Mrs. Stone paused at the door, knocked, and was admitted by Selina's

mother, who took her visitor at once into the parlour on the left hand,

where a table was partly spread for supper. On the 'beaufet' against the

wall stood probably the only object which would have attracted the eye

of a local stranger in an otherwise ordinarily furnished room, a great

plum-cake guarded as if it were a curiosity by a glass shade of the kind

seen in museums-square, with a wooden back like those enclosing stuffed

specimens of rare feather or fur. This was the mummy of the cake

intended in earlier days for the wedding-feast of Selina and the

soldier, which had been religiously and lovingly preserved by the former

as a testimony to her intentional respectability in spite of an untoward

subsequent circumstance, which will be mentioned. This relic was now as

dry as a brick, and seemed to belong to a pre-existent civilization.

Till quite recently, Selina had been in the habit of pausing before it

daily, and recalling the accident whose consequences had thrown a shadow

over her life ever since-that of which the water-drawers had spoken-the

sudden news one morning that the Route had come for the �-th Dragoons,

two days only being the interval before departure; the hurried

consultation as to what should be done, the second time of asking being

past but not the third; and the decision that it would be unwise to

solemnize matrimony in such haphazard circumstances, even if it were

possible, which was doubtful.

Before the fire the young woman in question was now seated on a low

stool, in the stillness of reverie, and a toddling boy played about the

floor around her.

'Ah, Mrs. Stone!' said Selina, rising slowly. 'How kind of you to come

in. You'll bide to supper? Mother has told you the strange news, of

course?'

'No. But I heard it outside, that is, that you'd had a letter from Mr.

Clark-Sergeant-Major Clark, as they say he is now-and that he's coming

to make it up with 'ee.'

'Yes; coming to-night-all the way from the north of England where he's

quartered. I don't know whether I'm happy or-frightened at it. Of course

I always believed that if he was alive he'd come and keep his solemn vow

to me. But when it is printed that a man is killed-what can you think?'

'It was printed?'

'Why, yes. After the Battle of the Alma the book of the names of the

killed and wounded was nailed up against Casterbridge Town Hall door.

'Twas on a Saturday, and I walked there o' purpose to read and see for

myself; for I'd heard that his name was down. There was a crowd of

people round the book, looking for the names of relations; and I can

mind that when they saw me they made way for me-knowing that we'd been

just going to be married-and that, as you may say, I belonged to him.

Well, I reached up my arm, and turned over the farrels of the book, and

under the "killed" I read his surname, but instead of "John" they'd

printed "James," and I thought 'twas a mistake, and that it must be he.

Who could have guessed there were two nearly of one name in one

regiment.'

'Well-he's coming to finish the wedding of 'ee as may be said; so never

mind, my dear. All's well that ends well.'

'That's what he seems to say. But then he has not heard yet about Mr.

Miller; and that's what rather terrifies me. Luckily my marriage with

him next week was to have been by licence, and not banns, as in John's

case; and it was not so well known on that account. Still, I don't know

what to think.'

'Everything seems to come just 'twixt cup and lip with 'ee, don't it

now, Miss Paddock. Two weddings broke off-'tis odd! How came you to

accept Mr. Miller, my dear?'

'He's been so good and faithful! Not minding about the child at all; for

he knew the rights of the story. He's dearly fond o' Johnny, you know-

just as if 'twere his own-isn't he, my duck? Do Mr. Miller love you or

don't he?'

'Iss! An' I love Mr. Miller,' said the toddler.

'Well, you see, Mrs. Stone, he said he'd make me a comfortable home; and

thinking 'twould be a good thing for Johnny, Mr. Miller being so much

better off than me, I agreed at last, just as a widow might-which is

what I have always felt myself; ever since I saw what I thought was

John's name printed there. I hope John will forgive me!'

'So he will forgive 'ee, since 'twas no manner of wrong to him. He ought

to have sent 'ee a line, saying 'twas another man.'

Selina's mother entered. 'We've not known of this an hour, Mrs. Stone,'

she said. 'The letter was brought up from Lower Mellstock Post-office by

one of the school children, only this afternoon. Mr. Miller was coming

here this very night to settle about the wedding doings. Hark! Is that

your father? Or is it Mr. Miller already come?'

The footsteps entered the porch; there was a brushing on the mat, and

the door of the room sprung back to disclose a rubicund man about thirty

years of age, of thriving master-mechanic appearance and obviously

comfortable temper. On seeing the child, and before taking any notice

whatever of the elders, the comer made a noise like the crowing of a

cock and flapped his arms as if they were wings, a method of entry which

had the unqualified admiration of Johnny.

'Yes-it is he,' said Selina constrainedly advancing.

'What-were you all talking about me, my dear?' said the genial young man

when he had finished his crowing and resumed human manners. 'Why what's

the matter,' he went on. 'You look struck all of a heap.' Mr. Miller

spread an aspect of concern over his own face, and drew a chair up to

the fire.

'O mother, would you tell Mr. Miller, if he don't know?'

'Mister Miller! and going to be married in six days!' he interposed.

'Ah-he don't know it yet!' murmured Mrs. Paddock.

'Know what?'

'Well-John Clark-now Sergeant-Major Clark-wasn't shot at Alma after all.

'Twas another of almost the same name.'

'Now that's interesting! There were several cases like that.'

'And he's home again; and he's coming here to-night to see her.'

'Whatever shall I say, that he may not be offended with what I've done?'

interposed Selina.

'But why should it matter if he be?'

'O! I must agree to be his wife if he forgives me-of course I must.'

'Must! But why not say nay, Selina, even if he do forgive 'ee?'

'O no! How can I without being wicked? You were very very kind, Mr.

Miller, to ask me to have you; no other man would have done it after

what had happened; and I agreed, even though I did not feel half so warm

as I ought. Yet it was entirely owing to my believing him in the grave,

as I knew that if he were not he would carry out his promise; and this

shows that I was right in trusting him.'

'Yes . . . He must be a goodish sort of fellow,' said Mr. Miller, for a

moment so impressed with the excellently faithful conduct of the

sergeant-major of dragoons that he disregarded its effect upon his own

position. He sighed slowly and added, 'Well, Selina, 'tis for you to

say. I love you, and I love the boy; and there's my chimney-corner and

sticks o' furniture ready for 'ee both.'

'Yes, I know! But I mustn't hear it any more now,' murmured Selina

quickly. 'John will be here soon. I hope he'll see how it all was when I

tell him. If so be I could have written it to him it would have been

better.'

'You think he doesn't know a single word about our having been on the

brink o't. But perhaps it's the other way-he's heard of it and that may

have brought him.

'Ah-perhaps he has!' she said brightening. 'And already forgives me.'

'If not, speak out straight and fair, and tell him exactly how it fell

out. If he's a man he'll see it.'

'O he's a man true enough. But I really do think I shan't have to tell

him at all, since you've put it to me that way!'

As it was now Johnny's bedtime he was carried upstairs, and when Selina

came down again her mother observed with some anxiety, 'I fancy Mr.

Clark must be here soon if he's coming; and that being so, perhaps Mr.

Miller wouldn't mind-wishing us good-night! since you are so determined

to stick to your sergeant-major.' A little bitterness bubbled amid the

closing words. 'It would be less awkward, Mr. Miller not being here-if

he will allow me to say it.'

'To be sure; to be sure,' the master-wheelwright exclaimed with instant

conviction, rising alertly from his chair. 'Lord bless my soul,' he

said, taking up his hat and stick, 'and we to have been married in six

days! But Selina-you're right. You do belong to the child's father since

he's alive. I'll try to make the best of it.'

Before the generous Miller had got further there came a knock to the

door accompanied by the noise of wheels.

'I thought I heard something driving up!' said Mrs Paddock.

They heard Mr. Paddock, who had been smoking in the room opposite, rise

and go to the door, and in a moment a voice familiar enough to Selina

was audibly saying, 'At last I am here again-not without many

interruptions! How is it with 'ee, Mr. Paddock? And how is she? Thought

never to see me again, I suppose?'

A step with a cCHANGElink of spurs in it struck upon the entry floor.

'Danged if I bain't catched!' murmured Mr. Miller, forgetting company-

speech. 'Never mind-I may as well meet him here as elsewhere; and I

should like to see the chap, and make friends with en, as he seems one

o' the right sort.' He returned to the fireplace just as the sergeant-

major was ushered in. III

He was a good specimen of the long-service soldier of those days; a not

unhandsome man, with a certain undemonstrative dignity, which some might

have said to be partly owing to the stiffness of his uniform about his

neck, the high stock being still worn. He was much stouter than when

Selina had parted from him. Although she had not meant to be

demonstrative she ran across to him directly she saw him, and he held

her in his arms and kissed her.

Then in much agitation she whispered something to him, at which he

seemed to be much surprised.

'He's just put to bed,' she continued. 'You can go up and see him. I

knew you'd come if you were alive! But I had quite gi'd you up for dead.

You've been home in England ever since the war ended?'

'Yes, dear.'

'Why didn't you come sooner?'

'That's just what I ask myself! Why was I such a sappy as not to hurry

here the first day I set foot on shore! Well, who'd have thought it-you

are as pretty as ever!'

He relinquished her to peep upstairs a little way, where, by looking

through the ballusters, he could see Johnny's cot just within an open

door. On his stepping down again Mr. Miller was preparing to depart.

'Now, what's this? I am sorry to see anybody going the moment I've

come,' expostulated the sergeant-major. 'I thought we might make an

evening of it. There's a nine gallon cask o' "Phoenix" beer outside in

the trap, and a ham, and half a rawmil' cheese; for I thought you might

be short o' forage in a lonely place like this; and it struck me we

might like to ask in a neighbour or two. But perhaps it would be taking

a liberty?'

'O no, not at all,' said Mr. Paddock, who was now in the room, in a

judicial measured manner. 'Very thoughtful of 'ee, only 'twas not

necessary, for we had just laid in an extry stock of eatables and

drinkables in preparation for the coming event.'

''Twas very kind, upon my heart,' said the soldier, 'to think me worth

such a jocund preparation, since you could only have got my letter this

morning.'

Selina gazed at her father to stop him, and exchanged embarrassed

glances with Miller. Contrary to her hopes Sergeant-Major Clark plainly

did not know that the preparations referred to were for something quite

other than his own visit.

The movement of the horse outside, and the impatient tapping of a whip-

handle upon the vehicle reminded them that Clark's driver was still in

waiting. The provisions were brought into the house, and the cart

dismissed. Miller, with very little pressure indeed, accepted an

invitation to supper, and a few neighbours were induced to come in to

make up a cheerful party.

During the laying of the meal, and throughout its continuance, Selina,

who sat beside her first intended husband, tried frequently to break the

news to him of her engagement to the other-now terminated so suddenly,

and so happily for her heart, and her sense of womanly virtue. But the

talk ran entirely upon the late war; and though fortified by half a horn

of the strong ale brought by the sergeant-major she decided that she

might have a better opportunity when supper was over of revealing the

situation to him in private.

Having supped, Clark leaned back at ease in his chair and looked around.

'We used sometimes to have a dance in that other room after supper,

Selina dear, I recollect. We used to clear out all the furniture into

this room before beginning. Have you kept up such goings on?'

'No, not at all!' said his sweetheart, sadly.

'We were not unlikely to revive it in a few days,' said Mr. Paddock.

'But, howsomever, there's seemingly many a slip, as the saying is.'

'Yes, I'll tell John all about that by and by!' interposed Selina; at

which, perceiving that the secret which he did not like keeping was to

be kept even yet, her father held his tongue with some show of

testiness.

The subject of a dance having been broached, to put the thought in

practice was the feeling of all. Soon after the tables and chairs were

borne from the opposite room to this by zealous hands, and two of the

villagers sent home for a fiddle and tambourine, when the majority began

to tread a measure well known in that secluded vale. Selina naturally

danced with the sergeant-major, not altogether to her father's

satisfaction, and to the real uneasiness of her mother, both of whom

would have preferred a postponement of festivities till the rashly

anticipated relationship between their daughter and Clark in the past

had been made fact by the church's ordinances. They did not, however,

express a positive objection, Mr. Paddock remembering, with self-

reproach, that it was owing to his original strongly expressed

disapproval of Selina's being a soldier's wife that the wedding had been

delayed, and finally hindered-with worse consequences than were

expected; and ever since the misadventure brought about by his

government he had allowed events to steer their own courses.

'My tails will surely catch in your spurs, John!' murmured the daughter

of the house, as she whirled around upon his arm with the rapt soul and

look of a somnambulist. 'I didn't know we should dance, or I would have

put on my other frock.'

'I'll take care, my love. We've danced here before. Do you think your

father objects to me now? I've risen in rank. I fancy he's still a

little against me.'

'He has repented, times enough.'

'And so have I! If I had married you then 'twould have saved many a

misfortune. I have sometimes thought it might have been possible to rush

the ceremony through somehow before I left; though we were only in the

second asking, were we? And even if I had come back straight here when

we returned from the Crimea, and married you then, how much happier I

should have been!'

'Dear John, to say that! Why didn't you?'

'O-dilatoriness and want of thought, and a fear of facing your father

after so long. I was in hospital a great while, you know. But how

familiar the place seems again! What's that I saw on the beaufet in the

other room? It never used to be there. A sort of withered corpse of a

cake-not an old bride-cake surely?'

'Yes, John, ours. 'Tis the very one that was made for our wedding three

years ago.'

'Sakes alive! Why, time shuts up together, and all between then and now

seems not to have been! What became of that wedding-gown that they were

making in this room, I remember-a bluish, whitish, frothy thing?'

'I have that too.'

'Really! . . . Why, Selina-'

'Yes!'

'Why not put it on now?'

'Wouldn't it seem-. And yet, O how I should like to! It would remind

them all, if we told them what it was, how we really meant to be married

on that bygone day!' Her eyes were again laden with wet.

'Yes . . . The pity that we didn't-the pity!' Moody mournfulness seemed

to hold silent awhile one not naturally taciturn. 'Well-will you?' he

said.

'I will-the next dance, if mother don't mind.'

Accordingly, just before the next figure was formed, Selina disappeared,

and speedily came downstairs in a creased and box-worn, but still airy

and pretty, muslin gown, which was indeed the very one that had been

meant to grace her as a bride three years before.

'It is dreadfully old-fashioned,' she apologized.

'Not at all. What a grand thought of mine! Now, let's to't again.'

She explained to some of them, as he led her to the second dance, what

the frock had been meant for, and that she had put it on at his request.

And again athwart and around the room they went.

'You seem the bride!' he said.

'But I couldn't wear this gown to be married in now!' she replied,

ecstatically, 'or I shouldn't have put it on and made it dusty. It is

really too old-fashioned, and so folded and fretted out, you can't

think. That was with my taking it out so many times to look at. I have

never put it on-never-till now!'

'Selina, I am thinking of giving up the army. Will you emigrate with me

to New Zealand? I've an uncle out there doing well, and he'd soon help

me to making a larger income. The English army is glorious, but it ain't

altogether enriching.'

'Of course, anywhere that you decide upon. Is it healthy there for

Johnny?'

'A lovely climate. And I shall never be happy in England . . . Aha!' he

concluded again, with a bitterness of unexpected strength, 'would to

Heaven I had come straight back here!'

As the dance brought round one neighbour after another the re-united

pair were thrown into juxtaposition with Bob Heartall among the rest who

had been called in; one whose chronic expression was that he carried

inside him a joke on the point of bursting with its own vastness. He

took occasion now to let out a little of its quality, shaking his head

at Selina as he addressed her in an undertone-

'This is a bit of a topper to the bridegroom, ho ho! 'Twill teach en the

liberty you'll expect when you've married en!'

'What does he mean by a "topper,"' the sergeant-major asked, who, not

being of local extraction, despised the venerable local language, and

also seemed to suppose 'bridegroom' to be an anticipatory name for

himself. 'I only hope I shall never be worse treated than you've treated

me to-night!'

Selina looked frightened. 'He didn't mean you, dear,' she said as they

moved on. 'We thought perhaps you knew what had happened, owing to your

coming just at this time. Had you-heard anything about-what I intended?'

'Not a breath-how should I-away up in Yorkshire? It was by the merest

accident that I came just at this date to make peace with you for my

delay.'

'I was engaged to be married to Mr. Bartholomew Miller. That's what it

is! I would have let 'ee know by letter, but there was no time, only

hearing from 'ee this afternoon . . . You won't desert me for it, will

you, John? Because, as you know, I quite supposed you dead, and-and-'

Her eyes were full of tears of trepidation, and he might have felt a sob

heaving within her. IV

The soldier was silent during two or three double bars of the tune.

'When were you to have been married to the said Mr. Bartholomew Miller?'

he inquired.

'Quite soon.'

'How soon?'

'Next week-O yes-just the same as it was with you and me. There's a

strange fate of interruption hanging over me, I sometimes think! He had

bought the licence, which I preferred so that it mightn't be like-ours.

But it made no difference to the fate of it.'

'Had bought the licence! The devil!'

'Don't be angry, dear John. I didn't know!'

'No, no, I'm not angry.'

'It was so kind of him, considering!'

'Yes . . . I see, of course, how natural your action was-never thinking

of seeing me any more! Is it the Mr. Miller who is in this dance?'

'Yes.'

Clark glanced round upon Bartholomew and was silent again, for some

little while, and she stole a look at him, to find that he seemed

changed. 'John, you look ill!' she almost sobbed. ''Tisn't me, is it?'

'O dear, no. Though I hadn't, somehow, expected it. I can't find fault

with you for a moment-and I don't . . . This is a deuce of a long dance,

don't you think? We've been at it twenty minutes if a second, and the

figure doesn't allow one much rest. I'm quite out of breath.'

'They like them so dreadfully long here. Shall we drop out? Or I'll stop

the fiddler.'

'O no, no, I think I can finish. But although I look healthy enough I

have never been so strong as I formerly was, since that long illness I

had in the hospital at Scutari.'

'And I knew nothing about it!'

'You couldn't, dear, as I didn't write. What a fool I have been

altogether!' He gave a twitch, as of one in pain. 'I won't dance again

when this one is over. The fact is I have travelled a long way to-day,

and it seems to have knocked me up a bit.'

There could be no doubt that the sergeant-major was unwell, and Selina

made herself miserable by still believing that her story was the cause

of his ailment. Suddenly he said in a changed voice, and she perceived

that he was paler than ever: 'I must sit down.'

Letting go her waist he went quickly to the other room. She followed,

and found him in the nearest chair, his face bent down upon his hands

and arms, which were resting on the table.

'What's the matter?' said her father, who sat there dozing by the fire.

'John isn't well . . . We are going to New Zealand when we are married,

father. A lovely country! John, would you like something to drink?'

'A drop o' that Schiedam of old Owlett's, that's under stairs, perhaps,'

suggested her father. 'Not that nowadays 'tis much better than licensed

liquor.'

'John,' she said, putting her face close to his and pressing his arm.

'Will you have a drop of spirits or something?'

He did not reply, and Selina observed that his ear and the side of his

face were quite white. Convinced that his illness was serious, a growing

dismay seized hold of her. The dance ended; her mother came in, and

learning what had happened, looked narrowly at the sergeant-major.

'We must not let him lie like that, lift him up,' she said. 'Let him

rest in the window-bench on some cushions.'

They unfolded his arms and hands as they lay clasped upon the table, and

on lifting his head found his features to bear the very impress of death

itself. Bartholomew Miller, who had now come in, assisted Mr. Paddock to

make a comfortable couch in the window-seat, where they stretched out

Clark upon his back.

Still he seemed unconscious. 'We must get a doctor,' said Selina. 'O, my

dear John, how is it you be taken like this?'

'My impression is that he's dead!' murmured Mr. Paddock. 'He don't

breathe enough to move a tomtit's feather.'

There were plenty to volunteer to go for a doctor, but as it would be at

least an hour before he could get there the case seemed somewhat

hopeless. The dancing-party ended as unceremoniously as it had begun;

but the guests lingered round the premises till the doctor should

arrive. When he did come the sergeant-major's extremities were already

cold, and there was no doubt that death had overtaken him almost at the

moment that he had sat down.

The medical practitioner quite refused to accept the unhappy Selina's

theory that her revelation had in any way induced Clark's sudden

collapse. Both he and the coroner afterwards, who found the immediate

cause to be heart-failure, held that such a supposition was unwarranted

by facts. They asserted that a long day's journey, a hurried drive, and

then an exhausting dance, were sufficient for such a result upon a heart

enfeebled by fatty degeneration after the privations of a Crimean winter

and other trying experiences, the coincidence of the sad event with any

disclosure of hers being a pure accident.

This conclusion, however, did not dislodge Selina's opinion that the

shock of her statement had been the immediate stroke which had felled a

constitution so undermined. V

At this date the Casterbridge Barracks were cavalry quarters, their

adaptation to artillery having been effected some years later. It had

been owing to the fact that the �-th Dragoons, in which John Clark had

served, happened to be lying there that Selina made his acquaintance. At

the time of his death the barracks were occupied by the Scots Greys, but

when the pathetic circumstances of the sergeant-major's end became known

in the town the officers of the Greys offered the services of their fine

reed and brass band, that he might have a funeral marked by due military

honours. His body was accordingly removed to the barracks, and carried

thence to the churchyard in the Durnover quarter on the following

afternoon, one of the Greys' most ancient and docile chargers being

blacked up to represent Clark's horse on the occasion.

Everybody pitied Selina, whose story was well known. She followed the

corpse as the only mourner, Clark having been without relations in this

part of the country, and a communication with his regiment having

brought none from a distance. She sat in a little shabby brown-black

mourning carriage, squeezing herself up in a corner to be as much as

possible out of sight during the slow and dramatic march through the

town to the tune from Saul. When the interment had taken place, the

volleys been fired, and the return journey begun, it was with something

like a shock that she found the military escort to be moving at a quick

march to the lively strains of 'Off she goes!' as if all care for the

sergeant-major was expected to be ended with the late discharge of the

carbines. It was, by chance, the very tune to which they had been

footing when he died, and unable to bear its notes, she hastily told her

driver to drop behind. The band and military party diminished up the

High Street, and Selina turned over Swan bridge and homeward to

Mellstock.

Then recommenced for her a life whose incidents were precisely of a suit

with those which had preceded the soldier's return; but how different in

her appreciation of them! Her narrow miss of the recovered

respectability they had hoped for from that tardy event worked upon her

parents as an irritant, and after the first week or two of her mourning

her life with them grew almost insupportable. She had impulsively taken

to herself the weeds of a widow, for such she seemed to herself to be,

and clothed little Johnny in sables likewise. This assumption of a moral

relationship to the deceased, which she asserted to be only not a legal

one by two most unexpected accidents, led the old people to indulge in

sarcasm at her expense whenever they beheld her attire, though all the

while it cost them more pain to utter than it gave her to hear it.

Having become accustomed by her residence at home to the business

carried on by her father, she surprised them one day by going off with

the child to Chalk-Newton, in the direction of the town of Ivell, and

opening a miniature fruit and vegetable shop, attending Ivell market

with her produce. Her business grew somewhat larger, and it was soon

sufficient to enable her to support herself and the boy in comfort. She

called herself 'Mrs. John Clark' from the day of leaving home, and

painted the name on her signboard-no man forbidding her.

By degrees the pain of her state was forgotten in her new circumstances,

and getting to be generally accepted as the widow of a sergeant-major of

dragoons-an assumption which her modest and mournful demeanour seemed to

substantiate-her life became a placid one, her mind being nourished by

the melancholy luxury of dreaming what might have been her future in New

Zealand with John, if he had only lived to take her there. Her only

travels now were a journey to Ivell on market-days, and once a fortnight

to the churchyard in which Clark lay, there to tend, with Johnny's

assistance, as widows are wont to do, the flowers she had planted upon

his grave.

On a day about eighteen months after his unexpected decease, Selina was

surprised in her lodging over her little shop by a visit from

Bartholomew Miller. He had called on her once or twice before, on which

occasions he had used without a word of comment the name by which she

was known.

'I've come this time,' he said, 'less because I was in this direction

than to ask you, Mrs. Clark, what you mid well guess. I've come o'

purpose, in short.'

She smiled.

''Tis to ask me again to marry you?'

'Yes, of course. You see, his coming back for 'ee proved what I always

believed of 'ee, though others didn't. There's nobody but would be glad

to welcome you to our parish again, now you've showed your independence

and acted up to your trust in his promise. Well, my dear, will you

come?'

'I'd rather bide as Mrs. Clark, I think,' she answered. 'I am not

ashamed of my position at all; for I am John's widow in the eyes of

Heaven.'

'I quite agree-that's why I've come. Still, you won't like to be always

straining at this shop-keeping and market-standing; and 'twould be

better for Johnny if you had nothing to do but tend him.'

He here touched the only weak spot in Selina's resistance to his

proposal-the good of the boy. To promote that there were other men she

might have married offhand without loving them if they had asked her to;

but though she had known the worthy speaker from her youth, she could

not for the moment fancy herself happy as Mrs. Miller.

He paused awhile. 'I ought to tell 'ee, Mrs. Clark,' he said by and by,

'that marrying is getting to be a pressing question with me. Not on my

own account at all. The truth is, that mother is growing old, and I am

away from home a good deal, so that it is almost necessary there should

be another person in the house with her besides me. That's the practical

consideration which forces me to think of taking a wife, apart from my

wish to take you; and you know there's nobody in the world I care for so

much.'

She said something about there being far better women than she, and

other natural commonplaces; but assured him she was most grateful to him

for feeling what he felt, as indeed she sincerely was. However, Selina

would not consent to be the useful third person in his comfortable home-

at any rate just then. He went away, after taking tea with her, without

discerning much hope for him in her good-bye. VI

After that evening she saw and heard nothing of him for a great while.

Her fortnightly journeys to the sergeant-major's grave were continued,

whenever weather did not hinder them; and Mr. Miller must have known,

she thought, of this custom of hers. But though the churchyard was not

nearly so far from his homestead as was her shop at Chalk-Newton, he

never appeared in the accidental way that lovers use.

An explanation was forthcoming in the shape of a letter from her mother,

who casually mentioned that Mr. Bartholomew Miller had gone away to the

other side of Shottsford-Forum to be married to a thriving dairyman's

daughter that he knew there. His chief motive, it was reported, had been

less one of love than a wish to provide a companion for his aged mother.

Selina was practical enough to know that she had lost a good and

possibly the only opportunity of settling in life after what had

happened, and for a moment she regretted her independence. But she

became calm on reflection, and to fortify herself in her course started

that afternoon to tend the sergeant-major's grave, in which she took the

same sober pleasure as at first.

On reaching the churchyard and turning the corner towards the spot as

usual, she was surprised to perceive another woman, also apparently a

respectable widow, and with a tiny boy by her side, bending over Clark's

turf, and spudding up with the point of her umbrella some ivy-roots that

Selina had reverently planted there to form an evergreen mantle over the

mound.

'What are you digging up my ivy for!' cried Selina, rushing forward so

excitedly that Johnny tumbled over a grave with the force of the tug she

gave his hand in her sudden start.

'Your ivy?' said the respectable woman.

'Why yes! I planted it there-on my husband's grave.'

'Your husband's!'

'Yes. The late Sergeant-Major Clark. Anyhow, as good as my husband, for

he was just going to be.'

'Indeed. But who may be my husband, if not he? I am the only Mrs. John

Clark, widow of the late Sergeant-Major of Dragoons, and this is his

only son and heir.'

'How can that be?' faltered Selina, her throat seeming to stick together

as she just began to perceive its possibility. 'He had been-going to

marry me twice-and we were going to New Zealand.'

'Ah!-I remember about you,' returned the legitimate widow calmly and not

unkindly. 'You must be Selina; he spoke of you now and then, and said

that his relations with you would always be a weight on his conscience.

Well; the history of my life with him is soon told. When he came back

from the Crimea he became acquainted with me at my home in the north,

and we were married within a month of first knowing each other.

Unfortunately, after living together a few months, we could not agree;

and after a particularly sharp quarrel, in which, perhaps, I was most in

the wrong-as I don't mind owning here by his graveside-he went away from

me, declaring he would buy his discharge and emigrate to New Zealand,

and never come back to me any more. The next thing I heard was that he

had died suddenly at Mellstock at some low carouse; and as he had left

me in such anger to live no more with me, I wouldn't come down to his

funeral, or do anything in relation to him. 'Twas temper, I know, but

that was the fact. Even if we had parted friends it would have been a

serious expense to travel three hundred miles to get there, for one who

wasn't left so very well off . . . I am sorry I pulled up your ivy-

roots; but that common sort of ivy is considered a weed in my part of

the country.'

December 1899.

A TRYST AT AN ANCIENT EARTH WORK

At one's every step forward it rises higher against the south sky, with

an obtrusive personality that compels the senses to regard it and

consider. The eyes may bend in another direction, but never without the

consciousness of its heavy, high-shouldered presence at its point of

vantage. Across the intervening levels the gale races in a straight line

from the fort, as if breathed out of it hitherward. With the shifting of

the clouds the faces of the steeps vary in colour and in shade, broad

lights appearing where mist and vagueness had prevailed, dissolving in

their turn into melancholy gray, which spreads over and eclipses the

luminous bluffs. In this so-thought immutable spectacle all is change.

Out of the invisible marine region on the other side birds soar suddenly

into the air, and hang over the summits of the heights with the

indifference of long familiarity. Their forms are white against the

tawny concave of cloud, and the curves they exhibit in their floating

signify that they are sea-gulls which have journeyed inland from

expected stress of weather. As the birds rise behind the fort, so do the

clouds rise behind the birds, almost as it seems, stroking with their

bagging bosoms the uppermost flyers.

The profile of the whole stupendous ruin, as seen at a distance of a

mile eastward, is cleanly cut as that of a marble inlay. It is varied

with protuberances, which from hereabouts have the animal aspect of

warts, wens, knuckles, and hips. It may indeed be likened to an enormous

many-limbed organism of an antediluvian time-partaking of the cephalopod

in shape-lying lifeless, and covered with a thin green cloth, which

hides its substance, while revealing its contour. This dull green mantle

of herbage stretches down towards the levels, where the ploughs have

essayed for centuries to creep up near and yet nearer to the base of the

castle, but have always stopped short before reaching it. The furrows of

these environing attempts show themselves distinctly, bending to the

incline as they trench upon it; mounting in steeper curves, till the

steepness baffles them, and their parallel threads show like the striae

of waves pausing on the curl. The peculiar place of which these are some

of the features is 'Mai-Dun,' 'The Castle of the Great Hill,' said to be

the Dunium of Ptolemy, the capital of the Durotriges, which eventually

came into Roman occupation, and was finally deserted on their withdrawal

from the island.

The evening is followed by a night on which an invisible moon bestows a

subdued, yet pervasive light-without radiance, as without blackness.

From the spot whereon I am ensconced in a cottage, a mile away, the fort

has now ceased to be visible; yet, as by day, to anybody whose thoughts

have been engaged with it and its barbarous grandeurs of past time the

form asserts its existence behind the night gauzes as persistently as if

it had a voice. Moreover, the south-west wind continues to feed the

intervening arable flats with vapours brought directly from its sides.

The midnight hour for which there has been occasion to wait at length

arrives, and I journey towards the stronghold in obedience to a request

urged earlier in the day. It concerns an appointment, which I rather

regret my decision to keep now that night is come. The route thither is

hedgeless and treeless-I need not add deserted. The moonlight is

sufficient to disclose the pale riband-like surface of the way as it

trails along between the expanses of darker fallow. Though the road

passes near the fortress it does not conduct directly to its fronts. As

the place is without an inhabitant, so it is without a trackway. So

presently leaving the macadamized road to pursue its course elsewhither,

I step off upon the fallow, and plod stumblingly across it. The castle

looms out off the shade by degrees, like a thing waking up and asking

what I want there. It is now so enlarged by nearness that its whole

shape cannot be taken in at one view. The ploughed ground ends as the

rise sharpens, the sloping basement of grass begins, and I climb upward

to invade Mai-Dun.

Impressive by day as this largest Ancient-British work in the kingdom

undoubtedly is, its impressiveness is increased now. After standing

still and spending a few minutes in adding its age to its size, and its

size to its solitude, it becomes appallingly mournful in its growing

closeness. A squally wind blows in the face with an impact which

proclaims that the vapours of the air sail low to-night. The slope that

I so laboriously clamber up the wind skips sportively down. Its track

can be discerned even in this light by the undulations of the withered

grass-bents-the only produce of this upland summit except moss. Four

minutes of ascent, and a vantage-ground of some sort is gained. It is

only the crest of the outer rampart. Immediately within this a chasm

gapes; its bottom is imperceptible, but the counterscarp slopes not too

steeply to admit of a sliding descent if cautiously performed. The shady

bottom, dank and chilly, is thus gained, and reveals itself as a kind of

winding lane, wide enough for a waggon to pass along, floored with rank

herbage, and trending away, right and left, into obscurity, between the

concentric walls of earth. The towering closeness of these on each hand,

their impenetrability, and their ponderousness, are felt as a physical

pressure. The way is now up the second of them, which stands steeper and

higher than the first. To turn aside, as did Christian's companion, from

such a Hill Difficulty, is the more natural tendency; but the way to the

interior is upward. There is, of course, an entrance to the fortress;

but that lies far off on the other side. It might possibly have been the

wiser course to seek for easier ingress there.

However, being here, I ascend the second acclivity. The grass stems-the

grey beard of the hill-sway in a mass close to my stooping face. The

dead heads of these various grasses-fescues, fox-tails, and ryes-bob and

twitch as if pulled by a string underground. From a few thistles a

whistling proceeds; and even the moss speaks, in its humble way, under

the stress of the blast.

That the summit of the second line of defence has been gained is

suddenly made known by a contrasting wind from a new quarter, coming

over with the curve of a cascade. These novel gusts raise a sound from

the whole camp or castle, playing upon it bodily as upon a harp. It is

with some difficulty that a foothold can be preserved under their sweep.

Looking aloft for a moment I perceive that the sky is much more overcast

than it has been hitherto, and in a few instants a dead lull in what is

now a gale ensues with almost preternatural abruptness. I take advantage

of this to sidle down the second counterscarp, but by the time the ditch

is reached the lull reveals itself to be but the precursor of a storm.

It begins with a heave of the whole atmosphere, like the sigh of a weary

strong man on turning to re-commence unusual exertion, just as I stand

here in the second fosse. That which now radiates from the sky upon the

scene is not so much light as vaporous phosphorescence.

The wind, quickening, abandons the natural direction it has pursued on

the open upland, and takes the course of the gorge's length, rushing

along therein helter-skelter, and carrying thick rain upon its back. The

rain is followed by hailstones which fly through the defile in

battalions-rolling, hopping, ricochetting, snapping, clattering down the

shelving banks in an undefinable haze of confusion. The earthen sides of

the fosse seem to quiver under the drenching onset, though it is

practically no more to them than the blows of Thor upon the giant of

Jotun-land. It is impossible to proceed further till the storm somewhat

abates, and I draw up behind a spur of the inner scarp, where possibly a

barricade stood two thousand years ago; and thus await events.

The roar of the storm can be heard travelling the complete circuit of

the castle-a measured mile-coming round at intervals like a

circumambulating column of infantry. Doubtless such a column has passed

this way in its time, but the only columns which enter in these latter

days are the columns of sheep and oxen that are sometimes seen here now;

while the only semblance of heroic voices heard are the utterances of

such, and of the many winds which make their passage through the

ravines.

The expected lightning radiates round, and a rumbling as from its

subterranean vaults-if there are any-fills the castle. The lightning

repeats itself, and, coming after the aforesaid thoughts of martial men,

it bears a fanciful resemblance to swords moving in combat. It has the

very brassy hue of the ancient weapons that here were used. The so

sudden entry upon the scene of this metallic flame is as the entry of a

presiding exhibitor who unrolls the maps, uncurtains the pictures,

unlocks the cabinets, and effects a transformation by merely exposing

the materials of his science, unintelligibly cloaked till then. The

abrupt configuration of the bluffs and mounds is now for the first time

clearly revealed-mounds whereon, doubtless, spears and shields have

frequently lain while their owners loosened their sandals and yawned and

stretched their arms in the sun. For the first time, too, a glimpse is

obtainable of the true entrance used by its occupants of old, some way

ahead.

There, where all passage has seemed to be inviolably barred by an almost

vertical fa�ade, the ramparts are found to overlap each other like

loosely clasped fingers, between which a zigzag path may be followed-a

cunning construction that puzzles the uninformed eye. But its cunning,

even where not obscured by dilapidation, is now wasted on the solitary

forms of a few wild badgers, rabbits, and hares. Men must have often

gone out by those gates in the morning to battle with the Roman legions

under Vespasian; some to return no more, others to come back at evening,

bringing with them the noise of their heroic deeds. But not a page, not

a stone, has preserved their fame.

Acoustic perceptions multiply to-night. We can almost hear the stream of

years that have borne those deeds away from us. Strange articulations

seem to float on the air from that point, the gateway, where the

animation in past times must frequently have concentrated itself at

hours of coming and going, and general excitement. There arises an

ineradicable fancy that they are human voices; if so, they must be the

lingering air-borne vibrations of conversations uttered at least fifteen

hundred years ago. The attention is attracted from mere nebulous

imaginings about yonder spot by a real moving of something close at

hand.

I recognize by the now moderate flashes of lightning, which are sheet-

like and nearly continuous, that it is the gradual elevation of a small

mound of earth. At first no larger than a man's fist it reaches the

dimensions of a hat, then sinks a little and is still. It is but the

heaving of a mole who chooses such weather as this to work in from some

instinct that there will be nobody abroad to molest him. As the fine

earth lifts and lifts and falls loosely aside fragments of burnt clay

roll out of it-clay that once formed part of cups or other vessels used

by the inhabitants of the fortress.

The violence of the storm has been counterbalanced by its

transitoriness. From being immersed in well-nigh solid media of cloud

and hail shot with lightning, I find myself uncovered of the humid

investiture and left bare to the mild gaze of the moon, which sparkles

now on every wet grass-blade and frond of moss.

But I am not yet inside the fort, and the delayed ascent of the third

and last escarpment is now made. It is steeper than either. The first

was a surface to walk up, the second to stagger up, the third can only

be ascended on the hands and toes. On the summit obtrudes the first

evidence which has been met with in these precincts that the time is

really the nineteenth century; it is in the form of a white notice-board

on a post, and the wording can just be discerned by the rays of the

setting moon:

CAUTION.-Any Person found removing Relics, Skeletons, Stones, Pottery,

Tiles, or other Material from this Earthwork, or cutting up the Ground,

will be Prosecuted as the Law directs.

Here one observes a difference underfoot from what has gone before:

scraps of Roman tile and stone chippings protrude through the grass in

meagre quantity, but sufficient to suggest that masonry stood on the

spot. Before the eye stretches under the moonlight the interior of the

fort. So open and so large is it as to be practically an upland plateau,

and yet its area lies wholly within the walls of what may be designated

as one building. It is a long-violated retreat; all its corner-stones,

plinths, and architraves were carried away to build neighbouring

villages even before mediaeval or modern history began. Many a block

which once may have helped to form a bastion here rests now in broken

and diminished shape as part of the chimney-corner of some shepherd's

cottage within the distant horizon, and the corner-stones of this

heathen altar may form the base-course of some adjoining village church.

Yet the very bareness of these inner courts and wards, their condition

of mere pasturage, protects what remains of them as no defences could

do. Nothing is left visible that the hands can seize on or the weather

overturn, and a permanence of general outline at least results, which no

other condition could ensure.

The position of the castle on this isolated hill bespeaks deliberate and

strategic choice exercised by some remote mind capable of prospective

reasoning to a far extent. The natural configuration of the surrounding

country and its bearing upon such a stronghold were obviously long

considered and viewed mentally before its extensive design was carried

into execution. Who was the man that said, 'Let it be built here!'-not

on that hill yonder, or on that ridge behind, but on this best spot of

all? Whether he were some great one of the Belgae, or of the Durotriges,

or the travelling engineer of Britain's united tribes, must for ever

remain time's secret; his form cannot be realized, nor his countenance,

nor the tongue that he spoke, when he set down his foot with a thud and

said, 'Let it be here!'

Within the innermost enclosure, though it is so wide that at a

superficial glance the beholder has only a sense of standing on a breezy

down, the solitude is rendered yet more solitary by the knowledge that

between the benighted sojourner herein and all kindred humanity are

those three concentric walls of earth which no being would think of

scaling on such a night as this, even were he to hear the most pathetic

cries issuing hence that could be uttered by a spectre-chased soul. I

reach a central mound or platform-the crown and axis of the whole

structure. The view from here by day must be of almost limitless extent.

On this raised floor, dais, or rostrum, harps have probably twanged more

or less tuneful notes in celebration of daring, strength, or cruelty; of

worship, superstition, love, birth, and death; of simple loving-kindness

perhaps never. Many a time must the king or leader have directed his

keen eyes hence across the open lands towards the ancient road, the

Icening Way, still visible in the distance, on the watch for armed

companies approaching either to succour or to attack.

I am startled by a voice pronouncing my name. Past and present have

become so confusedly mingled under the associations of the spot that for

a time it has escaped my memory that this mound was the place agreed on

for the aforesaid appointment. I turn and behold my friend. He stands

with a dark lantern in his hand and a spade and light pickaxe over his

shoulder. He expresses both delight and surprise that I have come. I

tell him I had set out before the bad weather began.

He, to whom neither weather, darkness, nor difficulty seems to have any

relation or significance, so entirely is his soul wrapped up in his own

deep intentions, asks me to take the lantern and accompany him. I take

it and walk by his side. He is a man about sixty, small in figure, with

grey old-fashioned whiskers cut to the shape of a pair of crumb-brushes.

He is entirely in black broadcloth-or rather, at present, black and

brown, for he is bespattered with mud from his heels to the crown of his

low hat. He has no consciousness of this-no sense of anything but his

purpose, his ardour for which causes his eyes to shine like those of a

lynx, and gives his motions, all the elasticity of an athlete's.

'Nobody to interrupt us at this time of night!' he chuckles with fierce

enjoyment.

We retreat a little way and find a sort of angle, an elevation in the

sod, a suggested squareness amid the mass of irregularities around.

Here, he tells me, if anywhere, the king's house stood. Three months of

measurement and calculation have confirmed him in this conclusion.

He requests me now to open the lantern, which I do, and the light

streams out upon the wet sod. At last divining his proceedings I say

that I had no idea, in keeping the tryst, that he was going to do more

at such an unusual time than meet me for a meditative ramble through the

stronghold. I ask him why, having a practicable object, he should have

minded interruptions and not have chosen the day? He informs me, quietly

pointing to his spade, that it was because his purpose is to dig, then

signifying with a grim nod the gaunt notice-post against the sky beyond.

I inquire why, as a professed and well-known antiquary with capital

letters at the tail of his name, he did not obtain the necessary

authority, considering the stringent penalties for this sort of thing;

and he chuckles fiercely again with suppressed delight, and says,

'Because they wouldn't have given it!'

He at once begins cutting up the sod, and, as he takes the pickaxe to

follow on with, assures me that, penalty or no penalty, honest men or

marauders, he is sure of one thing, that we shall not be disturbed at

our work till after dawn.

I remember to have heard of men who, in their enthusiasm for some

special science, art, or hobby, have quite lost the moral sense which

would restrain them from indulging it illegitimately; and I conjecture

that here, at last, is an instance of such an one. He probably guesses

the way my thoughts travel, for he stands up and solemnly asserts that

he has a distinctly justifiable intention in this matter; namely, to

uncover, to search, to verify a theory or displace it, and to cover up

again. He means to take away nothing-not a grain of sand. In this he

says he sees no such monstrous sin. I inquire if this is really a

promise to me? He repeats that it is a promise, and resumes digging. My

contribution to the labour is that of directing the light constantly

upon the hole. When he has reached something more than a foot deep he

digs more cautiously, saying that, be it much or little there, it will

not lie far below the surface; such things never are deep. A few minutes

later the point of the pickaxe clicks upon a stony substance. He draws

the implement out as feelingly as if it had entered a man's body. Taking

up the spade he shovels with care, and a surface, level as an altar, is

presently disclosed. His eyes flash anew; he pulls handfuls of grass and

mops the surface clean, finally rubbing it with his handkerchief.

Grasping the lantern from my hand he holds it close to the ground, when

the rays reveal a complete mosaic-a pavement of minute tesserae of many

colours, of intricate pattern, a work of much art, of much time, and of

much industry. He exclaims in a shout that he knew it always-that it is

not a Celtic stronghold exclusively, but also a Roman; the former people

having probably contributed little more than the original framework

which the latter took and adapted till it became the present imposing

structure.

I ask, What if it is Roman?

A great deal, according to him. That it proves all the world to be wrong

in this great argument, and himself alone to be right! Can I wait while

he digs further?

I agree-reluctantly; but he does not notice my reluctance. At an

adjoining spot he begins flourishing the tools anew with the skill of a

navvy, this venerable scholar with letters after his name. Sometimes he

falls on his knees, burrowing with his hands in the manner of a hare,

and where his old-fashioned broadcloth touches the sides of the hole it

gets plastered with the damp earth. He continually murmurs to himself

how important, how very important, this discovery is! He draws out an

object; we wash it in the same primitive way by rubbing it with the wet

grass, and it proves to be a semi-transparent bottle of iridescent

beauty, the sight of which draws groans of luxurious sensibility from

the digger. Further and further search brings out a piece of a weapon.

It is strange indeed that by merely peeling off a wrapper of modern

accumulations we have lowered ourselves into an ancient world. Finally a

skeleton is uncovered, fairly perfect. He lays it out on the grass, bone

to its bone.

My friend says the man must have fallen fighting here, as this is no

place of burial. He turns again to the trench, scrapes, feels, till from

a corner he draws out a heavy lump-a small image four or five inches

high. We clean it as before. It is a statuette, apparently of gold, or,

more probably, of bronze-gilt-a figure of Mercury, obviously, its head

being surmounted with the petasus or winged hat, the usual accessory of

that deity. Further inspection reveals the workmanship to be of good

finish and detail, and, preserved by the limy earth, to be as fresh in

every line as on the day it left the hands of its artificer.

We seem to be standing in the Roman Forum and not on a hill in Wessex.

Intent upon this truly valuable relic of the old empire of which even

this remote spot was a component part, we do not notice what is going on

in the present world till reminded of it by the sudden renewal of the

storm. Looking up I perceive that the wide extinguisher of cloud has

again settled down upon the fortress-town, as if resting upon the edge

of the inner rampart, and shutting out the moon. I turn my back to the

tempest, still directing the light across the hole. My companion digs on

unconcernedly; he is living two thousand years ago, and despises things

of the moment as dreams. But at last he is fairly beaten, and standing

up beside me looks round on what he has done. The rays of the lantern

pass over the trench to the tall skeleton stretched upon the grass on

the other side. The beating rain has washed the bones clean and smooth,

and the forehead, cheek-bones, and two-and-thirty teeth of the skull

glisten in the candle-shine as they lie.

This storm, like the first, is of the nature of a squall, and it ends as

abruptly as the other. We dig no further. My friend says that it is

enough-he has proved his point. He turns to replace the bones in the

trench and covers them. But they fall to pieces under his touch: the air

has disintegrated them, and he can only sweep in the fragments. The next

act of his plan is more than difficult, but is carried out. The

treasures are inhumed again in their respective holes: they are not

ours. Each deposition seems to cost him a twinge; and at one moment I

fancied I saw him slip his hand into his coat pocket.

'We must re-bury them all,' say I.

'O yes,' he answers with integrity. 'I was wiping my hand.'

The beauties of the tesselated floor of the governor's house are once

again consigned to darkness; the trench is filled up; the sod laid

smoothly down; he wipes the perspiration from his forehead with the same

handkerchief he had used to mop the skeleton and tesserae clean; and we

make for the eastern gate of the fortress.

Dawn bursts upon us suddenly as we reach the opening. It comes by the

lifting and thinning of the clouds that way till we are bathed in a pink

light. The direction of his homeward journey is not the same as mine,

and we part under the outer slope.

Walking along quickly to restore warmth I muse upon my eccentric friend,

and cannot help asking myself this question: Did he really replace the

gilded image of the god Mercurius with the rest of the treasures? He

seemed to do so; and yet I could not testify to the fact. Probably,

however, he was as good as his word. * * *

It was thus I spoke to myself, and so the adventure ended. But one thing

remains to be told, and that is concerned with seven years after. Among

the effects of my friend, at that time just deceased, was found,

carefully preserved, a gilt statuette representing Mercury, labelled

'Debased Roman.' No record was attached to explain how it came into his

possession. The figure was bequeathed to the Casterbridge Museum.

Detroit Post,

March 1885.

WHAT THE SHEPHERD SAW A TALE OF FOUR MOONLIGHT NIGHTS

The genial Justice of the Peace-now, alas, no more-who made himself

responsible for the facts of this story, used to begin in the good old-

fashioned way with a bright moonlight night and a mysterious figure, an

excellent stroke for an opening, even to this day, if well followed up.

The Christmas moon (he would say) was showing her cold face to the

upland, the upland reflecting the radiance in frost-sparkles so minute

as only to be discernible by an eye near at hand. This eye, he said, was

the eye of a shepherd lad, young for his occupation, who stood within a

wheeled hut of the kind commonly in use among sheep-keepers during the

early lambing season, and was abstractedly looking through the loophole

at the scene without.

The spot was called Lambing Corner, and it was a sheltered portion of

that wide expanse of rough pastureland known as the Marlbury Downs,

which you directly traverse when following the turnpike-road across Mid-

Wessex from London, through Aldbrickham, in the direction of Bath and

Bristol. Here, where the hut stood, the land was high and dry, open,

except to the north, and commanding an undulating view for miles. On the

north side grew a tall belt of coarse furze, with enormous stalks, a

clump of the same standing detached in front of the general mass. The

clump was hollow, and the interior had been ingeniously taken advantage

of as a position for the before-mentioned hut, which was thus completely

screened from winds, and almost invisible, except through the narrow

approach. But the furze twigs had been cut away from the two little

windows of the hut, that the occupier might keep his eye on his sheep.

In the rear, the shelter afforded by the belt of furze bushes was

artificially improved by an inclosure of upright stakes, interwoven with

boughs of the same prickly vegetation, and within the inclosure lay a

renowned Marlbury-Down breeding flock of eight hundred ewes.

To the south, in the direction of the young shepherd's idle gaze, there

rose one conspicuous object above the uniform moonlit plateau, and only

one. It was a Druidical trilithon, consisting of three oblong stones in

the form of a doorway, two on end, and one across as a lintel. Each

stone had been worn, scratched, washed, nibbled, split, and otherwise

attacked by ten thousand different weathers; but now the blocks looked

shapely and little the worse for wear, so beautifully were they silvered

over by the light of the moon. The ruin was locally called the Devil's

Door.

An old shepherd presently entered the hut from the direction of the

ewes, and looked around in the gloom. 'Be ye sleepy?' he asked in cross

accents of the boy.

The lad replied rather timidly in the negative.

'Then,' said the shepherd, 'I'll get me home-along, and rest for a few

hours. There's nothing to be done here now as I can see. The ewes can

want no more tending till daybreak-'tis beyond the bounds of reason that

they can. But as the order is that one of us must bide, I'll leave 'ee,

d'ye hear. You can sleep by day, and I can't. And you can be down to my

house in ten minutes if anything should happen. I can't afford 'ee

candle; but, as 'tis Christmas week, and the time that folks have

hollerdays, you can enjoy yerself by falling asleep a bit in the chair

instead of biding awake all the time. But mind, not longer at once than

while the shade of the Devil's Door moves a couple of spans, for you

must keep an eye upon the ewes.'

The boy made no definite reply, and the old man, stirring the fire in

the stove with his crook-stem, closed the door upon his companion and

vanished.

As this had been more or less the course of events every night since the

season's lambing had set in, the boy was not at all surprised at the

charge, and amused himself for some time by lighting straws at the

stove. He then went out to the ewes and new-born lambs, re-entered, sat

down, and finally fell asleep. This was his customary manner of

performing his watch, for though special permission for naps had this

week been accorded, he had, as a matter of fact, done the same thing on

every preceding night, sleeping often till awakened by a smack on the

shoulder at three or four in the morning from the crook-stem of the old

man.

It might have been about eleven o'clock when he awoke. He was so

surprised at awaking without, apparently, being called or struck, that

on second thoughts he assumed that somebody must have called him in

spite of appearances, and looked out of the hut window towards the

sheep. They all lay as quiet as when he had visited them, very little

bleating being audible, and no human soul disturbing the scene. He next

looked from the opposite window, and here the case was different. The

frost-facets glistened under the moon as before; an occasional furze

bush showed as a dark spot on the same; and in the foreground stood the

ghostly form of the trilithon. But in front of the trilithon stood a

man.

That he was not the shepherd or any one of the farm labourers was

apparent in a moment's observation,-his dress being a dark suit, and his

figure of slender build and graceful carriage. He walked backwards and

forwards in front of the trilithon.

The shepherd lad had hardly done speculating on the strangeness of the

unknown's presence here at such an hour, when he saw a second figure

crossing the open sward towards the locality of the trilithon and furze-

clump that screened the hut. This second personage was a woman; and

immediately on sight of her the male stranger hastened forward, meeting

her just in front of the hut window. Before she seemed to be aware of

his intention he clasped her in his arms.

The lady released herself and drew back with some dignity.

'You have come, Harriet-bless you for it!' he exclaimed, fervently.

'But not for this,' she answered, in offended accents. And then, more

good-naturedly, 'I have come, Fred, because you entreated me so! What

can have been the object of your writing such a letter? I feared I might

be doing you grievous ill by staying away. How did you come here?'

'I walked all the way from my father's.'

'Well, what is it? How have you lived since we last met?'

'But roughly; you might have known that without asking. I have seen many

lands and many faces since I last walked these downs, but I have only

thought of you.'

'Is it only to tell me this that you have summoned me so strangely?'

A passing breeze blew away the murmur of the reply and several

succeeding sentences, till the man's voice again became audible in the

words, 'Harriet-truth between us two! I have heard that the Duke does

not treat you too well.'

'He is warm-tempered, but he is a good husband.'

'He speaks roughly to you, and sometimes even threatens to lock you out

of doors.'

'Only once, Fred! On my honour, only once. The Duke is a fairly good

husband, I repeat. But you deserve punishment for this night's trick of

drawing me out. What does it mean?'

'Harriet, dearest, is this fair or honest? Is it not notorious that your

life with him is a sad one-that, in spite of the sweetness of your

temper, the sourness of his embitters your days. I have come to know if

I can help you. You are a Duchess, and I am Fred Ogbourne; but it is not

impossible that I may be able to help you . . . By God! the sweetness of

that tongue ought to keep him civil, especially when there is added to

it the sweetness of that face!'

'Captain Ogbourne!' she exclaimed, with an emphasis of playful fear.

'How can such a comrade of my youth behave to me as you do? Don't speak

so, and stare at me so! Is this really all you have to say? I see I

ought not to have come. 'Twas thoughtlessly done.'

Another breeze broke the thread of discourse for a time.

'Very well. I perceive you are dead and lost to me,' he could next be

heard to say, '"Captain Ogbourne" proves that. As I once loved you I

love you now, Harriet, without one jot of abatement; but you are not the

woman you were-you once were honest towards me; and now you conceal your

heart in made-up speeches. Let it be: I can never see you again.'

'You need not say that in such a tragedy tone, you silly. You may see me

in an ordinary way-why should you not? But, of course, not in such a way

as this. I should not have come now, if it had not happened that the

Duke is away from home, so that there is nobody to check my erratic

impulses.'

'When does he return?'

'The day after to-morrow, or the day after that.'

'Then meet me again to-morrow night.'

'No, Fred, I cannot.'

'If you cannot to-morrow night, you can the night after; one of the two

before he comes please bestow on me. Now, your hand upon it! To-morrow

or next night you will see me to bid me farewell!' He seized the

Duchess's hand.

'No, but Fred-let go my hand! What do you mean by holding me so? If it

be love to forget all respect to a woman's present position in thinking

of her past, then yours may be so, Frederick. It is not kind and gentle

of you to induce me to come to this place for pity of you, and then to

hold me tight here.'

'But see me once more! I have come two thousand miles to ask it.'

'O, I must not! There will be slanders-Heaven knows what! I cannot meet

you. For the sake of old times don't ask it.'

'Then own two things to me; that you did love me once, and that your

husband is unkind to you often enough now to make you think of the time

when you cared for me.'

'Yes-I own them both,' she answered faintly. 'But owning such as that

tells against me; and I swear the inference is not true.'

'Don't say that; for you have come-let me think the reason of your

coming what I like to think it. It can do you no harm. Come once more!'

He still held her hand and waist. 'Very well, then,' she said. 'Thus far

you shall persuade me. I will meet you to-morrow night or the night

after. Now, let me go.'

He released her, and they parted. The Duchess ran rapidly down the hill

towards the outlying mansion of Shakeforest Towers, and when he had

watched her out of sight, he turned and strode off in the opposite

direction. All then was silent and empty as before.

Yet it was only for a moment. When they had quite departed, another

shape appeared upon the scene. He came from behind the trilithon. He was

a man of stouter build than the first, and wore the boots and spurs of a

horseman. Two things were at once obvious from this phenomenon: that he

had watched the interview between the Captain and the Duchess; and that,

though he probably had seen every movement of the couple, including the

embrace, he had been too remote to hear the reluctant words of the

lady's conversation-or, indeed, any words at all-so that the meeting

must have exhibited itself to his eye as the assignation of a pair of

well-agreed lovers. But it was necessary that several years should

elapse before the shepherd-boy was old enough to reason out this.

The third individual stood still for a moment, as if deep in meditation.

He crossed over to where the lady and gentleman had stood, and looked at

the ground; then he too turned and went away in a third direction, as

widely divergent as possible from those taken by the two interlocutors.

His course was towards the highway; and a few minutes afterwards the

trot of a horse might have been heard upon its frosty surface, lessening

till it died away upon the ear.

The boy remained in the hut, confronting the trilithon as if he expected

yet more actors on the scene, but nobody else appeared. How long he

stood with his little face against the loophole he hardly knew; but he

was rudely awakened from his reverie by a punch in his back, and in the

feel of it he familiarly recognized the stem of the old shepherd's

crook.

'Blame thy young eyes and limbs, Bill Mills-now you have let the fire

out, and you know I want it kept in! I thought something would go wrong

with 'ee up here, and I couldn't bide in bed no more than thistledown on

the wind, that I could not! Well, what's happened, fie upon 'ee?'

'Nothing.'

'Ewes all as I left 'em?'

'Yes.'

'Any lambs want bringing in?'

'No.'

The shepherd relit the fire, and went out among the sheep with a

lantern, for the moon was getting low. Soon he came in again.

'Blame it all-thou'st say that nothing have happened; when one ewe have

twinned and is like to go off, and another is dying for want of half an

eye of looking to! I told 'ee, Bill Mills, if anything went wrong to

come down and call me; and this is how you have done it.'

'You said I could go to sleep for a hollerday, and I did.'

'Don't you speak to your betters like that, young man, or you'll come to

the gallows-tree! You didn't sleep all the time, or you wouldn't have

been peeping out of that there hole! Now you can go home, and be up here

again by breakfast-time. I be an old man, and there's old men that

deserve well of the world; but no I-must rest how I can!'

The elder shepherd then lay down inside the hut, and the boy went down

the hill to the hamlet where he dwelt. SECOND NIGHT

When the next night drew on the actions of the boy were almost enough to

show that he was thinking of the meeting he had witnessed, and of the

promise wrung from the lady that she would come there again. As far as

the sheep-tending arrangements were concerned, to-night was but a

repetition of the foregoing one. Between ten and eleven o'clock the old

shepherd withdrew as usual for what sleep at home he might chance to get

without interruption, making up the other necessary hours of rest at

some time during the day; the boy was left alone.

The frost was the same as on the night before, except perhaps that it

was a little more severe. The moon shone as usual, except that it was

three-quarters of an hour later in its course; and the boy's condition

was much the same, except that he felt no sleepiness whatever. He felt,

too, rather afraid; but upon the whole he preferred witnessing an

assignation of strangers to running the risk of being discovered absent

by the old shepherd.

It was before the distant clock of Shakeforest Towers had struck eleven

that he observed the opening of the second act of this midnight drama.

It consisted in the appearance of neither lover nor Duchess, but of the

third figure-the stout man, booted and spurred-who came up from the

easterly direction in which he had retreated the night before. He walked

once round the trilithon, and next advanced towards the clump concealing

the hut, the moonlight shining full upon his face and revealing him to

be the Duke. Fear seized upon the shepherd-boy: the Duke was Jove

himself to the rural population, whom to offend was starvation,

homelessness, and death, and whom to look at was to be mentally scathed

and dumbfoundered. He closed the stove, so that not a spark of light

appeared, and hastily buried himself in the straw that lay in a corner.

The Duke came close to the clump of furze and stood by the spot where

his wife and the Captain had held their dialogue; he examined the furze

as if searching for a hiding-place, and in doing so discovered the hut.

The latter he walked round and then looked inside; finding it to all

seeming empty, he entered, closing the door behind him and taking his

place at the little circular window against which the boy's face had

been pressed just before.

The Duke had not adopted his measures too rapidly, if his object were

concealment. Almost as soon as he had stationed himself there eleven

o'clock struck, and the slender young man who had previously graced the

scene promptly reappeared from the north quarter of the down. The spot

of assignation having, by the accident of his running forward on the

foregoing night, removed itself from the Devil's Door to the clump of

furze, he instinctively came thither, and waited for the Duchess where

he had met her before.

But a fearful surprise was in store for him to-night, as well as for the

trembling juvenile. At his appearance the Duke breathed more and more

quickly, his breathings being distinctly audible to the crouching boy.

The young man had hardly paused when the alert nobleman softly opened

the door of the hut, and, stepping round the furze, came full upon

Captain Fred.

'You have dishonoured her, and you shall die the death you deserve!'

came to the shepherd's ears, in a harsh, hollow whisper through the

boarding of the hut.

The apathetic and taciturn boy was excited enough to run the risk of

rising and looking from the window, but he could see nothing for the

intervening furze boughs, both the men having gone round to the side.

What took place in the few following moments he never exactly knew. He

discerned portion of a shadow in quick muscular movement; then there was

the fall of something on the grass; then there was stillness.

Two or three minutes later the Duke became visible round the corner of

the hut, dragging by the collar the now inert body of the second man.

The Duke dragged him across the open space towards the trilithon. Behind

this ruin was a hollow, irregular spot, overgrown with furze and stunted

thorns, and riddled by the old holes of badgers, its former inhabitants,

who had now died out or departed. The Duke vanished into this depression

with his burden, reappearing after the lapse of a few seconds. When he

came forth he dragged nothing behind him.

He returned to the side of the hut, cleansed something on the grass, and

again put himself on the watch, though not as before, inside the hut,

but without, on the shady side. 'Now for the second!' he said.

It was plain, even to the unsophisticated boy, that he now awaited the

other person of the appointment-his wife, the Duchess-for what purpose

it was terrible to think. He seemed to be a man of such determined

temper that he would scarcely hesitate in carrying out a course of

revenge to the bitter end. Moreover-though it was what the shepherd did

not perceive-this was all the more probable, in that the moody Duke was

labouring under the exaggerated impression which the sight of the

meeting in dumb show had conveyed.

The jealous watcher waited long, but he waited in vain. From within the

hut the boy could hear his occasional exclamations of surprise, as if he

were almost disappointed at the failure of his assumption that his

guilty Duchess would surely keep the tryst. Sometimes he stepped from

the shade of the furze into the moonlight, and held up his watch to

learn the time.

About half-past eleven he seemed to give up expecting her. He then went

a second time to the hollow behind the trilithon, remaining there nearly

a quarter of an hour. From this place he proceeded quickly over a

shoulder of the declivity, a little to the left, presently returning on

horseback, which proved that his horse had been tethered in some secret

place down there. Crossing anew the down between the hut and the

trilithon, and scanning the precincts as if finally to assure himself

that she had not come, he rode slowly downwards in the direction of

Shakeforest Towers.

The juvenile shepherd thought of what lay in the hollow yonder; and no

fear of the crook-stem of his superior officer was potent enough to

detain him longer on that hill alone. Any live company, even the most

terrible, was better than the company of the dead; so, running with the

speed of a hare in the direction pursued by the horseman, he overtook

the revengeful Duke at the second descent (where the great western road

crossed before you came to the old park entrance on that side-now closed

up and the lodge cleared away, though at the time it was wondered why,

being considered the most convenient gate of all).

Once within the sound of the horse's footsteps, Bill Mills felt

comparatively comfortable; for, though in awe of the Duke because of his

position, he had no moral repugnance to his companionship on account of

the grisly deed he had committed, considering that powerful nobleman to

have a right to do what he chose on his own lands. The Duke rode

steadily on beneath his ancestral trees, the hoofs of his horse sending

up a smart sound now that he had reached the hard road of the drive, and

soon drew near the front door of his house, surmounted by parapets with

square-cut battlements that cast a notched shade upon the gravelled

terrace. These outlines were quite familiar to little Bill Mills, though

nothing within their boundary had ever been seen by him.

When the rider approached the mansion a small turret door was quickly

opened and a woman came out. As soon as she saw the horseman's outlines

she ran forward into the moonlight to meet him.

'Ah dear-and are you come?' she said. 'I heard Hero's tread just when

you rode over the hill, and I knew it in a moment. I would have come

further if I had been aware-'

'Glad to see me, eh?'

'How can you ask that?'

'Well; it is a lovely night for meetings.'

'Yes, it is a lovely night.'

The Duke dismounted and stood by her side. 'Why should you have been

listening at this time of night, and yet not expecting me?' he asked.

'Why, indeed! There is a strange story attached to that, which I must

tell you at once. But why did you come a night sooner than you said you

would come? I am rather sorry-I really am!' (shaking her head playfully)

'for as a surprise to you I had ordered a bonfire to be built, which was

to be lighted on your arrival to-morrow; and now it is wasted. You can

see the outline of it just out there.'

The Duke looked across to a spot of rising glade, and saw the faggots in

a heap. He then bent his eyes with a bland and puzzled air on the

ground, 'What is this strange story you have to tell me that kept you

awake?' he murmured.

'It is this-and it is really rather serious. My cousin Fred Ogbourne-

Captain Ogbourne as he is now-was in his boyhood a great admirer of

mine, as I think I have told you, though I was six years his senior. In

strict truth, he was absurdly fond of me.'

'You have never told me of that before.'

'Then it was your sister I told-yes, it was. Well, you know I have not

seen him for many years, and naturally I had quite forgotten his

admiration of me in old times. But guess my surprise when the day before

yesterday, I received a mysterious note bearing no address, and found on

opening it that it came from him. The contents frightened me out of my

wits. He had returned from Canada to his father's house, and conjured me

by all he could think of to meet him at once. But I think I can repeat

the exact words, though I will show it to you when we get indoors.

"MY DEAR COUSIN HARRIET," the note said, "After this long absence you

will be surprised at my sudden reappearance, and more by what I am going

to ask. But if my life and future are of any concern to you at all, I

beg that you will grant my request. What I require of you, is, dear

Harriet, that you meet me about eleven to-night by the Druid stones on

Marlbury Downs, about a mile or more from your house. I cannot say more,

except to entreat you to come. I will explain all when you are there.

The one thing is, I want to see you. Come alone. Believe me, I would not

ask this if my happiness did not hang upon it-God knows how entirely! I

am too agitated to say more-Yours. FRED."

'That was all of it. Now, of course I ought have gone, as it turned out,

but that I did not think of then. I remembered his impetuous temper, and

feared that something grievous was impending over his head, while he had

not a friend in the world to help him, or any one except myself to whom

he would care to make his trouble known. So I wrapped myself up and went

to Marlbury Downs at the time he had named. Don't you think I was

courageous?'

'Very.'

'When I got there-but shall we not walk on; it is getting cold?' The

Duke, however, did not move. 'When I got there he came, of course, as a

full grown man and officer, and not as the lad that I had known him.

When I saw him I was sorry I had come. I can hardly tell you how he

behaved. What he wanted I don't know even now; it seemed to be no more

than the mere meeting with me. He held me by the hand and waist-O so

tight-and would not let me go till I had promised to meet him again. His

manner was so strange and passionate that I was afraid of him in such a

lonely place, and I promised to come. Then I escaped-then I ran home-and

that's all. When the time drew on this evening for the appointment-

which, of course, I never intended to keep, I felt uneasy, lest when he

found I meant to disappoint him he would come on to the house; and

that's why I could not sleep. But you are so silent!'

'I have had a long journey.'

'Then let us get into the house. Why did you come alone and unattended

like this?'

'It was my humour.'

After a moment's silence, during which they moved on, she said, 'I have

thought of something which I hardly like to suggest to you. He said that

if I failed to come to-night he would wait again to-morrow night. Now,

shall we to-morrow night go to the hill together-just to see if he is

there; and if he is, read him a lesson on his foolishness in nourishing

this old passion, and sending for me so oddly, instead of coming to the

house?'

'Why should we see if he's there?' said her husband moodily.

'Because I think we ought to do something in it. Poor Fred! He would

listen to you if you reasoned with him, and set our positions in their

true light before him. It would be no more than Christian kindness to a

man who unquestionably is very miserable from some cause or other. His

head seems quite turned.'

By this time they had reached the door, rung the bell, and waited. All

the house seemed to be asleep; but soon a man came to them, the horse

was taken away, and the Duke and Duchess went in. THIRD NIGHT

There was no help for it. Bill Mills was obliged to stay on duty, in the

old shepherd's absence, this evening as before, or give up his post and

living. He thought as bravely as he could of what lay behind the Devil's

Door, but with no great success, and was therefore in a measure

relieved, even if awe-stricken, when he saw the forms of the Duke and

Duchess strolling across the frosted greensward. The Duchess was a few

yards in front of her husband and tripped on lightly.

'I tell you he has not thought it worth while to come again!' the Duke

insisted, as he stood still, reluctant to walk further.

'He is more likely to come and wait all night; and it would be harsh

treatment to let him do it a second time.'

'He is not here; so turn and come home.'

'He seems not to be here, certainly; I wonder if anything has happened

to him. If it has, I shall never forgive myself!'

The Duke, uneasily, 'O, no. He has some other engagement.'

'That is very unlikely.'

'Or perhaps he has found the distance too far.'

'Nor is that probable.'

'Then he may have thought better of it.'

'Yes, he may have thought better of it; if, indeed, he is not here all

the time-somewhere in the hollow behind the Devil's Door. Let us go and

see; it will serve him right to surprise him.'

'O, he's not there.'

'He may be lying very quiet because of you,' she said archly.

'O, no-not because of me!'

'Come, then. I declare, dearest, you lag like an unwilling schoolboy to-

night, and there's no responsiveness in you! You are jealous of that

poor lad, and it is quite absurd of you.'

'I'll come! I'll come! Say no more, Harriet!' And they crossed over the

green.

Wondering what they would do, the young shepherd left the hut, and

doubled behind the belt of furze, intending to stand near the trilithon

unperceived. But, in crossing the few yards of open ground he was for a

moment exposed to view.

'Ah, I see him at last!' said the Duchess.

'See him!' said the Duke. 'Where?'

'By the Devil's Door; don't you notice a figure there? Ah, my poor

lover-cousin, won't you catch it now?' And she laughed half-pityingly.

'But what's the matter?' she asked, turning to her husband.

'It is not he!' said the Duke hoarsely. 'It can't be he!'

'No, it is not he. It is too small for him. It is a boy.'

'Ah, I thought so! Boy, come here.'

The youthful shepherd advanced with apprehension.

'What are you doing here?'

'Keeping sheep, your Grace.'

'Ah, you know me! Do you keep sheep here every night?'

'Off and on, my Lord Duke.'

'And what have you seen here to-night or last night?' inquired the

Duchess. 'Any person waiting or walking about?'

The boy was silent.

'He has seen nothing,' interrupted her husband, his eyes so forbiddingly

fixed on the boy that they seemed to shine like points of fire. 'Come,

let us go. The air is too keen to stand in long.'

When they were gone the boy retreated to the hut and sheep, less fearful

now than at first-familiarity with the situation having gradually

overpowered his thoughts of the buried man. But he was not to be left

alone long. When an interval had elapsed of about sufficient length for

walking to and from Shakeforest Towers, there appeared from that

direction the heavy form of the Duke. He now came alone.

The nobleman, on his part, seemed to have eyes no less sharp than the

boy's, for he instantly recognized the latter among the ewes, and came

straight towards him.

'Are you the shepherd lad I spoke to a short time ago?'

'I be, my Lord Duke.'

'Now listen to me. Her Grace asked you what you had seen this last night

or two up here, and you made no reply. I now ask the same thing, and you

need not be afraid to answer. Have you seen anything strange these

nights you have been watching here?'

'My Lord Duke, I be a poor heedless boy, and what I see I don't bear in

mind.'

'I ask you again,' said the Duke, coming nearer, 'have you seen anything

strange these nights you have been watching here?'

'O, my Lord Duke! I be but the under-shepherd boy, and my father he was

but your humble Grace's hedger, and my mother only the cinder-woman in

the back-yard! I fall asleep when left alone, and I see nothing at all!'

The Duke grasped the boy by the shoulder, and, directly impending over

him, stared down into his face, 'Did you see anything strange done here

last night, I say?'

'O, my Lord Duke, have mercy, and don't stab me!' cried the shepherd,

falling on his knees. 'I have never seen you walking here, or riding

here, or lying-in-wait for a man, or dragging a heavy load!'

'H'm!' said his interrogator, grimly, relaxing his hold. 'It is well to

know that you have never seen those things. Now, which would you rather-

see me do those things now, or keep a secret all your life?'

'Keep a secret, my Lord Duke!'

'Sure you are able?'

'O, your Grace, try me!'

'Very well. And now, how do you like sheep-keeping?'

'Not at all. 'Tis lonely work for them that think of spirits, and I'm

badly used.'

'I believe you. You are too young for it. I must do something to make

you more comfortable. You shall change this smock-frock for a real cloth

jacket, and your thick boots for polished shoes. And you shall be taught

what you have never yet heard of; and be put to school, and have bats

and balls for the holidays, and be made a man of. But you must never say

you have been a shepherd boy, and watched on the hills at night, for

shepherd boys are not liked in good company.

'Trust me, my Lord Duke.'

'The very moment you forget yourself, and speak of your shepherd days-

this year, next year, in school, out of school, or riding in your

carriage twenty years hence-at that moment my help will be withdrawn,

and smash down you come to shepherding forthwith. You have parents, I

think you say?'

'A widowed mother only, my Lord Duke.'

'I'll provide for her, and make a comfortable woman of her, until you

speak of-what?'

'Of my shepherd days, and what I saw here.'

'Good. If you do speak of it?'

'Smash down she comes to widowing forthwith!'

'That's well-very well. But it's not enough. Come here.' He took the boy

across to the trilithon, and made him kneel down.

'Now, this was once a holy place,' resumed the Duke. 'An altar stood

here, erected to a venerable family of gods, who were known and talked

of long before the God we know now. So that an oath sworn here is doubly

an oath. Say this after me: "May all the host above-angels and

archangels, and principalities and powers-punish me; may I be tormented

wherever I am-in the house or in the garden, in the fields or in the

roads, in church or in chapel, at home or abroad, on land or at sea; may

I be afflicted in eating and in drinking, in growing up and in growing

old, in living and dying, inwardly and outwardly, and for always, if I

ever speak of my life as a shepherd boy, or of what I have seen done on

this Marlbury Down. So be it, and so let it be. Amen and amen." Now kiss

the stone.'

The trembling boy repeated the words, and kissed the stone, as desired.

The Duke led him off by the hand. That night the junior shepherd slept

in Shakeforest Towers, and the next day he was sent away for tuition to

a remote village. Thence he went to a preparatory establishment, and in

due course to a public school. FOURTH NIGHT

On a winter evening many years subsequent to the above-mentioned

occurrences, the ci-devant shepherd sat in a well-furnished office in

the north wing of Shakeforest Towers in the guise of an ordinary

educated man of business. He appeared at this time as a person of

thirty-eight or forty, though actually he was several years younger. A

worn and restless glance of the eye now and then, when he lifted his

head to search for some letter or paper which had been mislaid, seemed

to denote that his was not a mind so thoroughly at ease as his

surroundings might have led an observer to expect.

His pallor, too, was remarkable for a countryman. He was professedly

engaged in writing, but he shaped not word. He had sat there only a few

minutes, when, laying down his pen and pushing back his chair, he rested

a hand uneasily on each of the chair-arms and looked on the floor.

Soon he arose and left the room. His course was along a passage which

ended in a central octagonal hall; crossing this he knocked at a door. A

faint, though deep, voice told him to come in. The room he entered was

the library, and it was tenanted by a single person only-his patron the

Duke.

During this long interval of years the Duke had lost all his heaviness

of build. He was, indeed, almost a skeleton; his white hair was thin,

and his hands were nearly transparent. 'Oh-Mills?' he murmured. 'Sit

down. What is it?'

'Nothing new, your Grace. Nobody to speak of has written, and nobody has

called.'

'Ah-what then? You look concerned.'

'Old times have come to life, owing to something waking them.'

'Old times be cursed-which old times are they?'

'That Christmas week twenty-two years ago, when the late Duchess's

cousin Frederick implored her to meet him on Marlbury Downs. I saw the

meeting-it was just such a night as this-and I, as you know, saw more.

She met him once, but not the second time.'

'Mills, shall I recall some words to you-the words of an oath taken on

that hill by a shepherd-boy?'

'It is unnecessary. He has strenuously kept that oath and promise. Since

that night no sound of his shepherd life has crossed his lips-even to

yourself. But do you wish to hear more, or do you not, your Grace?'

'I wish to hear no more,' said the Duke sullenly.

'Very well; let it be so. But a time seems coming-may be quite near at

hand-when, in spite of my lips, that episode will allow itself to go

undivulged no longer.'

'I wish to hear no more!' repeated the Duke.

'You need be under no fear of treachery from me,' said the steward,

somewhat bitterly. 'I am a man to whom you have been kind-no patron

could have been kinder. You have clothed and educated me; have installed

me here; and I am not unmindful. But what of it-has your Grace gained

much by my stanchness? I think not. There was great excitement about

Captain Ogbourne's disappearance, but I spoke not a word. And his body

has never been found. For twenty-two years I have wondered what you did

with him. Now I know. A circumstance that occurred this afternoon

recalled the time to me most forcibly. To make it certain to myself that

all was not a dream, I went up there with a spade; I searched, and saw

enough to know that something decays there in a closed badger's hole.'

'Mills, do you think the Duchess guessed?'

'She never did, I am sure, to the day of her death.'

'Did you leave all as you found it on the hill?'

'I did.'

'What made you think of going up there this particular afternoon?'

'What your Grace says you don't wish to be told.'

The Duke was silent; and the stillness of the evening was so marked that

there reached their ears from the outer air the sound of a tolling bell.

'What is that bell tolling for?' asked the nobleman.

'For what I came to tell you of, your Grace.'

'You torment me it is your way!' said the Duke querulously. 'Who's dead

in the village?'

'The oldest man-the old shepherd.'

'Dead at last-how old is he?'

'Ninety-four.'

'And I am only seventy. I have four-and-twenty years to the good!'

'I served under that old man when I kept sheep on Marlbury Downs. And he

was on the hill that second night, when I first exchanged words with

your Grace. He was on the hill all the time; but I did not know he was

there-nor did you.'

'Ah!' said the Duke, starting up. 'Go on-I yield the point-you may

tell!'

'I heard this afternoon that he was at the point of death. It was that

which set me thinking of that past time-and induced me to search on the

hill for what I have told you. Coming back I heard that he wished to see

the Vicar to confess to him a secret he had kept for more than twenty

years-"out of respect to my Lord the Duke"-something that he had seen

committed on Marlbury Downs when returning to the flock on a December

night twenty-two years ago. I have thought it over. He had left me in

charge that evening; but he was in the habit of coming back suddenly,

lest I should have fallen asleep. That night I saw nothing of him,

though he had promised to return. He must have returned, and-found

reason to keep in hiding. It is all plain. The next thing is that the

Vicar went to him two hours ago. Further than that I have not heard.'

'It is quite enough. I will see the Vicar at daybreak to-morrow.'

'What to do?'

'Stop his tongue for four-and-twenty years-till I am dead at ninety-

four, like the shepherd.'

'Your Grace-while you impose silence on me, I will not speak, even

though nay neck should pay the penalty. I promised to be yours, and I am

yours. But is this persistence of any avail?'

'I'll stop his tongue, I say!' cried the Duke with some of his old

rugged force. 'Now, you go home to bed, Mills, and leave me to manage

him.'

The interview ended, and the steward withdrew. The night, as he had

said, was just such an one as the night of twenty-two years before, and

the events of the evening destroyed in him all regard for the season as

one of cheerfulness and goodwill. He went off to his own house on the

further verge of the park, where he led a lonely life, scarcely calling

any man friend. At eleven he prepared to retire to bed-but did not

retire. He sat down and reflected. Twelve o'clock struck; he looked out

at the colourless moon, and, prompted by he knew not what, put on his

hat and emerged into the air. Here William Mills strolled on and on,

till he reached the top of Marlbury Downs, a spot he had not visited at

this hour of the night during the whole score-and-odd years.

He placed himself, as nearly as he could guess, on the spot where the

shepherd's hut had stood. No lambing was in progress there now, and the

old shepherd who had used him so roughly had ceased from his labours

that very day. But the trilithon stood up white as ever; and, crossing

the intervening sward, the steward fancifully placed his mouth against

the stone. Restless and self-reproachful as he was, he could not resist

a smile as he thought of the terrifying oath of compact, sealed by a

kiss upon the stones of a Pagan temple. But he had kept his word, rather

as a promise than as a formal vow, with much worldly advantage to

himself, though not much happiness; till increase of years had bred

reactionary feelings which led him to receive the news of to-night with

emotions akin to relief.

While leaning against the Devil's Door and thinking on these things, he

became conscious that he was not the only inhabitant of the down. A

figure in white was moving across his front with long, noiseless

strides. Mills stood motionless, and when the form drew quite near he

perceived it to be that of the Duke himself in his nightshirt-apparently

walking in his sleep. Not to alarm the old man, Mills clung close to the

shadow of the stone. The Duke went straight on into the hollow. There he

knelt down, and began scratching the earth with his hands like a badger.

After a few minutes he arose, sighed heavily, and retraced his steps as

he had come.

Fearing that he might harm himself, yet unwilling to arouse him, the

steward followed noiselessly. The Duke kept on his path unerringly,

entered the park, and made for the house, where he let himself in by a

window that stood open-the one probably by which he had come out. Mills

softly closed the window behind his patron, and then retired homeward to

await the revelations of the morning, deeming it unnecessary to alarm

the house.

However, he felt uneasy during the remainder of the night, no less on

account of the Duke's personal condition than because of that which was

imminent next day. Early in the morning he called at Shakeforest Towers.

The blinds were down, and there was something singular upon the porter's

face when he opened the door. The steward inquired for the Duke.

The man's voice was subdued as he replied: 'Sir, I am sorry to say that

his Grace is dead! He left his room some time in the night, and wandered

about nobody knows where. On returning to the upper floor he lost his

balance and fell downstairs.'

The steward told the tale of the Down before the Vicar had spoken. Mills

had always intended to do so after the death of the Duke. The

consequences to himself he underwent cheerfully; but his life was not

prolonged. He died, a farmer at the Cape, when still somewhat under

forty-nine years of age.

The splendid Marlbury breeding flock is as renowned as ever, and, to the

eye, seems the same in every particular that it was in earlier times;

but the animals which composed it on the occasion of the events gathered

from the Justice are divided by many ovine generations from its members

now. Lambing Corner has long since ceased to be used for lambing

purposes, though the name still lingers on as the appellation of the

spot. This abandonment of site may be partly owing to the removal of the

high furze bushes which lent such convenient shelter at that date.

Partly, too, it may be due to another circumstance. For it is said by

present shepherds in that district that during the nights of Christmas

week flitting shapes are seen in the open space around the trilithon,

together with the gleam of a weapon, and the shadow of a man dragging a

burden into the hollow. But of these things there is no certain

testimony.

Christmas 1881.

A COMMITTEE-MAN OF 'THE TERROR'

We had been talking of the Georgian glories of our old-fashioned

watering-place, which now, with its substantial russet-red and dun brick

buildings in the style of the year eighteen hundred, looks like one side

of a Soho or Bloomsbury Street transported to the shore, and draws a

smile from the modern tourist who has no eye for solidity of build. The

writer, quite a youth, was present merely as a listener. The

conversation proceeded from general subjects to particular, until old

Mrs. H�, whose memory was as perfect at eighty as it had ever been in

her life, interested us all by the obvious fidelity with which she

repeated a story many times related to her by her mother when our aged

friend was a girl-a domestic drama much affecting the life of an

acquaintance of her said parent, one Mademoiselle V�, a teacher of

French. The incidents occurred in the town during the heyday of its

fortunes, at the time of our brief peace with France in 1802-3.

'I wrote it down in the shape of a story some years ago, just after my

mother's death,' said Mrs. H�. 'It is locked up in my desk there now.'

'Read it!' said we.

'No,' said she; 'the light is bad, and I can remember it well enough,

word for word, flourishes and all.' We could not be choosers in the

circumstances, and she began.

'There are two in it, of course, the man and the woman, and it was on an

evening in September that she first got to know him. There had not been

such a grand gathering on the Esplanade all the season. His Majesty King

George the Third was present, with all the princesses and royal dukes,

while upwards of three hundred of the general nobility and other persons

of distinction were also in the town at the time. Carriages and other

conveyances were arriving every minute from London and elsewhere; and

when among the rest a shabby stage-coach came in by a by-route along the

coast from Havenpool, and drew up at a second-rate tavern, it attracted

comparatively little notice.

'From this dusty vehicle a man alighted, left his small quantity of

luggage temporarily at the office, and walked along the street as if to

look for lodgings.

'He was about forty-five-possibly fifty-and wore a long coat of faded

superfine cloth, with a heavy collar, and a hunched-up neckcloth. He

seemed to desire obscurity.

'But the display appeared presently to strike him, and he asked of a

rustic he met in the street what was going on; his accent being that of

one to whom English pronunciation was difficult.

'The countryman looked at him with a slight surprise, and said, "King

Jarge is here and his royal Cwort."

'The stranger inquired if they were going to stay long.

'"Don't know, Sir. Same as they always do, I suppose."

'"How long is that?"

'"Till some time in October. They've come here every summer since

eighty-nine."

'The stranger moved onward down St. Thomas Street, and approached the

bridge over the harbour backwater, that then, as now, connected the old

town with the more modern portion. The spot was swept with the rays of a

low sun, which lit up the harbour lengthwise, and shone under the brim

of the man's hat and into his eyes as he looked westward. Against the

radiance figures were crossing in the opposite direction to his own;

among them this lady of my mother's later acquaintance, Mademoiselle V�

. She was the daughter of a good old French family, and at that date a

pale woman, twenty-eight or thirty years of age, tall and elegant in

figure, but plainly dressed and wearing that evening (she said) a small

muslin shawl crossed over the bosom in the fashion of the time, and tied

behind.

'At sight of his face, which, as she used to tell us, was unusually

distinct in the peering sunlight, she could not help giving a little

shriek of horror, for a terrible reason connected with her history, and

after walking a few steps further, she sank down against the parapet of

the bridge in a fainting fit.

'In his preoccupation the foreign gentleman had hardly noticed her, but

her strange collapse immediately attracted his attention. He quickly

crossed the carriageway, picked her up, and carried her into the first

shop adjoining the bridge, explaining that she was a lady who had been

taken ill outside.

'She soon revived; but, clearly much puzzled, her helper perceived that

she still had a dread of him which was sufficient to hinder her complete

recovery of self-command. She spoke in a quick and nervous way to the

shopkeeper, asking him to call a coach.

'This the shopkeeper did, Mademoiselle V�- and the stranger remaining in

constrained silence while he was gone. The coach came up, and giving the

man the address, she entered it and drove away.

'"Who is that lady?" said the newly arrived gentleman.

'"She's of your nation, as I should make bold to suppose," said the

shopkeeper. And he told the other that she was Mademoiselle V�,

governess at General Newbold's, in the same town.

'"You have many foreigners here?" the stranger inquired.

'"Yes, though mostly Hanoverians. But since the peace they are learning

French a good deal in genteel society, and French instructors are rather

in demand."

'"Yes, I teach it," said the visitor. "I am looking for a tutorship in

an academy."

'The information given by the burgess to the Frenchman seemed to explain

to the latter nothing of his countrywoman's conduct-which, indeed, was

the case-and he left the shop, taking his course again over the bridge

and along the south quay to the Old Rooms Inn, where he engaged a

bedchamber.

'Thoughts of the woman who had betrayed such agitation at sight of him

lingered naturally enough with the newcomer. Though, as I stated, not

much less than thirty years of age, Mademoiselle V�, one of his own

nation, and of highly refined and delicate appearance, had kindled a

singular interest in the middle-aged gentleman's breast, and her large

dark eyes, as they had opened and shrunk from him, exhibited a pathetic

beauty to which hardly any man could have been insensible.

'The next day, having written some letters, he went out and made known

at the office of the town "Guide" and of the newspaper, that a teacher

of French and calligraphy had arrived, leaving a card at the

bookseller's to the same effect. He then walked on aimlessly, but at

length inquired the way to General Newbold's. At the door, without

giving his name, he asked to see Mademoiselle V�, and was shown into a

little back parlour, where she came to him with a gaze of surprise.

'"My God! Why do you intrude here, Monsieur?" she gasped in French as

soon as she saw his face.

'"You were taken ill yesterday. I helped you. You might have been run

over if I had not picked you up. It was an act of simple humanity

certainly; but I thought I might come to ask if you had recovered?"

'She had turned aside, and had scarcely heard a word of his speech. "I

hate you, infamous man!" she said. "I cannot bear your helping me. Go

away!"

'"But you are a stranger to me."

'"I know you too well!"

'"You have the advantage then, Mademoiselle. I am a newcomer here. I

never have seen you before to my knowledge; and I certainly do not,

could not, hate you."

'"Are you not Monsieur B�?"

'He flinched. "I am-in Paris," he said. "But here I am Monsieur G�."

'"That is trivial. You are the man I say you are."

'"How did you know my real name, Mademoiselle?"

'"I saw you in years gone by, when you did not see me. You were formerly

Member of the Committee of Public Safety, under the Convention."

"I was."

'"You guillotined my father, my brother, my uncle-all my family, nearly,

and broke my mother's heart. They had done nothing but keep silence.

Their sentiments were only guessed. Their headless corpses were thrown

indiscriminately into the ditch of the Mousseaux Cemetery, and destroyed

with lime."

'He nodded.

'"You left me without a friend, and here I am now, alone in a foreign

land."

'"I am sorry for you," said be. "Sorry for the consequence, not for the

intent. What I did was a matter of conscience, and, from a point of view

indiscernible by you, I did right. I profited not a farthing. But I

shall not argue this. You have the satisfaction of seeing me here an

exile also, in poverty, betrayed by comrades, as friendless as

yourself."

'"It is no satisfaction to me, Monsieur."

'"Well, things done cannot be altered. Now the question: are you quite

recovered?"

'"Not from dislike and dread of you-otherwise, yes."

'"Good morning, Mademoiselle."

'"Good morning."

'They did not meet again till one evening at the theatre (which my

mother's friend was with great difficulty induced to frequent, to

perfect herself in English pronunciation, the idea she entertained at

that time being to become a teacher of English in her own country later

on). She found him sitting next to her, and it made her pale and

restless.

'"You are still afraid of me?"

'"I am. O cannot you understand!"

'He signified the affirmative.

'"I follow the play with difficulty," he said, presently.

'"So do I-now," said she.

'He regarded her long, and she was conscious of his look; and while she

kept her eyes on the stage they filled with tears. Still she would not

move, and the tears ran visibly down her cheek, though the play was a

merry one, being no other than Mr. Sheridan's comedy of "The Rivals,"

with Mr. S. Kemble as Captain Absolute. He saw her distress, and that

her mind was elsewhere; and abruptly rising from his seat at candle-

snuffing time he left the theatre.

'Though he lived in the old town, and she in the new, they frequently

saw each other at a distance. One of these occasions was when she was on

the north side of the harbour, by the ferry, waiting for the boat to

take her across. He was standing by Cove Row, on the quay opposite.

Instead of entering the boat when it arrived she stepped back from the

quay; but looking to see if he remained she beheld him pointing with his

finger to the ferry-boat.

'"Enter!" he said, in a voice loud enough to reach her.

'Mademoiselle V�- stood still.

'"Enter!" he said, and, as she did not move, he repeated the word a

third time.

'She had really been going to cross, and now approached and stepped down

into the boat. Though she did not raise her eyes she knew that he was

watching her over. At the landing steps she saw from under the brim of

her hat a hand stretched down. The steps were steep and slippery.

'"No, Monsieur," she said. "Unless, indeed, you believe in God, and

repent of your evil past!"

'"I am sorry you were made to suffer. But I only believe in the god

called Reason, and I do not repent. I was the instrument of a national

principle. Your friends were not sacrificed for any ends of mine."

'She thereupon withheld her hand, and clambered up unassisted. He went

on, ascending the Look-out Hill, and disappearing over the brow. Her way

was in the same direction, her errand being to bring home the two young

girls under her charge, who had gone to the cliff for an airing. When

she joined them at the top she saw his solitary figure at the further

edge, standing motionless against the sea. All the while that she

remained with her pupils he stood without turning, as if looking at the

frigates in the roadstead, but more probably in meditation, unconscious

where he was. In leaving the spot one of the children threw away half a

sponge-biscuit that she had been eating. Passing near it he stooped,

picked it up carefully, and put it in his pocket.

'Mademoiselle V�- came homeward, asking herself, "Can he be starving?"

'From that day he was invisible for so long a time that she thought he

had gone away altogether. But one evening a note came to her, and she

opened it trembling.

'"I am here ill," it said, "and, as you know, alone. There are one or

two little things I want done, in case my death should occur,-and I

should prefer not to ask the people here, if it could be avoided. Have

you enough of the gift of charity to come and carry out my wishes before

it is too late?"

'Now so it was that, since seeing him possess himself of the broken

cake, she had insensibly begun to feel something that was more than

curiosity, though perhaps less than anxiety, about this fellow-

countryman of hers; and it was not in her nervous and sensitive heart to

resist his appeal. She found his lodging (to which he had removed from

the Old Rooms inn for economy) to be a room over a shop, half-way up the

steep and narrow street of the old town, to which the fashionable

visitors seldom penetrated. With some misgiving she entered the house,

and was admitted to the chamber where he lay.

'"You are too good, too good," he murmured. And presently, "You need not

shut the door. You will feel safer, and they will not understand what we

say."

'"Are you in want, Monsieur? Can I give you-"

'"No, no. I merely want you to do a trifling thing or two that I have

not strength enough to do myself. Nobody in the town but you knows who I

really am-unless you have told?"

'"I have not told . . . I thought you might have acted from principle in

those sad days, even-"

'"You are kind to concede that much. However, to the present. I was able

to destroy my few papers before I became so weak . . . But in the drawer

there you will find some pieces of linen clothing-only two or three-

marked with initials that may be recognized. Will you rip them out with

a penknife?"

'She searched as bidden, found the garments, cut out the stitches of the

lettering, and replaced the linen as before. A promise to post, in the

event of his death, a letter he put in her hand, completed all that he

required of her.

'He thanked her. "I think you seem sorry for me," he murmured. "And I am

surprised. You are sorry?"

'She evaded the question. "Do you repent and believe?" she asked.

'"No."

'Contrary to her expectations and his own he recovered, though very

slowly; and her manner grew more distant thenceforward, though his

influence upon her was deeper than she knew. Weeks passed away, and the

month of May arrived. One day at this time she met him walking slowly

along the beach to the northward.

'"You know the news?" he said.

'"You mean of the rupture between France and England again?"

'"Yes; and the feeling of antagonism is stronger than it was in the last

war, owing to Bonaparte's high-handed arrest of the innocent English who

were travelling in our country for pleasure. I feel that the war will be

long and bitter; and that my wish to live unknown in England will be

frustrated. See here."

'He took from his pocket a piece of the single newspaper which

circulated in the county in those days, and she read-

"The magistrates acting under the Alien Act have been requested to

direct a very scrutinizing eye to the Academies in our towns and other

places, in which French tutors are employed, and to all of that

nationality who profess to be teachers in this country. Many of them are

known to be inveterate Enemies and Traitors to the nation among whose

people they have found a livelihood and a home."

'He continued: "I have observed since the declaration of war a marked

difference in the conduct of the rougher class of people here towards

me. If a great battle were to occur-as it soon will, no doubt-feeling

would grow to a pitch that would make it impossible for me, a disguised

man of no known occupation, to stay here. With you, whose duties and

antecedents are known, it may be less difficult, but still unpleasant.

Now I propose this. You have probably seen how my deep sympathy with you

has quickened to a warm feeling; and what I say is, will you agree to

give me a title to protect you by honouring me with your hand? I am

older than you, it is true, but as husband and wife we can leave England

together, and make the whole world our country. Though I would propose

Quebec, in Canada, as the place which offers the best promise of a

home."

'"My God! You surprise me!" said she.

'"But you accept my proposal?"

'"No, no!"

'"And yet I think you will, Mademoiselle, some day!"

'"I think not."

'"I won't distress you further now."

'"Much thanks . . . I am glad to see you looking better, Monsieur; I

mean you are looking better."

'"Ah, yes. I am improving. I walk in the sun every day."

'And almost every day she saw him-sometimes nodding stiffly only,

sometimes exchanging formal civilities. "You are not gone yet," she said

on one of these occasions.

'"No. At present I don't think of going without you."

'"But you find it uncomfortable here?"

'"Somewhat. So when will you have pity on me?"

'She shook her head and went on her way. Yet she was a little moved. "He

did it on principle," she would murmur. "He had no animosity towards

them, and profited nothing!"

'She wondered how he lived. It was evident that he could not be so poor

as she had thought; his pretended poverty might be to escape notice. She

could not tell, but she knew that she was dangerously interested in him.

'And he still mended, till his thin, pale face became more full and

firm. As he mended she had to meet that request of his, advanced with

even stronger insistency.

'The arrival of the King and Court for the season as usual brought

matters to a climax for these two lonely exiles and fellow country-

people. The King's awkward preference for a part of the coast in such

dangerous proximity to France made it necessary that a strict military

vigilance should be exercised to guard the royal residents. Half-a-

dozen frigates were every night posted in a line across the bay, and two

lines of sentinels, one at the water's edge and another behind the

Esplanade, occupied the whole sea-front after eight every night. The

watering-place was growing an inconvenient residence even for

Mademoiselle V�- herself, her friendship for this strange French tutor

and writing-master who never had any pupils having been observed by many

who slightly knew her. The General's wife, whose dependent she was,

repeatedly warned her against the acquaintance; while the Hanoverian and

other soldiers of the Foreign Legion, who had discovered the nationality

of her friend, were more aggressive than the English military gallants

who made it their business to notice her.

'In this tense state of affairs her answers became more agitated. "O

Heaven, how can I marry you!" she would say.

'"You will; surely you will!" he answered again. "I don't leave without

you. And I shall soon be interrogated before the magistrates if I stay

here; probably imprisoned. You will come?"

'She felt her defences breaking down. Contrary to all reason and sense

of family honour she was, by some abnormal craving, inclining to a

tenderness for him that was founded on its opposite. Sometimes her warm

sentiments burnt lower than at others, and then the enormity of her

conduct showed itself in more staring hues.

'Shortly after this he came with a resigned look on his face. "It is as

I expected," he said. "I have received a hint to go. In good sooth, I am

no Bonapartist-I am no enemy to England; but the presence of the King

made it impossible for a foreigner with no visible occupation, and who

may be a spy, to remain at large in the town. The authorities are civil,

but firm. They are no more than reasonable. Good. I must go. You must

come also."

'She did not speak. But she nodded assent, her eyes drooping.

'On her way back to the house on the Esplanade she said to herself, "I

am glad, I am glad! I could not do otherwise. It is rendering good for

evil!" But she knew how she mocked herself in this, and that the moral

principle had not operated one jot in her acceptance of him. In truth

she had not realized till now the full presence of the emotion which had

unconsciously grown up in her for this lonely and severe man, who, in

her tradition, was vengeance and irreligion personified. He seemed to

absorb her whole nature, and, absorbing, to control it.

'A day or two before the one fixed for the wedding there chanced to come

to her a letter from the only acquaintance of her own sex and country

she possessed in England, one to whom she had sent intelligence of her

approaching marriage, without mentioning with whom. This friend's

misfortunes had been somewhat similar to her own, which fact had been

one cause of their intimacy; her friend's sister, a nun of the Abbey of

Montmartre, having perished on the scaffold at the hands of the same

Comit� de Salut Public which had numbered Mademoiselle V�'s affianced

among its members. The writer had felt her position much again of late,

since the renewal of the war, she said; and the letter wound up with a

fresh denunciation of the authors of their mutual bereavement and

subsequent troubles.

'Coming just then, its contents produced upon Mademoiselle V�- the

effect of a pail of water upon a somnambulist. What had she been doing

in betrothing herself to this man! Was she not making herself a

parricide after the event? At this crisis in her feelings her lover

called. He beheld her trembling, and, in reply to his question, she told

him of her scruples with impulsive candour.

'She had not intended to do this, but his attitude of tender command

coerced her into frankness. Thereupon he exhibited an agitation never

before apparent in him. He said, "But all that is past. You are the

symbol of Charity, and we are pledged to let bygones be."

'His words soothed her for the moment, but she was sadly silent, and he

went away.

'That night she saw (as she firmly believed to the end of her life) a

divinely sent vision. A procession of her lost relatives-father,

brother, uncle, cousin-seemed to cross her chamber between her bed and

the window, and when she endeavoured to trace their features she

perceived them to be headless, and that she had recognized them by their

familiar clothes only. In the morning she could not shake off the

effects of this appearance on her nerves. All that day she saw nothing

of her wooer, he being occupied in making arrangements for their

departure. It grew towards evening-the marriage eve; but, in spite of

his re-assuring visit, her sense of family duty waxed stronger now that

she was left alone. Yet, she asked herself, how could she, alone and

unprotected, go at this eleventh hour and reassert to an affianced

husband that she could not and would not marry him while admitting at

the same time that she loved him? The situation dismayed her. She had

relinquished her post as governess, and was staying temporarily in a

room near the coach-office, where she expected him to call in the

morning to carry out the business of their union and departure.

'Wisely or foolishly, Mademoiselle V�- came to a resolution: that her

only safety lay in flight. His contiguity influenced her too sensibly;

she could not reason. So packing up her few possessions and placing on

the table the small sum she owed, she went out privately, secured a last

available seat in the London coach, and, almost before she had fully

weighed her action, she was rolling out of the town in the dusk of the

September evening.

'Having taken this startling step she began to reflect upon her reasons.

He had been one of that tragic Committee the sound of whose name was a

horror to the civilized world; yet he had been only one of several

members, and, it seemed, not the most active. He had marked down names

on principle, had felt no personal enmity against his victims, and had

enriched himself not a sou out of the office he had held. Nothing could

change the past. Meanwhile he loved her, and her heart inclined to as

much of him as she could detach from that past. Why not, as he had

suggested, bury memories, and inaugurate a new era by this union? In

other words, why not indulge her tenderness, since its nullification

could do no good.

'Thus she held self-communion in her seat in the coach, passing through

Casterbridge, and Shottsford, and on to the White Hart at Melchester, at

which place the whole fabric of her recent intentions crumbled down.

Better be staunch having got so far; let things take their course, and

marry boldly the man who had so impressed her. How great he was; how

small was she! And she had presumed to judge him! Abandoning her place

in the coach with the precipitancy that had characterized her taking it,

she waited till the vehicle had driven off, something in the departing

shapes of the outside passengers against the starlit sky giving her a

start, as she afterwards remembered. Presently the down coach, "The

Morning Herald," entered the city, and she hastily obtained a place on

the top.

'"I'll be firm-I'll be his-if it cost me my immortal soul!" she said.

And with troubled breathings she journeyed back over the road she had

just traced.

'She reached our royal watering-place by the time the day broke, and her

first aim was to get back to the hired room in which her last few days

had been spent. When the landlady appeared at the door in response to

Mademoiselle V�'s nervous summons, she explained her sudden departure

and return as best she could; and no objection being offered to her re-

engagement of the room for one day longer she ascended to the chamber

and sat down panting. She was back once more, and her wild

tergiversations were a secret from him whom alone they concerned.

'A sealed letter was on the mantelpiece. "Yes, it is directed to you,

Mademoiselle," said the woman who had followed her. "But we were

wondering what to do with it. A town messenger brought it after you had

gone last night."

'When the landlady had left, Mademoiselle V�- opened the letter and

read-

"MY DEAR AND HONOURED FRIEND.-You have been throughout our acquaintance

absolutely candid concerning your misgivings. But I have been reserved

concerning mine. That is the difference between us. You probably have

not guessed that every qualm you have felt on the subject of our

marriage has been paralleled in my heart to the full. Thus it happened

that your involuntary outburst of remorse yesterday, though mechanically

deprecated by me in your presence, was a last item in my own doubts on

the wisdom of our union, giving them a force that I could no longer

withstand. I came home; and, on reflection, much as I honour and adore

you, I decide to set you free.

"As one whose life has been devoted, and I may say sacrificed, to the

cause of Liberty, I cannot allow your judgment (probably a permanent

one) to be fettered beyond release by a feeling which may be transient

only.

"It would be no less than excruciating to both that I should announce

this decision to you by word of mouth. I have therefore taken the less

painful course of writing. Before you receive this I shall have left the

town by the evening coach for London, on reaching which city my

movements will be revealed to none.

"Regard me, Mademoiselle, as dead, and accept my renewed assurances of

respect, remembrance, and affection."

'When she had recovered from her shock of surprise and grief, she

remembered that at the starting of the coach out of Melchester before

dawn, the shape of a figure among the outside passengers against the

starlit sky had caused her a momentary start, from its resemblance to

that of her friend. Knowing nothing of each other's intentions, and

screened from each other by the darkness, they had left the town by the

same conveyance. "He, the greater, persevered; I, the smaller,

returned!" she said.

'Recovering from her stupor, Mademoiselle V�- bethought herself again of

her employer, Mrs. Newbold, whom recent events had estranged. To that

lady she went with a full heart, and explained everything. Mrs. Newbold

kept to herself her opinion of the episode, and reinstalled the deserted

bride in her old position as governess to the family.

'A governess she remained to the end of her days. After the final peace

with France she became acquainted with my mother, to whom by degrees she

imparted these experiences of hers. As her hair grew white, and her

features pinched, Mademoiselle V�- would wonder what nook of the world

contained her lover, if he lived, and if by any chance she might see him

again. But when, some time in the 'twenties, death came to her, at no

great age, that outline against the stars of the morning remained as the

last glimpse she ever obtained of her family's foe and her once

affianced husband.' 1895.

MASTER JOHN HORSELEIGH, KNIGHT

In the earliest and mustiest volume of the Havenpool marriage registers

(said the thin-faced gentleman) this entry may still be read by any one

curious enough to decipher the crabbed handwriting of the date. I took a

copy of it when I was last there; and it runs thus (he had opened his

pocket-book, and now read aloud the extract; afterwards handing round

the book to us, wherein we saw transcribed the following)-

Mastr John Horseleigh, Knyght, of the p'ysshe of Clyffton was maryd to

Edith the wyffe late off John Stocker, m'chawnte of Havenpool the xiiij

daje of December be p'vylegge gevyn by our sup'me hedd of the chyrche of

Ingelonde Kynge Henry the viii th 1539.