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Barren Honour: A Novel

by George A. Lawrence · English · Gutenberg #34616 · 666,719 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Barren Honour: A Novel

Author: George A. Lawrence


        
Release date: December 10, 2010 [eBook #34616]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34616

Credits: Produced by David Garcia, Mary Meehan and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BARREN HONOUR: A NOVEL ***




Produced by David Garcia, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)









                                   BARREN HONOUR:

                                      A NOVEL.

                                BY GEORGE A. LAWRENCE

       BY THE AUTHOR OF "GUY LIVINGSTON," "THE SWORD AND GOWN," &c., &c.


    NEW YORK:
    DICK & FITZGERALD, PUBLISHERS.
    No. 18 ANN STREET.




CHAPTER I.

NEW AND OLD.


A very central place is Newmanham, both by local and commercial
position--a big, black, busy town, waxing bigger and blacker and busier
day by day. For more than a century that Queen of Trade has worn her
iron crown right worthily; her pulse beats, now, sonorously with the
clang of a myriad of steam-hammers; her veins swell almost to bursting
with the ceaseless currents of molten metals; and her breath goes up to
heaven, heavy and vaporous with the blasts of many furnaces.

Whenever I pass that way, as a born Briton, an unit of a great
mercantile nation, I feel or suppose myself to feel, a certain amount of
pride and satisfaction in witnessing so many evidences of my country's
wealth and prosperity; they are very palpable indeed, those evidences,
and not one of the senses will be inclined to dispute their existence.
If I chance to have an exiled Neapolitan prince, or a deposed
grand-duke, or any other potentate in difficulties, staying with me
(which, of course, happens constantly), I make a point of beguiling the
illustrious foreigner into the dingy labyrinth of Newmanham, from which
he escapes not till he has done justice to every one of its marvels.
Nevertheless, as an individual whose only relations with commerce
consist in always wanting to buy more things than one can possibly
afford, and in never, by any chance, having anything to sell, except now
and then a horse or two, more or less "screwed," or a parcel of ideas,
more or less trivial--as such an one, I say, I am free to confess, that
my first and abiding emotion, after being ten minutes in that great
emporium, is a desolate sense of having no earthly business there, and
of being very much in everybody's way--a sentiment which the natives
seem perfectly to fathom and coincide with.

It is not that they make themselves in any wise disagreeable, or cast
you forth with contumely from their hive. The operative element does not
greet the stranger with the "'eave of a arf-brick," after the genial
custom of the mining districts; neither is he put to confusion by a
broad stare, breaking up into a broader grin, as sometimes occurs in our
polite sea-port towns. A quick careless glance, as if the gazer had no
time even for curiosity, is the worst ordeal you will have to encounter
in passing a group of the inhabitants, whether at work, or by a rare
chance, resting from their labours. There are "roughs" to be found there
more dangerous, they say, than in most places: but these do not show
much in daylight or frequented thoroughfares. They have their own
haunts, and when the sun arises they lie down in their dens. In deed,
the upper Ten Thousand--the great manufacturers and iron-founders or
their representatives--will treat you with no small kindness,
especially if you have letters of introduction: they will show you over
their vast works and endless factories, adapting their conversation
always to your limited capacity, becoming affably explanatory or blandly
statistical, as the occasion demands, only indulging in a mild and
discreet triumph, as they point out some unutterably hideous combination
of steel and iron peculiar to their own establishment, which produces
results as unexpected as a conjuring trick. Even so have we seen Mr.
Ambrose Arcturus, the stout and intrepid voyager, beguile a Sabbath
afternoon in exhibiting to a friend's child--to the officer of the day
from the contiguous barracks--to a fair country cousin--or some other
equally innocent and inquisitive creature--the treasures of the
Zoological Society, not a few of which are the captives of his own bow
and spear; lingering, perhaps fondly, for a moment, opposite a gigantic
bivalve or mollusca which he is reported to have vanquished in single
combat.

But, in spite of all this hospitality, the consciousness of being in a
false position, of taking up people's time where time is money--in fact,
of being rather a nuisance than otherwise--cannot easily be shaken off:
the eye grows weary with seeking a resting-place where everything
illustrates perpetual motion, and the brain dizzy with the everlasting
tremor and whir of wheels. It is a positive relief when we find
ourselves starting on one of the lines that radiate from Newmanham to
every point of the compass, like the feelers of a cuttle-fish, always
dragging in "raw material" to the voracious centre: it is an absolute
luxury, an hour afterwards, to sweep on through the great grazing
grounds again, and to see forty acres of sound, undulating pasture
stretching away up to the black "bullfinch" that cuts the skyline.

You may easily guess what the political tone of such a borough must be:
Liberalism of the most enlightened description flourishes there
unchecked and unrivalled; for no Conservative candidate has yet been
found so self-sacrificing as to solicit the suffrages of Newmanham. Were
such an one to present himself, it is scarcely probable that the free
and independent electors would content themselves with such playful
missiles as graveolent eggs or decomposed cabbage-stalks: they would be
more likely to revive, for his especial benefit, that almost obsolete
_argumentum a lapide_ which has silenced, if it did not convince, many
obstinate enthusiasts--who, nevertheless, were not far from the truth,
after all. In no other town of England are Mr. Bright's harangues
received with such favour and sincere sympathy. When the santon-fit is
on that meek Man of Peace, and carries him away in a flood of furious
diatribe against "those who sit in high places and grind the faces of
the poor," it is curious to remark how willingly and completely his
audience surrender themselves to the influence of the hour. You may see
the ground-swell of passion swaying and surging through the mass of
operatives that pack the body of the hall, till every gaunt grimed face
becomes picturesque in its savage energy: you have only to look round to
be aware that education, and property, and outward respectability, are
no safeguards against the contagion: it is spreading fast now through
that phalanx of decent broad-clothed burghers on the platform,
and--listen--their voices chime in with ominous alacrity in the cheer
that rewards a peroration that in old days would have brought the
speaker to the pillory.

That same cheer, once heard, is not easily forgotten: there is not the
faintest echo of anything joyous, or kindly, or hopeful, in its accent;
one feels that it issues from the depths of hearts that are more than
dissatisfied--through lips parched with a fiery longing and thirst for
something never yet attained. For what? God help them! _they_ could not
tell you--if they dared. Go to an agricultural dinner (farmers are the
most discontented race alive, you know), mark the tumult among the
yeomen when the health of the county favorite has been given, or rather
intimated, for they knew what the speaker would say, and before he could
finish, the storm of great, healthy voices broke in. Those two
acclamations differ from each other more strikingly than does the full
round shout of a Highland regiment "doubling" to charge, from the
hoarse, cracked "hour-ra" of a squadron of Don Cossacks.

With these dispositions, you may conceive that, albeit Newmanham rather
covets land as an investment (they make very fair and not unkindly
seigneur, those _Novi homines_), she cherishes little love or respect
for the landed interest, its representatives, and traditions. Yet, when
a brother magnate from Tarenton or New Byrsa comes to visit one of these
mighty burghers, to what object of interest does the host invariably
first direct the attention of his honored guest? Deferring to another
day the inspection of his own factory, and of all other town wonders, he
orders round the gorgeous barouche, with the high-stepping greys,
overlaid with as much precious metal as the Beautiful Gate, and takes
the stranger fifteen miles away, to view the demesne which, through the
vicissitudes of six centuries, has been the abiding-place of the
Vavasours of Dene.

The house is not so ancient, nor does it stand on the site of the old
Castle. All that would burn of _that_ crumbled down in a whirlwind of
flame, one black winter's night during the Wars of the Roses. There had
long been a feud between the Vavasours and a neighboring family nearly
as powerful and overbearing. Sir Hugh Mauleverer was a shrewd, provident
man, and cool even in his desperation. When he saw signs of the tide
turning against Lancaster, he determined to settle one score, at least,
before he went to the wall. So, on New-Year's eve, when the drinking was
deep, and they kept careless watch at Dene Castle, the Lancastrians came
down in force, and made their way almost into the banqueting hall
unopposed. Then there was a struggle--short, but very sharp. The
retainers of the Vavasour, though taken by surprise, were all fully
armed, and, partly from fidelity, partly because they feared their stern
master more than any power of heaven or hell, partly because they had no
other chance, fought like mad wild cats. However, three to one are heavy
odds. All his four sons had gone down before him, and not a dozen men
were left at his back, when Simon Vavasour struck his last blow. It was
a good, honest, bitter blow, well meant and well delivered, for it went
through steel and bone so deep into Hugh Mauleverer's brain that his
slayer could not draw out the blade; the grey old wolf never stirred a
finger after that to help himself, and never uttered a sound, except one
low, savage laugh as they hewed him in pieces on his own hearth-stone.
When the slaughter was over, the sack, of course, began, but the young
Mauleverer, though heated by the fight, and somewhat discomposed by his
father's death, could not forget the courtesy and charity on which he
rather prided himself. So, when every living thing that had down on its
lip was put out of pain, he would not suffer the women and children to
be outraged or tortured, magnanimously dismissing them to wander where
they would into the wild weather, with the flames of Dene Castle to
light them on their way. Most of them perished before daybreak; but one
child, a grandson of the baron's, was saved at the price of its mother's
life. She stripped herself of nearly her last garment to cover the heir
of her house, and kissed him once as she gave him to the strongest of
the women to carry, and then lay down wearily in the snow-drift to die.

When Walter Vavasour came to manhood, the House of York was firm on the
throne, and another manor or two rewarded his family for what it had
suffered in their cause. He commenced building on the site of the
present mansion; but it was reserved for his grandson (who married one
of the greatest heiresses at the court of Henry VIII.) to complete the
stately edifice as it now stands, at the cost of all his wife's fortune,
and a good part of his own.

There are more dangerous follies than a building mania; and perhaps it
would have been well for Fulke Vavasour if he had ruined himself more
utterly in its indulgence. Poverty might have kept him out of worse
scrapes. If he resembled his portrait, his personal beauty must have
been very remarkable, though of a character more often found in Southern
Europe than in England. The Saxon and Norman races rarely produce those
long, dark, languid eyes, and smooth, pale cheeks, contrasted with
scarlet lips, and black masses of silky hair. Fair form and face were
fatal endowments in those hot-blooded days, when lovers set no bounds to
their ambition, and _une caprice de grande dame_ would have its way in
spite of--or by means of--poison, cord, and steel. All sorts of vague
rumors were current as to the real cause which brought the last Lord
Vavasour to the scaffold. The truth can never be known; for, on the same
night that he was arrested, a cavalier (whom no one recognized) came to
the Dene; he showed the Baron's signet ring, and required to be left
alone in his private chamber. The day was breaking when the stranger
rode away; and an hour afterwards a pursuivant was in possession of the
house, making, as is the fashion of his kind, minute perquisitions, when
there was nothing left to search for. Doubtless all clue to the mystery
was destroyed or removed before he came. But it may well be, that, if
Fulke Vavasour was innocent of the plot for which he died, he was not
guiltless of a darker one, with which statecraft had nothing to do. It
is certain that his widow--a most excellent and pious young woman, one
of the earliest Protestant converts, and a great friend of The
Bishops--made little moan over the husband whom she had long wearied
with her fondness; she never indeed mentioned his name, except from
necessity, and then with a groan of reprobation. They endure neglect
like angels, and cruelty like martyrs; but what _devote_ ever forgot or
forgave an infidelity?

Let it be understood, that I quote this fact of the widow's scant regret
just for what it is worth--a piece of presumptive evidence bearing upon
a particular case, and in no wise illustrating a general principle. I am
not prepared to allow, that a fair gauge of any deceased person's moral
worth is invariably the depth or duration of the affliction manifested
by his nearest and dearest.

The barony of course became extinct with the attainted traitor; but the
broad lands remained; for the Tiger, in a fit of ultra-leonine
generosity, not only disdained himself to fatten on his victim, but even
kept off the jackals. Perhaps, the contracting heart of the unhappy
jealous old tyrant was touched by some dim recollection of early
chivalrous days, when he took no royal road to win the favor of woman or
fortune, but met his rivals frankly and fairly, and either beat them on
their merits, or yielded the prize.

The sins of the unlucky reprobate were not visited on his children. The
estate gradually shook off the burden he had laid upon it, and during
the four succeeding generations the prosperity of the Vavasours rather
waxed than waned. Like the rest of the Cavaliers, they had to bear their
share of trouble about the time of the Commonwealth; but they were too
powerful to be forgotten when the king came to his own again. Indeed,
there was a good deal of vitality about the family, though individually
its members came curiously often to violent or untimely ends; and the
domain had descended in unbroken male succession to its present owner
with scarcely diminished acreage. Yet, from a period far beyond the
memory of man, there had been no stint or stay in the lavish expense and
stately hospitality which had always been maintained at Dene. Twice in
the last hundred years the offer had been made of reversing the
attainder, and reviving the ancient barony, and each time, from whim or
some wiser motive, rejected. No minister had yet been found cool enough
to proffer a baronetcy to those princes of the Squire-archy.

It is not worth while describing the house minutely. It was a huge,
irregular mass of building, in the Tudor style, with rather an unusual
amount of ornamental stonework; well placed near the centre of a very
extensive park, and on the verge of an abrupt declivity. The most
remarkable features in it were the great hall--fifty feet square, going
right up to the vaulted roof, and girdled by two tiers of
elaborately-carved galleries in black oak--and the garden-front. The
architect had availed himself right well of the advantages of the
ground, which (as I have said) sloped steeply down, almost from the
windows; so that you looked out upon a succession of terraces--each
framed in its setting of curiously-wrought balustrades--connected by
broad flights of steps leading down to a quaint stone bridge spanning a
clear, shallow stream. Beyond this lay the Plaisance, with its
smooth-shaven grass, studded with islets of evergreens, and endless
winding walks through shady shrubberies, issuing from which, after
crossing a deep sunk-fence, you found yourself again among the great
oaks and elms of the deer-park. If there had been no other attraction at
Dene, the trees would have been worth going miles to see; indeed, the
stanch adherents of the Vavasours always brought the timber forward, as
a complete and crushing refutation of any blasphemer who should presume
to hint that the family ever had been, or could be, embarrassed. The
stables were of comparatively modern date, and quite perfect in their
way; they harmonized with the style of the main building, though this
was not of much importance, for the belt of firs around them was so
dense, that a stranger was only made aware of their existence by a
slender spire of delicate stonework shooting over the tree-tops, the
pinnacle of a fountain in the centre of the court. The best point of
view was from the farther end of the Plaisance.

Looking back from thence, you saw a picture hardly to be matched even
amongst the "stately homes of England," and to which the Continent could
show no parallel, if you traversed it from Madrid to Moscow. The grand
old house, rising, grey and solemn, over the long sloping estrade of
bright flowers, reminded one of some aged Eastern king reclining on his
divan of purple, and silver, and pearl. No wonder that Dene was a
favorite resort of the _haute bourgeoisie_ of Newmanham on Mondays, when
the public was admitted to the gardens, the state apartments, and the
picture gallery; indeed, on any other day it was easy to gain admission
if the Squire was at home, for Hubert Vavasour, from his youth upwards,
had always been incapable of refusing anybody anything in reason. If "my
lady" happened to be mistress of the position, success was not quite
such a certainty.

I think we have done our duty by the mansion; it is almost time to say
something about its inmates.




CHAPTER II.

MEA CULPA.


There were all sorts of rooms at Dene, ranging through all degrees of
luxury, from magnificence down to comfort. To the last class certainly
belonged especial apartment, which, from time immemorial, had been
called "the Squire's own." For many generations this had represented the
withdrawing-room, the council chamber, the study, and the divan of the
easy-going potentates who had ruled the destinies of the House of
Vavasour; if their authority over the rest of the mansion was sometimes
disputed, _here_ at least they reigned supreme. There was easy access
from without, by a door opening on a narrow winding walk that led
through thick shrubberies into the stables, so that the Squires were
enabled to welcome in their sanctum, unobserved, such modest and
retiring comrades as, from the state of their apparel or of their
nerves, did not feel equal to the terrors of the grand entrance. Hither
also they were wont to resort, as a sure refuge, whenever they chanced
to be worsted in any domestic skirmish: though tradition preserves the
names of several imperious and powerful Chatelaines, and chronicles
their prowess, not one appears to have forced or even assailed these
entrenchments. It almost seemed as if provision had been made against a
sudden surprise; for, at the extremity of the passage leading to the
main part of the building, were two innocent-looking green-baized doors,
with great weights, so cunningly adjusted, that one, if not both of
them, was sure to escape from weak or unwary hands, and to close with an
awful thunderous bang, that went rolling along the vaulted stone roof,
till even a Dutch garrison would have been roused from its slumbers.
Very, very rarely had the rustle of feminine garments been heard within
these sacred precincts; hardly ever, indeed, since the times of wild
Philip Vavasour--"The Red Squire"--who, if all tales are true,
entertained singularly limited notions as to his own marital duties, and
enormously extensive ones as to _les droits de seigneurie_.

It was a large, square, low-browed room, lined on two sides with presses
and book-cases of black walnut wood, that, from their appearance, might
have been placed there when it was built. The furniture all matched
these, though evidently of quite recent date; the chairs, at least,
being constructed to meet every requirement of modern laziness or
lassitude. An immense mantelpiece of carved white marble, slightly
discolored by wood-smoke, rose nearly to the vaulted ceiling, in the
centre of which were the crest and arms of the family, wrought in
porphyry. There were two windows, large enough to let in ample light, in
spite of heavy stone mullions and armorial shields on every other
pane--the south one looking to the garden-front, the west into a quiet,
old-fashioned bowling-green, enclosed by yew hedges thick and even as an
ancient rampart, and trained at the corners into the shape of pillars
crowned with vases. Not a feature of the place seems to have been
altered since the times when some stout elderly Cavalier may have smoked
a digestive pipe in that centre arbour; or later, when some gallant of
Queen Anne's court may have doffed delicately his velvet coat, laying
it, like an offering, at Sacharissa's feet, ere he proceeded to win her
father's favour by losing any number of games.

A pleasant room at all hours, it is unusually picturesque at the moment
we speak of, from the effects of many-colored light and shade. A hot
August day is fast drawing to its close; the sun is so level that it
only just clears the yews sufficiently to throw into strong relief,
against a dark background, the _torso_ of a sitting figure which is well
worth a second glance.

You look upon a man past middle age, large-limbed, vast-chested, and
evidently of commanding stature, with proportions not yet too massive
for activity; indeed, his bearing may well have gained in dignity what
it has lost in grace. The face is still more remarkable. Searching
through the numberless portraits that line the picture-gallery, you will
hardly find a dozen where the personal beauty for which the Vavasours
have long been proverbial is more strikingly exemplified than in their
present representative. There are lines of silver--not unfrequent--in
the abundant chestnut hair and bushy whiskers; but fifty-four years have
not traced ten wrinkles on the high white forehead, nor filled the
outline of the well-cut aquiline features, nor altered the clearness of
the healthy, bright complexion, nor dimmed the pleasant light of the
large frank blue eyes. There is a fault, certainly--the want of
decision, about the mouth and all the lower part of the face; but even
this you are not disposed to cavil much at, after hearing once or twice
Hubert Vavasour's ready, ringing laugh, and watching his kindly smile.
His manner had that rare blending of gentle courtesy with honest
cordiality, that the rudest stoic finds irresistibly attractive: you
never could trace in it the faintest shade of condescension, or
aggravating affability. Presiding at his own table, talking to a tenant
at the cover-side, discussing the last opera with the fair Duchess of
Darlington, or smoking the peaceful midnight cigar with an old comrade,
the Squire of Dene seemed to be, and really was, equally happy, natural,
and _at home_.

At this particular moment the expression of his pleasant face was
unusually grave, and there was a cloud on his open brow, not of anger or
vexation, but decidedly betokening perplexity. He was evidently
pondering deeply over words that had just been addressed to him by the
only other occupant of the "study."

The latter was a tall man, slightly and gracefully built, apparently
about thirty; his pale, quiet face had no remarkable points of beauty,
except very brilliant dark eyes, looking larger and brighter from the
half-circles under them, and a mouth which was simply perfect. You could
not glance at him, however, without being reminded of all those stories
of unfortunate patricians, foiled in their endeavours to escape because
they _could_ not look like the coal-heaver, or rag-merchant, or clerk,
whose clothes they wore. If the whim had possessed Sir Alan Wyverne to
array himself, for the nonce, in the loudest and worst-assorted colors
that ever lent additional vulgarity to the person of a Manchester
"tiger," it is probable that the travestie would have been too palpable
to be amusing; he would still have looked precisely as he did now and
ever--from the crown of his small head to the sole of his slender
foot--"thoroughbred all through."

The intelligence which seemed to have involved the Squire in doubt and
disquietude was just this. Five minutes ago he had looked upon Wyverne
only as his favourite nephew; he had scarcely had time to get accustomed
to him in the new light of a possible son-in-law; for the substance of
Alan's brief confession was, that in the course of their afternoon's
ride he had wooed and (provisionally) won his fair cousin Helen.

Now, when the head of a family has five or six marriageable females to
dispose of, forming a beautiful sliding-scale, from 'thirty off'
downwards, his feelings, on hearing that one is to be taken off his
hands, are generally those of unmixed exhilaration. Under such
circumstances, the most prudent of "parents" is apt to look rather
hopefully than captiously into the chances of the future _menage_: he is
fain to cry out, like the "heavy father," "take her, you rascal, and
make her happy!" and indeed acts up to every part of the stage
direction, with the trifling exception of omitting the hand over the
bulky note-case, or the "property" purse of gold. But it is rather a
different affair when the damsel in question is an only daughter, fair
to look upon, and just in her nineteenth summer. _Then_ it will be seen,
how a man of average intellect can approve himself at need, keenly
calculating in foresight, unassailable in arguments, and grandiloquent
on the duties of paternity. His stern sagacity tramples on the roses
with which our romance would surround Love in a Cottage. It is no use
trying to put castles in Spain into settlements, when even Irish estates
are narrowly scrutinized. Perhaps we never were very sanguine about our
expectancies, but till this instant we never regarded them with such
utter depression and humility of spirit. Our cheery host of
yesternight--he who was so convivially determined on that "other bottle
before we join the ladies"--has vanished suddenly. In his stead there
sits one filling his arm-chair as though it were a judgment seat, and
freezing our guilty hearts with his awful eye. Our hopes are blighted so
rapidly, that before the hour is out not one poor leaf is left of the
garland that late bloomed so freshly. We have only one aim and object in
life now--to flee from that dread presence as quickly as we may, albeit
in worse plight than that of Sceva's sons. How sorry we are that we
spoke!

But Hubert Vavasour's voice was not angry nor even cold. If there was
the faintest accent of reproach there, it surely was unintentional; but
in its gravity was something of sadness.

"Alan, would it not have been better to have spoken first to me?"

His own conscience, more than that simple question or the tone in which
it was uttered, made Wyverne's cheek flush as he answered it.

"Dear Uncle Hubert, I own it was a grave fault. I am so sorry for not
having told you the secret first, that I hardly know how to ask even
_you_ to forgive me. But will you believe that there was no _malice
propense_? I swear that when I went out this afternoon, I had no more
idea of betraying myself to Helen than I had of proposing to any
Princess-Royal. I am sure I have no more right to aspire to one than the
other. But we were riding fast and carelessly through Holme Wood; a
branch caught Helen's _sombrero_, and held it fast. I went back for
it--we could not pull up for a second or two. When I joined her again,
she was trying to put in order some rebellious tresses which had escaped
from their net; the light shot down through the leaves on the dark
ripples of hair; there was the most delicious flush you can fancy on her
cheek, and her lips and eyes were laughing--so merrily! I don't believe
that the luck of painters ever let them dream of any thing half so
lovely. I suppose I've seen as many fair faces as most men of my age,
and I ought to be able to keep my head (if not my heart) by this time.
Well--_it went_, on the instant. I had no more self-control or
forethought than a schoolboy in his first love. Before I was aware, I
had said words that I ought never to have spoken, but which are very,
very hard to unsay. Don't ask me what she answered. I should have been
still unworthy of those words if, since my manhood begun, I had never
done one ill deed, never thrown one chance away. Uncle Hubert, you can't
blame me as much as I despise myself. The idea of a man's having got
through a good fortune and the best years of his life, without having
learnt--when to hold his tongue."

The clouds had been clearing fast on Vavasour's face while the other was
speaking, and the sun broke out, suddenly, in a kind, pleasant smile.
Probably more than one feeling was busy within him then, which it would
have been hard to separate or analyse. The father's heart swelled with
pride and love as he heard of this last crowning triumph of a beauty,
that, from childhood upwards, he had held to be peerless. Indeed, he was
absurdly fond of Helen, and had spoiled her so consistently, that no one
could understand why the _demoiselle_ (who certainly _had_ a will of her
own) was not more imperious and wayward. Besides this, the Squire's
strong natural sense of humour was gratified. It amused him unspeakably
to see his calm, impassible nephew for once so embarrassed as actually
to have been betrayed into blushing. More than all, gay memories of his
own youth and manhood came trooping up fast, some faint and distant,
some so near and brightly-coloured, that they almost seemed
tangible--vanishing and reappearing capriciously, as one fair vision
chased another from light into shade, like elves holding revel under a
midsummer moon.

True, the days of his gipsyhood were past and gone; but the spirit of
the Zingaro had tarried with Vavasour longer than with most men, if
indeed it was even yet extinct. He could not help owning that, if the
same temptation had assailed himself at the same age, he would have
yielded quite as easily as Wyverne had done that day, with perhaps
rather less of prudent scruple, and with more utter contempt of
consequences. Though he had seldom given grounds to Lady Mildred for
grave accusation, or even suspicion, gayer gallant never breathed since
Sir Gawaine died. A chivalrous delicacy and high sense of honour had
borne him (and others) scathless through many fiery trials; yet--not so
long ago--hearts had quivered at the sound of his musical voice, like
reeds shaken by the wind. Few men had achieved more conquests with less
loss to victor and vanquished; for he was satisfied with the surrender
of a beleaguered city without giving it up to pillage. Flesh is weak, we
know; it would be rash to assert, that in his hot youth, Hubert Vavasour
had never regretted a lost opportunity; but perhaps he did not sleep
less soundly now, because of all the lost souls who, on either side of
the grave, live in torment, not one could lay its ruin at his door. Two
or three reputations slightly compromised are surely not an immoderate
allowance for a _viveur_ of five-and thirty years' standing, and need
scarcely entail indulgence in poppies or mandragora. I think it speaks
well for the presiding judge if, when a young offender is brought up
before the Council of the Elders, those ancient memories stand forth as
witnesses for the defence.

So the Squire's tone was cheery and hearty as ever, when he replied to
Alan's rather unsatisfactory explanation, and there was a laugh in his
eyes.

"It must have been a terrible temptation, for the mere recollection of
it makes you poetical. That period about 'the sunlight on the rippled
hair' would have done credit to a laureate in love. Seriously, my dear
boy, I'm not angry with you; and I don't feel inclined to blame you
much. I only meant that if you had spoken first to me, you would have
heard one or two things not pleasant to hear, which _must_ be told you
now, and which had better have been said earlier."

"Uncle Hubert," Wyverne said, gently, "don't worry yourself with going
through all the objections which make the affair impracticable. I know
them so well. It is easy to give up hopes that one never had any right
to cherish. Of course it is clear what you and Aunt Mildred ought to
say. See, I accept your decision beforehand. I promise you that I won't
murmur at it, even to myself, and I shall not like any one of you a bit
the worse. It was written that Ellen should be my first serious love,
and my last too, I fancy. _Kismet_--it is my fate; but that is no reason
why _hers_ should be bound up with it."

The ruffle of brief emotion had passed away from his quiet face, and it
had settled into its wonted calmness; though at that instant the
happiness of two lives was swaying in the balance, it betrayed no
disquietude by the shadow of a sign.

Hubert Vavasour rose and laid his hand upon the speaker's shoulder.
There was nothing of mirth left now in the expression of his features;
all their grand outline was softened in a solemn tenderness, and his
strong voice was low and tremulous as a woman's.

"I have not deserved to be so misunderstood, and--by you, Alan, you are
my only sister's son, and I have loved you all your life long like my
own. You were too young when your mother died to remember how I mourned
her. You never knew either that, when I said good bye to her, after the
last Sacrament, I promised her, as plainly as I could speak for tears,
that I would always stand fast by you and Gracie. I wish other promises
were as easy to keep faithfully. Do you suppose that my interest in you
ceased with my guardianship, though my right of interference did? In
spite of everything that has happened, there is no man living to whom I
would give Helen so readily as to yourself. I am not going to trifle
with you. As far as my consent to your marriage can help you, you have
it freely; God's blessing go with it. Now--will you listen patiently
while I tell you of difficulties in the way?"

If a life dearer than his own had depended on Alan Wyverne's saying
anything intelligible at that moment, he could not have saved it by the
utterance of one word; but there was eloquence enough in the long white
fingers, which closed round his uncle's with the gripe of a giant.

The Squire sate down again, leaning his forehead on his hand that shook
ever so little, keeping his face, so, half shaded. He was a bad
dissembler, and the effort to speak cheerfully was painfully apparent.

"Alan, have you any idea how the account stands between the
world--taking it as a commercial world--and the Vavasours of Dene? I
don't see how you should have; for, besides your aunt, your cousin Max,
and myself, not half a dozen people, I believe and hope, know the real
state of affairs. There is no bankruptcy court for us, or I should have
been in it years ago. There were very, very heavy incumbrances on the
property when I came into it, and--see,--I dare not look you in the
face--they are nearly doubled now. I can give no account of my
stewardship; but I suppose play is about the only extravagance I have
not indulged in; and 'my lady'--mind I don't blame her--is not a much
better economist. I wonder our family has lasted so long. It has never
produced a clever _financier_, I need hardly say; but, more than that,
not one Vavasour for the last seven generations has had the common sense
or courage to look his difficulties in the face, and retrench
accordingly. Unluckily, rolling debts are not like rolling stones; they
_do_ increase in volume, diabolically. Well, it's no use beating about
the bush or making half confessions. Here is the truth in six words: a
quarter of a million would hardly clear us. They said I gave up the
hounds because I had got too heavy to ride up to them; perhaps you will
guess if _that_ was the real reason. It was more as a sop to keep my
conscience quiet than anything else though; for L3,000 a year saved only
keeps a little interest down, and leaves the principal as big and black
as ever. When Max came of age, it was absolutely necessary to make some
arrangement. We cut off the entail of all property, sold some outlying
farms, and replaced the old mortgages by new ones on rather better
terms. But--we raised more money. Max owed seven or eight thousand, and
I wanted nearly as much to go on with. He behaved very well about it,
only binding me down by one stipulation--that I should cut no timber;
for it was suggested then that L30,000 worth might be felled and
scarcely missed. He had a fancy, that whether Dene stayed with us or
passed away to others, it should keep its green wreath unshorn. It looks
as if there were some sympathetic link between our fortunes and our
forests--we have cherished and spared them so for centuries: if any
White Lady (like her of Avenel) watches over our house, I am very sure
she is a Dryad. Alan, the worst is still to tell."

He paused for a minute or so, clearing his throat once or twice
nervously, all to no purpose, for when he spoke again his voice was
strangely husky and uncertain.

"You don't know much of Newmanham? the greatest iron-founder. There is
one Schmidt, a German Jew, whose father was naturalized. They say he is
worth half a million. When a man of the people has made money up to that
mark, he is always mad to invest in land. Only six months ago, I found
out that Schmidt had bought up every shilling of mortgage on this
property, and--and--by G--d, I believe he means to foreclose."

The Squire stopped again, and then broke out into a harsh unnatural
laugh.

"The patriarch knows where to pitch his tent, doesn't he, Alan? His
spies have searched out the length and breadth of the land already, and
I dare say he knows as much about the woods now as I do. His lines will
fall in pleasant places when he has cast out the Hittite. Dene would be
no bad spot to found a family in. Twenty quarterings ought to leave
savour enough about the grey walls to drown somewhat of the Newmanham
_fumier_. Leah has been prolific, they tell me. The picture gallery will
be a nice place for the little Isrealites to disport themselves in in
bad weather, and the Crusaders and Cavaliers will look down benevolently
on 'the young Caucasians all at play.' Perhaps he will offer something
handsome to be allowed to take our name. Faith, he may have it! I don't
see why we should keep that to ourselves when all the rest is gone."

The bitter laugh ended in something like a sob, and the lofty head sank
down lower still. Looking on Wyverne's colourless face, you would not
have guessed that its pallor could deepen so intensely as it did when
any strong emotion possessed him. During the last five minutes it had
grown whiter by several shades.

"It is punishment enough for all my faults and follies," he said, "to be
forced to listen to such words as these, and to feel myself utterly
helpless and useless. Uncle Hubert, I remember, when every one thought
my ruin was complete, you came the first to offer help, and you never
dreamt of taking interest by making me listen to advice or reproaches.
Now I hear of _your_ troubles for the first time, and I find that I have
come in, seasonably to add another grave embarrassment. What a luxury
benevolence must be, when it meets with such a prompt return. If you
knew how I hate myself!"

The elasticity of Vavasour's gallant spirit had quite shaken off by this
time the momentary depression of which he was already heartily ashamed.
He threw back his stately head with a gesture full of haughty grace, as
if about to confront a palpable enemy or physical danger, and his voice
rang out again, bold and musical and clear.

"Don't speak so despondingly, Alan. My weakness has infected you, I
suppose? I don't wonder at it. I am not often so cowardly; indeed it is
the first time I have broken down so, and I think it will be long before
I disgrace myself so again. Yes, you would help me if you could, just as
I would help you. I know you, boy, and the race you come of. _Bon sang
ne peut mentir._ Whatever happens, I shall never repent having given you
Helen. But I want you to see your line clearly; it isn't all open
country before you. Listen. I am certain 'my lady' has some projects in
her head. She thinks her daughter fair enough to be made the pillar and
prop of our family edifice. (Poor child! that slender neck would break
under half such a burden.) Now, if either of the young ones is to be
turned into an Atlas, surely Max ought to take the part. But he is too
proud, or too indolent, or too fond of his comforts, to give himself any
trouble in the matter. Faith, I like him the better for it. I think I
would rather see the old house go to ruin respectably than propped by
Manchester money-bags. _Que diable!_ Each one to his taste. I don't
imagine that your aunt's visions have assumed shape or substance yet.
The coming son-in-law and his millions are still in cloud-land, where I
hope for all our sakes they will remain. For my own part, if Croesus
were to woo and win Helen to-morrow, I don't see how it would help us
much; besides, it is quite probable that he would have gone away
rejected. If you had never spoken, you cannot suppose that I would have
seen her sacrificed. Still I warn you that her ladyship has some ideas
of the sort floating on her diplomatic brain, so you must not be
disappointed if her consent and concurrence are not quite so heartily
given as mine."

"I have a great respect for Aunt Mildred's sagacity," Wyverne answered
gravely; "whatever policy she might adopt I am sure would be founded on
sound principles, and carried out wisely and well. It is very rash to
run counter to any plan of hers, even if it be in embryo; I doubt if one
ought even to hope for success. My dear uncle, every word you say makes
me feel more keenly how wrongly I acted this unlucky afternoon."

The Squire held out his hand again; the strong, honest grasp tingled
through every fibre of the other's frame, bringing hope and
encouragement with it, like a draught of some rare cordial.

"Alan, I have heard of many rash and wild deeds of yours, never of one
that made you unworthy of your blood or mine. It would be rather too
good if _I_ were to cast mere extravagance in your teeth. I wont hear
any more evil auguries or self-reproaches. My word is passed, and I
shall not take it back again till you or Helen ask me to do so. We will
talk more of your prospects another time. As long as I live you will do
well enough; afterwards--we shall see. Thank God, she is the only child
I have to provide for. Don't be downhearted, boy! The Vavasours of Dene
are a tough, tenacious race, and die hard, if all tales are true; we are
not _aux abois_ yet. 'Vast are the resources of futurity,' as some great
and good man observed; perhaps we shall pull through, after all. At any
rate, we will not be tormented before our time. The thing which is most
on my mind at this moment is--who is to tell this afternoon's work to
'my lady?'"

The Squire's bright blue eyes were glittering with suppressed humour as
he said the last words, merrily, as if he had never heard of such things
as troubles or mortgages. Alan could not help smiling at his uncle's
evident eagerness to be spared the responsibility of ambassador.

"I fancy the worst is known to my poor aunt an hour ago. Helen went
straight to the _boudoir_ when we came in; she wished to tell everything
herself, and immediately. It is the best way. Poor child! I hope she has
had half the success that I have met with; one cannot count on such good
fortune, though."

Vavasour's face was radiant with satisfaction, it was an unspeakable
relief to him to hear that the official communication had been made.

"What a brave girl that is!" he said, with profound admiration; "she has
ten times her father's courage. Alan, confess now, you didn't try to be
first--_there_? Well let us pray for light winds, for we may have to
tack more than once before we fetch the haven where we would be. But as
the sailors say, 'we can't tell what the weather will be till we get
outside,' so--_vogue la galere_! Hark! there goes the dinner-gong; go
and dress directly; of all days in the year this is the last on which to
keep her ladyship waiting."




CHAPTER III.

A "MOTHER OF ENGLAND."


If the Squire's study was the most comfortable room in the Dene, the
prettiest, and to a refined taste the most attractive, without
contradiction, was "my lady's chamber." It was of moderate size, on the
first floor, at an angle of the building; two deep oriels to the south
and east caught every available gleam of sunshine in winter, while in
summer time many cunning devices within and without kept heat and glare
at bay. The walls were hung with dark purple silk, each panel set in a
frame of polished oak; bright borderings and bouquets of flowers
inwoven, prevented the effect from being sombre; the damask of the
furniture, as well as the velvet of the _portieres_ and curtains (these
last almost hidden now in clouds of muslin and lace), matched the
hangings exactly. There was as much of buhl and marqueterie and mosaic
in the room as it could _well_ hold--no more; no appearance of crowding
or redundance of ornament. On each of the panels was one picture, of the
smallest cabinet size, and on three of the tables lay cases of
miniatures, priceless from their extreme rarity or intrinsic beauty; and
all sorts of costly trifles, jewelled, enamelled, and chased, were
scattered about with a studied artistic carelessness. The delicate
_mignardise_ pervading every object around you was very agreeable at
first, and finished by producing the oppressive, unhealthy effect of an
atmosphere overladen with rare perfumes. Such an impression of unreality
was left, that you fancied all the pretty vision would vanish, like a
scene of fairy-land, at the intrusion of any rude, unauthorized mortal,
such as some "mighty hunter," bearing traces of field and flood from cap
to spur. That the hallowed precincts had never been profaned by so
incongruous an apparition since Lady Mildred Vavasour began to reign, it
is unnecessary to say. Her husband came there very seldom; her son,
rather often, when he was at home. With these two exceptions, the
threshold had remained for years inviolate by masculine footstep, as
that of the Taurian Artemis. Few even of her own sex had the _entree_;
and of these only three or four ventured to penetrate there uninvited.
It was a privilege more difficult to obtain than the gold key of the
_petits appartemens_ at Trianon.

The whole tone and aspect of the _boudoir_ was marvellously in keeping
with the exterior of its mistress. She occupied it on that August
evening, alone, if we might except a Maltese lion-dog, sleeping in lazy
beatitude, half buried in a purple velvet cushion, like a small
snow-ball. It may be as well to say, at once, that this latter
personage, though a very important one in his own sphere, gifted with
remarkable intelligence, and capable of strong attachments, has nothing
on earth to do with the story.

It would be difficult as well as uncourteous to guess at Lady Mildred
Vavasour's precise age; her dark hair has lost perhaps somewhat of its
luxuriance, but little of its glossy sheen; her pale cheek--tinged with
a faint colour (either by nature or art) exactly in the right place--and
white brow, are still polished and smooth as Carrara marble; and her
small, slight, delicate figure, with which the tiniest of hands and feet
harmonize so perfectly, retains its graceful roundness of outline.

Why is it that, after one brief glance--giving the lady credit for all
these advantages--we feel sure that she has advanced already far into
the maturity of womanhood? Perhaps, when the mind has been restless and
the thoughts busy for a certain number of years, those years _will_ not
be dissembled, and, however carefully the exterior may have been
conserved, traces of toil, sensible, if not visible, remain. There is no
short cut to Political Science any more than to Pure Mathematics; not
without labour and anxiety, which must tell hereafter, can their crowns
be won; and Foresight, though certainly the more useful faculty of the
two, is sometimes more wearing than Memory.

Now, in her own line, Lady Mildred Vavasour stood unrivalled; she was
the very Talleyrand of domestic diplomacy. I do not mean to infer that
she was pre-eminent among those Machiavels in miniature, who glide into
supremacy over their own families imperceptibly, and maintain their
position by apparent non-resistance, commanding always, while they seem
to obey. In her own case such cleverness would have been wasted. She no
more dreamt of interfering with any of the Squire's tastes or pursuits
than he did with hers; and was perfectly content with complete freedom
of action, sure of having every whim gratified. Indeed, up to the
present time, her talents had been employed in singularly disinterested
ways. Very, very seldom had she acted with her own advantage, or that of
any one closely connected with her, in view. The position of the
Vavasours was such as never to tempt them to look for aggrandizement;
the Squire represented his county, as a matter of course, but there was
not a particle of ambition in his nature; and her son had always
steadily refused to allow his mother's talents or influence to be
exercised on his behalf. But she had a vast circle of acquaintance, both
male and female, and when any one of these was in a difficulty, he or
she constantly resorted to Lady Mildred, sure of her counsel, if not of
her co-operation. She gave one or both, not in the least because she was
good-natured, but because she liked it. She liked to hold in her little
white hand the threads of a dozen at once of those innocent plots and
conspiracies, which are carried on so satisfactorily beneath the smooth,
smiling surface of this pleasant world of ours. Granting that the means
were trivial, and the end unworthy--it was almost grand to see how her
cool calculation, fertile invention, and dauntless courage, rose up to
battle with difficulty or danger. She loved a complicated affair, and
went into it heart and soul; no one could say how many cases that had
been given up as hopeless, she had carried through auspiciously, with an
exceptional good fortune. With mere politics she meddled very seldom
(though she never sought for a place or promotion for one of her own
favourites, or an adopted _protege_, without obtaining it), but in her
own circle there scarcely was a marriage made or marred, of which the
result might not have been traced to the secret police of Lady Mildred's
_boudoir_. If she had a _specialite_, it was the knack of utterly
crushing and abolishing--in a pleasant, noiseless way--a dangerous
Detrimental. The victim scarcely ever suspected from what quarter the
arrow came, but often entertained, in after days, a great respect and
regard for the fatal Atalante.

Yes, the work had told even on that calm, well-regulated nature: Lady
Mildred's smile was still perilously fascinating; but a certain covert
subtlety, when you looked closer, half neutralized its power; and the
bright, dark eyes were now and then disagreeably searching and keen. At
such times you could only marvel at the manifest contradiction; with all
the outward and visible signs of youth about her, she looked unnaturally
older than her age.

In all probability, at no one period of her life had she been more
attractive than at the present moment. There was extant a miniature
taken before she was twenty, and the resemblance of that portrait to the
living original was very striking. One charm she certainly never could
have possessed--_La beaute du Diable_.

Now we are on the subject, I wish some one would explain this paradox or
misnomer. Do we take it in a passive sense, and suppose, that if any
emotion of love could fall on "the blasted heart"--like water on molten
iron--it would be stirred by that especial type of loveliness--seen now
so seldom, but remembered so well? It may well be so. _Voe miseris!_
Every other phase of mortal and immortal beauty has ten thousand
representatives in Gehenna, save only _this_. Surely few lost spirits
carry the stamp of innocence on their brows, even so far as the broad
gate with the dreary legend over its door: "Leave hope behind you." Seen
very seldom--only when across the great Gulf, the souls in torment catch
a glimpse of angelic features melting in intense, unavailing pity; but,
perchance, well remembered, for where should freshness and innocence be
found, if not in the faces of the Cherubim? And his punishment would be
incomplete if it were given to the Prince of Hell to forget sights and
sounds familiar to the Son of the Morning.

It is worth while to realize how dwarfed, and trivial, and childish,
appears all tales of human ruin and shame and sorrow, by the side of the
weird primeval tragedy. Well: the brute creation sympathizes with _us_
in our pain; but who are we, that we should presume to pity a fallen
archangel? Truly, pious and right-minded men have done so, in all
simplicity and sincerity. The story of the Perthshire minister is always
quoted among the _Traits of Scotch Humour_; but I am sure the amiable
zealot intended nothing irreverent, and saw nothing grotesque in his
prayer. He had exhausted, you know, his memory and imagination in
interceding not only for his own species and the lower orders of
animals, but for "every green thing upon the earth," beside. He paused
at last and took breath; then he went on--rather diffidently, as if
conscious of treading on perilous ground, but in an accent plaintively
persuasive--

"An' noo, ma freends, let us praigh for the De'il; naebody praighs for
the puir De'il!"

That is not a bad digression--taking it as a digression--from the
boudoir of a _petite maitresse_ to the bottomless pit. Whatever
connexion may ultimately be established between the two, I am aware that
it is neither usual nor justifiable to place them in such close
proximity.

But here I make my first and last act of contrition for all such
divagations, in season and out of season, past, present, and to come.
Reader of mine! you have always the resource (which I would were
available in society) of banishing your interlocutor when he bores you,
by skipping the paragraph, or throwing the book aside. I may not hope to
instruct you; it is quite enough if your interest and yourself are kept
awake. Whether this object would be promoted by writing "to order," is
more than doubtful. If one's movements are naturally awkward and slow,
they will scarcely gain in grace with the fetters on. Let us not force
our talent, such as it is. Few qualities are more useful or estimable
than that grave pertinacity of purpose which never loses sight for a
moment of the end it has had in view all along. But then, one must
_have_ a purpose to start with; and up to the present point, this volume
is guiltless of any such element of success. It is in the nature of some
to be desultory; and there are heretics who think that the prizes of
Life--let alone those of authorship--would hardly be worth the winning,
if one were bound down under heavy penalties to go on straight to the
goal, never turning aside for refreshment by the way.

_Peccavimus, et peccabimus._ If this literary ship must be shattered on
rocks ahead, we will, at least, make no obeisance to the powers that
have ordained the wreck. O younger son of Telamon! you have spoken well,
if not wisely. The wrath of adverse gods is mighty, and hath prevailed;
but let us die as we have lived--impenitent and self-reliant, without
benefit of Athene.

It is nearly time, though, to go back to Lady Mildred. She is still
sitting where we left--I am ashamed to say how long ago--in the same
attitude of indolent grace; a very refreshing picture to look upon after
such a sultry day, the ideal of repose and comfortable coolness. No
mortal eye had ever seen "my lady's" cheek unbecomingly flushed, or her
lips blue with cold; it must be confessed that she seldom threw a
chance away in taking care of herself, and had a wholesome dread of the
caprices of our English atmosphere. She had been amusing herself for the
last two hours with one of the paper-covered _novelettes_ which flow in
a stream (happily) perennial from that modest fountain head in the
Burlington Arcade, mollifying our insular manners, and not permitting us
to be brutified. The labour of perusing even this unremittingly, seemed
to be too much for the fair student, for ever and anon the volume would
sink down on her lap, and she would pause for several minutes, musing on
its philosophy--or on graver things--with half-closed eyes.

While she was indulging in one of these reveries or semi-siestas, a
quick, elastic step came down the long corridor. Lady Mildred could not
have been dozing (nobody ever does allow that they have been
sleeping--out of their beds), for she recognised the footfall instantly,
though it brushed the deep-piled carpet so lightly as to have been to
most ears inaudible: simultaneously with the timid knock that seemed to
linger on the panel, her clear quiet voice said--

"Come in, my Helen!"

In these prosaic days of Realism, when Oreads and Undines, and other
daughters of the elements, have become somewhat coy and unattainable, it
would be hard to conjure up a fairer vision than that which now stood
hesitating on the threshold. I will try to give you a faint idea of
Helen Vavasour as she appeared then, in the spring-tide of her
marvellous loveliness.

She had inherited the magnificent stature for which her family had for
centuries been remarkable, united to the excessive refinement of contour
and delicacy of feature which had made "the Dene Beauties"
world-renowned. Her figure, though very slight, betrayed no signs of
fragility, and you guessed that the development that three more years
must bring would make it quite faultless. Her hair was darker than her
mother's by many shades--equally fine and silky, but thrice as
luxuriant; its intense black was relieved by a sheen of deep glossy
blue, such as Loxias may have worshipped in the tresses of the
violet-haired daughter of Pitane. Her complexion is much fairer than is
often found where all the other points are so decidedly a brunette's;
dazzling from its transparent purity, it was never brilliant, except
when some passing emotion deepened the subdued shade of delicate, tender
pink into the fuller rose-tint that lines a rare Indian shell. So with
her eyes--long, large, and velvet-soft, they stole upon you at first
with a languid, dreamy fascination; but you never realized their hidden
treasures till amusement, or love, or anger made them glitter like the
Southern Cross. It was one of those faces bearing even in childhood the
impress of pride and decision, over which half a century may pass
without rendering one line in them harsher or harder.

If you have ever taken up a plain photograph, untouched by the
miniature-painter, of the form and features (for the moment) deemed
fairest of all, you will sympathise with my utter dissatisfaction in
reviewing this abortive attempt at portraiture. The stereoscope brings
out a certain similitude; but what a cold, colourless parody on glorious
reality! That very fixedness of expression--in the original so
perpetually varied--makes it an insult to our incarnate idol.

Long and attentive study, for her own or her friends' benefit, had
taught Lady Mildred to read very fluently the language of the eyes; the
glance of the Expert withdrew their secret from Helen's, during those
few seconds while she stood hesitating in the doorway; and a shy,
conscious happiness glowing round her like a soft halo, made surmise
certainty.

O laughter-loving daughter of Dione! your divinity is trampled in the
dust, and none worship now at the shrines of Aphrodite, Astarte, or
Ashtaroth; but one feels tempted at times to turn Pagan again, were it
only to believe in your presence and power. Other, and younger, and
fairer faces have borne tokens of having met you in the wood, since your
breath left a freshness and radiance on the swart features of the false
sea-rover, that carried Dido's heart by storm.

Yes, Lady Mildred guessed the truth at once, and all her self control
was needed to repress a sigh of vexation and impatience, which very
nearly escaped her; it bore her through, though, triumphantly. Nothing
could be more placable and propitious than her smile; nothing more
playfully than her gesture, as she beckoned Helen to her side:--

"My darling! what has happened in your ride to agitate you so? I can see
you are not much hurt. Come and make confession instantly."

This was apparently the young lady's intention, for she had evidently
come straight to the boudoir after dismounting; she was still in her
riding-dress, and had only taken off her Spanish hat. While her mother
was speaking she came near with the swift, springy step which made her
inimitable, and knelt down by the low couch, half-concealing her glowing
face and sparkling eyes.

If there is any written manual adapted to such rifle-practice, (I mean
where a young woman has to fire off at her parent a piece of
intelligence particularly important or startling), I fancy, here, it
would run thus--"At the word 'three,' sink down at once on the right
knee, six inches to the right and twelve inches to the rear of the left
heel, and square with the foot, which is to be under the body and
upright"--the great difference being, that the fair recruit is "_not_ to
fix the eye steadfastly on an object in front."

So far, certainly, Helen acted up to the formula provided for her case;
but she had not been much drilled, and was indeed singularly exempt from
most of the little weaknesses, conventionalisms, and _minauderies_ which
are, justly or unjustly, attributed to modern damosels. Natures like
hers affect, as a rule, no more diffidence than they feel, and are
seldom unnecessarily demonstrative, however small and select their
audience and however dramatic the piece they are playing. So, after a
few minutes' silence, she looked up and said, quite quietly and simply--

"Mamma, Alan asked me this afternoon to marry him; and--I love him
dearly."

The two voices were strangely alike in their accent and inflexions; but
the girl's voice, even when, as now, somewhat tremulous and uncertain,
was mellower in its rich cadences, fuller and rounder in its music.

Lady Mildred clasped her daughter's waist, and bent down to kiss her,
repeatedly, with passionate tenderness. When the close embrace was
ended, she lingered yet for a few seconds with her cheek pillowed on
Helen's forehead; during those seconds her features were set, and her
lips tense and rigid; that brief interval of self-indulgence lasted just
so long as it would have taken her to utter the words--"It shall never
be."

Now, mark; the daughter was kneeling at her mother's feet, as she might
have knelt to say the first prayer of infancy; she had just told the
secret which involved her life's hope of happiness--whether wrongly or
rightly founded it matters not; the mother sate there, with a firm, cool
resolve at her heart to crush the hope and frustrate the purpose; and
yet she kissed her child without shivering or shrinking. To our rough
common sense it would seem, that caress more cruel in its falsehood,
more base in its deliberate treachery, never was bestowed since that one
over which angels wept and devils shouted for joy--the kiss given in the
Garden of Gethsemane.

But who are we, that we should criticize the policy of a Mother of
England, cavil at her concessions to expediency, or question the
rectitude of her intentions? They are white-hot Protestants, many of
them, but none the less do they cherish and act upon the good old Jesuit
maxim--"The end justifies the means." Unluckily, sometimes even _their_
sagacity and foresight are baffled in guessing what the end of all will
be. You have read _Aspen Court_, of course? Do you remember Cyprian
Heywood's definition of a parable?--"A falsehood in illustration of
truth." "My lady" affected this convenient figure of speech a good deal;
her first words now were decidedly parabolical.

"My dearest child, you have quite taken my breath away. I cannot tell
yet whether I am sorry or glad to hear this. It comes so very suddenly!"

"Ah, mamma, say at least that you are not angry--with Alan," the soft
voice pleaded.

Lady Mildred did not think it necessary to remain long astounded, being
always averse to unnecessary expenditure of time or trouble. So she
answered, after drawing one or two deep, agitated breaths (wonderfully
well done), with intense gentleness of manner and tone--

"How could I be angry, darling? Next to Max, and yourself, and your
father, I think I love Alan better than anything in the world. He has
been rash and wild, of course; but I believe he is quite good and steady
now. I am sure he will try and make you happy. Every one will exclaim
against your imprudence, and mine; but we will not look forward
despondently. Only you must not be impatient; you _must_ wait and hope.
You don't know as well as I do what difficulties are in the way. Perhaps
I ought to have foreseen what was likely to happen, when you and Alan
were thrown so much together as you have been lately; but I never
dreamt--" she stopped, compressing her lips, as if annoyed that a truth,
for once, was escaping them. "Well--never mind; confess, Helen, you did
not fear that _I_ should oppose your wishes? You know my first object in
life is to see you happy; and I have not often contradicted you, have I,
since you were old enough to have a will of your own?"

I fancy that most damsels, under similar circumstances, would have been
of Miss Vavasour's opinion--"That there never was such a darling
mother." She did not express it very intelligibly, though; and, indeed,
it must be confessed, that the conversation from this point was of a
somewhat incoherent and irrational nature. Feminine example is
miraculously contagious; if the fountain of tears is once unlocked, the
gentle influence of the Naiad will be sure to descend on every womanly
bosom within the circle of its spray. I do not mean to imply that upon
the present occasion there was any profuse weeping; but they got into a
sort of _caressive_ and altogether childish frame of mind--a condition
very unusual with either mother or daughter. It may be questioned, if
the sympathetic weakness displayed by Lady Mildred was altogether
assumed. The most accomplished actresses have sometimes so identified
themselves with their parts, as to ignore audience and foot-lights, and
become natural in real emotion. Five minutes, however, were more than
enough to restore one of the parties to her own calm, calculating self.
Another yet fonder caress told Helen, as plainly as words could have
done, that the audience was ended: as soon as she was alone, Lady
Mildred fell back into her old quiet, musing attitude. But the French
novel was not taken up again; its late reader had a plot, if not a
romance, of her own, to interest her now. Whether the thoughts that
chased one another so rapidly through that busy brain were kindly or
angry, whether the glimpses of the future were gloomy or hopeful--the
smooth, white brow and steady lips betrayed, neither by frown nor smile.




CHAPTER IV.

A WAIF FROM A WRECK.


"Look into a man's Past, if you would understand his Present, or guess
at his Future." So spake some sage, name unknown, but probably
intermediate in date between the Great King and Mr. M. F. Tupper. The
rule is not implicitly to be relied on, but perhaps there is as much of
truth in it as in most apophthegms of proverbial philosophy.

So it may save some time and trouble hereafter, if we sketch briefly now
some of Alan Wyverne's antecedents; for he is to be the chief character
in this story, which has no _hero_, properly so-called, nor heroine
either.

The main facts are very soon told: his twenty-first birthday saw him in
possession of a perfectly unencumbered estate of L12,000 a year, and all
the accumulations that two paragon guardians had toiled to amass during
an unusually long minority; his twenty-eighth dawned on a comparative
pauper.

The last score of centuries have taught us many things; amongst others,
to go down hill with a certain caution and timidity, if not with
sobriety. We never hear now of those great disasters to which the very
vastness of their proportions lent a false grandeur; where a colossal
fortune foundered suddenly, leaving on the world's surface a vortex of
turbulence and terror, such as surrounds the spot where a three-decker
has gone down. The Regent and his _roues_ were wild in their generation,
but they never quite attained the antique magnificence of recklessness.
The expenses of a contested county election fifty years back, would have
shown poorly by the AEdile's balance-sheet, A. C. 65, when Caesar laughed
to see his last _sestertium_ vanish in the brilliancy of the Circensian
Games. What modern general would carry L20,000 of debt as lightly as he
did half-a-million, when he went out to battle with the Lusitanian? If
we even hear nowadays of a like liability, it is probably in connexion
with a great commercial "smash," involving curious disclosures as to the
capabilities of stamped paper, and the extent of public credulity; but
the interest of such rarely spreads west of Temple-bar. Truth to
say--however moving the tale may be to the unfortunates ruined by the
delinquent, there is little romance to be extracted out of mercantile
atrocities.

Nevertheless, if you only give him time, and don't hurry him beyond his
stride, a dwarf will "go to the dogs" just as easily and surely as a
giant. After our _mesquine_ fashion, that journey is performed so
constantly, that only some peculiarities in Alan's case make it worth
noting at all.

Few men have trodden the road to ruin with such a perfectly smooth and
even pace; there was no rush or hurry about it from beginning to end;
nothing like a crash to attract notice or scandal. He was known to bet
high and play deep; but no one spoke of him at the clubs as having lost
an extraordinary stake on any one night, nor did the chroniclers of the
Turf ever allude to him amongst those "hit hard" on any single event.
_One_ destructive element never showed itself throughout his career. It
must have been gratifying to those much-abused Hetaerae to reflect (do
they ever reflect at all?) that none could charge any one of the
sisterhood with having aided in Wyverne's downfall. Reckless and
extravagant as the son of Clinias, he escaped--at least Timandra. More
than one scruple, probably, helped him to maintain a continence which
soon became so well-known, that the most persevering of feminine fowlers
never thought of laying her snares in his way. Something might be
ascribed to principles learnt at his dead mother's knee, which all the
contagion of Bohemia failed quite to efface--something to a chivalrous
reverence for the sex, which withheld him from deliberately abetting in
its open degradation--something to the pride of race, with which he was
thoroughly imbued. He loved his ancient name too dearly, to see it
dragged through the dust past the statue of Achilles, at the
chariot-wheels of the fairest Phryne of them all. For once--hearing a
story of human folly and frailty, you asked, "_Dove la donna?_" and
waited in vain for a reply.

If the Sirens failed to seduce Wyverne, that was about the only peril or
temptation from which he escaped scathless. Profuse hospitality all the
year round in London, Leicestershire, and at his home in the north, cost
something: a string of ten horses in training (besides yearlings and
untried two-year-olds), which only won when their owner had backed
something else heavily, cost more: backing other men's bills _currente
calamo_, receiving no substantial considerations for so doing, cost most
of all. Alan's bold, careless handwriting was as well known in a certain
branch of commerce as the official signature on the Bank of England's
notes. There was joy in Israel when they saw his autograph: Ezekiel and
Solomon--most cautious of their tribe (those crack bill-discounters are
always lineally descended, it would seem, from some prophet or
king)--smacked their bulbous lips in satisfaction as they clutched the
paper bearing his endorsement: their keen eyes looked three months
forward into futurity, and saw the spoil of the Egyptian secure. Alan's
own resources, though rapidly diminishing, always sufficed his own
wants: but he never tired of paying these disinterested liabilities as
long as his friends could furnish him with any decent excuse for his
doing so: if the defaulter failed in making out even a shadow of a case,
Wyverne still paid, but never consorted with him afterwards. Then the
dark side of his character came out. Generous and kind-hearted to a
fault, he was at times obstinate to relentlessness: slow to take offence
or to suspect intentional injury, he was yet slower in forgiving or
forgetting either: he did not trouble himself to detect the falsehood at
the bottom of any tale of distress, but against imposture carried with a
high hand he set his face as it were a millstone.

Hercules St. Levant (of the Chilian Cuirassiers) would tell you--if he
could be brought to speak coherently on the subject--that he dates his
ruin from the day when he miscalculated the extent of Sir Alan Wyverne's
long-suffering or laziness. Surely some of us can remember that
wonderful Copper Captain--the round, ringing tones tempting you with a
point over the proper odds--the scarfs and waistcoats blinding in their
gorgeousness, so "loud" that you _heard_ them coming all the way up from
the distance post--the supernatural whiskers, whose sable volutes shaded
his broad shoulders like the leaves of a talipat-palm? Hercules was very
successful at first: he must have started with a nominal capital, but he
had plenty of courage, some judgment, and more luck; so, by dint of
industry, and now and then picking up crumbs from the table of those by
whom the "good things" of the turf are shared, he contrived to ruffle it
for awhile with the best of them. Men of mark and high estate would meet
and hold communion with him--as they have done with deeper and darker
villains--on the neutral ground at "The Corner," without caring to
inquire too closely what Cacique had signed his commission, or on what
foughten-fields the rainbow of his ribbons was won. With common prudence
he might have held his own till now. But St. Levant was a buccaneer to
the backbone: he spent his winnings as lavishly as any one of the young
patricians whom he delighted to honour and imitate; and took his ease in
the sunshine, scorning to make the slightest provision for the season of
the rains. It came at last, in an Epsom Summer Meeting. The adverse
Fates had it all their own way there: several of the Captain's
certainties were overturned, and several promising "plants" were
withered in their bud. It was the fourth "day of rebuke and blasphemy,"
and still the battle went hard against the Peruvian plunger. The Oaks
dealt him the _coup de grace_: it was won by an extreme outsider.
Hercules saw the number go up, and staggered out of the enclosure like a
drunken man, with hardly breath enough left to hiss out a curse between
his white lips. "Hecuba" was one of six that Wyverne had taken with him
against the field for an even thousand: her name had never been
mentioned in the betting at the time, and Alan only selected her because
he chanced to know her owner and breeder well.

St. Levant was ruined horse-and-foot, without power or hope of
redemption: that one bet would have pulled him through. Some pleasanter
engagement had kept Wyverne away from The Corner on the "comparing day,"
and with his usual carelessness he had even omitted to send his book
down by other hands: Hercules saw a last desperate chance, and grasped
at it, as drowning men will do. He appeared at the settling with his
well-known betting book (gorgeous, like all his other belongings, in
green morocco and gold,) but Hecuba's name was replaced by the second
favourite's. He chanced to have in his possession a fac-simile of the
original volume, and had copied out, in the interim, every bet it
contained, with this one trifling alteration. The matter came before the
authorities, of course. The discussion that ensued, though stormy (on
one side) was very short and decisive: the swindler's foamy
asseverations were shivered, like spray, on the granite of the other's
calm, contemptuous firmness. The judges did not hesitate long in
pronouncing against St. Levant their sentence of perpetual banishment.
All his piteous petitions addressed to Wyverne in after days to induce
the latter to obtain a mitigation of his punishment, remained absolutely
unanswered. There still survives--a pale, blurred shadow of his former
self--as it were, the _wraith_ of the Great Captain. We see occasionally
a hirsute head rising above the sea of villanous figures and faces that
seethe and surge against the rails of the enclosure: we catch glimpses
of a meteoric waistcoat flashing through the surrounding seediness; and
we hear a voice, thunderous as that of the elder Ajax, dominating the
din of the meaner _melee_; but there is no reversal of his doom. The
poor lost spirit must ramp and roar among the "welshers" of the outer
darkness, for the paradise of the Ring is closed to him for evermore.

Everybody--including the two or three friends who might hope to ride his
horses--was sorry for Wyverne when a heavy fall over timber laid him up,
quite early in the season, with a broken arm and collar-bone. The only
pity was, that the fortunate accident should not have happened three
years earlier. The indoor resources of a country-town, where all one's
associates hunt five days a-week at least, are limited. One morning Alan
felt so bored, that the whim seized him to look into his affairs, and
ascertain how he stood with the world: so he went for his solicitor (as
much for the sake of having some one to talk to as anything else), and
went in at business with great patience and determination. The men who
sat with him on the second evening after the lawyer's arrival, thought
Wyverne looking paler and graver than usual, but he listened to their
account of the run with apparently undiminished interest, and
sympathized with his friends' mishaps or successes as cordially as ever.
Only once his lips shook a little as he answered in the negative a
question--"If he felt in much pain?" Yet that morning had been a sore
trial both of brain and nerve. It is not a pleasant time, when you have
to call for the reckoning of ten thousand follies and faults, and to pay
it too--when the bitter _quart d'heure de Rabelais_ is prolonged through
days.

Though they arrived then at a tolerably accurate idea of the state of
Alan's finances, it took months to complete the final arrangements. When
everything in town and country that could well be sold had been disposed
of, Wyverne was left with a life-income of just as many hundreds a-year
as he had started with thousands. But all his personal debts, and
liabilities incurred for others, were paid in full. The only absolute
luxuries that he retained (with the exception of all the presents that
he had ever received) were the two best hunters in his stud, and his
gray Arab, "Maimouna." That residue might have been nearly doubled, if
Alan would have consented to dismantle the Abbey. But he could not help
looking upon its antique furniture and fittings in the light of
heirlooms. He had added little to them when he came into his
inheritance: he took nothing away when he lost it. So the great, grave
mansion still retained its old-fashioned and somewhat faded
magnificence; and few changes, so far, were to be seen there, except
that the grass grew long on the lawns, and the flowers wandered over the
parterres at their own sweet will, and instead of thick reeks of
unctuous smoke, only a thin blue line stole out modestly from two or
three chimneys now and then in the shooting season. The game was still
kept up, and the farmers watched it as jealously and zealously as if
they had been keepers in their landlord's pay.

The sternest Stoic alive could scarcely have fallen into his new
position more naturally, or adapted himself to its requirements more
gracefully, than did that gay, careless Epicurean. If he had any
regrets for the irrevocable Past, he kept them to himself, and never
wearied his friends for their sympathy or compassion; he accused no one
with reference to his ruin; I doubt if he even blamed himself very
severely. There was no more of recklessness in his conduct, than there
was of despondency in his demeanour; but he comported himself exactly as
you would expect to see a man do, of good birth and breeding, and
average steadiness, born to a modest competency. His experience, brief
as it was, might have taught him to be somewhat sceptical as to the
virtues of our human nature, more especially having regard to such
trifles as truth and honesty; but no amount of punishment will beat
wisdom or knowledge into a confirmed dunce or idler. His constitutional
indolence may have had something to say to it; but to the last hour of
his life Alan Wyverne never learnt to be suspicious, or sullen, or
cynical.

To be sure, the world in this case broke through an established rule,
and behaved better to him when he was at the bottom of the wheel than it
had ever done at the culminating point of his fortunes. There seemed to
be a general impression that he had been very badly treated by some
"person or persons unknown," and it became the fashion to compassionate
Wyverne (in his absence) exceedingly. People who in former days met and
parted from him quite indifferently, found out suddenly that they had
always been very fond of him, and contended as to who should attract him
to their house in the hunting or shooting season. The Marquis of
Montserrat, for instance, roused himself from where he lay, surrounded
by every delight of a Mussulman's paradise, in his summer palace by the
Bosphorus, to send a sort of _firmun_, giving Alan powers of life and
death over the keepers and coverts of all his territory marching with
the lands of Wyverne Abbey; an instance of good-nature which was the
more remarkable, inasmuch as the great Absentee not only carries
laziness and selfishness to a pitch of sublimity, but has of late
registered a vow against befriending any one under any circumstances
whatever. This last and rather superfluous hardening process was brought
about in this wise.

Some years ago there appeared suddenly in the firmament of fashion a
little star; no one knew whence it came--though it was supposed to have
risen in the East; and when, after twinkling brightly for a brief space,
it shot down into utter darkness, no one cared to ask whither it went.
Mr. Richardson had advanced just so far in intimacy with the magnates of
the land that they began to call him "Tom" (his Christian name was
Walter), when the crash came, and he subsided into nothingness. He lived
upon that recollection, and little else, for the remainder of his days.
Yet one chance was given him. Wandering about the Continent, he met the
Marquis of Montserrat. The mighty golden Crater and the poor shattered
Amphora had once floated side by side, for a league or two, down the
same stream. After a _tete-a-tete_ dinner (the _cotelettes a la
Pompadour_ were a success), old recollections, or his own Clos Vougeot,
made the peer's heart warm, and he bethought himself how he might serve
the unlucky pauper. At last he said,

"Tom, there is a regular establishment at Grandmanoir, and there always
will be in my time, though I never mean to see it again. Go and live
there; you'll be more comfortable than in lodgings, and save rent and
firing besides. Make yourself quite at home; slay the venison; eat the
fruit of the vine, and drink the juice thereof (the cellar ought to be
well filled); and grow as fat as Jeshurun, if you like. I only insist on
one thing. Whether matters are going on well or ill in the house or out
of it--don't bother _me_ about them. I don't want to hear a word on the
subject. Is it settled so?"

You may fancy Tom Richardson's profuse thanks and his great joy and
gladness at finding himself chatelain of Grandmanoir. The _valetaille_
treated him at first with no small kindness (he was a meek little man,
averse to giving unnecessary trouble), and for some months all went
merrily. But before a year had passed there began to dawn on the
stranger's mind suspicions, which soon changed into certainties. There
existed at Grandmanoir the most comprehensive and consistent system of
robbery that could well be conceived. It would have been harder to find
one honest menial there than ten saints in a City of the Plain.
Everybody was in it, from the agent and house-steward, who plundered _en
prince_, down to the scullion (fat, but _not_ foolish), who peculated
_en paysanne_. There was commercial blood in Tom Richardson's veins, and
the sight of these enormous misdeeds vexed his righteous soul
exceedingly. One day he could withhold himself no longer, but sat down
in a fury and wrote,

"My dear lord,--In spite of your prohibition, I feel it my duty," &c.

And so went through all the disagreeable details regularly. The reply
came by return of post, though not exactly in the shape that he
expected. The steward came in with scant ceremony, an evil smile on his
face (he probably guessed at the truth), charged with his lord's
commands that the visitor should quit Grandmanoir before sunset and
never return there. Thus rudely was broken the last of poor Tom's golden
dreams. The Great Marquis, when the circumstances were alluded to, never
could be brought to see any harshness in his own conduct, but spoke of
his _protege's_ rather plaintively as "an instance of human ingratitude
that he was really not prepared for." He did not give the species many
chances of surprising him in _that_ way again.

If the chiefs of his tribe were ready to comfort and cherish the
disabled "brave," now that he could no longer put on paint and plume,
and go forth with them on the "war-trail," be sure that the matrons and
maidens were yet more active and demonstrative in sympathy. There must
be extraordinarily bad features in the case of distress that fails to
secure feminine compassion; except in a matrimonial point of view, our
sisters rarely consider a man deteriorated because he is ruined. Though
he was a general favourite in his set, Wyverne possessed many more real
friends of the other sex than of his own. If there is anything in
reciprocity, it was only fair that it should be so. Alan's reverence and
affection for Womanhood in the abstract were so intense and sincere, as
to be almost independent of individual attributes. His companion for the
moment might be the homeliest, humblest, least attractive female you can
conceive; but with the first word his tone and manner would change and
soften in a way that she could not but perceive, even if she did not
appreciate it. Most of them _did_ appreciate it, though, and this was
the secret of his invariable and proverbial success. Wyverne could like
a woman honestly, and let her know it, without a thought of love, and
could always render courtesy where admiration, or even respect,
unfortunately, were out of the question. However good the sport might be
in other ways, he considered the day comparatively lost in which the
feminine element was wanting. While his comrades were resting for an
hour before dinner--dead beat with seven hours' hard stalking in the
corries of Benmac-Dhui--Alan would be found loitering about the door of
the chief keeper's bothy, carrying on, under extreme difficulties of
dialect, a flirtation on first principles with his orange-haired
daughter. He seemed to derive some refreshment from the process, though
the absence of a beard, and the (occasional) presence of a petticoat,
were about the only distinctive characteristics of her sex that the
robust Oread could boast of. When the season was at the flood, he would
spend hours of an afternoon in the quiet twilight of a boudoir in
Mayfair, by the side of an invalid's sofa. Sooth to say, that room held
no ordinary attractions. Lady Rutherglen had been a famous beauty in the
Waterloo year; and though long illness had somewhat sharpened her
delicate features, she still retained the low sweet voice and winning
manner which had made wild work with the heart of the Great Czar (the
imperial wooing was utterly wasted, for the witty, wayward Countess
could guard her honour as well as the stupidest of Pamelas); there was
hardly a wrinkle on the little white hand, and the lovely silver hair
looked softer and silkier now than it had ever done in its golden prime.

Sad and strange shapes of sin and sorrow cross our path sometimes, as we
walk home from club or ball through the early morning. Saddest, perhaps,
and strangest of all, is the spectacle of one of God's creatures,
unsexed and deformed by passion and fiery liquor, struggling in blind
undiscriminating rage, and shrieking out defiance alike of friends and
foes. The Menad ceased to be romantic when the Great Pan died. Erigone
may be magnificent on canvas, but even Beranger failed in making her
attractive on paper: in flesh and blood she is simply repellent. Public
sympathy would side rather with Pentheus nowadays than with his cruelly
convivial mother; and we hold the disguise of drink to be the least
becoming of all Myrrha's masquerades. Such a sight affected Wyverne with
a disgust and pain that few men could have fully appreciated; but he
rarely would pass by without an attempt at mediation. They say that his
kind, gentle voice was almost magical in its soothing power. The
exasperated guardian of the night would relax the roughness of his
grasp; and the "strayed reveller" would subside from shrill fury into
murmurs placable and plaintive, yielding, in spite of the devil that
possessed her, to the charm of his cordial compassion and invincible
courtesy.

All things considered, womankind had rather a better reason for petting
Alan than could be given for most of their whims. When his resources
were almost unlimited, he was always so perfectly regardless of time and
trouble and cost in endeavouring to gratify even their unexpressed
wishes, that it was no wonder if, when the positions were reversed, he
began to reap his reward, and found out that he had laid up treasure
against the time of need.

I have said more than enough to give you some insight into a character
in which the elements of hardness and ductility, passionate impulse and
consummate coolness, recklessness and self-control, were strangely
mingled, like the gold, brass, iron, and clay in the frame of the giant
Image that stood beside the prophet in his trance, on the banks of "the
great river Hiddekel."

With all his faults and failings, Hubert Vavasour would have chosen him
out of broad England for a son-in-law. Lady Mildred thought that such a
bridal dress would become her daughter worse than a winding-sheet.

Which of the two was right? Probably neither. There is little wisdom in
extremes.




CHAPTER V.

THE GIFTS OF A GREEK.


When Helen came into the cedar drawing-room (the place of assembly
before dinner) she found her father alone. His face was rather
thoughtful and grave, but it brightened as she came quickly to his side,
and nothing but intense love and tenderness remained, when she rested
her clasped hands on his shoulder, and looked up at him with a deepened
rose colour on her cheek, and a question in her great, earnest eyes. If
she had dreaded the meeting, all fear would have vanished even before
the strong, true arm circled her waist, and the kind, honest voice that
had never yet lied to man or woman murmured "God bless you, my own
darling!" Helen felt happier and safer then than when she rose from
receiving her mother's more elaborate caress and benediction.

Nothing, surely, can be more natural or justifiable under such
circumstances than a paternal embrace; therefore there was no particular
reason for those two starting apart, with rather a guilty and
conscience-stricken expression of countenance, when the door opened, and
Lady Mildred glided in with the even noiseless step and languid grace
that all her friends knew so well, and some admired so much. The
appearance of things did not greatly please her, neither did it trouble
her much. She had a high opinion of her own resources, and a very poor
one of the talents against which she meant to contend; so she regarded
the signs of coalition before her with the same contemptuous
indifference that a minister (with a safe majority) would display, when
the opposition threatens a division, or that a consummate
billiard-player would feel, when his antagonist (to whom he gives ten
points under the proper odds) makes a grand but unproductive fluke.

As a rule, unless her adversary was extraordinarily skilful or vicious,
that accomplished duellist preferred _taking_ his fire; so on this
occasion Hubert Vavasour had to speak first. He came to time gallantly,
though rather nervously.

"You have heard what these foolish children have been doing and saying
this afternoon, mamma? I suppose they ought to be scolded or sent to bed
supperless, or otherwise chastised; but I cannot play the stern father,
and you don't look much like Mother Hubbard. _We_ were foolish and
childish once, Mildred; surely you remember?"

If his own life or fortunes had been at stake, there would not have been
half such pitiful pleading in his eyes and his tone.

Lady Mildred's memory was unusually retentive, but it did not accuse her
of any such weakness. Her imagination must have been tasked before she
could have pleaded guilty; nevertheless she called up a little conscious
look with admirable success, and smiled with infinite sweetness. Perhaps
there was the faintest sarcastic inflexion in the first few words of her
reply, but it needed a sharper ear to detect it than either her husband
or daughter owned.

"Dear Hubert, you are growing romantic yourself again, or you would
scarcely call Alan a child. If he is one he is very wise for his years.
But on the principle of love levelling everything, I suppose all ages
are the same when people forget to be prudent. Of course it was a great
surprise to me. I can hardly realize it yet; but--has not Helen told
you? I _do_ approve more than I ought to do, and I hope and pray that
good may come of it to both of them. I love Alan nearly as well as I do
my own Helen, and she and you know how dearly that is."

She wound her arm round her daughter's waist as she spoke, and drew her
close till the two soft cheeks met. It was the prettiest _pose_ you
can fancy--nothing theatrical or affected about it--enough of
tender _abandon_ to satisfy the most fastidious critic of
attitudes--beautifully maternal without being "gushingly" demonstrative;
but not a hair in "my lady's" careful braids was ruffled, nor a fold in
her perfect dress disarranged. The embrace was still in progress, when
the door opened again and Alan Wyverne joined them, only preceding by a
few seconds the announcement of dinner. It is just possible that the
caress might have ended more abruptly, if one ear in the cedar
drawing-room had not been quick enough to distinguish his footsteps from
that of the Chief Butler--a portly man, with a grand and goodly
presence, in his gait sedate and solemn--who ever bore himself with the
decent dignity befitting one long in authority, conscious of virtue, and
weighing seventeen stone.

Nevertheless Lady Mildred's knowledge of her nephew's character made her
aware that it would not answer to try with him the line of strategy
which might succeed with her husband and daughter. It was very unlikely
that he would be taken in by the feint of unconditional surrender. Alan
had not devoted himself to the society of womankind for so many years
without acquiring a certain insight into their charming wiles. It was
very easy to persuade, but wonderfully difficult to delude him. She did
not like him the worse for that; indeed she only spoke the truth when
she said he was one of her chief favourites. Under any other
circumstances she would have grudged neither time nor trouble to serve
him, either by gratifying his wishes or advancing his fortunes, and
perhaps really regretted the stern political necessity which made it an
imperative duty to foil him if possible. Her game now was the
temporising one--to treat, but under protest. She looked up once in
Alan's face as she leant on his arm on their way to the dining-room.
That glance was meant to combine affection with a slight tinge of
reproach, but a gleam of covert amusement in her eyes almost spoilt the
intended effect. Lady Mildred had a strong sense of humour, and, after
the first vexation was over, she could not help laughing at her own
carelessness and want of prevision. The fact was, she believed Wyverne
capable of any amount of flirtation with any creature wearing a kirtle;
but, with regard to serious matrimonial intentions, she had held him
safe as if he had been vowed to celibacy; in default of a better, she
would have allowed him on an emergency to play chaperon to Helen. Lo,
the sheep-dog not only proved faithless to his trust, but was trying to
make off with the flower of the flock, leaving its mistress to
sing--with the "lass of the Cowdenknowes"--

    Ere he had taken the lamb he did,
    I had lieve he had taken them a'.

They were rather a quiet quartette at dinner. Helen was by no means
sentimental, nor did she think it the least necessary to be nervous,
even under the peculiar circumstances; her colour, perhaps, deepened
occasionally by a shade or two, without any obvious reason, and the long
shadowing lashes swept down over her eyes more frequently than usual, as
if desirous of veiling their extraordinary brilliancy; beyond these,
there were no outward and visible signs of perturbation, past or
present; her accomplice's face was a study for its perfect innocence and
calmness. Nevertheless, neither was quite equal to the effort of
discussing utterly uninteresting subjects quite unconcernedly; both had
a good deal to think of, and _one_ had a good deal to prepare for.
Hubert Vavasour was cheerful and happy enough, apparently, but he only
talked by fits and starts; so that it devolved on "my lady" to defray
the expenses of the conversation. She performed her part with infinite
tact and delicacy; it was only the fact of her so rarely taking any
trouble of the sort in a strictly domestic circle (she thought it quite
enough, there, to submit to be amused), that caused the effort to be
observable.

It would be just as easy to make a dam-head of sand water-tight, as to
prevent the knowledge of an event very interesting to one of its members
percolating through a large household within a few hours after it has
happened. You may not see the precise spot where the water soaks
through, and you may never discover the precise channel by which the
intelligence is circulating; but there is the fact, and a very provoking
one too, sometimes. It is unnecessary to say that the probable
engagement of the cousins formed the prominent subject of discussion
that night in the steward's room, though of the circumstances of the
_fiancailles_ everybody was profoundly ignorant. Of course, Allan could
not be closeted with his uncle, and Helen with her mother, immediately
after returning from a _tete-a-tete_ ride, without the domestics drawing
their own conclusions--to say nothing of the traces of emotion which,
perhaps, even that haughty demoiselle failed to dissemble from the
quick-witted Pauline.

The Chief Butler (before alluded to) during a quarter of a century's
servitude in the family had acquired, besides a comfortable competence
and considerable corpulence, a certain astrological talent with regard
to the signs of the times showing themselves within his limited horizon.
He was faithful, too, after his fashion; but--loving his master
much--honoured his mistress more, and was ever especially careful to
ascertain how the wind blew from _that_ quarter. He was wont to preside
over his little parliament like Zeus over the Olympian conclave;
hearkening to, encouraging, and, if need were, controlling the opinions
of the minor deities; on such occasions his words were few, but full of
weight and wisdom. He waited now till, after long discussion, the
majority decided that, "it would be a very nice match, and suitable
everyways" (a feminine voice remarking "What did it matter about
fortune? Sir Alan was good enough for a duchess"); then, slowly and
solemnly, said the portly Thunderer:

    [Greek: os ephath', hoi d' ara pantes aken egenonto siope
    Mython agassamenoi mala gar krateros agoreusen.]

"It may be a match, and it mayn't be a match. I've nothing to say
against Sir Allan, and I wish him well; but there'll be some curious
games up, or I'm mistaken. I doubt my lady ain't altogether pleased
about it--she was so uncommon pleasant at dinner!"

According to one proverb, "No man is a hero to his own valet;" another
tells us, "Bystanders see most of the game." Combining these two, we may
guess how it is that the deepest politicians of private life do not
always succeed in blinding the eyes of their own domestics, however
great an interest they may have in doing so. Perhaps a rash and quite
unfounded contempt for the auricular and mental capacities of a most
intelligent class may sometimes help to throw them off their guard;
though the proudest _lionne_ of our democratic day would hardly care to
emulate the cynicism of that exalted dame (she was nearly allied to the
Great Monarch) who, when discovered in her bath receiving her chocolate
from the hands of a gigantic lacquey, replied to her friend's
remonstrances--"Et tu appelles _ca_ un homme?"

The Squire of Dene was not so clear-sighted as his major-domo: indeed,
that pleasant habit of contemplating things in general through roseate
medium is apt to lead one into errors with regard to objects distant or
near. He thought the aspect of affairs decidedly favourable; so, when
they were alone again, he looked across the table at Wyverne with a
smile full of hope and intelligence--draining at the same time his first
beaker of claret with a gusto not entirely to be ascribed to the flavour
of the rare '34.

"I drink to our castle in Spain," he said; "it seems to me the first
stone has been laid auspiciously."

The other filled a bumper very slowly and drained it deliberately,
before he replied. Surely it was more that curious presentiment of some
counterbalancing evil in the dim background, which so often accompanies
great and unexpected happiness, than any intuitive knowledge of the real
state of things, which prompted the half-sigh--not smothered so soon but
that Vavasour's ear caught it 'flying.'

"It is almost too good to be true, Uncle Hubert. I'm modest about my own
merits; and I think I know pretty well by this time how much luck I
ought to expect. Would it not be wrong to reckon on winning such a prize
as that, without some trouble, and toil, and anxiety? I confess I don't
like these very 'gay' mornings; the clouds are strangely apt to gather
before noon, and one often gets drenched before sunset."

During the short interval that had elapsed since the first confidence
was made, the Squire had signed in his own mind a treaty with his
nephew, offensive and defensive; he had identified himself so thoroughly
with the latter's interests, that it provoked him a good deal now to
meet with something like despondency; he had counted on an exhilaration
at least equal to his own.

"Your poetical vein fails you, Alan; you are scarcely so happy in your
similes as you were three hours ago. That's rather a threadbare one, and
certainly not worth of the occasion; it isn't true, either, as you would
find if your habits were more matutinal. I don't think you know much
about your own merits, or about 'my lady's' intentions; perhaps you do
injustice to both. But--simply to gratify you--we will suppose the
worst; suppose that she is hostile, and only hiding her game. Well, I
believe there is such a thing as paternal authority, though mine has
been in abeyance ever since Max was born: I think I should be equal to
exercising it if we came to extremities. When all one's other
possessions are encumbered, there would be a certain satisfaction in
disposing of a daughter. I'm not aware that any one holds a mortgage on
Helen."

Now Hubert Vavasour spoke in perfect sincerity and singleness of heart,
when he thus purposed to assert a suzerainty quite as unreal as the
kingdom of Jerusalem or the bishopric of Westminster. His chances of
success in such a reactionary movement would have been about equal to
those of a modern French proprietor who, at the marriage of one of his
tenants, should attempt to revive those curious seignorial rights, used
or abused four centuries ago by Giles de Retz and his compeers. Alan
could not but admire the audacity of the resolve; but his sense of the
absurd was touched when he reflected on the utter impossibility of its
accomplishment. Perhaps this last feeling helped to dispel the gloom
which had gathered on his face; at any rate, his smile was gay enough
now to satisfy his sanguine confederate.

"I should like to know the man, Uncle Hubert," he said, "who would
persist in being suspicious or misanthropical after talking to you for
ten minutes. _I_ am not such a natural curiosity. 'Sufficient for the
day is the evil thereof:' that's the only sound and remunerative
philosophy, after all. There has been nothing but good in this day; so I
don't know what ungracious or ungrateful devil possessed me: but you
have fairly exorcised him. Let us do as our fathers did--burn our
galleys, advance our gonfalon, and cry--'_Dex nous aide!_'"

"That's more like the old form," Vavasour replied; "say no more about it
now. The claret stands with you; don't linger over it to-night, I fancy
we are waited for."

Wyverne's first glance on entering the drawing-room searched for his
cousin; he was rather relieved than otherwise at not finding her there;
he felt that the difficulties of the next half hour were best
encountered alone. Lady Mildred was reclining on her usual sofa; close
to it, and just within easy ear-shot of the cushion supporting her head,
was placed a very low and luxurious arm-chair. "My lady" was ever
considerate as to the personal comfort of her victims, and took especial
care that they should not be galled by the ropes that bound them to the
stake; acting, I suppose, on the same benevolent principle which prompts
the Spaniard to deny nothing to those who must die by the garotte on the
morrow.

The proximity was ominous, and far too significant to be unintentional.
The instant Alan saw that chair, he guessed for what use it was
destined, not without a slight apprehensive thrill. Just so may some
forlorn Scottish damsel of the last century, whose flaxen locks snood
might never braid again, have shivered in the cold white penance-sheet,
recognizing the awful Stool on which she was to "dree her doom."
Nevertheless, he accepted the position very gallantly and gracefully,
sinking down easily into the _causeuse_ and nestling comfortably into
its cushions, without any affectation of eagerness or betrayal of
reluctance. As he took up Lady Mildred's little soft hand and kissed it,
his natural caressing manner was tempered by a shade of old-fashioned
courtesy; and even that calm _intrigante_ for the moment was not exempt
from the influence of a dangerous fascination. Do not, however, do her
the injustice to suppose that she once relented in her set purpose, or
faltered one whit in its execution.

It would savour somewhat of repetition, and simply bore you, if all the
conversation that ensued were given in detail. "My lady's" line was
perfect frankness and candour. She alluded pleasantly to the great
matrimonial fortunes that she had projected for Helen, and
confessed--pleasantly, too--her conviction that the alliance now
contemplated was perfectly imprudent, and in a worldly point of view
altogether undesirable; she dilated rather more at length on the
affection for Alan, indulgence to Helen, &c. &c., which induced the
parents to overlook all such objections, and to give their conditional
consent; but even on this point she was not oratorical or prosy.
Nevertheless her hearer was quite aware that there was some more serious
obstacle kept in the background; all these preliminary observations were
so many shots to try the distance; the battery did not take him by
surprise when it opened in earnest.

"Alan, I know it must bore you, now that Helen has come down stairs, to
be obliged to listen to _Madame Mere_; it is very good of you not to
show it: be patient a little longer. I must make you look at one side of
the question that has escaped you, so far, I think; it is so important
to the happiness of both of you that you should see your way clearly. I
am not much afraid of your getting into difficulties again, your lesson
has been sharp enough to cure you of extravagance; but there are
embarrassments worse than any financial ones, which are only tiresome
and annoying, after all. My dear nephew--has it occurred to you yet,
that in changing your _vie de garcon_, you will have to economize in
more ways than one, and wear some chains, though they may be light and
silken?"

"I've hardly had time to realize the position, Aunt Mildred," Wyverne
answered, "but I am conscious of a perfect flower-show of good
resolutions, budding and blossoming already. While I was dressing, I was
considering how I could best get rid of my hunters, and I have almost
decided where to place them."

"You are too eager in beginning self-denial," Lady Mildred said;
"perhaps it will not be necessary to part with your horses _this_
season. But you must settle your future establishment with Helen and
your uncle. _I_ was thinking of some other favourite pursuits of
yours--of handsomer and more dangerous creatures than Red Lancer--though
I suppose he is a picture of a horse, and it always makes me shiver to
see him rear. Yon may be angry with me, and call me prudish or
puritanical if you like; but I _must_ say it. Alan--do you know that I
consider you the most confirmed and incorrigible flirt of my
acquaintance?"

To apply to the speaker either of the two epithets she deprecated would
have been simply impossible. Her bright eyes sparkled with a malicious
amusement and gay triumph, as she marked the effect of her words in the
quaint look of contrition mingled with perplexity which overspread
Wyverne's face--usually so imperturbable. For once in his life, he felt
fairly at a loss for a reply. Those general accusations are remarkably
hard to meet, even when one is conscious of innocence; but woe to the
respondent, if the faintest shadow of self-conviction hangs over his
guilty head! The adverse advocate sees the weak point in a moment, and
bears down on his victim with the full flood of indignant eloquence,
exulting in a verdict already secured.

On this occasion, however, Lady Mildred did not seem inclined to press
her advantage; she interrupted Alan's attempt at a disclaimer, before
his embarrassment could become painful.

"Don't look so dreadfully penitent: you make me laugh when I am quite
determined to be grave. I did not mean to impute to you any dark
criminality. Up to the present time, perhaps, that general devotion has
been rather useful in keeping you out of serious scrapes: you certainly
have been singularly fortunate in that way--or wonderfully discreet.
Besides, I don't mean to lecture you: it is a peculiarity in Helen's
character, not in yours, that makes me give you this warning. I suppose
you have guessed that she is capable of strong attachments; but you have
no idea how exacting she is of undivided love in return. She has only
had friendships (and very few of these) to deal with so far: but I
remember her fretting for days, because her favourite governess would
not give up corresponding with some school friend whom Helen had never
seen, but had magnified into a rival. It is no use disguising the truth
from you, when I cannot disguise it from myself, much as I love my pet.
_You_ would not like her to be faultless? Helen is not captious or
suspicious; but she is absurdly jealous, sometimes. I cannot conceive
how she learnt to be so: she certainly did not inherit the weakness
from her father or me. I believe she would begin to hate a dog or a
horse, if you made it too great a favourite; and words or looks of
yours--perhaps quite innocent and meaningless--might make her more
miserable than I can bear to think of. Dear Alan, it tires me more to
sermonize, than it bores you to be forced to listen; but what would you
have? If a mother has any duties at all, it must be one of them to speak
when danger threatens her own child and another whom she loves almost as
dearly."

A peculiarity of "my lady's" _parables_ was, that not only were they
always plausible and probable, but they generally contained an element
of truth and a slight foundation of fact: it made the deception more
dangerous, because more difficult to detect. Really scientific coiners
do not grudge a certain expense of pure silver to mix with the base
metal: it adds so much sharpness to the outline and clearness to the
ring.

So, though Alan had never till this moment heard of that defect in his
fair cousin's character, he was by no means inclined to disbelieve
entirely in its existence now; simply because he knew his aunt too well
to suppose that she would venture upon an utter fiction which would
refute itself in a very short time. Most men would be somewhat
disquieted by the revelation of a phase in their _fiancee's_ disposition
which is likely to interfere materially with domestic comfort and peace:
but it troubled Wyverne wonderfully little. Whatever her mother might
say or insinuate, he could not believe that the proud, beautiful eyes
would ever condescend to show signs of unworthy or vulgar passions. He
knew that Helen was too frank and impetuous to keep a suspicion
concealed for half-an-hour; and he felt that he could rely on himself
for not giving her serious cause of uneasiness. It was rather a
conviction that he was losing ground every moment, slowly but surely, as
his adversary's game developed itself, that made his face very grave as
he answered, though he was calm and self-possessed again as ever--

"You don't expect me to be so conceited as to allow all you implicate,
Aunt Mildred? Still, I fear I cannot deny that I have found many of your
sex very charming, and that I have not always refrained from confiding
the fact to the parties most interested in hearing it. (I rather pride
myself on that circumlocution!) But, you know, I was never bound over to
keep the peace till now. I think I can give fair securities, though not
very substantial ones. Remember, I pledge all my hopes of happiness--of
happiness greater than I ever dreamt would fall in my way. I don't think
I should risk them lightly. I cannot tell _when_ I began to love Helen;
but I know that for months past the temptation has been growing stronger
which vanquished me to-day: for months past it has made me proud to
compare her with all the women I have ever admired (you say, Aunt
Mildred, their name is legion), and to feel that no one could stand the
comparison for an instant. _That_ ought to be a safeguard, surely,
against other enchantments? I can hardly fancy Helen playing Zara; yet,
if the whim should seize her, I think it would be easy to prove to her
that the part did not suit her at all. It is not my way to be prodigal
of professions; but I am certain of one thing; there is no imaginable
friendship or acquaintance--past, present, or to come--that I would not
give up to spare that child ten minutes' unhappiness; and I should not
call it a sacrifice. You are right to be distrustful when so much is at
stake; but, on my faith and honour, _I_ have no fears."

The clear dark eyes were fastened on Lady Mildred's inscrutable face
very earnestly, as if beseeching that at least truth might be answered
by truth. The trained glance of that great diplomatist did not care to
meet the challenge; it must needs have quailed. I would not affirm that
a momentary compunction did not assail her just then, while she did
justice, in thought, to the kind, generous nature of the man she had
determined to betray. It behoves the historian to be impartial, and not
to attribute an ideal perfection even to his pet politician. The Prince
of Benevento himself might be pardoned for indulging in a brief
self-reproach, after maligning his own daughter and lying to her
accepted lover, within the same half-hour. When Lady Mildred spoke
again, her voice, always low and musical, was unusually gentle and
subdued.

"I am not so unkind or unjust as you seem to think, Alan. I do believe
thoroughly in your sincerity now, and I am sure you will try your very
utmost at all times to make Helen happy. I don't mean to say that it
will be necessary to set a watch on your lips, and measure out the
common attentions of civilized life by the phrase: the constraint would
be too absurdly evident, if _you_ were to become formal. Nor can I
suggest, at this moment, any one acquaintance that it would be better
you should sacrifice: your own good sense will tell you when and where
to be careful and guarded. But I do wish that both you and Helen should
try how far you are suited to each other, before you take the one step
in life which cannot be recalled. Remember how very young she is. You
cannot call me unreasonable if I ask one year's delay before we fix the
day for your marriage?"

It came at last--that cunning thrust under the guard, impossible to
evade, difficult to parry, which the fair gladiator had been meditating
from the very outset of her graceful sword-play: all the feints of
"breaking ground" had no end or object but this. At those last words
Wyverne set his lips slightly, and drew himself together with the
involuntary movement which is--_not_ shrinking, just as a fencer might
do touched sharply in mid chest by his opponent's foil. Twelve
months--not a long delay, surely--scarcely more than would be required
to complete the settlements, _trousseaux_, and other preliminaries for
some matches that we wot of, especially if a great house is to be swept
and garnished, before the bride is brought home. Alan might have thought
about some such preparations years ago; now--he only thought that,
whatever forces Lady Mildred might have in reserve would all be
marshalled in their place before half the probationary year had passed.

But her position was perfectly safe and unassailable. When a prospective
mother-in-law consents to ignore a suitor's social and financial
disadvantages, he cannot well quarrel with her for endeavouring to make
sure that the damsel's affections are not morally misplaced: of course
her domestic prospects ought to be bright, in proportion as her worldly
ones are gloomy. The aspirant may have a private surmise, amounting
almost to a certainty, that he is being unfairly dealt with. He may
murmur to himself that, if he had been a marquis or a millionaire, the
maternal scruples would have been mute; but it would show sad lack of
wisdom to express such feelings aloud. If the case were to come on for
trial, no judge or jury in England would give the plaintiff a verdict.
He would not only lose his cause, but get "committed for contempt of
court," and incur all sorts of vague pains and penalties, besides being
held up as a phenomenon of ingratitude, and a warning to his fellows for
the remainder of his natural life. Most men who come to grief under such
circumstances will find their position disagreeable enough, even without
the perpetual punishment of the pillory.

Yes, reason, if not right, was on "my lady's" side; and she was
perfectly aware of her advantage; for her eyes met Wyverne's steadily
enough now as she waited for his reply.

The latter had reckoned so fully on meeting with opposition somewhere in
this quarter, that it is doubtful if he was exactly disappointed at the
turn the conversation had lately taken; though perhaps, as a matter of
taste, he would have preferred more overt antagonism and obstacles more
tangible to grapple with. At any rate, there was not a trace of
sullenness or vexation in his manner when he spoke.

"I should have thought it unreasonable if you had made my probation as
long as Jacob's, Aunt Mildred; simply because the span of life is
greatly contracted since the patriarchal times, and everything ought to
go by comparison. It would not so much matter to Helen; for, as you
say, she _is_ very young: she will only be in the prime of her beauty
when my hair is grey. But I confess, I should like to reap the reward of
patience before I pass middle-age. Men seem to appreciate so few things
_then_, that I doubt if one would even enjoy domestic happiness
thoroughly. No; I don't think you at all exacting or over-cautious; and
I will bide my time with a tranquillity that shall be edifying. I never
found a year very long yet, and I shall have so much to do and to think
of during the present one that I shall have no time to be discontented."

Lady Mildred smiled on the speaker sweetly and gratefully, but the keen,
anxious, _business-like_ look still lingered in her eyes.

"Thank you so very much, dear Alan," she whispered, "you have behaved
perfectly throughout, just as I expected you would" (she spoke the
truth, there). "You will promise me, then, that the day of your marriage
shall not be actually fixed till the year has past? You know your uncle
is rather impetuous, and not very prudent; I should not wonder if he
were to try to precipitate matters, and that would involve discussions.
Now I never could bear discussions, even when my nerves were stronger
than they are; I think they grow worse every day. If _you_ promise, I
shall have nothing of this sort to fear. You will not refuse me this,
because it looks like a selfish request?"

I have the pleasure of knowing very slightly a Companion of the Order of
Valour, who carried the colours of his regiment at the Alma--it was his
"baptism of fire." At the most critical moment of the day, when the
troops were struggling desperately up "the terrible hill side," somewhat
disordered by the vineyards and broken ground; when the Guards were
reeling and staggering under the deadly hail that beat right in their
faces; the man I speak of turned to the comrade nearest to him and
remarked:

"Do you suppose they _always_ shoot as fast as this, Charley? I dare say
it's the correct thing, though."

They say his manner was as listless and unconcerned as usual, with just
a shade of diffidence and doubt, as if he had been consulting a
diplomatic friend on some point of etiquette at a foreign court. I have
the happiness of knowing very well an officer in the sister service who
has received a medal scarcely less glorious, for rescuing a sailor from
drowning in the Indian Sea. They had had a continuance of bad weather,
and worse was coming up all round; great lead-coloured billows weltered
and heaved under the lee--foam-wreaths breaking here and there, to show
where the strong ship had cloven a path through the sullen surges; there
was the chance, too, of encountering one of two sharks which had been
haunting them for days; but I have heard that on Cis Hazelwood's face
when he went over the bulwarks, there was the same expression of cheery
confidence as it might have worn when he was diving for eggs at The
Weirs.

Now it is fair to presume, that both these men were endowed with courage
and coolness to an exceptional degree; but I very much doubt if, in
perfect exemption from moral and physical fear, and in contempt for
danger either in this world or the next (if the said peril stood in her
path), Lady Mildred might not have matched the pair. When the Vavasours
were travelling in Wales, soon after their marriage, something broke as
they were descending a long steep hill, and the horses bolted; it was a
very close question between life and death, till they were stopped by a
couple of quarrymen just at the spot where the road turned sharp to the
left over a high narrow archway; no carriage going that pace could have
weathered that corner, and the fall was thirty feet clear. The poor
Welshmen certainly earned their rich reward, for they both went down,
and were much bruised in the struggle, and one got up with a broken
collar-bone. When the horses first broke away, "my lady" deigned to lay
aside the book she was reading, but showed no other sign of interest in
the proceedings, far less of discomposure. The Squire was once asked
"how his wife behaved after it was all over?" (that is generally
considered the most trying time). "She looked," was the answer,
"precisely as if she had expected the episode all along; as if it had
formed part of the programme of our wedding tour that the horses should
bolt on that particular hill, and be stopped at that very critical spot
by those identical quarrymen. It struck me that she praised and
compassionated the poor fellow that was hurt, exactly as one might an
acrobat who had met with an accident while performing for our
amusement."

You may judge from this fact, whether "my lady's" nerves were as weak
and sensitive as she was pleased to represent them. But with all her
wile and wariness, she was a thorough woman at heart; and, as such, was
not disposed to let a chance slip of turning to account the apparent
bodily fragility which dissembled a very good constitution. Seldom,
indeed, does maid or matron allow any small capital of the sort to lie
long idle or profitless. Throughout all ages, despots have been found,
anxious to drape their acts of oppression with a veil of reason and
legality just dense enough for decency. In the present case, Lady
Mildred brought forward a convenient and colourable pretext for a fresh
exaction; she was rather indifferent as to its being received with
implicit credit, for she knew that Alan was too kindly and courteous to
contradict her.

As it happened, Wyverne was not deceived for a moment; but as the really
important points of the hollow treaty were already decided, he did not
think it worth while to hesitate over minor details.

"You shall have all you ask without reservation," he said, "and 'thereto
I plight my troth.'"

So they locked hands there--faith and falsehood--truth and
treachery--the one, harbouring no thought that was not honest and
tender; the other, consistent to the last in her dark, pitiless
scheming. Yet the woman's fingers were most cordial in their pressure,
and they never shrank or trembled.

It is pleasant to read of the retribution that descended on Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, or Sir Aldinger; but poetical justice does not always
assert itself so conveniently as in the lists at Templestowe. I wonder
how often in the ordeal of battle, honour has gone down before
dishonour, to the mocking echo of the herald's cry--"God defend the
right!"

Lady Mildred lay back on her sofa with a long sigh of weariness which
was not altogether feigned.

"I will not keep you another instant," she whispered. "Go to Helen, and
be as happy as you like; you have earned that reward."

Miss Vavasour had been sitting all this while close to her father's
side. The chair she had chosen was so low that her head could rest
against his hand as it lay on the arm of the vast _fauteuil_. They had
been very quiet, those two, while the conference was proceeding,
scarcely venturing to glance twice or thrice furtively in the direction
of the dread divan; but their whispered confidences were pleasant
enough, if one might judge from Helen's beautiful blushes and the
Squire's musical laugh breaking in at intervals, discreetly modulated
and subdued. Both gazed anxiously in Alan's face as he drew near, trying
to augur from its expression how he had sped. It told no tales; for his
brow was smooth and his smile serene, as if there were no such things in
this world of ours as doubt, or distrust, or despondency. If he could
not hope to clear away all troublesome thorns from the path of the fair
girl who had promised that day to trust him, he could at least spare her
the pains of anticipation; for her sake as well as his own he was
determined to make the most of every hour of sunshine. Without going
into particulars then, he succeeded in leaving an impression that Lady
Mildred had shown herself more favourable to their wishes than could
have been hoped for. Helen went to rest on that eventful night, when
childhood ended and her womanhood began, in a flutter of happiness which
lasted through her dreams.

"While we live let us live." How is this agreeable maxim to be carried
out, if we are always looking forward into the Dark? There is little
wisdom in the desperate philosophy which teaches men "to eat and drink
for to-morrow they die;" but surely there is reason in taking, while we
may, such moderate refreshment as may brace us for the perils and
labours that the dawning may bring. Do you suppose that Teucer's galleys
clove less swiftly through the Egean because their crews had feasted
high in Salamis on the eve of exile? I fancy those grim old sea-dogs at
their last home revels--cutting deeper into the mighty chines, and
dipping their grizzled beards into the black wine with a keener zest,
while the cheery voice, clear and sonorous as if its owner had never
known defeat or disaster, rings out

      ----O fortes pejoraque passi
    Mecum saepe viri, nunc vino pellite curas:
        Cras ingens iterabimus aequor.

The torches flare and swirl in the wind that is rising gustily; there is
a dull sullen booming outside familiar to the wanderers, for they have
heard it ere this when every sinew was strained to keep them clear of
breakers on their lee; they were met by dark lowering faces when they
sailed in through the harbor-mouth; the populace--taught to call them
traitors by the savage old childless king--is now raving for their
blood. What matters it all? They catch their leader's eye as he stands
up in the midst, erect and dauntless, with the great gold crater in his
gripe, and they laugh out loud in defiance; remembering storms they have
weathered and foes they have tamed, and perils compared to which these
are but child's play. Would their prospects have looked better if they
had sat down, with folded hands and covered heads, to complain of
mortals and immortals, and miserably to make their moan? Truly I think
not. Now--when they cast off their moorings to-morrow--in despite of
envious Pallas, we need not fear to wish the exiles "good speed."




CHAPTER VI.

GOLDEN DREAMS.


First Love!

Do not they look and sound just as fresh as ever--those two pretty
words? And yet, they have been harder worked than the tritest of
school-copies, by successive generations of romancists in prose and
rhyme, from Anacreon and Sappho down to that more modern and practical
enthusiast, who, in a simile that must come home to every maid and
matron in Belgravia (about five P.M. daily), exclaims, "A first love is
like the first cup of tea--all others like the second." The heresy was
worse than Antinomian that would cavil at feelings allowed by common
consent to be divinely delicious. Take warning by Tantalus; beware of
misbehaviour at the celestial table; when nectar and ambrosia are set
before you, accept them gratefully, without discussing too curiously
their flavour. Perhaps it is best so; perhaps the children's plan is
wisest--"Open your mouth and shut your eyes."

Why is it then that, at this moment, I feel inclined to be hyper
critical and disparaging? Truly, there is no accounting for moods, any
more than for tastes; the claret last night was undeniable, and the
morning weather (for a wonder) is perfect; there is not a shadow of an
excuse for evil tempers. Can it be that the pet theme has really been
over-rated; and will it turn out that, after all, there's something
quite as sweet in life as Love's young dream?

See--we have given the _sacerrima verba_ every chance: they stand in a
line by themselves, at the head of the chapter, producing a striking and
rather pictorial effect. Pictorial--I wish the word had not been
written, for association brings back the feeling with which we have
looked on some late acquisitions to our National Gallery, procured at
nearly their weight in gold. "A good thing in its way, but--hardly worth
the money." It would be very difficult, I suppose, to convince our
sisters that it is advantageous for man or woman to go through a certain
amount of mild preparatory training, before either is brought out for
the last grand match against Time. Shall we suggest to Amoret the bride
that Fidelio's affections, since they first gushed out from the remote
fountain-head, have rippled and murmured--not unmusically--through a
dozen _lovelets_ at least, caressing on the way several fragrant
water-lilies and delicate lady-ferns, before they poured a full
undivided volume into the one deep channel, through which (let us hope)
they will flow on peacefully for evermore? And then, shall we hint that
she ought rather to rejoice thereat than chafe or complain? It were
boldly--it were rashly done. However respectable our antecedents--if we
could bring testimonials to character signed by ten responsible
housewives (which I very much doubt if Sir Galahad himself could have
obtained)--the lady would infallibly inscribe our name, foremost, on the
Black List of those dangerous and detrimental acquaintances who were the
bane of the Beloved's life, before she came--another Pucelle--to the
rescue; thenceforward we should certainly "have our tea in a mug,"
whenever these fair hands had to pour it.

Yet, Madonna, if you would deign to look at the subject dispassionately,
you could scarcely help perceiving that the very guilelessness and
simplicity which make a First Love so charming and romantic, detract
somewhat from its actual value. It is a very pleasant and charitable
frame of mind, which "hopeth all things and believeth all things;" but
it involves a certain deficiency in discrimination and, I think, in
appreciative power. The Object may possibly be superlative in beauty,
goodness, or talent; but what is our opinion worth, if we have had no
practical experience of the other two degrees? Unless the paired doves
take flight at once to some uncolonized island in the Pacific,

    And there securely build, and there
      Securely hatch their young--

each must stand comparison, in aftertime, with other birds, tame and
wild, whose plumage glistens with every gorgeous variety of colour,
whose notes sink and swell through all the scales of harmony. Then it is
the old story over and over again. Madame Ste. Colombe does not care so
much for modest merit, and considers meekness rather a tame and insipid
virtue, since the keen black eyes of haughty, handsome Count Aquila told
her a flattering tale; sober drab and fawn no longer seem a becoming
apparel since Prince Percinet (the Duchess's favourite lory) dazzled her
with his Court suit of crimson and gold. Her innocent consort never
dreams, of course, of repining; but he confesses to an intimate friend
that cooing _does_ sometimes sound rather monotonous: he heard a few
days ago, for the first time, Lady Philomelle sing. Surely it were
better to endure loneliness a little longer--ay, even till "black turns
grey"--than to discover that we are unworthily or unsuitably matched,
when to change our mate would be a double sin. There are matrimonial
mistakes enough, Heaven knows, made as it is; but, if every one were to
marry their first love, a decade of Judges more untiring than Sir
Cresswell would be insufficient to settle the differences of aspirants
to dis-union.

This is the "wrong side of the stuff," of course; it would be easy to
quote thousands of opposite instances--of the Anderson type--where no
shadow of discontent has clouded a long life of happiness. Still, the
danger remains: you can no more ignore it than you can any other
disagreeable fact, or public nuisance; but it will probably be lessened
if one or both of the contracting parties have had practical experience
enough to enable them to know their own minds once for all. The wise old
Stagyrite, after discussing different sorts of courage, places high that
of [Greek: Empeiria]: shall we not, too, honour and value most the Love
which has been matured and educated by a course of preliminary and
lighter experiments?

If we have wandered far, through many gardens--finding in each flowers
fragrant and beautiful, but never a one worthy to be placed in our
breast--do we love her less, when we choose her at last--our own
Provence Rose? Was it not well that we should review and admire other
fair pictures wrought by the Great Artist, before we bought what we
hold to be His masterpiece, at the price of all our life's treasure? Had
we not acquired some cunning of the lapidary, by studying the properties
of less precious gems, could we value your pure perfections aright, O
Margarita, pearl of pearls?

(In spite of that last sentimental sentence, which, I swear, was
elaborated solely as a peace-offering to Them, I feel a comfortable
conviction of having left the prejudices of every feminine reader in
precisely the same state as I found them when we broached the subject.)

If you disagree entirely with these premises, you will hardly allow that
Miss Vavasour's frame of mind was either correct or justifiable on this
same August morning. It would be difficult to conceive any human being
more thoroughly and perfectly happy. Yet it was not the bliss of
ignorance, nor even of unconscious innocence. In some things demoiselle
was rather advanced for her years: she could form opinions of her own,
for instance, and hold to them, pretty decidedly. Some of our
maiden-recruits contrive to acquire a tolerable knowledge of their
regiment and its proceedings before they actually join: they have
probably several friends who have passed their drill; and these are by
no means loth to communicate any intelligence likely to instruct or
amuse the aspirant. So, though Helen had not yet been presented, few of
the _historiettes_ of the last two seasons (fitted for ears polite and
virginal) had failed to reach her, directly or circuitously. In more
than one of these Alan Wyverne's name had figured prominently. Lady
Mildred had not spoken unfairly or untruly when she characterized her
daughter's temperament as somewhat jealous and exacting; but the
jealousy was not retrospective. Helen decided, very wisely, to bury the
past, with its possible peccadilloes, and to accept her present position
frankly, without one _arriere pensee_.

It seemed rather a pleasant position, too, as she sate in the deep,
cushioned recess of one of the oriel windows of the picture-gallery; the
play of light through the painted panes falling fitfully on the grand
masses of her glossy hair, and lending a brighter flush to her fair
cheek than even happiness could give it; her clasped hands resting on
her cousin's shoulder, as he half reclined on the black-bear skin at her
feet--(Alan was decidedly Oriental in his choice of postures)--her head
bent forward and low, so as to lose not one of many murmured words.
Would it have been better if a suspicion had crossed her mind, just
then, that the voice she listened to was indebted possibly to long
practice in similar scenes for the dangerous melody of its monotone? I
think not; there is no falser principle than judging from results.

The line of demarcation between the cousin and the lover is proverbially
faint, so much so, indeed, as sometimes to become quite imaginary. There
is one advantage about this, certainly; the transition into the
affianced state is not so abrupt as to make either of the parties feel
awkward or shy; while on the other hand, their transports are probably
more moderate and rational. In the present case there was not much
danger of extravagance in this way. Wyverne, as a rule, was the
personification of tranquillity, and Helen--though impulsive and quick
tempered enough herself--held demonstrative damsels in very great scorn.
Still it would be difficult, if not impossible, to transcribe their
conversation that morning, up to a certain point.

Fortunately, one is not expected to do anything of the kind. Where the
story is meant to be melo-dramatic, it is necessary sometimes to give a
good strong scene of passion and temptation, in which either guilt or
innocence triumphs tremendously; but the male writers of the present day
seem pretty well agreed that it is best to leave _domestic_ love
passages (where everything is said and done under parental sanction)
quite alone. An odd authoress or so does now and then attempt to give us
a sort of expurgated edition, which is about as much like the reality as
the midnight sun glimmering faintly over the North Cape resembles that
which blazes over Sahara. You will observe, that even those dauntless
and unscrupulous French _romanciers_ of the physiological school rather
shirk these scenes.

Perhaps occasionally a curious melancholy feeling mingles with this our
masculine reserve. It may be that Mnemosyne (she can be stern enough, at
times, you know) stands on the threshold of the half-open door and warns
us back with uplifted finger; it may be that of all in the book, we
should have to draw hardest on our imagination for this particular
chapter. In either case it would not be a very attractive one to have to
begin. There is something dreary in sitting down to an elaborate
description of luxuries or riches that have passed away from us long
ago, or which have hitherto eluded us altogether. I am not inclined to
laugh much at Mr. Scrivener's enthusiasm (he writes the "high-life"
tales for the _Dustpan_ and other penny periodicals) when he dilates on
the splendours of Lady Hermegild's boudoir, hung with mauve velvet and
silver, or on the glories of the Duke of Devorgoil's banquet, where
everything is served on the purest gold profusely embossed with
diamonds. He lingers over the details with an extraordinary gusto, and
goes into minutiae which (if they were not grossly incorrect) would imply
an intimate personal acquaintance with the scenes he describes. Now, Mr.
Scrivener's father is a very meritorious grocer, in the Tottenham
Court-road, and the most aristocratic assembly Jack ever attended was a
party at Hackney, where (unfortunately for his prudence) he met his
pretty little wife. But I know that he composes these gorgeous chapters
in a close stifling room, not much bigger or better furnished than that
of Hogarth's poet, with the same wail of sickly children in his ears
(the walls are like paper in those suburban lodgings) and with the
notice lying on the mantelpiece that the acceptance comes due on Monday,
which he must mortgage his brains to meet. I think the incongruity is
too sad to be absurd.

Do you see the parallel? Velvet and gold are comfortable and costly, but
they are not the most precious trifles that a man may lose or win; bills
are very stubborn inconveniences but there are debts yet harder to meet,
on which we pay heavier usury.

Whether that pair in the picture-gallery made themselves in anywise
ridiculous, either by word or deed, in the course of the morning, is a
question between themselves and their consciences; for the only
witnesses were the members of their ancestry on the walls, who looked
down on the proceedings with the polite indifference of well-bred people
who have seen a good deal of that sort of business in their time, and
have found out that "this, too, is vanity." At the moment when we
intrude on the _tete-a-tete_, its component parts were in a very
decorous and rational condition; in fact they had resolved themselves
into a sort of committee of supply, and were discussing the financial
affairs of the future. It was delightful to observe the perfect gravity
and good faith with which they approached the subject; though it would
have been difficult to decide which of the two was most hopelessly and
absolutely ignorant of all matters pertaining to domestic economy.
Wyverne was especially great on the point of retrenchment, as far as his
own personal expenses were concerned.

"You have no idea how much I shall save by giving up hunting," he was
saying; "I don't care nearly so much for it as I did, so it is hardly a
sacrifice" (he really _thought_ he was speaking the truth); "my present
stud is too small to be of much use, and I hate being mounted. So that's
settled. I shall have no difficulty in getting rid of my horses; Vesey
will give me four hundred for Red Lancer any day; and Cuirassier ought
to fetch three. Only fancy, Helen, what one will be able to do with
seven hundred sovereigns! You must have a brougham to yourself, even if
we stay at the great house in town, and it will be useful in the
country, for I suppose people will want us to dine with them sometimes.
We must have our saddle-horses of course--Maimouna carries you
beautifully already--I shall never let you give up riding, if only for
the memory of yesterday afternoon; and that will be all, besides the
ponies that Uncle Hubert gave you on your last birthday."

"But, dear Alan," his cousin objected, "it seems to me, all those horses
will cost more to keep than your hunters do now; for, you know, you
always stay somewhere throughout the season, where they get board and
lodging."

"Don't entangle yourself in calculations, child," Wyverne answered; "you
haven't an idea how expensive hunting from other people's houses is;
sending on, costs a fortune. I should like you to see my accounts for
last season" (he said this with intense gravity, just as if he had kept
them regularly); "I am certain I shall save two hundred a year at the
lowest computation. Yes, we can do it easily. I saw Harry Conway the
other day (he married that pretty Kate Carlyon two years ago); he began
telling me of his rectory in Herefordshire, what a lovely garden his
wife had, and how all the country admired the Welsh ponies she drove.
Now, I know their income does not touch six hundred pounds. We can
double that, at all events, O cousin, cautious beyond your years!"

The part of Dame Prudence was in reality so entirely foreign to Miss
Vavasour's nature and habits, that it amused her very much to play it,
so she still tried to look solemn, but the laugh would not be dissembled
in her eyes.

"An Abbey is a more expensive residence than a rectory, _M. le
Financier_, even if the Lady Abbess should not be enthusiastic about
flower-gardens. Have you formed any plans as to our life in the North? I
mean to make Mrs. Grant teach me housekeeping; and I shall be so severe
about the weekly bills! I can fancy the butchers and bakers trembling
when they bring up their little red books to be settled."

"Certainly, _il faut vivre_; I quite admit the necessity of that. I have
no doubt we shall do wonderfully well. I shall slay a good number of
creatures, finned, furred, and feathered, and one does not get tired of
game easily. We must not have any one to stay with us, except in the
shooting-season; though I believe the chief cost of guests is the claret
they drink; fortunately there is a Red Sea of that in the cellars. And
now, my Helen, prepare to open your great eyes very extensively; I mean
to annihilate your scruples with my last idea in economy. When the
present stock is exhausted (it's not large) the supply of champagne at
the Abbey will be cut off until I come into another inheritance."

He enunciated the words rather sententiously and solemnly, evidently
feeling the confidence and self-satisfaction that might be pardonable in
a Chancellor of the Exchequer who has thought of a new and productive
tax that cannot possibly hurt or offend anybody, or in a calculator who
has elaborated a scheme for materially reducing the national debt. This
time Miss Vavasour's musical laugh was not repressed.

"Don't go any further, Alan; Prudence owns herself vanquished by that
last tremendous retrenchment. I begin to think we shall manage
perfectly; perhaps there is no danger of absolute penury. Whenever I
find the larder is empty, and that there are no means of filling it, I
shall bring in the Spur in the Dish with my own hands; you were born
near enough the Border to know, then, that you and your lances must go
out on the foray."

"That's right," Wyverne said; "they say nothing stimulates one to
exertion like appreciation, and I've got an exertion before me this
morning, in the shape of letter-writing, that I don't much fancy. It's a
question of Bernard Haldane. (I can never call him and your father
'uncle' in the same breath, but he did marry my aunt, you know.) He must
be absurdly rich by this time; and when I did not in the least want it,
I believe I was to have been his heir. So I might still have been, they
tell me, if I had been utterly and irretrievably ruined, and had come to
him in the form of the pauper. But he never forgave the poor little
salvage out of the wreck which made me independent of his bounty. Very
odd old man, that, and intensely disagreeable, I own; but still I wish,
now, you two had met. I do believe you would have melted the
misanthrope, and a very trifling thaw in that quarter would be of
material advantage to us just at this juncture."

Miss Vavasour's haughty lip curled perceptibly; her face did not care to
conceal some aversion and disdain.

"I should certainly spare myself the annoyance of writing that letter,
if I were you, Alan. I don't think mendicancy would suit you at any
time, and it is rather early to begin the trade. _I_ should hardly
succeed better, even if I had the chance of trying. If I have any
fascinations, I think I will keep them for some other subjects than odd,
disagreeable, old men."

Wyverne was not in the least inclined to chafe at her tone; in truth,
admiration left no place for anger; it would have been hard to quarrel
with her, she looked so handsome in her scorn. He knew, too, that her
pride was only half selfish, and that she would have dreaded humiliation
for his sake, more than for her own. So he smiled quite pleasantly, as
he answered,

"O Queen, let your imperial mind be set at rest. Your bond-servant had
no intention of making obeisance to any other tyrant. Do I look like one
of 'the petitioners who will ever pray?' (He certainly did _not_ at that
moment.) I only meant to convey a piece of simple intelligence, which
perhaps Mr. Haldane is entitled to in courtesy, and leave him to think
and act as he would. But I told you I disliked doing even this; and I
hesitated till I consulted your mother on the point after breakfast. She
decided at once that I ought to do so. I own her look, as she said it,
would have puzzled me, if I had not given up long ago trying to decipher
'my lady's' countenance. I imagine she expects not much will result. I'm
sure _I_ don't. But if Plutus were only to part with a poor thousand, it
would help me to furnish two or three rooms prettily at the Abbey for
you and your friends. My pet, you will look like Nell in the Curiosity
Shop, in that dismal grey house, with its faded old-fashioned
furniture."

Helen was accusing herself already of having been unjust and unkind. Her
conscience smote her yet more keenly as her cousin spoke these last
words. When she laid her hand on his mouth to stop him, it was half
meant as a caress. Wyverne pressed the lithe white fingers against his
lips, and made them linger there not unwillingly; but his mood, usually
so equable and gay, had become strangely variable since yesterday. The
dark hour came on suddenly now. His face seemed to gather anything but
light from the bright loveliness on which he gazed. Helen's hand was
dropped almost abruptly, and he went on muttering low to himself, as if
unconscious of her presence.

"Esau was wiser than I. He _sold_ his birthright at all events: I gave
mine away. God help us! Instead of these miserable shifts and
subterfuges, I ought at this moment to be talking about the fresh
setting of my mother's diamonds. I wonder who wore them at the last
drawing-room! I took my own ruin too lightly. I suppose that is why it
stands out so black and dismal, when I have brought another down to
share it. Ah me! If the struggle and the remorse begin so early, what
will the end be?"

She broke in quickly, her fingers trembling as she twined them in his,
and her cheeks glowing with her passionate earnestness.

"Alan, how can you speak so? Do you want to make me feel more selfish
than I do already? I might have known what it would come to when you
proposed selling Red Lancer, and I ought to have resisted then. You
would sacrifice all your own pursuits and pleasures to me and my
fancies, and you take nothing in return except"--(the word-music could
scarcely be heard here)--"except--my my dear love. See, _I_ do not fear
or doubt for one instant. Am I to teach you courage--you that I have
always heard quoted for daring since I was a little child?"

We have read in the _Magic Ring_ how the draught mixed by Gerda, the
sorceress, for Arinbiorn, before the great sea-king went forth to fight,
doubled the strength of his arm and the sway of his battle-axe. Glamour
more potent yet may be drawn from brilliant dark eyes, whose imperial
light is softened, not subdued, by tears that are destined never to
fall. A tamer spirit than Wyverne's would have leapt up, ready for any
contest, under the influence of Helen's glance, when she finished
speaking. Very scanty are the relics that abide with us of the old-time
chivalry; but our dames and demoiselles still play their part as
gallantly and gracefully as ever. Even "Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast,"
when bound to the battle, will scarcely lack a maiden to brace on his
armour.

Alan rose to his feet and leant over his cousin where she sate. He
forgot to be ashamed of his own weakness; he felt so proud of his
beautiful prize, as he wound his arm round her delicate waist and drew
her close to his side, till the little head nestled on his shoulder and
his lips touched her ear as they whispered,

"My own brave darling! you shall never have to revive me again. The dead
past may bury its dead; my last moan is made; henceforward will we not
hope, even against hope."

In spite of his newly-born confidence, he scarcely repressed a start and
a shiver, as, looking up during the happy silence that ensued, he seemed
to be answered by the earnest melancholy eyes of the last Baron
Vavasour.

There are certain pictures, you know, whose gaze always follows you,
however often you may change your position. This portrait was one of
such. It ought to have been excepted from the other ancestors, when we
spoke of the unconcern with which they regarded the proceedings of their
descendants. It was a very remarkable face, as I have said before, and
by far the most peculiar feature in it were those same eyes.
Notwithstanding their soft beauty, there was something dark and
dangerous about them, as if the devil that lurked in their languid
depths _would_ look out sometimes. They were just the eyes from which an
Italian would dread the _jetta-tura_, seeming to threaten not only evil
to others, but misfortune to their owner. In Fulke Vavasour's life
certainly both promises were amply fulfilled. If those scornful lips
could have spoken now, one might have guessed at the import of the
words.

"No change since my time. Those old commonplaces about faith and hope
and love are not worn out yet; but it amuses me to hear them again now
and then--not too often. I could repeat them glibly enough myself once,
and perhaps I believed in them a little. I am wiser now, and so will you
be, _beau cousin_, before you have done. I had my romance, of course.
You know how that was cut short one cold morning on Tower-hill; but you
_don't_ know where yours will end."

Some ideas like these shot across Wyverne's mind, but he had no time to
give them form or distinctness, even if he had wished to indulge in such
absurdity, for one of the doors of the gallery opened just then, and
though the drawing aside of the heavy _portiere_ gave them a moment's
grace, the cousins had scarcely time to resume an erect and decorous
posture before their _tete-a-tete_ was ended.




CHAPTER VII.

MATED, NOT MATCHED.


The new-comer was an elderly man, in a clerical dress. His figure,
originally massive and powerful, had thickened and filled out of late
years till little of fair proportion or activity remained. In his walk
and general bearing there was the same lassitude and want of energy
which spoilt his face. The features could never have been regularly
handsome; they were too weakly moulded for _any_ style of beauty; but
their natural expression was evidently meant to be kindly and genial.
This, too, had changed. There was a nervous, worried look about him, as
of a man exposed to many vexations and annoyances. It was not grave
enough to suggest any great sorrow. Geoffry Knowles's story is very soon
told. He was three or four years the Squire's senior; but they had been
great friends at college. Few of their old set were left when Geoffry
went up to keep his "master's term;" so, unluckily, he was a good deal
thrown on his own resources. His evil genius lured him one day to a
certain water-party, where he met Laura Harding, the handsome, flashy
daughter of an Oxford attorney in large and very sharp practice, who
speedily entangled him irretrievably. If Hubert Vavasour had been in the
way, it might have been prevented. His thoroughbred instincts would have
revolted from the intense vulgarity of the whole family, and the great
influence he possessed over his friend's facile mind would all have been
exerted to free the latter from a connexion which could only prove
disastrous and unhappy. Geoffry Knowles himself, the most indolent and
unobservant of men, saw from the first that the fair Laura's _entourage_
was most objectionable; and certain incongruities (to use a mild term)
in the lady's own demeanour and dialect struck him now and then
painfully, as they would have done any other man well-bred and
well-born. But, though conscious of going down hill, he was too idle to
try to struggle back again; and when the moment for the final plunge
came, he took it resignedly, if not contentedly, expecting no
countenance from any of his friends, as he had not sought their counsel.
Perhaps, after all, retractation would have been worse than vain. The
wily lawyer might have said with the Sultan,

    Dwells in my court-yard a falcon unhooded,
    And what he once clutches he never lets go.

Though Knowles was of an impoverished family and rather an extravagant
turn, Mr. Harding knew he had powerful friends, first and foremost of
whom was the Squire of Dene; so far he judged rightly. Hubert Vavasour
not only disliked "hitting a man when he was down," but never would let
him lie there without trying to help him up. So, in spite of the
connexion which he thoroughly disapproved, as soon as the rectory of
Dene fell vacant, he did not hesitate to offer it to his ancient
comrade: it was one of those great family livings that are almost as
valuable as a fat priory or abbey might have been; and thenceforth its
rector wanted no comforts that affluence could supply. When this event
occurred the Squire had been married about three years: he took the step
without consulting his wife, or in all probability Lady Mildred would
have interfered to some purpose. It was part of her creed never to waste
either lamentations or reproaches on what was irrevocable; so she
accepted the fact quite composedly, determining to judge for herself as
to the feasibility of associating with the new-comer, and to act
accordingly.

Neither the Squire's nor the rector's wife ever forgot the first evening
they met. Truth to say, "my lady" had prepared herself for a certain
amount of vulgarity; but the reality so far transcended her
expectations, that the shock was actually too much for her. She could
not repress a slight shiver and shrinking sometimes, as Mrs. Knowles's
shrill, highly-pitched voice rattled in her ears, and her trained
features did not always conceal wonder and aversion at certain words and
gestures that grated horribly on her delicate sensibilities. The other's
sharp eyes detected every one of these unflattering signs, and she never
forgot them: though long years had passed and a reckoning-day had never
come, the debt still remained, written out as legibly in her memory as
Foscaro's in Loredano's tablets. That evening, when the visitors had
taken their departure, the fair hostess leaned back wearily on her sofa
and beckoned her husband to her side. When he came she laid her hand on
his arm and looked up into his eyes rather plaintively, but not in the
least reproachfully.

"Dear Hubert!" she said, "I fancy Mr. Knowles very much, and I hope he
will come here whenever he likes. He may bring his wife four times a
year (when you have some of those constituency dinners, you know); but,
at any other time or place, I absolutely decline to entertain that
fearful woman again!"

There was not a shade of anger, or even disdain, on the placid face,
but he must have been a bolder man than Vavasour who would have argued
the point with her then. Hubert knew that the fiat just issued by those
beautiful lips, ever so little set, was irrevocable.

"She _is_ an awful infliction!" he assented, gravely; "I can't call you
unjust, dear Mildred. Indeed, I almost regret having brought her so near
you. I must manage it with Geoffry as best I can; I should not like to
lose his society. Poor fellow! I was very wroth when I first heard of
his derogation--but I can do nothing but pity him now. If she affected
us so disagreeably this evening, think what it must be to have to live
with her all the year round! It is no use saying, 'He's used to it.'
There are some nuisances one never gets indifferent to."

Lady Mildred shrugged her round white shoulders slightly, as though to
intimate that Mr. Knowles's domestic Nemesis was essentially _his_
concern; and so the matter ended.

It was not long before that worried, nervous expression, to which I have
alluded, became the habitual one of poor Geoffry's face. He never spoke
of his troubles, even to Hubert Vavasour; but they must have been heavy,
and almost incessant. His wife had captured him simply as a measure of
expediency: she would have married him just as readily if he had been
elderly and repulsive when she first saw him; she very soon got tired of
keeping up affectionate appearances; indeed, that farce scarcely
outlasted the honeymoon. The last phantasm of romance had ceased to
haunt the dreary fireside, years and years ago. Laura's sharp tongue and
acid face were enough to scare away a legion of such sensitive elves. As
soon as she found that their income was far more than sufficient for
their wants she took severely to parsimony, and "screwed" to an extent
scarcely credible. There never breathed a more liberal and openhanded
man than Geoffry Knowles--it must have been a poor satisfaction to him
to know that about thirty pounds per annum were saved by economy in beer
alone, and that his servants'-hall was a byword throughout the county.
The wives of the squirearchy had been very kind and civil to her at
first, and were not all inclined to follow the lead of the _grande dame_
at Dene; but they couldn't stand her long, and one by one they fell off
to a ceremonious distance, doing out their visits and invitations by
measure and rule. This did not improve the lady's temper, which was
exacting and suspicious to a degree: she never would allow that she ever
lost a friend or failed to make one by her own fault; though she had a
pleasant habit of abusing people savagely to their nearest neighbours,
so that it was about ten to one that every syllable came round to them.
They had one child--a son--who might have been some comfort to the
Rector if his mother would have let him alone: but she asserted her
exclusive right to the child even before he was christened, insisting on
calling him by her own family's name--"Harding"--(some one said, "it was
to commemorate an incomplete victory over the aspirates"); and
maintained her ascendency over his mind by the simple process of abusing
her husband to and before the boy, as soon as he was old enough to
understand anything; it is needless to say there was always more
distrust than sympathy between father and son.

So, you see, Geoffry Knowles had a good deal to fight against, and very
little to fall back upon. His one consolation was, his neighbourhood to
Dene: he clung fast to this, and would not let it go, in spite of
incessant sarcasms levelled at his meanness of spirit for "always
hanging about a house where his wife was not thought good enough to be
invited:"--(she never missed one of those quarterly dinners, though). It
was inexpressibly refreshing to get out of hearing of the shrill
dissonant voice--ever querulous when not wrathful, and to share

    The delight of happy laughter,
      The delight of low replies,

which one could always count on finding at Dene when its mistress or her
daughters were to the fore. Those visits had the same effect on the
unlucky rector, in calming and bracing his nerves, as change of air will
work on an invalid who moves up from the close dank valley to the fresh
mountain-side, where the breeze sweeps straight from the sea over crag,
and heather, and tarn. Lady Mildred liked him--perhaps pitied him a
little--in her own cool way, and the Squire was always glad to see him;
so he came and went pretty much as he chose, till it would have been
hard to say to which family he really most belonged. Helen was very fond
of him; it would have been strange had it been otherwise, for he had
petted her ever since he held her in his arms at the font, and, indeed,
had lavished on her all the father-love of a kindly nature, which he was
debarred from giving to his own child. As her loveliness ripened from
bud to blossom under their eyes, no one could have said which was the
proudest of their darling--the Rector or the Squire.

It rather spoils the romance of the thing--but, truth to say, there were
other and much more material links in the chain that bound Geoffry
Knowles so closely to Dene. He had always been of a convivial turn, and,
from youth upwards, not averse or indifferent to the enjoyment of old
wine and fat venison: of late years he had become ultra-canonical in his
devotion to good cheer. I do not mean to imply that he drank hard or
carried _gourmandise_ to excess; but certainly not one of Vavasour's
guests, whose name was legion, savoured more keenly the precious
vintages that never ceased to flow from his cellars, or the
master-strokes of the great artist who deigned to superintend the
preparation of his banquets. Was it a despicable weakness? At all
events, it was not an uncommon one. The world has not grown weary of
trying that somewhat sensual anodyne, since Ulysses and his comrades
revelled on the island-shore till the going down of the sun--

    [Greek: dainymenoi krea t' aspeta kai methy hedy]

a few hours after he crept out of the Cyclops' cave, leaving the bones
of six of his best and bravest behind; many bond-slaves since Sindbad,
as the jocund juice rose to their brain, have forgotten for awhile that
they carried a burden more hideous and heavy than the horrible Old Man
of the Sea.

I have lingered much longer than I intended over the antecedents of the
Rector; but as one or two members of his family play rather an important
part in the story afterwards, there is some excuse for the interruption.

When Mr. Knowles entered the picture-gallery, he was evidently unaware
that it held other occupants; he had advanced half way up its length,
before Miss Vavasour's gay dress, looking brighter in the strong
sunlight, caught his eye; even then he had to resort to his glasses
before he could make out who sat in the deep embrasure.

"This is a new whim, Helen," he said, as he turned towards them; "I
never found you here in the morning before. Can you tell me where the
Squire is? I want--"

He stopped abruptly, for he was near enough now for the fair face to
tell its tale, and, short-sighted as he was, the rector saw the state of
things instantly. A few steps--very different from his usual slow,
deliberate pace--brought him into the oriel; he stooped and kissed Helen
on her forehead, and then griped Wyverne's hand hard, his lips moved
twice before he could say, unsteadily and huskily, "I am so very, very
glad!"

It was a simple and hearty congratulation enough, but it was the first
that the fair _fiancee_ had had to encounter, and it threw her into
considerable confusion, coming thus brusquely. To speak the truth, she
"arose and fled away swiftly on her feet," covering her retreat with
some indistinct murmur about going to find the Squire, and left her ally
to bear the brunt of the battle alone. The Rector was not in the least
vexed at her flight; he knew his pet too well to think that she could be
ungracious; he only looked after her with a smile of pride and fondness
as she glided away and disappeared through the curtained door, and then
turned again to Alan.

"I have always dreamt of this," he said; "but so few of my good dreams
come true that I scarcely hoped there would be an exception here. I am
certain you will take all care of her; and how happy she will make you!
And how long has this been going on? You have kept your secret well, I
own, but I am so blind that it is very easy to keep me in the dark."

There was a faint accent of melancholy, and a half reproach in the last
few words, which did not escape Wyverne's quick ear.

"My dear Rector, don't be unjust. What do you mean by suspecting us of
keeping secrets from _you_? You won't give one time to tell you. We were
all perfectly sober and sane till yesterday afternoon, when I lost my
head riding in the Home Wood; and everybody has been following my lead
ever since, for I ought to be crushed on the spot instead of encouraged.
You see I'm like other maniacs; they always know their companions are
mad, and tell you so--don't they?"

"Imprudent, perhaps, but not insane," the other said, heartily; "and is
'my lady' as bad as the rest of you?"

"Well, not exactly; for, though she refused nothing, she was wise enough
to stipulate that the time of our marriage should not be fixed until a
year had passed. I believe Aunt Mildred likes me, but I don't think her
partiality quite blinds her to my disadvantages."

It would have been hard to decide from Wyverne's face, whether he spoke
in earnest or irony; but there was no mistaking the expression of the
Rector's; disappointment was written there very legibly.

"You could hardly expect unreserved consent _there_," he said; "but it
is a long delay before anything is actually fixed--too long. Alan, trust
me. You don't mind my speaking frankly? Helen comes out next season, you
know; and even if your engagement is announced, nothing will prevent
half the 'eligibles' in London going wild about her. It will be
fearfully tantalizing to 'my lady's' ambition, and I doubt if her good
faith will last out the year. If that once fails, you will have a hard
battle to fight and a dangerous one; none can say what a day may bring
forth, and few of Lady Mildred's are wasted when she has determined to
carry anything through. Surely you tried to shorten the probation-time?"

Wyverne bit his lip, frowning slightly.

"My triumph is great, I own, but really I don't require to be reminded
that I am mortal. Of course there are risks and perils without end, but
I have counted them already, Rector; don't trouble yourself to go
through the list again. No, I did _not_ remonstrate or resist, simply
because I think it wiser to husband one's strength than to waste it. I
might say to you as Oliver said to Sir Henry Lee--'Wearest thou so white
a beard, and knowest thou not that to refuse surrendering an
indefensible post, by the martial law deserves hanging?' My position at
the moment was not quite so strong, numerically, as the Knight of
Ditchley's, for he had _two_ 'weak women' in his garrison, and, I fancy,
I had only one brave girl. We can count on the Squire's good will to any
extent, but he would be the merest reed to lean upon if matters went
wrong. It is much the best plan to trust till you are forced to
distrust; for it saves trouble, and comes to about the same thing in the
end; pondering over your moves don't help you much when your adversary
could give you a bishop or a castle. So for the present I believe in
Aunt Mildred _coute qui coute_. You are right though--there will be a
fair crop of rivals next spring; but I am vain enough to think that,
with such a long start, I may hold my own past the post."

Alan threw back his head rather haughtily, as he spoke these last words,
and once again encountered the eyes of Fulke Vavasour. He turned quickly
to his companion, before the latter could reply.

"An ominous neighbourhood to make love in, is it not? especially
considering the resemblance. You have remarked it?"

Geoffry Knowles started visibly, and his countenance fell more than it
had yet done.

"I wish you had not asked me. Yes, I have seen it coming out stronger
every month for the last year; it was never there before. I have always
avoided looking at that picture since I was forced to confess that the
family likeness to Helen is far stronger than in her own brother's
portrait that hangs there. If the Squire had only some excuse for
putting it away! Such coincidences are common enough, of course, but I
wish to God the features of the worst of her race had not been
reproduced in our darling."

"Not the worst, I think," Wyverne answered, decidedly, "though he was
wild and reckless enough in all conscience. It's an odd thing to say,
but I've liked him better since I heard how and why he sold himself to
Satan. I dare say you don't know that version of the story. Percie
Ferrars, who is always hunting out strange family legends, told it me
the other day. He found it in some book relating to the black art,
written about fifty years after the Baron's death. It seems that he had
always been meddling with magic, but he never actually came to terms
with the fiend till the night of his arrest. He signed and sealed the
contract within an hour after he entered his cell, on the condition that
certain papers then at the Dene should be in his hands before the dawn;
so he saved a woman's honour from being dragged through the mire of a
public trial, and perhaps a delicate neck from the scaffold. This is how
the horseman came along at midnight, bearing the Baron's signet-ring,
when the arrest was not two hours old; and this is why the pursuivant,
who started before the prisoner was in the Tower, and never drew bridle
on the way except to change his horses, found nothing but empty drawers
and rifled caskets, with a mark here and there, they say, as if hot
coals had been dropped on them. The author brings the case forward in a
very matter-of-fact way, to show for what a miserably small
consideration men will sometimes barter their souls, for he observes
that Vavasour could not even obtain for himself safety of life or limb.
Perhaps he did not try; he came of the wrong sort to stand chaffering
over a bargain when he was in no position to make terms. I don't mean to
deny that Fulke was very guilty; I don't mean to assert that a man has
any right to sell his soul at all; but I am not prepared to admit the
absurd smallness of the value received. The Baron himself, it appears,
revealed the infernal contract to one man, his cousin and dearest
friend. When the confidant, rather horror-stricken, asked 'if he did not
repent?' he only answered--'What is done is well done'--and
thenceforward would answer no question, declining to the last the
consolations of religion or the visits of a priest. But every one knows,
that at his trial and on Tower-hill he bore himself as coolly and
bravely as if he had been a martyred bishop. Let him rest in peace if he
may! If he erred, he suffered. For the sake of that last wild deed,
unselfish at least, I will cast no stone on his grave."

His quiet features lighted up, and his eyes gleamed, just as they would
do if he were reading some grand passage in prose or rhyme that chanced
to move him strongly. No enthusiasm answered him from the other's face.
The Rector evidently could not sympathize.

"It's a dark story," he said, "whichever way you look at it, and your
version does not make me dislike that picture the less. But I'm not a
fair judge. If I ever had any romance, it has been knocked out of me
years ago. I won't argue the point. I'm only sorry that our talk has got
into such a melancholy groove. It is my fault entirely. First I spoil
your _tete-a-tete_ by blundering in here, where I had no earthly
business, and then I spoil your anticipations with my stupid doubts and
forebodings. Just like me, isn't it?"

Wyverne's gay laugh broke in before the Rector's penitence could go
further.

"Not at all like you," he answered cheerily; "and don't flatter yourself
that either prophecy or warning will have the slightest effect.
Ecclesiastes himself would fail if he tried to preach prudence to _us_
just now. I told you we had all gone out of our sober minds up here. For
my part I don't care how long the Carnival lasts. We must keep the
feasts in their order, of course; but, by St. Benedict, we will not
anticipate Lent by an hour."

Geoffry Knowles looked wistfully into the speaker's frank, fearless
eyes, till his own brow began to clear, and a hearty, genuine admiration
shone out in his face.

"I do envy that hopeful geniality of yours, more than I can say, Alan. I
have a dim recollection of having been able to 'take things easy,' once
upon a time; but the talent slipped away from me, somehow, just when it
would have served me best. It was acquired, not natural, with me, I
suppose. I doubt if I could translate without blundering, now--_Dum
spiro, spero_. I am glad, after all, that I caught you first, and got
rid of my 'blue' fit before I saw the Squire. He would not have taken it
so well, perhaps, as you have done."

"I don't know about that," Alan said; "Uncle Hubert is pretty confident,
and you would most likely have been carried away helplessly by the
stream; he put _me_ to shame last night, I can tell you. You'll find him
in his room by this time; and I can't stay here any longer. I've letters
to write, and I mean to have Helen in the saddle directly after
luncheon. I must make the best use of my chances now, for, unless the
gods would

    Annihilate both Time and Space
    To make two lovers happy,

(as the man in the play wanted them to do), and cut out the shooting
season from the calendar, there would be no chance of keeping Dene clear
of guests. They will be coming by troops in less than a fortnight. There
is no such thing as a comfortable _causerie_, with keen eyes and quick
ears all around you. _Ay de mi!_ one will have to intrigue for
interviews as if we were in Seville. I shouldn't wonder if we were
driven to act the garden-scene in the _Barbiere_ some night. Even if I
wanted to monopolize Helen, then (which I don't, for it's the worst
possible taste), I know 'my lady' would not stand it. Well, thank you
for all you have said--yes, _all_. I shall see you at luncheon?"

From the Squire's radiant face, when he came in with the Rector, it
might be presumed that the latter comported himself during their
interview entirely to his friend's satisfaction.

It was no vain boast of Wyverne's when he said that neither omen nor
foreboding would affect his spirits materially that afternoon. Few
people ever enjoyed a ride more thoroughly than the cousins did their
very protracted one. They would not have made a bad picture, if any one
could have sketched them during its slow progress. Alan on the Erl-King,
a magnificent brown hunter of Vavasour's; Helen on the grey Arab,
Maimouna, whom she mounted that day for the fourth time. The one so
erect and knightly in his bearing; the other so admirably lithe and
graceful--both so palpably _at home_ in the saddle; even as they lounged
carelessly along through the broad green glades, apparently lost to
everything but their own low, earnest converse, at the first glance one
could have recognised the seat and hand of the artist.

If one _must_ be locomotive, when alone with the ladye of our love (not
a desirable necessity, some will say), I doubt if we can be better than
on horseback. A low pony-carriage, with a _very_ steady animal in the
shafts, has its advantages; but I never yet saw the man who could
accommodate himself and his limbs to one of these vehicles without
looking absurdly out of his place; his bulk seems to increase by some
extraordinary process as soon as he has taken his seat, till ten stone
loom as large as fourteen would do under ordinary circumstances. The
incongruity cannot always escape one's fair companion, and, if her sense
of the ridiculous is once moved, our romance is ruined for the day:
perhaps the best plan, on turning into a conveniently secluded road
(always supposing that "moving on" is obligatory), would be, to get out
and walk by her side, leaving the dame or demoiselle unrestricted scope
for the expansion of her feelings and--her drapery. On the whole, I
think one is most at ease _en chevauchant_. But then both steeds must be
of a pleasant and sociable disposition--not pulling and tearing at the
reins, till they work themselves and their riders into a white heat,
whenever a level length of greensward tempts one irresistibly to a
stretching gallop; nor starting perversely aside at the very moment
when, in the earnestness of discourse, your hand rests unconsciously (?)
on your companion's pommel; but doing their five miles an hour steadily,
with the long, even, springy gait that so few half-breeds ever attain
to,--alive, in fact, to the delicacy of the position and to their own
responsibilities as sensible beasts of burden. Maimouna was a model in
this respect: she could be fiery enough at times, and dangerous if her
temper was roused; but she comported herself that afternoon with a
courtesy and consideration for others worthy of the royal race from
which she sprang--

    Who could trace her lineage higher
    Than the Bourbon can aspire,
    Than the Ghibelline or Guelf,
    Or O'Brien's blood itself.

It was pretty to see her, champing the bit and tossing her small proud
head playfully, or curving her full, rounded neck to court the caress of
Helen's gauntlet; with something more than instinct looking all the
while out of her great bright stag's-eyes, as if she understood
everything that was going on and approved it thoroughly: indeed, she
seemed not indisposed to get up a little mild flirtation on her own
account, for ever and anon she would rub her soft cheek against the
Erl-King's puissant shoulder, and withdraw it suddenly as he turned his
head with a coy, _mutine_ grace, till even that stately steed unbent
somewhat of his dignity, and condescended, after a superb and
sultanesque fashion, to respond to her cajoleries.

Altogether they made, as I have said, a very attractive picture,
suggestive of the gay days when knights and paladins rode in the sweet
summer-weather through the forest-tracks of Lyonnesse and Brittany, each
with his fair _paramour_ at his side, ready and willing to do battle for
her beauty to the death. Wyverne's proportions were far too slight and
slender to have filled the mighty harness of Gareth or Geraint; but
Helen might well have sat for Iseult in her girlhood before the breath
of sin passed over the smooth brow--before the lovely proud face was
trained to dissemble--before King Mark's unwilling bride drank the fatal
philtre and subtler poison yet from her convoy's eyes, as they sailed
together over the Irish Sea.

Yes--no doubt

      It was merry in good greenwood,
    When mavis and merle were singing;

when silvered bridles and silvery laughs rang out with a low, fitful
music: when the dark dells, whenever a sunbeam shot through, grew light
with shimmer of gold and jewels, or with sheen of minever and brocade;
when ever and anon a bugle sounded--discreetly distant--not to recall
the lost or the laggards, but just to remind them that they were
supposed to be hunting the deer. Pity that almost all these romances
ended so drearily! We might learn a lesson, if we would; but we "hear
and do not fear." The modern knight's riding suit is russet or
grey--perhaps, at the richest, of sable velvet; a scarlet neck-ribbon or
the plumes of a tropical bird are the most gorgeous elements in his
companion's amazonian apparel; but I fear the tone of their dress is
about the only thing which is really sobered and subdued. People will go
on lingering till they lose their party, and looking till they lose
their hearts, and whispering till they lose their heads, to the end of
time; though all these years have not abated one iota of the retribution
allotted those who "love not wisely but too well;" though many miserable
men, since Tristram, have dwined away under a wound that would never
heal, tended by a wife that they could never like, thirsting for the
caress of "white hands beyond the sea," and for a whisper that they
heard--never, or only in the death-pang; though many sinners, since
Launcelot, have grovelled in vain remorse on the gravestone of their
last love or their first and firmest friend.

Certainly, none of these considerations could trouble the cousins'
pleasant ride; for every word that passed between them was perfectly
innocent and authorized; they had, so to speak, been "blessed by the
priest" before they started. When Helen came down (rather late) to
dinner, her face was so changed and radiant with happiness that it made
"my lady's" for the rest of the evening unusually pensive and grave.
Some such ideas shot across her as were in the cruel step-mother's mind,
when she stopped those who bore out the seeming corpse to its burial,
saying--

    Drap the het lead on her breast,
      And drap it on her chin;
    For mickle will a maiden do,
      To her true love to win.





CHAPTER VIII.

CROESUS COMETH.


We have been comfortable in our country-houses for centuries. Even in
those rough-and-ready days--when the hall was strewn with rushes, and
the blue wood-smoke hung over the heads of the banqueters like a canopy,
and the great tawny hounds couched at their master's feet, gnawing the
bones as they fell from the bare oak tables, and the maids of Merry
England recruited their roses with steaks and ale in the early
morning--I believe the Anglo-Saxon squire had a right to be proud of his
social privileges, and to contrast them favourably with the
short-comings of his Continental neighbours. But it looks as if we had
only begun of late years thoroughly to appreciate those advantages;
now--there is hardly a tale or a novel written, which does not sound a
note or two of triumph on the subject. In truth, it is hardly possible
to praise too highly this part of our social system. Nevertheless, in a
few of these favoured mansions, there springs up something bitter from
the midst of the fountain of delights which, to the minds of many of us,
poisons the perfection of hospitality. Sometimes the officer in command
is rather too exact and exacting about his morning-parade, insisting
upon his company being "all present and correct" within a certain time
after the warning gong has sounded. Punctuality is an immense virtue, of
course; but our frail and peccant nature will not endure even virtues to
be forced upon it against the grain, without grumbling; and there are
men--sluggish if you will, but not wholly reprobate--who think that no
amount of good shooting or good cookery can compensate for the
discomfort of having to battle with a butler for the seisin of their
grill, or being forced to keep a footman at fork's length, while they
hurry over a succulent "bloater" should they wish to break their fast at
a heterodox and unsanctified hour. There is some sense in the objection,
after all. If you want to enforce regularity with Spartan sternness, it
is better to be consistent, and not tantalize one with contrasts, but
recur to the old black-broth and barley-bread form; choose your system
and stick to it: it never can answer to mix up Doric simplicity with
Ionian luxury.

So few things were done by line and measure at Dene, that it would have
been strange if breakfast had formed the solitary exception to the rule
of--_Fais ce que voudras_. The general hour was perhaps "a liberal ten;"
but if any guest chanced to be seized with a fit of laziness, he could
indulge his indolent genius without fear of having to fast in expiation.
At whatever hour he might appear, a separate breakfast equipage awaited
him, with the letters of that post laid out thereon, decently and in
order, and the servants seemed only too glad to anticipate his appetite.

The Squire himself was tolerably early in his habits, and kept his times
of starting very well in the shooting or hunting season: he would never
wait beyond a reasonable time for any one--making no distinction of
persons--but would start with those who were ready, leaving the laggards
to follow when they would. There was a want of principle, perhaps, about
the whole arrangement, but it answered admirably; even those who were
left behind on such occasions never dreamt of being discontented or
discomfited; indeed, it was not a very heavy penance to be condemned to
spend a home-day at Dene with the feminine part of its garrison. There
were few houses that people were so glad to come to, and so sorry to
leave.

Wyverne was very capricious and uncertain as to the hours of his
appearance, except when any sport by flood or field was in prospect: he
was never a second behind time then. If the day chanced to be very
tempting, it was even betting that he would be found sauntering about
some terrace that caught the fresh morning sun, before the dew was off
the flowers; but it would have been dangerous to lay odds about it;
taking the average of the year, the balance was decidedly in favour of
indolence.

When he came down on the sixth morning from that on which this story
began, the Squire and Helen were lingering over their breakfast nearly
finished, that Alan might not have to eat his in solitude. Nobody ever
thought of apologizing for being late at Dene; so, after the pleasant
morning-greetings were over, Wyverne sat down to his repast with his
usual air of tranquil, appreciative enjoyment; he did not seem in any
particular hurry to grapple with the pile of letters that lay beside his
plate.

Have you ever observed the pretty flutter that pervades all the
womanhood present when the post-bag is brought in--how eyes, bright
enough already, begin to sparkle yet more vividly with impatient
anticipation, and how little tremulous hands are stretched out to grasp
as much of the contents as their owners can possibly claim? We of the
sterner sex take the thing much more coolly--of course because we are so
much graver and better and wiser than _they_ are: when a man "plunges"
at his letters, you may be quite sure he has a heavy book on an
approaching race, or is a partner in some thriving concern, commercial
or amatory; in such a contingency the speculator is naturally anxious to
know if his venture is likely to prove remunerative. Where no such
_irritamenta malorum_ (or _bonorum_, in exceptional cases) exist, we are
apt to accept what the post brings us with resignation rather than with
gratitude, reflecting moodily, that all those documents must not only be
read through, but answered--at what expense of time, money, or
imagination, it is impossible at present to say.

Some years ago I heard of a female Phoenix--wise and fair, too, beyond
her fellows--who actually wrote to a very intimate friend ten
consecutive letters, each containing, besides more confidential and
interesting matter, all sorts of news and scandal, with the recording
angel's comments annexed. They were model epistles, I believe--witty,
but not _too_ wicked; frank, without being too demonstrative; and to not
one of the brilliant decade did the writer _expect an answer_. That was
understood from first to last, for circumstances made silence, on one
side, imperative. I hope her correspondent appreciated that rare
creature, then: I am very sure he did, the other day, when he sat down
to his writing-table with a weary sigh and the remark--that "of all fond
things vainly imagined, a second post was the most condemnable." If
charity covers a multitude of sins, surely such repeated acts of
unselfish benevolence ought to cloak most of that poor Rose's little
faults and failings. Speaking quite disinterestedly (for I scarcely knew
her by sight), I think she deserves a statue--as a marvel of the
Post-office--better than Rowland Hill: if I were bound to take a
pilgrimage, I would pass by the shrine of Saint Ursula, and go a
thousand miles beyond it, to the green Styrian hills where She withered
and died--the only woman on record who could persist, for three whole
months, in amusing a silent correspondent without proximate hope of
recompense.

Wyverne's letters were not very numerous that morning, nor did they
appear to interest him much; for he took up one after the other, at
intervals, and after just glancing at the contents put them aside,
without interrupting a pleasant desultory conversation with his
companions. At last only two remained unread.

The envelope of one was of thick blue-wove paper; the direction was in a
large, strong, upright hand; the seal square, and solemnly
accurate--such a seal as no man dare use unless he were in a position to
set the world at defiance. If you or I, _amigo_, were to risk it,
however numerous and unblemished our quarterings, we should lay
ourselves open to all the penalties attendant on _lese-majeste_: the
very crest was a menace--a mailed arm, with a mace in its gripe. If any
possessor of that truculent coat-of-arms had put it on the outside of a
love-letter, all passionate pleading must have been neutralized; the
nymph to whom it was addressed would have fled away, swiftly as Arethusa
of light-footed memory, or a "homeless hare."

The other letter was of a widely different type; it bore no seal, but a
scarlet monogram so elaborately involved as to be nearly illegible;
after careful study of its intricacies, with a certain amount of luck,
you might have made out the initials N. R. L. There was a _mignardise_
about the whole thing quite in keeping with the handwriting--slender,
sloping, and essentially feminine; at the same time there was a good
deal of _character_ about it; without much practice in graphiology, one
guessed at once that those lines had been traced by fingers long, lithe,
and lissome--fingers that either in love or hate would close round
yours--pliant and tenacious as the coils of a Java serpent--fingers apt
at weaving webs to entangle men's senses and souls.

Alan took these letters up in the order in which we have named them. The
first was evidently very brief; as he read it, an odd smile came on his
lip, not altogether of amusement, but rather bitter and constrained;
just such a smile as one might put on to mask a momentary discomfiture,
if, in a contest of polite repartee, one had received a home thrust,
without seeing exactly how to _riposter_. The other envelope contained
two full note-sheets, one of which (of course) was crossed. Wyverne just
glanced at the first page and the last few lines, and then, putting it
back into its cover, laid it down with the rest; it was quite natural
that he should thus defer the perusal, for, however well he might have
known the handwriting, ten minutes of undivided attention could scarcely
have carried him through it. A very close observer might have detected
just then a slight darkening and contraction of his brows; but the
change lasted not five seconds, and then his face became pleasant and
tranquil as ever.

"Well, that is over, or nearly so," he said, drawing rather a long
breath. "Did anybody ever see such a day for riding? I feel the Tartar
humour on me, Helen--do you sympathize? If so, we'll let our
correspondence take thought for the things of itself--_I_ don't intend
to put pen to paper to-day--and go forth on a real pilgrimage, trusting
to fate for luncheon. There's not an atom too much sun, and the breeze
might have been made to order."

Perhaps the movement of Alan's arm, which pushed two or three of his
letters off the table, was quite involuntary; and perhaps quite
unintentionally, when he picked them up, he placed the _last_ undermost:
but the eyes of Lynceus were not keener-sighted than those dark languid
orbs, held by many to be the crowning glory of Helen Vavasour's beauty.
Neither the change in her cousin's face, nor one detail of the apparent
accident escaped her; and it is possible that she drew from them her own
conclusions. Probably they were not very serious ones, and perhaps his
careless tone contributed to reassure her; at any rate, nothing could be
brighter than her face as she answered--

"I should enjoy it, of all things, Alan. On a day like this I believe
Maimouna would tire before I should. I never knew what it was to feel
_rested_ while riding fast, till I mounted her. Don't be jealous if she
begins to know me better than you; you never heard of my visits to the
stable, under old Donald's escort, on purpose to pet her. You may order
the horses as soon as you please. I must see mamma before we start; but
would you like to bet that I am not ready f

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