Then she answered, 'Sir William Hervy.'

'By G--- I thought as much!' cried Sir John, drops of perspiration

standing on his white face. 'A skulking villain! A sick man's ears are

keen, my lady. I heard that they were lover-like tones, and he called

'ee by your Christian name. These be your intrigues, my lady, when I am

off my legs awhile!'

'On my honour,' cried she, 'you do me a wrong. I swear I did not know of

his coming!'

'Swear as you will,' said Sir John, 'I don't believe 'ee.' And with this

he taunted her, and worked himself into a greater passion, which much

increased his illness. His lady sat still, brooding. There was that

upon her face which had seldom been there since her marriage; and she

seemed to think anew of what she had so lightly said in the days of her

freedom, when her three lovers were one and all coveting her hand. 'I

began at the wrong end of them,' she murmured. 'My God--that did I!'

'What?' said he.

'A trifle,' said she. 'I spoke to myself only.'

It was somewhat strange that after this day, while she went about the

house with even a sadder face than usual, her churlish husband grew

worse; and what was more, to the surprise of all, though to the regret of

few, he died a fortnight later. Sir William had not called upon him as

he had promised, having received a private communication from Lady

Penelope, frankly informing him that to do so would be inadvisable, by

reason of her husband's temper.

Now when Sir John was gone, and his remains carried to his family burying-

place in another part of England, the lady began in due time to wonder

whither Sir William had betaken himself. But she had been cured of

precipitancy (if ever woman were), and was prepared to wait her whole

lifetime a widow if the said Sir William should not reappear. Her life

was now passed mostly within the walls, or in promenading between the

pleasaunce and the bowling-green; and she very seldom went even so far as

the high road which then skirted the grounds on the north, though it has

now, and for many years, been diverted to the south side. Her patience

was rewarded (if love be in any case a reward); for one day, many months

after her second husband's death, a messenger arrived at her gate with

the intelligence that Sir William Hervy was again in Casterbridge, and

would be glad to know if it were her pleasure that he should wait upon

her.

It need hardly be said that permission was joyfully granted, and within

two hours her lover stood before her, a more thoughtful man than

formerly, but in all essential respects the same man, generous, modest to

diffidence, and sincere. The reserve which womanly decorum threw over

her manner was but too obviously artificial, and when he said 'the ways

of Providence are strange,' and added after a moment, 'and merciful

likewise,' she could not conceal her agitation, and burst into tears upon

his neck.

'But this is too soon,' she said, starting back.

'But no,' said he. 'You are eleven months gone in widowhood, and it is

not as if Sir John had been a good husband to you.'

His visits grew pretty frequent now, as may well be guessed, and in a

month or two he began to urge her to an early union. But she counselled

a little longer delay.

'Why?' said he. 'Surely I have waited long! Life is short; we are

getting older every day, and I am the last of the three.'

'Yes,' said the lady frankly. 'And that is why I would not have you

hasten. Our marriage may seem so strange to everybody, after my unlucky

remark on that occasion we know so well, and which so many others know

likewise, thanks to talebearers.'

On this representation he conceded a little space, for the sake of her

good name. But the destined day of their marriage at last arrived, and

it was a gay time for the villagers and all concerned, and the bells in

the parish church rang from noon till night. Thus at last she was united

to the man who had loved her the most tenderly of them all, who but for

his reticence might perhaps have been the first to win her. Often did he

say to himself; 'How wondrous that her words should have been fulfilled!

Many a truth hath been spoken in jest, but never a more remarkable one!'

The noble lady herself preferred not to dwell on the coincidence, a

certain shyness, if not shame, crossing her fair face at any allusion

thereto.

But people will have their say, sensitive souls or none, and their

sayings on this third occasion took a singular shape. 'Surely,' they

whispered, 'there is something more than chance in this . . . The death

of the first was possibly natural; but what of the death of the second,

who ill-used her, and whom, loving the third so desperately, she must

have wished out of the way?'

Then they pieced together sundry trivial incidents of Sir John's illness,

and dwelt upon the indubitable truth that he had grown worse after her

lover's unexpected visit; till a very sinister theory was built up as to

the hand she may have had in Sir John's premature demise. But nothing of

this suspicion was said openly, for she was a lady of noble birth--nobler,

indeed, than either of her husbands--and what people suspected they

feared to express in formal accusation.

The mansion that she occupied had been left to her for so long a time as

she should choose to reside in it, and, having a regard for the spot, she

had coaxed Sir William to remain there. But in the end it was

unfortunate; for one day, when in the full tide of his happiness, he was

walking among the willows near the gardens, where he overheard a

conversation between some basket-makers who were cutting the osiers for

their use. In this fatal dialogue the suspicions of the neighbouring

townsfolk were revealed to him for the first time.

'A cupboard close to his bed, and the key in her pocket. Ah!' said one.

'And a blue phial therein--h'm!' said another.

'And spurge-laurel leaves among the hearth-ashes. Oh-oh!' said a third.

On his return home Sir William seemed to have aged years. But he said

nothing; indeed, it was a thing impossible. And from that hour a ghastly

estrangement began. She could not understand it, and simply waited. One

day he said, however, 'I must go abroad.'

'Why?' said she. 'William, have I offended you?'

'No,' said he; 'but I must go.'

She could coax little more out of him, and in itself there was nothing

unnatural in his departure, for he had been a wanderer from his youth. In

a few days he started off, apparently quite another man than he who had

rushed to her side so devotedly a few months before.

It is not known when, or how, the rumours, which were so thick in the

atmosphere around her, actually reached the Lady Penelope's ears, but

that they did reach her there is no doubt. It was impossible that they

should not; the district teemed with them; they rustled in the air like

night-birds of evil omen. Then a reason for her husband's departure

occurred to her appalled mind, and a loss of health became quickly

apparent. She dwindled thin in the face, and the veins in her temples

could all be distinctly traced. An inner fire seemed to be withering her

away. Her rings fell off her fingers, and her arms hung like the flails

of the threshers, though they had till lately been so round and so

elastic. She wrote to her husband repeatedly, begging him to return to

her; but he, being in extreme and wretched doubt, moreover, knowing

nothing of her ill-health, and never suspecting that the rumours had

reached her also, deemed absence best, and postponed his return awhile,

giving various good reasons for his delay.

At length, however, when the Lady Penelope had given birth to a still-

born child, her mother, the Countess, addressed a letter to Sir William,

requesting him to come back to her if he wished to see her alive; since

she was wasting away of some mysterious disease, which seemed to be

rather mental than physical. It was evident that his mother-in-law knew

nothing of the secret, for she lived at a distance; but Sir William

promptly hastened home, and stood beside the bed of his now dying wife.

'Believe me, William,' she said when they were alone, 'I am

innocent--innocent!'

'Of what?' said he. 'Heaven forbid that I should accuse you of

anything!'

'But you do accuse me--silently!' she gasped. 'I could not write

thereon--and ask you to hear me. It was too much, too degrading. But

would that I had been less proud! They suspect me of poisoning him,

William! But, oh my dear husband, I am innocent of that wicked crime! He

died naturally. I loved you--too soon; but that was all!'

Nothing availed to save her. The worm had gnawed too far into her heart

before Sir William's return for anything to be remedial now; and in a few

weeks she breathed her last. After her death the people spoke louder,

and her conduct became a subject of public discussion. A little later

on, the physician, who had attended the late Sir John, heard the rumour,

and came down from the place near London to which he latterly had

retired, with the express purpose of calling upon Sir William Hervy, now

staying in Casterbridge.

He stated that, at the request of a relative of Sir John's, who wished to

be assured on the matter by reason of its suddenness, he had, with the

assistance of a surgeon, made a private examination of Sir John's body

immediately after his decease, and found that it had resulted from purely

natural causes. Nobody at this time had breathed a suspicion of foul

play, and therefore nothing was said which might afterwards have

established her innocence.

It being thus placed beyond doubt that this beautiful and noble lady had

been done to death by a vile scandal that was wholly unfounded, her

husband was stung with a dreadful remorse at the share he had taken in

her misfortunes, and left the country anew, this time never to return

alive. He survived her but a few years, and his body was brought home

and buried beside his wife's under the tomb which is still visible in the

parish church. Until lately there was a good portrait of her, in weeds

for her first husband, with a cross in her hand, at the ancestral seat of

her family, where she was much pitied, as she deserved to be. Yet there

were some severe enough to say--and these not unjust persons in other

respects--that though unquestionably innocent of the crime imputed to

her, she had shown an unseemly wantonness in contracting three marriages

in such rapid succession; that the untrue suspicion might have been

ordered by Providence (who often works indirectly) as a punishment for

her self-indulgence. Upon that point I have no opinion to offer.

* * * * *

The reverend the Vice-President, however, the tale being ended, offered

as his opinion that her fate ought to be quite clearly recognized as a

punishment. So thought the Churchwarden, and also the quiet gentleman

sitting near. The latter knew many other instances in point, one of

which could be narrated in a few words.

DAME THE NINTH--THE DUCHESS OF HAMPTONSHIRE

By the Quiet Gentleman

Some fifty years ago, the then Duke of Hamptonshire, fifth of that title,

was incontestibly the head man in his county, and particularly in the

neighbourhood of Batton. He came of the ancient and loyal family of

Saxelbye, which, before its ennoblement, had numbered many knightly and

ecclesiastical celebrities in its male line. It would have occupied a

painstaking county historian a whole afternoon to take rubbings of the

numerous effigies and heraldic devices graven to their memory on the

brasses, tablets, and altar-tombs in the aisle of the parish-church. The

Duke himself, however, was a man little attracted by ancient chronicles

in stone and metal, even when they concerned his own beginnings. He

allowed his mind to linger by preference on the many graceless and

unedifying pleasures which his position placed at his command. He could

on occasion close the mouths of his dependents by a good bomb-like oath,

and he argued doggedly with the parson on the virtues of cock-fighting

and baiting the bull.

This nobleman's personal appearance was somewhat impressive. His

complexion was that of the copper-beech tree. His frame was stalwart,

though slightly stooping. His mouth was large, and he carried an

unpolished sapling as his walking-stick, except when he carried a spud

for cutting up any thistle he encountered on his walks. His castle stood

in the midst of a park, surrounded by dusky elms, except to the

southward; and when the moon shone out, the gleaming stone facade, backed

by heavy boughs, was visible from the distant high road as a white spot

on the surface of darkness. Though called a castle, the building was

little fortified, and had been erected with greater eye to internal

convenience than those crannied places of defence to which the name

strictly appertains. It was a castellated mansion as regular as a

chessboard on its ground-plan, ornamented with make-believe bastions and

machicolations, behind which were stacks of battlemented chimneys. On

still mornings, at the fire-lighting hour, when ghostly house-maids stalk

the corridors, and thin streaks of light through the shutter-chinks lend

startling winks and smiles to ancestors on canvas, twelve or fifteen thin

stems of blue smoke sprouted upwards from these chimney-tops, and spread

into a flat canopy on high. Around the site stretched ten thousand acres

of good, fat, unimpeachable soil, plentiful in glades and lawns wherever

visible from the castle-windows, and merging in homely arable where

screened from the too curious eye by ingeniously-contrived plantations.

Some way behind the owner of all this came the second man in the parish,

the rector, the Honourable and Reverend Mr. Oldbourne, a widower, over

stiff and stern for a clergyman, whose severe white neckcloth, well-kept

gray hair, and right-lined face betokened none of those sympathetic

traits whereon depends so much of a parson's power to do good among his

fellow-creatures. The last, far-removed man of the series--altogether

the Neptune of these local primaries--was the curate, Mr. Alwyn Hill. He

was a handsome young deacon with curly hair, dreamy eyes--so dreamy that

to look long into them was like ascending and floating among summer

clouds--a complexion as fresh as a flower, and a chin absolutely

beardless. Though his age was about twenty-five, he looked not much over

nineteen.

The rector had a daughter called Emmeline, of so sweet and simple a

nature that her beauty was discovered, measured, and inventoried by

almost everybody in that part of the country before it was suspected by

herself to exist. She had been bred in comparative solitude; a

rencounter with men troubled and confused her. Whenever a strange

visitor came to her father's house she slipped into the orchard and

remained till he was gone, ridiculing her weakness in apostrophes, but

unable to overcome it. Her virtues lay in no resistant force of

character, but in a natural inappetency for evil things, which to her

were as unmeaning as joints of flesh to a herbivorous creature. Her

charms of person, manner, and mind, had been clear for some time to the

Antinous in orders, and no less so to the Duke, who, though scandalously

ignorant of dainty phrases, ever showing a clumsy manner towards the

gentler sex, and, in short, not at all a lady's man, took fire to a

degree that was wellnigh terrible at sudden sight of Emmeline, a short

time after she was turned seventeen.

It occurred one afternoon at the corner of a shrubbery between the castle

and the rectory, where the Duke was standing to watch the heaving of a

mole, when the fair girl brushed past at a distance of a few yards, in

the full light of the sun, and without hat or bonnet. The Duke went home

like a man who had seen a spirit. He ascended to the picture-gallery of

his castle, and there passed some time in staring at the bygone beauties

of his line as if he had never before considered what an important part

those specimens of womankind had played in the evolution of the Saxelbye

race. He dined alone, drank rather freely, and declared to himself that

Emmeline Oldbourne must be his.

Meanwhile there had unfortunately arisen between the curate and this girl

some sweet and secret understanding. Particulars of the attachment

remained unknown then and always, but it was plainly not approved of by

her father. His procedure was cold, hard, and inexorable. Soon the

curate disappeared from the parish, almost suddenly, after bitter and

hard words had been heard to pass between him and the rector one evening

in the garden, intermingled with which, like the cries of the dying in

the din of battle, were the beseeching sobs of a woman. Not long after

this it was announced that a marriage between the Duke and Miss Oldbourne

was to be solemnized at a surprisingly early date.

The wedding-day came and passed; and she was a Duchess. Nobody seemed to

think of the ousted man during the day, or else those who thought of him

concealed their meditations. Some of the less subservient ones were

disposed to speak in a jocular manner of the august husband and wife,

others to make correct and pretty speeches about them, according as their

sex and nature dictated. But in the evening, the ringers in the belfry,

with whom Alwyn had been a favourite, eased their minds a little

concerning the gentle young man, and the possible regrets of the woman he

had loved.

'Don't you see something wrong in it all?' said the third bell as he

wiped his face. 'I know well enough where she would have liked to stable

her horses to-night, when they have done their journey.'

'That is, you would know if you could tell where young Mr. Hill is

living, which is known to none in the parish.'

'Except to the lady that this ring o' grandsire triples is in honour of.'

Yet these friendly cottagers were at this time far from suspecting the

real dimensions of Emmeline's misery, nor was it clear even to those who

came into much closer communion with her than they, so well had she

concealed her heart-sickness. But bride and bridegroom had not long been

home at the castle when the young wife's unhappiness became plainly

enough perceptible. Her maids and men said that she was in the habit of

turning to the wainscot and shedding stupid scalding tears at a time when

a right-minded lady would have been overhauling her wardrobe. She prayed

earnestly in the great church-pew, where she sat lonely and insignificant

as a mouse in a cell, instead of counting her rings, falling asleep, or

amusing herself in silent laughter at the queer old people in the

congregation, as previous beauties of the family had done in their time.

She seemed to care no more for eating and drinking out of crystal and

silver than from a service of earthen vessels. Her head was, in truth,

full of something else; and that such was the case was only too obvious

to the Duke, her husband. At first he would only taunt her for her folly

in thinking of that milk-and-water parson; but as time went on his

charges took a more positive shape. He would not believe her assurance

that she had in no way communicated with her former lover, nor he with

her, since their parting in the presence of her father. This led to some

strange scenes between them which need not be detailed; their result was

soon to take a catastrophic shape.

One dark quiet evening, about two months after the marriage, a man

entered the gate admitting from the highway to the park and avenue which

ran up to the house. He arrived within two hundred yards of the walls,

when he left the gravelled drive and drew near to the castle by a

roundabout path leading into a shrubbery. Here he stood still. In a few

minutes the strokes of the castle-clock resounded, and then a female

figure entered the same secluded nook from an opposite direction. There

the two indistinct persons leapt together like a pair of dewdrops on a

leaf; and then they stood apart, facing each other, the woman looking

down.

'Emmeline, you begged me to come, and here I am, Heaven forgive me!' said

the man hoarsely.

'You are going to emigrate, Alwyn,' she said in broken accents. 'I have

heard of it; you sail from Plymouth in three days in the _Western

Glory_?'

'Yes. I can live in England no longer. Life is as death to me here,'

says he.

'My life is even worse--worse than death. Death would not have driven me

to this extremity. Listen, Alwyn--I have sent for you to beg to go with

you, or at least to be near you--to do anything so that it be not to stay

here.'

'To go away with me?' he said in a startled tone.

'Yes, yes--or under your direction, or by your help in some way! Don't

be horrified at me--you must bear with me whilst I implore it. Nothing

short of cruelty would have driven me to this. I could have borne my

doom in silence had I been left unmolested; but he tortures me, and I

shall soon be in the grave if I cannot escape.'

To his shocked inquiry how her husband tortured her, the Duchess said

that it was by jealousy. 'He tries to wring admissions from me

concerning you,' she said, 'and will not believe that I have not

communicated with you since my engagement to him was settled by my

father, and I was forced to agree to it.'

The poor curate said that this was the heaviest news of all. 'He has not

personally ill-used you?' he asked.

'Yes,' she whispered.

'What has he done?'

She looked fearfully around, and said, sobbing: 'In trying to make me

confess to what I have never done, he adopts plans I dare not describe

for terrifying me into a weak state, so that I may own to anything! I

resolved to write to you, as I had no other friend.' She added, with

dreary irony, 'I thought I would give him some ground for his suspicion,

so as not to disgrace his judgment.'

'Do you really mean, Emmeline,' he tremblingly inquired, 'that you--that

you want to fly with me?'

'Can you think that I would act otherwise than in earnest at such a time

as this?'

He was silent for a minute or more. 'You must not go with me,' he said.

'Why?'

'It would be sin.'

'It _cannot_ be sin, for I have never wanted to commit sin in my life;

and it isn't likely I would begin now, when I pray every day to die and

be sent to Heaven out of my misery!'

'But it is wrong, Emmeline, all the same.'

'Is it wrong to run away from the fire that scorches you?'

'It would look wrong, at any rate, in this case.'

'Alwyn, Alwyn, take me, I beseech you!' she burst out. 'It is not right

in general, I know, but it is such an exceptional instance, this. Why

has such a severe strain been put upon me? I was doing no harm, injuring

no one, helping many people, and expecting happiness; yet trouble came.

Can it be that God holds me in derision? I had no supporter--I gave way;

and now my life is a burden and a shame to me . . . Oh, if you only knew

how much to me this request to you is--how my life is wrapped up in it,

you could not deny me!'

'This is almost beyond endurance--Heaven support us,' he groaned. 'Emmy,

you are the Duchess of Hamptonshire, the Duke of Hamptonshire's wife; you

must not go with me!'

'And am I then refused?--Oh, am I refused?' she cried frantically.

'Alwyn, Alwyn, do you say it indeed to me?'

'Yes, I do, dear, tender heart! I do most sadly say it. You must not

go. Forgive me, for there is no alternative but refusal. Though I die,

though you die, we must not fly together. It is forbidden in God's law.

Good-bye, for always and ever!'

He tore himself away, hastened from the shrubbery, and vanished among the

trees.

Three days after this meeting and farewell, Alwyn, his soft, handsome

features stamped with a haggard hardness that ten years of ordinary wear

and tear in the world could scarcely have produced, sailed from Plymouth

on a drizzling morning, in the passenger-ship _Western Glory_. When the

land had faded behind him he mechanically endeavoured to school himself

into a stoical frame of mind. His attempt, backed up by the strong moral

staying power that had enabled him to resist the passionate temptation to

which Emmeline, in her reckless trustfulness, had exposed him, was

rewarded by a certain kind of success, though the murmuring stretch of

waters whereon he gazed day after day too often seemed to be articulating

to him in tones of her well-remembered voice.

He framed on his journey rules of conduct for reducing to mild

proportions the feverish regrets which would occasionally arise and

agitate him, when he indulged in visions of what might have been had he

not hearkened to the whispers of conscience. He fixed his thoughts for

so many hours a day on philosophical passages in the volumes he had

brought with him, allowing himself now and then a few minutes' thought of

Emmeline, with the strict yet reluctant niggardliness of an ailing

epicure proportioning the rank drinks that cause his malady. The voyage

was marked by the usual incidents of a sailing-passage in those days--a

storm, a calm, a man overboard, a birth, and a funeral--the latter sad

event being one in which he, as the only clergyman on board, officiated,

reading the service ordained for the purpose. The ship duly arrived at

Boston early in the month following, and thence he proceeded to

Providence to seek out a distant relative.

After a short stay at Providence he returned again to Boston, and by

applying himself to a serious occupation made good progress in shaking

off the dreary melancholy which enveloped him even now. Distracted and

weakened in his beliefs by his recent experiences, he decided that he

could not for a time worthily fill the office of a minister of religion,

and applied for the mastership of a school. Some introductions, given

him before starting, were useful now, and he soon became known as a

respectable scholar and gentleman to the trustees of one of the colleges.

This ultimately led to his retirement from the school and installation in

the college as Professor of rhetoric and oratory.

Here and thus he lived on, exerting himself solely because of a

conscientious determination to do his duty. He passed his winter

evenings in turning sonnets and elegies, often giving his thoughts voice

in 'Lines to an Unfortunate Lady,' while his summer leisure at the same

hour would be spent in watching the lengthening shadows from his window,

and fancifully comparing them with the shades of his own life. If he

walked, he mentally inquired which was the eastern quarter of the

landscape, and thought of two thousand miles of water that way, and of

what was beyond it. In a word he was at all spare times dreaming of her

who was only a memory to him, and would probably never be more.

Nine years passed by, and under their wear and tear Alwyn Hill's face

lost a great many of the attractive characteristics which had formerly

distinguished it. He was kind to his pupils and affable to all who came

in contact with him; but the kernel of his life, his secret, was kept as

snugly shut up as though he had been dumb. In talking to his

acquaintances of England and his life there, he omitted the episode of

Batton Castle and Emmeline as if it had no existence in his calendar at

all. Though of towering importance to himself, it had filled but a short

and small fragment of time, an ephemeral season which would have been

wellnigh imperceptible, even to him, at this distance, but for the

incident it enshrined.

One day, at this date, when cursorily glancing over an old English

newspaper, he observed a paragraph which, short as it was, contained for

him whole tomes of thrilling information--rung with more passion-stirring

rhythm than the collected cantos of all the poets. It was an

announcement of the death of the Duke of Hamptonshire, leaving behind him

a widow, but no children.

The current of Alwyn's thoughts now completely changed. On looking again

at the newspaper he found it to be one that was sent him long ago, and

had been carelessly thrown aside. But for an accidental overhauling of

the waste journals in his study he might not have known of the event for

years. At this moment of reading the Duke had already been dead seven

months. Alwyn could now no longer bind himself down to machine-made

synecdoche, antithesis, and climax, being full of spontaneous specimens

of all these rhetorical forms, which he dared not utter. Who shall

wonder that his mind luxuriated in dreams of a sweet possibility now laid

open for the first time these many years? for Emmeline was to him now as

ever the one dear thing in all the world. The issue of his silent

romancing was that he resolved to return to her at the very earliest

moment.

But he could not abandon his professional work on the instant. He did

not get really quite free from engagements till four months later; but,

though suffering throes of impatience continually, he said to himself

every day: 'If she has continued to love me nine years she will love me

ten; she will think the more tenderly of me when her present hours of

solitude shall have done their proper work; old times will revive with

the cessation of her recent experience, and every day will favour my

return.'

The enforced interval soon passed, and he duly arrived in England,

reaching the village of Batton on a certain winter day between twelve and

thirteen months subsequent to the time of the Duke's death.

It was evening; yet such was Alwyn's impatience that he could not forbear

taking, this very night, one look at the castle which Emmeline had

entered as unhappy mistress ten years before. He threaded the park

trees, gazed in passing at well-known outlines which rose against the dim

sky, and was soon interested in observing that lively country-people, in

parties of two and three, were walking before and behind him up the

interlaced avenue to the castle gateway. Knowing himself to be safe from

recognition, Alwyn inquired of one of these pedestrians what was going

on.

'Her Grace gives her tenantry a ball to-night, to keep up the old custom

of the Duke and his father before him, which she does not wish to

change.'

'Indeed. Has she lived here entirely alone since the Duke's death?'

'Quite alone. But though she doesn't receive company herself, she likes

the village people to enjoy themselves, and often has 'em here.'

'Kind-hearted, as always!' thought Alwyn.

On reaching the castle he found that the great gates at the tradesmen's

entrance were thrown back against the wall as if they were never to be

closed again; that the passages and rooms in that wing were brilliantly

lighted up, some of the numerous candles guttering down over the green

leaves which decorated them, and upon the silk dresses of the happy

farmers' wives as they passed beneath, each on her husband's arm. Alwyn

found no difficulty in marching in along with the rest, the castle being

Liberty Hall to-night. He stood unobserved in a corner of the large

apartment where dancing was about to begin.

'Her Grace, though hardly out of mourning, will be sure to come down and

lead off the dance with neighbour Bates,' said one.

'Who is neighbour Bates?' asked Alwyn.

'An old man she respects much--the oldest of her tenant-farmers. He was

seventy-eight his last birthday.'

'Ah, to be sure!' said Alwyn, at his ease. 'I remember.'

The dancers formed in line, and waited. A door opened at the farther end

of the hall, and a lady in black silk came forth. She bowed, smiled, and

proceeded to the top of the dance.

'Who is that lady?' said Alwyn, in a puzzled tone. 'I thought you told

me that the Duchess of Hamptonshire--'

'That is the Duchess,' said his informant.

'But there is another?'

'No; there is no other.'

'But she is not the Duchess of Hamptonshire--who used to--' Alwyn's

tongue stuck to his mouth, he could get no farther.

'What's the matter?' said his acquaintance. Alwyn had retired, and was

supporting himself against the wall.

The wretched Alwyn murmured something about a stitch in his side from

walking. Then the music struck up, the dance went on, and his neighbour

became so interested in watching the movements of this strange Duchess

through its mazes as to forget Alwyn for a while.

It gave him an opportunity to brace himself up. He was a man who had

suffered, and he could suffer again. 'How came that person to be your

Duchess?' he asked in a firm, distinct voice, when he had attained

complete self-command. 'Where is her other Grace of Hamptonshire? There

certainly was another. I know it.'

'Oh, the previous one! Yes, yes. She ran away years and years ago with

the young curate. Mr. Hill was the young man's name, if I recollect.'

'No! She never did. What do you mean by that?' he said.

'Yes, she certainly ran away. She met the curate in the shrubbery about

a couple of months after her marriage with the Duke. There were folks

who saw the meeting and heard some words of their talk. They arranged to

go, and she sailed from Plymouth with him a day or two afterward.'

'That's not true.'

'Then 'tis the queerest lie ever told by man. Her father believed and

knew to his dying day that she went with him; and so did the Duke, and

everybody about here. Ay, there was a fine upset about it at the time.

The Duke traced her to Plymouth.'

'Traced her to Plymouth?'

'He traced her to Plymouth, and set on his spies; and they found that she

went to the shipping-office, and inquired if Mr. Alwyn Hill had entered

his name as passenger by the _Western Glory_; and when she found that he

had, she booked herself for the same ship, but not in her real name. When

the vessel had sailed a letter reached the Duke from her, telling him

what she had done. She never came back here again. His Grace lived by

himself a number of years, and married this lady only twelve months

before he died.'

Alwyn was in a state of indescribable bewilderment. But, unmanned as he

was, he called the next day on the, to him, spurious Duchess of

Hamptonshire. At first she was alarmed at his statement, then cold, then

she was won over by his condition to give confidence for confidence. She

showed him a letter which had been found among the papers of the late

Duke, corroborating what Alwyn's informant had detailed. It was from

Emmeline, bearing the postmarked date at which the _Western Glory_

sailed, and briefly stated that she had emigrated by that ship to

America.

Alwyn applied himself body and mind to unravel the remainder of the

mystery. The story repeated to him was always the same: 'She ran away

with the curate.' A strangely circumstantial piece of intelligence was

added to this when he had pushed his inquiries a little further. There

was given him the name of a waterman at Plymouth, who had come forward at

the time that she was missed and sought for by her husband, and had

stated that he put her on board the _Western Glory_ at dusk one evening

before that vessel sailed.

After several days of search about the alleys and quays of Plymouth

Barbican, during which these impossible words, 'She ran off with the

curate,' became branded on his brain, Alwyn found this important

waterman. He was positive as to the truth of his story, still

remembering the incident well, and he described in detail the lady's

dress, as he had long ago described it to her husband, which description

corresponded in every particular with the dress worn by Emmeline on the

evening of their parting.

Before proceeding to the other side of the Atlantic to continue his

inquiries there, the puzzled and distracted Alwyn set himself to

ascertain the address of Captain Wheeler, who had commanded the _Western

Glory_ in the year of Alwyn's voyage out, and immediately wrote a letter

to him on the subject.

The only circumstances which the sailor could recollect or discover from

his papers in connection with such a story were, that a woman bearing the

name which Alwyn had mentioned as fictitious certainly did come aboard

for a voyage he made about that time; that she took a common berth among

the poorest emigrants; that she died on the voyage out, at about five

days' sail from Plymouth; that she seemed a lady in manners and

education. Why she had not applied for a first-class passage, why she

had no trunks, they could not guess, for though she had little money in

her pocket she had that about her which would have fetched it. 'We

buried her at sea,' continued the captain. 'A young parson, one of the

cabin-passengers, read the burial-service over her, I remember well.'

The whole scene and proceedings darted upon Alwyn's recollection in a

moment. It was a fine breezy morning on that long-past voyage out, and

he had been told that they were running at the rate of a hundred and odd

miles a day. The news went round that one of the poor young women in the

other part of the vessel was ill of fever, and delirious. The tidings

caused no little alarm among all the passengers, for the sanitary

conditions of the ship were anything but satisfactory. Shortly after

this the doctor announced that she had died. Then Alwyn had learnt that

she was laid out for burial in great haste, because of the danger that

would have been incurred by delay. And next the funeral scene rose

before him, and the prominent part that he had taken in that solemn

ceremony. The captain had come to him, requesting him to officiate, as

there was no chaplain on board. This he had agreed to do; and as the sun

went down with a blaze in his face he read amidst them all assembled: 'We

therefore commit her body to the deep, to be turned into corruption,

looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her

dead.'

The captain also forwarded the addresses of the ship's matron and of

other persons who had been engaged on board at the date. To these Alwyn

went in the course of time. A categorical description of the clothes of

the dead truant, the colour of her hair, and other things, extinguished

for ever all hope of a mistake in identity.

At last, then, the course of events had become clear. On that unhappy

evening when he left Emmeline in the shrubbery, forbidding her to follow

him because it would be a sin, she must have disobeyed. She must have

followed at his heels silently through the darkness, like a poor pet

animal that will not be driven back. She could have accumulated nothing

for the journey more than she might have carried in her hand; and thus

poorly provided she must have embarked. Her intention had doubtless been

to make her presence on board known to him as soon as she could muster

courage to do so.

Thus the ten years' chapter of Alwyn Hill's romance wound itself up under

his eyes. That the poor young woman in the steerage had been the young

Duchess of Hamptonshire was never publicly disclosed. Hill had no longer

any reason for remaining in England, and soon after left its shores with

no intention to return. Previous to his departure he confided his story

to an old friend from his native town--grandfather of the person who now

relates it to you.

* * * * *

A few members, including the Bookworm, seemed to be impressed by the

quiet gentleman's tale; but the member we have called the Spark--who, by

the way, was getting somewhat tinged with the light of other days, and

owned to eight-and-thirty--walked daintily about the room instead of

sitting down by the fire with the majority and said that for his part he

preferred something more lively than the last story--something in which

such long-separated lovers were ultimately united. He also liked stories

that were more modern in their date of action than those he had heard to-

day.

Members immediately requested him to give them a specimen, to which the

Spark replied that he didn't mind, as far as that went. And though the

Vice-President, the Man of Family, the Colonel, and others, looked at

their watches, and said they must soon retire to their respective

quarters in the hotel adjoining, they all decided to sit out the Spark's

story.

DAME THE TENTH--THE HONOURABLE LAURA

By the Spark

It was a cold and gloomy Christmas Eve. The mass of cloud overhead was

almost impervious to such daylight as still lingered on; the snow lay

several inches deep upon the ground, and the slanting downfall which

still went on threatened to considerably increase its thickness before

the morning. The Prospect Hotel, a building standing near the wild north

coast of Lower Wessex, looked so lonely and so useless at such a time as

this that a passing wayfarer would have been led to forget summer

possibilities, and to wonder at the commercial courage which could invest

capital, on the basis of the popular taste for the picturesque, in a

country subject to such dreary phases. That the district was alive with

visitors in August seemed but a dim tradition in weather so totally

opposed to all that tempts mankind from home. However, there the hotel

stood immovable; and the cliffs, creeks, and headlands which were the

primary attractions of the spot, rising in full view on the opposite side

of the valley, were now but stern angular outlines, while the townlet in

front was tinged over with a grimy dirtiness rather than the pearly gray

that in summer lent such beauty to its appearance.

Within the hotel commanding this outlook the landlord walked idly about

with his hands in his pockets, not in the least expectant of a visitor,

and yet unable to settle down to any occupation which should compensate

in some degree for the losses that winter idleness entailed on his

regular profession. So little, indeed, was anybody expected, that the

coffee-room waiter--a genteel boy, whose plated buttons in summer were as

close together upon the front of his short jacket as peas in a pod--now

appeared in the back yard, metamorphosed into the unrecognizable shape of

a rough country lad in corduroys and hobnailed boots, sweeping the snow

away, and talking the local dialect in all its purity, quite oblivious of

the new polite accent he had learned in the hot weather from the well-

behaved visitors. The front door was closed, and, as if to express still

more fully the sealed and chrysalis state of the establishment, a sand-

bag was placed at the bottom to keep out the insidious snowdrift, the

wind setting in directly from that quarter.

The landlord, entering his own parlour, walked to the large fire which it

was absolutely necessary to keep up for his comfort, no such blaze

burning in the coffee-room or elsewhere, and after giving it a stir

returned to a table in the lobby, whereon lay the visitors' book--now

closed and pushed back against the wall. He carelessly opened it; not a

name had been entered there since the 19th of the previous November, and

that was only the name of a man who had arrived on a tricycle, who,

indeed, had not been asked to enter at all.

While he was engaged thus the evening grew darker; but before it was as

yet too dark to distinguish objects upon the road winding round the back

of the cliffs, the landlord perceived a black spot on the distant white,

which speedily enlarged itself and drew near. The probabilities were

that this vehicle--for a vehicle of some sort it seemed to be--would pass

by and pursue its way to the nearest railway-town as others had done.

But, contrary to the landlord's expectation, as he stood conning it

through the yet unshuttered windows, the solitary object, on reaching the

corner, turned into the hotel-front, and drove up to the door.

It was a conveyance particularly unsuited to such a season and weather,

being nothing more substantial than an open basket-carriage drawn by a

single horse. Within sat two persons, of different sexes, as could soon

be discerned, in spite of their muffled attire. The man held the reins,

and the lady had got some shelter from the storm by clinging close to his

side. The landlord rang the hostler's bell to attract the attention of

the stable-man, for the approach of the visitors had been deadened to

noiselessness by the snow, and when the hostler had come to the horse's

head the gentleman and lady alighted, the landlord meeting them in the

hall.

The male stranger was a foreign-looking individual of about eight-and-

twenty. He was close-shaven, excepting a moustache, his features being

good, and even handsome. The lady, who stood timidly behind him, seemed

to be much younger--possibly not more than eighteen, though it was

difficult to judge either of her age or appearance in her present

wrappings.

The gentleman expressed his wish to stay till the morning, explaining

somewhat unnecessarily, considering that the house was an inn, that they

had been unexpectedly benighted on their drive. Such a welcome being

given them as landlords can give in dull times, the latter ordered fires

in the drawing and coffee-rooms, and went to the boy in the yard, who

soon scrubbed himself up, dragged his disused jacket from its box,

polished the buttons with his sleeve, and appeared civilized in the hall.

The lady was shown into a room where she could take off her snow-damped

garments, which she sent down to be dried, her companion, meanwhile,

putting a couple of sovereigns on the table, as if anxious to make

everything smooth and comfortable at starting, and requesting that a

private sitting-room might be got ready. The landlord assured him that

the best upstairs parlour--usually public--should be kept private this

evening, and sent the maid to light the candles. Dinner was prepared for

them, and, at the gentleman's desire, served in the same apartment;

where, the young lady having joined him, they were left to the rest and

refreshment they seemed to need.

That something was peculiar in the relations of the pair had more than

once struck the landlord, though wherein that peculiarity lay it was hard

to decide. But that his guest was one who paid his way readily had been

proved by his conduct, and dismissing conjectures, he turned to practical

affairs.

About nine o'clock he re-entered the hall, and, everything being done for

the day, again walked up and down, occasionally gazing through the glass

door at the prospect without, to ascertain how the weather was

progressing. Contrary to prognostication, snow had ceased falling, and,

with the rising of the moon, the sky had partially cleared, light fleeces

of cloud drifting across the silvery disk. There was every sign that a

frost was going to set in later on. For these reasons the distant rising

road was even more distinct now between its high banks than it had been

in the declining daylight. Not a track or rut broke the virgin surface

of the white mantle that lay along it, all marks left by the lately

arrived travellers having been speedily obliterated by the flakes falling

at the time.

And now the landlord beheld by the light of the moon a sight very similar

to that he had seen by the light of day. Again a black spot was

advancing down the road that margined the coast. He was in a moment or

two enabled to perceive that the present vehicle moved onward at a more

headlong pace than the little carriage which had preceded it; next, that

it was a brougham drawn by two powerful horses; next, that this carriage,

like the former one, was bound for the hotel-door. This desirable

feature of resemblance caused the landlord to once more withdraw the sand-

bag and advance into the porch.

An old gentleman was the first to alight. He was followed by a young

one, and both unhesitatingly came forward.

'Has a young lady, less than nineteen years of age, recently arrived here

in the company of a man some years her senior?' asked the old gentleman,

in haste. 'A man cleanly shaven for the most part, having the appearance

of an opera-singer, and calling himself Signor Smithozzi?'

'We have had arrivals lately,' said the landlord, in the tone of having

had twenty at least--not caring to acknowledge the attenuated state of

business that afflicted Prospect Hotel in winter.

'And among them can your memory recall two persons such as those I

describe?--the man a sort of baritone?'

'There certainly is or was a young couple staying in the hotel; but I

could not pronounce on the compass of the gentleman's voice.'

'No, no; of course not. I am quite bewildered. They arrived in a basket-

carriage, altogether badly provided?'

'They came in a carriage, I believe, as most of our visitors do.'

'Yes, yes. I must see them at once. Pardon my want of ceremony, and

show us in to where they are.'

'But, sir, you forget. Suppose the lady and gentleman I mean are not the

lady and gentleman you mean? It would be awkward to allow you to rush in

upon them just now while they are at dinner, and might cause me to lose

their future patronage.'

'True, true. They may not be the same persons. My anxiety, I perceive,

makes me rash in my assumptions!'

'Upon the whole, I think they must be the same, Uncle Quantock,' said the

young man, who had not till now spoken. And turning to the landlord:

'You possibly have not such a large assemblage of visitors here, on this

somewhat forbidding evening, that you quite forget how this couple

arrived, and what the lady wore?' His tone of addressing the landlord

had in it a quiet frigidity that was not without irony.

'Ah! what she wore; that's it, James. What did she wear?'

'I don't usually take stock of my guests' clothing,' replied the landlord

drily, for the ready money of the first arrival had decidedly biassed him

in favour of that gentleman's cause. 'You can certainly see some of it

if you want to,' he added carelessly, 'for it is drying by the kitchen

fire.'

Before the words were half out of his mouth the old gentleman had

exclaimed, 'Ah!' and precipitated himself along what seemed to be the

passage to the kitchen; but as this turned out to be only the entrance to

a dark china-closet, he hastily emerged again, after a collision with the

inn-crockery had told him of his mistake.

'I beg your pardon, I'm sure; but if you only knew my feelings (which I

cannot at present explain), you would make allowances. Anything I have

broken I will willingly pay for.'

'Don't mention it, sir,' said the landlord. And showing the way, they

adjourned to the kitchen without further parley. The eldest of the party

instantly seized the lady's cloak, that hung upon a clothes-horse,

exclaiming: 'Ah! yes, James, it is hers. I knew we were on their track.'

'Yes, it is hers,' answered the nephew quietly, for he was much less

excited than his companion.

'Show us their room at once,' said the old man.

'William, have the lady and gentleman in the front sitting-room finished

dining?'

'Yes, sir, long ago,' said the hundred plated buttons.

'Then show up these gentlemen to them at once. You stay here to-night,

gentlemen, I presume? Shall the horses be taken out?'

'Feed the horses and wash their mouths. Whether we stay or not depends

upon circumstances,' said the placid younger man, as he followed his

uncle and the waiter to the staircase.

'I think, Nephew James,' said the former, as he paused with his foot on

the first step--'I think we had better not be announced, but take them by

surprise. She may go throwing herself out of the window, or do some

equally desperate thing!'

'Yes, certainly, we'll enter unannounced.' And he called back the lad

who preceded them.

'I cannot sufficiently thank you, James, for so effectually aiding me in

this pursuit!' exclaimed the old gentleman, taking the other by the hand.

'My increasing infirmities would have hindered my overtaking her

to-night, had it not been for your timely aid.'

'I am only too happy, uncle, to have been of service to you in this or

any other matter. I only wish I could have accompanied you on a

pleasanter journey. However, it is advisable to go up to them at once,

or they may hear us.' And they softly ascended the stairs.

* * * * *

On the door being opened, a room too large to be comfortable, lit by the

best branch-candlesticks of the hotel, was disclosed, before the fire of

which apartment the truant couple were sitting, very innocently looking

over the hotel scrap-book and the album containing views of the

neighbourhood. No sooner had the old man entered than the young lady--who

now showed herself to be quite as young as described, and remarkably

prepossessing as to features--perceptibly turned pale. When the nephew

entered, she turned still paler, as if she were going to faint. The

young man described as an opera-singer rose with grim civility, and

placed chairs for his visitors.

'Caught you, thank God!' said the old gentleman breathlessly.

'Yes, worse luck, my lord!' murmured Signor Smithozzi, in native London-

English, that distinguished alien having, in fact, first seen the light

in the vicinity of the City Road. 'She would have been mine to-morrow.

And I think that under the peculiar circumstances it would be

wiser--considering how soon the breath of scandal will tarnish a lady's

fame--to let her be mine to-morrow, just the same.'

'Never!' said the old man. 'Here is a lady under age, without

experience--child-like in her maiden innocence and virtue--whom you have

plied by your vile arts, till this morning at dawn--'

'Lord Quantock, were I not bound to respect your gray hairs--'

'Till this morning at dawn you tempted her away from her father's roof.

What blame can attach to her conduct that will not, on a full explanation

of the matter, be readily passed over in her and thrown entirely on you?

Laura, you return at once with me. I should not have arrived, after all,

early enough to deliver you, if it had not been for the disinterestedness

of your cousin, Captain Northbrook, who, on my discovering your flight

this morning, offered with a promptitude for which I can never

sufficiently thank him, to accompany me on my journey, as the only male

relative I have near me. Come, do you hear? Put on your things; we are

off at once.'

'I don't want to go!' pouted the young lady.

'I daresay you don't,' replied her father drily. 'But children never

know what's best for them. So come along, and trust to my opinion.'

Laura was silent, and did not move, the opera gentleman looking

helplessly into the fire, and the lady's cousin sitting meditatively

calm, as the single one of the four whose position enabled him to survey

the whole escapade with the cool criticism of a comparative outsider.

'I say to you, Laura, as the father of a daughter under age, that you

instantly come with me. What? Would you compel me to use physical force

to reclaim you?'

'I don't want to return!' again declared Laura.

'It is your duty to return nevertheless, and at once, I inform you.'

'I don't want to!'

'Now, dear Laura, this is what I say: return with me and your cousin

James quietly, like a good and repentant girl, and nothing will be said.

Nobody knows what has happened as yet, and if we start at once, we shall

be home before it is light to-morrow morning. Come.'

'I am not obliged to come at your bidding, father, and I would rather

not!'

Now James, the cousin, during this dialogue might have been observed to

grow somewhat restless, and even impatient. More than once he had parted

his lips to speak, but second thoughts each time held him back. The

moment had come, however, when he could keep silence no longer.

'Come, madam!' he spoke out, 'this farce with your father has, in my

opinion, gone on long enough. Just make no more ado, and step downstairs

with us.'

She gave herself an intractable little twist, and did not reply.

'By the Lord Harry, Laura, I won't stand this!' he said angrily. 'Come,

get on your things before I come and compel you. There is a kind of

compulsion to which this talk is child's play. Come, madam--instantly, I

say!'

The old nobleman turned to his nephew and said mildly: 'Leave me to

insist, James. It doesn't become you. I can speak to her sharply

enough, if I choose.'

James, however, did not heed his uncle, and went on to the troublesome

young woman: 'You say you don't want to come, indeed! A pretty story to

tell me, that! Come, march out of the room at once, and leave that

hulking fellow for me to deal with afterward. Get on quickly--come!' and

he advanced toward her as if to pull her by the hand.

'Nay, nay,' expostulated Laura's father, much surprised at his nephew's

sudden demeanour. 'You take too much upon yourself. Leave her to me.'

'I won't leave her to you any longer!'

'You have no right, James, to address either me or her in this way; so

just hold your tongue. Come, my dear.'

'I have every right!' insisted James.

'How do you make that out?'

'I have the right of a husband.'

'Whose husband?'

'Hers.'

'What?'

'She's my wife.'

'James!'

'Well, to cut a long story short, I may say that she secretly married me,

in spite of your lordship's prohibition, about three months ago. And I

must add that, though she cooled down rather quickly, everything went on

smoothly enough between us for some time; in spite of the awkwardness of

meeting only by stealth. We were only waiting for a convenient moment to

break the news to you when this idle Adonis turned up, and after

poisoning her mind against me, brought her into this disgrace.'

Here the operatic luminary, who had sat in rather an abstracted and

nerveless attitude till the cousin made his declaration, fired up and

cried: 'I declare before Heaven that till this moment I never knew she

was a wife! I found her in her father's house an unhappy girl--unhappy,

as I believe, because of the loneliness and dreariness of that

establishment, and the want of society, and for nothing else whatever.

What this statement about her being your wife means I am quite at a loss

to understand. Are you indeed married to him, Laura?'

Laura nodded from within her tearful handkerchief. 'It was because of my

anomalous position in being privately married to him,' she sobbed, 'that

I was unhappy at home--and--and I didn't like him so well as I did at

first--and I wished I could get out of the mess I was in! And then I saw

you a few times, and when you said, "We'll run off," I thought I saw a

way out of it all, and then I agreed to come with you--oo-oo!'

'Well! well! well! And is this true?' murmured the bewildered old

nobleman, staring from James to Laura, and from Laura to James, as if he

fancied they might be figments of the imagination. 'Is this, then,

James, the secret of your kindness to your old uncle in helping him to

find his daughter? Good Heavens! What further depths of duplicity are

there left for a man to learn!'

'I have married her, Uncle Quantock, as I said,' answered James coolly.

'The deed is done, and can't be undone by talking here.'

'Where were you married?'

'At St. Mary's, Toneborough.'

'When?'

'On the 29th of September, during the time she was visiting there.'

'Who married you?'

'I don't know. One of the curates--we were quite strangers to the place.

So, instead of my assisting you to recover her, you may as well assist

me.'

'Never! never!' said Lord Quantock. 'Madam, and sir, I beg to tell you

that I wash my hands of the whole affair! If you are man and wife, as it

seems you are, get reconciled as best you may. I have no more to say or

do with either of you. I leave you, Laura, in the hands of your husband,

and much joy may you bring him; though the situation, I own, is not

encouraging.'

Saying this, the indignant speaker pushed back his chair against the

table with such force that the candlesticks rocked on their bases, and

left the room.

Laura's wet eyes roved from one of the young men to the other, who now

stood glaring face to face, and, being much frightened at their aspect,

slipped out of the room after her father. Him, however, she could hear

going out of the front door, and, not knowing where to take shelter, she

crept into the darkness of an adjoining bedroom, and there awaited events

with a palpitating heart.

Meanwhile the two men remaining in the sitting-room drew nearer to each

other, and the opera-singer broke the silence by saying, 'How could you

insult me in the way you did, calling me a fellow, and accusing me of

poisoning her mind toward you, when you knew very well I was as ignorant

of your relation to her as an unborn babe?'

'Oh yes, you were quite ignorant; I can believe that readily,' sneered

Laura's husband.

'I here call Heaven to witness that I never knew!'

'Recitativo--the rhythm excellent, and the tone well sustained. Is it

likely that any man could win the confidence of a young fool her age, and

not get that out of her? Preposterous! Tell it to the most improved new

pit-stalls.'

'Captain Northbrook, your insinuations are as despicable as your wretched

person!' cried the baritone, losing all patience. And springing forward

he slapped the captain in the face with the palm of his hand.

Northbrook flinched but slightly, and calmly using his handkerchief to

learn if his nose was bleeding, said, 'I quite expected this insult, so I

came prepared.' And he drew forth from a black valise which he carried

in his hand a small case of pistols.

The baritone started at the unexpected sight, but recovering from his

surprise said, 'Very well, as you will,' though perhaps his tone showed a

slight want of confidence.

'Now,' continued the husband, quite confidingly, 'we want no parade, no

nonsense, you know. Therefore we'll dispense with seconds?'

The signor slightly nodded.

'Do you know this part of the country well?' Cousin James went on, in the

same cool and still manner. 'If you don't, I do. Quite at the bottom of

the rocks out there, just beyond the stream which falls over them to the

shore, is a smooth sandy space, not so much shut in as to be out of the

moonlight; and the way down to it from this side is over steps cut in the

cliff; and we can find our way down without trouble. We--we two--will

find our way down; but only one of us will find his way up, you

understand?'

'Quite.'

'Then suppose we start; the sooner it is over the better. We can order

supper before we go out--supper for two; for though we are three at

present--'

'Three?'

'Yes; you and I and she--'

'Oh yes.'

'--We shall be only two by and by; so that, as I say, we will order

supper for two; for the lady and a gentleman. Whichever comes back alive

will tap at her door, and call her in to share the repast with him--she's

not off the premises. But we must not alarm her now; and above all

things we must not let the inn-people see us go out; it would look so odd

for two to go out, and only one come in. Ha! ha!'

'Ha! ha! exactly.'

'Are you ready?'

'Oh--quite.'

'Then I'll lead the way.'

He went softly to the door and downstairs, ordering supper to be ready in

an hour, as he had said; then making a feint of returning to the room

again, he beckoned to the singer, and together they slipped out of the

house by a side door.

* * * * *

The sky was now quite clear, and the wheelmarks of the brougham which had

borne away Laura's father, Lord Quantock, remained distinctly visible.

Soon the verge of the down was reached, the captain leading the way, and

the baritone following silently, casting furtive glances at his

companion, and beyond him at the scene ahead. In due course they arrived

at the chasm in the cliff which formed the waterfall. The outlook here

was wild and picturesque in the extreme, and fully justified the many

praises, paintings, and photographic views to which the spot had given

birth. What in summer was charmingly green and gray, was now rendered

weird and fantastic by the snow.

From their feet the cascade plunged downward almost vertically to a depth

of eighty or a hundred feet before finally losing itself in the sand, and

though the stream was but small, its impact upon jutting rocks in its

descent divided it into a hundred spirts and splashes that sent up a mist

into the upper air. A few marginal drippings had been frozen into

icicles, but the centre flowed on unimpeded.

The operatic artist looked down as he halted, but his thoughts were

plainly not of the beauty of the scene. His companion with the pistols

was immediately in front of him, and there was no handrail on the side of

the path toward the chasm. Obeying a quick impulse, he stretched out his

arm, and with a superhuman thrust sent Laura's husband reeling over. A

whirling human shape, diminishing downward in the moon's rays farther and

farther toward invisibility, a smack-smack upon the projecting ledges of

rock--at first louder and heavier than that of the brook, and then

scarcely to be distinguished from it--then a cessation, then the

splashing of the stream as before, and the accompanying murmur of the

sea, were all the incidents that disturbed the customary flow of the

little waterfall.

The singer waited in a fixed attitude for a few minutes, then turning, he

rapidly retraced his steps over the intervening upland toward the road,

and in less than a quarter of an hour was at the door of the hotel.

Slipping quietly in as the clock struck ten, he said to the landlord,

over the bar hatchway--

'The bill as soon as you can let me have it, including charges for the

supper that was ordered, though we cannot stay to eat it, I am sorry to

say.' He added with forced gaiety, 'The lady's father and cousin have

thought better of intercepting the marriage, and after quarrelling with

each other have gone home independently.'

'Well done, sir!' said the landlord, who still sided with this customer

in preference to those who had given trouble and barely paid for baiting

the horses. '"Love will find out the way!" as the saying is. Wish you

joy, sir!'

Signor Smithozzi went upstairs, and on entering the sitting-room found

that Laura had crept out from the dark adjoining chamber in his absence.

She looked up at him with eyes red from weeping, and with symptoms of

alarm.

'What is it?--where is he?' she said apprehensively.

'Captain Northbrook has gone back. He says he will have no more to do

with you.'

'And I am quite abandoned by them!--and they'll forget me, and nobody

care about me any more!' She began to cry afresh.

'But it is the luckiest thing that could have happened. All is just as

it was before they came disturbing us. But, Laura, you ought to have

told me about that private marriage, though it is all the same now; it

will be dissolved, of course. You are a wid--virtually a widow.'

'It is no use to reproach me for what is past. What am I to do now?'

'We go at once to Cliff-Martin. The horse has rested thoroughly these

last three hours, and he will have no difficulty in doing an additional

half-dozen miles. We shall be there before twelve, and there are late

taverns in the place, no doubt. There we'll sell both horse and carriage

to-morrow morning; and go by the coach to Downstaple. Once in the train

we are safe.'

'I agree to anything,' she said listlessly.

In about ten minutes the horse was put in, the bill paid, the lady's

dried wraps put round her, and the journey resumed.

When about a mile on their way, they saw a glimmering light in advance of

them. 'I wonder what that is?' said the baritone, whose manner had

latterly become nervous, every sound and sight causing him to turn his

head.

'It is only a turnpike,' said she. 'That light is the lamp kept burning

over the door.'

'Of course, of course, dearest. How stupid I am!'

On reaching the gate they perceived that a man on foot had approached it,

apparently by some more direct path than the roadway they pursued, and

was, at the moment they drew up, standing in conversation with the

gatekeeper.

'It is quite impossible that he could fall over the cliff by accident or

the will of God on such a light night as this,' the pedestrian was

saying. 'These two children I tell you of saw two men go along the path

toward the waterfall, and ten minutes later only one of 'em came back,

walking fast, like a man who wanted to get out of the way because he had

done something queer. There is no manner of doubt that he pushed the

other man over, and, mark me, it will soon cause a hue and cry for that

man.'

The candle shone in the face of the Signor and showed that there had

arisen upon it a film of ghastliness. Laura, glancing toward him for a

few moments observed it, till, the gatekeeper having mechanically swung

open the gate, her companion drove through, and they were soon again

enveloped in the white silence.

Her conductor had said to Laura, just before, that he meant to inquire

the way at this turnpike; but he had certainly not done so.

As soon as they had gone a little farther the omission, intentional or

not, began to cause them some trouble. Beyond the secluded district

which they now traversed ran the more frequented road, where progress

would be easy, the snow being probably already beaten there to some

extent by traffic; but they had not yet reached it, and having no one to

guide them their journey began to appear less feasible than it had done

before starting. When the little lane which they had entered ascended

another hill, and seemed to wind round in a direction contrary to the

expected route to Cliff-Martin, the question grew serious. Ever since

overhearing the conversation at the turnpike, Laura had maintained a

perfect silence, and had even shrunk somewhat away from the side of her

lover.

'Why don't you talk, Laura,' he said with forced buoyancy, 'and suggest

the way we should go?'

'Oh yes, I will,' she responded, a curious fearfulness being audible in

her voice.

After this she uttered a few occasional sentences which seemed to

persuade him that she suspected nothing. At last he drew rein, and the

weary horse stood still.

'We are in a fix,' he said.

She answered eagerly: 'I'll hold the reins while you run forward to the

top of the ridge, and see if the road takes a favourable turn beyond. It

would give the horse a few minutes' rest, and if you find out no change

in the direction, we will retrace this lane, and take the other turning.'

The expedient seemed a good one in the circumstances, especially when

recommended by the singular eagerness of her voice; and placing the reins

in her hands--a quite unnecessary precaution, considering the state of

their hack--he stepped out and went forward through the snow till she

could see no more of him.

No sooner was he gone than Laura, with a rapidity which contrasted

strangely with her previous stillness, made fast the reins to the corner

of the phaeton, and slipping out on the opposite side, ran back with all

her might down the hill, till, coming to an opening in the fence, she

scrambled through it, and plunged into the copse which bordered this

portion of the lane. Here she stood in hiding under one of the large

bushes, clinging so closely to its umbrage as to seem but a portion of

its mass, and listening intently for the faintest sound of pursuit. But

nothing disturbed the stillness save the occasional slipping of gathered

snow from the boughs, or the rustle of some wild animal over the crisp

flake-bespattered herbage. At length, apparently convinced that her

former companion was either unable to find her, or not anxious to do so,

in the present strange state of affairs, she crept out from the bushes,

and in less than an hour found herself again approaching the door of the

Prospect Hotel.

As she drew near, Laura could see that, far from being wrapped in

darkness, as she might have expected, there were ample signs that all the

tenants were on the alert, lights moving about the open space in front.

Satisfaction was expressed in her face when she discerned that no

reappearance of her baritone and his pony-carriage was causing this

sensation; but it speedily gave way to grief and dismay when she saw by

the lights the form of a man borne on a stretcher by two others into the

porch of the hotel.

'I have caused all this,' she murmured between her quivering lips. 'He

has murdered him!' Running forward to the door, she hastily asked of the

first person she met if the man on the stretcher was dead.

'No, miss,' said the labourer addressed, eyeing her up and down as an

unexpected apparition. 'He is still alive, they say, but not sensible.

He either fell or was pushed over the waterfall; 'tis thoughted he was

pushed. He is the gentleman who came here just now with the old lord,

and went out afterward (as is thoughted) with a stranger who had come a

little earlier. Anyhow, that's as I had it.'

Laura entered the house, and acknowledging without the least reserve that

she was the injured man's wife, had soon installed herself as head nurse

by the bed on which he lay. When the two surgeons who had been sent for

arrived, she learned from them that his wounds were so severe as to leave

but a slender hope of recovery, it being little short of miraculous that

he was not killed on the spot, which his enemy had evidently reckoned to

be the case. She knew who that enemy was, and shuddered.

Laura watched all night, but her husband knew nothing of her presence.

During the next day he slightly recognized her, and in the evening was

able to speak. He informed the surgeons that, as was surmised, he had

been pushed over the cascade by Signor Smithozzi; but he communicated

nothing to her who nursed him, not even replying to her remarks; he

nodded courteously at any act of attention she rendered, and that was

all.

In a day or two it was declared that everything favoured his recovery,

notwithstanding the severity of his injuries. Full search was made for

Smithozzi, but as yet there was no intelligence of his whereabouts,

though the repentant Laura communicated all she knew. As far as could be

judged, he had come back to the carriage after searching out the way, and

finding the young lady missing, had looked about for her till he was

tired; then had driven on to Cliff-Martin, sold the horse and carriage

next morning, and disappeared, probably by one of the departing coaches

which ran thence to the nearest station, the only difference from his

original programme being that he had gone alone.

* * * * *

During the days and weeks of that long and tedious recovery, Laura

watched by her husband's bedside with a zeal and assiduity which would

have considerably extenuated any fault save one of such magnitude as

hers. That her husband did not forgive her was soon obvious. Nothing

that she could do in the way of smoothing pillows, easing his position,

shifting bandages, or administering draughts, could win from him more

than a few measured words of thankfulness, such as he would probably have

uttered to any other woman on earth who had performed these particular

services for him.

'Dear, dear James,' she said one day, bending her face upon the bed in an

excess of emotion. 'How you have suffered! It has been too cruel. I am

more glad you are getting better than I can say. I have prayed for

it--and I am sorry for what I have done; I am innocent of the worst,

and--I hope you will not think me so very bad, James!'

'Oh no. On the contrary, I shall think you very good--as a nurse,' he

answered, the caustic severity of his tone being apparent through its

weakness.

Laura let fall two or three silent tears, and said no more that day.

Somehow or other Signor Smithozzi seemed to be making good his escape. It

transpired that he had not taken a passage in either of the suspected

coaches, though he had certainly got out of the county; altogether, the

chance of finding him was problematical.

Not only did Captain Northbrook survive his injuries, but it soon

appeared that in the course of a few weeks he would find himself little

if any the worse for the catastrophe. It could also be seen that Laura,

while secretly hoping for her husband's forgiveness for a piece of folly

of which she saw the enormity more clearly every day, was in great doubt

as to what her future relations with him would be. Moreover, to add to

the complication, whilst she, as a runaway wife, was unforgiven by her

husband, she and her husband, as a runaway couple, were unforgiven by her

father, who had never once communicated with either of them since his

departure from the inn. But her immediate anxiety was to win the pardon

of her husband, who possibly might be bearing in mind, as he lay upon his

couch, the familiar words of Brabantio, 'She has deceived her father, and

may thee.'

Matters went on thus till Captain Northbrook was able to walk about. He

then removed with his wife to quiet apartments on the south coast, and

here his recovery was rapid. Walking up the cliffs one day, supporting

him by her arm as usual, she said to him, simply, 'James, if I go on as I

am going now, and always attend to your smallest want, and never think of

anything but devotion to you, will you--try to like me a little?'

'It is a thing I must carefully consider,' he said, with the same gloomy

dryness which characterized all his words to her now. 'When I have

considered, I will tell you.'

He did not tell her that evening, though she lingered long at her routine

work of making his bedroom comfortable, putting the light so that it

would not shine into his eyes, seeing him fall asleep, and then retiring

noiselessly to her own chamber. When they met in the morning at

breakfast, and she had asked him as usual how he had passed the night,

she added timidly, in the silence which followed his reply, 'Have you

considered?'

'No, I have not considered sufficiently to give you an answer.'

Laura sighed, but to no purpose; and the day wore on with intense

heaviness to her, and the customary modicum of strength gained to him.

The next morning she put the same question, and looked up despairingly in

his face, as though her whole life hung upon his reply.

'Yes, I have considered,' he said.

'Ah!'

'We must part.'

'O James!'

'I cannot forgive you; no man would. Enough is settled upon you to keep

you in comfort, whatever your father may do. I shall sell out, and

disappear from this hemisphere.'

'You have absolutely decided?' she asked miserably. 'I have nobody now

to c-c-care for--'

'I have absolutely decided,' he shortly returned. 'We had better part

here. You will go back to your father. There is no reason why I should

accompany you, since my presence would only stand in the way of the

forgiveness he will probably grant you if you appear before him alone. We

will say farewell to each other in three days from this time. I have

calculated on being ready to go on that day.'

Bowed down with trouble, she withdrew to her room, and the three days

were passed by her husband in writing letters and attending to other

business-matters, saying hardly a word to her the while. The morning of

departure came; but before the horses had been put in to take the severed

twain in different directions, out of sight of each other, possibly for

ever, the postman arrived with the morning letters.

There was one for the captain; none for her--there were never any for

her. However, on this occasion something was enclosed for her in his,

which he handed her. She read it and looked up helpless.

'My dear father--is dead!' she said. In a few moments she added, in a

whisper, 'I must go to the Manor to bury him . . . Will you go with me,

James?'

He musingly looked out of the window. 'I suppose it is an awkward and

melancholy undertaking for a woman alone,' he said coldly. 'Well,

well--my poor uncle!--Yes, I'll go with you, and see you through the

business.'

So they went off together instead of asunder, as planned. It is

unnecessary to record the details of the journey, or of the sad week

which followed it at her father's house. Lord Quantock's seat was a fine

old mansion standing in its own park, and there were plenty of

opportunities for husband and wife either to avoid each other, or to get

reconciled if they were so minded, which one of them was at least.

Captain Northbrook was not present at the reading of the will. She came

to him afterward, and found him packing up his papers, intending to start

next morning, now that he had seen her through the turmoil occasioned by

her father's death.

'He has left me everything that he could!' she said to her husband.

'James, will you forgive me now, and stay?'

'I cannot stay.'

'Why not?'

'I cannot stay,' he repeated.

'But why?'

'I don't like you.'

He acted up to his word. When she came downstairs the next morning she

was told that he had gone.

* * * * *

Laura bore her double bereavement as best she could. The vast mansion in

which she had hitherto lived, with all its historic contents, had gone to

her father's successor in the title; but her own was no unhandsome one.

Around lay the undulating park, studded with trees a dozen times her own

age; beyond it, the wood; beyond the wood, the farms. All this fair and

quiet scene was hers. She nevertheless remained a lonely, repentant,

depressed being, who would have given the greater part of everything she

possessed to ensure the presence and affection of that husband whose very

austerity and phlegm--qualities that had formerly led to the alienation

between them--seemed now to be adorable features in his character.

She hoped and hoped again, but all to no purpose. Captain Northbrook did

not alter his mind and return. He was quite a different sort of man from

one who altered his mind; that she was at last despairingly forced to

admit. And then she left off hoping, and settled down to a mechanical

routine of existence which in some measure dulled her grief; but at the

expense of all her natural animation and the sprightly wilfulness which

had once charmed those who knew her, though it was perhaps all the while

a factor in the production of her unhappiness.

To say that her beauty quite departed as the years rolled on would be to

overstate the truth. Time is not a merciful master, as we all know, and

he was not likely to act exceptionally in the case of a woman who had

mental troubles to bear in addition to the ordinary weight of years. Be

this as it may, eleven other winters came and went, and Laura Northbrook

remained the lonely mistress of house and lands without once hearing of

her husband. Every probability seemed to favour the assumption that he

had died in some foreign land; and offers for her hand were not few as

the probability verged on certainty with the long lapse of time. But the

idea of remarriage seemed never to have entered her head for a moment.

Whether she continued to hope even now for his return could not be

distinctly ascertained; at all events she lived a life unmodified in the

slightest degree from that of the first six months of his absence.

This twelfth year of Laura's loneliness, and the thirtieth of her life

drew on apace, and the season approached that had seen the unhappy

adventure for which she so long had suffered. Christmas promised to be

rather wet than cold, and the trees on the outskirts of Laura's estate

dripped monotonously from day to day upon the turnpike-road which

bordered them. On an afternoon in this week between three and four

o'clock a hired fly might have been seen driving along the highway at

this point, and on reaching the top of the hill it stopped. A gentleman

of middle age alighted from the vehicle.

'You need drive no farther,' he said to the coachman. 'The rain seems to

have nearly ceased. I'll stroll a little way, and return on foot to the

inn by dinner-time.'

The flyman touched his hat, turned the horse, and drove back as directed.

When he was out of sight, the gentleman walked on, but he had not gone

far before the rain again came down pitilessly, though of this the

pedestrian took little heed, going leisurely onward till he reached

Laura's park gate, which he passed through. The clouds were thick and

the days were short, so that by the time he stood in front of the mansion

it was dark. In addition to this his appearance, which on alighting from

the carriage had been untarnished, partook now of the character of a

drenched wayfarer not too well blessed with this world's goods. He

halted for no more than a moment at the front entrance, and going round

to the servants' quarter, as if he had a preconceived purpose in so

doing, there rang the bell. When a page came to him he inquired if they

would kindly allow him to dry himself by the kitchen fire.

The page retired, and after a murmured colloquy returned with the cook,

who informed the wet and muddy man that though it was not her custom to

admit strangers, she should have no particular objection to his drying

himself; the night being so damp and gloomy. Therefore the wayfarer

entered and sat down by the fire.

'The owner of this house is a very rich gentleman, no doubt?' he asked,

as he watched the meat turning on the spit.

''Tis not a gentleman, but a lady,' said the cook.

'A widow, I presume?'

'A sort of widow. Poor soul, her husband is gone abroad, and has never

been heard of for many years.'

'She sees plenty of company, no doubt, to make up for his absence?'

'No, indeed--hardly a soul. Service here is as bad as being in a

nunnery.'

In short, the wayfarer, who had at first been so coldly received,

contrived by his frank and engaging manner to draw the ladies of the

kitchen into a most confidential conversation, in which Laura's history

was minutely detailed, from the day of her husband's departure to the

present. The salient feature in all their discourse was her unflagging

devotion to his memory.

Having apparently learned all that he wanted to know--among other things

that she was at this moment, as always, alone--the traveller said he was

quite dry; and thanking the servants for their kindness, departed as he

had come. On emerging into the darkness he did not, however, go down the

avenue by which he had arrived. He simply walked round to the front

door. There he rang, and the door was opened to him by a man-servant

whom he had not seen during his sojourn at the other end of the house.

In answer to the servant's inquiry for his name, he said ceremoniously,

'Will you tell The Honourable Mrs. Northbrook that the man she nursed

many years ago, after a frightful accident, has called to thank her?'

The footman retreated, and it was rather a long time before any further

signs of attention were apparent. Then he was shown into the drawing-

room, and the door closed behind him.

On the couch was Laura, trembling and pale. She parted her lips and held

out her hands to him, but could not speak. But he did not require

speech, and in a moment they were in each other's arms.

Strange news circulated through that mansion and the neighbouring town on

the next and following days. But the world has a way of getting used to

things, and the intelligence of the return of The Honourable Mrs.

Northbrook's long-absent husband was soon received with comparative calm.

A few days more brought Christmas, and the forlorn home of Laura

Northbrook blazed from basement to attic with light and cheerfulness. Not

that the house was overcrowded with visitors, but many were present, and

the apathy of a dozen years came at length to an end. The animation

which set in thus at the close of the old year did not diminish on the

arrival of the new; and by the time its twelve months had likewise run

the course of its predecessors, a son had been added to the dwindled line

of the Northbrook family.

* * * * *

At the conclusion of this narrative the Spark was thanked, with a manner

of some surprise, for nobody had credited him with a taste for

tale-telling. Though it had been resolved that this story should be the

last, a few of the weather-bound listeners were for sitting on into the

small hours over their pipes and glasses, and raking up yet more episodes

of family history. But the majority murmured reasons for soon getting to

their lodgings.

It was quite dark without, except in the immediate neighbourhood of the

feeble street-lamps, and before a few shop-windows which had been hardily

kept open in spite of the obvious unlikelihood of any chance customer

traversing the muddy thoroughfares at that hour.

By one, by two, and by three the benighted members of the Field-Club rose

from their seats, shook hands, made appointments, and dropped away to

their respective quarters, free or hired, hoping for a fair morrow. It

would probably be not until the next summer meeting, months away in the

future, that the easy intercourse which now existed between them all

would repeat itself. The crimson maltster, for instance, knew that on

the following market-day his friends the President, the Rural Dean, and

the bookworm would pass him in the street, if they met him, with the

barest nod of civility, the President and the Colonel for social reasons,

the bookworm for intellectual reasons, and the Rural Dean for moral ones,

the latter being a staunch teetotaller, dead against John Barleycorn. The

sentimental member knew that when, on his rambles, he met his friend the

bookworm with a pocket-copy of something or other under his nose, the

latter would not love his companionship as he had done to-day; and the

President, the aristocrat, and the farmer knew that affairs political,

sporting, domestic, or agricultural would exclude for a long time all

rumination on the characters of dames gone to dust for scores of years,

however beautiful and noble they may have been in their day.

The last member at length departed, the attendant at the museum lowered

the fire, the curator locked up the rooms, and soon there was only a

single pirouetting flame on the top of a single coal to make the bones of

the ichthyosaurus seem to leap, the stuffed birds to wink, and to draw a

smile from the varnished skulls of Vespasian's soldiery.