CHAPTER I

"WAR TO THE KNIFE"

[Illustration]

"WAR TO THE KNIFE"

OR

TANGATA MAORI

BY

ROLF BOLDREWOOD

AUTHOR OF

"ROBBERY UNDER ARMS," ETC.

London

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED

NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

1899

_All rights reserved_

LONDON:

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,

STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

CHAPTER I

Massinger Court in Herefordshire was a grand old Tudor mansion, the

brown sandstone walls and tiled roofs of which had been a source of

pride to the inhabitants of the county for untold generations. Standing

in a fair estate of ten thousand acres, three roods, and twenty-eight

perches (to be accurate), with a nominal rental of somewhat over

fifteen thousand a year, it might be thought that for the needs of

an unmarried man of eight and twenty there was "ample room and verge

enough."

Beside the honour and glory of being Massinger of Massinger, and

inhabiting "The Court," the erstwhile residence of a royal princess,

with its priceless heirlooms and memories!

Many a newly enriched proprietor would have given his eyes to have

possessed them by hereditary right.

For, consider, what a place, what a possession, it was!

Thus, many a maid, many a matron of the town and county, had often

reflected in appraising the matrimonial value of the eligible suitors

of the neighbourhood.

Think of the grand hall, sixty feet in length, twenty-six in width,

extending to the roof with its fine old oaken rafters and queer post

trusses! Think of the floor of polished oak, the walls with their

priceless oak panelling, with carved frieze and moulded cornice; the

mullioned windows, with arched openings giving light to King Edward's

corridor on the first floor, carried across one corner of the hall by

the angle gallery!

Then--glory of glories!--the bay, ten feet wide and nine deep, with

windows glazed in lead squares, and extending to the springing of the

roof.

Here was a place to sit and dream, while gazing over the park, in

the glowing yet tender light of an early summer morn, the while the

châtelaine tripped down the broad oaken staircase at the opposite end

of the hall, with its carved grotesque-headed newels.

Boudoir and billiard-room, dining and drawing-room, library and

morning-room, were they not all there, admirably proportioned, in

addition to a score of other needful, not to say luxurious, apartments?

Thus much for the domestic demesne, the suzerainty of which is dear to

every woman's heart.

From a man's point of view--at Massinger Moor were the head keeper's

lodge and kennels; these last slated, with iron caged runs,

stone-paved, iron-doored, complete.

The river Teme is famed for excellent trout-fishing. Salmon also are

not unknown in the water. But, in this connection be it known, that for

centuries past the lords of the manor have permitted the townspeople to

fly-fish (for trout only) in that length of the river below the bridge.

"And then, her heritage, it goes

Along the banks of Tame;

In meadows deep the heifer lows,

The falconer and woodsman knows

Her thickets for the game."

As much as this might be said for the woods and coverts of "The Court,"

since that old time when "the forest laws were sharp and stern," and

the Conqueror stood no nonsense where "the tall deer that he loved as

his own children" were concerned.

The descendants of these well-beloved and interesting animals were by

no means scarce in "The Chase," which was still jealously preserved for

them as of old.

The North Herefordshire hounds met three days a week, the Milverton

hounds two days, the Ledbury were only just across the boundary, while,

for fear the squire and his visitors might feel a _soupçon_ of ennui in

the season, the South Boulton harriers are available, and, to fill up

any conceivable chink, the Dunster otter-hounds were within easy reach.

Thus, man's every earthly need being provided for, his spiritual

welfare was by no means forgotten.

In the parish church, as was befitting in days of old, before the

doctrine of equality and the "flat burglary" of democracy were so much

as named, was reserved for the lords of Massinger and their assigns,

by sale or lease, the whole of the south aisle and chapel. And as the

church was within five minutes' walk of the Court, all pedestrian

fatigue, as well as the indecency of taking out carriages and horses on

the Sabbath, was avoided.

Now, from an earthly paradise like this, why should the lawful owner,

young, good-looking, cultured, athletic, think for one moment of

fleeing to the desert, socially, and no doubt literally, of a distant,

almost unknown British colony?

Was there an angel with a flaming sword? If so, she was typified in the

guise of Hypatia Tollemache. Was she mad?

Must be. He, of course, utterly moonstruck, inasmuch as there is well

known to be throughout all England a sufficiency of marriageable

damsels--even, as some have averred, a redundancy of that desirable

national product. If the county had been polled, they would have voted

for a _de lunatico inquirendo_.

Was there a hidden reason? There could not be.

He was not rich, but Massinger had stood many an extravagant squire in

the old days without losing the estate which had come down from father

to son since the Conquest, and would again so continue to descend, with

a prudent marriage in aid of rent and relief of mortgages.

But there was a reason besides what lay on the surface, and the old

family lawyer, Mr. Nourse, of Nourse and Lympett, knew it well.

More than a hundred years ago there had been a sudden-appearing

re-incarnation of one of the most reckless spendthrifts--and there

had been more than one in the annals of the family--that had ever

scandalized the county, frightened the villagers, and wasted like water

the revenues which should have kept up the ancient traditions of the

house.

Rainauld de Massinger had the misfortune to be a living anachronism.

Born out of due time, he was at odds with the age and the circumstances

amidst which his lot had been cast. Despising the unlettered

squirearchy of his day, and the nearly as uncongenial nobility of the

county, he threw himself with ardour into the semi-scientific, wholly

visionary studies which, under the name of astrology, amused the

leisure of those personages who could not content themselves with the

dull round of duties and coarse dissipations which the manners of the

age prescribed. He constructed a laboratory in one of the turret-rooms,

which only he and his confidential servant, a grave, silent Italian,

were suffered to enter. From time to time mysterious strangers of

foreign habit and alien language arrived at Massinger, and were

entertained with every mark of high respect. The villagers spoke with

awe of midnight fires in the turret-room, of the strange sounds, the

evil-smelling fumes thence proceeding, with other innovations proper in

their untutored fancies to the occupation of a sorcerer. Seldom did he

visit the Court, and when at rare intervals his tall figure and dark

saturnine face were remarked in the throng of nobles, they inspired

dislike or distrust more than kindly sentiment. Not that such feelings

were openly displayed. For he had brought back from his travels in the

East, and the far countries in which he had spent his early manhood, a

reputation for swordsmanship which caused even the reckless gallants of

the day to pause ere they lightly aroused the ire of one who was known

to hold so cheaply his own life and that of others.

It was known that he had fought as a volunteer in the long Roumanian

war with the Turks, in which it was popularly reported that he bore

a charmed life; such had been his almost incredible daring, such had

been the miraculous escapes from captivity and torture. And yet, all

suddenly relinquishing a career which promised unusual brilliancy

in court and camp, he had for years shut himself up in the old hall

at Massinger, devoting himself to those unblessed studies which had

excited the distrust of his neighbours, the displeasure of the Church,

the cynical wonder of his peers.

Departing with his usual eccentricity from the course which he had

apparently laid down for himself, he for a season quitted his lonely

studies, once more mingled in the gaieties of the county, even

consented to grace the revels of royalty with his presence. His manner

at such times was gracious, courtly, and strongly interesting. Like

many men of his character and reputation, he exercised an almost

resistless fascination over the fairer sex when he chose to enter the

lists. It was so in this instance. He succeeded, in despite of a host

of rivals and the opposition of her parents, in winning the hand of the

beautiful Elinor de Warrenne, the daughter of a neighbouring baronet of

lands and honours hardly inferior to his own. For a year or more the

gloom which rested on his spirit seemed to have passed away. Happy in

the possession of an heir, his conduct after marriage put to shame the

ominous predictions of friends and foes. His wife was fondly attached

to him. His stately manners had won sympathy for her, and the approval

of the _grandes dames_ of the county. He conciliated the tenantry;

the ordinary duties of his station were not neglected. The happiest

results were expected. He was even spoken of for the representation of

the county; when, abruptly as he had emerged, he once more retreated

into the seclusion of his laboratory, resisting all the efforts of his

heart-broken wife and friendly wellwishers to cause his return to the

duties of his rank and station.

For more than a year he pursued in gloom and silence his self-appointed

task, only taking exercise at night, and from time to time, as before,

joining with sorcerers and necromancers (as the neighbourhood fully

believed) in unblessed study, if not unholy rites. On one eventful

morn, suspicion being aroused, search was made for him, when the turret

was found to be vacant, save of broken crucibles, strange scrolls, and

other remnants of the so-called "black art." The seasons came and went,

Massinger Chase grew fair in early spring and summer prime, the leaves

of many autumns faded and fell, the heir grew from a rosy infant to a

sturdy schoolboy--a tall stripling. Then the lady pined and withered,

after lingering sadly in hope of the return of him who never again

crossed the threshold of his ancient hall.

She was laid to rest with the dames of her race. An authentic statement

of the death of Sir Rainauld reached England from abroad, and his son,

Sir Alured, reigned in his stead.

Meanwhile, it had been discovered after his departure that large sums

had been disbursed, and payments made to foreign personages. Warrants

and vouchers, legally witnessed, were in the hands of financiers whose

demands could not be legally resisted. Sale had to be made, with the

concurrence of Sir Alured when he came of age, of portions of the

estate, which seriously curtailed its area and importance. Sir Alured,

however, an easy-going, unambitious youth, had promised his mother, of

whom he was passionately fond, to break the entail. Contented with the

field-sports and homely pleasures which there was no present danger

of his being forced to relinquish, he cared little for the future.

Notwithstanding the sacrifice of the goodly acres which (in addition

to his portrait in the costume of a Roumanian heiduck, hanging in

King Edward's corridor) gave Sir Rainauld's descendants something to

remember him by, it had been found necessary to negotiate another

loan upon the security of the estate. This was looked upon as an

unimportant, easily released encumbrance at the time; but, like all

the tentacles of the dire octopus, Debt, it had a tendency to draw the

debtor closer to that gaping maw, down which in all ages have gone the

old and worn, the young and fair, the strong and brave, all sorts and

conditions of men.

Sir Alured had no desire to pry into the arcana of science, nor did

he show curiosity about the transmutation of metals. Indolent, if not

self-indulgent, he was wholly averse to the examination of accounts.

The interest on the mortgage, with occasional loans, increased the

liability notably before his death; so that when our hero, Sir Roland

(an ancestor had fought at Roncesvalles), came into the estate on

attaining his majority, he was startled at the portentous amount for

which he stood liable to the mortgagee.

Being, however, for his age, a sensible young person, he set himself

to live quietly, to reduce expenses, and in a general way to pay off

his liabilities by degrees. Just as he had formed these meritorious

resolves, rents commenced to fall. Old tenants, who had been punctual

and regular of payment, began to decline from their proud position,

asking for time, and, what was still worse, for abatement of rent.

And with a show of reason. What with the importation of cheap meat,

butter, wheat, and oats--all manner of farm produce, indeed, produced

in colonies and other countries--the English farmer found himself

unable to continue to pay rents calculated on prices which seemed to

have fled for ever. It was hoped that farm commodities would regain

their value, but they receded for the two years which were to see a

recovery. Finally, after consultations with Messrs. Nourse and Lympett,

it was decided that, at Sir Roland's present scale of expenditure,

there needed to be no compulsory sale in his time. An heiress would set

all right. Sir Roland must marry money. It was his duty to his family,

his duty to the county, his duty to England.

Then Massinger Court could be restored to its former splendour, and the

estate to its legitimate position in the county.

Sir Roland did not assent or otherwise to these propositions. He did

not particularly want to marry--just yet, at all events. He was too

happy and comfortable as he was. Even with his curtailed revenues, he

found the position of a country gentleman pleasant and satisfactory.

He was not expected to do much, whereas everybody, old and young, were

most anxious to make themselves useful and agreeable to him. Of course

a man must marry some day.

So much was clearly the duty of the heir of Massinger. The ancient

house must not be suffered to become extinct.

Strangely enough, the succession had always gone in the direct line.

But there was no hurry. He had not seen any one so far on whom he

was passionately anxious to confer the title of Lady Massinger. So,

matters might be worse. In this philosophical frame of mind, he

told himself that he was content to remain a bachelor for the next

half-dozen years or so, during which period his pecuniary affairs might

be expected to improve rather than otherwise.

At eight and twenty a man is young--very young indeed, as occasionally

reflects the middle-aged _viveur_, looking regretfully back on the

feats and feelings of his lost youth. Sir Roland was fairly well

equipped, according to the society needs of the day. An Oxford degree

taken creditably guaranteed all reasonable literary attainment;

at any rate, the means and method of further development. Fond of

field-sports, he shot brilliantly and rode well. Vigorous and active,

neither plain nor handsome, but having an air of distinction--that

subtle but unmistakeable accompaniment of race--he yet presented few

points of divergence from the tens of thousands of youthful Britons

capable, in time of need, of calm heroism and Spartan endurance, but

unaware of any pressing necessity for stepping out of the beaten track.

Though unostentatious by nature and habit, it was not to be supposed

that the name of Sir Roland Massinger, of Massinger Court, was

unfamiliar to matrons with marriageable daughters, as well in his own

county, as in the Mayfair gatherings which he did not disdain during

the season.

More than one of his fair partners would not have objected to bear

his name and title embellished, as his position could not fail to be,

by the handsome settlements which her father's steadfast attention to

trade would enable him to make.

But, so far, all appreciative reception of his ordinary

courtesies--the sudden glance, the winning smile, the interested

attention to his unstudied talk, conservatory lounges, country-house

visits--all the harmless catalogue of the boy-god's snares and

springes, were wasted on this careless wayfarer, protected by a lofty

ideal and an untouched heart.

Though he had listened politely to the prudent counsel of his man of

business as to the necessity of repairing his attenuated fortune by

marriage, such an arrangement had never been seriously contemplated by

him. He felt himself capable of a passionate attachment to the princess

of his dreams, could Fate but lead him into her presence. Not as yet

had he encountered her. That was beyond doubt. He would await the voice

of the oracle. In the meanwhile he was far from being _ennuyé_. There

was a mildly pleasurable sensation in merely contemplating "the supreme

psychological moment" from afar, and speculating as to situations not

yet arisen. He awaited in resigned contentment the goddess-moulded

maiden. In the meanwhile he was not minded to worship at the shrines of

the lesser divinities.

Was Fate, unsmiling, ironic, even now listening to the too-presumptuous

mortal?

It would appear so. For, shortly after making these prudential

resolutions, he met at a military ball the beautiful Hypatia

Tollemache, who decided the question of elective affinity once and

for ever. One look, a brief study of her unrivalled graces, an

introduction, an entrancing interchange of ideas after a deliriously

thrilling dance--even a second waltz, perilously near the end of the

evening--and the solemn chime from the ancient tower, found an echo in

his heart, which seemed to ring "forever, ever, ever, forever."

That there are moments like this in men's lives, fateful, irrevocable,

who may doubt? Sir Roland did not, at any rate. All the forces of his

nature were aroused, electrically stimulated, magnified in power and

volume. As they separated conventionally, and he delivered her into

the care of her chaperon, the parting smile with which she favoured

him seemed the invitation of an angelic visitant. He could have cast

himself at her feet, had not the formalism of this too-artificial age

forbidden such abasement.

When he returned to the country house where he was staying, he examined

himself closely as to his sensations.

How had he, the cool and indifferent Roland Massinger, come to be

so affected by this--by _any_ girl? He could almost believe in the

philtre of the ancients. It wasn't the champagne; he had forgotten

all about it, besides being by habit abstemious. Supper he had hardly

touched. It could not even be a form of indigestion--here he laughed

aloud. Surely his reason wasn't giving way? He had heard of abnormal

brain-seizures. But he was not the sort of man. He had never worked

hard, though steadily at college. And, when a man's appetite, sleep,

and general health were faultless, what could have caused this dire

mental disturbance? He went to bed, but sleep was out of the question.

Throwing open the window, he gazed over the hushed landscape. The moon,

immemorial friend of lovers, came to his aid. Slowly and majestically

she rose, silvering over the ruined abbey, the ghostly avenue, the

far-seen riverpools, as with calm, luminous, resistless ascent, she

floated higher and yet higher through the cloud-world. Gradually his

troubled spirit recognized the peaceful influence. His mind became

composed, and betaking himself to bed, he sank into a slumber from

which he was only aroused by the dressing-bell.

The cheerful converse of a country-house breakfast succeeding a

prolonged shower-bath and a satisfactory toilette, restored him to

a condition more nearly resembling his usual frame of mind. He was,

however, rallied as to his sudden subjugation, which had not escaped

the keen critics of a ball-room. In defence, he went so far as to

admit that Miss Tollemache was rather a nice girl, and so on, adding

to the customary insincerities a doubt whether "she wasn't one of the

too-clever division. Scientific, or something in that line, struck me?"

"That's all very well, Sir Roland," said a lively girl opposite to him.

"You needn't try to back out of your too-evident admiration of the fair

Hypatia--we all saw it. Why, you never took your eyes off her from the

moment she came into the room, till you put her into the carriage. You

forgot your dance with me. You never _once_ asked Jennie Castanette;

she used to be your favourite partner. A sudden attack of whatsyname at

first sight, don't they call it?"

"You ought to know best," he replied; "but Miss Tollemache is certainly

handsome, or, rather, distinguished-looking; seems clever too, above

the average, though she avoided literary topics."

"Clever!" retorted his fair opponent. "I should think she is, though

I defy you to do more than guess at it from her talk; she is so

unpretending in her manner, and has a horror of showing off. Do you

know what she did last year? There wasn't a girl that came near her in

the University examinations."

"So much the worse for her chances of happiness or that of the man that

marries her--if she is not too 'cultured' to marry at all."

"How do you make that out?"

"There are three things that tend to spoil a woman's character in

the estimation of all sensible men," he answered: "beauty, money, or

pre-eminent intellect. The beauty is flattered into outrageous vanity

and frivolity. The heiress is besieged by suitors and toadies whose

adulation fosters selfishness and arrogance. The third is perhaps the

least evil, as after it is demonstrated that its possessor cannot lay

down the law in private life, as she is prone to do, she retains a

reserve of resources within herself, and mostly makes a rational use of

them. Depend upon it, the post of honour is a 'middle station.'"

"Indeed! I am delighted to hear it," replied Miss Branksome. "So we

poor mediocrities who have neither poverty nor riches--certainly

not the last--and who don't profess beauty, have a fair chance

of happiness? I was not quite sure of it before. And now, having

unburdened yourself of all this 'philosophy in a country house,' you

will dash off in pursuit of Hypatia directly you find out what she is

going to do today. What will you give me if I tell you? 'Have you seen

my Sylvia pass this way?' and so on."

"Hasn't she gone back to Chesterfield?" he asked.

"So it was erroneously supposed. But Lady Roxburgh will tell you when

she comes down that she brought off a picnic to the ruins of St.

Wereburgh's Abbey; that she has been invited from the Wensleydales,

and all the house-party here are going. Unless, of course, you would

prefer to stay behind and have a peaceful day in the library?"

Sir Roland's face betrayed him. No human countenance, after such

contending emotions as had almost "rent his heart in twain," could have

retained its immobility.

"There now!" said Miss Branksome, scornfully. "'What a piece of work is

man!' etc. I have been reading Shakespeare lately--on wet mornings."

"But are you certain as to the programme?"

"Clara Roxburgh is my authority. The arrangement was made at an early

hour this morning. You are relied on to drive the drag conveying the

ladies of this household, including my insignificant self--not without

value, I trust, to _some_ people, however we poor ordinary mortals may

be overshadowed by 'sweet girl graduates.'"

"Then may I venture to ask you, with Lady Roxburgh's permission, to

occupy the box seat?"

"That's very sweet of you; _faute d'autre_, of course. Her ladyship's

nerves won't permit of her taking it herself. And now let me give

you a little advice--'honest Injun,' I mean--in all good faith and

friendship, though I know you men don't believe in our capacity

for that. Don't be too devoted. It's a mistake if you want to be

successful; any girl could tell you. We are mostly annoyed if we're run

after. There's nothing like indifference; it piques us. Then, if we

like a man, we run after _him_--in a quiet ladylike way, of course. Do

you follow?"

"Oh yes; a thousand thanks. Pray go on."

"I have only one other bit of warning. You're a lot older than me,

and I dare say you think you know best, as I'm not long out. But you

don't. Some day you'll see it. In the meantime don't give away _all_

your heart before you make sure of a fair return. She may lead you

on--unconsciously, of course--which means she wouldn't be rude to you

and all the rest of it. But my idea is, she doesn't know what she wants

just now. She's the sort of girl that thinks she's got a career before

her. She won't be satisfied with the regulation returned affection,

matrimony business."

"But surely such a woman has no commonplace thoughts, no vulgar ideals.

She is incapable of such paltry bargaining for wealth or position."

"You think so? I don't say she's worse than any other girl who's got

such a pull in the way of looks, brains, family, and all the rest

of it. But none of us like to go cheap, and the love in a cottage

business, or even a man like yourself of good county family, but

_not_ rich, _not_ distinguished--h'm--as yet, _not_ a power socially

or politically in the land, is scarcely a high bid for a first-class

property in the marriage market like Hypatia Tollemache."

"My dear Miss Branksome, don't talk like that. It pains me, I assure

you."

"Perhaps it does, but it will do you good in the long run. It's pretty

true, as you'll find out in time. And now, as I hear Lady Roxburgh

coming downstairs, and I've talked enough nonsense for one morning,

I'll go and get ready for the drag party. You'll know soon that I have

no personal interest in the matter, though I've liked you always, and

don't wish to see your life spoiled by a sentimental mistake."

And so this very frank young woman departed, just in time to meet

the hostess, who, coming forward, explained her late arrival at the

breakfast table by saying that she had to send off messages about the

picnic party and an impromptu dance for the evening. She verified Miss

Branksome's information respecting the drag, and the responsible office

of coachman which Sir Roland expressed himself most willing to accept.

But all the time he was suitably attiring himself; and even during a

visit of inspection to the stables for the purpose of interviewing the

well-matched team, and having a word or two with the head groom, a

feeling of doubt would obtrude itself as he recalled the well-meant,

unconventional warning of Miss Bessie Branksome.

"I suppose women know a good deal more about each other's ways than

we do," he reflected. "But an average girl like Miss Branksome,

good-hearted and well-intentioned, as she no doubt is, can no more

enter into the motives of a woman like Miss Tollemache than a milkmaid

could gauge the soul of a duchess. In any case, I must take my chance,

and I shall have the satisfaction of taking my dismissal from _her_

lips alone, for no other earthly authority will detach me from the

pursuit. So that's settled."

And when Roland Massinger made use of that expression in soliloquy

or otherwise, a certain line of action was definitely followed.

Neither obstacles nor dissuasions had the smallest weight with him. In

general, he took pains to work out his plans and to form his opinion

before committing himself to them. This, however, he admitted, was an

exception to his rule of life. Rule of life? It _was_ his life--his

soul, mind, body--everything. "Whatever stirs this mortal frame"--of

course. What did Byron say about love? "'Tis woman's whole existence."

Byron didn't know: he had long since squandered the riches of the

heart, the boundless wealth of the affections. He could _write_ about

love. But the real enthralling, all-absorbing, reverential passion of

a true man's honest love, he did not know, never could have known, and

was incapable of feeling.

After this burst of blasphemy against the acknowledged high priest of

"Venus Victrix," the great singer of "love, and love's sharp woe," Sir

Roland felt relieved, if not comforted.

Then came the more mundane business of the day. The girls' chatter,

always more or less sweet in his ears, like the half-notes of thrushes

in spring; the arranging of pairs, and the small difficulties in

mounting to the high seats of the drag; the monosyllabic utterances of

the swells, civil and military, who helped to compose the party, at

length came to an end.

Finally, when, with pretty, lively, amusing Miss Branksome on the box

seat beside him, he started the well-matched team, and, rattling down

the avenue, swept through the park gates, and turned into the road

which led to St. Wereburgh's, he felt once more in comparative harmony

with his surroundings.

"Now, Sir Roland, you look more like your old self--like the man we

used to know. You take my tip, and back your opinion for all you're

worth. If it comes off, well and good; if it's a boil-over, pay and

look pleasant. If you knew as much about girls as I do, you'd know

there _are_ as good fish in the sea, etc., though you men won't believe

it. Now, promise me not to do the Knight of the Woeful Countenance any

more, won't you?"

"As the day is so fine, for a wonder, and the horses are going well

together, not to mention the charming company of Miss Branksome on the

box seat, who would be perfect if she would drop the didactic business,

I think I may promise."

So, shaking himself together by a strong effort of will, such as he

remembered when acting in private theatricals, he defied care and

anxiety, enacting the gay worldling with pronounced success. So much

so, that between his prowess as a whip and his cheery returns to the

airy badinage usual on such occasions, he ran a close second to a

cavalry officer on leave from India for the honourable distinction of

"the life of the party."

Pleasant enough indeed was their progress through one of the most

picturesque counties in England, but when they stopped within full view

of the venerable ivy-clad ruin, of which a marvellous gateway and a

noble arch still remained perfect, Sir Roland's gaze did not rest on

those time-worn relics of ancient grandeur.

"She's not here yet," said Miss Branksome, with a smile, after the

descent from the drag and the regulation amount of handshaking,

greeting, and "How are you?" and "How is your dear mother?" had been

got through. "The Wensleydales have farther to come, and I doubt if

their horses are as fast as ours. Oh yes! now I see them--just behind

that waggon in the lane, near the bridge. Hypatia is on the box beside

young Buckhurst. _He_ can't drive a bit; that's a point in your favour,

if you can get her to exchange with me going back. I'll suggest it,

anyhow."

Sir Roland gave his guide, philosopher, and friend a look of such

gratitude that she began to laugh; but, composing her countenance to an

expression of the requisite propriety, she advanced to the rival coach,

and so timed her movements that he was enabled to help the fair Hypatia

to the ground--a slight, but smile-compelling service, which repaid the

giver a hundredfold.

Taking a mean advantage of Buckhurst, who was compelled for some reason

to overlook the unharnessing of his horses, he thereupon walked away

with the entrancing personage towards the assembled party, abandoning

Miss Branksome, who discreetly preferred to busy herself in animated

conversation with the newcomers.

After this fortunate commencement all went well. Smiling as the morn,

pleased (and what woman is not?) with the marked attention of a

"personage," Miss Tollemache confessed the exhilaration proper to that

pleasantest of informal gatherings--a picnic to a spot of historic

interest in an English county, with congenial intimates, and perhaps

still more interesting strangers.

Her companion was well up in the provincial records, and thereby in a

position of superiority to the rest of the company conversationally.

They had pulled up for lunch in the meadow, deep-swarded and thick

with the clovers white and purple, mingled with the tiny fodder plants

which nestle around a ruin in green England. The party was full of

exclamations.

"What a darling old church!--thousands of years old it must be," said

one of the Miss Wensleydales. "Now, can any one tell me whether it is

a Norman or a Saxon one?"

"Oh, Norman, surely!" was the verdict of several feminine voices, all

at once.

"I am not quite certain," said Lady Roxburgh; "I always intended to

look it up. What do you say, Miss Tollemache? You know more about these

matters than we do."

"Oh, I don't pretend to any knowledge of architecture. A grand old ruin

like this is such a thing of beauty that it seems a pity to pick it to

pieces. That south door with its round arches looks rather Saxon. What

does Sir Roland think? It's not far from Massinger, is it?"

"I used to know it well in my boyhood," replied that gentleman, who,

truth to tell, had been waiting to be referred to. "Miss Tollemache is

right; you will find its history in the Domesday Book. The manor was

held by the secular canons of St. Wereburgh till the Conqueror gave it

to Hugh Lupus, who granted it to the Benedictine monks."

"And was it an abbey church?" asked Miss Branksome, who may or may not

have divined Sir Roland's special knowledge of church history.

"Certainly," he replied; "all the authorities are distinct on the

point. The manor was held under the abbots by a family of the same

name, so it must have belonged to the original Saxon stock."

"And why did they not keep it?" asked Lady Roxburgh. "Really, this is

most interesting."

"A lady in the case," answered Sir Roland. "Alice de Sotowiche conveyed

it away by her marriage with Robert de Maurepas. What the Normans did

not get by the sword they seem to have acquired by matrimony. It did

not go out of the family, though, till the time of Edward the First.

These De Maurepases battled for their manorial rights, too, which

included fishing in the Welland, always providing that sturgeon went to

the overlord."

"I always knew it was a dear old place," said Lady Roxburgh, "but now

it seems doubly interesting. I must get up this history business for

future use, and Miss Branksome shall give a little lecture about it

next time we have a picnic."

"Thanks awfully, my dear Lady Roxburgh," said that young lady, "but I

never could learn anything by heart in my life. I don't mind writing it

down, though, from Sir Roland's notes, so that you can have it printed

for private circulation at breakfast-time on picnic days."

"I think we might manage a county historical society," continued her

ladyship. "It would be a grand idea for house-parties--only now it must

be lunch-time. I see they have been unpacking. We must verify these

quatrefoils, chevrons, and things afterwards."

They lunched under the mouldering walls, picturing a long-past day

when, issuing forth from the courtyard of the neighbouring castle, had

ridden knight and squire and lady fayre, attended by falconers and

woodsmen, with hawk on wrist and hound in leash.

"What glorious times they must have had of it!" said Miss Tollemache.

"I should like to have lived then. Life was more direct and sincere

than in these artificial days."

"If we could only have seen the people as they really were," he

replied, "'in their habit as they lived,' mental or otherwise, it

would be such splendid opera business, would it not? But they must have

been awfully dull between times. Hardly any books, no cigars till later

on; war and the chase their only recreations."

"Noble occupations both," said Miss Tollemache, with an air of

conviction; "they left little room for the frivolous indolence of these

latter days."

"Perhaps so," assented her companion. "You had either to knock people

on the head or undergo the operation yourself. Then, mark the opposite

side of the shield. In that very castle--while the gay troop was riding

out with pennons flying--the feudal enemy or 'misproud' retainer was

probably lying in the dungeon (_they had_ one there, Orme says) after

an imprisonment of years."

The gathering was a pronounced success. The ruin provided subjects for

unlimited conversation as well as occasions for heroic daring in the

matter of climbing. The lunch was perfect in its way; the ensuing walks

and talks all that could be wished.

And when, after, as one of the young people declared, the "truly

excellent--really delicious day" came so near to its close that the

horses were brought up, Miss Branksome playfully suggested that she and

Miss Tollemache should change seats, as she wished to take a lesson

from the opposition charioteer in driving, and when, after a moment's

playful contest, the fair enslaver was placed on the seat beside him,

Sir Roland's cup of happiness was full.

"Let Fate do her worst;

There are moments of joy,

Bright dreams of the past,

Which she cannot destroy"--

must have been written by the poet, he felt assured, with that wondrous

instinctive insight into the inmost soul of him, and all true lovers,

which stamps the heaven-born singer.

Then the drive back to Roxburgh Hall, where they were to reassemble

for the impromptu dance! The horses, home-returning, pulled just

sufficiently to enable the box passenger to appreciate the strong arm

and steady hand of her companion; and when, after an hour, the lamps

were lit and the star-spangled night appeared odorous with the scents

of early spring, the girl's low voice and musical laugh seemed the

appropriate song-speech for which the star-clustered night formed

fitting hour and circumstance.

Roland Massinger in that eve of delicious companionship abandoned

himself to hope and fantasy. His fair companion had been so far

acted upon by her environment, that she had permitted speculative

allusions to the recondite problems of the day; to the deeper aims of

life--subjects in which she evinced an interest truly exceptional in

a girl of such acknowledged social distinction; while he, drawn on by

the thought of possible companionship with so rarely-gifted a being,

abandoned his usual practical and chiefly negative outlook upon the

world, acknowledging the attraction of self-sacrifice and philanthropic

crusade. His mental vision appeared to have received an illuminating

expansion, and as those low, earnest, but melodious tones made music in

his ear, emanating from the fair lips so closely inclined towards his

own, he felt almost moved to devote his future energies, means, lands,

and life to the amelioration of the race--to the grand aims of that

altruistic federation of which, it must be confessed, that he had been

a formal, if not indifferent, professor. If only he might persuade this

"one sweet spirit to be his minister"! Then, how cheerfully would he

fare forth through whatever lands or seas she might appoint.

But that fatal _if_!

Why should _he_ be privileged to appropriate this glorious creature,

redolent of all the loveliness of earth's primal vigour, and yet

informed with the lore of the ages, heightening her attractions a

hundred--yes, a thousand-fold? Almost he despaired when thinking of his

superlative presumption.

Fortunately for the safety of the passengers, who little knew what

tremendous issues were oscillating in the brain of their pilot, he

mechanically handled the reins in his usual skilled and efficient

fashion. Nor, indeed, did the fair comrade, or she would scarcely have

emphasized the conventional remark, "Oh, Sir Roland, what a delightful

drive we have had! I feel so grateful to you!" as he swung his horses

round, and, with practised accuracy, almost grazed the steps at the

portico of Roxburgh Hall.