CHAPTER XXVII.

ARABELLA AGAIN AT BRAGTON.

Arabella Trefoil had adhered without flinching to the purpose she had

expressed of going down to Bragton to see the sick man. And yet at

that very time she was in the midst of her contest with Lord Rufford.

She was aware that a correspondence was going on between her father

and the young lord and that her father had demanded an interview.

She was aware also that the matter had been discussed at the family

mansion in Piccadilly, the Duke having come up to London for the

purpose, and that the Duke and his brother, who hardly ever spoke to

each other, had absolutely had a conference. And this conference had

had results. The Duke had not himself consented to interfere, but he

had agreed to a compromise proposed by his son. Lord Augustus should

be authorised to ask Lord Rufford to meet him in the library of the

Piccadilly mansion,--so that there should be some savour of the

dukedom in what might be done and said there. Lord Rufford would

by the surroundings be made to feel that in rejecting Arabella he

was rejecting the Duke and all the Mayfair belongings, and that in

accepting her he would be entitled to regard himself as accepting

them all. But by allowing thus much the Duke would not compromise

himself,--nor the Duchess, nor Lord Mistletoe. Lord Mistletoe, with

that prudence which will certainly in future years make him a useful

assistant to some minister of the day, had seen all this, and so it

had been arranged.

But, in spite of these doings, Arabella had insisted on complying

with John Morton's wish that she go down and visit him in his bed

at Bragton. Her mother, who in these days was driven almost to

desperation by her daughter's conduct, tried her best to prevent the

useless journey, but tried in vain. "Then," she said in wrath to

Arabella, "I will tell your father, and I will tell the Duke, and

I will tell Lord Rufford that they need not trouble themselves any

further." "You know, mamma, that you will do nothing of the kind,"

said Arabella. And the poor woman did do nothing of the kind. "What

is it to them whether I see the man or not?" the girl said. "They are

not such fools as to suppose that because Lord Rufford has engaged

himself to me now I was never engaged to any one before. There isn't

one of them doesn't know that you had made up an engagement between

us and had afterwards tried to break it off." When she heard this

the unfortunate mother raved, but she raved in vain. She told her

daughter that she would not supply her with money for the expenses

of her journey, but her daughter replied that she would have no

difficulty in finding her way to a pawn shop. "What is to be got by

it?" asked the unfortunate mother. In reply to this Arabella would

say, "Mamma, you have no heart;--absolutely none. You ought to

manoeuvre better than you do, for your feelings never stand in your

way for a moment." All this had to be borne, and the old woman was

forced at last not only to yield but to promise that she would

accompany her daughter to Bragton. "I know how all this will end,"

she said to Arabella. "You will have to go your way and I must go

mine." "Just so," replied the daughter. "I do not often agree with

you, mamma; but I do there altogether."

Lady Augustus was absolutely at a loss to understand what were the

motives and what the ideas which induced her daughter to take the

journey. If the man were to die no good could come of it. If he

were to live then surely that love which had induced him to make

so foolish a petition would suffice to ensure the marriage, if the

marriage should then be thought desirable. But, at the present

moment, Arabella was still hot in pursuit of Lord Rufford;--to whom

this journey, as soon as it should be known to him, would give the

easiest mode of escape! How would it be possible that they two should

get out at the Dillsborough Station and be taken to Bragton without

all Rufford knowing it. Of course there would be hymns sung in praise

of Arabella's love and constancy, but such hymns would be absolutely

ruinous to her. It was growing clear to Lady Augustus that her

daughter was giving up the game and becoming frantic as she thought

of her age, her failure, and her future. If so it would be well that

they should separate.

On the day fixed a close carriage awaited them at the Dillsborough

Station. They arrived both dressed in black and both veiled,--and

with but one maid between them. This arrangement had been made with

some vague idea of escaping scrutiny rather than from economy. They

had never hitherto been known to go anywhere without one apiece.

There were no airs on the station now as on that former occasion,--no

loud talking; not even a word spoken. Lady Augustus was asking

herself why,--why she should have been put into so lamentable a

position, and Arabella was endeavouring to think what she would say

to the dying man.

She did think that he was dying. It was not the purport of her

present visit to strengthen her position by making certain of the

man's hand should he live. When she said that she was not as yet

quite so hard-hearted as her mother, she spoke the truth. Something

of regret, something of penitence had at times crept over her in

reference to her conduct to this man. He had been very unlike others

on whom she had played her arts. None of her lovers, or mock lovers,

had been serious and stern and uncomfortable as he. There had been

no other who had ever attempted to earn his bread. To her the

butterflies of the world had been all in all, and the working bees

had been a tribe apart with which she was no more called upon to mix

than is my lady's spaniel with the kennel hounds. But the chance had

come. She had consented to exhibit her allurements before a man of

business and the man of business had at once sat at her feet. She

had soon repented,--as the reader has seen. The alliance had been

distasteful to her. She had found that the man's ways were in no wise

like her ways,--and she had found also that were she to become his

wife, he certainly would not change. She had looked about for a means

of escape,--but as she did so she had recognized the man's truth. No

doubt he had been different from the others, less gay in his attire,

less jocund in his words, less given to flattery and sport and gems

and all the little wickednesses which she had loved. But they,--those

others had, one and all, struggled to escape from her. Through all

the gems and mirth and flattery there had been the same purpose. They

liked the softness of her hand, they liked the flutter of her silk,

they liked to have whispered in their ears the bold words of her

practised raillery. Each liked for a month or two to be her special

friend. But then, after that, each had deserted her as had done the

one before; till in each new alliance she felt that such was to be

her destiny, and that she was rolling a stone which would never

settle itself, straining for waters which would never come lip high.

But John Morton, after once saying that he loved her, had never

tired, had never wished to escape. He had been so true to his love,

so true to his word, that he had borne from her usage which would

have fully justified escape had escape been to his taste. But to the

last he had really loved her, and now, on his death bed, he had sent

for her to come to him. She would not be coward enough to refuse his

request. "Should he say anything to you about his will don't refuse

to hear him, because it may be of the greatest importance," Lady

Augustus whispered to her daughter as the carriage was driven up to

the front door.

It was then four o'clock, and it was understood that the two ladies

were to stay that one night at Bragton, a letter having been received

by Lady Ushant that morning informing her that the mother as well

as the daughter was coming. Poor Lady Ushant was almost beside

herself,--not knowing what she would do with the two women, and

having no one in the house to help her. Something she had heard of

Lady Augustus, but chiefly from Mrs. Hopkins who certainly had not

admired her master's future mother-in-law. Nor had Arabella been

popular; but of her Mrs. Hopkins had only dared to say that she was

very handsome and "a little upstartish." How she was to spend the

evening with them Lady Ushant could not conceive,--it having been

decided, in accordance with the doctor's orders, that the interview

should not take place till the next morning. When they were shown in

Lady Ushant stood just within the drawing-room door and muttered a

few words as she gave her hand to each. "How is he?" asked Arabella,

throwing up her veil boldly, as soon as the door was closed. Lady

Ushant only shook her head. "I knew it would be so. It is always so

with anything I care for."

"She is so distressed, Lady Ushant," said the mother, "that she

hardly knows what she does." Arabella shook her head. "It is so, Lady

Ushant."

"Am I to go to him now?" said Arabella. Then the old lady explained

the doctor's orders, and offered to take them to their rooms.

"Perhaps I might say a word to you alone? I will stay here if you

will go with mamma." And she did stay till Lady Ushant came down to

her. "Do you mean to say it is certain," she asked,--"certain that he

must--die?"

"No;--I do not say that."

"It is possible that he may recover?"

"Certainly it is possible. What is not possible with God?"

"Ah;--that means that he will die." Then she sat herself down and

almost unconsciously took off her bonnet and laid it aside. Lady

Ushant, then looking into her face for the first time, was at a loss

to understand what she had heard of her beauty. Could it be the same

girl of whom Mrs. Hopkins had spoken and of whose brilliant beauty

Reginald had repeated what he had heard? She was haggard, almost old,

with black lines round her eyes. There was nothing soft or gracious

in the tresses of her hair. When Lady Ushant had been young men

had liked hair such as was that of Mary Masters. Arabella's yellow

locks,--whencesoever they might have come,--were rough and uncombed.

But it was the look of age, and the almost masculine strength of the

lower face which astonished Lady Ushant the most. "Has he spoken to

you about me?" she said.

"Not to me." Then Lady Ushant went on to explain that though she was

there now as the female representative of the family she had never

been so intimate with John Morton as to admit of such confidence as

that suggested.

"I wonder whether he can love me," said the girl.

"Assuredly he does, Miss Trefoil. Why else should he send for you?"

"Because he is an honest man. I hardly think that he can love me

much. He was to have been my husband, but he will escape that. If I

thought that he would live I would tell him that he was free."

"He would not want to be--free."

"He ought to want it. I am not fit for him. I have come here, Lady

Ushant, because I want to tell him the truth."

"But you love him?" Arabella made no answer, but sat looking steadily

into Lady Ushant's face. "Surely you do love him."

"I do not know. I don't think I did love him,--though now I may. It

is so horrible that he should die, and die while all this is going

on. That softens one you know. Have you ever heard of Lord Rufford?"

"Lord Rufford;--the young man?"

"Yes;--the young man."

"Never particularly. I knew his father."

"But not this man? Mr. Morton never spoke to you of him."

"Not a word."

"I have been engaged to him since I became engaged to your nephew."

"Engaged to Lord Rufford,--to marry him?"

"Yes,--indeed."

"And will you marry him?"

"I cannot say. I tell you this, Lady Ushant, because I must tell

somebody in this house. I have behaved very badly to Mr. Morton, and

Lord Rufford is behaving as badly to me."

"Did John know of this?"

"No;--but I meant to tell him. I determined that I would tell him had

he lived. When he sent for me I swore that I would tell him. If he is

dying,--how can I say it?" Lady Ushant sat bewildered, thinking over

it, understanding nothing of the world in which this girl had lived,

and not knowing now how things could have been as she described them.

It was not as yet three months since, to her knowledge, this young

woman had been staying at Bragton as the affianced bride of the

owner of the house,--staying there with her own mother and his

grandmother,--and now she declared that since that time she had

become engaged to another man and that that other man had already

jilted her! And yet she was here that she might make a deathbed

parting with the man who regarded himself as her affianced husband.

"If I were sure that he were dying, why should I trouble him?" she

said again.

Lady Ushant found herself utterly unable to give any counsel to such

a condition of circumstances. Why should she be asked? This young

woman had her mother with her. Did her mother know all this, and

nevertheless bring her daughter to the house of a man who had been so

treated! "I really do not know what to say," she replied at last.

"But I was determined that I would tell some one. I thought that Mrs.

Morton would have been here." Lady Ushant shook her head. "I am glad

she is not, because she was not civil to me when I was here before.

She would have said hard things to me,--though not perhaps harder

than I have deserved. I suppose I may still see him to-morrow."

"Oh yes; he expects it."

"I shall not tell him now. I could not tell him if I thought he were

dying. If he gets better you must tell him all."

"I don't think I could do that, Miss Trefoil."

"Pray do;--pray do. I call upon you to tell him everything."

"Tell him that you will be married to Lord Rufford?"

"No;--not that. If Mr. Morton were well to-morrow I would have

him,--if he chose to take me after what I have told you."

"You do love him then?"

"At any rate I like no one better."

"Not the young lord?"

"No! why should I like him? He does not love me. I hate him. I would

marry Mr. Morton to-morrow, and go with him to Patagonia, or anywhere

else,--if he would have me after hearing what I have done." Then she

rose from her chair; but before she left the room she said a word

further. "Do not speak a word to my mother about this. Mamma knows

nothing of my purpose. Mamma only wants me to marry Lord Rufford, and

to throw Mr. Morton over. Do not tell anyone else, Lady Ushant; but

if he is ever well enough then you must tell him." After that she

went, leaving Lady Ushant in the room astounded by the story she had

heard.

* * * * * *

VOLUME III.

CHAPTER I.

"I HAVE TOLD HIM EVERYTHING."

That evening was very long and very sad to the three ladies assembled

in the drawing-room at Bragton Park, but it was probably more so

to Lady Augustus than the other two. She hardly spoke to either of

them; nor did they to her; while a certain amount of conversation

in a low tone was carried on between Lady Ushant and Miss Trefoil.

When Arabella came down to dinner she received a message from the

sick man. He sent his love, and would so willingly have seen her

instantly,--only that the doctor would not allow it. But he was so

glad,--so very glad that she had come! This Lady Ushant said to her

in a whisper, and seemed to say it as though she had heard nothing of

that frightful story which had been told to her not much more than

an hour ago. Arabella did not utter a word in reply, but put out her

hand, secretly as it were, and grasped that of the old lady to whom

she had told the tale of her later intrigues. The dinner did not keep

them long, but it was very grievous to them all. Lady Ushant might

have made some effort to be at least a complaisant hostess to Lady

Augustus had she not heard this story,--had she not been told that

the woman, knowing her daughter to be engaged to John Morton, had

wanted her to marry Lord Rufford. The story having come from the lips

of the girl herself had moved some pity in the old woman's breast

in regard to her; but for Lady Augustus she could feel nothing but

horror.

In the evening Lady Augustus sat alone, not even pretending to open

a book or to employ her fingers. She seated herself on one side of

the fire with a screen in her hand, turning over such thoughts in her

mind as were perhaps customary to her. Would there ever come a period

to her misery, an hour of release in which she might be in comfort

ere she died? Hitherto from one year to another, from one decade to

the following, it had all been struggle and misery, contumely and

contempt. She thought that she had done her duty by her child, and

her child hated and despised her. It was but the other day that

Arabella had openly declared that in the event of her marriage she

would not have her mother as a guest in her own house. There could be

no longer hope for triumph and glory;--but how might she find peace

so that she might no longer be driven hither and thither by this

ungrateful tyrant child? Oh, how hard she had worked in the world,

and how little the world had given her in return!

Lady Ushant and Arabella sat at the other side of the fire, at some

distance from it, on a sofa, and carried on a fitful conversation in

whispers, of which a word would now and then reach the ears of the

wretched mother. It consisted chiefly of a description of the man's

illness, and of the different sayings which had come from the doctors

who had attended him. It was marvellous to Lady Augustus, as she

sat there listening, that her daughter should condescend to take an

interest in such details. What could it be to her now how the fever

had taken him, or why or when? On the very next day, the very morning

on which she would go and sit,--ah so uselessly,--by the dying man's

bedside, her father was to meet Lord Rufford at the ducal mansion in

Piccadilly, to see if anything could be done in that quarter! It was

impossible that she should really care whether John Morton's lease of

life was to be computed at a week's purchase or at that of a month!

And yet Arabella sat there asking sick-room questions and listening

to sick-room replies as though her very nature had been changed. Lady

Augustus heard her daughter inquire what food the sick man took, and

then Lady Ushant at great length gave the list of his nourishment.

What sickening hypocrisy! thought Lady Augustus.

Lady Augustus must have known her daughter well; and yet it was not

hypocrisy. The girl's nature, which had become thoroughly evil from

the treatment it had received, was not altered. Such sudden changes

do not occur more frequently than other miracles. But zealously

as she had practised her arts she had not as yet practised them

long enough not to be cowed by certain outward circumstances. There

were moments when she still heard in her imagination the sound of

that horse's foot as it struck the skull of the unfortunate fallen

rider;--and now the prospect of the death of this man whom she had

known so intimately and who had behaved so well to her,--to whom her

own conduct had been so foully false,--for a time brought her back to

humanity. But Lady Augustus had got beyond that and could not at all

understand it.

By nine they had all retired for the night. It was necessary that

Lady Ushant should again visit her nephew, and the mother and

daughter went to their own rooms. "I cannot in the least make out

what you are doing," said Lady Augustus in her most severe voice.

"I dare say not, mamma."

"I have been brought here, at a terrible sacrifice--"

"Sacrifice! What sacrifice? You are as well here as anywhere else."

"I say I have been brought here at a terrible sacrifice for no

purpose whatever. What use is it to be? And then you pretend to care

what this poor man is eating and drinking and what physic he is

taking when, the last time you were in his company, you wouldn't so

much as look at him for fear you should make another man jealous."

"He was not dying then."

"Psha!"

"Oh yes. I know all that. I do feel a little ashamed of myself when I

am almost crying for him."

"As if you loved him!"

"Dear mamma, I do own that it is foolish. Having listened to you on

these subjects for a dozen years at least I ought to have got rid of

all that. I don't suppose I do love him. Two or three weeks ago I

almost thought I loved Lord Rufford, and now I am quite sure that I

hate him. But if I heard to-morrow that he had broken his neck out

hunting, I ain't sure but what I should feel something. But he would

not send for me as this man has done."

"It was very impertinent."

"Perhaps it was ill-bred, as he must have suspected something as to

Lord Rufford. However we are here now."

"I will never allow you to drag me anywhere again."

"It will be for yourself to judge of that. If I want to go anywhere,

I shall go. What's the good of quarrelling? You know that I mean to

have my way."

The next morning neither Lady Augustus nor Miss Trefoil came down to

breakfast, but at ten o'clock Arabella was ready, as appointed, to

be taken into the sick man's bedroom. She was still dressed in black

but had taken some trouble with her face and hair. She followed Lady

Ushant in, and silently standing by the bedside put her hand upon

that of John Morton which was laying outside on the bed. "I will

leave you now, John," said Lady Ushant retiring, "and come again in

half an hour."

"When I ring," he said.

"You mustn't let him talk for more than that," said the old lady to

Arabella as she went.

It was more than an hour afterwards when Arabella crept into her

mother's room, during which time Lady Ushant had twice knocked at her

nephew's door and had twice been sent away. "It is all over, mamma!"

she said.

Lady Augustus looked into her daughter's eyes and saw that she had

really been weeping. "All over!"

"I mean for me,--and you. We have only got to go away."

"Will he--die?"

"It will make no matter though he should live for ever. I have told

him everything. I did not mean to do it because I thought that he

would be weak; but he has been strong enough for that."

"What have you told him?"

"Just everything--about you and Lord Rufford and myself,--and what an

escape he had had not to marry me. He understands it all now."

"It is a great deal more than I do."

"He knows that Lord Rufford has been engaged to me." She clung to

this statement so vehemently that she had really taught herself to

believe that it was so.

"Well!"

"And he knows also how his lordship is behaving to me. Of course he

thinks that I have deserved it. Of course I have deserved it. We have

nothing to do now but to go back to London."

"You have brought me here all the way for that."

"Only for that! As the man was dying I thought that I would be honest

just for once. Now that I have told him I don't believe that he will

die. He does not look to be so very ill."

"And you have thrown away that chance!"

"Altogether. You didn't like Bragton you know, and therefore it can't

matter to you."

"Like it!"

"To be sure you would have got rid of me had I gone to Patagonia. But

he will not go to Patagonia now even if he gets well; and so there

was nothing to be gained. The carriage is to be here at two to take

us to the station and you may as well let Judith come and put the

things up."

Just before they took their departure Lady Ushant came to Arabella

saying that Mr. Morton wanted to speak one other word to her before

she went. So she returned to the room and was again left alone at the

man's bedside. "Arabella," he said, "I thought that I would tell you

that I have forgiven everything."

"How can you have forgiven me? There are things which a man cannot

forgive."

"Give me your hand," he said,--and she gave him her hand. "I do

forgive it all. Even should I live it would be impossible that we

should be man and wife."

"Oh yes."

"But nevertheless I love you. Try,--try to be true to some one."

"There is no truth left in me, Mr. Morton. I should not dishonour my

husband if I had one, but still I should be a curse to him. I shall

marry some day I suppose, and I know it will be so. I wish I could

change with you,--and die."

"You are unhappy now."

"Indeed I am. I am always unhappy. I do not think you can tell what

it is to be so wretched. But I am glad that you have forgiven me."

Then she stooped down and kissed his hand. As she did so he touched

her brow with his hot lips, and then she left him again. Lady Ushant

was waiting outside the door. "He knows it all," said Arabella. "You

need not trouble yourself with the message I gave you. The carriage

is at the door. Good-bye. You need not come down. Mamma will not

expect it." Lady Ushant, hardly knowing how she ought to behave, did

not go down. Lady Augustus and her daughter got into Mr. Runciman's

carriage without any farewells, and were driven back from the park

to the Dillsborough Station. To poor Lady Ushant the whole thing had

been very terrible. She sat silent and unoccupied the whole of that

evening wondering at the horror of such a history. This girl had

absolutely dared to tell the dying man all her own disgrace,--and had

travelled down from London to Bragton with the purpose of doing so!

When next she crept into the sick-room she almost expected that her

nephew would speak to her on the subject;--but he only asked whether

that sound of wheels which he heard beneath his window had come

from the carriage which had taken them away, and then did not say a

further word of either Lady Augustus or her daughter.

"And what do you mean to do now?" said Lady Augustus as the train

approached the London terminus.

"Nothing."

"You have given up Lord Rufford?"

"Indeed I have not."

"Your journey to Bragton will hardly help you much with him."

"I don't want it to help me at all. What have I done that Lord

Rufford can complain of? I have not abandoned Lord Rufford for the

sake of Mr. Morton. Lord Rufford ought only to be too proud if he

knew it all."

"Of course he could make use of such an escapade as this?"

"Let him try. I have not done with Lord Rufford yet, and so I can

tell him. I shall be at the Duke's in Piccadilly to-morrow morning."

"That will be impossible, Arabella."

"They shall see whether it is impossible. I have got beyond caring

very much what people say now. I know the kind of way papa would be

thrown over if there is no one there to back him. I shall be there

and I will ask Lord Rufford to his face whether we did not become

engaged when we were at Mistletoe."

"They won't let you in."

"I'll find a way to make my way in. I shall never be his wife. I

don't know that I want it. After all what's the good of living with a

man if you hate each other,--or living apart like you and papa?"

"He has income enough for anything!" exclaimed Lady Augustus, shocked

at her daughter's apparent blindness.

"It isn't that I'm thinking of, but I'll have my revenge on him.

Liar! To write and say that I had made a mistake! He had not the

courage to get out of it when we were together; but when he had run

away in the night, like a thief, and got into his own house, then

he could write and say that I had made a mistake! I have sometimes

pitied men when I have seen girls hunting them down, but upon my word

they deserve it." This renewal of spirit did something to comfort

Lady Augustus. She had begun to fear that her daughter, in her

despair, would abandon altogether the one pursuit of her life;--but

it now seemed that there was still some courage left for the battle.

That night nothing more was said, but Arabella applied all her mind

to the present condition of her circumstances. Should she or should

she not go to the house in Piccadilly on the following morning? At

last she determined that she would not do so, believing that should

her father fail she might make a better opportunity for herself

afterwards. At her uncle's house she would hardly have known where or

how to wait for the proper moment of her appearance. "So you are not

going to Piccadilly," said her mother on the following morning.

"It appears not," said Arabella.

CHAPTER II.

"NOW WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY?"

It may be a question whether Lord Augustus Trefoil or Lord Rufford

looked forward to the interview which was to take place at the Duke's

mansion with the greater dismay. The unfortunate father whose only

principle in life had been that of avoiding trouble would have rather

that his daughter should have been jilted a score of times than that

he should have been called upon to interfere once. There was in this

demand upon him a breach of a silent but well-understood compact. His

wife and daughter had been allowed to do just what they pleased and

to be free of his authority, upon an understanding that they were

never to give him any trouble. She might have married Lord Rufford,

or Mr. Morton, or any other man she might have succeeded in catching,

and he would not have troubled her either before or after her

marriage. But it was not fair that he should be called upon to

interfere in her failures. And what was he to say to this young lord?

Being fat and old and plethoric he could not be expected to use a

stick and thrash the young lord. Pistols were gone,--a remembrance

of which fact perhaps afforded some consolation. Nobody now need be

afraid of anybody, and the young lord would not be afraid of him.

Arabella declared that there had been an engagement. The young lord

would of course declare that there had been none. Upon the whole he

was inclined to believe it most probable that his daughter was lying.

He did not think it likely that Lord Rufford should have been such a

fool. As for taking Lord Rufford by the back of his neck and shaking

him into matrimony, he knew that that would be altogether out of

his power. And then the hour was so wretchedly early. It was that

little fool Mistletoe who had named ten o'clock,--a fellow who took

Parliamentary papers to bed with him, and had a blue book brought

to him every morning at half-past seven with a cup of tea. By ten

o'clock Lord Augustus would not have had time to take his first glass

of soda and brandy preparatory to the labour of getting into his

clothes. But he was afraid of his wife and daughter, and absolutely

did get into a cab at the door of his lodgings in Duke Street, St.

James', precisely at a quarter past ten. As the Duke's house was

close to the corner of Clarges Street the journey he had to make was

not long.

Lord Rufford would not have agreed to the interview but that it was

forced upon him by his brother-in-law. "What good can it do?" Lord

Rufford had asked. But his brother-in-law had held that that was a

question to be answered by the other side. In such a position Sir

George thought that he was bound to concede as much as this,--in fact

to concede almost anything short of marriage. "He can't do the girl

any good by talking," Lord Rufford had said. Sir George assented to

this, but nevertheless thought that any friend deputed by her should

be allowed to talk, at any rate once. "I don't know what he'll say.

Do you think he'll bring a big stick?" Sir George who knew Lord

Augustus did not imagine that a stick would be brought. "I couldn't

hit him, you know. He's so fat that a blow would kill him." Lord

Rufford wanted his brother-in-law to go with him;--but Sir George

assured him that this was impossible. It was a great bore. He had to

go up to London all alone,--in February, when the weather was quite

open and hunting was nearly coming to an end. And for what? Was it

likely that such a man as Lord Augustus should succeed in talking

him into marrying any girl? Nevertheless he went, prepared to be

very civil, full of sorrow at the misunderstanding, but strong in

his determination not to yield an inch. He arrived at the mansion

precisely at ten o'clock and was at once shown into a back room on

the ground floor. He saw no one but a very demure old servant who

seemed to look upon him as one who was sinning against the Trefoil

family in general, and who shut the door upon him, leaving him as it

were in prison. He was so accustomed to be the absolute master of his

own minutes and hours that he chafed greatly as he walked up and down

the room for what seemed to him the greater part of a day. He looked

repeatedly at his watch, and at half-past ten declared to himself

that if that fat old fool did not come within two minutes he would

make his escape.

"The fat old fool" when he reached the house asked for his nephew

and endeavoured to persuade Lord Mistletoe to go with him to the

interview. But Lord Mistletoe was as firm in refusing as had been

Sir George Penwether. "You are quite wrong," said the young man

with well-informed sententious gravity. "I could do nothing to help

you. You are Arabella's father and no one can plead her cause but

yourself." Lord Augustus dropped his eyebrows over his eyes as this

was said. They who knew him well and had seen the same thing done

when his partner would not answer his call at whist or had led up

to his discard were aware that the motion was tantamount to a very

strong expression of disgust. He did not, however, argue the matter

any further, but allowed himself to be led away slowly by the same

solemn servant. Lord Rufford had taken up his hat preparatory to his

departure when Lord Augustus was announced just five minutes after

the half hour.

When the elder man entered the room the younger one put down his hat

and bowed. Lord Augustus also bowed and then stood for a few moments

silent with his fat hands extended on the round table in the middle

of the room. "This is a very disagreeable kind of thing, my Lord," he

said.

"Very disagreeable, and one that I lament above all things," answered

Lord Rufford.

"That's all very well;--very well indeed;--but, damme, what's the

meaning of it all? That's what I want to ask. What's the meaning

of it all?" Then he paused as though he had completed the first

part of his business,--and might now wait awhile till the necessary

explanation had been given. But Lord Rufford did not seem disposed to

give any immediate answer. He shrugged his shoulders, and, taking up

his hat, passed his hand once or twice round the nap. Lord Augustus

opened his eyes very wide as he waited and looked at the other man;

but it seemed that the other man had nothing to say for himself. "You

don't mean to tell me, I suppose, that what my daughter says isn't

true."

"Some unfortunate mistake, Lord Augustus;--most unfortunate."

"Mistake be ----." He stopped himself before the sentence was

completed, remembering that such an interview should be conducted

on the part of him, as father, with something of dignity. "I don't

understand anything about mistakes. Ladies don't make mistakes of

that kind. I won't hear of mistakes." Lord Rufford again shrugged his

shoulders. "You have engaged my daughter's affections."

"I have the greatest regard for Miss Trefoil."

"Regard be ----." Then again he remembered himself. "Lord Rufford,

you've got to marry her. That's the long and the short of it."

"I'm sure I ought to be proud."

"So you ought."

"But--"

"I don't know the meaning of but, my Lord. I want to know what you

mean to do."

"Marriage isn't in my line at all."

"Then what the d---- business have you to go about and talk to a

girl like that? Marriage not in your line! Who cares for your line?

I never heard such impudence in all my life. You get yourself

engaged to a young lady of high rank and position and then you say

that--marriage isn't in your line." Upon that he opened his eyes

still wider, and glared upon the offender wrathfully.

"I can't admit that I was ever engaged to Miss Trefoil."

"Didn't you make love to her?"

The poor victim paused a moment before he answered this question,

thereby confessing his guilt before he denied it. "No, my Lord; I

don't think I ever did."

"You don't think! You don't know whether you asked my daughter to

marry you or not! You don't think you made love to her!"

"I am sure I didn't ask her to marry me."

"I am sure you did. And now what have you got to say?" Here there was

another shrug of the shoulders. "I suppose you think because you are

a rich man that you may do whatever you please. But you'll have to

learn the difference. You must be exposed, Sir."

"I hope for the lady's sake that as little as possible may be said of

it."

"D---- the ----!" Lord Augustus in his assumed wrath was about to be

very severe on his daughter, but he checked himself again. "I'm not

going to stop here talking all day," he said. "I want to hear your

explanation and then I shall know how to act." Up to this time he had

been standing, which was unusual with him. Now he flung himself into

an armchair.

"Really, Lord Augustus, I don't know what I've got to say. I admire

your daughter exceedingly. I was very much honoured when she and her

mother came to my house at Rufford. I was delighted to be able to

show her a little sport. It gave me the greatest satisfaction when

I met her again at your brother's house. Coming home from hunting we

happened to be thrown together. It's a kind of thing that will occur,

you know. The Duchess seemed to think a great deal of it; but what

can one do? We could have had two postchaises, of course,--only one

doesn't generally send a young lady alone. She was very tired and

fainted with the fatigue. That I think is about all."

"But,--damme, Sir, what did you say to her?" Lord Rufford again

rubbed the nap of his hat. "What did you say to her first of all, at

your own house?"

"A poor fellow was killed out hunting and everybody was talking about

that. Your daughter saw it herself."

"Excuse me, Lord Rufford, if I say that that's what we used to call

shuffling, at school. Because a man broke his neck out hunting--"

"It was a kick on the head, Lord Augustus."

"I don't care where he was kicked. What has that to do with your

asking my daughter to be your wife?"

"But I didn't."

"I say you did,--over and over again." Here Lord Augustus got out

of his chair, and made a little attempt to reach the recreant

lover;--but he failed and fell back again into his armchair. "It was

first at Rufford, and then you made an appointment to meet her at

Mistletoe. How do you explain that?"

"Miss Trefoil is very fond of hunting."

"I don't believe she ever went out hunting in her life before she saw

you. You mounted her,--and gave her a horse,--and took her out,--and

brought her home. Everybody at Mistletoe knew all about it. My

brother and the Duchess were told of it. It was one of those things

that are plain to everybody as the nose on your face. What did you

say to her when you were coming home in that postchaise?"

"She was fainting."

"What has that to do with it? I don't care whether she fainted or

not. I don't believe she fainted at all. When she got into that

carriage she was engaged to you, and when she got out of it she was

engaged ever so much more. The Duchess knew all about it. Now what

have you got to say?" Lord Rufford felt that he had nothing to say.

"I insist upon having an answer."

"It's one of the most unfortunate mistakes that ever were made."

"By G----!" exclaimed Lord Augustus, turning his eyes up against the

wall, and appealing to some dark ancestor who hung there. "I never

heard of such a thing in all my life; never!"

"I suppose I might as well go now," said Lord Rufford after a pause.

"You may go to the D----, Sir,--for the present." Then Lord Rufford

took his departure leaving the injured parent panting with his

exertions.

As Lord Rufford went away he felt that that difficulty had been

overcome with much more ease than he had expected. He hardly knew

what it was that he had dreaded, but he had feared something much

worse than that. Had an appeal been made to his affections he would

hardly have known how to answer. He remembered well that he had

assured the lady that he loved her, and had a direct question been

asked him on that subject he would not have lied. He must have

confessed that such a declaration had been made by him. But he had

escaped that. He was quite sure that he had never uttered a hint in

regard to marriage, and he came away from the Duke's house almost

with an assurance that he had done nothing that was worthy of much

blame.

Lord Augustus looked at his watch, rang the bell, and ordered a cab.

He must now go and see his daughter, and then he would have done with

the matter--for ever. But as he was passing through the hall his

nephew caught hold of him and took him back into the room. "What does

he say for himself?" asked Lord Mistletoe.

"I don't know what he says. Of course he swears that he never spoke a

word to her."

"My mother saw him paying her the closest attention."

"How can I help that? What can I do? Why didn't your mother pin

him then and there? Women can always do that kind of thing if they

choose."

"It is all over, then?"

"I can't make a man marry if he won't. He ought to be thrashed within

an inch of his life. But if one does that kind of thing the police

are down upon one. All the same, I think the Duchess might have

managed it if she had chosen." After that he went to the lodgings

in Orchard Street, and there repeated his story. "I have done all I

can," he said, "and I don't mean to interfere any further. Arabella

should know how to manage her own affairs."

"And you don't mean to punish him?" asked the mother.

"Punish him! How am I to punish him? If I were to throw a decanter at

his head, what good would that do?"

"And you mean to say that she must put up with it?" Arabella was

sitting by as these questions were asked.

"He says that he never said a word to her. Whom am I to believe?"

"You did believe him, papa?"

"Who said so, Miss? But I don't see why his word isn't as good as

yours. There was nobody to hear it, I suppose. Why didn't you get it

in writing, or make your uncle fix him at once? If you mismanage your

own affairs I can't put them right for you."

"Thank you, papa. I am so much obliged to you. You come back and tell

me that every word he says is to be taken for gospel, and that you

don't believe a word I have spoken. That is so kind of you! I suppose

he and you will be the best friends in the world now. But I don't

mean to let him off in that way. As you won't help me, I must help

myself."

"What did you expect me to do?"

"Never to leave him till you had forced him to keep his word. I

should have thought that you would have taken him by the throat in

such a cause. Any other father would have done so."

"You are an impudent, wicked girl, and I don't believe he was ever

engaged to you at all," said Lord Augustus as he took his leave.

"Now you have made your father your enemy," said the mother.

"Everybody is my enemy," said Arabella. "There are no such things as

love and friendship. Papa pretends that he does not believe me, just

because he wants to shirk the trouble. I suppose you'll say you don't

believe me next."

CHAPTER III.

MRS. MORTON RETURNS.

A few days after that on which Lady Augustus and her daughter left

Bragton old Mrs. Morton returned to that place. She had gone away

in very bitterness of spirit against her grandson in the early days

of his illness. For some period antecedent to that there had been

causes for quarrelling. John Morton had told her that he had been

to Reginald's house, and she, in her wrath, replied that he had

disgraced himself by doing so. When those harsh words had been

forgotten, or at any rate forgiven, other causes of anger had sprung

up. She had endeavoured to drive him to repudiate Arabella Trefoil,

and in order that she might do so effectually had contrived to find

out something of Arabella's doings at Rufford and at Mistletoe. Her

efforts in this direction had had an effect directly contrary to that

which she had intended. There had been moments in which Morton had

been willing enough to rid himself of that burden. He had felt the

lady's conduct in his own house, and had seen it at Rufford. He,

too, had heard something of Mistletoe. But the spirit within him

was aroused at the idea of dictation, and he had been prompted to

contradict the old woman's accusation against his intended bride, by

the very fact that they were made by her. And then she threatened

him. If he did these things,--if he would consort with an outcast

from the family such as Reginald Morton, and take to himself such

a bride as Arabella Trefoil, he could never more be to her as her

child. This of course was tantamount to saying that she would leave

her money to some one else,--money which, as he well knew, had all

been collected from the Bragton property. He had ever been to her as

her son, and yet he was aware of a propensity on her part to enrich

her own noble relatives with her hoards,--a desire from gratifying

which she had hitherto been restrained by conscience. Morton had been

anxious enough for his grandmother's money, but, even in the hope of

receiving it, would not bear indignity beyond a certain point. He had

therefore declared it to be his purpose to marry Arabella Trefoil,

and because he had so declared he had almost brought himself to

forgive that young lady's sins against him. Then, as his illness

became serious, there arose the question of disposing of the property

in the event of his death. Mrs. Morton was herself very old, and was

near her grave. She was apt to speak of herself as one who had but a

few days left to her in this world. But, to her, property was more

important than life or death;--and rank probably more important than

either. She was a brave, fierce, evil-minded, but conscientious old

woman,--one, we may say, with very bad lights indeed, but who was

steadfastly minded to walk by those lights, such as they were. She

did not scruple to tell her grandson that it was his duty to leave

the property away from his cousin Reginald, nor to allege as a reason

for his doing so that in all probability Reginald Morton was not the

legitimate heir of his great-grandfather, Sir Reginald. For such an

assertion John Morton knew there was not a shadow of ground. No one

but this old woman had ever suspected that the Canadian girl whom

Reginald's father had brought with him to Bragton had been other

than his honest wife;--and her suspicions had only come from vague

assertions, made by herself in blind anger till at last she had

learned to believe them. Then, when in addition to this, he asserted

his purpose of asking Arabella Trefoil to come to him at Bragton, the

cup of her wrath was overflowing, and she withdrew from the house

altogether. It might be that he was dying. She did in truth believe

that he was dying. But there were things more serious to her than

life or death. Should she allow him to trample upon all her feelings

because he was on his death-bed,--when perhaps in very truth he

might not be on his death-bed at all? She, at any rate, was near her

death,--and she would do her duty. So she packed up her things--to

the last black skirt of an old gown, so that every one at Bragton

might know that it was her purpose to come back no more. And she went

away.

Then Lady Ushant came to take her place, and with Lady Ushant came

Reginald Morton. The one lived in the house and the other visited

it daily. And, as the reader knows, Lady Augustus came with her

daughter. Mrs. Morton, though she had gone,--for ever,--took care to

know of the comings and goings at Bragton. Mrs. Hopkins was enjoined

to write to her and tell her everything; and though Mrs. Hopkins with

all her heart took the side of Lady Ushant and Reginald, she had

never been well inclined to Miss Trefoil. Presents too were given

and promises were made; and Mrs. Hopkins, not without some little

treachery, did from time to time send to the old lady a record of

what took place at Bragton. Arabella came and went, and Mrs. Hopkins

thought that her coming had not led to much. Lady Ushant was always

with Mr. John,--such was the account given by Mrs. Hopkins;--and the

general opinion was that the squire's days were numbered.

Then the old woman's jealousy was aroused, and, perhaps, her heart

was softened. It was still hard black winter, and she was living

alone in lodgings in London. The noble cousin, a man nearly as old as

herself whose children she was desirous to enrich, took but little

notice of her, nor would she have been happy had she lived with

him. Her life had been usually solitary,--with little breaks to its

loneliness occasioned by the visits to England of him whom she had

called her child. That this child should die before her, should die

in his youth, did not shock her much. Her husband had done so, and

her own son, and sundry of her noble brothers and sisters. She was

hardened against death. Life to her had never been joyous, though the

trappings of life were so great in her eyes. But it broke her heart

that her child should die in the arms of another old woman who had

always been to her as an enemy. Lady Ushant, in days now long gone by

but still remembered as though they were yesterday, had counselled

the reception of the Canadian female. And Lady Ushant, when the

Canadian female and her husband were dead, had been a mother to the

boy whom she, Mrs. Morton, would so fain have repudiated altogether.

Lady Ushant had always been "on the other side;" and now Lady Ushant

was paramount at Bragton.

And doubtless there was some tenderness, though Mrs. Morton was

unwilling to own even to herself that she was moved by any such

feeling. If she had done her duty in counselling him to reject both

Reginald Morton and Arabella Trefoil,--as to which she admitted

no doubt in her own mind;--and if duty had required her to absent

herself when her counsel was spurned, then would she be weak and

unmindful of duty should she allow any softness of heart to lure

her back again. It was so she reasoned. But still some softness was

there; and when she heard that Miss Trefoil had gone, and that her

visit had not, in Mrs. Hopkins's opinion, "led to much," she wrote

to say that she would return. She made no request and clothed her

suggestion in no words of tenderness; but simply told her grandson

that she would come back--as the Trefoils had left him.

And she did come. When the news were first told to Lady Ushant by the

sick man himself, that Lady proposed that she should at once go back

to Cheltenham. But when she was asked whether her animosity to Mrs.

Morton was so great that she could not consent to remain under the

same roof, she at once declared that she had no animosity whatsoever.

The idea of animosity running over nearly half a century was horrible

to her; and therefore, though she did in her heart of hearts dread

the other old woman, she consented to stay. "And what shall Reginald

do?" she asked. John Morton had thought about this too, and expressed

a wish that Reginald should come regularly,--as he had come during

the last week or two.

It was just a week from the day on which the Trefoils had gone that

Mrs. Morton was driven up to the door in Mr. Runciman's fly. This was

at four in the afternoon, and had the old woman looked out of the fly

window she might have seen Reginald making his way by the little path

to the bridge which led back to Dillsborough. It was at this hour

that he went daily, and he had not now thought it worth his while

to remain to welcome Mrs. Morton. And she might also have seen, had

she looked out, that with him was walking a young woman. She would

not have known Mary Masters; but had she seen them both, and had she

known the young woman, she would have declared in her pride that

they were fit associates. But she saw nothing of this, sitting there

behind her veil, thinking whether she might still do anything, and

if so, what she might do to avert the present evil destination of

the Bragton estate. There was an honourable nephew of her own,--or

rather a great-nephew,--who might easily take the name, who would so

willingly take the name! Or if this were impracticable, there was a

distant Morton, very distant, whom she had never seen and certainly

did not love, but who was clearly a Morton, and who would certainly

be preferable to that enemy of forty years' standing. Might there

not be some bargain made? Would not her dying grandson be alive to

the evident duty of enriching the property and leaving behind him a

wealthy heir? She could enrich the property and make the heir wealthy

by her money.

"How is he?" That of course was the first question when Mrs. Hopkins

met her in the hall. Mrs. Hopkins only shook her head and said that

perhaps he had taken his food that day a little better than on the

last. Then there was a whisper, to which Mrs. Hopkins whispered back

her answer. Yes,--Lady Ushant was in the house,--was at this moment

in the sick man's room. Mr. Reginald was not staying there,--had

never stayed there,--but came every day. He had only just left. "And

is he to come still?" asked Mrs. Morton with wrath in her eyes. Mrs.

Hopkins did not know but was disposed to think that Mr. Reginald

would come every day. Then Mrs. Morton went up to her own room,--and

while she prepared herself for her visit to the sick room Lady Ushant

retired. She had a cup of tea, refusing all other refreshment,

and then, walking erect as though she had been forty instead of

seventy-five, she entered her grandson's chamber and took her old

place at his bedside.

Nothing was then said about Arabella, nor, indeed, at any future time

was her name mentioned between them;--nor was anything then said

about the future fate of the estate. She did not dare to bring up the

subject at once, though, on the journey down from London, she had

determined that she would do so. But she was awed by his appearance

and by the increased appanages of his sick-bed. He spoke, indeed, of

the property, and expressed his anxiety that Chowton Farm should be

bought, if it came into market. He thought that the old acres should

be redeemed, if the opportunity arose,--and if the money could be

found. "Chowton Farm!" exclaimed the old woman, who remembered well

the agony which had attended the alienation of that portion of the

Morton lands.

"It may be that it will be sold."

"Lawrence Twentyman sell Chowton Farm! I thought he was well off."

Little as she had been at Bragton she knew all about Chowton

Farm,--except that its owner was so wounded by vain love as to be

like a hurt deer. Her grandson did not tell her all the story, but

explained to her that Lawrence Twentyman, though not poor, had other

plans of life and thought of leaving the neighbourhood. She, of

course, had the money; and as she believed that land was the one

proper possession for an English gentleman of ancient family, she

doubtless would have been willing to buy it had she approved of the

hands into which it would fall. It seemed to her that it was her duty

to do as much for the estate with which all her fortune had been

concerned. "Yes," she said; "it should be bought,--if other things

suited. We will talk of it to-morrow, John." Then he spoke of his

mission to Patagonia and of his regret that it should be abandoned.

Even were he ever to be well again his strength would return to him

too late for this purpose. He had already made known to the Foreign

Office his inability to undertake that service. But she could

perceive that he had not in truth abandoned his hopes of living, for

he spoke much of his ambition as to the public service. The more he

thought of it, he said, the more certain he became that it would suit

him better to go on with his profession than to live the life of a

country squire in England. And yet she could see the change which had

taken place since she was last there and was aware that he was fading

away from day to day.

It was not till they were summoned to dine together that she saw Lady

Ushant. Very many years had passed since last they were together, and

yet neither seemed to the other to be much changed. Lady Ushant was

still soft, retiring, and almost timid; whereas Mrs. Morton showed

her inclination to domineer even in the way in which she helped

herself to salt. While the servant was with them very little was said

on either side. There was a word or two from Mrs. Morton to show that

she considered herself the mistress there,--and a word from the other

lady proclaiming that she had no pretensions of that kind. But after

dinner in the little drawing-room they were more communicative.

Something of course was said as to the health of the invalid. Lady

Ushant was not the woman to give a pronounced opinion on such a

subject. She used doubtful, hesitating words, and would in one minute

almost contradict what she had said in the former. But Mrs. Morton

was clever enough to perceive that Lady Ushant was almost without

hope. Then she made a little speech with a fixed purpose. "It must be

a great trouble to you, Lady Ushant, to be so long away from home."

"Not at all," said Lady Ushant in perfect innocence. "I have nothing

to bind me anywhere."

"I shall think it my duty to remain here now,--till the end."

"I suppose so. He has always been almost the same to you as your

own."

"Quite so; quite the same. He is my own." And yet,--thought Lady

Ushant,--she left him in his illness! She, too, had heard something

from Mrs. Hopkins of the temper in which Mrs. Morton had last left

Bragton. "But you are not bound to him in that way."

"Not in that way certainly."

"In no way, I may say. It was very kind of you to come when business

made it imperative on me to go to town, but I do not think we can

call upon you for further sacrifice."

"It is no sacrifice, Mrs. Morton." Lady Ushant was as meek as a worm,

but a worm will turn. And, though innocent, she was quick enough to

perceive that at this, their first meeting, the other old woman was

endeavouring to turn her out of the house.

"I mean that it can hardly be necessary to call upon you to give up

your time."

"What has an old woman to do with her time, Mrs. Morton?"

Hitherto Mrs. Morton had smiled. The smile indeed had been grim, but

it had been intended to betoken outward civility. Now there came a

frown upon her brow which was more grim and by no means civil. "The

truth is that at such a time one who is almost a stranger--"

"I am no stranger," said Lady Ushant.

"You had not seen him since he was an infant."

"My name was Morton as is his, and my dear father was the owner of

this house. Your husband, Mrs. Morton, was his grandfather and my

brother. I will allow no one to tell me that I am a stranger at

Bragton. I have lived here many more years than you."

"A stranger to him, I meant. And now that he is ill--"

"I shall stay with him--till he desires me to go away. He asked

me to stay and that is quite enough." Then she got up and left

the room with more dignity,--as also she had spoken with more

earnestness,--than Mrs. Morton had given her credit for possessing.

After that the two ladies did not meet again till the next day.

CHAPTER IV.

THE TWO OLD LADIES.

On the next morning Mrs. Morton did not come down to breakfast,

but sat alone upstairs nursing her wrath. During the night she

had made up her mind to one or two things. She would never enter

her grandson's chambers when Lady Ushant was there. She would not

speak to Reginald Morton, and should he come into her presence

while she was at Bragton she would leave the room. She would do her

best to make the house, in common parlance, "too hot" to hold that

other woman. And she would make use of those words which John had

spoken concerning Chowton Farm as a peg on which she might hang her

discourse in reference to his will. If in doing all this she should

receive that dutiful assistance which she thought that he owed

her,--then she should stand by his bed-side, and be tender to him,

and nurse him to the last as a mother would nurse a child. But if, as

she feared, he were headstrong in disobeying, then she would remember

that her duty to her family, if done with a firm purpose, would have

lasting results, while his life might probably be an affair of a few

weeks,--or even days.

At about eleven Lady Ushant was with her patient when a message was

brought by Mrs. Hopkins. Mrs. Morton wished to see her grandson and

desired to know whether it would suit him that she should come now.

"Why not?" said the sick man, who was sitting up in his bed. Then

Lady Ushant collected her knitting and was about to depart. "Must

you go because she is coming?" Morton asked. Lady Ushant, shocked

at the necessity of explaining to him the ill feeling that existed,

said that perhaps it would be best. "Why should it be best?" Lady

Ushant shook her head, and smiled, and put her hand upon the

counterpane,--and retired. As she passed the door of her rival's room

she could see the black silk dress moving behind the partly open

door, and as she entered her own she heard Mrs. Morton's steps

upon the corridor. The place was already almost "too hot" for her.

Anything would be better than scenes like this in the house of a

dying man.

"Need my aunt have gone away?" he asked after the first greeting.

"I did not say so."

"She seemed to think that she was not to stay."

"Can I help what she thinks, John? Of course she feels that she is--"

"Is what?"

"An interloper--if I must say it."

"But I have sent for her, and I have begged her to stay."

"Of course she can stay if she wishes. But, dear John, there must be

much to be said between you and me which,--which cannot interest her;

or which, at least, she ought not to hear." He did not contradict

this in words, feeling himself to be too weak for contest; but

within his own mind he declared that it was not so. The things which

interested him now were as likely to interest his great-aunt as his

grandmother, and to be as fit for the ears of the one as for those of

the other.

An hour had passed after this during which she tended him, giving him

food and medicine, and he had slept before she ventured to allude to

the subject which was nearest to her heart. "John," she said at last,

"I have been thinking about Chowton Farm."

"Well."

"It certainly should be bought."

"If the man resolves on selling it."

"Of course; I mean that. How much would it be?" Then he mentioned the

sum which Twentyman had named, saying that he had inquired and had

been told that the price was reasonable. "It is a large sum of money,

John."

"There might be a mortgage for part of it."

"I don't like mortgages. The property would not be yours at all if

it were mortgaged, as soon as bought. You would pay 5 per cent. for

the money and only get 3 per cent. from the land." The old lady

understood all about it.

"I could pay it off in two years," said the sick man.

"There need be no paying off, and no mortgage, if I did it. I almost

believe I have got enough to do it." He knew very well that she

had much more than enough. "I think more of this property than of

anything in the world, my dear."

"Chowton Farm could be yours, you know."

"What should I do with Chowton Farm? I shall probably be in my grave

before the slow lawyer would have executed the deeds." And I in mine,

thought he to himself, before the present owner has quite made up his

mind to part with his land. "What would a little place like that do

for me? But in my father-in-law's time it was part of the Bragton

property. He sold it to pay the debts of a younger son, forgetting,

as I thought, what he owed to the estate;"--It had in truth been sold

on behalf of the husband of this old woman who was now complaining.

"And if it can be recovered it is our duty to get it back again. A

property like this should never be lessened. It is in that way that

the country is given over to shopkeepers and speculators and is made

to be like France or Italy. I quite think that Chowton Farm should be

bought. And though I might die before it was done, I would find the

money."

"I knew what your feeling would be."

"Yes, John. You could not but know it well. But--" Then she paused a

moment, looking into his face. "But I should wish to know what would

become of it--eventually."

"If it were yours you could do what you pleased with it."

"But it would be yours."

"Then it would go with the rest of the property."

"To whom would it go? We have all to die, my dear, and who can say

whom it may please the Almighty to take first?"

"In this house, ma'am, every one can give a shrewd guess. I know

my own condition. If I die without children of my own every acre I

possess will go to the proper heir. Thinking as you do, you ought to

agree with me in that."

"But who is the proper heir?"

"My cousin Reginald. Do not let us contest it, ma'am. As certainly as

I lie here he will have Bragton when I am gone."

"Will you not listen to me, John?"

"Not about that. How could I die in peace were I to rob him?"

"It is all your own,--to do as you like with."

"It is all my own, but not to do as I like with. With your feelings,

with your ideas, how can you urge me to such an injustice?"

"Do I want it for myself? I do not even want it for any one belonging

to me. There is your cousin Peter."

"If he were the heir he should have it,--though I know nothing of him

and believe him to be but a poor creature and very unfit to have the

custody of a family property."

"But he is his father's son."

"I will believe nothing of that," said the sick man raising himself

in his bed. "It is a slander;--it is based on no evidence whatsoever.

No one even thought of it but you."

"John, is that the way to speak to me?"

"It is the way to speak of an assertion so injurious." Then he fell

back again on his pillows and she sat by his bedside for a full half

hour speechless, thinking of it all. At the end of that time she had

resolved that she would not yet give it up. Should he regain his

health and strength,--and she would pray fervently night and day that

God would be so good to him,--then everything would be well. Then he

would marry and have children, and Bragton would descend in the right

line. But were it to be ordained otherwise,--should it be God's will

that he must die,--then, as he grew weaker, he would become more

plastic in her hands, and she might still prevail. At present he

was stubborn with the old stubbornness, and would not see with her

eyes. She would bide her time and be careful to have a lawyer ready.

She turned it all over in her mind, as she sat there watching him in

his sleep. She knew of no one but Mr. Masters whom she distrusted

as being connected with the other side of the family,--whose

father had made that will by which the property in Dillsborough had

been dissevered from Bragton. But Mr. Masters would probably obey

instructions if they were given to him definitely.

She thought of it all and then went down to lunch. She did not dare

to refuse altogether to meet the other woman lest such resolve on

her part might teach those in the house to think that Lady Ushant

was the mistress. She took her place at the head of the table and

interchanged a few words with her grandson's guest,--which of course

had reference to his health. Lady Ushant was very ill able to carry

on a battle of any sort and was willing to show her submission in

everything,--unless she were desired to leave the house. While they

were still sitting at table, Reginald Morton walked into the room.

It had been his habit to do so regularly for the last week. A daily

visitor does not wait to have himself announced. Reginald had

considered the matter and had determined that he would follow his

practice just as though Mrs. Morton were not there. If she were civil

to him then would he be very courteous to her. It had never occurred

to him to expect conduct such as that with which she greeted him. The

old woman got up and looked at him sternly. "My nephew, Reginald,"

said Lady Ushant, supposing that some introduction might be

necessary. Mrs. Morton gathered the folds of her dress together and

without a word stalked out of the room. And yet she believed,--she

could not but believe,--that her grandson was on his deathbed in the

room above!

"O Reginald, what are we to do?" said Lady Ushant.

"Is she like that to you?"

"She told me last night that I was a stranger, and that I ought to

leave the house."

"And what did you say?"

"I told her I should stay while he wished me to stay. But it is all

so terrible, that I think I had better go."

"I would not stir a step--on her account."

"But why should she be so bitter? I have done nothing to offend her.

It is more than half of even my long lifetime since I saw her. She is

nothing; but I have to think of his comfort. I suppose she is good

to him; and though he may bid me stay such scenes as this in the

house must be a trouble to him." Nevertheless Reginald was strong

in opinion that Lady Ushant ought not to allow herself to be driven

away, and declared his own purpose of coming daily as had of late

been his wont.

Soon after this Reginald was summoned to go upstairs and he again met

the angry woman in the passage, passing her of course without a word.

And then Mary came to see her friend, and she also encountered Mrs.

Morton, who was determined that no one should come into that house

without her knowledge. "Who is that young woman?" said Mrs. Morton to

the old housekeeper.

"That is Miss Masters, my Lady."

"And who is Miss Masters,--and why does she come here at such a time

as this?"

"She is the daughter of Attorney Masters, my Lady. It was she as was

brought up here by Lady Ushant."

"Oh,--that young person."

"She's come here generally of a day now to see her ladyship."

"And is she taken up to my grandson?"

"Oh dear, no, my Lady. She sits with Lady Ushant for an hour or so

and then goes back with Mr. Reginald."

"Oh--that is it, is it? The house is made use of for such purposes as

that!"

"I don't think there is any purposes, my Lady," said Mrs. Hopkins,

almost roused to indignation, although she was talking to the

acknowledged mistress of the house whom she always called "my lady."

Lady Ushant told the whole story to her young friend, bitterly

bewailing her position. "Reginald tells me not to go, but I do

not think that I can stand it. I should not mind the quarrel so

much,--only that he is so ill."

"She must be a very evil-minded person."

"She was always arrogant and always hard. I can remember her just the

same; but that was so many years ago. She left Bragton then because

she could not banish his mother from the house. But to bear it all in

her heart so long is not like a human being,--let alone a woman. What

did he say to you going home yesterday?"

"Nothing, Lady Ushant."

"Does he know that it will all be his if that poor young man should

die? He never speaks to me as if he thought of it."

"He would certainly not speak to me about it. I do not think he

thinks of it. He is not like that."

"Men do consider such things. And they are only cousins; and they

have never known each other! Oh, Mary!"

"What are you thinking of, Lady Ushant?"

"Men ought not to care for money or position, but they do. If he

comes here, all that I have will be yours."

"Oh, Lady Ushant!"

"It is not much but it will be enough."

"I do not want to hear about such things now."

"But you ought to be told. Ah, dear;--if it could be as I wish!" The

imprudent, weak-minded, loving old woman longed to hear a tale of

mutual love,--longed to do something which should cause such a tale

to be true on both sides. And yet she could not quite bring herself

to express her wish either to the man or to the woman.

Poor Mary almost understood it, but was not quite sure of her

friend's meaning. She was, however, quite sure that if such were the

wish of Lady Ushant's heart, Lady Ushant was wishing in vain. She had

twice walked back to Dillsborough with Reginald Morton, and he had

been more sedate, more middle-aged, less like a lover than ever. She

knew now that she might safely walk with him, being sure that he was

no more likely to talk of love than would have been old Dr. Nupper

had she accepted the offer which he had made her of a cast in his

gig. And now that Reginald would probably become Squire of Bragton

it was more impossible than ever. As Squire of Bragton he would seek

some highly born bride, quite out of her way, whom she could never

know. And then she would see neither him--nor Bragton any more. Would

it not have been better that she should have married Larry Twentyman

and put an end to so many troubles beside her own?

Again she walked back with him to Dillsborough, passing as they

always did across the little bridge. He seemed to be very silent as

he went, more so than usual,--and as was her wont with him she only

spoke to him when he addressed her. It was only when he got out on

the road that he told her what was on his mind. "Mary," he said, "how

will it be with me if that poor fellow dies?"

"In what way, Mr. Morton?"

"All that place will be mine. He told me so just now."

"But that would be of course."

"Not at all. He might give it to you if he pleased. He could not have

an heir who would care for it less. But it is right that it should

be so. Whether it would suit my taste or not to live as Squire of

Bragton,--and I do not think it would suit my taste well,--it ought

to be so. I am the next, and it will be my duty."

"I am sure you do not want him to die."

"No, indeed. If I could save him by my right hand,--if I could save

him by my life, I would do it."

"But of all lives it must surely be the best."

"Do you think so? What is such a one likely to do? But then what do I

do, as it is? It is the sort of life you would like,--if you were a

man."

"Yes,--if I were a man," said Mary. Then he again relapsed into

silence and hardly spoke again till he left her at her father's door.

CHAPTER V.

THE LAST EFFORT.

When Mary reached her home she was at once met by her stepmother

in the passage with tidings of importance. "He is up-stairs in

the drawing-room," said Mrs. Masters. Mary whose mind was laden

with thoughts of Reginald Morton asked who was the he. "Lawrence

Twentyman," said Mrs. Masters. "And now, my dear, do, do think of it

before you go to him." There was no anger now in her stepmother's

face,--but entreaty and almost love. She had not called Mary "my

dear" for many weeks past,--not since that journey to Cheltenham. Now

she grasped the girl's hand as she went on with her prayer. "He is

so good and so true! And what better can there be for you? With your

advantages, and Lady Ushant, and all that, you would be quite the

lady at Chowton. Think of your father and sisters;--what a good you

could do them! And think of the respect they all have for him, dining

with Lord Rufford the other day and all the other gentlemen. It isn't

only that he has got plenty to live on, but he knows how to keep it

as a man ought. He's sure to hold up his head and be as good a squire

as any of 'em." This was a very different tale;--a note altogether

changed! It must not be said that the difference of the tale and

the change of the note affected Mary's heart; but her stepmother's

manner to her did soften her. And then why should she regard herself

or her own feelings? Like others she had thought much of her own

happiness, had made herself the centre of her own circle, had, in her

imagination, built castles in the air and filled them according to

her fancy. But her fancies had been all shattered into fragments;

not a stone of her castles was standing; she had told herself

unconsciously that there was no longer a circle and no need for a

centre. That last half-hour which she had passed with Reginald Morton

on the road home had made quite sure that which had been sure enough

before. He was now altogether out of her reach, thinking only of the

new duties which were coming to him. She would never walk with him

again; never put herself in the way of indulging some fragment of an

illusory hope. She was nothing now,--nothing even to herself. Why

should she not give herself and her services to this young man if the

young man chose to take her as she was? It would be well that she

should do something in the world. Why should she not look after his

house, and mend his shirts, and reign over his poultry yard? In this

way she would be useful, and respected by all,--unless perhaps by the

man she loved. "Mary, say that you will think of it once more,"

pleaded Mrs. Masters.

"I may go up-stairs,--to my own room?"

"Certainly; do;--go up and smooth your hair. I will tell him that

you are coming to him. He will wait. But he is so much in earnest

now,--and so sad,--that I know he will not come again."

Then Mary went up-stairs, determined to think of it. She began

at once, woman-like, to smooth her hair as her stepmother had

recommended, and to remove the dust of the road from her face and

dress. But not the less was she thinking of it the while. Could she

do it, how much pain would be spared even to herself! How much that

was now bitter as gall in her mouth would become,--not sweet,--but

tasteless. There are times in one's life in which the absence of all

savour seems to be sufficient for life in this world. Were she to do

this thing she thought that she would have strength to banish that

other man from her mind,--and at last from her heart. He would be

there, close to her, but of a different kind and leading a different

life. Mrs. Masters had told her that Larry would be as good a

squire as the best of them; but it should be her care to keep him

and herself in their proper position, to teach him the vanity of

such aspirations. And the real squire opposite, who would despise

her,--for had he not told her that she would be despicable if she

married this man,--would not trouble her then. They might meet on the

roads, and there would be a cold question or two as to each other's

welfare, and a vain shaking of hands,--but they would know nothing

and care for nothing as to each other's thoughts. And there would

come some stately dame who hearing how things had been many years

ago, would perhaps--. But no;--the stately dame should be received

with courtesy, but there should be no patronising. Even in these few

minutes up-stairs she thought much of the stately dame and was quite

sure that she would endure no patronage from Bragton.

She almost thought that she could do it. There were hideous ideas

afflicting her soul dreadfully, but which she strove to banish. Of

course she could not love him,--not at first. But all those who

wished her to marry him, including himself, knew that;--and still

they wished her to marry him. How could that be disgraceful which all

her friends desired? Her father, to whom she was, as she knew well,

the very apple of his eye, wished her to marry this man;--and yet her

father knew that her heart was elsewhere. Had not women done it by

hundreds, by thousands, and had afterwards performed their duties

well as mothers and wives. In other countries, as she had read, girls

took the husbands found for them by their parents as a matter of

course. As she left the room, and slowly crept down-stairs, she

almost thought she would do it. She almost thought;--but yet, when

her hand was on the lock, she could not bring herself to say that it

should be so.

He was not dressed as usual. In the first place, there was a round

hat on the table, such as men wear in cities. She had never before

seen such a hat with him except on a Sunday. And he wore a black

cloth coat, and dark brown pantaloons, and a black silk handkerchief.

She observed it all, and thought that he had not changed for

the better. As she looked into his face, it seemed to her more

common,--meaner than before. No doubt he was good-looking,--but his

good-looks were almost repulsive to her. He had altogether lost his

little swagger;--but he had borne that little swagger well, and in

her presence it had never been offensive. Now he seemed as though

he had thrown aside all the old habits of his life, and was pining

to death from the loss of them. "Mary," he said, "I have come to

you,--for the last time. I thought I would give myself one more

chance, and your father told me that I might have it." He paused, as

though expecting an answer. But she had not yet quite made up her

mind. Had she known her mind, she would have answered him frankly.

She was quite resolved as to that. If she could once bring herself to

give him her hand, she would not coy it for a moment. "I will be your

wife, Larry." That was the form on which she had determined, should

she find herself able to yield. But she had not brought herself to

it as yet. "If you can take me, Mary, you will,--well,--save me from

lifelong misery, and make the man who loves you the best-contented

and the happiest man in England."

"But, Larry, I do not love you."

"I will make you love me. Good usage will make a wife love her

husband. Don't you think you can trust me?"

"I do believe that I can trust you for everything good."

"Is that nothing?"

"It is a great deal, Larry, but not enough;--not enough to bring

together a man and woman as husband and wife. I would sooner marry a

man I loved, though I knew he would ill-use me."

"Would you?"

"To marry either would be wrong."

"I sometimes think, dearest, that if I could talk better I should be

better able to persuade you."

"I sometimes think you talk so well that I ought to be

persuaded;--but I can't. It is not lack of talking."

"What is it, then?"

"Just this;--my heart does not turn itself that way. It is the same

chance that has made you--partial to me."

"Partial! Why, I love the very air you breathe. When I am near you,

everything smells sweet. There isn't anything that belongs to you but

I think I should know it, though I found it a hundred miles away. To

have you in the room with me would be like heaven,--if I only knew

that you were thinking kindly of me."

"I always think kindly of you, Larry."

"Then say that you will be my wife." She paused, and became red up to

the roots of her hair. She seated herself on a chair, and then rose

again,--and again sat down. The struggle was going on within her, and

he perceived something of the truth. "Say the word once, Mary;--say

it but once." And as he prayed to her he came forward and went down

upon his knees.

"I cannot do it," she replied at last, speaking very hoarsely, not

looking at him, not even addressing herself to him.

"Mary!"

"Larry, I cannot do it. I have tried, but I cannot do it. O Larry,

dear Larry, do not ask me again. Larry, I have no heart to give.

Another man has it all."

"Is it so?" She bowed her head in token of assent. "Is it that young

parson?" exclaimed Larry, in anger.

"It is not. But, Larry, you must ask no questions now. I have told

you my secret that all this might be set at rest. But if you are

generous, as I know you are, you will keep my secret, and will ask no

questions. And, Larry, if you are unhappy, so am I. If your heart is

sore, so is mine. He knows nothing of my love, and cares nothing for

me."

"Then throw him aside."

She smiled and shook her head. "Do you think I would not if I could?

Why do you not throw me aside?"

"Oh, Mary!"

"Cannot I love as well as you? You are a man, and have the liberty to

speak of it. Though I cannot return it, I can be proud of your love

and feel grateful to you. I cannot tell mine. I cannot think of it

without blushing. But I can feel it, and know it, and be as sure that

it has trodden me down and got the better of me as you can. But you

can go out into the world and teach yourself to forget."

"I must go away from here then."

"You have your business and your pleasures, your horses and your

fields and your friends. I have nothing,--but to remain here and know

that I have disobliged all those that love me. Do you think, Larry, I

would not go and be your wife if I could? I have told you all, Larry,

and now do not ask me again."

"Is it so?"

"Yes;--it is so."

"Then I shall cut it all. I shall sell Chowton and go away. You tell

me I have my horses and my pleasures! What pleasures? I know nothing

of my horses,--not whether they are lame or sound. I could not tell

you of one of them whether he is fit to go to-morrow. Business! The

place may farm itself for me, for I can't stay there. Everything

sickens me to look at it. Pleasures indeed!"

"Is that manly, Larry?"

"How can a man be manly when the manliness is knocked out of him?

A man's courage lies in his heart;--but if his heart is broken

where will his courage be then? I couldn't hold my head up here any

more,--and I shall go."

"You must not do that," she said, getting up and laying hold of his

arm.

"But I must do it."

"For my sake you must stay here, Larry;--so that I may not have to

think that I have injured you so deeply. Larry, though I cannot be

your wife I think I could die of sorrow if you were always unhappy.

What is a poor girl that you should grieve for her in that way? I

think if I were a man I would master my love better than that." He

shook his head and faintly strove to drag his arm from out of her

grasp. "Promise me that you will take a year to think of it before

you go."

"Will you take a year to think of me?" said he, rising again to

sudden hope.

"No, Larry, no. I should deceive you were I to say so. I deceived

you before when I put it off for two months. But you can promise me

without deceit. For my sake, Larry?" And she almost embraced him as

she begged for his promise. "I know you would wish to spare me pain.

Think what will be my sufferings if I hear that you have really gone

from Chowton. You will promise me, Larry?"

"Promise what?"

"That the farm shall not be sold for twelve months."

"Oh yes;--I'll promise. I don't care for the farm."

"And stay there if you can. Don't leave the place to strangers. And

go about your business,--and hunt,--and be a man. I shall always

be thinking of what you do. I shall always watch you. I shall

always love you,--always,--always,--always. I always have loved

you;--because you are so good. But it is a different love. And now,

Larry, good-bye." So saying, she raised her face to look into his

eyes. Then he suddenly put his arm round her waist, kissed her

forehead, and left the room without another word.

Mrs. Masters saw him as he went, and must have known from his

gait what was the nature of the answer he had received. But yet

she went quickly upstairs to inquire. The matter was one of too

much consequence for a mere inference. Mary had gone from the

sitting-room, but her stepmother followed her upstairs to her

bed-chamber. "Mamma," she said, "I couldn't do it;--I couldn't do

it. I did try. Pray do not scold me. I did try, but I could not

do it." Then she threw herself into the arms of the unsympathetic

woman,--who, however, was now somewhat less unsympathetic than she

had hitherto been.

Mrs. Masters did not understand it at all; but she did perceive that

there was something which she did not understand. What did the girl

mean by saying that she had tried and could not do it? Try to do

it! If she tried why could she not tell the man that she would have

him? There was surely some shamefacedness in this, some overstrained

modesty which she, Mrs. Masters, could not comprehend. How could she

have tried to accept a man who was so anxious to marry her, and have

failed in the effort? "Scolding I suppose will be no good now," she

said.

"Oh no!"

"But--. Well; I suppose we must put up with it. Everything on earth

that a girl could possibly wish for! He was that in love that it's my

belief he'd have settled it all on you if you'd only asked him."

"Let it go, mamma."

"Let it go! It's gone I suppose. Well;--I ain't going to say any more

about it. But as for not sorrowing, how is a woman not to sorrow when

so much has been lost? It's your poor father I'm thinking of, Mary."

This was so much better than she had expected that poor Mary almost

felt that her heart was lightened.

CHAPTER VI.

AGAIN AT MISTLETOE.

The reader will have been aware that Arabella Trefoil was not a

favourite at Mistletoe. She was so much disliked by the Duchess that

there had almost been words about her between her Grace and the Duke

since her departure. The Duchess always submitted, and it was the

rule of her life to submit with so good a grace that her husband,

never fearing rebellion, should never be driven to assume the tyrant.

But on this occasion the Duke had objected to the term "thoroughly

bad girl" which had been applied by his wife to his niece. He had

said that "thoroughly bad girl" was strong language, and when the

Duchess defended the phrase he had expressed his opinion that

Arabella was only a bad girl and not a thoroughly bad girl. The

Duchess had said that it was the same thing. "Then," said the Duke,

"why use a redundant expletive against your own relative?" The

Duchess, when she was accused of strong language, had not minded

it much; but her feelings were hurt when a redundant expletive was

attributed to her. The effect of all this had been that the Duke

in a mild way had taken up Arabella's part, and that the Duchess,

following her husband at last, had been brought round to own that

Arabella, though bad, had been badly treated. She had disbelieved,

and then believed, and had again disbelieved Arabella's own statement

as to the offer of marriage. But the girl had certainly been in

earnest when she had begged her aunt to ask her uncle to speak to

Lord Rufford. Surely when she did she must have thought that an offer

had been made to her. Such offer, if made, had no doubt been produced

by very hard pressure;--but still an offer of marriage is an offer,

and a girl, if she can obtain it, has a right to use such an offer as

so much property. Then came Lord Mistletoe's report after his meeting

with Arabella up in London. He had been unable to give his cousin

any satisfaction, but he was clearly of opinion that she had been

ill-used. He did not venture to suggest any steps, but did think that

Lord Rufford was bound as a gentleman to marry the young lady. After

that Lord Augustus saw her mother up in town and said that it was a

d---- shame. He in truth had believed nothing and would have been

delighted to allow the matter to drop. But as this was not permitted,

he thought it easier to take his daughter's part than to encounter

family enmity by entering the lists against her. So it came to pass

that down at Mistletoe there grew an opinion that Lord Rufford ought

to marry Arabella Trefoil.

But what should be done? The Duke was alive to the feeling that as

the girl was certainly his niece and as she was not to be regarded

as a thoroughly bad girl, some assistance was due to her from the

family. Lord Mistletoe volunteered to write to Lord Rufford; Lord

Augustus thought that his brother should have a personal interview

with his young brother peer and bring his strawberry leaves to

bear. The Duke himself suggested that the Duchess should see Lady

Penwether,--a scheme to which her Grace objected strongly, knowing

something of Lady Penwether and being sure that her strawberry leaves

would have no effect whatever on the baronet's wife. At last it was

decided that a family meeting should be held, and Lord Augustus was

absolutely summoned to meet Lord Mistletoe at the paternal mansion.

It was now some years since Lord Augustus had been at Mistletoe. As

he had never been separated,--that is formally separated,--from his

wife he and she had been always invited there together. Year after

year she had accepted the invitation,--and it had been declined on

his behalf, because it did not suit him and his wife to meet each

other. But now he was obliged to go there,--just at the time of

the year when whist at his club was most attractive. To meet the

convenience of Lord Mistletoe,--and the House of Commons--a Saturday

afternoon was named for the conference, which made it worse for Lord

Augustus as he was one of a little party which had private gatherings

for whist on Sunday afternoons. But he went to the conference,

travelling down by the same train with his nephew; but not in the

same compartment, as he solaced with tobacco the time which Lord

Mistletoe devoted to parliamentary erudition.

The four met in her Grace's boudoir, and the Duke began by declaring

that all this was very sad. Lord Augustus shook his head and put his

hands in his trousers pockets,--which was as much as to say that his

feelings as a British parent were almost too strong for him. "Your

mother and I think, that something ought to be done," said the Duke

turning to his son.

"Something ought to be done," said Lord Mistletoe.

"They won't let a fellow go out with a fellow now," said Lord

Augustus.

"Heaven forbid!" said the Duchess, raising both her hands.

"I was thinking, Mistletoe, that your mother might have met Lady

Penwether."

"What could I do with Lady Penwether, Duke? Or what could she do with

him? A man won't care for what his sister says to him. And I don't

suppose she'd undertake to speak to Lord Rufford on the subject."

"Lady Penwether is an honourable and an accomplished woman."