
 So conversing, they reached the garden 
 gate. 
 
 " I will not go in with you to-night, my 
 Ivy," Lord Amesbury said, his hand on the 
 latch. " To-morrow we shall meet. Good 
 night. May God bless you, my little wife !" 
 
 Again he kissed her, but now on the rosy 
 lips that were not withdrawn.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 153 
 
 " May I tell papa to-night ?" she whis- 
 pered. 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course ! I will come and speak 
 to him myself to-morrow about three. Will 
 you tell him so ? Good night once more, my 
 little love." 
 
 She passed through the gate, and as the 
 door was never locked till the family was 
 about to retire, she turned the handle, en- 
 tered, and proceeded at once to the sitting- 
 room. Her father had returned, and was 
 sitting with a book, waiting for her. 
 
 *' Child ! how quietly you came in — I never 
 heard you. Who came with you ?" 
 
 Something in her face made him pause, 
 looking at her earnestly. 
 
 " Lord Amesbury." 
 
 ^*Lord Amesbury?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She came up to where he stood, having 
 
 H5
 
 154 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 risen from his chair to be more exactly oppo- 
 site to her, placed her hands on his shoulders, 
 and looked up in his face with such eloquent 
 eyes, that the good little man was fairly 
 puzzled. 
 
 " Oh, papa ! can't you guess anything?" 
 "Guess! child — you don't mean to 
 
 say ?" 
 
 " Yes, but I do !" she hid her blushing 
 face on his breast, and she felt, by the way in 
 which he clasped his arms round her, and by 
 the warm tears falling on her head, that 
 there was no need of further explanation.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 155 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 Before the stroke of three next day, Lord 
 Amesbury arrived at the Doctor's cottage ; 
 he was accompanied by Horatia. 
 
 It is not often that the proposed entrance 
 of a stepmother into a family is regarded by 
 the younger members thereof as a boon and a 
 blessing ; but, in this instance, fond as Ivy 
 knew Horatia to be of her, she was not pre- 
 pared for the positive gratitude as well as 
 delight she manifested at the prospect of the 
 marriage.
 
 156 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 As soon as Lord Amesbury's conference 
 with the Doctor left the girls alone, Ho- 
 ratia embraced Ivy with renewed ten- 
 derness. 
 
 '' You dearest little Ivy ! I shall always 
 have you with me now for my own ! No 
 escape ! I shall make papa jealous ! Do 
 you know, when he told me this morning, 
 I was hardly^ surprised. I had so often 
 thought what a charming, natural way of 
 settling alFairs it would be, that I almost 
 wondered it did not come into his head ; and 
 latterly I watched him, and thought maybe 
 he was not so far off the notion himself. 
 And you, were you much astonished ? Tell 
 me the truth — but you can't help doing 
 that." 
 
 " Yes; I certainly was utterly asto- 
 nished." 
 
 " You didn't guess anything at all ? but
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 157 
 
 then you never have eyes, or ears, or thoughts 
 for anything about yourself. Now, one more 
 question. Did you care for papa — you know 
 what I mean — before he proposed ?" 
 
 Ivy blushed brightly. 
 
 " That's not a fair question, and I shan't 
 answer it." 
 
 " Ha ! you did ! you did !" Horatia said, 
 clapping her hands. " Dearest papa ! grave, 
 and still, and studious, and my respected 
 parent though he be, I can quite understand 
 any woman falling over head and ears in love 
 with him: so handsome, so amiable, so clever, 
 so good ! I can tell you, plenty of women 
 have set their caps at him ; I've often been 
 amused watching the game, and his perfect 
 innocence and indifference in the matter ! Of 
 this you may be sure, my little Ivy ; it is no 
 common conquest you have made. I don't 
 believe that from the time of poor mamma's
 
 158 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 death till now he ever cared for any woman, 
 or ever dreamt of marrying again. Fancy 
 how happy for us all that it is you his choice 
 has at last hit upon ! I don't know another 
 creature in the world I could have endured 
 the thought of having for a stepmother. 
 How absurd that part of it seems ! I can 
 tell you I shall never pay you the least 
 respect, or call you anything but Ivy." 
 
 It was settled that the marriage should 
 take place towards the end of July, and all 
 idea of going to town this summer was, of 
 course, finally abandoned. . After the wed- 
 ding, the new-married couple were to take a 
 month's trip into Wales, then to come back 
 and settle down quietly at Burymeade till 
 the ensuing season, when Horatia, as well as 
 her stepmother, was to be presented. 
 
 Meantime, the wooing went on its happy, 
 tranquil course, and nothing disturbed Ivy
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 159 
 
 but the thoughts of what her old home would 
 be without her. 
 
 Eveu now, convinced as she was that, in 
 the main, her marriage would benefit those in 
 whom, till now, her own existence had been 
 merged, there were times when the thought 
 of her father's loneliness, the helplessness of 
 her brothers and sisters, the diminution of 
 order and comfort that must inevitably ensue 
 in the little household, its head and right 
 hand gone, filled her with a pain and anxiety 
 none, unacquainted with the extraordinary 
 unselfishness of her character, could under- 
 stand. With tears of earnestness in her 
 tender eyes she besought Hope to strive to 
 fill the place she was about to leave vacant. 
 To George, home for the Midsummer holi- 
 days, she made appeals no less imprestive, as 
 to his guidance of Harry, and Baby was 
 solemnly confided to the care of Jane, who
 
 160 Sweethearts and Wives. ! 
 
 shed some tears of attendrissement on the ! 
 
 occasion, and taking her charge into the 
 kitchen, presented her with a large slice of 
 bread and batter and brown suofar, out of 
 her monthly allowance, as the first marked 
 act of adoption. 
 
 To Robert she had much to say, but as \ 
 
 he had promised to come down to Hazle- 
 hurst for the wedding, and to remain with 
 his father for as long as he could after- - 
 
 wards, she deferred her communications till 
 then. 
 
 She was not easy about Robert. Like 
 all very sensitive, very warm hearted, very ; 
 
 unselfish persons, whose minds, unoccupied I 
 
 with their own individual cares, or even | 
 
 that habit of introspection that, often, j 
 
 begun as a duty, ends in a state of morbid I 
 
 egotism, she had ever an instinctive sense 
 of the condition of mind of those she loved.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 161 
 
 And she felt now that all was not right 
 with Robert. 
 
 In none of his letters had he so much 
 as mentioned Agatha Blake's name, nor 
 had Ivy any means of knowing that he had 
 ever met her since her departure from Bury- 
 meade. On this ground, then, she had no 
 definite cause of uneasiness ; but still the 
 tone of the letters themselves, a sort of 
 restless, at times almost reckless style in 
 them, a constant variability of spirits they 
 evinced, a commonplace, matter-of-fact way 
 of replying to any little bits of home news, 
 as if the writer's interest in these was no 
 lonoer as undivided and warm as it had 
 been, assured her, in spite of her attempts 
 to shake off the impression, that Robert was 
 neither happy nor self-contented. Once or 
 twice, in writing to him, she had striven 
 gently to lead him into confiding to her
 
 162 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 the real state of his feelings ; but he had 
 always replied evasively, and she feared, 
 by pressing the point without result, to 
 place between them the barrier of a with- 
 held secret. So, hoping that in a renewal, 
 personally, of the old, affectionate, confiden- 
 tial intercourse of brother and sister, she 
 might succeed in winning from him the 
 secret she could not but believe weighed 
 upon him, she sought no further in her 
 letters to penetrate the mystery. 
 
 Of course Mr. Chaplin was one of the very 
 first persons to whom Ivy's engagement was 
 communicated, and that by herself. His 
 astonishment a little subsided, his congra- 
 tulations ran much in the following terms, 
 it being his custom to protest, on almost 
 all subjects, before according approval: 
 
 " Well, ray dear, I needn't say that 
 nobody wishes you happy, married or un-
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 163 
 
 married, more cordially than your old Chap, 
 does. At the same time, I don't say that 
 this is just the marriage I should have 
 chosen for you. A kind man, an excellent 
 man, a gentleman. Lord Amesbury is; but 
 still — well, well, it's no use for an old fool 
 to grumble; what must be, must. For my 
 part, I think people, man and woman both, 
 are much better off single than married 
 at all — spare themselves no end of bother, 
 can do as they like, have no trouble about 
 children — much better. However, if the 
 world's to go on — what the necessity for 
 its doing so is, / can't tell, for it's a 
 miserable world as needs be — if, however, 
 it is to go on, I suppose these things 
 must take place. 
 
 "Jack and Jill must needs clamber up life's 
 hill together, though they know well enough 
 that when Jack tumbles down and cracks his
 
 164 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 foolish crown, Jill is quite sure to come 
 tumbling after. 
 
 "Remember this, though, mj dear, your 
 old Chap, is at least to be allowed to deck the 
 lamb for the sacrifice ; you'll promise to wear 
 no flowers but mine at your wedding, won't 
 you?" 
 
 The day fixed for the marriage was the 
 24th of July ; all the Lane family was assem- 
 bled at home for the occasion, George and 
 Harry's Midsummer holidays being not yet 
 concluded, and Robert coming according to 
 his promise, but only on the day preceding 
 the wedding, so that it was impossible for 
 Ivy to find an opportunity of carrying her 
 little scheme into execution. 
 
 Of course Horatia and Hope enacted the 
 bridesmaids' parts, and the latter, in her deli- 
 cate white dress trimmed with green, was the 
 admiration of all beholders.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 165 
 
 George, whose present tendency was to- 
 wards dandyism, appeared at church in 
 patent boots and pale gray gloves of irre- 
 proachable fit. Harry, by a miracle of 
 fraternal devotion on his part, and of in- 
 struction and supervision on that of Jane, 
 had succeeded in getting his hands and face 
 perfectly clean, his new clothes to bear 
 the stamp of newness, and his shirt collar 
 smooth — till after the conclusion of the 
 ceremony. 
 
 As to Baby, she was utterly stunned and 
 subdued by all the preparations. She al- 
 lowed herself to be dressed and taken to 
 church, and through all the events of the 
 day in a state of passive bewilderment. Only 
 when Ivy, at parting, clasped her to her 
 heart and kissed her in an agony of tender- 
 ness, did she really comprehend that the only 
 mother she ever knew was gone from her,
 
 166 Sweethearts arid Wives. 
 
 and then she fairly gave way, and shed those 
 tears grown-up life smiles at, but which are, 
 nevertheless, while they flow, among the 
 bitterest we ever know.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 167 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE SWEETHEART. 
 
 A WEEK had passed since Ivy's wedding, 
 which Robert had spent at Hazlehurst with 
 his father. At the end of that time, how- 
 ever, he found it necessary to return to the 
 duties of his profession, and once more the 
 Doctor's pony chaise was on the road to the 
 station. But this time the pony's head was 
 turned the wrong way, and the Doctor's heart 
 was less light than it had been that night last 
 Christmas, when he and his son had trotted 
 along that same route together.
 
 1 68 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 Even he — constantly occupied as he was with 
 the cares of his hy no means easy existence, 
 for his skill, his kindness, his sound sense, 
 and his genial nature caused him to be sought 
 professionally, and consulted unprofessionally 
 by all who for miles round were in sickness, 
 sorrow or perplexity — had not failed to per- 
 ceive that Robert was, to say the least of it, 
 in an unsatisfactory state, and evidently bent 
 on keeping him in ignorance as to the cause 
 thereof. ' 
 
 '' Boys will be boys," the good man had 
 thought, when he first became conscious of 
 the change in his son; ''perhaps he's been 
 going a little too fast, and has got into debt." 
 So he tried him gently on that point, but 
 obtained nothing like a confirmation of his 
 suspicions. Robert, occasionally alluding 
 incidentally to the state of his finances, 
 always spoke of them in a satisfactory tone,
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 169 
 
 and no other conjecture that his father could 
 form, seemed likely to be elucidated by him, 
 for he turned aside with assumed carelessness 
 all attempts to win his confidence. One thing 
 Dr. Lane perceived, and that with a pain he 
 would hardly acknowledge to himself — the 
 fact that as the period for Robert's return to 
 town drew near, his spirits became perceptibly 
 raised, and that the day preceding his depar- 
 ture found him in a state of perfectly feverish 
 excitement, which, despite all his efforts 
 to appear calm, would occasionally break 
 forth. 
 
 " God bless you, my boy," the Doctor said 
 solemnly, as they parted, still retaining his 
 son's hand in his, still keeping his anxious 
 eyes fixed on his face, as if, even at that last 
 moment, he would fain have made a final effort 
 to penetrate the ominous secret he felt so 
 certain lay between him and the once so 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 candid and open nature of his son. But it 
 was not to be : Robert, avoiding the look, 
 and, with a last shake and pressure of his 
 father's hand freeing his own, stepped into 
 the carriage, and was gone. 
 
 We will leave the Doctor to pursue his 
 sad and solitary way, and follow the young 
 traveller. 
 
 Having succeeded in getting a carriage to 
 himself, he was free to yield to any impulse 
 or emotion that might seize him, and before 
 the train had got out of sight of Hazlehurst 
 station, he had taken from his pocket-book 
 two or three letters, which he read as only 
 love-letters are read. The last, above all, 
 was perused with a rapture which he made 
 no attempt to control, and w^as not restored 
 to its place among its fellows without being 
 lavishly embalmed with kisses. 
 
 Station after station was passed, and as
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 17I 
 
 each was left behind, Robert's state of 
 excitement rose hio-her and hio^her. 
 
 At last the train stopped at Abbey side, 
 where another line met the one on which he 
 was travelling. Here he got out, taking his 
 portmanteau from the luggage-van, and at 
 once proceeded to the door of the ladies' 
 waiting-room. One lady was there; she sat 
 with her back to the light, and wore a hat 
 with so deep and thick a veil, that her face 
 was w^holly undistinguishable ; she rose the 
 instant Robert appeared, approached him, 
 and only a grasp of two hands, convulsive in 
 its intensity, marked their mutual recogni- 
 tion. 
 
 '* Stay here," Robert murmured, " till I 
 get a fly ; don't stir or show yourself till I 
 come for you. All's right, so far." 
 
 She went back to her place and sat down, 
 laying her hand on her heart to still its 
 
 I 2
 
 172 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 audible beatings, and striving to calm her 
 quick breath and trembling limbs. 
 
 The tide had drifted her far out now, the 
 shore she had left was dim in the haze of her 
 troubled thoughts, and the ground was gone 
 from beneath her feet. But was not he there 
 to cling to ? to swim or sink with her ? 
 
 In a few minutes, that seemed hours to 
 her, he came back. 
 
 *' Come now, all is ready." 
 
 Still in silence, for she could not command 
 her voice to speak, Agatha passed her arm 
 through his, and together they proceeded 
 towards the spot where the fly waited for 
 them. 
 
 " My darling !" Robert whispered, '' how 
 you tremble. All's safe now, my very 
 own !" 
 
 She pressed his arm for answer, and whis- 
 pered one or two broken words of tenderness.
 
 Sweethea7is and Wives, . 1 73 
 
 Suddenly their places -and characters 
 seemed changed. She, the mature woman of 
 hard practical experiences of life and society, 
 had, in this great crisis of her existence, 
 become a mere tremblino- falterino^ airl 
 clinging for more than life on one her junior 
 in years, in experience, in knowledge of the 
 world, a step below her in position, one 
 whom, but for the accident of her loving him, 
 she, with her previous feelings and ideas, 
 would never have bestowed a thought upon, 
 never, except for a momentary glance at his 
 beauty, have turned her eyes upon a second 
 time. 
 
 The accident of her loving him. Such love 
 is no accident. The meeting with the object 
 on whom it is destined to be bestowed, may 
 be an accident — I cannot say. But that one 
 warm, golden love a few feel once, the greater 
 number never, that love of whose nature we
 
 174 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 have no understanding till experience teaches 
 it to as ; that love which waits not to be won, 
 but goes forth from us as the breath we 
 breathe, spontaneously, irresistibly ; that at 
 once takes the darling object to the heart, as 
 a mother takes her child, and feels as if the 
 world were full of it, and of it only ; the 
 love that quickens the pulses, and fills the 
 eyes with happy dew, and makes life a new 
 thing, prayer and aspiration ecstasy ; that 
 now fills with a sense of power increased ten- 
 fold, now subdues with an overwhelming 
 tenderness; that in the beloved presence 
 warms and revivifies like sunshine, still 
 leaving some vital heat for a certain space 
 after the presence is removed, but that in 
 absence, more or less prolonged, is full of 
 pining, longing anxieties, that takes no care 
 or pleasure in aught unconnected with itself, 
 that tries to cheat itself with constant con-
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 1 75 
 
 templation of all things related to the darling- 
 absent, and with making talismans and relics 
 of great virtue of every trifle rendered sacred 
 by the one association. 
 
 But, as the honey in certain plants is said 
 to be poisoned by their chalice, so even such 
 love may be turned to a thing noxious and 
 destructive, by being engendered in an un- 
 healthy source. 
 
 Robert and Agatha stepped into the car- 
 riage that waited for them, and the former 
 having given the driver the necessary direc- 
 tions, the vehicle turned off into a country 
 road and soon disappeared. 
 
 Next evening Agatha Blake arrived at ^r 
 Edgar Armytage's, where she was engaged 
 to spend a fortnight. John Temple was 
 there, having reached Annerly Park a few 
 hours previously, and something in his manner 
 made her feel uncomfortable. He sat oppo-
 
 176 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 site to her at dinner, and hung about her in 
 the evening, always with a something gloomy, 
 discontented, suspicious in his countenance, 
 and she was conscious, though she avoided as 
 much as possible meeting his eye, that it was 
 on her this ominous watcb was kept. 
 
 At last he made his way to a place near 
 her, and sat down. 
 
 " I thought I should have found you here 
 on my arrival. Miss Blake," were his first 
 words. 
 
 There was a flutter in Agatha's heart, as 
 though a wild bird were suddenly startled in 
 it, but summoning all her self-command, she 
 smiled, and asked why he should have had 
 such an expectation. 
 
 " Because yesterday, between ten and 
 eleven, I was driving past your door, and saw 
 the cab laden with your luggage, and you 
 and your maid get into it. Knowing you
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 177 
 
 were coming here, I concluded you were then 
 starting." 
 
 The red rose in Agatha's bosom might have 
 been seen throbbing like a living thing, but 
 her face was calm, as she replied — 
 
 " Oh, yes ; but I stopped on the way to 
 visit an old friend of mine who lives near 
 Malton, on this line. I had been promising 
 for months to go and see her, and had been 
 able to find no other opportunity." 
 
 It is often in seasons of peril, where per- 
 fect composure and self-command are neces- 
 sary, that ordinary women suddenly become 
 possessed of these qualities. The very know- 
 ledge Agatha had that her every word, look, 
 and tone were being studied by one whose 
 jealous suspicions were already strong against 
 her, gave her the power so to school them, 
 that in them, at least, should be no betrayal. 
 
 John Temple made no reply, but began 
 
 I 5
 
 178 Sweethearts mid Wives, 
 
 tracing with his eye the pattern of the carpet, 
 and it was Agatha who resumed the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " How do your brother and his bride get 
 on, do you hear? Fancy Lord Amesbury 
 marrying that little girl ! and yet I think it 
 was about as wise a step as he could take. 
 She was a dear little thing, and such a nice 
 companion for Horatia. She, it seems, is 
 delighted." 
 
 '' I believe so. I don't know if it will 
 last ; I've little faith in girlish friendships, 
 still less in the friendships between step- 
 mother and daughter, and I'm not enthu- 
 siastic in my admiration of the Lanes. As 
 to that young chap, Robert, I think he's 
 about the most insolent, self-conceited puppy 
 I ever came across. A snob like that, to give 
 himself airs ! the son of a miserable villaoe 
 doctor !"
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 179 
 
 ** Did you think him so ? It did not strike 
 me ; I found him presentable enough, all 
 things considered. His mother, at least, must 
 have been a lady, and we are generally, I 
 think, more our mother's children than our 
 father's." 
 
 Agatha Qnust have made the speech, had 
 she died for it, and not even the thunder- 
 cloud that lowered over John Temple's dark 
 face could quell the sensation of malicious 
 triumph that rose in her heart, as she saw 
 how the stroke told. But she was not natu- 
 rally spiteful ; she knew the feeling that had 
 prompted Mr. Temple's abuse of her lover; 
 she had had her revenge, and it was imperative 
 to conciliate this man, whose enmity might 
 prove of the utmost risk to her. So she 
 went on. 
 
 "And it often proves a happy provision 
 of nature that it should be so. How fre-
 
 180 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 quently do we see the introduction of new 
 blood into an old stock productive of the 
 best effects. The constant intermixture of 
 the sangre azula comes to a very ' mild sky- 
 blue' at last. Tell me, after I was gone, 
 had you any good runs with that perfect 
 horse you lent me? I've been on nothing 
 like him since. Kiss the white star on his 
 forehead for me when you go back to Bury- 
 meade." 
 
 It was a 'missy' speech, and Agatha knew 
 it. But Agatha knew also that the wisest 
 of men, when they are in love, not only tole- 
 rate missiness in the object of their passion, 
 but frequently esteem it as the most de- 
 lightful of her qualities. 
 
 Not all the sage discourse of Minerva had 
 for the Lydian Hercules the charm that lay 
 in the follies, caprices, and impertinences of 
 Omphale.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 181 
 
 John Temple allowed himself to be brought 
 round bj degrees ; as how could he help it ? 
 Yet, somehow, when he retired to his room, 
 and was out of sight of that face, out of 
 hearing of that voice, out of the influence 
 that hung round Agatha as an atmosphere, 
 his doubts, jealousies, and discontents would 
 once more assail him. 
 
 During all these weeks, lengthening into 
 months, that, for her sake, he had remained 
 away from his hom^e and from all his natural 
 tastes and habits, he had had no real pursuit 
 or interest but in her; and therefore every 
 circumstance connected with her acquired in 
 his jealous, gloomy mind a significance and 
 importance often quite disproportioned to 
 that it really possessed. 
 
 He had never come forward in the light of 
 a suitor — he had an instinctive certainty that 
 such a step would be, to say the least, pre-
 
 18^ Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 mature. But, in biding his time, he con- 
 trived to make her, as it were, accustomed to 
 his presence, nay, even half unconsciously to 
 herself, to establish over her a certain amount 
 of influence. At the beginning of their 
 acquaintance she had amused herself in exer- 
 cising her power over him. Now their rela- 
 tions were reversed. True, when for an 
 object she was bent on captivating and dis- 
 arming him, she never failed to do so. But 
 it was only for the moment ; the spell re- 
 moved along with her presence, the golden 
 meshes of the net she had thrown over the 
 captive fell away like cobwebs; and when 
 next they met, she, not at times without a 
 certain amount of uneasiness, found him once 
 more watching over her with that umbra- 
 geous distrust that, much as it annoyed and 
 displeased her, she did not feel herself in a 
 position openly to revolt against.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 183 
 
 And so the dumb struggle went on, and as 
 Agatha drifted out further and further on 
 that perilous and wreck-strewn sea, the 
 more she became aware of rocks and shoals 
 unknown and unforeseen at the starting. 
 
 " Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute,'' is 
 a proverb of most one-sided verity. Many 
 and many a time it is that that first step is 
 taken with a lightness, facility, and incon si- 
 deration that blinds our eyes to all the com- 
 plicated labyrinth of difficulties and dangers 
 into which it leads us.
 
 184 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A GAME OF STRATEGY. 
 
 It was the custom at Annerly Park for the 
 letters to be brouo^ht in the morn in o- in a 
 locked bag, of which Sir Edgar Armytage 
 kept the key ; and, this bag being placed on 
 the breakfast-table, he opened it, and dis- 
 tributed its contents according to their 
 addresses. Of this usage Agatha was aware, 
 and feeling it would be highly imprudent, 
 under such circumstances, to allow Robert 
 to write to her daily, as he had desired to
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 185 
 
 do, she bad warned him to be circumspect 
 in this particular; the more so that she 
 might have occasionally a difficulty in reply- 
 ing to him immediately; as, though her maid 
 was in the secret of the attachment, she 
 feared to excite suspicion by too often send- 
 ing her to post her letters, when a special 
 messenger was despatched once or twice a day 
 with all the correspondence of the house. 
 
 At first Robert attended pretty carefully 
 to this injunction ; but, by degrees, finding 
 it to the last degree irksome, and growing 
 careless by impunity, his epistles began to 
 arrive with a frequency that at last attracted 
 the attention of Sir Edgar. 
 
 " Upon my word, young lady," the jovial 
 elderly gentleman exclaimed one day, as he 
 handed Agatha the fourth letter that had 
 arrived in six days, " you seem to have a 
 most assiduous correspondent ! always this
 
 186 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 thick epistle written with a stumpy pen. 
 You'll ask us to the wedding, eh ? Xever 
 blush about it, my dear; I've been young 
 myself once, and have written scores of love- 
 letters, of course to my old woman there, all 
 of them !" and the baronet winked and 
 chuckled, and Lady Armytage, a grave, staid 
 dame, with a kind heart, but much spoiled 
 for the purposes of general society by reso- 
 lutely maintained pretensions to infallibility 
 and omniscience, on all subjects whatsoever, 
 shook her head and said — 
 
 " I'm curious to know, then, what became 
 of them ; for as our engagement only lasted 
 two months, and we were never separated 
 for more than a day or two at a time — 
 about six letters was, I think, the amount 
 that reached me." 
 
 " And the letters I have written you since
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 187 
 
 our marriage ! she counts those for nothing. 
 Oh, ingratitude ! thy name is woman." 
 
 " A forfeit, a forfeit, papa !" exclaimed 
 his daughter, Susan Armytage, " always at 
 the old trick !" 
 
 ''Well, isn't that right? hang it! False- 
 ness, thy name is woman ! that's it, I know." 
 
 " Another forfeit ! at this rate I shan't 
 have to wait long for the pink coral set !" 
 
 During this diversion, Agatha had been 
 able to recover an appearance of composure ; 
 but the consciousness of John Temple's 
 attention never having been for one moment 
 withdrawn from her from the instant the 
 letter had been taken out of the bag (for it 
 had caught his suspicious eye even before Sir 
 Edgar had spoken), kept her nervously un- 
 easy, and the breakfast seemed to her of 
 such an interminable length, and everybody 
 so triflingly tedious and wearisome, that she
 
 188 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 could with difficulty keep her place at the 
 table. At last it was over; but still she 
 hardly dared to retire, and was devising some 
 plausible excuse to escape, when, to her 
 immense relief, Susan, who perhaps had an 
 instinctive feeling of the nature of her diffi- 
 culty, came to her relief. 
 
 " Oh, Agatha, I have to put fresh flowers 
 in the drawing-rooms and library to-day, 
 and such a lot of things to do besides before 
 we go to ride, that it would be the goxatest 
 charity if you'd write one or two notes for 
 me in time for the twelve o'clock post — will 
 you ? ' It would be so sweet of you !' as 
 Lizzy Horton says, grinning and squeezing 
 up her eyes ; I always long to grin back in 
 her face, affected goose !" 
 
 " Surely, with the best of good will. Tell 
 me who they're to, and all about them, and 
 I'll go and write them at once."
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 189 
 
 " Come to my sitting-room ; they're there, 
 and I'll give them to you, and you shall not 
 be disturbed while you're at the answers." 
 
 The two girls quitted the room together, 
 and Susan having installed Agatha in her 
 sanctum, left her to herself. 
 
 Alone, Agatha took Robert's letter from 
 her pocket. 
 
 *' Dear, darling, foolish boy !" she mur- 
 mured, contemplating the envelope, the ad- 
 dress, the seal lovingly, doatingly, before 
 opening the epistle; prolonging, with epi- 
 curean refinement of enjoyment, the pleasure 
 it brought her, " if you knew how near your 
 dear precious writing was getting me into a 
 scrape ! Robert, Robert, how I must love 
 you, to bear all this daily, hourly uneasiness, 
 and agitation, and anxiety, and to bear it all 
 without a murmur, without an instant of 
 regret, a moment's desire for a more tranquil,
 
 190 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 or brilliant, or a safer lot, unshared by you. 
 Oh, king of my heart, can it be, in this poor 
 cold dry world of ours, where love is so 
 scarce, that two lovers can come together 
 with hearts so full of love as mine ? it seems 
 to me that only here and there, once or twice 
 in a century, one such might be found. 
 NHmporte, love me in your own fashion ; so 
 you do love me I am content. And now to 
 your epistle." 
 
 At half-past eleven Agatha brought down 
 the notes she had written for Susan to put 
 them in the letter-box in the hall, on her way 
 to the garden. As she reached the foot of 
 the stairs, John Temple (had he been watch- 
 ing for her ?) suddenly emerged from his own 
 room, which was on the ground floor; his 
 eye instantly settled on the packet of letters 
 in Agatha's hand. 
 
 " I am going into the village, Miss Blake,"
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 191 
 
 he said ; *' I've got some letters of my own to 
 post — shall I take your's ?" 
 
 " Thank you," Agatha replied quietly, " if 
 you will," and she put the missives into his 
 hand. 
 
 *' These are all?" 
 
 All for you, John Temple, most decidedly. 
 
 " Those are all, yes, thank you. You'll 
 be sure they're in before twelve o'clock, 
 please." 
 
 " Baffled !" Agatha laughed to herself 
 inwardly, as she turned towards the door at 
 the other end of the hall that led into the 
 garden. 
 
 *' You, dear," and as she pressed her hand 
 on her bosom, a little crackling of paper 
 responded, "are going by quite another route. 
 Old fox ! he thought to take me by surprise, 
 but I am determined to be prepared for 
 everything now, and not to be made to blush.
 
 192 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 and stammer, and tremble like a school-girl 
 before these people, who in a fair game of 
 strategy are certainly no matches for me. I 
 wish, though, I knew where my suspicious 
 friend was going after he's posted the letters, 
 for I must get mine in before lunch ; going 
 to ride, it's more than doubtful if I shall have 
 time to take it after, and I've sent Clemence 
 so often lately, that I don't like to do it 
 again to-day. 
 
 " However, he can't be hanging about the 
 post-office for an hour on the vague chance 
 of catching me there, so at half-past twelve 
 I'll slip down on some pretext, and be back 
 in plenty of time for lunch." 
 
 In the garden she found Susan, gathering 
 her flowers. 
 
 " What, still at work ? let me help you ! 
 I've written the notes, and Mr. Temple has 
 taken them to post."
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 193 
 
 " Mighty amiable of Mr. Temple. I say, 
 Agatha, you don't like that man, do you? 
 you don't mind ray abusing him ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear no ; I'll help you with all my 
 heart." 
 
 *' That's right. He's desperately sweet 
 upon you, though, there's no mistake what- 
 ever about that ; but have nothing to say to 
 him, take my advice. A dangerous man, 
 believe me ; dark, and jealous, and unrelent- 
 ing, and more than that, a man whose prin- 
 ciples are far less strong than his passions, 
 who would let few scruples stand in the way 
 of any object he might set his will upon." 
 
 " I think so. But have you any reason for 
 saying this?" 
 
 " No, no reason founded on actual know- 
 ledge, but I have an instinct that tells me 
 so : I am sure of it." 
 
 These words were but the expression of 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 the thought that had more than once arisen 
 in Agatha's mind. But while it had been 
 confined there, she had not allowed herself 
 to dwell on, or give it much importance. 
 Now, however, occurring to another mind, 
 and spoken by another's lips, it made her 
 feel niore uncomfortable than she would 
 have liked to confess : her secret once in 
 the hands of such a man, to what fearful 
 account might he not turn it ! And that he 
 knew she had a secret, and had set all 
 his energies to work to discover it, she could 
 have no doubt. 
 
 Some women, in Agatha's position, and 
 really devoted, heart and soul, to a lover as 
 she was to Robert, would have said, come 
 the worst, we can marry and live as we 
 best may. So long as love lasts, and we are 
 together, we can face the world and struggle
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 195 
 
 on, supported by that which no external 
 circumstances can alter. 
 
 But Agatha Blake had for some twenty 
 and odd years been taught in a school which 
 held such maxims as no less absurd than 
 dangerous, and a few months of new sen- 
 sations, however much they might shake old 
 ideas and rules of conduct, could not wholly 
 do away with the effect of such teaching. 
 
 To what, then, did Agatha look, some one 
 will say, on entering upon this attachment? 
 How did she expect it was to end? Was 
 she so lost to every feeling of morality as 
 to contemplate making a mere liaison, which 
 w^as to last so Ions: as it mifjht suit both 
 parties, and then be dissolved, leaving each 
 to follow different paths? Either she must 
 have thought thus, or made up her mind to 
 become eventually the wife of a very poor 
 man, and to lead a life of total obscurity. 
 
 K 2
 
 196 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 Perfectly logical and just is such rea- 
 soning, and, going on it, we must condemn 
 or excuse Agatha. But Agatha is not to be 
 condemned or excused on these grounds, for 
 no such course of reasoning has ever been 
 followed by her, nor have any such alterna- 
 tives been made the subject of her reflec- 
 tions. 
 
 Agatha has strong instincts, strong pas- 
 sions — the stronger, perhaps, that being so 
 lately developed, she has, in her inexpe- 
 rience, less power to cope with them — 
 strong feelings ; and she has little prin- 
 ciple, little habit of self-discipline or self- 
 denial, and little thought of, or faith in the 
 future. 
 
 Had any one placed before her the two 
 alternatives just named, she would have 
 shrunk with indignation from the first, and 
 with fear and distaste from the second. Had
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 197 
 
 you pressed her hard, she would probably 
 have said, "Oh! no doubt something will 
 ' turn up ;'" but having no one to press her, 
 she hardly attempted to conceive even so 
 very vague and wide a conclusion, and from 
 day to day she went on, a rash Ophelia, 
 floating down the stream into which she had 
 fallen, decked with flowers, and singing 
 "snatches of old lauds," with hardly a thought 
 of the bourne to which she was tending. 
 
 As the hour drew near half-past twelve, 
 she suddenly aflected to remember the want 
 of some trifle, a ribbon, a lace, to finish 
 a piece of work she was engaged on. 
 
 " Do you think I could find it in the 
 village?" she asked Susan. "I can but try; 
 rU be there and back in no time. I can go 
 by the back gate here and through the park. 
 A revoir, Flora; I should like to make a
 
 198 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 sketch of you so laden with flowers — I will 
 some day." 
 
 She kissed her hand, and was gone. 
 
 " A sop to Cerberus," Susan thought, as 
 she looked after her ; " she never pays a 
 compliment without a motive. She's not 
 easy in her mind now, about something, and 
 wants to make sure of me. Poor Agatha ! 
 it's a miserable sort of life hers ; and though 
 I've no great faith in her, I'd help her out 
 of a scrape if I could." 
 
 With a rapid step Agatha crossed the park 
 by a footpath which led directly to the vil- 
 lage, climbed the high stile, and emerged 
 on the green, at one side of which stood 
 the post-office. As she approached it, with 
 the letter in her hand, she glanced hastily 
 round to reconnoitre : some boys at noisy 
 play, one or two villagers passing on their 
 way, here and there a woman at work by her
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 199 
 
 cottage door, these were the only human 
 witnesses of her action that Agatha could 
 see, so she proceeded at once to the post- 
 office, and dropped her letter into the box. 
 Turning round to retrace her steps, she 
 nearly ran against — 
 John Temple.
 
 200' Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MAN VERSUS WOMAN. 
 
 " ' No greater grief than to remember days 
 Of joy when misery is near at hand,' " 
 
 read aloud Lord Amesburj to his wife and 
 Robert, as they sat together in his study; she 
 working, he reading, to himself, chiefly, but 
 now and then aloud to her ; Robert drawing 
 a plan for a model cottage his sister meant 
 to build. 
 
 " What say you to that, Ivy ! Is it 
 better, think you, to lead always a tran- 
 quil, stirless, colourless life, with few sensa-
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 201 
 
 tions, few emotions, or, when life's morning 
 is over, and youth's illusions are destroyed, 
 to have in one's memory a store of recollec- 
 tions of intensely happy moments, followed 
 even though they might be by bitterest pain 
 and disappointment ?" 
 
 Ivy paused, laid her work on her lap, 
 crossed her hands on it, and bent her earnest 
 eyes on her husband's face. They were quite 
 as earnest as of old, but more fixed, less 
 anxious. 
 
 " Well, little woman ! putting on the con- 
 sidering cap?" 
 
 " Yes," Ivy replied, very deliberately ; 
 " you see, I know so very little of the world 
 that I can only judge such things by my 
 own personal experience or impressions, and 
 I have had so rarely the habit of examining 
 and analysing even these, that I must reflect 
 before I reply. But, it seems to me, there 
 
 K 5
 
 202 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 is a term between the two alternatives. 
 May I not choose it?" 
 
 '' No, my little fawn — you are so like a 
 fawn in the face ! — you may not. Who, do 
 you think, would choose otherwise, if they 
 could choose that? You must take my 
 question as I put it, and not, truly woman- 
 like, evade it, and when I oiFer you two 
 things to select from, ask for a third." 
 
 " The first I certainly should not like. 
 
 ' The set gray life and apathetic end ;' 
 
 there's quotation for quotation for you ! 
 
 " The second — let me see ; it must be 
 dreadful- — the contrast — and yet, as far as I 
 apprehend, the thing lies chiefly in this : if 
 the happiness was innocent, the suffering un- 
 merited, then, oh then, certainly, I should 
 prefer the second lot ; otherwise, speaking
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 203 
 
 for myself, no. Anything but remorse I 
 could endure, I think; not that!" 
 
 " And what say you, Robert?" 
 
 Ivy knew nothing that would have pre- 
 vented her applying the question to her bro- 
 ther, but her woman's instinct would have 
 forbidden her doing so as much as if she 
 had been aware of the truth, and she glanced 
 at him with covert anxiety as her husband 
 did so. 
 
 '' I would accept the last alternative on 
 any terms," Robert replied, without raising 
 his head from his drawing." 
 
 " Most men would, I fancy," Lord Ames- 
 bury resumed; "but fewer women." 
 
 " Some women would ! Oh ! yes, any 
 woman that had heart enough to love with 
 all her soul, and had had experience of the 
 delights such love brings ! Who had known 
 the dangers and raptures, the excitements and
 
 204 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 vicissitudes of a deep, intense passion, crossed 
 by circumstances ! Ivy, thank God, has had, 
 in her happy life, none of the sharp, stirring, 
 bitter-sweet experiences of such a fate (may 
 she never have them!) and therefore I put 
 her out of the question now. But, oh ! 
 think of the two existences! 
 
 " Surely, surely, no man or woman that 
 has once known, even for the briefest space, 
 the fullest, inteusest consciousness of happi- 
 ness that life can bring, could ever, under 
 any amount of future suffering, regret that 
 they have known it ! Would one, in the 
 moment of their darkest pain, desire to blot 
 out the memory of such enjoyment ? No, 
 let me once taste the wine pure, even if I am 
 condemned to water all the rest of my life ; 
 it's something to have known the full flavour, 
 and not have gone on sipping eau rougie all 
 one's days."
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 205 
 
 Ivy sighed, and went on with her work, 
 " Ay, but," said Lord Amesbury, " the 
 thing is, that instead of pure wine we some- 
 times get highly adulterated spirit, which 
 causes an intoxication we imagine to be hap- 
 piness, and which affects our mental and 
 moral health for the rest of our days. There 
 lies the danger, a danger which youth is 
 peculiarly liable to fall into. 
 
 " Youth is said to be the season of enjoy- 
 ment; I do not think so, judging from my 
 own experience ; it is the season of desire, 
 rarely satisfied ; of strong temptation, causing 
 present suffering if resisted, future suffering 
 if yielded to. The season of unreasonable 
 hopes, and consequently bitter disappoint- 
 ments, of errors soon proved to be such, of 
 loves and friendships too often found to be 
 mere semblances. A season of longing, and 
 grasping, and running after what we cannot
 
 206 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 obtain or what is not worth obtaining, while, 
 in our hurry, we pass by the things that in 
 later life we find really able to make our 
 happiness." 
 
 " Happiness ! yes, but every one has his 
 own notions of happiness, or, at all events, 
 each age has a sort of happiness of its own. 
 I, for one, would not exchange mine — what, 
 at least, I imagine might be such — for yours, 
 for any consideration." 
 
 "Perhaps not — probably not; at four-and- 
 twenty I should most likely have said as you 
 do now^ At forty, I think differently, and 
 so will you, in all probability, when you 
 come to that respectable age — at least I hope 
 so. Now is your seed time, and it depends 
 upon the sort of grain you sow, %vhat your 
 harvest will be. There's no great harm in 
 its being wild oats ; but you may sow worse 
 than that ; seed bearing poisonous fruit, and
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 207 
 
 stretching ineradicable roots into the soil of 
 the far future. 
 
 *' And now let's have a look at the cottage. 
 Capital ! this chimney, I think the leOjSt bit too 
 tall, eh, Ivy ? No, you don't find it so ? Well, 
 perhaps you're right. And when have you a 
 mind to begin ' the biggin' o't V I'm afraid 
 we must wait till the spring ; the frost would 
 be apt to play us tricks, if we commenced now. 
 But we might walk down by and by, and have 
 another look at the proposed site ; what say 
 you ? And you, Robert, can you come ?" 
 
 " Not to-day, I'm sorry, but I've got an 
 appointment with my father this afternoon." 
 
 " Well, you'll come another time. But 
 you and I, Ivy, may as well not miss this 
 sunny day; will three suit you, or half-past 
 two ? the light is so soon gone." 
 
 Lord and Lady Amesbury, arm-in-arm, 
 warmly clad and thickly shod, were soon on
 
 208 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 their way to the spot chosen for the erection 
 of the model cottatre. 
 
 "What makes you so silent, my Ivy," her 
 husband said, taking the little hand that 
 rested on his arm ; " something on the little 
 mind hard of digestion ? let us hear all 
 about it." 
 
 '' Philip, yes. I want to know," she re- 
 plied, stopping, in her earnestness, and fixing 
 her eyes full on his face, '' if what you said 
 this morning to Robert was said at random, 
 or on purpose. If you knew — if you had 
 heard anything that gave you a motive for 
 saying it ?" 
 
 ''Yes, Ivy." 
 
 " Tell me, oh, do tell me all you know !" 
 
 "" When I was in town last week, I found 
 John in a stranger, more unsatisfactory mood 
 even than usual. We both know well enouorh 
 his absurd fancy for that Blake girl, and how
 
 Sweetheai'ts and Wives. 209 
 
 he has been at her skirts for months past. I 
 tried to talk to him about it, to endeavour 
 to arrive at some notion of the state of affairs, 
 of what he expected, what he intended. I 
 could get no satisfaction, nothing like an 
 explicit answer — only bursts of passionate 
 jealousy, dark hints, half threats, and insinua- 
 tions of a favoured rival, who, after much 
 difficulty I discovered he imagined to be — 
 who do you think ?" 
 " Robert !" 
 
 " Exactly ! but how did you know?" 
 "I o'uessed it. It commenced — the at- 
 
 o 
 
 tachment — nearly a year ago — when she was 
 staying here last Christmas ! I knew there 
 was something wrong with Robert, and had 
 an instinct that it was that ! go on, tell me 
 all you heard." 
 
 " Nothing definite, except that John knew 
 — so he said — they kept up a correspondence.
 
 210 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 That looks serious. I always mistrusted that 
 girl. What can she mean, what can she ex- 
 pect, a girl like that, entering upon a serious 
 love affair with a boy in Robert's position ? 
 And it seems she doesn't give John his conge, 
 but keeps him on and off. And yet I can't 
 think she would marry him either, except as 
 a^z^ aller. She must be a bad one." 
 
 Ivy remained silent. Something of the 
 better part of Agatha's nature she had seen 
 or felt, and her soft woman's heart shrank 
 from condemning her utterly. 
 
 " But," she proceeded, " this, or a great 
 deal of it, may be in John's imagination. 
 You know how suspicious he is; and, con- 
 fiding in nobody, he may have brooded over 
 things of no importance, till he has quite 
 exaggerated and distorted them from their 
 real significance. Besides, if he believes 
 this, why does he keep on with her ?"
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 211 
 
 Lord Amesbury shook his head. 
 
 " As to his keeping up his pursuit, you 
 know when once he undertakes an object, 
 he'll follow it to the death. For the rest, to 
 a certain degree he may have been mistaken; 
 but I can't help fearing there's a good deal 
 of truth in what he says. And Robert's 
 words and manner this morning confirmed 
 my impression. What is to be done ? If we 
 could only show Robert the double game this 
 girl is playing !" 
 
 " You think she is ?" 
 
 " Think ! my dearest little innocent, what 
 else can I think ? The thing is clear, on the 
 face of it." 
 
 " She loves Robert. That I believe." 
 
 " Then why keep on with John ?" 
 
 " It remains to be seen how far she does 
 keep on with him. Besides, without defend- 
 ing it, I can see a motive for doing so, to a
 
 2 1 2 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 certain extent — she must be afraid of John. 
 John would be a terrible lover at the best of 
 times, and I can fancy that so long as she 
 must keep the attachment with Robert a 
 secret, she dreads to make an enemy of 
 John." 
 
 " My Ivy ! is it possible that you, the 
 purest of women, can find excuses for such a 
 girl as Agatha Blake must be !" 
 
 " Ah, yes, Philip ! you don't know how we 
 women can place ourselves in each other's 
 positions, make allowance for each other's 
 temptations, faults of bringing up, weak- 
 nesses, sins even ; our imaginations have — 
 what shall I say? — an elasticity, an adapt- 
 ability your's have not ; your lives are deeper, 
 more broadly drawn, your necessity of inde- 
 pendent action has, I suppose, made it so. 
 
 " Agatha is not heartless ! Agatha, in good 
 hands, might have made a fine creature.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 213 
 
 You never saw Agatha as I have seen 
 her ; down at our cottage, with Robert, 
 and the children, and me, she was as 
 different to what she was up here as light to 
 darkness. 
 
 ^'Bitterly, bitterly I regret that Robert 
 should have formed this attachment ; she was 
 not, in a7iy way, the w^oman he should have 
 loved, and I can see no possibility of any- 
 thing good, or prosperous, or happy coming 
 out of it. But Agatha loves him, and Agatha 
 is not what you imagine her to be, looking 
 at mere appearances." 
 
 " Facts are stubborn things, Ivy." 
 
 " Yes, but, in the first place, wait till you 
 are quite sure about the facts ; in the second, 
 try to understand Agatha's nature, as op- 
 posed to her education and position." 
 
 " But, Ivy, do you or do you not believe 
 she is carrying on a clandestine love aifair
 
 214 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 with Robert, setting John out of the ques- 
 tion ?" 
 
 '' I am afraid she is." 
 
 '^ And do you think she means to marry 
 him ? Do you think that a girl with her 
 ambitious tastes, habits, and instincts, se- 
 riously contemplates an alliance with a youth 
 of four-and-twenty, who has nothing but 
 what his profession may one day bring him ? 
 Do you think this?" 
 
 " How can T tell ? If she loves him, as I 
 believe she does, she may perhaps. At any 
 rate ." 
 
 " Ah ! now I have caught you, little 
 woman ; now you are forgetting you are in 
 the place of Agatha Blake, and are speaking 
 in your own natural Ivy character. But 
 what does ' at any rate ' mean ?" 
 
 " It means that even if she proposes to 
 herself as yet no certain or definite termina-
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 215 
 
 tion to the attachment, I don't, for that, 
 utterly condemn her. 
 
 " You men are so positive about these 
 things ! Show you the beginning, and you 
 must at once see the end. 
 
 " We can wait, and hope, and trust ; a 
 very little peep into the future satisfies us, 
 and we are ready to make the most of, and 
 enjoy the present." 
 
 " And when this future comes upon you, 
 you are not prepared for it." 
 
 "Maybe not; but then it becomes the 
 present, and we go on making the best of it, 
 and adapting ourselves to the new circum- 
 stances it brings. I don't say we are right, 
 but it is our nature to do so. 
 
 " Do you think, Philip," and she pressed 
 closer to his side and lifted her eyes to his 
 face, "• that if any unforeseen change came
 
 916 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 in our future, I could not meet it and turn it 
 to the best account for all of us ?" 
 
 *' Oh ! you, yes, my sage, my * wisest, vir- 
 tuousest, best ' little darling ! but you and 
 Agatha Blake ' wear your womanhood with 
 a difference !' "
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 217 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A SHEEP IN wolf's CLOTHING. 
 
 Thus discussing the matter in hand, Lord 
 and Lady Amesbury arrived at the proposed 
 site for the cottage. The spot was a very 
 beautiful one, on a hill side, beautiful in 
 itself, and commanding a charming view, not 
 very extensive, but thoroughly rural and 
 thoroughly English; soft rolling hills, a 
 misty plain, with a gleaming stream in the 
 distance, behind, sheltering woods. Sitting 
 on the mossy trunk of a felled tree was a 
 VOL. L ' L
 
 218 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 figure neither of the new arrivals was at a 
 loss to recognise as that of Mr. Chaplin. 
 The old man sat with his arms resting on his 
 knees, and his large, loose-skinned, massive- 
 jawed face turned with so intent a gaze on 
 the prospect before him that he was quite 
 unconscious of the approach of strangers till 
 Lord Amesbury's voice greeted him. 
 
 " Bless my soul, my lord !" Mr. Chaplin 
 said, rising hastily, taking his handkerchief 
 from his hat and wiping his face therewith, a 
 custom he pursued in all weathers, cold as 
 well as hot, " who'd have thought of seeing 
 you here ?" (and yet it was not very extraordi- 
 nary, seeing the spot was on Lord Ames- 
 bury 's own ground, and but just on the 
 borders of the home park) ; *' ah ! fetching a 
 walk with — a — my lady — Lady Ames " 
 
 "Come, Mr. Chaplin," Ivy said, laughing 
 and laying a hand on his arm, " after being
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 219 
 
 Ivy to you since ever I had that name be- 
 stowed on me, I'm not going to answer to 
 any other." 
 
 The old man took the little hand in his 
 great paw and kissed it; he had no words 
 with which to thank her. 
 
 Lord Amesbury explained the object of 
 their visit to the spot ; Mr. Chaplin listened 
 with his head down and his hands behind 
 him, now and then nodding in sign of intel- 
 ligence, though whether of approval or not it 
 was difficult to say. 
 
 " Hah !" he said, when the story was told, 
 " and may I inquire, my lord, what you mean 
 to do with the cottage when it's finished ?" 
 
 *'Why, put some one to live in it, of 
 course ; we shall be on the look-out, Ivy and 
 I, while it's building, for some respectable, 
 good sort of persons who can be depended on 
 to keep it and the garden in beautiful order 
 
 L 2
 
 220 Sweethearts mid Wives. 
 
 and let them have it at a low rent in consi- 
 deration of their doing so. In fact, if we 
 could find just such tenants as we desired, 
 they might have it rent free, but that that 
 would cause jealousy. On the other hand, if 
 they were poor,, one might find some employ- 
 ment for them, the payment of w^hich might 
 be an equivalent, or nearly so, for the rent. 
 Ivy might contrive something of the kind 
 without my appearing in the matter. It's to 
 be her cottage, not mine." 
 
 " You're too good, my lord, too good," Mr. 
 Chaplin said, shaking his head, while the 
 loose skin of his jaws shook too, like the 
 chaps of a hound ; *' the more you do for the 
 poor the more they expect, and the more 
 ungrateful they are. The people about here, 
 especially, are a bad lot, a very bad lot, 
 depend upon it — / know them !" 
 
 Lord Amesbury smiled.
 
 Siveethearts and Wives. 221 
 
 " I believe you do. And they know you, 
 and with good reason. Only the day before 
 yesterday that poor Mrs. Weeks was telling 
 rae what you did for her scapegrace grand- 
 son." 
 
 A dark red overspread Mr. Chaplin's face. 
 
 " D — d old fool ! I beg your pardon, Ivy, 
 and yours, my lord ! What can one do when 
 a woman comes, whining and bothering? 
 Anything to get rid of her ! And if I hadn't 
 helped her to get that idiot of a boy back — 
 enlisting, indeed ! a nice soldier Jie'd ha' made, 
 the first day's march would have killed him ! 
 — he'd have knocked up, or deserted, or the 
 devil knows what, then she'd have found some 
 excuse to be bothering me eternally. TJiat 
 was why I did it !" 
 
 " And that was why you took the lad into 
 your house, and are keeping him till he gets 
 a place, eh, Mr. Chaplin?"
 
 222 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 '* Well, one folly, you see, leads to an- 
 other. Now I've got him back — helped, at 
 least — I was not quite such a confounded 
 fool as to do it altogether : no, hang it, not 
 so soft as that ! — I have taken on me a cer- 
 tain responsibility, and can't let him go 
 adrift to turn pauper, or poacher, or heaven 
 knows what. Besides, he's not so bad — 
 wild, wild a bit, but there's no harm in him 
 — he's better, any day, than your stolid ones; 
 don't like them, can't stand them at all ! Be- 
 sides, I make him useful ; oh ! knock him 
 about pretty handsomely, I can tell you !" 
 
 As, during all the years Mr. Chaplin had 
 resided at Hazlehurst, he had never had 
 occasion fully to employ the services of his 
 one woman servant, it is difficult to say 
 how he contrived to find " knocking about " 
 occupation for a lad of eighteen ; this, how- 
 ever, hy the way.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 223 
 
 " So you don't approve of our plan, Mr. 
 Chaplin ?" Ivy said, with a side glance at her 
 husband. "• Vm sorry for that." 
 
 " Well, as to c?uapproving of it — why — 
 one can but try the experiment, you know, 
 and if it don't answer, you can bundle 'em 
 out, neck and crop — nothing easier than 
 that. You've always the remedy in your 
 own hands." 
 
 " Do you know of anybody that would 
 be likely to answer our purpose, as a tenant?" 
 
 " Well — a — there's a fellow I know, Jack 
 Wyatt, a poor devil, spiritless kind of chap, 
 but decent enough; he's in peaky sort of 
 health; he was well enough to do as a 
 single man, had some smattering of educa- 
 tion — much good it did him ! goes and mar- 
 ries a girl of nineteen, they have a fresh brat 
 every year ; he works, she works ; get behind ; 
 he falls ill, children sicken, two or three of
 
 2:24 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 them die off, and there they are, trying to 
 keep bodies and souls together, and un- 
 common tight work to do it !" 
 
 " But are they really trustworthy, tidy 
 sort of people, who, if they were put in the 
 way of getting on, could do it?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, they'd do it as well as any 
 others. He's a very clever chap at garden- 
 ing, though he's not up to hard work now, 
 and she, though she was fool enough to go 
 and marry, and have all those children — but 
 you know they're all alike for that, marrying, 
 marrying, and breeding like so many rabbits ! 
 she's a tidy body, and if she had fair play, I 
 don't know that you'd be likely to find any 
 one to serve your turn better. However, / 
 don't recommend them — I don't want to have 
 anything to do with the matter ; I'm not 
 fond of experiments, especially philanthro- 
 pical ones — they don't pay ; only give people
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 255 
 
 more opportunities for being ungrateful, and 
 Lord knows there's no need for that, Lord 
 Amesbury." 
 
 "Just give me the address of your pro- 
 teges,'' Lord Amesbury said, taking out his 
 note-book ; '' we'll have an eye to them." 
 
 " Oh, for heaven's sake, my lord, don't call 
 them my 'proteges I they're no proteges of 
 mine, Tm no proteges. No, thank you ! one's 
 enough to do in this world to protect oneself 
 against all the rascals and all the fools in it, 
 without the crazy Quixotism of protecting 
 other people. No, ' Every m.an for himself 
 and God for us all,' is my motto, Lord Ames- 
 bury. I say, Ivy, is it true that Robert's 
 going to make a fool of himself, and be 
 married, eh?" 
 
 " Make a fool of himself, perhaps," Ivy 
 thought, but she only said, " No, Mr. Chaplin ; 
 who told you that ?" 
 
 L 5
 
 ''226 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 " Well, I hear it talked about. But people 
 are so devilish fond of neo:lectino: their own 
 business to attend to that of other folks, that 
 I'm not surprised it should just be a con- 
 founded lie. Still, you know, young men of 
 Robert's age will take those rages for tying 
 knots with their tongues they can't untie 
 with their teeth, so one never knows what 
 to believe. There's only one thing certain 
 in this world, Lord Amesbury, and that's 
 misery — misery, sir!" and Mr. Chaplin struck 
 the point of his stick hard on the ground. 
 " If he does set his heart on marrying, 
 though, let him take a wife that can pay her 
 way, a rich one ! that's the only extenu- 
 ating circumstance, as the French say. 
 Ah ! a wise people thei/ are in that respect ! 
 none of your marrying for love, and all that 
 d — d bread-and-butter nonsense with them, 
 but a sensible matter of business, arranged
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 227 
 
 by the parents, who all the time keep their 
 eyes wide open, and steadily fixed on the 
 main chance. As the world is to go on, 
 that's the only rational way to keep it going. 
 
 " Love-matches — faugh ! they say one fool 
 makes many ; what will two do, coming to- 
 gether, I should like to know ?" 
 
 Dr. Lane had told his daughter the woful 
 tragedy of Mr. Chaplin's early life. He, a 
 poor student at the iVcademy, had been en- 
 gaged to marry a girl so much poorer than 
 himself, that for the space of three years, 
 during which her widowed mother had been 
 epileptic and nearly imbecile, it was he who 
 chiefly supported both women, Bessy's earn- 
 ings by needlework being, in consequence of 
 the necessity of never leaving her mother 
 alone, so precarious that they were little to 
 be counted upon. 
 
 At last the mother had died, and when her
 
 228 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 period of mourning had expired, Bessy, at 
 her lover's repeated solicitation, began to 
 make arrangements for their marriage, and in 
 order to procure the means of providing the 
 absolute necessaries of her poor little trousseau, 
 she had, unknown to him, taken in a quan- 
 tity of work it seemed hardly possible to 
 execute within the given time. It nas exe- 
 cuted though, and then Bessy set about the 
 manufacture of her wedding gown. It was 
 the night before the marriage, and she had 
 sat up late to finish it, so late, that utterly 
 worn out with long unrest, she had fallen 
 asleep over the conclusion of the task. 
 
 That sleep was her last on earth : the 
 work, dropping from her hands, had spread 
 itself over the table, against the tin candle- 
 stick; the tallow candle had burnt lower and 
 lower unsnufFed, the snufF had fallen on the 
 work, and Bessy was burnt to death before
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 229 
 
 sufficient assistance could be otained to save 
 her. 
 
 Ivy recollected the story while the old man 
 was talking, and her eyes filled with tears ; 
 for she knew him well enough to guess that 
 it was more than possible that at that 
 moment he was thinking of it too. Bitter as 
 was his speech at ordinary times, he always 
 deemed it necessary, when his heart was 
 peculiarly touched and softened, to make a 
 sort of protest against such weakness by 
 added acerbity, and the enunciation of yet 
 more selfish and worldly maxims. 
 
 " And who told you this about Robert ?" 
 she inquired, her anxiety on that point 
 renewed after a few moments further conver- 
 sation, " tell me all you have heard." 
 
 " Oh, nothing definite. Only vague talk 
 of his being attached to some London girl, 
 and that there was a likelihood of his marry-
 
 230 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 ing her. Very handsome she was, they said, 
 but nobody rightly knew her name — Miss 
 Bayle, some had it, Miss Baines, others. 
 
 " But it's all a pack of d — d gossip, I've 
 no doubt. Who but you would have heard it 
 if it was true ? But here comes our young 
 hero to answer for himself." 
 
 It was indeed Robert, advancing to join 
 them. Ivy's first impulse was to whisper to 
 Mr. Chaplin to keep silence on the topic they 
 had just been discussing; but on second 
 thoughts she abstained. Perhaps, she re- 
 flected, it were as well Robert should know 
 what was said on the subject ; possibly, being 
 taken by surprise, he might be led into giving 
 some clue which she might follow. 
 
 " I thought," Robert said, " I should still 
 find you here. My father has been obliged 
 to attend to some urgent case, so our little 
 business is put off till to-morrow. How are
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 231 
 
 you, Mr. Chaplin ? I don't know when I've 
 seen you." 
 
 " I saw you the day before yesterday, but 
 you didn't see me. You were mooning along 
 reading a letter, and passed within a few 
 paces of me, but I wasn't such an old fool as 
 to disturb you tlien ! I say, Robert, they 
 tell me we're to have a Mrs. Robert before 
 long ; how about that, eh ?" 
 
 The young man's colour rose with an angry 
 flush. 
 
 *'Who 'they' may be I can't tell; but 
 'they' are mistaken, and so you may inform 
 them. Really and truly, the rage that little 
 out-of-the-way holes have for gossip is 
 enough to sicken one of putting one's foot 
 in them." 
 
 Ivy looked pained. She loved the spot 
 where she had been born and bred, dearly, 
 and Robert's evidently growing indifference
 
 232 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 to his old home and old associations grieved 
 her in itself, and appeared to her ominous as 
 to the nature of his present pursuits and 
 interests. 
 
 Mr. Chaplin shook his head. 
 
 " I am glad your father is not by to hear 
 you say so, Robert, and I regret that your 
 sister and your father's old friend are." 
 
 " Come, Robert," interposed Lord Ames- 
 bury, desiring to turn the conversation into 
 a more agreeable channel, " since you are 
 here, you can help us to settle upon the 
 exact spot for the cottage. Don't go, Mr. 
 Chaplin! what, must you? "Well, will you 
 come and dine with us to-morrow? We'll 
 ask Dr. Lane to meet you. Seven o'clock, 
 punctually, mind."
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 233 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 Ivy and Horatia sat together in the former's 
 morning-room reading. Horatia had just 
 returned from a visit to Annerly Park, 
 whither she had gone for change of air, 
 something of her old listless, restless uneasi- 
 ness having of late begun to trouble her 
 again, though not presenting exactly the 
 same symptoms. 
 
 *' Come, Ivy," she said, closing her book 
 with a snap, and letting it drop on the
 
 234 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 floor without an attempt to pick it up again, 
 " come, put by that interesting publication 
 and talk to me. I can't read this morning, 
 and so I don't intend you shall. Oh ! I beg 
 your pardon !" as Ivy stooped to take up the 
 fallen volume, " I didn't mean you to trouble 
 yourself — what does it signify ? it wouldn't 
 hurt it to lie there awhile !" 
 
 " Not hurt it ? Look here ! half-a-dozen 
 pages doubled back ; and this your father's 
 favourite edition of Pope ! Oh ! Horatia, 
 what a careless child you are !" and Ivy, a 
 little annoyed, began carefully smoothing 
 down the crumpled leaves, spreading and 
 pressing them with her hands, as tenderly 
 as if they could feel the injury that had 
 been inflicted on them. 
 
 '' Well, I'm very sorry," Horatia said, 
 somewhat ashamed of herself; "it was care- 
 less, I admit ; but I forgot it was papa's
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 235 
 
 book. There, don't look vexed ; I'll put 
 some big heavy ones on the top of it, and 
 that'll flatten down the crumpled pages. 
 
 " Come, now, that's all right, I won't do 
 it not never no more ; kiss me !" 
 
 " Bad child !" Ivy replied, holding up her 
 face notwithstanding; "you are so awfully 
 careless, you take as much looking after as a 
 child of five years old, and, unfortunately, 
 you can't be whipt, as a child would be for 
 such tricks. Well, what am I to talk to you 
 about?" 
 
 " Anything you like, except scolding. 
 Tell me about the model cottage." 
 
 " Oh ! it will be so pretty ! I think, when 
 it's finished, I shall feel tempted to go and 
 spend a week in it myself, now and then. 
 
 " It's to be all irregular and gahhj — a sort 
 of Gothic, you know ; there's to be on the 
 ground-floor such a parlour, with a latticed
 
 236 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 bow-window, and then a kitchen and wash- 
 house ; and up-stairs there'll be three bed- 
 rooms, and a wee attic beside, under the roof ; 
 and it's to have a verandah by which you 
 enter, and a garden, and at the back a yard 
 and poultry-house. 
 
 " Oh ! anybody might live there ! I hope I 
 may never have a worse home." 
 
 " You ! as if that were likely ! And did 
 Robert make the drawing and plan entirely 
 himself, or did you tell him how it was to 
 be?" 
 
 " I only told him the so7't of cottage I 
 wanted, and the number of rooms. He did 
 all the rest according to his own idea. Stay, 
 I'll get the plan, it's in the study." 
 
 " Let me get it." 
 
 '' No, no, child, you'd tumble over every- 
 thing looking for it ; I know exactly where 
 to lay my hand on it ;" and away she went,
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 237 
 
 returning in a few minutes with the drawing. 
 It was duly explained, criticised, and ad- 
 mired, and Horatia and Ivy agreed to walk 
 to the proposed site on the morrow, and 
 study the ground. 
 
 " You haven't heard anything of Agatha 
 Blake lately, I suppose ?" Horatia inquired. 
 
 Ivy hesitated an instant. 
 
 " Your father heard of her, I believe, when 
 he was in town. Have you ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; she was staying at Annerly 
 two or three months ago, and Susan told me 
 a good deal about her. You know, uncle 
 John was there at the same time ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you know more than that ?" 
 
 "About him? Maybe!" 
 
 " Oh ! Susan said he was desperately in 
 love with her, but she evidently did not reci- 
 procate the passion ; and, Susan more than
 
 238 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 suspected, had a tendresse elsewhere. There 
 used to be letters comiug and going, and 
 Agatha was often so uneasy and distraite, 
 that it was clear the thing occupied her very 
 seriously. It seems uncle John was much 
 troubled in mind about this supposed rival, 
 and used to watch Agatha as a cat would a 
 mouse, which disturbed her more and more, 
 so that at last she really seemed quite afraid 
 of him. I should like to know more about 
 it, I confess : there's evidently some mystery ! 
 I don't the least want Agatha for an aunt 
 though, either for her sake or mine. Once 
 she had an ambition to be my stepmother ; 
 thank Heaven for what I've lost and what 
 I've gained !" 
 
 " Thanks, for the compliment ! And they 
 had no idea at Annerly who the — the other — 
 the favoured suitor was ?" 
 
 " Not the least. Once or twice Susan
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 239 
 
 rather sought to get Agatha to speak on the 
 subject ; she thought it might relieve her. 
 But she always kept as wide of it as possible, 
 so Susan let her alone." 
 
 " And where is Agatha now, do you 
 know?" 
 
 " Staying with the Montagues at Har- 
 leigh. She's not to return to town till after 
 Christmas," 
 
 " Oh !" thought Ivy, " to that, then, we 
 may, I suppose, attribute Robert's consenting 
 to remain over Christmas here." 
 
 There was a pause, and Horatia took up 
 the drawing again. 
 
 " How pretty, how charming this is," she 
 said, dwelling on it smilingly. " I'm sure 
 one could be happy in such a cottage as that 
 oneself." 
 
 " Who is * one' and ' oneself?' You, Ho- 
 ratia Temple, for example ?"
 
 240 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 " Yes, why not ? If I were married to 
 a poor man I was very fond of, I'm sure I 
 could perfectly live in such a cottage as that ! 
 Ah ! you may laugh, but I'm certain of it. 
 Why, you said just now you hoped never to 
 have a worse home." 
 
 "Oh! yes, but you and I! that's quite a 
 different matter. I was not born or bred a 
 peer's daughter, and I never expected to be a 
 peer's wife. I've been used to a training and 
 mode of life that would seem utter hardship 
 and wretchedness to you. 
 
 " Besides, even if you married a poor man, 
 you would have enough to procure rather a 
 different house to that. My poor Horatia ! 
 how little you know of the realities of life." 
 
 " If I married a poor man," Horatia said, 
 reflectively, and half to herself, " I wonder 
 how much I should have of my own ! Do 
 you know. Ivy ?"
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 241 
 
 " No, I don't, really. Why, have you the 
 iDtention of bestowing your hand and fortune 
 on some fair youth with nothing to give in 
 exchange but a loving heart and the charms 
 of his person ?" 
 
 " Nonsense, Ivy !" Horatia said, pettishly. 
 " Oh! dear, dear ! I am so tired !" 
 
 " Tired, my dear child ! In the name of 
 goodness, of what ?" 
 
 " Of the world, of life, of myself — a little 
 of you. You're not nice to-day, somehow !'' 
 
 '* Am I not ? I'm very sorry. How am I 
 un-nice ?" 
 
 " You're wise and you laugh at me, and 
 you don't sympathise with me — not a bit !" 
 
 " Spoilt child, spoilt child !" Ivy said, 
 taking Horatia's chin, and kissing her; "must 
 it be humoured, and petted, and said amen 
 to always?" 
 
 " Yes, 1 am a spoilt child ! it's quite true ! 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 S42 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 Here I am, little more than a year younger 
 than you, and see the difference I I don't 
 wonder that people think me nothing better 
 and nothing else ; especially when used to 
 you ! But I can't help it. I do try — I have 
 tried — to he more sensible, and practical, and 
 useful, and active — but it's no use, it's not 
 in me! There, don't let's say any more 
 about it !" 
 
 And Horatia took up the drawing, holding 
 it between her and Ivy. 
 
 As she did so, her stepmother became 
 aware that on the back of the plan were two 
 or three slight sketches of female heads. 
 She stooped forward to look at them ; this 
 attracted Horatia's attention, and she turned 
 the paper. In an instant the colour rushed 
 up to her temples, and, without speaking, she 
 laid down the drawing, and walked to the 
 window.
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 243 
 
 " Miserable, miserable, hateful weather !" 
 she repeated, after some minutes of silence ; 
 " but one can't stay indoors everyday and all 
 day long. I'll go out for half-an-hour. Good- 
 bye, Ivy." 
 
 As soon as the door had closed on her, 
 Ivy took up the drawing, and turned to the 
 back of it. One glance was sufficient to 
 discover the original of all the sketches ; for 
 all, though taken in different points of view, 
 represented the one head — the head of 
 Agatha Blake. 
 
 The discovery in itself, knowing as much 
 as Ivy already knew, Avas of no great im- 
 portance ; but in it was involved another 
 entirely new and unexpected, namely, the 
 fact that Horatia entertained for Robert a 
 sentiment much warmer than the mere in- 
 terest and friendship arising out of their 
 natural relations. 
 
 M 2
 
 244 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 Nearly all women, all happy wives espe- 
 cially, are match-makers at heart, and Tvy 
 was no exception to the rule. It would 
 never have occurred to her spontaneously to 
 endeavour to promote a match between her 
 brother and her step-daughter ; but now, the 
 thing being suggested by the unmistakable 
 preference of the latter, a crowd of contend- 
 ing feelings, desire, regret, hope, fear, took 
 possession of her mind. Ah ! could such a 
 thing be ? could such an attachment be made 
 to replace this wild fancy, that could lead to 
 nothing but distress and misfortune, turn 
 which way it might? 
 
 Ivy knew her husband's ideas and cha- 
 racter well enough to be assured that little 
 objection would be made by him to such an 
 alliance. Chivalrously unw^orldly in his no- 
 tions of love and marriage, adopting his 
 wife's family as if it had been his own, con-
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 945 
 
 stantly anxious to promote the welfare of all 
 its members, she knew that it was sufficient 
 he should be assured of the reality of an 
 attachment on both sides to give to it his 
 sanction and consent. 
 
 But, alas ! Ivy had to acknowledge to her- 
 self that the man who had loved Agatha Blake 
 was little likely to turn his thoughts to 
 Horatia. Horatia was but sixteen, not hand- 
 some, though she promised to be at least 
 interesting in appearance, and her natural 
 indolence gave her an air of apathy, helpless- 
 ness, and even duhiess, dreadfully uninterest- 
 ing when compared to the brilliancy of 
 x\gatha. 
 
 At all events, to attempt to act on her 
 discovery now would. Ivy felt, be worse than 
 useless; so she would- wake, and watch, and 
 bide her time. Meanwhile, however, she was 
 resolved to take advantaa'e of the first occa-
 
 246 Sweethearts and TFives, 
 
 sion that presented itself, to endeavour to 
 ascertain the real state of affairs between 
 Robert and Agatha. 
 
 She had not long to wait. While she was 
 thus musing, her brother entered the room, 
 and took the chair Horatia had lately 
 vacated. He looked depressed and dissatis- 
 fied, and replied with an absent and distracted 
 air to the remarks she addressed to him. 
 Presently he took up the drawing which lay 
 on a little table beside him, and began care- 
 lessly looking at it. 
 
 '' Now or never !" thought Ivy. 
 
 " Do you know what is on the back of that 
 paper ?" 
 
 " No," he replied, but she observed a 
 startled look in his eyes as he quickly 
 turned it. 
 
 "Oh, some scribblings of mine ; I hadn't 
 noticed the paper I took ; give me a bit of
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 247 
 
 indiarubber, I'll take them out while I think 
 of it." 
 
 " Robert, I recognise that face ; I knew it 
 the moment I saw it." 
 
 "Apres?" 
 
 " Oh, dear Robert, I know more ; I've 
 heard more on that subject than you have 
 any idea of!" She came, the anxious, earnest 
 look in her eyes increased to its utmost 
 intensity, her cheek flushed, her lips apart, 
 and placed herself on the stool at his feet, 
 taking his hand in both her's, clasping and 
 pressing it convulsively. 
 
 " Dearest brother ! what do you propose 
 to yourself? How is such an attachment to 
 end ? God knows I do not wish to speak or 
 to think hardly of Agatha, but is she — oh, 
 Robert — is she the woman to be your 
 wife ?" 
 
 There was a great struggle going on in
 
 248 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 Robert's mind, and for some moments he 
 kept silence. 
 
 " Tell me all you have heard," he said at 
 last, without looking at her. 
 
 When she had done so, he seemed relieved. 
 
 "My dear little Ivy! what a much ado 
 about nothing. And all this formidable 
 edifice erected on the jealous fancies of Mr. 
 Temple ! why, any one might see that the 
 man is not like other men at the best of 
 times; and when he's in love and jealous, 
 what must he be? crazy outright. 'Ivy, this 
 is childish, not like you !" 
 
 " Robert, Robert, don't be angry with me, 
 dear, but don't try to deceive me. Robert, I 
 saw the beginning of this nearly a year ago ; 
 I have seen, I have felt, ever since, that you 
 were not what you used to be, that some- 
 thing occupied you incessantly and painfully. 
 Dearest boy, formerly you had no secrets
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 249 
 
 from your own Ivy. Oh, trust me now ! if I 
 can help you in any way that is wise and 
 right, and for your real happiness, you hiow 
 I will, to the very utmost ; if not, at least I 
 will never betray you, and it may — sometime, 
 if not now — be a comfort to you that I have 
 known your real position, and that you can 
 talk to me freely on this subject." 
 
 "Ivy, I can't talk to you, to anybody, 
 about this. I've nothing to tell further than 
 that I do love Agatha Blake with all my 
 heart and soul, with a love of which you, my 
 gentle little dove, can have no understand- 
 ing, no conception. 
 
 " Do you remember that day we first saw 
 her in church ? Well, since that day I have 
 loved her as I tell you. I could not help it 
 if I would, I would not if I could; my reason 
 tells me that it were much happier for both 
 of us if we had never seen each other ; ray 
 
 M 5
 
 250 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 experience tells me that for one hour of 
 happiness I have known since I loved her, I 
 have had scores of miserable ones. Yet, for 
 all that, I would not forego those hours, I 
 would not blot out the events of this past 
 year for any amount of dull, apathetic^con- 
 tentment that could be afforded me. Don't 
 be shocked, don't be pained, if you can help 
 it. Ivy ; you have provoked this confession, 
 and now I am glad I have made it, because 
 it will show how thoroughly I am in earnest, 
 and how vain it is to preach to me rules of 
 common prudence." 
 
 '' But, Robert, tell me what do you pro- 
 pose to yourself in pursuing this attachment, 
 and what does she ?" 
 
 '' Nothing,. Ivy. Matters have taken their 
 own course for a year, and they may continue 
 to do so for any number of future years." 
 
 Ivy looked down. She was in sad and
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 251 
 
 bitter perplexity. What was she to say, 
 what to do, in the face of such reckless- 
 ness? 
 
 " Do her parents know anything of this ?" 
 
 " Her parents ? I should think not ! if 
 they did there's nothing, I verily believe, 
 they would stop at to force us asunder. 
 
 " Her parents ! they'd sell her to the greatest 
 brute and rascal in Christendom, so long as 
 he had a title and money, rather than give her 
 to me or to anybody like me. Remember, 
 Ivy," he said, suddenly checking himself, as 
 if a thought or a fear had struck him, 
 " remember, I speak to you in all confi- 
 dence." 
 
 She understood him only too well, and her 
 loyal heart revolted at his suspicion. 
 
 " Robert, you can't think, for an instant, 
 that I would dream of taking advantage of 
 your confession."
 
 252 Sweetliem-ts and Wives. 
 
 " No, no, darling ; forgive me ! I'm not 
 myself when I think of all this ! oh, Ivy, I 
 am very wretched." 
 
 He bent down his head, and she wreathed 
 her loving arms round his neck, and Jaid her 
 cheek against it, and soothed him tenderly. 
 
 " Dear boy, poor, dear, darling boy ! I know 
 you are verj' unhappy, but the knowledge is 
 not new to me ; I have seen it for months, 
 and longed so to talk to you about it, and to 
 comfort you so far as I might, and at least 
 to assure you of my sympathy. Dear boy, 
 is it not better to have spoken to your own 
 Ivy than to keep brooding over all this in 
 your own poor sore heart ?" 
 
 " Yes, little darling, it is ; but oh. Ivy, 
 don't think hardly of Agatha — all the fault 
 is mine. If you knew what a noble, glorious, 
 splendid creature she is !" 
 . *^I believe she loves you, Robert. That
 
 Siveethearts and Wives. 253 
 
 will plead hard for her. Poor thing ! she 
 must suffer too." 
 
 '' God bless you, Ivy ! If anybody could 
 do me good, make me better than I am, it 
 would be you."
 
 254 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 CONCERNING MARRIAGE UNDER DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 Ivy and Horatia did not meet again before 
 dinner, and indeed the party had entered the 
 dining-room before the latter made her ap- 
 pearance. Ivy glanced at her secretly, and it 
 seemed to her that her face bore some traces 
 of tears ; but they were not sufficiently appa- 
 rent to attract attention, and indeed she 
 could not be certain of the fact. 
 
 " Why, where have you been, child, all the 
 afternoon ?" her father inquired, " I wanted
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 255 
 
 to take you for a ride, and went to look after 
 you, but you were not forthcoming." 
 
 " Oh ! I went to walk," Horatia replied. 
 
 " Not a very common proceeding on your 
 part," Robert said^ with a smile, " especially 
 alone." 
 
 She looked up at him quickly, with a little 
 resentful air, but which, evidently, was quite 
 lost on him, for he went on : 
 
 '* Since you've taken to walking, Horatia, 
 I wish you'd come and walk with me some- 
 times; this Ivy is always so engrossed with 
 her lord and master, that there's no get- 
 ting hold of her. It would be a great 
 charity." 
 
 Horatia's colour rose. Ah ! if he had said 
 so yesterday — before — before she saw the 
 sketch of the cruelly- beautiful face ! but 
 now ! 
 
 " I never could walk far enough, or fast
 
 ^56 S?veet hearts and Wives. 
 
 enough for jou ; I should only be in your 
 way," she replied, drily. 
 
 " Oh ! ni walk no further and no faster 
 than you like ; you shall choose your own 
 pace and distance." 
 
 Could she have been acting on a false 
 impression ? Might not the likeness have 
 been accidental? or, even supposing other- 
 wise, certainly Agatha was beautiful enough 
 to tempt any one with an artistic eye and 
 taste to represent her for the mere sake of 
 that beauty. So Horatia smiled again, and 
 was half happy, and in her poor little head 
 once more rose visions such as for some time 
 past had been gathering there. 
 
 Ivy sat on thorns. She saw how Horatia 
 was falling back into an error from which 
 she had hoped, at the very moment she her- 
 self had discovered its existence, she had 
 been effectually awakened, and she saw how
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 257 
 
 Robert was, quite unconsciously, leading her 
 into it. Yet, what to do ? She could not 
 speak to either without compromising the 
 otherc 
 
 "Ivy and I are going to-morrow to walk 
 to the site of your model cottage," Horatia 
 said ; *' if you like to escort us there, we shall 
 be very glad." 
 
 " By all means ; let me know in the 
 morning what time you intend going, that I 
 may arrange accordingly." 
 
 Next morning the three started for their 
 walk. 
 
 " It's all very well to call your edifice a 
 model cottage," Robert said, as they neared 
 the spot, " but it would come uncommonly 
 dear to build many cottages on this plan. 
 A fancy cottage you may call it, if you will ; 
 but it is rather too Utopian an ambition in 
 these days to imagine, however desirable
 
 258 Sweetheai'ts and Wives. 
 
 such a consummation might be, that one can 
 provide any number of such abodes for the 
 poor. Three bed- rooms — one may almost 
 say four, and a regular sitting-room ; one 
 could live in such a place oneself!'" 
 
 " So Horatia thinks," Ivy said, not without 
 intention ; " she has a fancy to live in such a 
 cottage." 
 
 " Horatia ! Oh ! I did not think of Ho- 
 ratia being domiciled in such quarters; 
 imagine Wilmot being introduced to the 
 cottage as the future dwelling-place of her 
 mistress. I fancy her face !" 
 
 " Yes, but I talked of myself, not Wil- 
 mot," Horatia replied. '* I could bear many 
 things that would disgust her mightily. 
 When we Avere abroad two years ago, I quite 
 enjoyed several things that she turned up her 
 nose at, and lamented over in the most 
 piteous fashion. Of course, if one lived
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 259 
 
 in a house like that, one wouldn't keep a 
 Wilmot." 
 
 " And how do you suppose, after having 
 lived so many years dependent on a Wilmot, 
 you would like to do without one ? 
 
 *' If you must, you must, but I take the 
 question as an affair of liking. Besides, a 
 bit of roughing, or what you would call such, 
 in travel, is one thing ; real roughing, even 
 speaking comparatively, at home is quite an- 
 other, believe me. One could live capitally 
 in such a cottage as a single man, or with a 
 wife such as Ivy, for instance; but it's a 
 mistake, depend upon it, for people, women 
 especially, who have been brought up in a 
 certain mode of life, to be put into another 
 when there is no absolute necessity for it. 
 No poor man should marry a woman — for 
 her sake I mean, and for his own by reflec- 
 tion — if he have not the means to enable her
 
 260 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 to live as she has always been accustomed 
 to do." 
 
 " I know where you have picked up those 
 maxims, brother mine," thought Ivy ; '' but, 
 true or false, the expression of them comes 
 very ^ propos at present." 
 
 ''■ That may be a man's view of the case," 
 Horatia said ; " but not a woman's." 
 
 " All very well to talk so in one's teens ; 
 when you come to be twenty, you'll think 
 otherwise." 
 
 " That I'm sure I shan't. I'm certain, if 
 I were married to any one I really cared 
 about (and I'd never marry any one else), I 
 shouldn't mind where or how I lived with 
 him. Why, how many women one hears of 
 w^ho have been reduced from wealth and 
 luxury to poverty, and who bear it gal- 
 lantly." 
 
 " And how many others one never hears of
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 261 
 
 who don't ? How can it be expected that a 
 woman, accustomed from her childhood, not 
 only to every material comfort and luxury, 
 but to ease and leisure, and refined society 
 and pursuits, shall, when she marries, content 
 herself with the daily, hourly pressure of 
 poverty, the abandonment of habits that have 
 become to her necessities, the harrassing 
 cares of a penurious household, the unceasing- 
 claims of, perhaps, a yearly increasing family ! 
 Fancy the unending, unrelenting wear and 
 tear of body and mind of such an existence 
 to one not ' to the manner born !' No, Ho- 
 ratia, though you will be far from poor, take 
 my advice, and don't marry a poor man, one 
 whose means, even with your own fortune, 
 cannot suffice to enable you to live in the 
 manner you have been accustomed to. De- 
 pend upon it such marriages, even, rarely 
 answer ; what, then, must marriages be that
 
 262 Sweethearts and Wi 
 
 IV es. 
 
 plunge two people into actual poverty, to 
 which one, at least, and that the ' weaker 
 vessel,' is unused ?" 
 
 Horatia made no reply. She leant against 
 the trunk of a tree beneath which they were 
 standing, and, with downcast eyes, occupied 
 herself with teasing an insect crawling at her 
 feet, by turning it back whichever way it 
 attempted to go, with the point of a switch 
 she held in her hand. 
 
 " There," Robert said, " that miserable 
 crawling thing is now just in the position I 
 have been describing to you : checked, kept 
 in, hindered, turned back at every step, per- 
 petually condemned to give way to the cir- 
 cumstances and exigences of its situation. 
 Do you think that a happy life?" 
 
 " I can't argue with you," Horatia replied, 
 " but I don't agree with you a bit more for 
 that. Why, good gracious, if only rich people
 
 Sweethearts and TVives. 263 
 
 married among themselves, what's to become 
 of the poor ones ?" 
 
 " Let them — if marry they must — marry 
 among ^^^??2selves." 
 
 " And so become poorer and poorer. But 
 all these arguments are nonsense, stuff! are 
 they not. Ivy ? I'll not believe the world so 
 worldly that every man and woman in it is, 
 when they care about each other, to begin 
 turning over all these theories of political 
 economy, or whatever you call it, and if they 
 can't settle the question according to the 
 tenets they may hold on such matters, they 
 are to bow and curtsey to each other, and bid 
 farewell for ever and a day ! 
 
 "You yourself, Robert, you talk so; but if 
 — if you — in short, if you were called upon 
 to o'ive up the — the woman or the theory, 
 you know well enough which you'd choose." 
 
 Robert looked at her scrutinising ly, and
 
 264 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 their eyes met. Had Horatia spoken with 
 intention and in knowledge, or at random? 
 Did Robert, according to Horatia's phrase, 
 "care about" anybody already, that he 
 gave that suspicious inquiring look? Such 
 were the questions that suggested themselves 
 to the two, filling both with strong unea- 
 siness. 
 
 It was time, Ivy felt, that she should come 
 to the rescue. 
 
 " My very dear young friends, while you 
 stand here arguing, I am getting horribly 
 cold, not being sustained by the heat of dis- 
 cussion. Robert, will you explain to Ho- 
 ratia the execution of your plan ? I've been 
 thinking that we might make the garden a 
 wee bit bigger ; suppose we took in that fine 
 horse-ch«snut? it would be a delightful shade 
 in summer, with a seat all round it." 
 
 " Well. Then you must take account for so
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 265 
 
 many extra feet of paling in your estimate, 
 you know." 
 
 So talking, they got off the difficult subject 
 and trod on safer ground, continuing to dis- 
 cuss the cottage question till they reached 
 home. 
 
 Letters were lying on the hall table as 
 they entered. Robert's eye instantly per- 
 ceived the address of one ; he took it up, and 
 turning to the door, so that his back was to 
 Ivy and Horatia, he stood on the step and 
 read it. 
 
 " I must go to town to-morrow," he said, 
 turning round, with as much calm as he 
 could assume, and putting the letter, evi- 
 dently a brief one, in his pocket. 
 
 " To town ?" both women said, looking up 
 from their respective epistles. 
 
 "Yes; but only for a couple of days. 
 Business I must attend to." And waiting 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 ^66 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 no further questioning, he went to his own 
 room. 
 
 The note was from Agatha. Contrary to 
 her earlier plans, she had found it convenient 
 to come to London for a day or two, and she 
 had written to bid Robert meet her there if 
 possible. Her parents were both out of 
 town for several weeks ; in the house were 
 only herself, her maid, and the old woman 
 who took care of it, so he might go there 
 fearlessly. 
 
 Neither Ivy nor Horatia made any further 
 comment, and the subject dropped, till at 
 dinner, Robert, with an effort it was hardly 
 possible wholly to conceal, resumed *it, by 
 announcing to Lord Amesbury his projected 
 departure. 
 
 The latter, warned by Ivy, and sharing her 
 suspicions, but unwilling to give a colour to 
 any that Horatia might possibly have con-
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 267 
 
 ceived, replied quietly, and asked his brother- 
 in-law, to his prodigious relief, to execute 
 some trifling commission for him in town. 
 
 Sitting in the library, which they generally 
 occupied of an evening, when alone, the 
 sound of carriage wheels became audible. 
 
 " ' Qui vient par ce cherain si tard ?' " 
 
 Lord Amesbury said. " Can it be your father. 
 Ivy, come to give us a bit of news of some- 
 body borning, dying, or marrying in the 
 parish? No, that's not old Dot's jog-trot. 
 Who can it be ? Eh, Saph, go and bring us 
 word, good girl !" 
 
 Saph's interest was already excited by the 
 sound. She had woke up from a profound 
 sleep, stretched flat on the rug, and had, as 
 usual, trotted to the window to reconnoitre ; 
 but closed shutters and heavy curtains formed 
 an impediment to close observation in that 
 
 N 2
 
 268 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 quarter, so she ran to the door, and took long 
 snuffs at the threshold. 
 
 Meanwhile the carriage drew up, stopped, 
 and a vigorous pull at the bell ensued, fol- 
 lowed by all the sounds of an arrival. One 
 more sniff on Sappho's part, and dropping 
 her ears and tail, she came back and took 
 refuge under Ivy's chair; in a few seconds 
 more the library door opened, and John 
 Temple appeared. 
 
 "What, you ! how unexpected! why did you 
 not write ?" &c., &c., but no one said God 
 bless you, or a word of welcome. 
 
 " Oh, I'm well enough !" the new arrival 
 said, in reply to questions concerning his 
 health ; " cold ? yes, I should think so ! it's 
 freezing like the devil — and hungry too ; I've 
 had nothing since breakfast. Here," ringing 
 the bell violently, and calling at the same 
 time to the servants in the hall, " Thomas,
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 269 
 
 George, some of you ! get me some dinner. 
 I don't care what, so long as you make haste, 
 and it's hot. Any letters for me ?" 
 
 We may often have noticed, sitting in a warm 
 room in winter, how the entrance of any one 
 from without brings with it a current of cold 
 air. It seemed, in the present instance, that 
 .the chill John Temple introduced affected the 
 morale as well as the physique of the little 
 party ; for notwithstanding the forced at- 
 tempts of all except Robert, who sat silent 
 and apart, to give an air of cordiality to their 
 reception, it was impossible to keep up mucli 
 appearance, even, of welcome in the face of 
 the abrupt ungraciousness with which every- 
 thing was received ; and it was no slight relief 
 when, dinner being announced, Mr. Temple 
 proceeded to the dining-room to eat it, 
 bidding nobody "bother themselves" to bear 
 him company during the discussion of the
 
 270 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 meal. Even Sappho, when the door was 
 fairly closed on him, and the echo of his 
 quick firm tread had died away, manifested 
 her sense of relief by carefully poking out her 
 cold tremulous nose, and literally, following 
 it cautiously with her head and body, going 
 round to the company, one by one, with her 
 coaxing face and wagging tail, as if to con- 
 gratulate them on so happy a deliverance. 
 
 But in about half an hour she, then lean- 
 ing against Robert's knee, while he stroked 
 her shining head, pricked up her ears, and 
 was about to make a hasty retreat beneath 
 his chair. 
 
 " No, Saph, no, my lass, what are you 
 frightened at ? Stay here, nobody will hurt 
 you, old girl, Pll take care of you !" and 
 despite her struggles, he kept her between 
 his knees, where she sat cowering and blink- 
 ing when John Temple once more entered
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 271 
 
 the room. He took in Robert and the dog 
 with the same glance. 
 
 *' Still cumbering the earth?" he mut- 
 tered ; '' if I were free to dispose of all the 
 worthless curs I come across in my peregri- 
 nations, what a happy riddance the world 
 would have !" 
 
 " Unfortunately even curs sometimes turn 
 and bite ferociously," Robert said, " and one 
 day you might come across an ugly customer 
 that might turn the tables on you." 
 
 " What time do you start for town to- 
 morrow, Robert?" Lord Amesbury inter- 
 posed. 
 
 Mr. Temple looked up quickly. 
 
 " By the eleven o'clock train." 
 
 "Oh, then, we shall see you at breakfast. 
 And you return ?" 
 
 " On Thursday or Friday. I shall go down
 
 272 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 before breakfast to see my father, and tell 
 him." 
 
 In the morning, as Robert went out, he 
 met Mr. Temple coming from the stables ; 
 that gentleman nodded slightly, without 
 taking his hands out of his pockets, and ap- 
 proached to meet him. Robert stopped, and 
 the two men stood face to face. 
 
 " You are going to town ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You will see Miss Blake there ?" 
 
 " Mr. Temple, I have no account to render 
 to you or to anybody as to who I may see in 
 town." 
 
 " I am answered. Young man, I have no 
 wish or intention to quarrel with you. I 
 don't want to be injured myself, which would 
 in no way advance me, and I don't want to 
 injure you, which would only increase her 
 interest in you, and her dislike to me. Such
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 21 S 
 
 is the result of my night's reflections on the 
 subject. 
 
 " But I want you clearly to understand 
 this. I have resolved to pursue my suit to 
 her in spite of every obstacle that may be 
 offered, and I expect to succeed in the end, 
 !N"ow we know on what terms we stand : are 
 you willing to accept them ?" 
 
 " Oh, quite ; they suit me entirely. But, 
 Mr. Temple, one thing, if you please, we 
 must fully understand. Neither by look, 
 word, nor deed must you seek to provoke me. 
 I am not patient, and though "I don't mean to 
 threaten, I must tell you, it depends on you 
 that external peace is maintained between us, 
 and you are too apt to assume a tone that — 
 well, I will say no more. Good morning ; I 
 am glad we have had this explanation." And 
 Robert raised his hat and passed on. 
 
 N 5
 
 274 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 Mr. Temple, his hands still in his pockets, 
 stood looking after him. 
 
 " Plenty of mettle in the young dog ! I 
 try to think I despise him, but I don't and I 
 can't, and she knows it's all humbug when I 
 pretend to do it, and is only just provoked 
 enough by my abusing him to unsheath her 
 claws for a moment, and give me a little dig 
 with them, and then draw them in again, and 
 stroke the place with her velvet paw. What 
 would I give for his youth, and his beauty, 
 and that lithe, light figure of his, and those 
 eyes that it must be next to impossible for 
 any woman to resist. John Temple, it's a 
 desperate game you're playing against such 
 odds, but something assures me you'll win it 
 yet !"
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 275 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE BACK DRAWING-ROOM. 
 
 It was the dusk of a late November eveniDg, 
 when Robert Lane knocked gently at the 
 door of the Blakes' house in Curzon Street. 
 It was quickly opened by Agatha's maid 
 Clemence, who received him with a smile and 
 sign of intelligence he could well have dis- 
 pensed with, but to which, nevertheless, he 
 felt compelled to respond graciously. 
 
 He had a marked <lislike to the girl, and 
 the very part she played in this affair, indis-
 
 276 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 pensable as were her 8ervices, increased the 
 sentiment. And yet, considering the nation 
 and class she belonged to, and the mode of 
 her training, she was not to be so hardly 
 judged. She was faithful, disinterested, and 
 indefatigable in what she considered her 
 duties to her mistress ; truthfulness, straight- 
 forwardness, morality, these were virtues she 
 had never been taught, and was utterly unac- 
 quainted with, and intrigue and adventure 
 were the elements in which her soul de- 
 lighted. 
 
 Next to having an equivocal love-affair of 
 her own, was her hearty interest in any such 
 attachment on the part of her employer, were 
 she maid, wife, or widow. She would rise 
 from a sick-bed to convey a secret letter or 
 message ; she would lie with a volubility, 
 plausibility, and consistency hardly to be 
 conceived by an English Abigail, and she
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 277 
 
 might be put to the torture without danger 
 of betraying a love-confidence that had been 
 reposed in her. But she must have her ser- 
 vices acknowledged — not in a pecuniary or 
 other material way, the pleasure of the thing 
 was sufficient compensation — but by the gra- 
 titude and recognition of the parties served, 
 and if Robert was somewhat behind -hand in 
 this respect, she forgave him, parce qu'il 
 avait une si jolie figure, and because allow- 
 ance must be made for la raideur Anglaise : 
 besides Agatha, perhaps not wholly destitute 
 of a sympathy in the peculiarities of her 
 maid's moral constitution, amply made up for 
 any deficiencies on Robert's part. 
 
 The result was that Clemence, had the 
 choice been given her, would have infinitely 
 preferred the life she at present led with 
 Agatha Miss Blake, playing second fiddle to 
 Mrs. Martin, first lady's maid and house-
 
 278 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 keeper, wandering, unsettled, unsweetened 
 by other perquisites than pretty well-worn 
 dresses, and bonnets whose freshness was 
 decidedly on the wane — (to say nothing of 
 the poor fare of the servants' hall, and 
 not unfrequent arrears of wages) — to a life 
 she might be called upon at any future day 
 to lead with Agatha Lady Anybody, living in 
 staid, respectable magnificence, where she 
 should be queen of the lower regions, where 
 vails and cadeaux were rich and abundant, 
 where the living in the housekeeper's-room 
 vied with that of les maitres, and where the 
 wages were of the highest, and paid to the 
 day. 
 
 *'0n vous attend, monsieur," says Cle- 
 mence, determined to mark her participation 
 in the mystery of the assignation, as she leads 
 Robert upstairs to the back drawing-room, 
 where Agatha waits for him. On, that most
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 279 
 
 delightfully suggestive, comprehensive, sig- 
 nificant, uncompromising, untranslatable pro- 
 noun ! On, to anybody in the secret of the 
 matter in hand, is as intelligible as all the 
 noms et prenoms of the person spoken of; to 
 those of the outer circle as inscrutable as the 
 riddle of the Sphynx. Who has done this 
 piece of mischief? Who has spread this 
 scandalous^ report? Who has let out this 
 important secret ? In England, we can only 
 resort to the manifestly absurd and illogical 
 subterfuge of laying the accusation on the 
 shoulders of IS^obody. Nobody ! out of no- 
 thing comes nothing : not so in France ; the 
 act performed, the word spoken, must have 
 had an originator; certainly it must, and 
 that originator ? was it man, woman, child, 
 definite object living or inanimate ? It was 
 on, that is to say, he, she, it, they, one, some 
 one, a person, people ! The tongue that pos-
 
 280 Sweethearts and Wives, 
 
 sesses on^ or any equivalent for it, is certainly 
 one to be cultivated, especially by those who 
 accept the maxim that language was given us 
 to conceal our thoughts. 
 
 Very happy and very tender was the meet- 
 ing of the lovers. They had not seen each 
 other for some weeks, and this snatched in- 
 terview had the zest of an almost unexpected 
 pleasure ; they had so much to tell, so much 
 to hear ; there were so many things eye and 
 lip could say which the longest, fondest, most 
 confidential letter would be wholly impotent 
 to convey. 
 
 Robert told Agatha of his parting inter- 
 view with John Temple ; she laughed, but 
 not easily. 
 
 *' Agatha, I know, of course, that I have 
 nothing earthly to fear from that man's pur- 
 suit of you — dearest, don't for a moment 
 dream that I mistrust you ! but I can't bear
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 281 
 
 that he should imagine he had the slightest 
 prospect of success. Surely, Agatha, you 
 could find means to intimate to him the utter 
 uselessness of his following up this entirely 
 losing game ?" 
 
 " Dear, foolish, jealous, impolitic boy ! 
 Yes, and make of him an untiring, implac- 
 able enemy ! The day I give John Temple 
 his final conge, that day places us both at 
 his mercy, and Heaven only knows what 
 would be the consequences ! Robert, you 
 don't know him — I do, and I have not seen 
 the man alive whose enmity is so much to be 
 dreaded. I fear him and I hate him ! you 
 cannot suppose I can find anything but dis- 
 gust and antipathy to meet his attentions, 
 that there is the slio^htest ofratification either 
 to my feelings or to my vanity in his pursuit. 
 Nothing but the sense that in his hands lies
 
 282 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 the balance of our fate, can enable me to 
 meet him with a fair face. 
 
 *'And yet that is the very utmost I do: 
 encouragement, properly so called, I have 
 never given him — this indeed you may 
 believe ! only toleration, and so long as he 
 contents himself with this I dare not with- 
 draw it ! it is one of the terrible necessities 
 of our position." 
 
 " Agatha, do you begin to regret the exist- 
 ence of that position ?" 
 
 She sat on an arm-chair, he on a low 
 ottoman at her feet; she bent forward, her 
 beautiful eyes gleaming on him through 
 smiles and tremulous tears. 
 
 " I would rather die in it and by it to- 
 morrow, than live a prosperous century in 
 any other," 
 
 She took his head between her white 
 jewelled hands, and bent her lips on his fore-
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 283 
 
 head, and be clasped his arms round her 
 waist. So they sat, while the door opened 
 noiselessly, and by it, in the shade — for the 
 room was only lighted by the fire, which was 
 burning low — stood a figure contemplating 
 them. 
 
 One step it made forward, and Agatha 
 started up with a suppressed scream. 
 
 " Hush !" said the voice of her father, " I 
 want no scene and no scandal. Young man, 
 be pleased to walk down stairs quietly, and 
 let me never see your face again ; it is not 
 much to exact of you, but beware of putting 
 yourself in my way. No — I want no expla- 
 nations, no talk — all that is to be between 
 me and this young lady. Go, you will only 
 make matters worse for her as well as for 
 yourself, by attempting to stay;" and stand- 
 ing with the door in his hand, Mr. Blake 
 waited till Robert had passed through, then
 
 284 Sweethearts and Wives, \ 
 
 he shut and locked it, and returned to the 
 
 fire, by which sat Agatha, white, stunned, j 
 
 and silent. 
 
 " What have you got to say for yourself?" j 
 
 " Nothing," she replied, without moving a j 
 
 muscle of her rigid face, and twisting her \ 
 
 handkerchief round and round her hands. | 
 
 "But I have a good deal to say to you /" i 
 
 Mr. Blake went on, the w^hite rage distorting ; 
 
 his features, and his small, deep-set eye \ 
 
 glistening ominously. \ 
 
 She threw herself back in the chair in j 
 
 which she sat, with a weary sigh, and closed \ 
 
 her eyes, and her father, more provoked, j 
 probably, by such a reception than he would 
 have been by any violent demonstration, 
 poured forth on her a torrent of invective, 
 such as, perhaps, had never before been heard 
 
 from his smooth tonoue. J 
 
 So long as it was of herself he spoke, she \
 
 Sweethearts and Wives, 285 
 
 bore all in utter, unmoved silence. She 
 seemed so weary, and broken, and hopeless, 
 that it were as if nothing he could say could 
 touch her into keener suffering, or provoke 
 her to self-defence. But when it was on 
 Robert his attack was turned, she sprang up, 
 glowing, palpitating with rage and emotion. 
 
 '^ Not him, not him ! you shall not speak of 
 him thus to me. There is not a curl on his 
 noble head that I do not respect as well as 
 love better than all your gray hairs ! 
 
 " What right have you to abuse him be- 
 cause he loves me with a love no other man 
 ever felt — ever will feel for me ? Poor or 
 rich, high or low, such love honours me more 
 than the feeble, cautious fancies that have 
 ever yet been felt for me by all those you 
 would have sold me to. 
 
 " But it is folly to talk to you thus ; you 
 cannot understand such language ! a cold.
 
 286 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 cruel, calculating, heartless father you have 
 been to me, and you thought and hoped you 
 had made me in your own image, and your 
 only complaint against me is that you have 
 failed. And now do your worst ! I'll never 
 give him up — never, never, 7iever /" 
 
 Mr. Blake seemed relieved by having at 
 last brought forth this outburst, and he said 
 quite calmly, 
 
 " Have you done your tragedy-queen 
 tirade ? If so, you had better begin to see 
 about your arrangements for departure. To- 
 morrow morning I take you to your mother : 
 there she and I will decide what further steps 
 it may be advisable to adopt to ensure your 
 safe keeping while this crazy boarding-school 
 miss fancy is on you. Really, at six-and- 
 twenty it is time to set aside the Damon and 
 Cloris dalliances. 
 
 " I hope, therefore, the fit will not be of
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 287 
 
 lono: continuance." And Mr. Blake turned 
 round and stirred the fire, and took snuff, 
 as if the matter was, so far, happily brought 
 to a conclusion. 
 
 Agatha rose, and with the step of a queen 
 left the room. But once in her own, and the 
 door locked, she flung herself on the bed, and 
 gave way to a paroxysm of grief, rage, and 
 pain. 
 
 She was at last aroused by a faint, cautious 
 tap at the door ; she sat up, flung back her 
 dishevelled hair and listened : it was repeated, 
 and Clemence's voice whispered, 
 
 '' Mademoiselle ! ouvrez, mademoiselle." 
 Slowly she dragged herself off the bed, and 
 with faltering steps, as of one rising from 
 a sick bed, she made her way across the 
 room, and unlocked the door. 
 
 Clemence entered, listened a moment, then 
 cautiously closed it.
 
 288 Sweethearts and Wives. 
 
 " Ma pauvre demoiselle !" she burst forth, 
 in an agitated whisper, " who would ever 
 have thought it. But monsieur must have 
 had warning. Monsieur never knocked — if 
 he had your poor Clemence would have found 
 means to put you on your guard, and to hide 
 Monsieur Robert — there was the wardrobe in 
 raadame's room — the very next room ! but 
 monsieur must have let himself in with his 
 own latch-key, for I never knew anything till 
 I heard Monsieur Robert come down stairs. 
 Oh, if I had only put up the chain. Ce 
 pauvre cher gar^on ! he looked like — I don't 
 know what — tout egare ! but I spoke to him, 
 and when he told me monsieur was come, I 
 saw all, and I asked him if he had any 
 message for you, and that seemed to bring 
 him to himself, and he tore a leaf out of 
 his pocket-book and wrote on it, and here it 
 is!" and triumphantly drawing the crumpled
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 289 
 
 paper from her bosom, she presented it to 
 Agatha. 
 
 But even in this moment of confusion, and 
 suffering, and perplexity, Clemence could not 
 avoid claiming the credit she deemed she 
 deserved. 
 
 "Ah! it was well there was somebody 
 who did not lose their head, who was ready 
 to meet all difficulties with presence of mind. 
 Mademoiselle might see how she w^as to be 
 depended upon when there w^as occasion for a 
 head !" and so on, while Agatha with dim 
 eyes and trembling hands, read the following- 
 lines — 
 
 " Courage, my darling ! I leave you now 
 quietly because I deem it wiser and more 
 likely to facilitate matters to us both in 
 future, to appear not to resist your father's 
 mandate. But we will arrange for that 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 290 Siveethearts and Wives. 
 
 future, do not fear ! only be brave and true, 
 and like your own precious self, my trea- 
 sure, and all will be well. Let me hear 
 from you the moment you can contrive to 
 do so. 
 
 " Yours for ever and ever, R." 
 
 '^ He is right !" Agatha said, throwing 
 back the masses of fallen hair from her pale, 
 tearstained face. 
 
 ** Ma bonne Clemence !" and she pressed 
 the girl's arm gratefully; *' what should I 
 do without you ? We leave town to-morrow 
 morning, but you must slip out and run 
 to-night with a letter to him. I'll write it 
 now, and you'll take it when you can. Get 
 into a cab and go for your life, lest my father 
 should miss you. There, get me some warm 
 water, and I'll bathe my face, and appear at
 
 Sweethearts and Wives. 291 
 
 dinner, and he'll think I'm making up my 
 mind to make the best of it. Ha ! we'll 
 outwit him yet, diplomat as he thinks 
 himself!". 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 F: Shoberl, Printer, 37, Dean Street, Soho, W.