CHAPTER XII.

CONCLUSION.

With the civil war in Canada, our story has little more to do.

Suffice it that for a brief time, Roland Ruthven, after seeing Madame

Darnel and her daughter safe in their chateau of St. Eustache at

Montreal, had again to join the troops, who advanced to St. Benoit,

where, so great was the terror excited by the recent victorious

assault, that no opposition was offered, and the rebels sent

delegates to say humbly, that they would, without conditions, lay

their arms down, and they were conveyed under escort to Montreal, to

meet the meed of their crimes.

The good result of all these operations was the return of the

colonists to their homes, and the disappearance of all armed parties

of insurgents. About the same season, however, in the following

year, when the deep snows of the Canadian winter began to fall, there

was a second rising in Lower Canada; but it was again crushed by the

energy and gallantry of Sir John Colborne at Napierville, and for

these and other services, the Queen created the fine old soldier a

peer of Great Britain.

Prior to these events some startling changes occurred in the history

of the two principal characters in our little narrative.

The Darnel estate at St. Eustache was utterly destroyed; the mansion

had been ruined or burned, the lands ravaged, and the circumstances

of the once wealthy widow were sorely impaired; her horses,

carriages, and many other luxuries had to be dispensed with and

economy become the new order of the day; but now, safe at her own

home at Montreal, all the beauty and gaiety of Aurelia returned, and

after all she had undergone, even poverty seemed, a slight matter to

face--as yet.

"O Roland darling!" said she, with a little laugh, as they stood

together in a window of the château one evening in the spring,

looking towards Montreal steeped in the sunset, and where the

greenery of the woods was deepening faster than it ever does in

Britain at the same season, vegetation maturing with wondrous

rapidity the moment the snow disappears; "O, Roland--I am poor as

yourself now, and yet you still talk of marrying me and going to

India; but could I take my poor mamma there?"

Roland's loving countenance fell.

"You lost your noble estate by a will; I my seigniory--or nearly all

of it--by civil war; our fortune is ruined."

"Yet--we must not--cannot part, after all--after all!"

"Oh no--no!" murmured the girl, fondly and plaintively, with her

sweet face pillowed on his breast.

Next day Roland arrived with a face full of such excitement, wonder,

and so many varying expressions, that Aurelia knew not what to make

of him and his incoherences for some time at least.

That morning the regimental postman brought him a letter, the first

words of which, however much expected, made a lump rise in his throat.

It was from his legal agents, Messrs. Hook and Crook, Writers to the

Signet, and dated from Edinburgh:--

"DEAR SIR,"--(It used to be _my_ dear sir once) "We beg to acquaint

you, with much regret, that we have now traced out and learned

authentically who are _the heirs of the marriage of your deceased

uncle_, the late Mr. Philip Ruthven, eldest son of General Roland

Ruthven, who went to Jamaica."

Roland felt very sick as he read, and paused; then summing up

courage, he resumed the obnoxious epistle, and read on.

"From the latter place that gentleman went to Canada, where he

married a lady of Montreal, by whom he had several children, all of

whom are dead save one, Miss Aurelia Darnel de St. Eustache" ("Oh, my

God!" thought Roland, "what miracle is this?"), for he took the name

of Darnel to please the family of his wife, who was the daughter of a

wealthy French seigneur.

"We regret to be the medium of such very bad news, but of course are

now taking the usual legal measures to execute the will of the late

General Ruthven, according to your own instructions."

So Aurelia was his cousin, the daughter of the lost Philip, who had

quitted Scotland in disgust, never to return, and she was the heiress

of Ardgowrie!

And he--what was he? For weal or woe her affianced husband. It was

all like the plot of a drama; and some time elapsed before Roland

could realise the whole situation; but there was the prosaic letter

of the lawyers, which, under _other_ circumstances, might have seemed

to cut his very heart-strings.

Now how innocuous it was!

Another hour found him by the side of Aurelia, and to attempt to

record all the explanations and loving incoherences, astonishment and

joy of _that_ particular interview would be a difficult task indeed;

but even while speaking to her, and while her voice was in his ear,

Roland seemed to see before him the cabinet of Scindia, with the now

baffled secret it contained.

If Roland had now, in a modified sense, to blush at, and feel shame,

for his father's duplicity in the matter of the will--a duplicity

born of the various emotions we have already described, dislike

between brothers, temptation offered on one hand, the dread of losing

the ambitious girl he loved on the other--and then the total

disappearance of Philip, he had to blush before one who had accepted

him as a husband when their positions were very different, when all

the odds of wealth and landed property were, as once again, in her

favour, and he was still the penniless soldier with his sword alone.

And Roland, as he looked on Aurelia again, recalled the youthful

portrait of his lost uncle Philip at Ardgowrie, and saw, or thought

he saw, how closely she resembled it.

We have little more to add.

The Darnel estates, we have said, were ruined; but Ardgowrie was yet

in all its baronial glory; to Ardgowrie they would go, and sell the

former, so it was all settled ere the Canadian summer came swiftly

on; thus the reader may be assured that they were married long before

the month of August, so old Elspat Gorm's "fatal day" of the Ruthvens

was fully evaded. Nor need we add, though we do so, that jolly

Hector Logan was groomsman, and old General Colborne gave the bride

away.

In winning Aurelia, Poland regained his inheritance, but he never

left the old Royal Regiment, or returned finally to Ardgowrie, till

he had, like his father before him, been long a popular colonel of

the corps.

THE SECRET MARRIAGE.

In famous old Cornwall, known as "the Land of Tin," in the days of

Solomon--the land of Druid Cromlechs and Celtic circles, of those

mysterious sarcophagi named Kistvaens, wherein lie the bones of a

race unknown--the land of many wondrous relics of a vanished past,

lies the scene of the following events.

Not far from that part of the coast which is washed by the British

Channel stands Restormel Court, at the time of our story--a few years

ago--the seat of Sir Launcelot Tredegarth Tresilian, Bart., a proud

old gentleman, whose chief, if not only failing was an inordinate

pride of family; and hence whose principal regret was, that though he

had heirs to succeed him in his estate, there was none to follow him

in his title, which had been bestowed upon him by the late King

William IV. for certain political services. His two sons had been

killed in the service of the country. One had fallen in Central

India and the other in the Crimea, and as the baronetcy was limited

by diploma "to the heirs male of his own body," he had to rest him

content with the knowledge that he was the first and last baronet of

Restormel Court.

Occupying the site of a castle demolished by the French when they

landed in Cornwall during the reign of Henry VI., the latter is an

edifice much older than it looks.

The whole house was an epitome of the past; trophies of war and the

chase--coats of mail and stags' horns--decorated the hall, and some

of the rooms had remained untouched since the days of the "Virgin

Queen," hung with tapestry, which was lifted to give entrance;

hearths intended for wood alone, and andirons--heraldic griffins--to

support the logs; and there were curious cabinets, Cromwellian

chairs, and carved _prie-Dieu_ of all kinds.

On one evening in autumn, the present lord of Restormel Court was

lingering over his wine--some choice old Madeira, which had been

carefully iced for him by the butler--in company with his two

nephews, the eldest of whom was understood to be, and acknowledged by

himself and all, as his future heir.

Sir Launcelot, verging then on his eightieth year, was a pale, thin,

and wasted-looking man. He was toying with his wine-glass, and from

time to time contemplating his wasted white hands, on each of which a

diamond glittered; and then he looked at his nephews, who were

intently conversing near the fire.

They were both men about thirty-eight and forty years of age

respectively. Arthur Tresilian, the eldest, and ever the prime

favourite, was remarkably handsome, with fine, regular features.

His brother, Basset Tresilian, who followed the legal profession with

success in London, was less athletic, but quite as striking in figure.

Somehow people, especially in Cornwall, did not like Mr. Basset

Tresilian; and his periodical visits to the Court added no brightness

to the circle usually to be met there.

"Well, boys" (for though men, the old baronet, by force of habit,

called them boys still), "fill your glasses, and don't leave me to

drink alone. Egad! in my time fellows didn't shirk their wine as you

do; but it is all cigars and odious pipes now. Well, Basset, what

does he say? Is he inclined to follow the example you so boldly set

him some sixteen years ago, and take unto himself a wife?"

"I cannot say, sir. It is of a horse we were talking."

"A horse--pshaw! You were wise to marry young, Basset. _I_ did so!"

said Sir Launcelot.

"I have had no reason to repent me thereof," replied Basset,

complacently. "My family are charming; Mona is a fine girl in face

and figure."

"Quite a Tresilian--eh?" said the old man, proudly.

"And your nephew, Lance, is as handsome a boy as any in London. I

have, indeed, prospered every day since I placed the marriage hoop on

Marion's finger."

"Egad! you sing your own praises well, nephew Basset," said the

baronet, after a pause. "But you, Arthur--why have you not imitated

this fine example? I cannot last for ever, and I don't want my

estates to go begging for owners."

Arthur coloured with too evident vexation.

"They cannot beg far, dear uncle," he replied, "while I have the good

fortune to be your heir; and, then, Basset----"

"His sons, you would say?"

"Yes," replied the other, with a faint voice; for Basset was

regarding him so keenly that he felt his colour deepen.

"What is the booby blushing for?" asked Sir Launcelot, laughing.

"Blushing at forty! By Jove! I was cured of it at fourteen! Will

you ride with--I mean, drive over with me to Carn Mornal to-morrow?

My friend Trelawny has three fine daughters, and I should like you to

make their acquaintance. Tresilian and Trelawny would quarter well

on a shield; or would it be _impaled_? Will you go, Arthur?"

"I regret to say it is impossible, sir."

"When--why?"

"I have been a whole month at the Court, and am now due at a friend's

house near--near London."

"London again? The last time you started for London, Trelawny gave

me some hints that you never went in that direction so far as the

borders of Devonshire. I can't understand your total indifference to

the society of ladies, and this resolute celibacy at your time of

life. D--n it, sir, it don't look well! and I only hope you hav'n't

conceived some unworthy attachment--I mean unworthy the name of

Tresilian."

"I have not, sir," replied the other, almost angrily for he still

felt the keen legal eye of Basset upon him. "I shall never, I hope,

do anything unworthy of the name we bear in common."

"Thank you, Arthur boy. Give me your hand."

"And now, uncle--leaving you and Basset to the Madeira--I'll smoke a

cigar in the stable, and look at that horse I mean to take away with

me to-morrow."

And anxious to close a conversation, the subject of which pained him

deeply, Arthur Tresilian left the stately dining-room, and strolled

over the beautiful lawn towards the stable court.

"Can Basset suspect me? Does he know anything? No! no!--he cannot!

My poor Diana!" he muttered, "still this humiliating concealment, and

no hope save through the death of that poor old man. Accursed be

this silly pride of birth!"

* * * * *

"How long papa has been away from us--a whole month!"

"When will papa be home, mamma dear? The cottage seems so dull

without him!"

Such were the questions two handsome boys--one was now quite a lad of

eighteen--asked of a lady on each side of whom they stood

caressingly, while she hastily read a letter which had just come by

post.

"In four days, dearest boys, he returns to leave us _no more_!" she

exclaimed, with joy, as she fondly kissed them both, and once more

turned to her letter.

"RESTORMEL COURT, Sept. 8.

"MY DARLING DIANA,--My uncle, Sir Launcelot, is gone, poor man! He

was found dead abed by his valet this morning. No cause is assigned

but old age, yet he was hearty as a brick last night over his

Madeira, rallying Basset and me. Well, he has gone, with all his

overstrained and old-fashioned ideas of birth, and all that sort of

thing. And now for our marriage, dearest--now all justice can be

done to you, my much enduring one! I am the sole heir to Restormel,

and your Arthur after me. I have written to the curate of H----,

Jersey, for the attested copy of our marriage left with him, and

expect it by return of post. Kiss our boys for me, and believe me,

dearest Diana, your affectionate husband,

"ARTHUR."

Yet she remarked that it was addressed, as usual. "Mrs. Lydiard,

Carn Spern Cottage," forgetting that she was unknown by any other

name.

"It is well named Carn Spern--the Carn of Thorns--for in some

respects, with all our happiness, such has it been to me; but

now--now all that is at an end! and blessed be God therefor! Yet it

is through death--the death of an old man, however--a very old man!

My boys--my innocent boys!--they are so young--they must never know

our secret! Yet--how to explain to them the change of name from

Lydiard to Tresilian? I must be silent as yet, and consult dear

Arthur about this."

And now to go back a little way in the private life of Arthur

Tresilian. The favourite nephew and acknowledged heir of his

paternal uncle, he had ever been supplied by the latter with a

handsome allowance. When travelling or sojourning for a time in

Jersey, he had there made the acquaintance of Diana Lydiard, then a

girl barely done with her schooling. Her rare beauty fascinated him;

but, unfortunately, she was the daughter of one who, at Restormel

Court, would have been deemed as a mere tradesman. Arthur knew that

he should mortify, offend, and disoblige irrevocably the proud old

Sir Launcelot if he made such a _mésalliance_ as to marry Diana

Lydiard openly; for he knew that his uncle's immense fortune was

entirely at his own disposal, and that he was quite capable of

cutting him off with the proverbial "shilling" and leaving the whole

to Basset--the careful, plodding, and thrifty Basset.

So they were married; but wherever they went they passed as Mr. and

Mrs. Lydiard, the maiden name of Diana. The marriage was duly

registered in his name in the book of the little Jersey church, and

an attested copy of it was lodged with the incumbent who performed

the ceremony.

Arthur Tresilian took his girl-wife to the Continent, as he could

then with a safe conscience write home for remittances.

Amid these wanderings two boys were born to them--Arthur and Ralf,

whom she so named after her father, and each boy seemed a

reproduction of either parent: for the eldest had all the personal

attributes of the father--was bluff, bold, and manly; while the

latter had all the dark beauty and gentleness of his mother. On the

education of these boys Arthur Tresilian spared nothing, and both

were already highly accomplished. Everywhere they had the best

masters money could procure; but no profession was decided on for

Arthur, the eldest, as the _false name_ and the expected wealth

raised alike doubts and objections as to what should be done.

Diana Lydiard was the daughter of a tradesman--true; but amid the

love she bore her husband, and the luxuries by which his wealth

enabled him to surround her, she had ever felt her position to be

anomalous, and with it the pride that struggled against shame--a

shame that at times became blended with vague fear and sorrow for the

future.

And now for the last three years the secret family of Arthur

Tresilian had been settled in a little sequestered spot named Carn

Spern, near Trevose Head, a rocky cape that juts into the sea

westward of Padstow, and some thirty miles or so distant from

Restormel Court. There he was known simply as Mr. Lydiard, and by

the frequency of his absence was supposed to be a commercial

traveller; but as the little family lived quietly, made few

acquaintances, and incurred no debts, their lives glided by unnoticed

and uncared for by all save the poor, to whom the charity of Mrs.

Lydiard was a proverb, and something more solid too.

Through some unseen agency a whisper of an alleged improper

connection formed by Arthur did reach the ears of Basset Tresilian,

and through him, those of old Sir Launcelot, and in the fury and

indignation of the latter, his lofty and aristocratic scorn, he had a

foretaste of what awaited him, and the three beings he loved most on

earth, if the reality became known.

And now the proud old man was dead, and all necessity for concealment

was at an end. Arthur Tresilian succeeded to Restormel Court, with

thirty thousand pounds a year; Basset to eight thousand pounds, the

baronet's gold repeater, and all the legal works in his library.

"It is well the boys have gone to fish, I have so much to say to you,

Diana darling," said Arthur, as he flung his hat away, and clasped

his little wife to his breast. "And about the resumption of our

name, Diana, they must simply be told that I have succeeded to an

estate which requires a change in our designation."

"Excellent, Arthur."

"To-morrow I must start for St. ----."

"For Jersey?"

"Yes, Diana, I am anxious personally to get the attested copy of our

marriage certificate by the curate who married us, or a new one from

the records. I shall fill up the time of absence by writing my will

in your favour and the boys, to make all sure, for one never knows

what may happen. When you see me again, Di, both documents shall be

snug in this old pocket-book my father gave me."

And laughingly he tapped the heirloom, a handsome scarlet and gilt

morocco book, on the boards of which were the Tresilian arms,

surmounted by a griffin, stamped in gold.

"A strange little episode, almost a romantic one, has occurred during

your absence, dear," said Mrs. Tresilian, for so we must now call

her; "Arthur has quite fallen in love with a young lady, whom he has

met riding her pony among the green lanes near Padstow."

"Arthur--that mere boy. It won't last long, Di."

"I hope not, and so will you, perhaps, when I tell who she is, and

the risk we have run: Mona Tresilian!"

"What, my brother Basset's daughter?"

"Yes, Arthur."

"But the girl has gone to London with him, and that will end the

affair. And now to-morrow, darling, I must leave you by the train

for Falmouth, whence I shall take the steamer to Jersey. When I

return the carriage shall be sent on here for you and our two dear

little fellows, as I wish you to enter Restormel Court in the state

that befits you, though my uncle's hatchment still hangs above its

_porte cochère_."

Next day she was alone once more, and he had sailed hopefully on his

errand.

The hour she had pined for during eighteen years--never so much as

after the birth of her boy Arthur--when she should sink the dubious

name of Lydiard and be acknowledged as the wife of Arthur Tresilian,

had come at last, and a thrill of the purest joy filled her heart.

In her anxiety for her children's future she felt small sorrow for

the death of the octogenarian. How should she feel more?

His absurd pride had kept her under a species of cloud for eighteen

years, as a person unknown to the world, and as one even now to be

recognised with wonder--yea, perchance with doubt.

The period of her life so longed for, not for its wealth, but when

she and her children should take their place in the world as

Tresilians, had come at last. There are times when an hour seems

long. Oh, then, how long must days, and weeks, and months, appear,

when they roll into years? All time passes inexorably, however.

While she sat reflecting thus her eldest son was engaged elsewhere,

but not, as she thought, with his fishing-rod.

"And you are going to London with your papa?" said he to a

fair-haired and blue-eyed girl, who was clad in deep mourning, and

who had pulled up her pony in one of the grassy and shady lanes near

the unsavoury old fishing town of Padstow.

"Yes, and we leave by the train to-night."

"And I shall see you----"

"Perhaps never again, Arthur," replied the girl, with her face full

of smiles and tears, for she was less affected than her lover. "I

shall never forget you, Mr. Lydiard, or all the pleasant walks and

meetings we have had, by these green lanes, by the Bray-hill above

the sea, and ever so many places more."

"And you call me Mr. Lydiard? Oh, Mona, can you leave me so coldly?"

he asked, sadly; "may I not write to you in London?"

"Ah, good heavens, no!" she exclaimed, with all a school-girl's

terror. "What would mamma say? And then there is papa!"

It was delightful to have a lover; but not delightful that the fact

should come to the ears of such a papa as Mr. Basset Tresilian.

"Then I have no hope?"

"Yes, you have," said she, playfully tickling his face with her

riding switch.

"Oh, name it, Mona!"

"I have an uncle named Tresilian down here in this country."

"He who succeeded to Restormel Court, or some such place?"

"Exactly, Arthur--the same."

"Well?" asked Arthur, little thinking that she referred to his own

and well-loved father.

"Papa thinks we shall spend our Christmas holidays with him.--he is

so jolly!--and, somehow, it will go hard with me if I don't get an

invitation for Mr. Arthur Lydiard."

An expression of thanks and quietude spread over the young man's

face, mingled with great sadness, for she added,--

"I must go now--must leave you, Arthur."

"Oh, Mona! Mona! it seems so hard to lose you now!"

"My darling Arthur!" exclaimed the girl, giving way to a shower of

tears, as his arms encircled her slender waist, and she permitted her

soft, bright face to fall upon his shoulder. But at that moment they

were rudely interrupted.

Arthur felt himself seized by the arm and thrust violently aside by a

grave and stern-looking man about forty years of age. This person

was in mourning, and instinct told the lover that he must be Mona's

father. He seized her pony by the bridle, and--after darting a

furious glance at Arthur, a glance not unmingled with surprise, as he

saw in his face a likeness to some one, he knew not whom--led the

young lady away through a wicket in a thick beech-hedge and shut it.

Ere he did so, however, he turned and said to Arthur,--

"Whoever you are, young fellow, let such tomfoolery cease. This

young lady leaves to-night for London. Attempt to write to, or

follow her, at your peril; and I may add that we shall dispense with

the pleasure of your distinguished society at Restormel Court in the

Christmas week."

Arthur's spirit was proud and fiery. He made a spring towards the

little gate, but checked himself; he felt that he dared not confront,

in wrath, the father of the girl he loved, and so he turned sadly and

hopelessly away, like a good, simple-hearted lad as he was, to tell

his mother all about it, for he concealed nothing from her; but,

somewhat to his surprise and chagrin, instead of sympathising with

his disappointment, or betraying indignation at the "flinty-hearted

father," she laughed merrily, smiled, and kissed him, thrusting at

the same time into her bosom a letter she had just received from her

husband.

"But I shall never see her more, mamma," urged Arthur, piteously.

"You shall, Arthur--you shall! be assured of that. Did your own

mamma ever deceive you?"

"No, no, never!" replied Arthur, hopefully.

"And she is to be at Restormel--is that the name of the place?"

"Yes, mamma; Restormel Court--a grand place, they say."

"At Christmas? Well, Arthur, and you shall be there too, or your

mamma is no true prophetess."

Diana's husband had reached Jersey in safety, and gone to the little

secluded church of St. ----, where they had offered their mutual vows

to heaven on that eventful morning, so well remembered still, when

their only witnesses were the parish clerk and sexton.

"The poor old curate"--so ran his letter--"you remember his thin,

spare figure, with a long black, rusty coat, diagonal shovel hat,

gaiters, and white choker--has gone to his last home under the old

yew-tree that for centuries has guarded the burial-ground. By a

destructive fire in the vestry the whole of the marriage registers,

and some of the baptismal ditto, have perished before the copies

thereof were transmitted to headquarters--wherever that may be; but I

have, most fortunately, oh, my Diana! by the special providence of

heaven, secured _the attested copy_ of our marriage lines, which the

old curate made at my request from the now defunct register. It was

found among his papers by his successor, and is now in my

possession--in the old scarlet pocket-book, together with my will,

which I have carefully drawn up in favour of you and our boys, and

signed before witnesses. I mean to spend two days here with an old

friend, and shall return by the steamer _Queen Guinevère_, which

leaves Jersey for Falmouth on Friday, and which, by-the-bye, has on

board a large sum in specie coming from France to England."

"Friday? On Saturday I shall see him!" thought the wife in her

heart, with a sigh of relief, and a prayer of thanks to heaven. "The

register of their marriage had perished! _What if the attested copy

had been lost?_ Oh, what then would have been the fate, the future,

of their idolized sons--her tall and handsome Arthur, her merry

little dark-eyed Ralf?"

Thursday passed; Friday, too; then came Saturday, but no Arthur

Tresilian, or Lydiard, as she had to call him still at Carn Spern.

There came tidings, however, that the _Queen Guinevère_ had left

Jersey duly, but had never reached Falmouth. Great was the anxiety,

grief, and terror of the little family at Carn Spern; for there had

been a severe storm in the Channel, and many ships had been driven

ashore about the Lizard and Land's End; but none of these were

steamers, and a whisper began to spread abroad that the _Queen

Guinevère_ must have foundered and gone down at sea, or some trace of

her would have been found upon the coast. But all doubts were

speedily resolved, when, on the third day after she was due at

Falmouth, Derrick Polkinghorne, coxswain of the Padstow life-boat,

discovered her shattered hull sunk and wedged in a chasm of the rocks

near the lighthouse on Trevose Head. How she had come to be stranded

there on the other side of Cornwall was a mystery to all, unless she

had been blown by the late tempest completely round the Land's End,

and been forced to run for shelter by St. Ives and Ligger Bay. Much

wreckage and many bodies were cast on the beach; but, though none of

them proved to be that of Arthur Tresilian--or Mr. Lydiard, as he was

called--no doubt remained in the anguished mind of Diana that he had

perished, and she at once wrote to his brother Basset, announcing the

event, her existence, and the legal claims of herself and her

children.

All this complication proved very startling to Basset. He knew

nothing of his brother's Jersey journey, though he always suspected

his secret ties; but, ignoring the latter, he at once put his

household in super-mourning, and took possession of Restormel Court

as his own, leaving, however, no means untried to prove the death by

drowning of Arthur Tresilian, though the name of Lydiard was borne on

the list of passengers.

The following day saw Diana and her sons, attired in deepest

mourning, at the Court, requesting an audience with Mr. Basset

Tresilian--her close cap and concealed hair, her long crape weepers,

and face deadly with pallor, announcing her recent widowhood, which

Basset viewed with a sneer, as with a haggard eye she looked at the

stiff ancestral portraits, the cedar carvings of the stately library,

the blazing fire, the gleaming tiles, and picturesque furniture of

white and gold and crimson velvet.

She announced with quiet dignity, yet not without doubt and much

perturbation, that she came as the widow of the late Mr. Tresilian,

to claim her place, and the places of his children, at Restormel

Court. He replied, calmly--

"You have proofs, I presume, of all this, Mrs.--Mrs. Lydiard?"

"Mrs. Tresilian, sir!" said she, while her Arthur, in silence and

bewilderment, recognised an uncle in the father of his Mona.

Alas! Diana had neither the certificate nor the will; both had gone

down into the deep, with her hapless husband. She had, however, the

letter referring to those documents: but Basset, after a furtive

glance at the fire, tossed it hack to her contemptuously, saying--

"I have heard of you before, madam--years ago, too. My brother is

drowned, and you are now poor. I dislike death and poverty, and all

that sort of thing; but I'll do what I can in the way of Christian

charity, and have your hulking boys bound to trades. But you must

leave this place at once; the ladies of my family must not come in

contact with--such as you."

She rose, and left the stately house mechanically, with one hand on

Arthur's arm and the other on the neck of Ralf; and she looked at

them in agony--the latter her little pet, the other the stately king

of the playing fields, and captain of the school eleven, to be

tradesmen!

Deep in the hearts of both boys sank their mother's grief; but

deepest in the heart of Arthur, who felt himself called upon to do

something--he knew not what.

He spent hours and days upon the solitary rock above where the wreck

lay, looking at the spot with haggard eyes. Oh, if that shattered

hull had a voice--had the dead that came ashore the power of

utterance, the secret of his father's fate might be revealed; but

three months had passed, and who could doubt it now? One morning

early, as he came to the accustomed spot, under the grim shadow of

Trevose Head, he found the puffins scared away, and the solitude

invaded by others--one of whom he knew well, Derrick Polkinghorne, a

bold and hardy native of the Scilly Isles, where people spend so much

of their time on the boisterous ocean that for one who dies abed nine

are drowned; and, by order of Lloyd's agent, he was preparing a

diving bell to examine the wreck, as much specie was known to be on

board of her.

"Mornin', Muster Lydiard," said he, for he and Arthur had frequently

boated together; "that's a smart yacht outside the Lines. Sir

Launcelot Tresilian's she was--Master Basset's now."

"What is her name?"

"_The Bashful Maid_."

"She sails like a duck!"

"She does. Ah, there's ne'er a craft out o' Cowes like that 'ere

_Bashful Maid_!--'specially when she's got a dandy rigged astarn;

then she hugs the wind beautiful! Just goin' down to 'ave a squint

at this here wreck."

"Take me with you, Derrick; for heaven's sake do!" implored the lad.

"What on earth do you want down there?"

"Only a scrap of paper, perhaps, Derrick."

"Then you ain't like to find it, you ain't."

"I should like to see the deck my father stood on last."

"I understand that, I does. Come, then. I wonders as he went to sea

in that craft, for last time she left Falmouth the rats rushed out of

her in thousands; and they never does that for nothin'. But as for

finding paper here, you'll be like them as mistook the mild reflex of

the lunar horb for a remarkably fine Stilton. But here we goes; and

now take care on yourself."

With a thrill of awe and horror, oddly not unmingled with delight and

a sense of novelty, Arthur took his place beside Derrick on the seat

that was placed across the bell, which at once began to descend.

Light was admitted by convex lenses, through which were seen the long

trailing weeds, the creeping things of ocean, and now and then the

sea-green faces of the blackening dead!

They passed downward into the water, which surged against the sides

of the bell, and rippled over the lenses till they were close to the

bulged wreck. Her starboard bow was completely smashed upon the

rocks; the cargo had been washed out, and was still oozing forth by

degrees. Already barnacles and weeds were growing on it, and dreary,

dreary and desolate looked that shattered hull at the bottom of the

sea; and Arthur surveyed it with tears of the keenest grief.

"Suppose a shark stuck its nose into the bell?" said Polkinghorne.

"I don't care if one did," said Arthur.

"A dead body? and, by Jove, here's one coming in grim earnest. On

his face, it's a man. Women allus floats on their backs; how's that,

Muster Lydiard?"

"My name is----" but he checked himself, for now a corpse, which

Derrick had roused with his pole, came slowly athwart the stage at

the bottom of the bell, and remained there.

Suddenly a cry escaped Arthur! The grey great coat upon it, all

sodden and studded with weeds and limpets, he recognised as one

usually worn by his lost father, and, longing to know more, he

implored Derrick to examine it; for himself, he dared not move, or

breathe, or think! Oh, could it be, that those poor remains, half

devoured by fish, and floating face downward in the sea, were all

that remained of his handsome and beloved father?

"Hold on, lad, shut your eyes; and I'll soon see," cried the resolute

diver, as he lowered himself to the loathsome task of examining the

remains.

Arthur dared not look; but ere long a cold metal watch was placed in

his hand.

"It is not papa's," said he, with a sigh of relief, that ended in a

cry of horror, for as those in charge of the bell began to raise it,

the water surged within it and dashed about the corpse, which came

against him again and again, till Derrick, who was investigating its

pockets, thrust it with his pole out of the bell, which in another

minute was suspended over the sunny surface of the sea.

"See, Muster Lydiard, I've found a pocket-book into that ere poor

fellow's overcoat," said Derrick.

"It is my papa's!" shrieked the lad; "his old scarlet book, with his

arms and crest upon it."

And in that book, safe and dry, were the lost will and certificate of

marriage.

"But, oh," moaned the lad, when he had told his mother this startling

occurrence, as he sank half sick upon her breast, "if that was poor

papa I saw, he came from his grave in the sea, mamma, with those

papers for you!"

But the body was soon known to be that of a channel pilot.

Ere the end of that week Basset Tresilian had to change his tone, and

Diana and her sons took legal steps to make her the mistress and them

the masters of Restormel Court. So autumn drew towards winter; but

ere the sad widow quitted Carn Spern, one night a carriage drew up, a

man alighted, full of bustle and excitement; a well-known voice was

heard, and Arthur Tresilian, the elder, was clasped in the arms of

his half-fainting wife.

Washed overboard from the steamer, he had been picked up by a vessel

bound for Cuba; his coat had been donned by the pilot, so there was

an end of all the sorrow and mystery.

THE STUDENT'S STORY.

It is a ghastly tale I have to tell, in some respects; but so far as

regards its close, I have some reason to congratulate myself, and to

feel, that "All is well that ends well."

It is almost an old story now, though I was an actor in it; but the

world is ever reproducing itself in some form or fashion. Was there

not an instance, in the August of 1870, of a resurrection taking

place at Harrington, when all that quiet locality was startled from

its propriety by the discovery of a body cast in its shroud beside

its grave, which had been violated to procure the jewellery with

which the deceased had been interred? My adventure, however, refers

to the regular old "body-snatching" times, before unclaimed subjects

were supplied to the anatomical theatres from our public hospitals,

and when houseless ruffians of the lowest and vilest type made a

livelihood by their loathsome and almost nameless trade.

I had graduated at the great medical school of Edinburgh, after a

hard tussle with Hunter and Fyfe's Anatomies, Bell on the Bones, the

cell theories of Schwan, and even grappling with some of the abstruse

and now exploded speculations of Gall and Spurzheim. I had mastered

all; I had been solemnly "capped" in the old Academia Jacobi VI.

Regis Scotorum, by the Reverend Principal L---- (now in his grave); I

had undergone all the jollity of the graduation dinner, and with

_Frederick Mortimer, M.D._, duly figuring on my portmanteau, found

myself, with my college chum, Bob Asher (who, by the way, had _not_

passed), sailing from the harbour of Leith for London, in the Royal

Adelaide, one of the only two steamers which then plied between these

ports.

Though "plucked" for the third time, poor Bob was in no way cast

down. With him, study at Edinburgh had been all a sham. He had duly

"matriculated," and sent the ticket as a proof thereof to his father,

who duly paid for classes he never attended, and expensive books he

never read. But Bob had always plenty of money then, at least, while

I had barely wherewith to pay my class fees and lodgings in

Clerk-street, a quiet place near the University.

At last I had the letters "M.D." appended to my name--those magical

letters which open the secrets of households, the chambers of the

fairest, the purest, and most modest and refined to the perhaps

hitherto wild, and it may be "rake-hell" student, who is thereby

transformed suddenly into a member of the learned profession, and a

grave and responsible member of society.

A comfortable home, board, and washing, with forty pounds per annum

whereon to enjoy the luxuries of this life, were the inducements

which drew me back to London, where I became duly inducted as

assistant to Dr. Crammer, in Bedford-street, Strand, one of those

old-fashioned practitioners who always had a lighted crimson bottle

flaming over the door by night, and had a dingy little room off the

entrance hall, with a skull or two on a side table, snakes in "good

spirits" on the mantleshelf, and which by its appurtenances seemed

laboratory, surgery, and library in one.

The doctor's practice was more fashionable, however, than one might

have expected from his locality, and many a patient of his I visited

in the statelier regions of Piccadilly and those pretty villas that

face Buckingham Palace and the Green Park. Dr. Crammer was a fussy

and pompous little man, with a bald head, an ample paunch, and a

general exterior like that of the well-known Mr. Pickwick. He was

vain of his aristocratic practice, and more vain of none than of the

family of Sir Percival Chalcot, whose eldest daughter was said to be

one of the handsomest girls in London, and whose son was in the

Household Brigade.

I flattered myself then that I had rather a taking manner and

gentlemanly exterior; and that old Crammer was a little vain of me as

an assistant, especially after I passed at Apothecaries' Hall--an

absurdity necessary then for graduates of the Scotch Universities,

who otherwise, in London, were liable to imprisonment.

I soon remarked, however, that he never sent me to the baronet's.

Every visit there he made in person, and by himself; every dose of

medicine, however infinitesimal, was conveyed there by his own hand;

for he liked to have it to say to a friend _en passant_, "I am just

going to," or, "have come from Sir Percival Chalcot. Lady Chalcot is

unwell;" or, "Miss Gertrude over-danced herself at the Palace last

night." So that great house, near where now the stately arch is

overtopped by that hideous statue of Wellington, was to me as a

sealed book. I soon ceased to think about it, and gave all my

attention and skill to the smaller fry in the neighbourhood of the

Strand; and between St. Clement's and St. Martin's there is scope

enough, heaven knows!

One day a professional visit had taken me farther westward than

usual, and I was sitting wearily on a seat in Hyde Park, near the

statue of Achilles, watching the occasional carriages rolling past--I

say occasional, for it was an hour or two before the fashionable

time--when a cry roused me, and I saw a spirited horse coming along

the drive at a terrific pace. Its head was down, and it had

evidently the bit between its teeth; while the reins, which had

escaped the hand of the rider, a lady, were dangling between, the

forelegs. She seemed a skilful horsewoman, and kept her saddle well.

I saw her floating skirt, her streaming veil, her pale face, and

wild, imploring glance as she came on.

One or two men attempted to catch the bridle, but were instantly

knocked over.

I leaped the iron railing, and by the greatest good fortune contrived

to snatch the reins, to gather them together at the same instant, to

twist the curb behind the horse's jaw, thus arresting his progress;

and then, with a strength I did not think myself possessed of, to

bear it furiously back upon its haunches. At the same moment that I

thus mastered it, I was conscious of hearing something snap; a

dreadful pain shot through my left arm, which hung powerless by my

side; but the lady who was both young and beautiful, with a

charmingly minute face, and large dark hazel eyes gave me a glance

expressive of intense relief and gratitude.

"Thank you, sir--thank you. Oh, how shall I ever sufficiently thank

you?" she muttered hurriedly with pallid lips.

"It was well done, miss--splendidly done of the gentleman," said her

old gray-haired groom, who came up at a rasping pace. "Another

instant and the blind brute would have dashed you ag'in yonder gate."

"My papa shall thank you for this, sir; at present I am unable to

speak," she added.

So also was I; but she knew not the extent of the injury I had

suffered, as she bowed and rode away, her horse being now led by the

groom, who had taken its bridle; while I was left there with my

broken limb, and without any clue as to who she was, save her

handkerchief, which I had picked up on the walk, and in a corner of

which was the single letter "G."

For a time I felt very faint; but at that juncture Bob Asher drove

past in his phaeton, and took me home. Old Crammer set the bone,

which progressed favourably, and after a few days I was able to go

abroad a little, with my arm in a leather case and black sling.

The face of the girl I had saved--a haunting face, indeed--dwelt in

my memory; and now that danger was past, I thought of the episode

with pleasure, for I had scarcely a female friend in London; and I

wondered in my heart if she ever thought of the humble pedestrian to

whom she owed so much, and who had so suffered in her cause. I could

scarcely flatter myself that she did so, for she was evidently by her

air and bearing, and by the mettle of the horses ridden by herself

and her groom, one of the "upper ten thousand;" one in wealth, if not

in rank and position, far above an assistant to a sawbones in the

Strand. She might be married, too; yet she had nothing of the matron

in her appearance.

But often, when I had the opportunity, I went back to the place where

I had checked that furious horse, and looked, but in vain, for it and

its bright-eyed rider; so I kept the little lace-edged handkerchief

as a _souvenir_ of the occurrence.

About a fortnight after this, Crammer was summoned to attend the

deathbed of an aunt at Gravesend--one from whom he had some monetary

expectations that were not to be neglected. The whole _onus_ of our

practice thus for a time fell on me, and I was worked very hard.

Among many other visits to pay, was one at the house of Sir Percival

Chalcot, from whom a message came for Crammer, urging his attendance

without delay. Ordering the little "pill-box," as we called his

brougham, I drove off in state to explain about his absence, and

offer _my_ professional services.

A tall servant, in showy livery, with the invariable whiskers and

calves of his fraternity in London, ushered me along the marble

vestibule up a stately staircase, adorned by pictures and statuary,

into a beautiful little library, where Sir Percival, a tall, thin,

and aristocratic-looking old gentleman, received me politely, but

somewhat pompously, and with an air of puzzle and surprise.

"It was Doctor Crammer I most particularly wished to see," said he;

"and he may be absent some days, you say? Very awkward--especially

as he, and he alone, knows the general constitution of my family. I

dislike to consult a young man on the nervous disorder of a young

lady, but I may mention to you that my eldest daughter has been

engaged for a year past to a friend; the settlements are all drawn

out most satisfactorily, I assure you; everything has been adjusted

for the marriage, even to the line of their continental tour; but for

the last three months she has sunk into exceedingly low spirits. She

suffers from nervous depression, and at times is quite listless.

Now, I think that something bracing--some system of tonics--you

understand?"

"Sir Percival, could I see Miss Chalcot?"

"Well--yes, certainly; that, of course, will be necessary first."

"What is her age, may I ask?"

"Twenty. Please to follow me."

He led me into a magnificent drawing-room, through the festooned

curtains of which I saw another beyond with the buhl and marqueterie

tables, easy chairs, couches, mirrors, and glass shades, peculiar to

such apartments. There was a pleasant odour of flowers and perfume;

and there, seated on a low folding-chair, was a young lady, in a

maize-coloured silk dress, the tint of which well became her rich

dark beauty. On the soft carpet we approached unheard, or, if

noticed, she never deigned to move, and I could observe the superb

development of her figure, which looked more like the maturity of

twenty-eight than twenty.

Her attitude was expressive of perfect listlessness; a book lay on

her knee, but her eyes were bent on vacancy. The purity of her

profile was most pleasing; her eyelashes were long and black, and

curled at the tips. The masses of her dark chestnut-coloured hair

were looped up on her head in such a manner as to show the delicacy

and contour of her throat and cheek, the complexion of which was pale

and clear. Her nose was straight, with nostrils deeply curved; and

the lips were full, as if with a fixed pout.

"It is the doctor, my dear girl," said Sir Percival.

But she only raised her shoulders and eyebrows a little, and became

again, still and quiet.

"Gertrude, dearest, 'tis the doctor. I told you that I should send

for him."

"He is welcome," replied the girl, as she raised her large, dark, and

at that time sullen-looking eyes to mine; and then added, "But this

is not Dr. Crammer, papa."

"It is his assistant, Dr.--Dr.--Colliner."

"Oh, papa!" she exclaimed, suddenly starting to her feet, as the

whole expression of her face changed; "it is the gentleman who saved

me in the Park, when that horrid animal----and your arm, sir--was it

injured on that occasion? Oh, I hope not!"

"It was broken----"

"Oh, good heavens!--and for me!"

"In such a cause I should have risked the arms of Briareus, had I

possessed them!" said I, with enthusiasm.

"Permit me to thank you, sir," said the baronet, stiffly and grandly.

"I always thought that the gentleman who had rendered my family a

service so important would have done us the honour to have left his

card, at least."

"But I knew not whom I had aided, sir, or where to call."

"Most true," said Miss Chalcot; "I left you in such rude haste; but,

then, I was so alarmed!"

"And now, Miss Chalcot, permit me to feel your pulse."

I put my fingers on the delicate wrist. Her pulse was going like

lightning for a time; then it became intermittent; then feeble, as

the old listless expression of inquietude stole over her fine face

again, as her mind, probably by the object of my visit, reverted to

its old train of thought, whatever it was.

Sir Percival regarded us dubiously over the point of his high, thin,

aristocratic nose. I was evidently too young, perhaps too

goad-looking, or had too great an air of _empressement_ about me, to

suit his ideas of a medical adviser for his daughter, so he said,

coldly and loftily--

"Without disparagement to you, sir, I think I should rather have

Crammer's opinion, Dr.---Dr. Lorimer."

"Mortimer," I suggested, mildly.

"Ah, yes! If he don't come soon to town, I'll have Clarke or Cooper

to see her."

"Then I shall bid you good morning," said I, assuming my hat; but

turning again to the daughter, while he was ringing the bell for the

servant--he of the calves and whiskers--to order the "pill-box," I

said, "I have often gone to the scene of your accident, at _the same

hour_, to look for you. Pardon me saying this; but your face so

dwelt in my memory."

"At the same hour--it was about _two_ in the afternoon," said she,

with a bright smile.

"Yes--good evening, Dr. Short," blundered the baronet.

My name was evidently not worth his committal to memory.

And I drove away, feeling happy in the consciousness that I had seen

her again, and that, though _engaged_, as I had been told, I should

see her again where we first met, for her bright glance of

intelligence told me _that_.

Her father had shown pretty pointedly--with all his punctilio, almost

rudely--that he had no further use for my professional services; but

I felt deeply smitten by the beauty of the girl. I strove in vain to

thrust her image from my thoughts, and recalled again and again the

galling information that she was the betrothed bride of some beast--I

rated him "a beast"--unknown; but strove in vain; and found myself

going to sleep that night in my den above the surgery in Bedford

Street, with her laced handkerchief under my pillow, like a lover of

romance, with all the roar of the prosaic Strand in my ears.

Next afternoon--Crammer was dutifully at his rich aunt's funeral--saw

me in the park, and occupying the same seat from whence I started to

arrest the runaway horse. Every fair _equestrienne_ I saw in the

distance made my heart beat quicker; but how joyous were its

emotions--how high its pulses--when, exactly at the hour of two, I

saw her come trotting slowly along the walk, accompanied by the same

old groom, and draw up, with her little gauntletted glove tight on

the bridle rein, just before me. I came forward, and, after raising

my hat, presented my hand, which I felt to be trembling.

"Somehow, I thought you would be here," said she, with charming

frankness, "and how is your arm? Better still, I trust."

"I shall have the splints off to-morrow, Miss Chalcot."

"That is good--I'm so thankful! Do you know that though this is only

the third time we have met, Dr. Mortimer, I feel quite as if we were

old friends? You must have thought my reception of you rather

ungracious yesterday."

"Nay; but for what does your papa think you require medical advice?

You seem perfectly well."

Her face fell--her features, or the expression of them, changed as I

spoke.

"That is my secret. No doctor can cure me, or 'minister to a mind

diseased;' not that mine is precisely so," she added, with a merry,

ringing laugh. "Neither papa nor mamma can understand me. I lack

decision and firmness, I fear. Dark women are imagined to be fiery,

and all that sort of thing; but it is the fair little women of this

world who possess the firmest will and greatest strength of

character."

"But you are subject to low spirits, your papa hinted."

"Not naturally; but for a year past my heart has begun to fail me in

hopes of the future, why, or how, I cannot tell you; and now, dear

Dr. Mortimer, good morning," and away she trotted, with a pleasant

smile and a graceful bow, leaving me rooted to the spot with

admiration of her beauty, the craving to see her again strong in my

heart, and conflicting with the fear that she was fickle, and wearied

of her engagement, or had conceived a fancy for some one else, a year

ago.

From that period she had begun to date her emotions of sadness.

A year ago, I had been a hard student in my little den in Clerk

Street, Edinburgh, a dim shadow in the distance now.

"Go it, old boy," said Bob Asher, who came suddenly upon me

a-foot--the phaeton was gone now--"that's not one of old Crammer's

patients surely. You are getting on, Fred, and if you wish to

continue doing so always talk most to the women, and middle-aged

ones; flatter the young girls, but on the sly only; and make a most

fatherly fuss with the babies, however ugly or squally, at all times."

Rashly heedless of what the old groom might think or report on the

subject, I had an interview there almost daily, for a few brief

minutes; at times it was but a bow and a smile, if she was

accompanied by friends, or more especially by her brother; and it

went hard with me but I made my professional visits and old Crammer's

practice suit my plans--if plans I had--for I had given myself up to

the intoxication of--yes, of loving Gertrude Chalcot, though she

seemed placed above me by Fate as far as the planets are above the

earth; but with the conviction came reflections that were not in my

mind when the charm of her presence absorbed every other thought and

feeling.

When I was alone came calmer thoughts. She was engaged, though to

whom I knew not, and she might just be amusing herself with me for

the time, while I was laying at her feet the purest love of an honest

and affectionate heart.

Why did I love her? Curious fool, be still!

Is human love the fruit of human will?

Engaged to another--whose ring was doubtless on her finger--another,

who had the privilege of kissing and caressing her, while I had but a

formal interview, a park rail between, and the eyes of an observant

old groom upon us. I felt as jealous as a Turk or Spaniard at the

idea. One day I briefly implored her to meet me a-foot in another

part of the park. She agreed to do so, and we had the opportunity of

an explanation. I shall never forget how charming my dark-eyed and

dark-haired beauty looked in a yellow crape bonnet--that tint ever so

suitable to a brunette--with violet flowers between it and her pure

complexion.

In language that was broken, but which the emotions of my heart

inspired, I told her of the enchantment her society was to me; of the

love that was becoming a part of my nature, the love that had been so

almost ever since I had seen her, and led me to treasure her

handkerchief (which I then drew from my breast); but, I added, that

as she was plighted to another--more than all, as she was so rich and

I so poor, I had come to the bitter resolution of seeing her no more,

and quitting England for some distant colony.

"You love me then?" she asked, calmly, and with downcast eyes.

"Love you! Oh, words cannot tell you how fondly, Gertrude."

"Then I, too, am the victim of circumstances. By the manoeuvres of

mamma, who is a great matchmaker, in the very year of my _début_ in

London she contrived, I scarcely know how, to have me engaged to a

man for whom I cared nothing then, and, oh, how much less now! A

young girl of eighteen, his presence dazzled, his attentions

flattered me, and that was the whole matter. I tolerated him. I

have done all I can to delay the marriage for many months by feigning

illness; but papa and mamma say that to make a regular break off will

prove such an _esclandre_ in society. Yet is my life, all my future,

to be sacrificed for the myth we call society? I foresee too clearly

what my fate will be, to pass through existence unloving and unloved;

but it is heaven's will, or rather mamma's pleasure."

"Oh, that I were rich, Gertrude, or that men could not stigmatise me

as an adventurer and fortune-hunter, as they will be sure to do, if

I--I----"

"Did what?"

"Proposed the alternative."

"Fear nothing, Fred, but speak. I need advice."

The sound of my name on her lips, the intense sweetness of her eyes

and sorrow of her air, rendered me blind to all but her beauty, her

love, and the passion that was in my own heart, and oblivious of

those who might be passing near--and afterwards we had soon cruel

reason to believe that we were not only seen, but watched, as it was

quite unusual for her to be out a-foot and alone--I told her that if

she would rely upon my affection and honour, on the love with which

she had already inspired me, it would be the duty of my life to

render hers happy; that I would save her from the delusive snare

called "society," and the thraldom of her proud old father and

calculating mother. Of course, I didn't call them so to her. I

spoke with boldness, decision, and facility, for love and passion

lent me power. I looked into her eyes and saw an answering light;

but she answered, pale and trembling the while--

"You are poor, you say, my dear Fred. Now papa is rich, and

ambitious of being richer. Alas! you must be satisfied with----"

"What?--your friendship? Oh, Gertrude, can you speak so coldly, and

to me?"

Her tears fell fast.

"You overrate my powers of endurance. To be your friend, and even

that only in secret,--to see you, after your avowal to me, the wife

of another perhaps, rendering all my existence hereafter a blank."

"I do not mean that, Fred. Alas! I know not what I do mean," she

added, weeping so bitterly that my heart was pained.

"Mean--say that you will be mine, and not the wife of this mysterious

other."

"To-morrow I shall be here again--to-morrow shall end all!"

She held up her sweet face; no one seemed near. With the speed of

thought I pressed my lips to hers--for the first and the last time on

this side of the grave, as it proved--and we separated in a tumult of

joy.

Next day I kept my appointment without fail, but not without

difficulty, as I had a long and troublesome operation to perform in a

totally different direction, near Wimpole Street. I waited till I

could linger no longer, and quitted the park slowly, filled by doubts

and dread, and by the hope that visitors--something

unavoidable--anything but illness, caprice, or change of mind--had

prevented my bright Gertrude from meeting me.

If her beauty, humility, and sweetness dazzled and won me on one

hand, her father's insolent hauteur--for, like her brother, the

Guardsman, he always "cut me dead" in the street--piqued me on the

other. I was a gentleman by birth and education as well as either,

and what was more, I was the graduate of an ancient university; yet I

disdained to risk being stigmatised as a fortune-hunter, which would

surely be said of me, as Gertrude had some eight thousand pounds

yearly of her own. But the girl loved me, and the conviction of that

rendered me blind to everything.

The morning of the second day brought me a note from her, dated from

St. George's Place.

A note!

We had met again and again by arrangement, but never had I got a note

from her, and I read and kissed it a score of times, and committed

many other absurdities while studying the bad writing, which somehow

seemed totally unlike that of a lady; but then poor Gertrude had

never ventured to write to me before.

It contained but three lines, saying that she was unable to meet me

as usual, for reasons I should learn if I would call, and see her

after luncheon time, as papa and mamma had left town, and she should

be quite alone.

The boldness of this proceeding was so altogether unlike her, and so

strange, that my mind became filled with vague fears of some

impending calamity, and I counted every moment till, with a heart,

the pulses of which certainly beat fast, I rang the sonorous bell at

the door of the lofty house in St. George's Place, _then_ a more

fashionable locality than now, for the house itself. is changed into

a public building. I had never before entered it but once, though

many a promenade I had made before its stately plate-glass windows,

in hopes of obtaining a glimpse, however brief, of her I loved so

dearly.

"Jeames"--he of the calves and whiskers--opened the door rather

wider, I thought, than before, and his usually stolid and stupefied

visage wore a strange expression. That might all have been fancy,

for _he_ could not know the secrets of his mistress. I warily did

not ask for her; but on giving my card, inquired for "Sir Percival

Chalcot, or either of the ladies," certain that she I wanted alone

was "at home."

The tall loafer in livery bowed, and ushered me up the great

staircase once again; but instead of opening the door of the

glittering drawing-room, where I expected to be met by the beaming

face, the tender eyes, and radiant figure of her I loved, I was shown

into the library, and found myself face to face with the baronet

himself.

He looked as high-nosed and aristocratic as ever, and, moreover, as

grim and pale and stern as death. He barely acknowledged my somewhat

bewildered bow--I felt conscious that I had not been sent for

professionally--and instead of asking me to be seated, he took a

chair himself, and left me standing opposite. Folding one leg over

the other, and putting the tips of his fingers together, as he lay

back, and mostly looked up to the ceiling--

"Sir," said he, "my son has, doubtless, informed you in his note of

this morning that I wished to see you?"

"Your son, Sir Percival--I received no note from him!" I replied, in

utter bewilderment. "If Miss Chalcot is indisposed----"

"Do not dare to name Miss Chalcot, fellow! She is by this time in

France."

"In France?" I repeated faintly, and with a sinking heart.

"Yes; and beyond the reach of beggarly adventurers and _chevaliers

d'industrie_."

(So the letter had been a forgery by the brother--a lure for me.)

"Listen to me, sir, and attend," said the old man, gravely and

calmly, "for it is the last time I shall ever degrade myself by

addressing so contemptible a trickster!"

"Trickster, Sir Percival!" I exclaimed. "Your injurious language----"

"I said trickster," he continued, with a mock bow. "All has now been

discovered; the secret meetings in the Park, the artful plans you

have laid to worm yourself into the affections of a silly and

_wealthy_ young girl, luring her heart from the man--the gentleman, I

mean--she is to marry; causing the delay of that marriage; making

scandal and gossip even among the menials of my own household. Miss

Chalcot, sir, has been sent to the Continent, and I hereby inform you

that if you venture to follow, to trace, to speak with, or to write

to her, THIS is but a small instalment of what is in store for you!"

And ere I could think or act, the savagely-proud old man had snatched

up a heavy riding-whip that lay at hand, and dealt me two severe cuts

fairly across the face, almost laying it open, as if with a sword

blade.

"Madman!" I exclaimed; "dare you strike me?"

"I _have_ struck you twice, sir," said he, with a disdainful smile,

as he reseated himself.

"You are old, and your white hairs protect you; but you have a son,

and I'll have him out at Chalk Farm"--it was really Chalk Farm

_then_--"and--and--but, oh heaven!--he is the brother of Gertrude!"

"Bah! I thought so, you presumptuous beggar! Go--go! or I shall

chastise you again. Go, I say! and remember well my words and my

warning!"

I was trying to say something--I know not what--when the door opened

and his son appeared with several servants, and before I could speak,

I was thrust, dragged, beaten by many clenched hands, and forcibly

expelled--yea, literally spurned--into the public street--I,

Frederick Mortimer, M.D., &c., &c.

Right well did they know--old Chalcot and his son--that the very

magnitude and depth of the insult to which they subjected me would

protect them, and that, for her sake, they might have torn me limb

from limb without revenge on my part. Yet every nerve and fibre

tingled with shame and passion as I crossed the street, and while

endeavouring to conceal my discoloured and lacerated face by my

handkerchief, sought the seclusion of the park opposite, going to the

very place where I was wont to meet my lost Gertrude, and where the

charm of her presence seemed to hover still.

But where was she?

There I remained for some hours, in a state difficult to conceive.

The insults to which I had been subjected drove me to the verge of

insanity. My situation was unique, and I cannot now analyse or

describe all the emotions that surged through my brain--memory

furnishes nothing that will connect them. But there were rage and

shame, grief, hatred, and love, and sorrow. It was here but

yesterday she had said, prophetically, "To-morrow should end all!"

And all was _ended, indeed_!

France!--she was in France; there would I follow her, and yet be

revenged upon them all. I started up to seek old Crammer, and resign

my situation as his assistant.

The afternoon was far advanced, and many a patient must have been

sorely neglected by that time. But what cared I if the world had

burst like a bomb-shell beneath my feet? I sought the house in

Bedford Street, with the red bottle in the fanlight, to find that its

crimson glow paled beside the hue of Crammer's face. He was

literally boiling and choking with indignation at me.

He had received due intimation of my "insolence and presumption" from

Sir Percival; was desired to send in his account, and appear at the

house no more. Thus his most aristocratic patients were lost to him

for ever.

Ere I could speak, he took the initiative, and dismissed me, and that

night found me in a humble residence, near the Temple, with, a few

pounds in my purse, my worldly goods a portmanteau and a few medical

books ("Bell on the Bones,") seeking to soothe my thoughts by the aid

of an execrable cigar and a little weak brandy and water.

The bright bubble had burst! I had lost Gertrude, and she, being

facile, or having little will of her own, on finding that she had

lost me, would too probably make peace with her own family by

fulfilling the engagement that was so odious to her.

As this conviction forced itself upon me, I could have wept; then I

would start up, and mutter of going to France ere it might be too

late; but I had no money, and travelling in those pre-railway times

was not the cheap luxury it is now. Moreover, I knew not how or

where to seek her; and while doubts grew thus, and time went on, I

might lose her for ever.

The result of all this was that the next day saw me in a raging

fever, and months elapsed ere I was convalescent. For some time

after sense returned I knew not where I was, or what had happened to

me. Close by a table sat a familiar figure in his shirt-sleeves,

smoking, and occasionally taking a pull at a pint of stout. These

pleasures he varied by reading aloud from a medical work, on pharmacy

apparently, and breaking into a scrap from a song, thus:--

"'_Plumbi subacet_: an aqueous solution of the salt produced with the

acetate and oxide of lead. A dense, clear liquid. Colourless,

odourless, and slightly alkaline in taste. Produces a white coating

on glass.' _Plumbi subacet_--that's the ticket!

"'He was a jolly old cock, and he cared not a d--n

For the laws or the new police,

And he thought mighty little of taking a lamb,

If he only fancied the fleece.'

"'_Sodæ chloratæ_: a solution of carbonate of soda, after the

absorption of chlorine gas. A clear liquid, and colourless.

Odour----'"

"Bob--Bob Asher!" said I, in a faint voice, and he started at once to

my bedside; and from him I got a history of how ill I had been, and

how he had been my chief attendant; how sore trials had come upon

himself, and that, by his father's failure, he was at the lowest ebb

now for funds, but had betaken himself to study, and meant to pass

now.

"But who the deuce is this Gertrude of whom you have been raving for

weeks past? Not she 'of Wyoming'--eh, Fred?"

I told him my story, and he was excessively indignant.

"Why, death alive!" said he, "Chalcot is only a baronet, and in the

civil line of precedence--that is pretty like a full corporal in the

army--the second round of the long ladder of rank. I'd have chucked

the old beggar over his own window!"

"Not if you loved his daughter, Bob," said I mournfully.

"Well, no, perhaps."

"And you are reading up?"

"Hard, Fred. I am doing the 'Modified Examination' in pharmacy, and

think I shall pass now."

I had been three months ill. Three months! Bob told me that the

Chalcots' town house was still shut up, and no one knew in what part

of the Continent they were travelling. Our separation seemed

confirmed now. The dread of never again beholding that sweet face,

with the bright eyes and the pretty crape bonnet, grew strong within

me, and the idea that she might already have become the wife of

another added to my torture of mind.

But lack of funds compelled me bestir myself anon, and through Bob's

kind offices, and my own known skill while attending in the

hospitals, I was fortunate enough to obtain temporary employment with

Professor Sir ---- ----, then the most celebrated anatomical lecturer

in England, as an under demonstrator, my duties, as I may inform the

uninitiated, consisting to a great extent in the preparation of the

various subjects for minute dissection prior to his lectures; and

during the hot weather in London, I know of no task more nauseous,

repulsive, or typhoid in its chances and nature. However, such work

is as necessary for the progress of science and the conservation of

life and health in others as the terrible task of procuring the

necessary subjects was then--when the tables of anatomical theatres

and dissecting-rooms depended mostly, if not solely, on the results

of felony--often of murder--and the abduction of the tenants of the

tear-bedewed grave--an abduction in many instances, happily, never

known to relatives.

The duties assigned to me at the rooms of Sir ---- ---- brought me in

contact, under cloud of night, with wretches whose character was

revolting, and caused me to shudder. Scores of bodies were brought

me--valued at from five to twenty guineas each.

Use and wont is everything, and by me at that time they were viewed

as coolly and callously as we may the fish that lie on marble slabs

in the curer's window.

Weary with a long day's work at the dissecting-room, I had retired to

my little lodgings, and thinking sadly over the bright past that

could come no more, I felt disposed to ask heaven, upbraidingly, why

I had ever been cast under the spell of Gertrude, when I was startled

by the unusual sound of carriage-wheels stopping before my humble

place. There were steps on the rickety stairs, and to my

astonishment the professor entered, and shutting the door, said he

wished to speak to me alone, as he had suddenly "an expedition" to

suggest to me--one that would require decision and care to carry out,

as so many morbid and vulgar rumours of violated graves were abroad,

and the suspected, if caught, had but small chance of mercy from the

mob.

"But, Sir ---- ----, surely you don't expect me to go on such an

errand?" I asked, with an incredulous smile.

"By Jove, but I do!" said he, laughing. "I have frequently done so,

when a student here, in many a fetid London burying ground, now

closed up or built over; but this is a most particular case--a

subject we must positively have for demonstration, and, if possible

to skeletonize afterwards."

"Is it peculiar, then?"

"Most peculiar!"

My curiosity was excited.

"Where is the burying-ground?" I asked.

"At R----, eight miles from town. No 'outrage,' as they call it, has

occurred there. The place is unwatched and open. Would go with you

myself--but two, you see--should be just in the way. Yesterday an

old woman was buried there. Cholera, they say, caused her death; but

anything is called cholera now. She was fifty-eight years old, and

known well in the neighbourhood for a singular malformation of the

spinal column, and I must have that portion of her for my museum; but

as the old dame will not be very heavy you may as well bring the

whole of her. Young Phosfat, so long my assistant, who has the

practice there, has written me all about it. Take a trap and Bob

Asher with you--he's game for anything--to-morrow afternoon, and, if

you can, manage the matter without fuss. We'll call her an old Dutch

woman in the class, say she came pickled in a cask from Holland."

The whole affair was a little exciting, so the high spirits of Bob

Asher, who had frequently been engaged in such affairs in the

churchyards of Edinburgh, decided me at once. We hired a dog-cart,

took large overcoats with us, as the nights were chilly, a cloak, a

coil of rope, heavy sticks, and even a brace of pistols for an

extreme emergency, which I prayed devoutly might not occur, and we

soon left London behind us.

Tom Phosfat was duly prepared by a letter from the professor for our

arrival. He was a bachelor, and made us thoroughly welcome, so we

had supper and a glass of grog with him: I should rather say several

glasses of grog--too many for the work we had to do. However, we set

out at midnight for the churchyard, which stood apart from the

village, on the borders of a wide waste common, dark, secluded among

trees, and lonely.

The night was gloomy and starless, and not a sound was heard--not

even a withered leaf whirled by the passing wind--as we left the

horse and trap under the shadow of a high hedge and vaulted over the

low churchyard wall. My heart beat quickly, all the more so that

Tom's brandy had been pretty potent.

The mouldering tombstones, half sunk in the long reedy grass, and

tossing nettles, studded all the mournful place. God's acre seemed

very solemn that night. The lonely old church, old as the days of

the third Edward, half hidden by ivy, and spotted by lichens, raised

its square Norman tower against the vapour-laden sky, and quaint

heads and demon faces were peeping out of the mouldings and gargoyles

upon us.

"You know the grave, Phosfat?" said I.

"Yes--hush--this must be it. There is no other new one in the

ground," stuttered Tom, who had imbibed too much.

"This seems the burial place of wealthy people," said Bob Asher.

"The old dame must have had money and to spare."

"By Jove, it is open!" said I, in a low whisper.

"It has not been quite filled up--boards are over it; only some

branches and soil thrown in. How is this?"

"The bricking of the vault has been postponed till to-morrow," said

Bob Asher, shovelling out the _débris_. "We have no time to lose,

Fred. Shall we break open, the top of the coffin, and use the rope

to pull up the subject by the neck? That was the way with Knox's

fellows in Edinburgh."

"Nay," said I, "by such a process the spinal column may be disturbed;

and that won't suit the professor's purpose."

"Look round, and listen well; here goes then," and half turning the

coffin on its side, Bob and Tom, by inserting their shovels under the

lid, burst it up with a hideous jarring sound, and then the ghostly

tenant was seen, enveloped in a shroud of white from head to foot;

and even to us, prepared as we were for it, that figure had something

horrible in its angular rigidity. Muffling _it_ in the dark cloak, I

cast it over my shoulder, and deposited it in a sitting position--the

_rigor mortis_ had passed away apparently--between the seat and

splash-board of the trap. My companions meanwhile rearranged the

grave and coffin as we had found them. Voices and lights now scared

us. Phosfat was so tipsy that I had to leave Bob Asher to take care

of him; and casting our shovels and rope into a clover field, I drove

at a break-neck pace towards London, intensely anxious to reach the

professor's house before day should dawn, lest the police or a

passer-by might detect something weird in the person who was my

companion.

It seemed to me that we had not proceeded a mile townward, between

hedgerows, when the waning moon, hitherto invisible, began to glimmer

over Hampstead Heath, shedding a ghostly farewell ray upon the silent

country, where not a dog barked.

A strange sound, like the murmur of a voice, came to my ears at

times. Was it a pursuit? I looked anxiously back, and even pulled

up for an instant. Behind all was silent--but, oh, almighty heaven!

what was this?

The old woman was moving---her feeble hands essayed to lift the cloth

that covered her face! A wild spasm of terror contracted my heart;

and any one but a medical man, I am assured, would have abandoned the

trap and an adventure so terrible; but the idea of a recovery from

trance immediately flashed upon my mind, and my first thought was,

the professor would not get the prized vertebræ after all. I lifted

the almost inanimate woman beside me, and felt that she was warm,

fleshy too, and had a returning pulse, which the motion of the trap

accelerated. I uncovered her face that she might respire, and a wild

cry escaped me--a cry that rang far over the heath.

Heavens! Was I going mad outright? She was Gertrude!--Gertrude

Chalcot!--pale as death could make her, yet living still, her hazel

eyes lurid and sunken, her dark hair falling about her face.

All that followed was like a swift nightmare: the drive to town,

muffled in my overcoat and cloak; the abandonment of the trap in the

street; her conveyance in secret to my lodgings, and placing her

cosily in my own bed till I could get her other quarters and

attendance. Luckily, Bob Asher, and the professor too, came about

mid-day, or I should soon have been fit for Hanwell.

* * * *

How all this came to pass was very simple. Unwedded still, she had

returned with her family to England in wretched health; her illness

took a more serious form, and would seem to have culminated in a

species of trance, with the medical technicalities of which it might

be wearisome to trouble the reader. Suffice it, that the alarm of

cholera was abroad, and the local terror at R---- induced her

interment, as, perhaps, in too many other cases, hastily and

prematurely; hence the vault being left unfinished, permitted her to

respire, and our adventure--a mistake by the way--ended in her

rescue, though a great horror of what her fate might have been filled

my heart, and for a long period we were compelled to conceal from her

the awful place in which she was found.

Under our united care she recovered fast. But my space is short.

Sweet is the union of lovers after a separation; but, with all its

charm, much that was sad, startling, and even terrible, mingled with

ours. She was mine now. Not even that proud and cruel father, who

had so fiercely spurned me, could dispute the claim, I thought.

Mine--oh, how strangely and how terribly mine!

The close of the year saw us married, Bob Asher acting as groomsman

with great _éclat_. Sir ---- ---- took me as a partner, and for a

month I went with my bride to Baden. There, one day, at the _table

d'hôte_, she found herself face to face with her own parents. The

alarm, the consternation, the scene, proved frightful; but all ended

in a complete reconciliation, and Christmas-day saw us all happy at

Chalcot Park, and I felt, on seeing my blooming Gertrude, in all the

splendour of her beauty, opening the yearly ball, that I could with a

whole heart forgive even her father for his pride and fury on the day

that saw us separated.

CLARE THORNE'S TEMPTATION.

CHAPTER I.

"After all that has been, and is no more--after all that has passed

between us, but never can pass again, why are we fated to meet--and

_here_?" wailed the girl, Clare Thorne, in her heart (for though a

wedded wife, she was but a girl yet, being barely in her twentieth

year), as she suddenly saw, with strangely-mingled emotions of joy,

fear, and sorrow, the face of Fred Wilmot.

It was on a Sunday morning early, ere the East Indian sun was quite

up, and in the cantonment church of Mirzapatam, a few miles from the

Jumna, that this unexpected recognition took place.

The girl heard not the voice of the preacher, her husband Cecil

Thorne, the chaplain of the station; she forgot for a time where she

was, and her thoughts fled--fled away from that strange-looking

cantonment church, with its long punkahs pulled by nut-brown coolies

(who watched with amazement "the white man's poojah") moving alike

over the head of the preacher and his congregation, when even at that

early hour the air was breathless, and when the ring-necked

paraquets, green pigeons, and other birds twittered in and out at the

open jalousies--fled home, while her heart seemed to stand

still--home to a quaint old English church in beautiful Kent, with

its low broad Norman arches, its stained glass windows, its

sculptured effigies, above which old iron helmets hung, and spiders

spun their dusty webs undisturbed--for there it had been that she had

last seen the face she now looked on, breathlessly, the face of her

first love and _then_ betrothed, Fred Wilmot, ere misfortune

separated them, and a cruel fate sent her to Central India, to become

the wife of the Reverend Cecil Thorne.

On the preceding day a new regiment had marched in, but she knew not

till that moment at the morning sermon, that among its officers was

Lieutenant Frederick Wilmot, till she saw him with his men, in his

braided white kalkee uniform, carrying under one arm his pith helmet,

encircled by a blue veil, and looking with his lithe form, embrowned

face, dark grey eyes and heavy moustache, handsomer than ever, and so

unlike her husband, Cecil Thorne, in his flowing white Indian cassock.

Square in figure, grave, massive, and commanding in form, the latter

was a man, who, though all kindness and gentleness, seldom smiled and

never laughed, and was one all unsuited to the volatile Clare; yet

she had married him for a home; though knowing that every thought and

impulse of her mind were at variance with his, and had given herself

to him because she was heart-sick with the struggle for daily bread

as a governess, and feared her hopeless future when left alone in

India. A few years before--for he was much her senior--Cecil Thorne

had been a hard-working curate on £80 per annum in one of the most

squalid parts of the English metropolis, and was thankful to accept

from the Bishop of Calcutta the post he held at the remote and

sun-baked station of Mirzapatam. He was a good man, truly a soldier

of Heaven, and among the sick and the dying, did many a task of

mercy, from which even the doctors, and all, save the sisters of

charity, shrank, especially in the times of famine and cholera.

Intent on his sermon, he saw not the glance of mutual recognition

between Clare and Wilmot, the grave bow exchanged, and the paleness

that came over the two young eager faces, whose troubled gaze sought

each other from time to time, as their thoughts went back to their

past--

"The love that took an early root,

And had an early doom."

"Why are we fated to meet again, and _here_?" was the ever-recurring

thought of Clare, as she strove to fix her eyes on the grave face of

her husband and listen to his eloquence, but she heard it not.

Her face was not a beautiful one, but it was sweet, earnest, and most

winning in all its varying expressions.

India had paled it already, but the light of her dark hazel eyes, the

warm tint of her rosebud lips, and her rich brown hair, almost black

in hue, were all unchanged as when Wilmot had covered them with

kisses and caresses, in the sad hour of their severance that seemed

so long ago.

In due time the service was over, the congregation dispersing and

departing on horseback or in buggies, while the new regiment, to the

clangour of its band, was marching into its lines, and Fred Wilmot,

she knew, was with it. Fearful that he might address her ere the

column was formed, she remained nervously in her seat, striving to

pray for strength of purpose, or for her past dull content, and then,

when she deemed herself safe, drove home alone, for her husband,

though hot the coming noon, had sick and other visits to pay.

Clare feared that Wilmot might call at their bungalow on the

following day, as every one calls on every one else on arriving at a

new station in India; so she resolved to take her horse and be out of

his way in the cool of the evening, and also early on the following

morning, but to evade him always in the narrow European circle at

Mirzapatam she knew would be impossible.

That day her husband was long absent on his parochial duties, and

Clare was not sorry; she wanted time for thought--but thought only

took the line of refining, and a comparison of what was now the

inevitable, with what might have _been_.

Clare was formed by nature for excitement, society, music, and

gaiety, she did not like to be left to mope as a parson's wife "in

the station to which the Lord had called her," as her husband

constantly phrased it; and she had been wont to writhe under his

advice as to how she was to comport herself, what she was to wear and

not to wear, and to avoid the groups of young officers about the

"Band Stand," and all risk of _gup_ or gossip. His intense goodness,

his awful sense of propriety, even his fervid piety, had bored and

wearied the young wife ere their dull honeymoon was well over; for

though a good girl in every way, Clare was not pious, as Mr. Thorne

understood piety. She went, per order, to church twice on Sunday,

but flatly refused to teach "little niggers" in the mission schools,

and he groaned in spirit over her contumacy. The excitement she

wished, was not to be found in visiting old Hindoo women and teaching

naked little boys that the precepts of Menou, the lawgiver, were

idolatry.

"Oh dear, for what did you marry me, Cecil?" she asked one evening

impatiently, when she heard the strains of military music coming from

the forbidden band-stand, and knew that all the little gaiety of the

place was centred there.

"To be a helpmate to me, Clare," he replied gravely, "and to share

with me, so far as becomes my wife, my labours in the vineyard of our

Divine Master. In our little Bengali church are regular Sabbath

services and weekly prayer-meetings; there are four _patshalas_ or

elementary schools; but to not one of these have you gone; there are

much evangelistic work and colportage work to be done, yet you assist

in them not, and will not even sing the hymns I have translated from

the _Tembavani_."

"If I did, Cecil--dear Cecil, would you let me go even once a week to

the military promenade--I do so love the band?" she asked, with her

eyes full of tears.

"No; such frivolity becomes not my wife," was the firm reply.

Repiningly she obeyed his dictum in every respect, and when other

ladies ventured to remonstrate with her, Clare, to do her justice,

ever upheld her husband, and treated him with respect and honour.

CHAPTER II.

Next day, ere the sun had risen, Clare Thorne, attended by Chuttur

Sing, her native groom, went forth for her morning ride while the air

was yet cool and delicious, and in every European she saw dreading to

meet Wilmot, left the station behind her at a canter. She was clad

in a light brown holland habit, trimmed with red braid; she wore a

broad hat and long feather, and looked strikingly handsome.

Once or twice she looked back to the cantonment, and murmured to

herself how strange it was to think that he should be there--he,

after all! The civilians' bungalows were built on the little hills,

where a puff of wind might be caught; but the barracks and sepoy

lines occupied the centre of an arid and unsheltered plain, where

never came a breath of wind to fan the withered cheek, or to drive

away the fever and sickness for ever lingering there. As usual, the

_site_ of the cantonments was a blunder, and there our soldiers were

doomed to languish, swelter, and perish by cholera or sunstroke, for

the barracks had been built, and being so, had to be occupied.

"Poor Brown is down with cholera this morning." "Poor Brown! another

told off to die. There are four doctors with him; but all in Europe

couldn't give him another day in this world." Such were usually the

first morning greetings in Mirzapatam when the bugles blew "the

assembly." "And Smith of the 1st Bengal died about gun fire." "But

that trump, Thorne, the chaplain, never left him till, with his own

hands, he had closed his eyes." "When is the funeral?" "In orders,

for sunset--the cool of the evening; _cool_ at Mirzapatam!"

"Would Wilmot escape, or be going forth soon on a gun-carriage, as so

many went, from that horrible barrack!" thought Clare, as she rode on

towards the Jumna, where she knew the country grew beautiful; and she

shivered as she thought of the life she led now.

Though her husband was chaplain to a military station, officers

seldom or never, except when on duty, entered his bungalow; so the

male visitors there consisted only of eurasian and native catechists,

colporteurs, and teachers. To Clare it was an intolerable existence,

and as she saw, when fever abated, the gay and happy lives led by the

other ladies of the garrison, she repined sorely, and thinking of all

these things, she rode slowly toward the Jumna.

Down from the Ghaut of Etawah the river was rolling in its beauty

amid the most wondrous greenery in the world. There were oleanders

(the pride of the jungles) sending forth their delicious perfumes

from clusters of pink and white blossoms; the baubool, with its bells

of gold, the sensation plant, and thousand others all growing

together, while the _byahs_, or crested sparrows, looked like clouds

of gold as they floated in flocks over these and the waters of the

river. Yet, lovely though the scene, the English girl, as she reined

up her horse, thought she would rather have looked upon the Weald of

her native Kent!

The same idea was in the heart of another, who was slowly approaching

her, an officer in undress, with pith-helmet and loose white patrol

jacket. He urged his horse close to Clare, and a little exclamation

escaped her.