A Wonderful Woman.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 442, 1 February 1890, Page 6

A Wonderful Woman.

By MAY AGNES FLEMING, Author of “Guy Earlescourt’s Wife,” “A Ter/ible Secret, 1 ' “ Lost for a Woman,” *• A Mad Marriage/’ etoBOOK 11. CHAPTER IV.—(Continued.) ‘Lady Cecil, is Miss Herncastle’s hair brown or black ?’ From her wakiner dream, a sharp piping voice at her elbow asking this abrupt que-tion, aroused her. She glanced round, glanced down, for she was the taller of the two, and saw the pinched, yellow face of little Sir Peter. Now, Lady Cecil, out of the greatness of a generous heart, had an infinite pity for all inferior, all persecuted, all long sutferingthingß. Andshepitied Sir Peter greatly. His wife treated ,him with about half aquarter the respect and affection she felt for Bijou, and would have bewailed the death of the dog much the deeper of the two. He looked sickly and miserable; he had no friends, no companions ; he was, in her eyes, a poor, little, imposed-up *n, persecuted martyr. Some instinct told him she was h's friend, and in his trouble he came to her now. She would not laugh at him, she would not repeat what he said, and he must confide in some one or die. •Mv dear Mr Peter, how you startled me ! I was thousands of miles away, I believe. when you spoke. What did you say ? Miss Herncastle—what?’ 4 1 asked you if Miss Herncastle had long, light brown hair?’ A curious question surely. Lady Cecil’s soft, fawn-coloured eyes opened a little. _ 4 For its length, I cannot answer. Who can tell who has long or short hair in these days of chignons and false tresses ? Of the colour I can speak positively. It is black jet black.’ ‘ Black !’ he gave a great gasp of relief. 4 You are sure, Lady Cecil ?’ 4 Certain, Sir Peter. And her eyebrows and eyelashes are of the same dense darkness. 5

4 And her eyes, Lady Cecil—are they grev ?’ • Still harping on my daughter !’ laughed La Reine Blanche; 4 Yes, Sir Peter, they are grey—very dark—very large—very fine. You appear to take a most extraordinary interest in Ginevra’s new governess, certainly. Resembles, doubtless, some one you have known ?’ ‘Resembles! that is not the word for it. I tell you, Lady Cecil ’—in a voice of deep suppressed intensity - 4 it is the same face, the same—the same. Older, graver, deeper, changed in some things —but the same. The face of Katherine DaugerHold !’ The name had nob passed his lips for years. His eyes had a glitter, his whole face an excitement, his voice an int- nsiby she never heard before. She drew back from him a little, yet curious and interested too.

‘Katherine Dangerfield. Yes, I have heard her story. It was in the papers years ago, and Ginevra told me of her at the time of her marriage. A very sad story — a very sad fate. She lost all—fortune, name, father, arid her affianced husband, on her wedding day. And a week after she died. It is the saddest story, I think, I ever heard. What a dastard, what a cowardly dastard that man must have been. Wh t became of him, Sir Peter?’

4 I don’t know, I have never asked—l nev« r cared. I was not to blame—no one had a right to blame me-I only took what <vas lawfully my own—she had no shadow of right to Scarswood, How could I tell she would die? Other women lose their fathers, their husbands, their fortunes, and live on. How did I know it would kill her? I say again,’ his voice rising shrill, and high, and angry, 4 no one has a right to blame me!'

* And no one does blame you, Sir Peter. Why should they ? Of course you could nob foretell she would die. The only one to blame was that wretch who deserted her. She was ready to give up everything for him—to take him, poor and obscure as he was, and love him, and give him all, and in the hour of her ruin he deserted her. Oh, i t was a shame—a shame ! And Ginevra’s governess really resembles this poor dead young lady so strongly ?’ *lb is horrible, I tell yon—horrible ! I thought I saw a ghost when she rose up before me three hours ago. Lady Cecil, do you believe in ghosts ?’ He asked the question, abruptly, and with perfect gravity. Lady Cecil laughed. ‘ Believe in ghosts ! My dear Sir Peter, who <loes b- lieve in ghostsin the nineteenth century? I fancy the ghosts of Banquo and Hamlet's father are the only gho-ts ever seen in England now. Like the fairies, they crossed to Germany centuries ago.’ * Have you read Scott’s “ Demonology ” and Mrs Crowe’s "Sight Side of Suture?' Lady Cecil?’ ‘And Mrs Radeliffe’s raw • bead and bloody-bone romances ! Oh., yes,.Sir Peter, I have gone through them all.’

‘ And still you don’t believe.’ : • And still I don’t believe. When I see a ghost bona fide and in—no, out of the flesh, I shall yield; not sooner. Bub why do you ask? Surely, Sir Peter, you don’t believe in anybhirig so absurd ?’ ‘Who can vouch for its absurdity? Lady. Cecil, yes—l do believe the spirits of the dead return.’

Lady Cecil looked at him half-laughing, half dismayed, and gave a little feminine shiver.

* Good gracious ! how German you grow. This comes of living alone, with blinded eyesight “ poring over, miserable books," as Tennyson says. Now, Sir Peter, I am sceptical. I want proof. Bub I am open to conviction. Did you ever see a ghost? That is what alchemists call a ‘‘crucical test.” In the dead waste and middle of the night do spirits from the vasty deep come to make darkness hideous?’ •You laugh, Lady Cecil,’ he said, hoarsely. In the vulgar susperstition no ghost in shroud ever came to my bedside, bub there are other ways of being haunted. There are dreams—horrible, awful dreams, that come night after night, the same tiling over and over, and from which you start up with the cold sweat on your brow and the damp of death in your hair—visions that come to you in your sleep from the infernal regions, I believe, more ghastly than any waking vision. Over and over, and ever the same—what do you call that, Lady Cecil ?’ ‘ Hot suppers, Sir Peter, and heavy nners. Any skilful physician will exorcise your dreaming apparitions.’ ‘ And a few miles from here there is a house, Bracken Hollow it is called, which no one, nob the bravest in the parish, is willing to pass after nightfall. A house in which a murder once was done, where unearthly sights are seen at unearthly hours, and unearthly sounds heard. What do you say to that ?’ ‘ That it’s a very common story, indeed. Why even at papa’s place, down in Hants, Qlive Court, popular rumour says there

is a ghost. An Earl of Ruysland, who committed suicide two hundred years ago, stalks about yet in the twilight, gory and grim. This is the legend, but no living mortal has ever seen him. If he walks, as they say, he takes good care to keep out ot sight. There are haunted houses in every country in England. No fine old family would be complete without its family ghost. 5 4 You don’t believe what you say, Lady Cecil. I tell you I have heard the sounds at Bracken Hollow myself. 5 ‘lndeed! 5 but still Lady Cecil smile 1 sceptically; ‘a real bona fide haunted house ! What a charming neighbourhood ! Now the one ungratified ambition of my life is bo see a disembodied spirit—to hear it if it is inclined to make a noise. Before I am a week older I shall pay—what was it?—Bracken Hollow—a visit. Bracken Hollow! It has a ghostly and mysterious sound. Has the ghost full possession of the premises, or is Bracken Hollow shared by some less ethereal tenant? 5 4 An old woman lives there. She was Katherine Dangerfield’s nurse—old Hannah. 5 4 Then I shall pay Old Hannah a visit, and investigate. I shall positively, Sir Peter. Excuse me, Ginevra is calling—l suppose she wants me to help her with that; tiresome sonata.’ She walked away, leaving Sir Peter gloomily by the window alone. 4 J have heard of monomaniacs—sane on all things save one—mad on that, 5 she thought. ,‘I believe Sir Peter is a monomaniac on Che subject of ghosts.’ Perhaps Lady Cecil was right. He hadn’t even told her all his madness. How evening after evening, rain or shine, summer or winter, through sleet or storm, a ‘spirit in his feet 5 led him whether or no to Katherine Dungerfield’s grave. He had no wish to go, but he went—he could nob stay away. It had grown such a habit that it seemed to him now if he did nob pay that twilight visit she would assuredly visit him before morning dawned. He made his daily p lgrimage to this Mecca, and the people of the town had grown tired talking and wondering over it. 4 He took everything from her when she was alive,’ they said, ‘ and now that she’s dead he plays the hypocrite, and visits her grave every evening. I wonder he isn’t afraid she’ll rise up and confront him.’

Perhaps he was—it had been the mania of his life. Surely Katherine had kept her vow. He was, if there ever was in this world, 4 a haunted man s—sane 5 —sane enough on all other thing*—on this, much thinking had made him mad.

He retire i early that night—he was less alone shut up bv himself than in the draw-ing-room with his wife and her relatives. All night long, candles burned in his bedroom, and one of the men servants slept in an open closet adjoining. Never without light and never alone. He had grown sleepless, too—and it was generally the small hours before slumber came to him. He arose late next dav, breakfasted by himself, and did not join the family until luncheon time. Miss Herncastle was nob at that meal either—i? seemed she was to take all hers with the children in the nursery. He had his wife’s h iuteurand intolerance to thank for something at least. He retired to his study spent three hours impaling his beetles and cockchafers, then arose, pub on his hat and turned to leave the house. Little Pansy ran against him in the hall. 4 Papa Peter,’ she said, 4 do you know who’s come?’ ‘No.’

‘Sir ArbhurTregenna. Sucha— ohesucha, great big man, with yellow whiskers and a solemn face —as solemn as Miss Herncasble’s. We don’t like Miss Herncastle —Pearl and me—she won’t play with us, and can’t dress dolls. We like Aunt Cecil —we do. She was playing “Hunt the Squirrel” with us when Sir Aithur came up in the fly from the station. He’s in the drawing.room now with mamma and Uncle Raoul, and is going to stay ever so long. I wish he had stayed away. Aunt Cecil won’t play 44 Hunt the Squirrel ” now any more. She blushed when he caught her. I hate great big men.’ 4 Ah ! yes—at nine—you’ll probably change your opinion at'nineteen,’ muttered 4 papa Peter ’ cynically, passing out. .Except as they swelled the diurnal bill of household expenses, my lady’s visitors were very little concern to my lady’s husband. He went on his way how, his hat pulled over his eyes, his small stooping figure bent, his spectacles fixed on the ground—moody, solitary, unhappy—to pay his daily visit to that lonesome grave.

The last light of the July sun came slanting over the downs, through the trees, and lay in ridges of glory upon the graves. It was all strangely hushed here ; the town with its bustle, and life, and noise lay behind. Death and silence reigned. He rarely met anyone at this hour: bho townspeople were taking their tea. Yonder was the house wherein she had died—yonder her grave, with its gray cross and its brief inscription Katherine, /Etat. 17. Reshrgam.

He knew it so well—be had been here so often. Would he go on coming here, he wondered wearily, as long as he lived. He paused. \Vbab was that? He was near the grave, and standing looking down upon it, her back burned bo him, he saw a woman. A woman ! His heart gave one great bound, then seemed to turn cold and still. . He went on—on—softly over the grass, impelled by the same irresistible fascination that drew him here. His feet struck a dry twig ; it snapped, and the woman turned and looked round. There, over Katherine Dangertield’s grave, looking at him with Katherine Dangerfield’s eyes, tood Miss Herncastle, the governess ! CHAPTER V. ‘once more, the gate behind me falls.’ For one moment he thought the dead had arisen ; for one moment he stood speechless and spell-bound ; for one brief, horrible moment he thought he saw Katherine Dangerfield looking at him across her own grave ! £>h.e made no attempt to speak, but stood with her icy gaze fixed upon him —her pale, changeless, marble face. He was the first to break the silence.

‘ Miss Herncastle I’ he gasped— ‘ you !’ Her eyes left him. and he moved. While they were rivetted upon him he had stood as one under a spell. ‘I, Sir Peter!’—the low, soft, sweet tones lingered like music on the ear—‘and I fear I have startled you again ; bub I never dreamed of seeing you here.’ ‘Nor I you. What brings you, a stranger, to this place of all places. Miss Herncastle, so soon after your arrßal?’ He asked the question angrily and suspiciously. Surely there was something ominous aiid sinister in this woman, who looked enough like the dead girl to have been her twin sister, and who visited her grave so speedily. Miss Herncastle drew ber mantle about her tall, slim figure, and turned to go. ’ ‘ I came out for a walk, Sir Peter. I have been in the schoolroom ail day, and I am not used td such close confinement. I asked my lady’s permission to take a walk, and she gave it. I am a rapid walker; and I soon found myself here, the town behind.

It looked so peaceful, so calm, so inviting, that I entered. The lonely grave attracted me. and I was reading the inscription as you came up. If I had known it could have mattered in any way—that I would have disturbed anyone by coming—l should not have come.’ She bent her head respectfully, and moved away. Dressed all in black, moving with a peculiarly swift, noiseless, gliding step, she looked nob unlike a phantom herself flitting among the graves. And in what an emotionless, level monotone she had spoken, as a child repeats a lesson learned by rote. He stood and looked after her, darkly, distrustfully. It seemed plausible enough, but that hidden instinct that comes to us to warn us of danger, told him something was wrong. 4 Who is she ?’ he repeated— 4 who is she?’ He stopped suddenly. 4 Enough like Katherine bo be her twin sister !’ And why nob ?—why not Katherine’s sister ? Who was there to say Katherine never had a sister? He knew nothing of her or of her family, save what M s Vavasor chose bo tell. Katherine might have had a dozen sisters for what he or she ever knew. A gl<-am came into his eyes ; he set his teeth with some of the old bull-dog resolution. 4 Katherine is dead and buried—nothing can alter that; and this young woman - this Miss Herncastle, is more like her than it is possible for any but sisters to be. I’ll find out, who Miss Herncastle is, and all about her, and what she’s here for, before I’m a month older !’ 4 Queenie !’ Lady D ingerfield said, tossing her cousin a rose-colomed, rose-sealed, rose-scented note, 4 read that. 5

Lady Cecil caught it. The note was written in big, dashing chirography, and this is what it said : ‘St. James Str'-et, July 2nd. ‘Dexrest Lai y Dangerfield.- A millioh thanKs for youi gr oious remembrance a million mure for your charming invitation. I will be with you on ih>-. afternoon of the 4th. From w at 11 ear of it, Scarswood Fark -must be a terrestrial na"-dise, but would not any place be that where you are? Ds\o i dly. 4 Jasper Algernon Frankland.’

Lady Cecil’s brown eyes flashed. The fulsome, florid style of compliment, the familiarity—the easy indolence of the writer —grated like some discordant noise on her nerves. She looked up reproachfully. 4 Oh, Ginevra!’ 4 And, oh, Queenie !’ with a shirt laugh, bub nob looking round from the stand of guelder-roses over which she was bending. 4 You seo we will not be moped to death down here after all. And we shall have two gentlemen more than we counted on for our lawn party this afternoon. I wonder what sorb of a croquet player Sir Arthur is, by the by. 5 ‘Ginevra, I wish you hadn't asked Major Frankland down here. I detest that man. Sir Peter is jealous. The odious familiar way he addresses you, too, and his horrid, coarse, commonplace compliments. Any place must be a paradise where you are! Bah ! Why doesn’t he try to be original at least ?’

4 Lady Cecil Clive is pleased to be fastidious,’ retorted Lady Dangerfield, tearing a guelder rose to pieces. 4 Who is original nowadays ? To be original means bo be eccentric—to be eccentric is the worst possible style, only allowable in poets and lunatics. Major Frankland being neither, only—’ 4 A well-dressed idiot—’

4 Only an everyday gentleman—answers my note of invitation in everyday style. You ought to thank me, Queenie. Who is to entertain Sir Arthur and take him off your hands when you tire of him? Even baronets with thirty thousand a year may pall sometimes on the frivolous mind of a young lady of bwo-and-twenty. Your father will do best—and Uncle Raoul’s best, when he tries to be entertaining, means a good deal: but still Major Frankland will be a great auxiliary. Queenie, I wonder why you dislike him so much !’

‘I dislike all mere club-room loungers, all well-dressed tailors’ blocks, without one idea in their heads, or one honest, manly feeling in their hearts. Jasper Frankland knows Sir Peter hates him. If he were a right-feeling man, would he come at all, knowingit?’ ‘ Certainly, when I invite him. And again, and again, and again Sir Peter ! I wish Sir Peter was at—Queenie, you have had an excellent bringing-up under the care of that wicked, worldly old dowager, Lady Ruth, bub in some things you are as stupid as any red-cheeked, butter - making dairymaid. Talking of ideas and feeling, and Sir Peter's jealousy —such nonsense ! When I did Sir Peter Dangerfield and, without exception, I helieve he is the most'intensely stupid and disagreeable little wretch the wide earth holds—when I did him the honour of marrying him, I did it to secure for myself a p easant home, all the comforts and luxuries of life—and I class the society of pleasant men like Jasper Frankland, chief among those luxuries. He is the best figure, the best style, the best bow,''he best walbzer, the best second in a duel, and the best scandalmonger from here to the “sweet shady side of Pall Mall.” if Sir Peter doesn’t like the friends I ask, then I would recommend Sir Peter to keep out of their eight, and make himself happy in the society of his impaled bugs, and dried butterflies, and stufled toads. Congenial companionship, I should say—birds of a feather, etc. By the way, what was that long discourse you and he had last evening about? Natural philosophy?’ ‘No ; ghosts,’ answered Lady Cecil, gravely. *He believes in ghosts. So did the late Johnson—was it ? He isn't quite positive jet that Miss Herncastle is not the disembodied spirit of that poor girl that died here. And he says there is a place three miles off—Bracken Hollow, I believe, haunted bo a dead certainty. Now I am going to see that house the very first opportunity. Sir Peter gravely affirms that he has heard the sights and seen the sounds—no—l don’t mean that—the other way— vice verm. ’ *My opinion is,’ said. Sir Peter’s wife. ‘ that Sir Peter is in a very bad way, and that we shall be taking out a decree of lunacy against him one of these days. Sir Peter may nob absolutely be mad, but in the elegantly allegorical language of the day, his head’s not level.’ ‘ What is that about Sir Peter?’ inquired the earl, sauntering up. ‘Mad is he, Ginevra ? ’Pon my life I always thought so since he committed hi? crowning folly of marrying you. Pray, what has he done lately ?’ ‘ Nothing more than the Right Honourable the Earl of Ruysland .has done before him—talked of seeing ghosted He takes Miss Herncastle, the governess, for a ghost. So did you. Now, Uncle Raoul, whose ghost did you take her for ?’

She shot her words back spitefully enough'. The earl's little satirical jests were apt to be biting sometimes. She looked at him as she asked the question, but my lord’s countenance never changed. Like Talleyrand, if you had kicked him from behind, his face would not show it.

11 ' Does she bear an unearthly resemblance to some lovely being, loved and lost half a century ago, my lord ? You remember she gave you quite a start the day of her arrival.’

‘ I remember,’ said the earl placidly ; ‘but she did nob disturb me greatly. She-has 4 vague sort of resemblance to a lady dead

anrl gone, but not sufficient to send me into hysterics. Queenie, I’m going to the station—you know who comes to-day V 4 Yes, papa,’ constrainedly. 4 lf you arc going into Castleford, my lord, said Ginevra, 4 1 have two or three commissions I wish you would execute. Queenie, where are you going ?—it will nob detain me an instant.’ 4 1 am going to the nursery. Lessons are over by this time, and Pearl says no one can make dolls’ dresses with the skill I can.’

She left the room. Lady Dangerfield looked after her, then at her uncle, with a malicious smile.

4 lf you really want Cecil to marry Sir Arthur Tregenna, all your finesse, all your diplomacy will be required. I foresee thirty thousand trembling in the balance. She is inclined to rebel—talks about being sold and the rest of it. As I said to herself, in spite of her admirable bringing up, her ideas on some subjects are in a deplorably crude and primitive state.’ ‘She shad marry Sir Arthur,’ the earl responded, serenely, 4 it is written—it is destiny. Her ideas have nothing whatever to do with it; and if there be any point of worldly hardness and polish which Lady Ruth may have omitted, who so competent as you, my dear Ginevra, to teach it? I am at peace —my only child is in safe hands. Write out your list quickly, my dear. I shall be late as it is.’ His niece laughed, but her eyes flashed a little. It was diamond cut diamond always /between- the worldly uncle and quite as worldly niece, and yet in their secret hearts they liked each other, and suited each other well. Lady Cecil reached the schoolroom. Lessons were just ended, and Miss Herncastle stood looking wearily out of the window at the mellow afternoon radiance—fagged and pale. Lady Cecil glanced at her compassionately. 4 You look wearied to death, Miss Herncastle ; I am afraid you find the Misses Dalrymple terrible little Neros in pinafores. Do go for a walk, and Pearl and Pansy and I will go and dress dolls under the trees. ’

4 But, Lady Dangerfield—’ 4 Lady Dangerfield is in the drawingroom ; you can ask her if you choose—she will nob object. I am sure you need a walk. Come, children, and fetch your whole family ot dolls.’ Miss Herncastle obtained permission to ta 1 e a walk, and set out. As she passed down 'he noble arching avenue, she espied the earl’s daughter and the twins solemnly seated under a big beech, sewing for their lives. Lady Cecil looked up, smiled, and nodded approval from her work. Very lovely she looked, the amber sunshine shifting down through the green and ruby leaves on her loosefloating, abundant brown hair, flashing back Irom that other amber sunshine in her hazel eyes, from the sweet smiling lips, from the can de n/l dress with its innumerable flounces and frillings, its point-lace collar, and cluny borderings. In that shimmering robe, and with a long spray of entangled ivy buds in her hair, she might have been painted for Tibania, Queen of the Fairies, herself. Beautiful as a vision—the bell of the season—sought, courted, caressed, beloved by all. Did the contrast strike sombie Miss Herncastle, in her plain brown merino dress, ugly of texture, of colour, of make, walking in the dust as she went by ? The after davs told.

The high red sun dropped half an hour lower. The young ladies and gentlemen invited for my lady’s lawn party would be here presently n'ow, and‘one of the twins’ nine dolls,' big and little, had had a new dress finished. Lady Cecil looked up, and said she must go. The twins pleaded piteously for one game of 4 tag,’ and 4 Aunt Cecil ’ consented.' The dolls were flung down in an ignominious heap, and Lady Cecil flew in chase of the children with a zest that, fora moment, equalled their own. And thus it- was, flushed, breathless, dishevelled, laughing, romping like a girl of twelve, Sir Arthur Treganna -saw her first.

The earl had been late—it was the earl's inevitable fate to be late on every occasion in life—and the great Cornish baronet had driven up to Searsvvood in a fly like any ordinary mortal. Through a break in the beeches, her clear sweet laugh rang out as the twins pounced upon her., and made her their captive. All aglow, all breathless, she came full upon Sir Arthur. He was laughing from sympathy with that merry peal. If she had striven for a thousand years to bewitch him she could never have succeeded half so well as in this moment, when she was not thinking of him at all. She stopped short—still laughing, blushing and aghast. * Lady Cecil Clive, I believe ?'

He took off his hat and stood bareheaded before her tall, noble, gravely smiling, as Lady Cecil gave him her hand. ‘ Sir Arthur Tregenna, lam sure. Did you not meet—Pansy, be quiet did you not meet papa ? He left here to go to the station.’

‘ I did not meet him. Probably I passed him, for I left the station immediately.’ ‘Then permit me to welcome you in his stead. Ah! here is papa now, and Major Frankland.’

A second fly drove up, and for the first and last time in her life, Lady Cecil Clive was glad to see Major Frankland. It was a rare —a very rare thing —for La Heine Blanche, trained into perfect high-bred selfpossession by three London seasons, b > feel a touch of embarrassment in the presence of any one king or kaiser, but she felt it now.

‘My dear boy—my. dear Arthur !’ The earl sprang out and shook the young baronet 8 hand with-• effusion. ‘Such a contretemps —just a moment too late—l saw you drive off, and I returned with Frank land. Major Frankland, of the th Lancers—Sir Arthur Tregenna.’ The two gentlemen lifted their hats. Sir Aithur rather stiffly, arid under restraint the gallant, whiskered major with that charming ease and grace which had years ago won away Ginevra Dangertield’s heart.

‘Aw, my dear Lady Cecil—chawmed to see you again, and looking so well—so very well; but then we all know, to our cost, La Heine Blanche invariably looks her best on every occasion. Arid here comes our chawming hostess. Aw, Lady Dangerfield, so happy to meet you once more. London has been a perfect desert—a howl-ing-avv—wilderness, I assure you, since two of its fairest flowers have ceased aw—bo bloom !’

And then the mistress of Scarswood was greeting and welcoming her guests, and the first detachment of the lawn party began to arrive, and in the bustle Lady Cecil made good her escape. The travellers were shown to their rooms She heard them go past—heard the major’s aggravating half lisp, half drawl, Sir Arthur’s deep grave tones, and clenched one little hand where'it jay on the window sill, and set her scarlet lips hard.

‘ The sultan has come, and his slave must wait until it pleases him to throw the handkerchief. He comes here to inspect me as he might a horse, or a house he wanted to buy ; and if 1 suit him, lam to be bought. If Ido nob—Oh, papa ! papa ! how could you subject me to so shameful an ordeal ?’ ■ . / / ; .

An imperious tap at the door, an imperious voice without : ‘ Queenie ! Queenie ! are you dead ? Open the door.’

Lady Cecil opened. My lady.all summery muslin, Valenciennes lace, and yellow roses, appeared, her black eyes alight, her cheeks glowing with pleasure and liquid rouge. ‘ Come, Queenie ; you are to be on the op posite side - first red, and all that. Every" one has come, and Sir Arthur and (be major are on the croquet ground. Really, Cecil, Sir Arthur isn’t bad looking—that is to say, if he were not beside Jasper. Comparisons are odious', and beside him—’ *Of course beside him, the Angel Gabriel, if he were to descend, would appear to disadvantage. Ginevra, Sir Arthur looks as if he had common-sense, at least; more than I can say for your pet military poodle. Poor little Bijou ! if he only knew what a dangerous rival had come io oust him.’

‘ Don’t be sarcastic, Queenie,’ her cousin answered, with perfect good temper; ‘it’s the worst thing can possibly be said ofa girl. Makes men afraid of her, you know. You may take Sir Arthur on your side ; the m«jor, of course, is on mine ; and we shall croquet you oft the face of the earth. He plays as he does everything—exqui-itely.’ They descended together to the croquet ground—an admirabie foil—blonde and brunette. Lady Dangerfield knew it, and made the most of it, as she did everything else.

Sir Arther did not play. He took a seat with the earl on the limit of the croquet ground, and talked and watched the players. The major and Lady Dangerfield played a vigorous game, sending their adversaries’ balls to the farthest limits of space, and never missing a hoop. Lady Cecil played abominably ; her side was beaten ingloriously in every game. How could she play?—how could she do anything, knowing, feeling that the eyes of Sir Arthur were upon her, while he calmly deliberated whether or no she were fitted to be his wife ?

Lady Cecil was right. Sir Arthur’s eyes were upon her, and Sir Arthur was speculating as to whether or no she was fitted to be his wife. What a fair, sweet, proud face it was; how much soul in the softly lustrous eyes ; how much gentleness, goodness, about the perfect lips, tlow like a bright, happy child she had looked as he had seen her first with brown hair flying, brown eyes dancing, rose lips laughing, and pearl cheeks softly flushed in that bewitching game of romps. Could anyone who looked like that—who loved little children and played with them, a very child herself, be the cold-blooded coquette, the vain flirt, who trampled on hearts wholesale, for her selfish gratification ? No, no, a hundred times no ! Such a face must mirror a pure and spotless soul; eyes litre these took their kindness and their sweetness from a gentle and womanly heart. ‘ Her loveliness makes men her captives. How can she be blamed for that ?’ he thought. He was beginning to plead for her already ; the spell of that ‘angel face,’ which had ensnared so many, was beginning to throw its glamour over him. And he was predisposed to be pleased. He wanted to fulfil his father’s dying wish and marry his old friend’s daughter. Lady Cecil’s party experienced a third disastrous defeat, and by that time the summer dusk had fallen, and the countless stars were out. Then one of the young ladies from the rectory—young ladies from the rectory are always useful went into the house and played some delicious German waltzes, the music floating from four high windows, open from floor to ceiling. Luiy Cecil waltzed with the rector’s tall son. with Squire Talbot from Morecambe, with Major Frankland even, when that splendid officer at last left his liege lady’s side. If she had never flirted befoie, she flirted with Sir Arthur’s eyes upon her. ‘He shall take me for what I am if he takes me at all,’ she thought. ‘I shall never play the hypocrite to entrap him.'

What did Sir Arthur think, sitting there, looking on with grave eyes ? He did not dance, he did not croquet, he didn t talk much ; he was not in any way a carpet knight, or an ornament to society. Frivo--1 ;us people like Lady Dangerfield were apt to be afraid of him. Those calm, passionless grey eyes loosed at you with so earnest a light that you were apt to shrink under them, feeling what a foolish, empty-headed sort of person you were—a man to be respected, beyond doubt—a man not so easily to be liked.

What did he think? Under the stars she looked very lovely, and loveliness in woman coverefh a multitude of sins. She waltzed with them all, and Sir Arthur was one of those uncivilised beings you meet now and then who do not like waltzing. Your brideelect in the arms of another man, even though it be in a round dance, is to your ill-trained mind a jarring and indelicate sight. She waltzed until her cheeks flushed and her eyes shone like brown diamonds, and her clear, soft voice and laugh rang out for all. What did he think ? The earl frowned—inwardly—only inwardly; any thing so disfiguring as a frown never really appeared upon his placid, well-trained race. ‘ Wrinkles comesoon enough of themselves,’ he was wont to say ; ‘no need to hasten them on by scowling at a world you cannot improve.’

There came a call, ‘supper,’ and the waltzing ended. The dancers paired off and defiled into the supper room. ‘The tocsin of the soul, the dinner bell,’ laaghed Lady Cecd ; ‘ and what with three games of croquet and four wastzes I am both hungry and fatigued.’ And then the rector’s tall, handsome, son —a ’Yarty man with that flirting manner some young men cultivate, said something in a whisper that looked tender, however it might sound. Sir Albert’s grey eyes saw it all. Was this flirting ?—was La Heine Blanche at her favourite game ?

They went into the brilliantly lighted dining room, where an A berdeen salmon, a la mayonaise, lay reposing tranquilly in a bed of greenery and prawns, where lobster salad and cold chicken and pine-apple cream, and ivloselle and strawberries looked like an epicurean picture under softly abundant gasaliers. Lady Cecil still kept her victim, the tad, slim college man, by her side, and they devoted themselves to one another very exclusively. They were probably discussing the rival merits of salmon and lobster salad, but they looked as if they were gently murmuring, How is it under our control To love, or not to love? Sir Arthur had the post of honour on the right of his hostess—Major Frankland sup ported, her on the left. Sir Peter was not present—he sat solitary and alone in his study, like an oyster in its shell, while feasting and merry making went cn around him. And when the great ormolu and malachite clock over the mantel Btruck the half hour after eleven, the company dispersed, 1 and the guests sought their own rooms. What did Sir Arthur think, as he bade the earl's fair daughter good-night, and watched her float away in her eau de nil dress up the stairs and disappear in a silvery shower of moonrays ? That impassive face of his gave no sign.