As they had planned, so they acted to the letter for the space of a

month and more, clandestinely meeting when and where they best could do

so; both being supremely happy and content. To be sure, towards the

latter part of that month, when the first wild warmth of her love had

gone off, the Lady Caroline sometimes wondered within herself how she,

who might have chosen a peer of the realm, baronet, knight; or, if

serious-minded, a bishop or judge of the more gallant sort who prefer

young wives, could have brought herself to do a thing so rash as to make

this marriage; particularly when, in their private meetings, she

perceived that though her young husband was full of ideas, and fairly

well read, they had not a single social experience in common. It was his

custom to visit her after nightfall, in her own house, when he could

find no opportunity for an interview elsewhere; and to further this

course she would contrive to leave unfastened a window on the ground-

floor overlooking the lawn, by entering which a back stair-case was

accessible; so that he could climb up to her apartments, and gain

audience of his lady when the house was still.

One dark midnight, when he had not been able to see her during the day,

he made use of this secret method, as he had done many times before; and

when they had remained in company about an hour he declared that it was

time for him to descend.

He would have stayed longer, but that the interview had been a somewhat

painful one. What she had said to him that night had much excited and

angered him, for it had revealed a change in her; cold reason had come

to his lofty wife; she was beginning to have more anxiety about her own

position and prospects than ardour for him. Whether from the agitation

of this perception or not, he was seized with a spasm; he gasped, rose,

and in moving towards the window for air he uttered in a short thick

whisper, 'Oh, my heart!'

With his hand upon his chest he sank down to the floor before he had

gone another step. By the time that she had relighted the candle, which

had been extinguished in case any eye in the opposite grounds should

witness his egress, she found that his poor heart had ceased to beat;

and there rushed upon her mind what his cottage-friends had once told

her, that he was liable to attacks of heart-disease, one of which, the

doctor had informed them, might some day carry him off.

Accustomed as she was to doctoring the other parishioners, nothing that

she could effect upon him in that kind made any difference whatever; and

his stillness, and the increasing coldness of his feet and hands,

disclosed too surely to the affrighted young woman that her husband was

dead indeed. For more than an hour, however, she did not abandon her

efforts to restore him; when she fully realized the fact that he was a

corpse she bent over his body, distracted and bewildered as to what step

she next should take.

Her first feelings had undoubtedly been those of passionate grief at the

loss of him; her second thoughts were concern at her own position as the

daughter of an earl. 'Oh, why, why, my unfortunate husband, did you die

in my chamber at this hour!' she said piteously to the corpse. 'Why not

have died in your own cottage if you would die! Then nobody would ever

have known of our imprudent union, and no syllable would have been

breathed of how I mismated myself for love of you!'

The clock in the courtyard striking the hour of one aroused Lady

Caroline from the stupor into which she had fallen, and she stood up,

and went towards the door. To awaken and tell her mother seemed her only

way out of this terrible situation; yet when she put her hand on the key

to unlock it she withdrew herself again. It would be impossible to call

even her mother's assistance without risking a revelation to all the

world through the servants; while if she could remove the body

unassisted to a distance she might avert suspicion of their union even

now. This thought of immunity from the social consequences of her rash

act, of renewed freedom, was indubitably a relief to her, for, as has

been said, the constraint and riskiness of her position had begun to

tell upon the Lady Caroline's nerves.

She braced herself for the effort, and hastily dressed herself; and then

dressed him. Tying his dead hands together with a handkerchief; she laid

his arms round her shoulders, and bore him to the landing and down the

narrow stairs. Reaching the bottom by the window, she let his body slide

slowly over the sill till it lay on the ground without. She then climbed

over the window-sill herself, and, leaving the sash open, dragged him on

to the lawn with a rustle not louder than the rustle of a broom. There

she took a securer hold, and plunged with him under the trees.

Away from the precincts of the house she could apply herself more

vigorously to her task, which was a heavy one enough for her, robust as

she was; and the exertion and fright she had already undergone began to

tell upon her by the time she reached the corner of a beech-plantation

which intervened between the manor-house and the village. Here she was

so nearly exhausted that she feared she might have to leave him on the

spot. But she plodded on after a while, and keeping upon the grass at

every opportunity she stood at last opposite the poor young man's

garden-gate, where he lived with his father, the parish-clerk. How she

accomplished the end of her task Lady Caroline never quite knew; but, to

avoid leaving traces in the road, she carried him bodily across the

gravel, and laid him down at the door. Perfectly aware of his ways of

coming and going, she searched behind the shutter for the cottage door-

key, which she placed in his cold hand. Then she kissed his face for the

last time, and with silent little sobs bade him farewell.

Lady Caroline retraced her steps, and reached the mansion without

hindrance; and to her great relief found the window open just as she had

left it. When she had climbed in she listened attentively, fastened the

window behind her, and ascending the stairs noiselessly to her room, set

everything in order, and returned to bed.

The next morning it was speedily echoed around that the amiable and

gentle young villager had been found dead outside his father's door,

which he had apparently been in the act of unlocking when he fell. The

circumstances were sufficiently exceptional to justify an inquest, at

which syncope from heart-disease was ascertained to be beyond doubt the

explanation of his death, and no more was said about the matter then.

But, after the funeral, it was rumoured that some man who had been

returning late from a distant horse-fair had seen in the gloom of night

a person, apparently a woman, dragging a heavy body of some sort towards

the cottage-gate, which, by the light of after events, would seem to

have been the corpse of the young fellow. His clothes were thereupon

examined more particularly than at first, with the result that marks of

friction were visible upon them here and there, precisely resembling

such as would be left by dragging on the ground.

Our beautiful and ingenious Lady Caroline was now in great

consternation; and began to think that, after all, it might have been

better to honestly confess the truth. But having reached this stage

without discovery or suspicion, she determined to make another effort

towards concealment; and a bright idea struck her as a means of securing

it. I think I mentioned that, before she cast eyes on the unfortunate

steward's clerk, he had been the beloved of a certain village damsel,

the woodman's daughter, his neighbour, to whom he had paid some

attentions; and possibly he was beloved of her still. At any rate, the

Lady Caroline's influence on the estates of her father being

considerable, she resolved to seek an interview with the young girl in

furtherance of her plan to save her reputation, about which she was now

exceedingly anxious; for by this time, the fit being over, she began to

be ashamed of her mad passion for her late husband, and almost wished

she had never seen him.

In the course of her parish-visiting she lighted on the young girl

without much difficulty, and found her looking pale and sad, and wearing

a simple black gown, which she had put on out of respect for the young

man's memory, whom she had tenderly loved, though he had not loved her.

'Ah, you have lost your lover, Milly,' said Lady Caroline.

The young woman could not repress her tears. 'My lady, he was not quite

my lover,' she said. 'But I was his-and now he is dead I don't care to

live any more!'

'Can you keep a secret about him?' asks the lady; 'one in which his

honour is involved-which is known to me alone, but should be known to

you?'

The girl readily promised, and, indeed, could be safely trusted on such

a subject, so deep was her affection for the youth she mourned.

'Then meet me at his grave to-night, half-an-hour after sunset, and I

will tell it to you,' says the other.

In the dusk of that spring evening the two shadowy figures of the young

women converged upon the assistant-steward's newly-turfed mound; and at

that solemn place and hour, the one of birth and beauty unfolded her

tale: how she had loved him and married him secretly; how he had died in

her chamber; and how, to keep her secret, she had dragged him to his own

door.

'Married him, my lady!' said the rustic maiden, starting back.

'I have said so,' replied Lady Caroline. 'But it was a mad thing, and a

mistaken course. He ought to have married you. You, Milly, were

peculiarly his. But you lost him.'

'Yes,' said the poor girl; 'and for that they laughed at me. "Ha-ha, you

mid love him, Milly," they said; "but he will not love you!"'

'Victory over such unkind jeerers would be sweet,' said Lady Caroline.

'You lost him in life; but you may have him in death as if you had had

him in life; and so turn the tables upon them.'

'How?' said the breathless girl.

The young lady then unfolded her plan, which was that Milly should go

forward and declare that the young man had contracted a secret marriage

(as he truly had done); that it was with her, Milly, his sweetheart;

that he had been visiting her in her cottage on the evening of his

death; when, on finding he was a corpse, she had carried him to his

house to prevent discovery by her parents, and that she had meant to

keep the whole matter a secret till the rumours afloat had forced it

from her.

'And how shall I prove this?' said the woodman's daughter, amazed at the

boldness of the proposal.

'Quite sufficiently. You can say, if necessary, that you were married to

him at the church of St. Michael, in Bath City, in my name, as the first

that occurred to you, to escape detection. That was where he married me.

I will support you in this.'

'Oh-I don't quite like-'

'If you will do so,' said the lady peremptorily, 'I will always be your

father's friend and yours; if not, it will be otherwise. And I will give

you my wedding-ring, which you shall wear as yours.'

'Have you worn it, my lady?'

'Only at night.'

There was not much choice in the matter, and Milly consented. Then this

noble lady took from her bosom the ring she had never been able openly

to exhibit, and, grasping the young girl's hand, slipped it upon her

finger as she stood upon her lover's grave.

Milly shivered, and bowed her head, saying, 'I feel as if I had become a

corpse's bride!'

But from that moment the maiden was heart and soul in the substitution.

A blissful repose came over her spirit. It seemed to her that she had

secured in death him whom in life she had vainly idolized; and she was

almost content. After that the lady handed over to the young man's new

wife all the little mementoes and trinkets he had given herself; even to

a locket containing his hair.

The next day the girl made her so-called confession, which the simple

mourning she had already worn, without stating for whom, seemed to bear

out; and soon the story of the little romance spread through the village

and country-side, almost as far as Melchester. It was a curious

psychological fact that, having once made the avowal, Milly seemed

possessed with a spirit of ecstasy at her position. With the liberal sum

of money supplied to her by Lady Caroline she now purchased the garb of

a widow, and duly appeared at church in her weeds, her simple face

looking so sweet against its margin of crape that she was almost envied

her state by the other village-girls of her age. And when a woman's

sorrow for her beloved can maim her young life so obviously as it had

done Milly's there was, in truth, little subterfuge in the case. Her

explanation tallied so well with the details of her lover's latter

movements-those strange absences and sudden returnings, which had

occasionally puzzled his friends-that nobody supposed for a moment that

the second actor in these secret nuptials was other than she. The actual

and whole truth would indeed have seemed a preposterous assertion beside

this plausible one, by reason of the lofty demeanour of the Lady

Caroline and the unassuming habits of the late villager. There being no

inheritance in question, not a soul took the trouble to go to the city

church, forty miles off, and search the registers for marriage

signatures bearing out so humble a romance.

In a short time Milly caused a decent tombstone to be erected over her

nominal husband's grave, whereon appeared the statement that it was

placed there by his heartbroken widow, which, considering that the

payment for it came from Lady Caroline and the grief from Milly, was as

truthful as such inscriptions usually are, and only required pluralizing

to render it yet more nearly so.

The impressionable and complaisant Milly, in her character of widow,

took delight in going to his grave every day, and indulging in sorrow

which was a positive luxury to her. She placed fresh flowers on his

grave, and so keen was her emotional imaginativeness that she almost

believed herself to have been his wife indeed as she walked to and fro

in her garb of woe. One afternoon, Milly being busily engaged in this

labour of love at the grave, Lady Caroline passed outside the churchyard

wall with some of her visiting friends, who, seeing Milly there, watched

her actions with interest, remarked upon the pathos of the scene, and

upon the intense affection the young man must have felt for such a

tender creature as Milly. A strange light, as of pain, shot from the

Lady Caroline's eye, as if for the first time she begrudged to the young

girl the position she had been at such pains to transfer to her; it

showed that a slumbering affection for her husband still had life in

Lady Caroline, obscured and stifled as it was by social considerations.

An end was put to this smooth arrangement by the sudden appearance in

the churchyard one day of the Lady Caroline, when Milly had come there

on her usual errand of laying flowers. Lady Caroline had been anxiously

awaiting her behind the chancel, and her countenance was pale and

agitated.

'Milly!' she said, 'come here! I don't know how to say to you what I am

going to say. I am half dead!'

'I am sorry for your ladyship,' says Milly, wondering.

'Give me that ring!' says the lady, snatching at the girl's left hand.

Milly drew it quickly away.

'I tell you give it to me!' repeated Caroline, almost fiercely. 'Oh-but

you don't know why? I am in a grief and a trouble I did not expect!' And

Lady Caroline whispered a few words to the girl.

'O my lady!' said the thunderstruck Milly. 'What will you do?'

'You must say that your statement was a wicked lie, an invention, a

scandal, a deadly sin-that I told you to make it to screen me! That it

was I whom he married at Bath. In short, we must tell the truth, or I am

ruined-body, mind, and reputation-for ever!'

But there is a limit to the flexibility of gentle-souled women. Milly by

this time had so grown to the idea of being one flesh with this young

man, of having the right to bear his name as she bore it; had so

thoroughly come to regard him as her husband, to dream of him as her

husband, to speak of him as her husband, that she could not relinquish

him at a moment's peremptory notice.

'No, no,' she said desperately, 'I cannot, I will not give him up! Your

ladyship took him away from me alive, and gave him back to me only when

he was dead. Now I will keep him! I am truly his widow. More truly than

you, my lady! for I love him and mourn for him, and call myself by his

dear name, and your ladyship does neither!'

'I do love him!' cries Lady Caroline with flashing eyes, 'and I cling to

him, and won't let him go to such as you! How can I, when he is the

father of this poor babe that's coming to me? I must have him back

again! Milly, Milly, can't you pity and understand me, perverse girl

that you are, and the miserable plight that I am in? Oh, this

precipitancy-it is the ruin of women! Why did I not consider, and wait!

Come, give me back all that I have given you, and assure me you will

support me in confessing the truth!'

'Never, never!' persisted Milly, with woe-begone passionateness. 'Look

at this headstone! Look at my gown and bonnet of crape-this ring: listen

to the name they call me by! My character is worth as much to me as

yours is to you! After declaring my Love mine, myself his, taking his

name, making his death my own particular sorrow, how can I say it was

not so? No such dishonour for me! I will outswear you, my lady; and I

shall be believed. My story is so much the more likely that yours will

be thought false. But, O please, my lady, do not drive me to this! In

pity let me keep him!'

The poor nominal widow exhibited such anguish at a proposal which would

have been truly a bitter humiliation to her, that Lady Caroline was

warmed to pity in spite of her own condition.

'Yes, I see your position,' she answered. 'But think of mine! What can I

do? Without your support it would seem an invention to save me from

disgrace; even if I produced the register, the love of scandal in the

world is such that the multitude would slur over the fact, say it was a

fabrication, and believe your story. I do not know who were the

witnesses, or anything!'

In a few minutes these two poor young women felt, as so many in a strait

have felt before, that union was their greatest strength, even now; and

they consulted calmly together. The result of their deliberations was

that Milly went home as usual, and Lady Caroline also, the latter

confessing that very night to the Countess her mother of the marriage,

and to nobody else in the world. And, some time after, Lady Caroline and

her mother went away to London, where a little while later still they

were joined by Milly, who was supposed to have left the village to

proceed to a watering-place in the North for the benefit of her health,

at the expense of the ladies of the Manor, who had been much interested

in her state of lonely and defenceless widowhood.

Early the next year the widow Milly came home with an infant in her

arms, the family at the Manor House having meanwhile gone abroad. They

did not return from their tour till the autumn ensuing, by which time

Milly and the child had again departed from the cottage of her father

the woodman, Milly having attained to the dignity of dwelling in a

cottage of her own, many miles to the eastward of her native village; a

comfortable little allowance had moreover been settled on her and the

child for life, through the instrumentality of Lady Caroline and her

mother.

Two or three years passed away, and the Lady Caroline married a

nobleman-the Marquis of Stonehenge-considerably her senior, who had

wooed her long and phlegmatically. He was not rich, but she led a placid

life with him for many years, though there was no child of the marriage.

Meanwhile Milly's boy, as the youngster was called, and as Milly herself

considered him, grew up, and throve wonderfully, and loved her as she

deserved to be loved for her devotion to him, in whom she every day

traced more distinctly the lineaments of the man who had won her girlish

heart, and kept it even in the tomb.

She educated him as well as she could with the limited means at her

disposal, for the allowance had never been increased, Lady Caroline, or

the Marchioness of Stonehenge as she now was, seeming by degrees to care

little what had become of them. Milly became extremely ambitious on the

boy's account; she pinched herself almost of necessaries to send him to

the Grammar School in the town to which they retired, and at twenty he

enlisted in a cavalry regiment, joining it with a deliberate intent of

making the Army his profession, and not in a freak of idleness. His

exceptional attainments, his manly bearing, his steady conduct, speedily

won him promotion, which was furthered by the serious war in which this

country was at that time engaged. On his return to England after the

peace he had risen to the rank of riding-master, and was soon after

advanced another stage, and made quartermaster, though still a young

man.

His mother-his corporeal mother, that is, the Marchioness of Stonehenge-

heard tidings of this unaided progress; it reawakened her maternal

instincts, and filled her with pride. She became keenly interested in

her successful soldier-son; and as she grew older much wished to see him

again, particularly when, the Marquis dying, she was left a solitary and

childless widow. Whether or not she would have gone to him of her own

impulse I cannot say; but one day, when she was driving in an open

carriage in the outskirts of a neighbouring town, the troops lying at

the barracks hard by passed her in marching order. She eyed them

narrowly, and in the finest of the horsemen recognized her son from his

likeness to her first husband.

This sight of him doubly intensified the motherly emotions which had

lain dormant in her for so many years, and she wildly asked herself how

she could so have neglected him? Had she possessed the true courage of

affection she would have owned to her first marriage, and have reared

him as her son! What would it have mattered if she had never obtained

this precious coronet of pearls and gold leaves, by comparison with the

gain of having the love and protection of such a noble and worthy son?

These and other sad reflections cut the gloomy and solitary lady to the

heart; and she repented of her pride in disclaiming her first husband

more bitterly than she had ever repented of her infatuation in marrying

him.

Her yearning was so strong, that at length it seemed to her that she

could not live without announcing herself to him as his mother. Come

what might, she would do it: late as it was, she would have him away

from that woman whom she began to hate with the fierceness of a deserted

heart, for having taken her place as the mother of her only child. She

felt confidently enough that her son would only too gladly exchange a

cottage-mother for one who was a peeress of the realm. Being now, in her

widowhood, free to come and go as she chose, without question from

anybody, Lady Stonehenge started next day for the little town where

Milly yet lived, still in her robes of sable for the lost lover of her

youth.

'He is my son,' said the Marchioness, as soon as she was alone in the

cottage with Milly. 'You must give him back to me, now that I am in a

position in which I can defy the world's opinion. I suppose he comes to

see you continually?'

'Every month since he returned from the war, my lady. And sometimes he

stays two or three days, and takes me about seeing sights everywhere!'

She spoke with quiet triumph.

'Well, you will have to give him up,' said the Marchioness calmly. 'It

shall not be the worse for you-you may see him when you choose. I am

going to avow my first marriage, and have him with me.'

'You forget that there are two to be reckoned with, my lady. Not only

me, but himself.'

'That can be arranged. You don't suppose that he wouldn't-' But not

wishing to insult Milly by comparing their positions, she said, 'He is

my own flesh and blood, not yours.'

'Flesh and blood's nothing!' said Milly, flashing with as much scorn as

a cottager could show to a peeress, which, in this case, was not so

little as may be supposed. 'But I will agree to put it to him, and let

him settle it for himself.'

'That's all I require,' said Lady Stonehenge. 'You must ask him to come,

and I will meet him here.'

The soldier was written to, and the meeting took place. He was not so

much astonished at the disclosure of his parentage as Lady Stonehenge

had been led to expect, having known for years that there was a little

mystery about his birth. His manner towards the Marchioness, though

respectful, was less warm than she could have hoped. The alternatives as

to his choice of a mother were put before him. His answer amazed and

stupefied her.

'No, my lady,' he said. 'Thank you much, but I prefer to let things be

as they have been. My father's name is mine in any case. You see, my

lady, you cared little for me when I was weak and helpless; why should I

come to you now I am strong? She, dear devoted soul [pointing to Milly],

tended me from my birth, watched over me, nursed me when I was ill, and

deprived herself of many a little comfort to push me on. I cannot love

another mother as I love her. She is my mother, and I will always be her

son!' As he spoke he put his manly arm round Milly's neck, and kissed

her with the tenderest affection.

The agony of the poor Marchioness was pitiable. 'You kill me!' she said,

between her shaking sobs. 'Cannot you-love-me-too?'

'No, my lady. If I must say it, you were ashamed of my poor father, who

was a sincere and honest man; therefore, I am ashamed of you.'

Nothing would move him; and the suffering woman at last gasped, 'Cannot-

oh, cannot you give one kiss to me-as you did to her? It is not much-it

is all I ask-all!'

'Certainly,' he replied.

He kissed her coldly, and the painful scene came to an end. That day was

the beginning of death to the unfortunate Marchioness of Stonehenge. It

was in the perverseness of her human heart that his denial of her should

add fuel to the fire of her craving for his love. How long afterwards

she lived I do not know with any exactness, but it was no great length

of time. That anguish that is sharper than a serpent's tooth wore her

out soon. Utterly reckless of the world, its ways, and its opinions, she

allowed her story to become known; and when the welcome end supervened

(which, I grieve to say, she refused to lighten by the consolations of

religion), a broken heart was the truest phrase in which to sum up its

cause.

The rural dean having concluded, some observations upon his tale were

made in due course. The sentimental member said that Lady Caroline's

history afforded a sad instance of how an honest human affection will

become shamefaced and mean under the frost of class-division and social

prejudices. She probably deserved some pity; though her offspring,

before he grew up to man's estate, had deserved more. There was no

pathos like the pathos of childhood, when a child found itself in a

world where it was not wanted, and could not understand the reason why.

A tale by the speaker, further illustrating the same subject, though

with different results from the last, naturally followed.

DAME THE FOURTH-LADY MOTTISFONT By the Sentimental Member

Of all the romantic towns in Wessex, Wintoncester is probably the most

convenient for meditative people to live in; since there you have a

cathedral with a nave so long that it affords space in which to walk and

summon your remoter moods without continually turning on your heel, or

seeming to do more than take an afternoon stroll under cover from the

rain or sun. In an uninterrupted course of nearly three hundred steps

eastward, and again nearly three hundred steps westward amid those

magnificent tombs, you can, for instance, compare in the most leisurely

way the dry dustiness which ultimately pervades the persons of kings and

bishops with the damper dustiness that is usually the final shape of

commoners, curates, and others who take their last rest out of doors.

Then, if you are in love, you can, by sauntering in the chapels and

behind the episcopal chantries with the bright-eyed one, so steep and

mellow your ecstasy in the solemnities around, that it will assume a

rarer and finer tincture, even more grateful to the understanding, if

not to the senses, than that form of the emotion which arises from such

companionship in spots where all is life, and growth, and fecundity.

It was in this solemn place, whither they had withdrawn from the sight

of relatives on one cold day in March, that Sir Ashley Mottisfont asked

in marriage, as his second wife, Philippa, the gentle daughter of plain

Squire Okehall. Her life had been an obscure one thus far; while Sir

Ashley, though not a rich man, had a certain distinction about him; so

that everybody thought what a convenient, elevating, and, in a word,

blessed match it would be for such a supernumerary as she. Nobody

thought so more than the amiable girl herself. She had been smitten with

such affection for him that, when she walked the cathedral aisles at his

side on the before-mentioned day, she did not know that her feet touched

hard pavement; it seemed to her rather that she was floating in space.

Philippa was an ecstatic, heart-thumping maiden, and could not

understand how she had deserved to have sent to her such an illustrious

lover, such a travelled personage, such a handsome man.

When he put the question, it was in no clumsy language, such as the

ordinary bucolic county landlords were wont to use on like quivering

occasions, but as elegantly as if he had been taught it in Enfield's

Speaker. Yet he hesitated a little-for he had something to add.

'My pretty Philippa,' he said (she was not very pretty by the way), 'I

have, you must know, a little girl dependent upon me: a little waif I

found one day in a patch of wild oats [such was this worthy baronet's

humour] when I was riding home: a little nameless creature, whom I wish

to take care of till she is old enough to take care of herself; and to

educate in a plain way. She is only fifteen months old, and is at

present in the hands of a kind villager's wife in my parish. Will you

object to give some attention to the little thing in her helplessness?'

It need hardly be said that our innocent young lady, loving him so

deeply and joyfully as she did, replied that she would do all she could

for the nameless child; and, shortly afterwards, the pair were married

in the same cathedral that had echoed the whispers of his declaration,

the officiating minister being the Bishop himself; a venerable and

experienced man, so well accomplished in uniting people who had a mind

for that sort of experiment, that the couple, with some sense of

surprise, found themselves one while they were still vaguely gazing at

each other as two independent beings.

After this operation they went home to Deansleigh Park, and made a

beginning of living happily ever after. Lady Mottisfont, true to her

promise, was always running down to the village during the following

weeks to see the baby whom her husband had so mysteriously lighted on

during his ride home-concerning which interesting discovery she had her

own opinion; but being so extremely amiable and affectionate that she

could have loved stocks and stones if there had been no living creatures

to love, she uttered none of her thoughts. The little thing, who had

been christened Dorothy, took to Lady Mottisfont as if the baronet's

young wife had been her mother; and at length Philippa grew so fond of

the child that she ventured to ask her husband if she might have Dorothy

in her own home, and bring her up carefully, just as if she were her

own. To this he answered that, though remarks might be made thereon, he

had no objection; a fact which was obvious, Sir Ashley seeming rather

pleased than otherwise with the proposal.

After this they lived quietly and uneventfully for two or three years at

Sir Ashley Mottisfont's residence in that part of England, with as near

an approach to bliss as the climate of this country allows. The child

had been a godsend to Philippa, for there seemed no great probability of

her having one of her own: and she wisely regarded the possession of

Dorothy as a special kindness of Providence, and did not worry her mind

at all as to Dorothy's possible origin. Being a tender and impulsive

creature, she loved her husband without criticism, exhaustively and

religiously, and the child not much otherwise. She watched the little

foundling as if she had been her own by nature, and Dorothy became a

great solace to her when her husband was absent on pleasure or business;

and when he came home he looked pleased to see how the two had won each

other's hearts. Sir Ashley would kiss his wife, and his wife would kiss

little Dorothy, and little Dorothy would kiss Sir Ashley, and after this

triangular burst of affection Lady Mottisfont would say, 'Dear me-I

forget she is not mine!'

'What does it matter?' her husband would reply. 'Providence is fore-

knowing. He has sent us this one because he is not intending to send us

one by any other channel.'

Their life was of the simplest. Since his travels the baronet had taken

to sporting and farming; while Philippa was a pattern of domesticity.

Their pleasures were all local. They retired early to rest, and rose

with the cart-horses and whistling waggoners. They knew the names of

every bird and tree not exceptionally uncommon, and could foretell the

weather almost as well as anxious farmers and old people with corns.

One day Sir Ashley Mottisfont received a letter, which he read, and

musingly laid down on the table without remark.

'What is it, dearest?' asked his wife, glancing at the sheet.

'Oh, it is from an old lawyer at Bath whom I used to know. He reminds me

of something I said to him four or five years ago-some little time

before we were married-about Dorothy.'

'What about her?'

'It was a casual remark I made to him, when I thought you might not take

kindly to her, that if he knew a lady who was anxious to adopt a child,

and could insure a good home to Dorothy, he was to let me know.'

'But that was when you had nobody to take care of her,' she said

quickly. 'How absurd of him to write now! Does he know you are married?

He must, surely.'

'Oh yes!'

He handed her the letter. The solicitor stated that a widow-lady of

position, who did not at present wish her name to be disclosed, had

lately become a client of his while taking the waters, and had mentioned

to him that she would like a little girl to bring up as her own, if she

could be certain of finding one of good and pleasing disposition; and,

the better to insure this, she would not wish the child to be too young

for judging her qualities. He had remembered Sir Ashley's observation to

him a long while ago, and therefore brought the matter before him. It

would be an excellent home for the little girl-of that he was positive-

if she had not already found such a home.

'But it is absurd of the man to write so long after!' said Lady

Mottisfont, with a lumpiness about the back of her throat as she thought

how much Dorothy had become to her. 'I suppose it was when you first-

found her-that you told him this?'

'Exactly-it was then.'

He fell into thought, and neither Sir Ashley nor Lady Mottisfont took

the trouble to answer the lawyer's letter; and so the matter ended for

the time.

One day at dinner, on their return from a short absence in town, whither

they had gone to see what the world was doing, hear what it was saying,

and to make themselves generally fashionable after rusticating for so

long-on this occasion, I say, they learnt from some friend who had

joined them at dinner that Fernell Hall-the manorial house of the estate

next their own, which had been offered on lease by reason of the

impecuniosity of its owner-had been taken for a term by a widow lady, an

Italian Contessa, whose name I will not mention for certain reasons

which may by and by appear. Lady Mottisfont expressed her surprise and

interest at the probability of having such a neighbour. 'Though, if I

had been born in Italy, I think I should have liked to remain there,'

she said.

'She is not Italian, though her husband was,' said Sir Ashley.

'Oh, you have heard about her before now?'

'Yes; they were talking of her at Grey's the other evening. She is

English.' And then, as her husband said no more about the lady, the

friend who was dining with them told Lady Mottisfont that the Countess's

father had speculated largely in East-India Stock, in which immense

fortunes were being made at that time; through this his daughter had

found herself enormously wealthy at his death, which had occurred only a

few weeks after the death of her husband. It was supposed that the

marriage of an enterprising English speculator's daughter to a poor

foreign nobleman had been matter of arrangement merely. As soon as the

Countess's widowhood was a little further advanced she would, no doubt,

be the mark of all the schemers who came near her, for she was still

quite young. But at present she seemed to desire quiet, and avoided

society and town.

Some weeks after this time Sir Ashley Mottisfont sat looking fixedly at

his lady for many moments. He said:

'It might have been better for Dorothy if the Countess had taken her.

She is so wealthy in comparison with ourselves, and could have ushered

the girl into the great world more effectually than we ever shall be

able to do.'

'The Contessa take Dorothy?' said Lady Mottisfont with a start. 'What-

was she the lady who wished to adopt her?'

'Yes; she was staying at Bath when Lawyer Gayton wrote to me.'

'But how do you know all this, Ashley?'

He showed a little hesitation. 'Oh, I've seen her,' he says. 'You know,

she drives to the meet sometimes, though she does not ride; and she has

informed me that she was the lady who inquired of Gayton.'

'You have talked to her as well as seen her, then?'

'Oh yes, several times; everybody has.'

'Why didn't you tell me?' says his lady. 'I had quite forgotten to call

upon her. I'll go to-morrow, or soon . . . But I can't think, Ashley,

how you can say that it might have been better for Dorothy to have gone

to her; she is so much our own now that I cannot admit any such

conjectures as those, even in jest.' Her eyes reproached him so

eloquently that Sir Ashley Mottisfont did not answer.

Lady Mottisfont did not hunt any more than the Anglo-Italian Countess

did; indeed, she had become so absorbed in household matters and in

Dorothy's wellbeing that she had no mind to waste a minute on mere

enjoyments. As she had said, to talk coolly of what might have been the

best destination in days past for a child to whom they had become so

attached seemed quite barbarous, and she could not understand how her

husband should consider the point so abstractedly; for, as will probably

have been guessed, Lady Mottisfont long before this time, if she had not

done so at the very beginning, divined Sir Ashley's true relation to

Dorothy. But the baronet's wife was so discreetly meek and mild that she

never told him of her surmise, and took what Heaven had sent her without

cavil, her generosity in this respect having been bountifully rewarded

by the new life she found in her love for the little girl.

Her husband recurred to the same uncomfortable subject when, a few days

later, they were speaking of travelling abroad. He said that it was

almost a pity, if they thought of going, that they had not fallen in

with the Countess's wish. That lady had told him that she had met

Dorothy walking with her nurse, and that she had never seen a child she

liked so well.

'What-she covets her still? How impertinent of the woman!' said Lady

Mottisfont.

'She seems to do so . . . You see, dearest Philippa, the advantage to

Dorothy would have been that the Countess would have adopted her

legally, and have made her as her own daughter; while we have not done

that-we are only bringing up and educating a poor child in charity.'

'But I'll adopt her fully-make her mine legally!' cried his wife in an

anxious voice. 'How is it to be done?'

'H'm.' He did not inform her, but fell into thought; and, for reasons of

her own, his lady was restless and uneasy.

The very next day Lady Mottisfont drove to Fernell Hall to pay the

neglected call upon her neighbour. The Countess was at home, and

received her graciously. But poor Lady Mottisfont's heart died within

her as soon as she set eyes on her new acquaintance. Such wonderful

beauty, of the fully-developed kind, had never confronted her before

inside the lines of a human face. She seemed to shine with every light

and grace that woman can possess. Her finished Continental manners, her

expanded mind, her ready wit, composed a study that made the other poor

lady sick; for she, and latterly Sir Ashley himself, were rather rural

in manners, and she felt abashed by new sounds and ideas from without.

She hardly knew three words in any language but her own, while this

divine creature, though truly English, had, apparently, whatever she

wanted in the Italian and French tongues to suit every impression; which

was considered a great improvement to speech in those days, and, indeed,

is by many considered as such in these.

'How very strange it was about the little girl!' the Contessa said to

Lady Mottisfont, in her gay tones. 'I mean, that the child the lawyer

recommended should, just before then, have been adopted by you, who are

now my neighbour. How is she getting on? I must come and see her.'

'Do you still want her?' asks Lady Mottisfont suspiciously.

'Oh, I should like to have her!'

'But you can't! She's mine!' said the other greedily.

A drooping manner appeared in the Countess from that moment.

Lady Mottisfont, too, was in a wretched mood all the way home that day.

The Countess was so charming in every way that she had charmed her

gentle ladyship; how should it be possible that she had failed to charm

Sir Ashley? Moreover, she had awakened a strange thought in Philippa's

mind. As soon as she reached home she rushed to the nursery, and there,

seizing Dorothy, frantically kissed her; then, holding her at arm's

length, she gazed with a piercing inquisitiveness into the girl's

lineaments. She sighed deeply, abandoned the wondering Dorothy, and

hastened away.

She had seen there not only her husband's traits, which she had often

beheld before, but others, of the shade, shape, and expression which

characterized those of her new neighbour.

Then this poor lady perceived the whole perturbing sequence of things,

and asked herself how she could have been such a walking piece of

simplicity as not to have thought of this before. But she did not stay

long upbraiding herself for her shortsightedness, so overwhelmed was she

with misery at the spectacle of herself as an intruder between these. To

be sure she could not have foreseen such a conjuncture; but that did not

lessen her grief. The woman who had been both her husband's bliss and

his backsliding had reappeared free when he was no longer so, and she

evidently was dying to claim her own in the person of Dorothy, who had

meanwhile grown to be, to Lady Mottisfont, almost the only source of

each day's happiness, supplying her with something to watch over,

inspiring her with the sense of maternity, and so largely reflecting her

husband's nature as almost to deceive her into the pleasant belief that

she reflected her own also.

If there was a single direction in which this devoted and virtuous lady

erred, it was in the direction of over-submissiveness. When all is said

and done, and the truth told, men seldom show much self-sacrifice in

their conduct as lords and masters to helpless women bound to them for

life, and perhaps (though I say it with all uncertainty) if she had

blazed up in his face like a furze-faggot, directly he came home, she

might have helped herself a little. But God knows whether this is a true

supposition; at any rate she did no such thing; and waited and prayed

that she might never do despite to him who, she was bound to admit, had

always been tender and courteous towards her; and hoped that little

Dorothy might never be taken away.

By degrees the two households became friendly, and very seldom did a

week pass without their seeing something of each other. Try as she

might, and dangerous as she assumed the acquaintanceship to be, Lady

Mottisfont could detect no fault or flaw in her new friend. It was

obvious that Dorothy had been the magnet which had drawn the Contessa

hither, and not Sir Ashley.

Such beauty, united with such understanding and brightness, Philippa had

never before known in one of her own sex, and she tried to think

(whether she succeeded I do not know) that she did not mind the

propinquity; since a woman so rich, so fair, and with such a command of

suitors, could not desire to wreck the happiness of so inoffensive a

person as herself.

The season drew on when it was the custom for families of distinction to

go off to The Bath, and Sir Ashley Mottisfont persuaded his wife to

accompany him thither with Dorothy. Everybody of any note was there this

year. From their own part of England came many that they knew; among the

rest, Lord and Lady Purbeck, the Earl and Countess of Wessex, Sir John

Grebe, the Drenkhards, Lady Stourvale, the old Duke of Hamptonshire, the

Bishop of Melchester, the Dean of Exonbury, and other lesser lights of

Court, pulpit, and field. Thither also came the fair Contessa, whom, as

soon as Philippa saw how much she was sought after by younger men, she

could not conscientiously suspect of renewed designs upon Sir Ashley.

But the Countess had finer opportunities than ever with Dorothy; for

Lady Mottisfont was often indisposed, and even at other times could not

honestly hinder an intercourse which gave bright ideas to the child.

Dorothy welcomed her new acquaintance with a strange and instinctive

readiness that intimated the wonderful subtlety of the threads which

bind flesh and flesh together.

At last the crisis came: it was precipitated by an accident. Dorothy and

her nurse had gone out one day for an airing, leaving Lady Mottisfont

alone indoors. While she sat gloomily thinking that in all likelihood

the Countess would contrive to meet the child somewhere, and exchange a

few tender words with her, Sir Ashley Mottisfont rushed in and informed

her that Dorothy had just had the narrowest possible escape from death.

Some workmen were undermining a house to pull it down for rebuilding,

when, without warning, the front wall inclined slowly outwards for its

fall, the nurse and child passing beneath it at the same moment. The

fall was temporarily arrested by the scaffolding, while in the meantime

the Countess had witnessed their imminent danger from the other side of

the street. Springing across, she snatched Dorothy from under the wall,

and pulled the nurse after her, the middle of the way being barely

reached before they were enveloped in the dense dust of the descending

mass, though not a stone touched them.

'Where is Dorothy?' says the excited Lady Mottisfont.

'She has her-she won't let her go for a time-'

'Has her? But she's mine-she's mine!' cries Lady Mottisfont.

Then her quick and tender eyes perceived that her husband had almost

forgotten her intrusive existence in contemplating the oneness of

Dorothy's, the Countess's, and his own: he was in a dream of exaltation

which recognized nothing necessary to his well-being outside that welded

circle of three lives.

Dorothy was at length brought home; she was much fascinated by the

Countess, and saw nothing tragic, but rather all that was truly

delightful, in what had happened. In the evening, when the excitement

was over, and Dorothy was put to bed, Sir Ashley said, 'She has saved

Dorothy; and I have been asking myself what I can do for her as a slight

acknowledgment of her heroism. Surely we ought to let her have Dorothy

to bring up, since she still desires to do it? It would be so much to

Dorothy's advantage. We ought to look at it in that light, and not

selfishly.'

Philippa seized his hand. 'Ashley, Ashley! You don't mean it-that I must

lose my pretty darling-the only one I have?' She met his gaze with her

piteous mouth and wet eyes so painfully strained, that he turned away

his face.

The next morning, before Dorothy was awake, Lady Mottisfont stole to the

girl's bedside, and sat regarding her. When Dorothy opened her eyes, she

fixed them for a long time upon Philippa's features.

'Mamma-you are not so pretty as the Contessa, are you?' she said at

length.

'I am not, Dorothy.'

'Why are you not, mamma?'

'Dorothy-where would you rather live, always; with me, or with her?'

The little girl looked troubled. 'I am sorry, mamma; I don't mean to be

unkind; but I would rather live with her; I mean, if I might without

trouble, and you did not mind, and it could be just the same to us all,

you know.'

'Has she ever asked you the same question?'

'Never, mamma.'

There lay the sting of it: the Countess seemed the soul of honour and

fairness in this matter, test her as she might. That afternoon Lady

Mottisfont went to her husband with singular firmness upon her gentle

face.

'Ashley, we have been married nearly five years, and I have never

challenged you with what I know perfectly well-the parentage of

Dorothy.'

'Never have you, Philippa dear. Though I have seen that you knew from

the first.'

'From the first as to her father, not as to her mother. Her I did not

know for some time; but I know now.'

'Ah! you have discovered that too?' says he, without much surprise.

'Could I help it? Very well, that being so, I have thought it over; and

I have spoken to Dorothy. I agree to her going. I can do no less than

grant to the Countess her wish, after her kindness to my-your-her-

child.'

Then this self-sacrificing woman went hastily away that he might not see

that her heart was bursting; and thereupon, before they left the city,

Dorothy changed her mother and her home. After this, the Countess went

away to London for a while, taking Dorothy with her; and the baronet and

his wife returned to their lonely place at Deansleigh Park without her.

To renounce Dorothy in the bustle of Bath was a different thing from

living without her in this quiet home. One evening Sir Ashley missed his

wife from the supper-table; her manner had been so pensive and woeful of

late that he immediately became alarmed. He said nothing, but looked

about outside the house narrowly, and discerned her form in the park,

where recently she had been accustomed to walk alone. In its lower

levels there was a pool fed by a trickling brook, and he reached this

spot in time to hear a splash. Running forward, he dimly perceived her

light gown floating in the water. To pull her out was the work of a few

instants, and bearing her indoors to her room, he undressed her, nobody

in the house knowing of the incident but himself. She had not been

immersed long enough to lose her senses, and soon recovered. She owned

that she had done it because the Contessa had taken away her child, as

she persisted in calling Dorothy. Her husband spoke sternly to her, and

impressed upon her the weakness of giving way thus, when all that had

happened was for the best. She took his reproof meekly, and admitted her

fault.

After that she became more resigned, but he often caught her in tears

over some doll, shoe, or ribbon of Dorothy's, and decided to take her to

the North of England for change of air and scene. This was not without

its beneficial effect, corporeally no less than mentally, as later

events showed, but she still evinced a preternatural sharpness of ear at

the most casual mention of the child. When they reached home, the

Countess and Dorothy were still absent from the neighbouring Fernell

Hall, but in a month or two they returned, and a little later Sir Ashley

Mottisfont came into his wife's room full of news.

'Well-would you think it, Philippa! After being so desperate, too, about

getting Dorothy to be with her!'

'Ah-what?'

'Our neighbour, the Countess, is going to be married again! It is to

somebody she has met in London.'

Lady Mottisfont was much surprised; she had never dreamt of such an

event. The conflict for the possession of Dorothy's person had obscured

the possibility of it; yet what more likely, the Countess being still

under thirty, and so good-looking?

'What is of still more interest to us, or to you,' continued her

husband, 'is a kind offer she has made. She is willing that you should

have Dorothy back again. Seeing what a grief the loss of her has been to

you, she will try to do without her.'

'It is not for that; it is not to oblige me,' said Lady Mottisfont

quickly. 'One can see well enough what it is for!'

'Well, never mind; beggars mustn't be choosers. The reason or motive is

nothing to us, so that you obtain your desire.'

'I am not a beggar any longer,' said Lady Mottisfont, with proud

mystery.

'What do you mean by that?'

Lady Mottisfont hesitated. However, it was only too plain that she did

not now jump at a restitution of one for whom some months before she had

been breaking her heart.

The explanation of this change of mood became apparent some little time

farther on. Lady Mottisfont, after five years of wedded life, was

expecting to become a mother, and the aspect of many things was greatly

altered in her view. Among the more important changes was that of no

longer feeling Dorothy to be absolutely indispensable to her existence.

Meanwhile, in view of her coming marriage, the Countess decided to

abandon the remainder of her term at Fernell Hall, and return to her

pretty little house in town. But she could not do this quite so quickly

as she had expected, and half a year or more elapsed before she finally

quitted the neighbourhood, the interval being passed in alternations

between the country and London. Prior to her last departure she had an

interview with Sir Ashley Mottisfont, and it occurred three days after

his wife had presented him with a son and heir.

'I wanted to speak to you,' said the Countess, looking him luminously in

the face, 'about the dear foundling I have adopted temporarily, and

thought to have adopted permanently. But my marriage makes it too

risky!'

'I thought it might be that,' he answered, regarding her steadfastly

back again, and observing two tears come slowly into her eyes as she

heard her own voice describe Dorothy in those words.

'Don't criticize me,' she said hastily; and recovering herself, went on.

'If Lady Mottisfont could take her back again, as I suggested, it would

be better for me, and certainly no worse for Dorothy. To every one but

ourselves she is but a child I have taken a fancy to, and Lady

Mottisfont coveted her so much, and was very reluctant to let her go . .

. I am sure she will adopt her again?' she added anxiously.

'I will sound her afresh,' said the baronet. 'You leave Dorothy behind

for the present?'

'Yes; although I go away, I do not give up the house for another month.'

He did not speak to his wife about the proposal till some few days

after, when Lady Mottisfont had nearly recovered, and news of the

Countess's marriage in London had just reached them. He had no sooner

mentioned Dorothy's name than Lady Mottisfont showed symptoms of

disquietude.

'I have not acquired any dislike of Dorothy,' she said, 'but I feel that

there is one nearer to me now. Dorothy chose the alternative of going to

the Countess, you must remember, when I put it to her as between the

Countess and myself.'

'But, my dear Philippa, how can you argue thus about a child, and that

child our Dorothy?'

'Not ours,' said his wife, pointing to the cot. 'Ours is here.'

'What, then, Philippa,' he said, surprised, 'you won't have her back,

after nearly dying of grief at the loss of her?'

'I cannot argue, dear Ashley. I should prefer not to have the

responsibility of Dorothy again. Her place is filled now.'

Her husband sighed, and went out of the chamber. There had been a

previous arrangement that Dorothy should be brought to the house on a

visit that day, but instead of taking her up to his wife, he did not

inform Lady Mottisfont of the child's presence. He entertained her

himself as well as he could, and accompanied her into the park, where

they had a ramble together. Presently he sat down on the root of an elm

and took her upon his knee.

'Between this husband and this baby, little Dorothy, you who had two

homes are left out in the cold,' he said.

'Can't I go to London with my pretty mamma?' said Dorothy, perceiving

from his manner that there was a hitch somewhere.

'I am afraid not, my child. She only took you to live with her because

she was lonely, you know.'

'Then can't I stay at Deansleigh Park with my other mamma and you?'

'I am afraid that cannot be done either,' said he sadly. 'We have a baby

in the house now.' He closed the reply by stooping down and kissing her,

there being a tear in his eye.

'Then nobody wants me!' said Dorothy pathetically.

'Oh yes, somebody wants you,' he assured her. 'Where would you like to

live besides?'

Dorothy's experiences being rather limited, she mentioned the only other

place in the world that she was acquainted with, the cottage of the

villager who had taken care of her before Lady Mottisfont had removed

her to the Manor House.

'Yes; that's where you'll be best off and most independent,' he

answered. 'And I'll come to see you, my dear girl, and bring you pretty

things; and perhaps you'll be just as happy there.'

Nevertheless, when the change came, and Dorothy was handed over to the

kind cottage-woman, the poor child missed the luxurious roominess of

Fernell Hall and Deansleigh; and for a long time her little feet, which

had been accustomed to carpets and oak floors, suffered from the cold of

the stone flags on which it was now her lot to live and to play; while

chilblains came upon her fingers with washing at the pump. But thicker

shoes with nails in them somewhat remedied the cold feet, and her

complaints and tears on this and other scores diminished to silence as

she became inured anew to the hardships of the farm-cottage, and she

grew up robust if not handsome. She was never altogether lost sight of

by Sir Ashley, though she was deprived of the systematic education which

had been devised and begun for her by Lady Mottisfont, as well as by her

other mamma, the enthusiastic Countess. The latter soon had other

Dorothys to think of, who occupied her time and affection as fully as

Lady Mottisfont's were occupied by her precious boy. In the course of

time the doubly-desired and doubly-rejected Dorothy married, I believe,

a respectable road-contractor-the same, if I mistake not, who repaired

and improved the old highway running from Wintoncester south-westerly

through the New Forest-and in the heart of this worthy man of business

the poor girl found the nest which had been denied her by her own flesh

and blood of higher degree.

Several of the listeners wished to hear another story from the

sentimental member after this, but he said that he could recall nothing

else at the moment, and that it seemed to him as if his friend on the

other side of the fireplace had something to say from the look of his

face.

The member alluded to was a respectable churchwarden, with a sly chink

to one eyelid-possibly the result of an accident-and a regular attendant

at the Club meetings. He replied that his looks had been mainly caused

by his interest in the two ladies of the last story, apparently women of

strong motherly instincts, even though they were not genuinely staunch

in their tenderness. The tale had brought to his mind an instance of a

firmer affection of that sort on the paternal side, in a nature

otherwise culpable. As for telling the story, his manner was much

against him, he feared; but he would do his best, if they wished.

Here the President interposed with a suggestion that as it was getting

late in the afternoon it would be as well to adjourn to their respective

inns and lodgings for dinner, after which those who cared to do so could

return and resume these curious domestic traditions for the remainder of

the evening, which might otherwise prove irksome enough. The curator had

told him that the room was at their service. The churchwarden, who was

beginning to feel hungry himself, readily acquiesced, and the Club

separated for an hour and a half. Then the faithful ones began to drop

in again-among whom were not the President; neither came the rural dean,

nor the two curates, though the Colonel, and the man of family, cigars

in mouth, were good enough to return, having found their hotel dreary.

The museum had no regular means of illumination, and a solitary candle,

less powerful than the rays of the fire, was placed on the table; also

bottles and glasses, provided by some thoughtful member. The chink-eyed

churchwarden, now thoroughly primed, proceeded to relate in his own

terms what was in substance as follows, while many of his listeners

smoked.

DAME THE FIFTH-THE LADY ICENWAY By the Churchwarden

In the reign of His Most Excellent Majesty King George the Third,

Defender of the Faith and of the American Colonies, there lived in 'a

faire maner-place' (so Leland called it in his day, as I have been

told), in one o' the greenest bits of woodland between Bristol and the

city of Exonbury, a young lady who resembled some aforesaid ones in

having many talents and exceeding great beauty. With these gifts she

combined a somewhat imperious temper and arbitrary mind, though her

experience of the world was not actually so large as her conclusive

manner would have led the stranger to suppose. Being an orphan, she

resided with her uncle, who, though he was fairly considerate as to her

welfare, left her pretty much to herself.

Now it chanced that when this lovely young lady was about nineteen, she

(being a fearless horsewoman) was riding, with only a young lad as an

attendant, in one o' the woods near her uncle's house, and, in trotting

along, her horse stumbled over the root of a felled tree. She slipped to

the ground, not seriously hurt, and was assisted home by a gentleman who

came in view at the moment of her mishap. It turned out that this

gentleman, a total stranger to her, was on a visit at the house of a

neighbouring landowner. He was of Dutch extraction, and occasionally

came to England on business or pleasure from his plantations in Guiana,

on the north coast of South America, where he usually resided.

On this account he was naturally but little known in Wessex, and was but

a slight acquaintance of the gentleman at whose mansion he was a guest.

However, the friendship between him and the Heymeres-as the uncle and

niece were named-warmed and warmed by degrees, there being but few folk

o' note in the vicinity at that time, which made a newcomer, if he were

at all sociable and of good credit, always sure of a welcome. A tender

feeling (as it is called by the romantic) sprang up between the two

young people, which ripened into intimacy. Anderling, the foreign

gentleman, was of an amorous temperament; and, though he endeavoured to

conceal his feeling, it could be seen that Miss Maria Heymere had

impressed him rather more deeply than would be represented by a scratch

upon a stone. He seemed absolutely unable to free himself from her

fascination; and his inability to do so, much as he tried-evidently

thinking he had not the ghost of a chance with her-gave her the pleasure

of power; though she more than sympathized when she overheard him

heaving his deep drawn sighs-privately to himself, as he supposed.

After prolonging his visit by every conceivable excuse in his power, he

summoned courage, and offered her his hand and his heart. Being in no

way disinclined to him, though not so fervid as he, and her uncle making

no objection to the match, she consented to share his fate, for better

or otherwise, in the distant colony where, as he assured her, his rice,

and coffee, and maize, and timber, produced him ample means-a statement

which was borne out by his friend, her uncle's neighbour. In short, a

day for their marriage was fixed, earlier in the engagement than is

usual or desirable between comparative strangers, by reason of the

necessity he was under of returning to look after his properties.

The wedding took place, and Maria left her uncle's mansion with her

husband, going in the first place to London, and about a fortnight after

sailing with him across the great ocean for their distant home-which,

however, he assured her, should not be her home for long, it being his

intention to dispose of his interests in this part of the world as soon

as the war was over, and he could do so advantageously; when they could

come to Europe, and reside in some favourite capital.

As they advanced on the voyage she observed that he grew more and more

constrained; and, by the time they had crossed the Line, he was quite

depressed, just as he had been before proposing to her. A day or two

before landing at Paramaribo, he embraced her in a very tearful and

passionate manner, and said he wished to make a confession. It had been

his misfortune, he said, to marry at Quebec in early life a woman whose

reputation proved to be in every way bad and scandalous. The discovery

had nearly killed him; but he had ultimately separated from her, and had

never seen her since. He had hoped and prayed she might be dead; but

recently in London, when they were starting on this journey, he had

discovered that she was still alive. At first he had decided to keep

this dark intelligence from her beloved ears; but he had felt that he

could not do it. All he hoped was that such a condition of things would

make no difference in her feelings for him, as it need make no

difference in the course of their lives.

Thereupon the spirit of this proud and masterful lady showed itself in

violent turmoil, like the raging of a nor'-west thunderstorm-as well it

might, God knows. But she was of too stout a nature to be broken down by

his revelation, as many ladies of my acquaintance would have been-so far

from home, and right under the Line in the blaze o' the sun. Of the two,

indeed, he was the more wretched and shattered in spirit, for he loved

her deeply, and (there being a foreign twist in his make) had been

tempted to this crime by her exceeding beauty, against which he had

struggled day and night, till he had no further resistance left in him.

It was she who came first to a decision as to what should be done-

whether a wise one I do not attempt to judge.

'I put it to you,' says she, when many useless self-reproaches and

protestations on his part had been uttered-'I put it to you whether, if

any manliness is left in you, you ought not to do exactly what I

consider the best thing for me in this strait to which you have reduced

me?'

He promised to do anything in the whole world. She then requested him to

allow her to return, and announce him as having died of malignant ague

immediately on their arrival at Paramaribo; that she should consequently

appear in weeds as his widow in her native place; and that he would

never molest her, or come again to that part of the world during the

whole course of his life-a good reason for which would be that the legal

consequences might be serious.

He readily acquiesced in this, as he would have acquiesced in anything

for the restitution of one he adored so deeply-even to the yielding of

life itself. To put her in an immediate state of independence he gave

her, in bonds and jewels, a considerable sum (for his worldly means had

been in no way exaggerated); and by the next ship she sailed again for

England, having travelled no farther than to Paramaribo. At parting he

declared it to be his intention to turn all his landed possessions into

personal property, and to be a wanderer on the face of the earth in

remorse for his conduct towards her.

Maria duly arrived in England, and immediately on landing apprised her

uncle of her return, duly appearing at his house in the garb of a widow.

She was commiserated by all the neighbours as soon as her story was

told; but only to her uncle did she reveal the real state of affairs,

and her reason for concealing it. For, though she had been innocent of

wrong, Maria's pride was of that grain which could not brook the least

appearance of having been fooled, or deluded, or nonplussed in her

worldly aims.

For some time she led a quiet life with her relative, and in due course

a son was born to her. She was much respected for her dignity and

reserve, and the portable wealth which her temporary husband had made

over to her enabled her to live in comfort in a wing of the mansion,

without assistance from her uncle at all. But, knowing that she was not

what she seemed to be, her life was an uneasy one, and she often said to

herself: 'Suppose his continued existence should become known here, and

people should discern the pride of my motive in hiding my humiliation?

It would be worse than if I had been frank at first, which I should have

been but for the credit of this child.'

Such grave reflections as these occupied her with increasing force; and

during their continuance she encountered a worthy man of noble birth and

title-Lord Icenway his name-whose seat was beyond Wintoncester, quite at

t'other end of Wessex. He being anxious to pay his addresses to her,

Maria willingly accepted them, though he was a plain man, older than

herself; for she discerned in a re-marriage a method of fortifying her

position against mortifying discoveries. In a few months their union

took place, and Maria lifted her head as Lady Icenway, and left with her

husband and child for his home as aforesaid, where she was quite

unknown.

A justification, or a condemnation, of her step (according as you view

it) was seen when, not long after, she received a note from her former

husband Anderling. It was a hasty and tender epistle, and perhaps it was

fortunate that it arrived during the temporary absence of Lord Icenway.

His worthless wife, said Anderling, had just died in Quebec; he had gone

there to ascertain particulars, and had seen the unfortunate woman

buried. He now was hastening to England to repair the wrong he had done

his Maria. He asked her to meet him at Southampton, his port of arrival;

which she need be in no fear of doing, as he had changed his name, and

was almost absolutely unknown in Europe. He would remarry her

immediately, and live with her in any part of the Continent, as they had

originally intended, where, for the great love he still bore her, he

would devote himself to her service for the rest of his days.

Lady Icenway, self-possessed as it was her nature to be, was yet much

disturbed at this news, and set off to meet him, unattended, as soon as

she heard that the ship was in sight. As soon as they stood face to face

she found that she still possessed all her old influence over him,

though his power to fascinate her had quite departed. In his sorrow for

his offence against her, he had become a man of strict religious habits,

self-denying as a lenten saint, though formerly he had been a free and

joyous liver. Having first got him to swear to make her any amends she

should choose (which he was imagining must be by a true marriage), she

informed him that she had already wedded another husband, an excellent

man of ancient family and possessions, who had given her a title, in

which she much rejoiced.

At this the countenance of the poor foreign gentleman became cold as

clay, and his heart withered within him; for as it had been her beauty

and bearing which had led him to sin to obtain her, so, now that her

beauty was in fuller bloom, and her manner more haughty by her success,

did he feel her fascination to be almost more than he could bear.

Nevertheless, having sworn his word, he undertook to obey her commands,

which were simply a renewal of her old request-that he would depart for

some foreign country, and never reveal his existence to her friends, or

husband, or any person in England; never trouble her more, seeing how

great a harm it would do her in the high position which she at present

occupied.

He bowed his head. 'And the child-our child?' he said.

'He is well,' says she. 'Quite well.'

With this the unhappy gentleman departed, much sadder in his heart than

on his voyage to England; for it had never occurred to him that a woman

who rated her honour so highly as Maria had done, and who was the mother

of a child of his, would have adopted such means as this for the

restoration of that honour, and at so surprisingly early a date. He had

fully calculated on making her his wife in law and truth, and of living

in cheerful unity with her and his offspring, for whom he felt a deep

and growing tenderness, though he had never once seen the child.

The lady returned to her mansion beyond Wintoncester, and told nothing

of the interview to her noble husband, who had fortunately gone that day

to do a little cocking and ratting out by Weydon Priors, and knew

nothing of her movements. She had dismissed her poor Anderling

peremptorily enough; yet she would often after this look in the face of

the child of her so-called widowhood, to discover what and how many

traits of his father were to be seen in his lineaments. For this she had

ample opportunity during the following autumn and winter months, her

husband being a matter-of-fact nobleman, who spent the greater part of

his time in field-sports and agriculture.

One winter day, when he had started for a meet of the hounds a long way

from the house-it being his custom to hunt three or four times a week at

this season of the year-she had walked into the sunshine upon the

terrace before the windows, where there fell at her feet some little

white object that had come over a boundary wall hard by. It proved to be

a tiny note wrapped round a stone. Lady Icenway opened it and read it,

and immediately (no doubt, with a stern fixture of her queenly

countenance) walked hastily along the terrace, and through the door into

the shrubbery, whence the note had come. The man who had first married

her stood under the bushes before her. It was plain from his appearance

that something had gone wrong with him.

'You notice a change in me, my best-beloved,' he said. 'Yes, Maria-I

have lost all the wealth I once possessed-mainly by reckless gambling in

the Continental hells to which you banished me. But one thing in the

world remains to me-the child-and it is for him that I have intruded

here. Don't fear me, darling! I shall not inconvenience you long; I love

you too well! But I think of the boy day and night-I cannot help it-I

cannot keep my feeling for him down; and I long to see him, and speak a

word to him once in my lifetime!'

'But your oath?' says she. 'You promised never to reveal by word or

sign-'

'I will reveal nothing. Only let me see the child. I know what I have

sworn to you, cruel mistress, and I respect my oath. Otherwise I might

have seen him by some subterfuge. But I preferred the frank course of

asking your permission.'

She demurred, with the haughty severity which had grown part of her

character, and which her elevation to the rank of a peeress had rather

intensified than diminished. She said that she would consider, and would

give him an answer the day after the next, at the same hour and place,

when her husband would again be absent with his pack of hounds.

The gentleman waited patiently. Lady Icenway, who had now no conscious

love left for him, well considered the matter, and felt that it would be

advisable not to push to extremes a man of so passionate a heart. On the

day and hour she met him as she had promised to do.

'You shall see him,' she said, 'of course on the strict condition that

you do not reveal yourself, and hence, though you see him, he must not

see you, or your manner might betray you and me. I will lull him into a

nap in the afternoon, and then I will come to you here, and fetch you

indoors by a private way.'

The unfortunate father, whose misdemeanour had recoiled upon his own

head in a way he could not have foreseen, promised to adhere to her

instructions, and waited in the shrubberies till the moment when she

should call him. This she duly did about three o'clock that day, leading

him in by a garden door, and upstairs to the nursery where the child

lay. He was in his little cot, breathing calmly, his arm thrown over his

head, and his silken curls crushed into the pillow. His father, now

almost to be pitied, bent over him, and a tear from his eye wetted the

coverlet.

She held up a warning finger as he lowered his mouth to the lips of the

boy.

'But oh, why not?' implored he.

'Very well, then,' said she, relenting. 'But as gently as possible.'

He kissed the child without waking him, turned, gave him a last look,

and followed her out of the chamber, when she conducted him off the

premises by the way he had come.

But this remedy for his sadness of heart at being a stranger to his own

son, had the effect of intensifying the malady; for while originally,

not knowing or having ever seen the boy, he had loved him vaguely and

imaginatively only, he now became attached to him in flesh and bone, as

any parent might; and the feeling that he could at best only see his

child at the rarest and most cursory moments, if at all, drove him into

a state of distraction which threatened to overthrow his promise to the

boy's mother to keep out of his sight.

But such was his chivalrous respect for Lady Icenway, and his regret at

having ever deceived her, that he schooled his poor heart into

submission. Owing to his loneliness, all the fervour of which he was

capable-and that was much-flowed now in the channel of parental and

marital love-for a child who did not know him, and a woman who had

ceased to love him.

At length this singular punishment became such a torture to the poor

foreigner that he resolved to lessen it at all hazards, compatible with

punctilious care for the name of the lady his former wife, to whom his

attachment seemed to increase in proportion to her punitive treatment of

him. At one time of his life he had taken great interest in tulip-

culture, as well as gardening in general; and since the ruin of his

fortunes, and his arrival in England, he had made of his knowledge a

precarious income in the hot-houses of nurserymen and others. With the

new idea in his head he applied himself zealously to the business, till

he acquired in a few months great skill in horticulture. Waiting till

the noble lord, his lady's husband, had room for an under-gardener of a

general sort, he offered himself for the place, and was engaged

immediately by reason of his civility and intelligence, before Lady

Icenway knew anything of the matter. Much therefore did he surprise her

when she found him in the conservatories of her mansion a week or two

after his arrival. The punishment of instant dismissal, with which at

first she haughtily threatened him, my lady thought fit, on reflection,

not to enforce. While he served her thus she knew he would not harm her

by a word, while, if he were expelled, chagrin might induce him to

reveal in a moment of exasperation what kind treatment would assist him

to conceal.

So he was allowed to remain on the premises, and had for his residence a

little cottage by the garden-wall which had been the domicile of some of

his predecessors in the same occupation. Here he lived absolutely alone,

and spent much of his leisure in reading, but the greater part in

watching the windows and lawns of his lady's house for glimpses of the

form of the child. It was for that child's sake that he abandoned the

tenets of the Roman Catholic Church in which he had been reared, and

became the most regular attendant at the services in the parish place of

worship hard by, where, sitting behind the pew of my lady, my lord, and

his stepson, the gardener could pensively study the traits and movements

of the youngster at only a few feet distance, without suspicion or

hindrance.

He filled his post for more than two years with a pleasure to himself

which, though mournful, was soothing, his lady never forgiving him, or

allowing him to be anything more than 'the gardener' to her child,

though once or twice the boy said, 'That gardener's eyes are so sad! Why

does he look so sadly at me?' He sunned himself in her scornfulness as

if it were love, and his ears drank in her curt monosyllables as though

they were rhapsodies of endearment. Strangely enough, the coldness with

which she treated her foreigner began to be the conduct of Lord Icenway

towards herself. It was a matter of great anxiety to him that there

should be a lineal successor to the title, yet no sign of that successor

appeared. One day he complained to her quite roughly of his fate. 'All

will go to that dolt of a cousin!' he cried. 'I'd sooner see my name and

place at the bottom of the sea!'

The lady soothed him and fell into thought, and did not recriminate. But

one day, soon after, she went down to the cottage of the gardener to

inquire how he was getting on, for he had been ailing of late, though,

as was supposed, not seriously. Though she often visited the poor, she

had never entered her under-gardener's home before, and was much

surprised-even grieved and dismayed-to find that he was too ill to rise

from his bed. She went back to her mansion and returned with some

delicate soup, that she might have a reason for seeing him.

His condition was so feeble and alarming, and his face so thin, that it

quite shocked her softening heart, and gazing upon him she said, 'You

must get well-you must! I have been hard with you-I know it. I will not

be so again.'

The sick and dying man-for he was dying indeed-took her hand and pressed

it to his lips. 'Too late, my darling, too late!' he murmured.

'But you must not die! Oh, you must not!' she said. And on an impulse

she bent down and whispered some words to him, blushing as she had

blushed in her maiden days.

He replied by a faint wan smile. 'Time was! . . . but that's past!' he

said, 'I must die!'

And die he did, a few days later, as the sun was going down behind the

garden-wall. Her harshness seemed to come trebly home to her then, and

she remorsefully exclaimed against herself in secret and alone. Her one

desire now was to erect some tribute to his memory, without its being

recognized as her handiwork. In the completion of this scheme there

arrived a few months later a handsome stained-glass window for the

church; and when it was unpacked and in course of erection Lord Icenway

strolled into the building with his wife.

'"Erected to his memory by his grieving widow,"' he said, reading the

legend on the glass. 'I didn't know that he had a wife; I've never seen

her.'

'Oh yes, you must have, Icenway; only you forget,' replied his lady

blandly. 'But she didn't live with him, and was seldom seen visiting

him, because there were differences between them; which, as is usually

the case, makes her all the more sorry now.'

'And go ruining herself by this expensive ruby-and-azure glass-design.'

'She is not poor, they say.'

As Lord Icenway grew older he became crustier and crustier, and whenever

he set eyes on his wife's boy by her other husband he would burst out

morosely, saying,

''Tis a very odd thing, my lady, that you could oblige your first

husband, and couldn't oblige me.'

'Ah! if I had only thought of it sooner!' she murmured.

'What?' said he.

'Nothing, dearest,' replied Lady Icenway.

The Colonel was the first to comment upon the Churchwarden's tale, by

saying that the fate of the poor fellow was rather a hard one.

The gentleman-tradesman could not see that his fate was at all too hard

for him. He was legally nothing to her, and he had served her

shamefully. If he had been really her husband it would have stood

differently.

The Bookworm remarked that Lord Icenway seemed to have been a very

unsuspicious man, with which view a fat member with a crimson face

agreed. It was true his wife was a very close-mouthed personage, which

made a difference. If she had spoken out recklessly her lord might have

been suspicious enough, as in the case of that lady who lived at

Stapleford Park in their great-grandfathers' time. Though there, to be

sure, considerations arose which made her husband view matters with much

philosophy.

A few of the members doubted the possibility of this.

The crimson man, who was a retired maltster of comfortable means,

ventru, and short in stature, cleared his throat, blew off his

superfluous breath, and proceeded to give the instance before alluded to

of such possibility, first apologizing for his heroine's lack of a

title, it never having been his good fortune to know many of the

nobility. To his style of narrative the following is only an

approximation.

DAME THE SIXTH-SQUIRE PETRICK'S LADY By the Crimson Maltster

Folk who are at all acquainted with the traditions of Stapleford Park

will not need to be told that in the middle of the last century it was

owned by that trump of mortgagees, Timothy Petrick, whose skill in

gaining possession of fair estates by granting sums of money on their

title-deeds has seldom if ever been equalled in our part of England.

Timothy was a lawyer by profession, and agent to several noblemen, by

which means his special line of business became opened to him by a sort

of revelation. It is said that a relative of his, a very deep thinker,

who afterwards had the misfortune to be transported for life for

mistaken notions on the signing of a will, taught him considerable legal

lore, which he creditably resolved never to throw away for the benefit

of other people, but to reserve it entirely for his own.

However, I have nothing in particular to say about his early and active

days, but rather of the time when, an old man, he had become the owner

of vast estates by the means I have signified-among them the great manor

of Stapleford, on which he lived, in the splendid old mansion now pulled

down; likewise estates at Marlott, estates near Sherton Abbas, nearly

all the borough of Millpool, and many properties near Ivell. Indeed, I

can't call to mind half his landed possessions, and I don't know that it

matters much at this time of day, seeing that he's been dead and gone

many years. It is said that when he bought an estate he would not decide

to pay the price till he had walked over every single acre with his own

two feet, and prodded the soil at every point with his own spud, to test

its quality, which, if we regard the extent of his properties, must have

been a stiff business for him.

At the time I am speaking of he was a man over eighty, and his son was

dead; but he had two grandsons, the eldest of whom, his namesake, was

married, and was shortly expecting issue. Just then the grandfather was

taken ill, for death, as it seemed, considering his age. By his will the

old man had created an entail (as I believe the lawyers call it),

devising the whole of the estates to his elder grandson and his issue

male, failing which, to his younger grandson and his issue male, failing

which, to remoter relatives, who need not be mentioned now.

While old Timothy Petrick was lying ill, his elder grandson's wife,

Annetta, gave birth to her expected child, who, as fortune would have

it, was a son. Timothy, her husband, through sprung of a scheming

family, was no great schemer himself; he was the single one of the

Petricks then living whose heart had ever been greatly moved by

sentiments which did not run in the groove of ambition; and on this

account he had not married well, as the saying is; his wife having been

the daughter of a family of no better beginnings than his own; that is

to say, her father was a country townsman of the professional class. But

she was a very pretty woman, by all accounts, and her husband had seen,

courted, and married her in a high tide of infatuation, after a very

short acquaintance, and with very little knowledge of her heart's

history. He had never found reason to regret his choice as yet, and his

anxiety for her recovery was great.

She was supposed to be out of danger, and herself and the child

progressing well, when there was a change for the worse, and she sank so

rapidly that she was soon given over. When she felt that she was about

to leave him, Annetta sent for her husband, and, on his speedy entry and

assurance that they were alone, she made him solemnly vow to give the

child every care in any circumstances that might arise, if it should

please Heaven to take her. This, of course, he readily promised. Then,

after some hesitation, she told him that she could not die with a

falsehood upon her soul, and dire deceit in her life; she must make a

terrible confession to him before her lips were sealed for ever. She

thereupon related an incident concerning the baby's parentage, which was

not as he supposed.

Timothy Petrick, though a quick-feeling man, was not of a sort to show

nerves outwardly; and he bore himself as heroically as he possibly could

do in this trying moment of his life. That same night his wife died; and

while she lay dead, and before her funeral, he hastened to the bedside

of his sick grandfather, and revealed to him all that had happened: the

baby's birth, his wife's confession, and her death, beseeching the aged

man, as he loved him, to bestir himself now, at the eleventh hour, and

alter his will so as to dish the intruder. Old Timothy, seeing matters

in the same light as his grandson, required no urging against allowing

anything to stand in the way of legitimate inheritance; he executed

another will, limiting the entail to Timothy his grandson, for life, and

his male heirs thereafter to be born; after them to his other grandson

Edward, and Edward's heirs. Thus the newly- born infant, who had been

the centre of so many hopes, was cut off and scorned as none of the

elect.

The old mortgagee lived but a short time after this, the excitement of

the discovery having told upon him considerably, and he was gathered to

his fathers like the most charitable man in his neighbourhood. Both wife

and grandparent being buried, Timothy settled down to his usual life as

well as he was able, mentally satisfied that he had by prompt action

defeated the consequences of such dire domestic treachery as had been

shown towards him, and resolving to marry a second time as soon as he

could satisfy himself in the choice of a wife.

But men do not always know themselves. The embittered state of Timothy

Petrick's mind bred in him by degrees such a hatred and mistrust of

womankind that, though several specimens of high attractiveness came

under his eyes, he could not bring himself to the point of proposing

marriage. He dreaded to take up the position of husband a second time,

discerning a trap in every petticoat, and a Slough of Despond in

possible heirs. 'What has happened once, when all seemed so fair, may

happen again,' he said to himself. 'I'll risk my name no more.' So he

abstained from marriage, and overcame his wish for a lineal descendant

to follow him in the ownership of Stapleford.

Timothy had scarcely noticed the unfortunate child that his wife had

borne, after arranging for a meagre fulfilment of his promise to her to

take care of the boy, by having him brought up in his house.

Occasionally, remembering this promise, he went and glanced at the

child, saw that he was doing well, gave a few special directions, and

again went his solitary way. Thus he and the child lived on in the

Stapleford mansion-house till two or three years had passed by. One day

he was walking in the garden, and by some accident left his snuff-box on

a bench. When he came back to find it he saw the little boy standing

there; he had escaped his nurse, and was making a plaything of the box,

in spite of the convulsive sneezings which the game brought in its

train. Then the man with the encrusted heart became interested in the

little fellow's persistence in his play under such discomforts; he

looked in the child's face, saw there his wife's countenance, though he

did not see his own, and fell into thought on the piteousness of

childhood-particularly of despised and rejected childhood, like this

before him.

From that hour, try as he would to counteract the feeling, the human

necessity to love something or other got the better of what he had

called his wisdom, and shaped itself in a tender anxiety for the

youngster Rupert. This name had been given him by his dying mother when,

at her request, the child was baptized in her chamber, lest he should

not survive for public baptism; and her husband had never thought of it

as a name of any significance till, about this time, he learnt by

accident that it was the name of the young Marquis of Christminster, son

of the Duke of Southwesterland, for whom Annetta had cherished warm

feelings before her marriage. Recollecting some wandering phrases in his

wife's last words, which he had not understood at the time, he perceived

at last that this was the person to whom she had alluded when affording

him a clue to little Rupert's history.

He would sit in silence for hours with the child, being no great speaker

at the best of times; but the boy, on his part, was too ready with his

tongue for any break in discourse to arise because Timothy Petrick had

nothing to say. After idling away his mornings in this manner, Petrick

would go to his own room and swear in long loud whispers, and walk up

and down, calling himself the most ridiculous dolt that ever lived, and

declaring that he would never go near the little fellow again; to which

resolve he would adhere for the space perhaps of a day. Such cases are

happily not new to human nature, but there never was a case in which a

man more completely befocled his former self than in this.

As the child grew up, Timothy's attachment to him grew deeper, till

Rupert became almost the sole object for which he lived. There had been

enough of the family ambition latent in him for Timothy Petrick to feel

a little envy when, some time before this date, his brother Edward had

been accepted by the Honourable Harriet Mountclere, daughter of the

second Viscount of that name and title; but having discovered, as I have

before stated, the paternity of his boy Rupert to lurk in even a higher

stratum of society, those envious feelings speedily dispersed. Indeed,

the more he reflected thereon, after his brother's aristocratic

marriage, the more content did he become. His late wife took softer

outline in his memory, as he thought of the lofty taste she had

displayed, though only a plain burgher's daughter, and the justification

for his weakness in loving the child-the justification that he had

longed for-was afforded now in the knowledge that the boy was by nature,

if not by name, a representative of one of the noblest houses in

England.

'She was a woman of grand instincts, after all,' he said to himself

proudly. 'To fix her choice upon the immediate successor in that ducal

line-it was finely conceived! Had he been of low blood like myself or my

relations she would scarce have deserved the harsh measure that I have

dealt out to her and her offspring. How much less, then, when such

grovelling tastes were farthest from her soul! The man Annetta loved was

noble, and my boy is noble in spite of me.'

The afterclap was inevitable, and it soon came. 'So far,' he reasoned,

'from cutting off this child from inheritance of my estates, as I have

done, I should have rejoiced in the possession of him! He is of pure

stock on one side at least, whilst in the ordinary run of affairs he

would have been a commoner to the bone.'

Being a man, whatever his faults, of good old beliefs in the divinity of

kings and those about 'em, the more he overhauled the case in this

light, the more strongly did his poor wife's conduct in improving the

blood and breed of the Petrick family win his heart. He considered what

ugly, idle, hard-drinking scamps many of his own relations had been; the

miserable scriveners, usurers, and pawnbrokers that he had numbered

among his forefathers, and the probability that some of their bad

qualities would have come out in a merely corporeal child, to give him

sorrow in his old age, turn his black hairs gray, his gray hairs white,

cut down every stick of timber, and Heaven knows what all, had he not,

like a skilful gardener, minded his grafting and changed the sort; till

at length this right-minded man fell down on his knees every night and

morning and thanked God that he was not as other meanly descended

fathers in such matters.

It was in the peculiar disposition of the Petrick family that the

satisfaction which ultimately settled in Timothy's breast found

nourishment. The Petricks had adored the nobility, and plucked them at

the same time. That excellent man Izaak Walton's feelings about fish

were much akin to those of old Timothy Petrick, and of his descendants

in a lesser degree, concerning the landed aristocracy. To torture and to

love simultaneously is a proceeding strange to reason, but possible to

practice, as these instances show.

Hence, when Timothy's brother Edward said slightingly one day that

Timothy's son was well enough, but that he had nothing but shops and

offices in his backward perspective, while his own children, should he

have any, would be far different, in possessing such a mother as the

Honourable Harriet, Timothy felt a bound of triumph within him at the

power he possessed of contradicting that statement if he chose.

So much was he interested in his boy in this new aspect that he now

began to read up chronicles of the illustrious house ennobled as the

Dukes of Southwesterland, from their very beginning in the glories of

the Restoration of the blessed Charles till the year of his own time. He

mentally noted their gifts from royalty, grants of lands, purchases,

intermarriages, plantings and buildings; more particularly their

political and military achievements, which had been great, and their

performances in art and letters, which had been by no means

contemptible. He studied prints of the portraits of that family, and

then, like a chemist watching a crystallization, began to examine young

Rupert's face for the unfolding of those historic curves and shades that

the painters Vandyke and Lely had perpetuated on canvas.

When the boy reached the most fascinating age of childhood, and his

shouts of laughter ran through Stapleford House from end to end, the

remorse that oppressed Timothy Petrick knew no bounds. Of all people in

the world this Rupert was the one on whom he could have wished the

estates to devolve; yet Rupert, by Timothy's own desperate strategy at

the time of his birth, had been ousted from all inheritance of them;

and, since he did not mean to remarry, the manors would pass to his

brother and his brother's children, who would be nothing to him, whose

boasted pedigree on one side would be nothing to his Rupert's.

Had he only left the first will of his grandfather alone!

His mind ran on the wills continually, both of which were in existence,

and the first, the cancelled one, in his own possession. Night after

night, when the servants were all abed, and the click of safety locks

sounded as loud as a crash, he looked at that first will, and wished it

had been the second and not the first.

The crisis came at last. One night, after having enjoyed the boy's

company for hours, he could no longer bear that his beloved Rupert

should be dispossessed, and he committed the felonious deed of altering

the date of the earlier will to a fortnight later, which made its

execution appear subsequent to the date of the second will already

proved. He then boldly propounded the first will as the second.

His brother Edward submitted to what appeared to be not only

incontestible fact, but a far more likely disposition of old Timothy's

property; for, like many others, he had been much surprised at the

limitations defined in the other will, having no clue to their cause. He

joined his brother Timothy in setting aside the hitherto accepted

document, and matters went on in their usual course, there being no

dispositions in the substituted will differing from those in the other,

except such as related to a future which had not yet arrived.

The years moved on. Rupert had not yet revealed the anxiously expected

historic lineaments which should foreshadow the political abilities of

the ducal family aforesaid when it happened on a certain day that

Timothy Petrick made the acquaintance of a well-known physician of

Budmouth, who had been the medical adviser and friend of the late Mrs.

Petrick's family for many years; though after Annetta's marriage, and

consequent removal to Stapleford, he had seen no more of her, the

neighbouring practitioner who attended the Petricks having then become

her doctor as a matter of course. Timothy was impressed by the insight

and knowledge disclosed in the conversation of the Budmouth physician,

and the acquaintance ripening to intimacy, the physician alluded to a

form of hallucination to which Annetta's mother and grandmother had been

subject-that of believing in certain dreams as realities. He delicately

inquired if Timothy had ever noticed anything of the sort in his wife

during her lifetime; he, the physician, had fancied that he discerned

germs of the same peculiarity in Annetta when he attended her in her

girlhood. One explanation begat another, till the dumbfoundered Timothy

Petrick was persuaded in his own mind that Annetta's confession to him

had been based on a delusion.

'You look down in the mouth?' said the doctor, pausing.

'A bit unmanned. 'Tis unexpected-like,' sighed Timothy.

But he could hardly believe it possible; and, thinking it best to be

frank with the doctor, told him the whole story which, till now, he had

never related to living man, save his dying grandfather. To his

surprise, the physician informed him that such a form of delusion was

precisely what he would have expected from Annetta's antecedents at such

a physical crisis in her life.

Petrick prosecuted his inquiries elsewhere; and the upshot of his

labours was, briefly, that a comparison of dates and places showed

irrefutably that his poor wife's assertion could not possibly have

foundation in fact. The young Marquis of her tender passion-a highly

moral and bright-minded nobleman-had gone abroad the year before

Annetta's marriage, and had not returned till after her death. The young

girl's love for him had been a delicate ideal dream-no more.

Timothy went home, and the boy ran out to meet him; whereupon a

strangely dismal feeling of discontent took possession of his soul.

After all, then, there was nothing but plebeian blood in the veins of

the heir to his name and estates; he was not to be succeeded by a noble-

natured line. To be sure, Rupert was his son; but that glory and halo he

believed him to have inherited from the ages, outshining that of his

brother's children, had departed from Rupert's brow for ever; he could

no longer read history in the boy's face, and centuries of domination in

his eyes.

His manner towards his son grew colder and colder from that day forward;

and it was with bitterness of heart that he discerned the characteristic

features of the Petricks unfolding themselves by degrees. Instead of the

elegant knife-edged nose, so typical of the Dukes of Southwesterland,

there began to appear on his face the broad nostril and hollow bridge of

his grandfather Timothy. No illustrious line of politicians was promised

a continuator in that graying blue eye, for it was acquiring the

expression of the orb of a particularly objectionable cousin of his own;

and, instead of the mouth-curves which had thrilled Parliamentary

audiences in speeches now bound in calf in every well- ordered library,

there was the bull-lip of that very uncle of his who had had the

misfortune with the signature of a gentleman's will, and had been

transported for life in consequence.

To think how he himself, too, had sinned in this same matter of a will

for this mere fleshly reproduction of a wretched old uncle whose very

name he wished to forget! The boy's Christian name, even, was an

imposture and an irony, for it implied hereditary force and brilliancy

to which he plainly would never attain. The consolation of real sonship

was always left him certainly; but he could not help groaning to

himself, 'Why cannot a son be one's own and somebody else's likewise!'

The Marquis was shortly afterwards in the neighbourhood of Stapleford,

and Timothy Petrick met him, and eyed his noble countenance admiringly.

The next day, when Petrick was in his study, somebody knocked at the

door.

'Who's there?'

'Rupert.'

'I'll Rupert thee, you young impostor! Say, only a poor commonplace

Petrick!' his father grunted. 'Why didn't you have a voice like the

Marquis's I saw yesterday?' he continued, as the lad came in. 'Why

haven't you his looks, and a way of commanding, as if you'd done it for

centuries-hey?'

'Why? How can you expect it, father, when I'm not related to him?'

'Ugh! Then you ought to be!' growled his father.

As the narrator paused, the surgeon, the Colonel, the historian, the

Spark, and others exclaimed that such subtle and instructive

psychological studies as this (now that psychology was so much in

demand) were precisely the tales they desired, as members of a

scientific club, and begged the master-maltster to tell another curious

mental delusion.

The maltster shook his head, and feared he was not genteel enough to

tell another story with a sufficiently moral tone in it to suit the

club; he would prefer to leave the next to a better man.

The Colonel had fallen into reflection. True it was, he observed, that

the more dreamy and impulsive nature of woman engendered within her

erratic fancies, which often started her on strange tracks, only to

abandon them in sharp revulsion at the dictates of her common sense-

sometimes with ludicrous effect. Events which had caused a lady's action

to set in a particular direction might continue to enforce the same line

of conduct, while she, like a mangle, would start on a sudden in a

contrary course, and end where she began.

The Vice-President laughed, and applauded the Colonel, adding that there

surely lurked a story somewhere behind that sentiment, if he were not

much mistaken.

The Colonel fixed his face to a good narrative pose, and went on without

further preamble.

DAME THE SEVENTH-ANNA, LADY BAXBY By the Colonel

It was in the time of the great Civil War-if I should not rather, as a

loyal subject, call it, with Clarendon, the Great Rebellion. It was, I

say, at that unhappy period of our history, that towards the autumn of a

particular year, the Parliament forces sat down before Sherton Castle

with over seven thousand foot and four pieces of cannon. The Castle, as

we all know, was in that century owned and occupied by one of the Earls

of Severn, and garrisoned for his assistance by a certain noble Marquis

who commanded the King's troops in these parts. The said Earl, as well

as the young Lord Baxby, his eldest son, were away from home just now,

raising forces for the King elsewhere. But there were present in the

Castle, when the besiegers arrived before it, the son's fair wife Lady

Baxby, and her servants, together with some friends and near relatives

of her husband; and the defence was so good and well-considered that

they anticipated no great danger.

The Parliamentary forces were also commanded by a noble lord-for the

nobility were by no means, at this stage of the war, all on the King's

side-and it had been observed during his approach in the night-time, and

in the morning when the reconnoitring took place, that he appeared sad

and much depressed. The truth was that, by a strange freak of destiny,

it had come to pass that the stronghold he was set to reduce was the

home of his own sister, whom he had tenderly loved during her

maidenhood, and whom he loved now, in spite of the estrangement which

had resulted from hostilities with her husband's family. He believed,

too, that, notwithstanding this cruel division, she still was sincerely

attached to him.

His hesitation to point his ordnance at the walls was inexplicable to

those who were strangers to his family history. He remained in the field

on the north side of the Castle (called by his name to this day because

of his encampment there) till it occurred to him to send a messenger to

his sister Anna with a letter, in which he earnestly requested her, as

she valued her life, to steal out of the place by the little gate to the

south, and make away in that direction to the residence of some friends.

Shortly after he saw, to his great surprise, coming from the front of

the Castle walls a lady on horseback, with a single attendant. She rode

straight forward into the field, and up the slope to where his army and

tents were spread. It was not till she got quite near that he discerned

her to be his sister Anna; and much was he alarmed that she should have

run such risk as to sally out in the face of his forces without

knowledge of their proceedings, when at any moment their first discharge

might have burst forth, to her own destruction in such exposure. She

dismounted before she was quite close to him, and he saw that her

familiar face, though pale, was not at all tearful, as it would have

been in their younger days. Indeed, if the particulars as handed down

are to be believed, he was in a more tearful state than she, in his

anxiety about her. He called her into his tent, out of the gaze of those

around; for though many of the soldiers were honest and serious- minded

men, he could not bear that she who had been his dear companion in

childhood should be exposed to curious observation in this her great

grief.

When they were alone in the tent he clasped her in his arms, for he had

not seen her since those happier days when, at the commencement of the

war, her husband and himself had been of the same mind about the

arbitrary conduct of the King, and had little dreamt that they would not

go to extremes together. She was the calmest of the two, it is said, and

was the first to speak connectedly.

'William, I have come to you,' said she, 'but not to save myself as you

suppose. Why, oh, why do you persist in supporting this disloyal cause,

and grieving us so?'

'Say not that,' he replied hastily. 'If truth hides at the bottom of a

well, why should you suppose justice to be in high places? I am for the

right at any price. Anna, leave the Castle; you are my sister; come

away, my dear, and save thy life!'

'Never!' says she. 'Do you plan to carry out this attack, and level the

Castle indeed?'

'Most certainly I do,' says he. 'What meaneth this army around us if not

so?'

'Then you will find the bones of your sister buried in the ruins you

cause!' said she. And without another word she turned and left him.

'Anna-abide with me!' he entreated. 'Blood is thicker than water, and

what is there in common between you and your husband now?'

But she shook her head and would not hear him and hastening out, mounted

her horse, and returned towards the Castle as she had come. Ay, many's

the time when I have been riding to hounds across that field that I have

thought of that scene!

When she had quite gone down the field, and over the intervening ground,

and round the bastion, so that he could no longer even see the tip of

her mare's white tail, he was much more deeply moved by emotions

concerning her and her welfare than he had been while she was before

him. He wildly reproached himself that he had not detained her by force

for her own good, so that, come what might, she would be under his

protection and not under that of her husband, whose impulsive nature

rendered him too open to instantaneous impressions and sudden changes of

plan; he was now acting in this cause and now in that, and lacked the

cool judgment necessary for the protection of a woman in these troubled

times. Her brother thought of her words again and again, and sighed, and

even considered if a sister were not of more value than a principle, and

if he would not have acted more naturally in throwing in his lot with

hers.

The delay of the besiegers in attacking the Castle was said to be

entirely owing to this distraction on the part of their leader, who

remained on the spot attempting some indecisive operations, and

parleying with the Marquis, then in command, with far inferior forces,

within the Castle. It never occurred to him that in the meantime the

young Lady Baxby, his sister, was in much the same mood as himself. Her

brother's familiar voice and eyes, much worn and fatigued by keeping the

field, and by family distractions on account of this unhappy feud, rose

upon her vision all the afternoon, and as day waned she grew more and

more Parliamentarian in her principles, though the only arguments which

had addressed themselves to her were those of family ties.

Her husband, General Lord Baxby, had been expected to return all the day

from his excursion into the east of the county, a message having been

sent to him informing him of what had happened at home; and in the

evening he arrived with reinforcements in unexpected numbers. Her

brother retreated before these to a hill near Ivell, four or five miles

off, to afford the men and himself some repose. Lord Baxby duly placed

his forces, and there was no longer any immediate danger. By this time

Lady Baxby's feelings were more Parliamentarian than ever, and in her

fancy the fagged countenance of her brother, beaten back by her husband,

seemed to reproach her for heartlessness. When her husband entered her

apartment, ruddy and boisterous, and full of hope, she received him but

sadly; and upon his casually uttering some slighting words about her

brother's withdrawal, which seemed to convey an imputation upon his

courage, she resented them, and retorted that he, Lord Baxby himself,

had been against the Court-party at first, where it would be much more

to his credit if he were at present, and showing her brother's

consistency of opinion, instead of supporting the lying policy of the

King (as she called it) for the sake of a barren principle of loyalty,

which was but an empty expression when a King was not at one with his

people. The dissension grew bitter between them, reaching to little less

than a hot quarrel, both being quick-tempered souls.

Lord Baxby was weary with his long day's march and other excitements,

and soon retired to bed. His lady followed some time after. Her husband

slept profoundly, but not so she; she sat brooding by the window-slit,

and lifting the curtain looked forth upon the hills without.

In the silence between the footfalls of the sentinels she could hear

faint sounds of her brother's camp on the distant hills, where the

soldiery had hardly settled as yet into their bivouac since their

evening's retreat. The first frosts of autumn had touched the grass, and

shrivelled the more delicate leaves of the creepers; and she thought of

William sleeping on the chilly ground, under the strain of these

hardships. Tears flooded her eyes as she returned to her husband's

imputations upon his courage, as if there could be any doubt of Lord

William's courage after what he had done in the past days.

Lord Baxby's long and reposeful breathings in his comfortable bed vexed

her now, and she came to a determination on an impulse. Hastily lighting

a taper, she wrote on a scrap of paper:

'Blood is thicker than water, dear William-I will come;' and with this

in her hand, she went to the door of the room, and out upon the stairs;

on second thoughts turning back for a moment, to put on her husband's

hat and cloak-not the one he was daily wearing-that if seen in the

twilight she might at a casual glance appear as some lad or hanger-on of

one of the household women; thus accoutred she descended a flight of

circular stairs, at the bottom of which was a door opening upon the

terrace towards the west, in the direction of her brother's position.

Her object was to slip out without the sentry seeing her, get to the

stables, arouse one of the varlets, and send him ahead of her along the

highway with the note to warn her brother of her approach, to throw in

her lot with his.

She was still in the shadow of the wall on the west terrace, waiting for

the sentinel to be quite out of the way, when her ears were greeted by a

voice, saying, from the adjoining shade-

'Here I be!'

The tones were the tones of a woman. Lady Baxby made no reply, and stood

close to the wall.

'My Lord Baxby,' the voice continued; and she could recognize in it the

local accent of some girl from the little town of Sherton, close at

hand. 'I be tired of waiting, my dear Lord Baxby! I was afeard you would

never come!'

Lady Baxby flushed hot to her toes.

'How the wench loves him!' she said to herself, reasoning from the tones

of the voice, which were plaintive and sweet and tender as a bird's. She

changed from the home-hating truant to the strategic wife in one moment.

'Hist!' she said.

'My lord, you told me ten o'clock, and 'tis near twelve now,' continues

the other. 'How could ye keep me waiting so if you love me as you said?

I should have stuck to my lover in the Parliament troops if it had not

been for thee, my dear lord!'

There was not the least doubt that Lady Baxby had been mistaken for her

husband by this intriguing damsel. Here was a pretty underhand business!

Here were sly manoeuvrings! Here was faithlessness! Here was a precious

assignation surprised in the midst! Her wicked husband, whom till this

very moment she had ever deemed the soul of good faith-how could he!

Lady Baxby precipitately retreated to the door in the turret, closed it,

locked it, and ascended one round of the staircase, where there was a

loophole. 'I am not coming! I, Lord Baxby, despise ye and all your

wanton tribe!' she hissed through the opening; and then crept upstairs,

as firmly rooted in Royalist principles as any man in the Castle.

Her husband still slept the sleep of the weary, well-fed, and well-

drunken, if not of the just; and Lady Baxby quickly disrobed herself

without assistance-being, indeed, supposed by her woman to have retired

to rest long ago. Before lying down, she noiselessly locked the door and

placed the key under her pillow. More than that, she got a staylace,

and, creeping up to her lord, in great stealth tied the lace in a tight

knot to one of his long locks of hair, attaching the other end of the

lace to the bedpost; for, being tired herself now, she feared she might

sleep heavily; and, if her husband should wake, this would be a delicate

hint that she had discovered all.

It is added that, to make assurance trebly sure, her gentle ladyship,

when she had lain down to rest, held her lord's hand in her own during

the whole of the night. But this is old-wives' gossip, and not

corroborated. What Lord Baxby thought and said when he awoke the next

morning, and found himself so strangely tethered, is likewise only

matter of conjecture; though there is no reason to suppose that his rage

was great. The extent of his culpability as regards the intrigue was

this much; that, while halting at a cross-road near Sherton that day, he

had flirted with a pretty young woman, who seemed nothing loth, and had

invited her to the Castle terrace after dark-an invitation which he

quite forgot on his arrival home.

The subsequent relations of Lord and Lady Baxby were not again greatly

embittered by quarrels, so far as is known; though the husband's conduct

in later life was occasionally eccentric, and the vicissitudes of his

public career culminated in long exile. The siege of the Castle was not

regularly undertaken till two or three years later than the time I have

been describing, when Lady Baxby and all the women therein, except the

wife of the then Governor, had been removed to safe distance. That

memorable siege of fifteen days by Fairfax, and the surrender of the old

place on an August evening, is matter of history, and need not be told

by me.

The Man of Family spoke approvingly across to the Colonel when the Club

had done smiling, declaring that the story was an absolutely faithful

page of history, as he had good reason to know, his own people having

been engaged in that well-known scrimmage. He asked if the Colonel had

ever heard the equally well-authenticated, though less martial tale of a

certain Lady Penelope, who lived in the same century, and not a score of

miles from the same place?

The Colonel had not heard it, nor had anybody except the local

historian; and the inquirer was induced to proceed forthwith.

DAME THE EIGHTH-THE LADY PENELOPE By the Man of Family

In going out of Casterbridge by the low-lying road which eventually

conducts to the town of Ivell, you see on the right hand an ivied manor-

house, flanked by battlemented towers, and more than usually

distinguished by the size of its many mullioned windows. Though still of

good capacity, the building is much reduced from its original grand

proportions; it has, moreover, been shorn of the fair estate which once

appertained to its lord, with the exception of a few acres of park-land

immediately around the mansion. This was formerly the seat of the

ancient and knightly family of the Drenghards, or Drenkhards, now

extinct in the male line, whose name, according to the local chronicles,

was interpreted to mean Strenuus Miles, vel Potator, though certain

members of the family were averse to the latter signification, and a

duel was fought by one of them on that account, as is well known. With

this, however, we are not now concerned.

In the early part of the reign of the first King James, there was

visiting near this place of the Drenghards a lady of noble family and

extraordinary beauty. She was of the purest descent; ah, there's seldom

such blood nowadays as hers! She possessed no great wealth, it was said,

but was sufficiently endowed. Her beauty was so perfect, and her manner

so entrancing, that suitors seemed to spring out of the ground wherever

she went, a sufficient cause of anxiety to the Countess her mother, her

only living parent. Of these there were three in particular, whom

neither her mother's complaints of prematurity, nor the ready raillery

of the maiden herself, could effectually put off. The said gallants were

a certain Sir John Gale, a Sir William Hervy, and the well-known Sir

George Drenghard, one of the Drenghard family before- mentioned. They

had, curiously enough, all been equally honoured with the distinction of

knighthood, and their schemes for seeing her were manifold, each fearing

that one of the others would steal a march over himself. Not content

with calling, on every imaginable excuse, at the house of the relative

with whom she sojourned, they intercepted her in rides and in walks; and

if any one of them chanced to surprise another in the act of paying her

marked attentions, the encounter often ended in an altercation of great

violence. So heated and impassioned, indeed, would they become, that the

lady hardly felt herself safe in their company at such times,

notwithstanding that she was a brave and buxom damsel, not easily put

out, and with a daring spirit of humour in her composition, if not of

coquetry.

At one of these altercations, which had place in her relative's grounds,

and was unusually bitter, threatening to result in a duel, she found it

necessary to assert herself. Turning haughtily upon the pair of

disputants, she declared that whichever should be the first to break the

peace between them, no matter what the provocation, that man should

never be admitted to her presence again; and thus would she effectually

stultify the aggressor by making the promotion of a quarrel a distinct

bar to its object.

While the two knights were wearing rather a crest-fallen appearance at

her reprimand, the third, never far off, came upon the scene, and she

repeated her caveat to him also. Seeing, then, how great was the concern

of all at her peremptory mood, the lady's manner softened, and she said

with a roguish smile-

'Have patience, have patience, you foolish men! Only bide your time

quietly, and, in faith, I will marry you all in turn!'

They laughed heartily at this sally, all three together, as though they

were the best of friends; at which she blushed, and showed some

embarrassment, not having realized that her arch jest would have sounded

so strange when uttered. The meeting which resulted thus, however, had

its good effect in checking the bitterness of their rivalry; and they

repeated her speech to their relatives and acquaintance with a hilarious

frequency and publicity that the lady little divined, or she might have

blushed and felt more embarrassment still.

In the course of time the position resolved itself, and the beauteous

Lady Penelope (as she was called) made up her mind; her choice being the

eldest of the three knights, Sir George Drenghard, owner of the mansion

aforesaid, which thereupon became her home; and her husband being a

pleasant man, and his family, though not so noble, of as good repute as

her own, all things seemed to show that she had reckoned wisely in

honouring him with her preference.

But what may lie behind the still and silent veil of the future none can

foretell. In the course of a few months the husband of her choice died

of his convivialities (as if, indeed, to bear out his name), and the

Lady Penelope was left alone as mistress of his house. By this time she

had apparently quite forgotten her careless declaration to her lovers

collectively; but the lovers themselves had not forgotten it; and, as

she would now be free to take a second one of them, Sir John Gale

appeared at her door as early in her widowhood as it was proper and

seemly to do so.

She gave him little encouragement; for, of the two remaining, her best

beloved was Sir William, of whom, if the truth must be told, she had

often thought during her short married life. But he had not yet

reappeared. Her heart began to be so much with him now that she

contrived to convey to him, by indirect hints through his friends, that

she would not be displeased by a renewal of his former attentions. Sir

William, however, misapprehended her gentle signalling, and from

excellent, though mistaken motives of delicacy, delayed to intrude

himself upon her for a long time. Meanwhile Sir John, now created a

baronet, was unremitting, and she began to grow somewhat piqued at the

backwardness of him she secretly desired to be forward.

'Never mind,' her friends said jestingly to her (knowing of her humorous

remark, as everybody did, that she would marry them all three if they

would have patience)-'never mind; why hesitate upon the order of them?

Take 'em as they come.'

This vexed her still more, and regretting deeply, as she had often done,

that such a careless speech should ever have passed her lips, she fairly

broke down under Sir John's importunity, and accepted his hand. They

were married on a fine spring morning, about the very time at which the

unfortunate Sir William discovered her preference for him, and was

beginning to hasten home from a foreign court to declare his unaltered

devotion to her. On his arrival in England he learnt the sad truth.

If Sir William suffered at her precipitancy under what she had deemed

his neglect, the Lady Penelope herself suffered more. She had not long

been the wife of Sir John Gale before he showed a disposition to

retaliate upon her for the trouble and delay she had put him to in

winning her. With increasing frequency he would tell her that, as far as

he could perceive, she was an article not worth such labour as he had

bestowed in obtaining it, and such snubbings as he had taken from his

rivals on the same account. These and other cruel things he repeated

till he made the lady weep sorely, and wellnigh broke her spirit, though

she had formerly been such a mettlesome dame. By degrees it became

perceptible to all her friends that her life was a very unhappy one; and

the fate of the fair woman seemed yet the harder in that it was her own

stately mansion, left to her sole use by her first husband, which her

second had entered into and was enjoying, his being but a mean and

meagre erection.

But such is the flippancy of friends that when she met them, and

secretly confided her grief to their ears, they would say cheerily,

'Lord, never mind, my dear; there's a third to come yet!'-at which

maladroit remark she would show much indignation, and tell them they

should know better than to trifle on so solemn a theme. Yet that the

poor lady would have been only too happy to be the wife of the third,

instead of Sir John whom she had taken, was painfully obvious, and much

she was blamed for her foolish choice by some people. Sir William,

however, had returned to foreign cities on learning the news of her

marriage, and had never been heard of since.

Two or three years of suffering were passed by Lady Penelope as the

despised and chidden wife of this man Sir John, amid regrets that she

had so greatly mistaken him, and sighs for one whom she thought never to

see again, till it chanced that her husband fell sick of some slight

ailment. One day after this, when she was sitting in his room, looking

from the window upon the expanse in front, she beheld, approaching the

house on foot, a form she seemed to know well. Lady Penelope withdrew

silently from the sickroom, and descended to the hall, whence, through

the doorway, she saw entering between the two round towers, which at

that time flanked the gateway, Sir William Hervy, as she had surmised,

but looking thin and travel-worn. She advanced into the courtyard to

meet him.

'I was passing through Casterbridge,' he said, with faltering deference,

'and I walked out to ask after your ladyship's health. I felt that I

could do no less; and, of course, to pay my respects to your good

husband, my heretofore acquaintance . . . But oh, Penelope, th'st look

sick and sorry!'

'I am heartsick, that's all,' said she.

They could see in each other an emotion which neither wished to express,

and they stood thus a long time with tears in their eyes.

'He does not treat 'ee well, I hear,' said Sir William in a low voice.

'May God in Heaven forgive him; but it is asking a great deal!'

'Hush, hush!' said she hastily.

'Nay, but I will speak what I may honestly say,' he answered. 'I am not

under your roof, and my tongue is free. Why didst not wait for me,

Penelope, or send to me a more overt letter? I would have travelled

night and day to come!'

'Too late, William; you must not ask it,' said she, endeavouring to

quiet him as in old times. 'My husband just now is unwell. He will grow

better in a day or two, maybe. You must call again and see him before

you leave Casterbridge.'

As she said this their eyes met. Each was thinking of her lightsome

words about taking the three men in turn; each thought that two-thirds

of that promise had been fulfilled. But, as if it were unpleasant to her

that this recollection should have arisen, she spoke again quickly:

'Come again in a day or two, when my husband will be well enough to see

you.'

Sir William departed without entering the house, and she returned to Sir

John's chamber. He, rising from his pillow, said, 'To whom hast been

talking, wife, in the courtyard? I heard voices there.'

She hesitated, and he repeated the question more impatiently.

'I do not wish to tell you now,' said she.

'But I wooll know!' said he.

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