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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: A Mayfair Tragedy, volume I, an electronic edition
Author: Fraser, Alexander, Mrs.
Publisher: F. V. White & Co.
Place published: London
Date: 1894
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Front cover of the first volume of Fraser's A Mayfair Tragedy.A MAYFAIR TRAGEDY.A MAYFAIR TRAGEDY.A Novel.BY MRS. ALEXANDER FRASER, AUTHOR OF "THE NEW DUCHESS," "PURPLE AND FINE LINEN," "THE MATCH OF THE SEASON," "DAUGHTERS OF BELGRAVIA," "A LEADER OF SOCIETY," A FATAL PASSION," "A MODERN BRIDEGROOM," ETC., ETC."Alas! the love of woman, it is knownTo be a lovely and a fearful thing!"BYRON.IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.LONDONF. V. WHITE & CO.14, BEDFORD STREET, STRAND, W.C.1894.Copyright information for the first volume of Fraser's A Mayfair Tragedy.DEDICATION.TO MY REVIEWERS,
"Satire or sense, can Sporus feel,Who breaks a butterfly on a wheel?"1894.Table of contents for the first volume of Fraser's A Mayfair Tragedy.CHAPTER I. ONLY A SINGING-MASTER."Si tu savais comme je t'aime,Bien sûr—bien sûr—tu m'aimerais!""SING that verse again, Mademoiselle! Sing it with more feeling—more fire!"She sings it again—her voice is untutored, but charming in its flexibility and in its purity of tone. Still there is a curious lack of feeling in it. May be she has not much "soul," though later on—like Undine—"soul" may be born in her.When she has finished the verse, she looks down at her master and accompanist, and reads decided disappointment in his eyes.What superb eyes he has—she thinks—large—dark as midnight—so velvetty soft!—so full of liquid lustre as they meet her glance, that involuntarily her white lids droop until the loveliest, longest lashes imaginable kiss the faint pink flush which rises on her cheeks.Marco Ferrari, Italian singing-master at a large and fashionable pensionnat at Brussels, experiences a sharp thrill of gratification as he notes that there is no pride or scorn in his pupil's face, only the sweet alluring softness and shyness that are in his opinion the chief attractions in a young girl. There are scores of lovely girls at Madame de Bernard's pensionnat, but this one to him is the flower of the flock. He has never, to his thinking, looked on a more exquisite specimen of that exquisite age—between girlhood and womanhood. Two immense grey eyes with darkness in their gleaming depths—a little Greek nose—a skin of snow—a delicious rose-petal bloom—a red mouth like a child's—a glisten of small white teeth, and a careless tangle of bronze-flecked hair, make up a matchless whole. Looking at her, he quite understands how men have been fools enough to go blind and mad—to lay down life and honour and even soul's salvation for a creature like this, and with the impulsive temperament of the South, Marco Ferrari is deeply enamoured of her. The fire in his breast has smouldered for two long months. It wants but opportunity now to burst into a blaze, but somehow the beauti-ful but passionless face has evoked not only intense admiration, but also a reverence that he has never felt towards a woman before in his life of thirty-four years.Passionately in love with her, it yet seems to him almost a crime to try and change the lovely innocence of that face into the face of a woman who has eaten of the tree of knowledge of good and evil. He knows so well that nothing—nothing can ever bring back that sweet look of purity and innocence when once the dawn of earthly passion has broken on the heart—when once the voice of earthly passion has breathed words that a woman never forgets—never while she lives.If men would but remember how a woman's whole existence for good or evil is often based on the first—very first love awakened within her—how entirely her first love is responsible for her future—they would pause perhaps before—to gratify a little vanity, a little passion—they brushed away the bloom which no mortal hand can ever restore. Ferrari, like many foreigners, is of a romantic and chivalrous nature—love to him is more of a poetic essence than a vulgar realism. He believes absolutely in the existence of a true, pure, disinterested love, for he knows he could love a woman "du cœur," without a shadow of baser sentiment alloying his feelings. This girl, whom he has simply deified into an angel by right of her exquisite beauty, he is ready to adore—to give up everything for—to slave for—and live for—without once questioning whether she is the pure, innocent, truthful being which is the only being he could love. He adores her madly but reverently. He would not harm a hair of her head—he would not tarnish her beauty by one desecrating touch—he would not soil her exquisite lips by one passionate kiss—unless he knew that she loved him truly as he loved her—and that he was the only man to whom she would belong for the space of her existence.The girl scarcely merits his opinion of her. Innocent—as the world takes the word—she surely is, through the circumstances which have attended her since she opened her big grey eyes on this wicked world. She has up to now been exempt from any temptations of evil, but if liberty and temptation were allowed her it is doubtful she would go through the fire unscathed. Of course she knows she is beautiful. It is a fact that has been dinned into her ears, beginning with the monthly nurse whose admiring expressions she did not understand, going on continually by a foolish mother, and ending with an enormous amount of masculine approbation, which in her riper years she does understand, and she rejoices in the fulness and triumph of her beauty as thoroughly as any embryo coquette.Has she not been kissed and caressed perpetually—just for those big grey eyes and bronze-flecked hair—ever since the period of bibs and tuckers, short frocks and pinafores? Has she not always seen ugly children snubbed and passed over, and the plum cake and sugared almonds handed over to her? And this will go on for ever, she thinks, as she looks in the glass and smiles complacently. In the eternal fitness of things it has been ordained so—other girls, ugly girls, dowdy girls may wade and work through life—but she, like the lilies of the field, will neither toil nor spin. Dukes and princes will crop up in her path with the celerity of gourds in the night. Plum cake and sugared almonds will be hers always. They belong by right divine to pretty people with little Greek noses and rose-petal bloom.Beside all these ideas of herself she has a deal of fine ladyism about her. She loves dainty garments and dainty food; silk stockings and gris perle gloves, truffled larks and walnut cream are essential to her notions of pleasantness, and all her pocket-money—small as is the hoard, for her people are as poor as the traditional church rat—is devoted to gratifying her fancies. She likes fine horses and carriages and the men who can afford to give them, but somehow, though she is nineteen, no one has touched whatever she may possess of heart—until now.And it is only a singing-master—a man who has to work for his daily bread, whose position in Society is nil, whose antecedents are unknown—that has captivated her.There is a momentary silence after she has resung her verse—a silence in which two pairs of eyes look into one another. Ferrari and she are the only occupants of the long room—so to say—though there is an obese little person—a sort of sheepdog of the establishment—whose business it is to keep guard over the innocent lambs, but who, having no harmonious proclivities, has fallen asleep in her chair near the door.Ferrari glances at her, smiles and remembers that this is a golden opportunity which it would be madness to lose.He longs with an intense longing to hear the charming lips say " I love you! " but yet he would not really care for the sweet avowal, unless it was saidde cœur, and shyly. He longs to clasp the little white hands, but yet he would not care to do so, unless they crept into his grasp timidly, and tremulous at the contact, like young birds. He longs—longs for one touch of the perfect, child-like mouth, but he would not kiss it for the world unless he knew that he had won her, heart and soul, and that no other man's image had fallen on her young life.But as he looks at her keenly, steadily, a strong conviction comes to him that she is everything his fancy paints her—that the great guerdon of an honest, pure love will be his, when the fair white arms go round his neck, and every throb of her being responds to the kiss of a first and everlasting passion."Listen, mademoiselle, I am going to sing this verse to you—and you?—will you try and catch the expression that the song requires?" he asks, with that unutterable softness that is especially Italian.She bends her head in assent. Somehow she is tongue-tied under the spell of his glance and voice."Veux-tu mon nom?—il est à toi—Veux-tu mes biens?—ils sont àà toi.Avec bonheur je te les donneSi ton regard brille et rayonneEt se repose unpeu sur moi.Si tu savais comme je t'aime,Bien sûr—bien sûr, tu m'aimerais!"He sings it divinely, in a perfect tenor, and the girl, listening with bated breath, afraid to lose one note of this most delicious voice, stands as motionless as a statue and as—dumb.He looks up into her beautiful face. Already it seems to have gained in expression. A rapturous feeling fills him as he realises that he has the power to thrill and move her inmost being.An impulse almost uncontrollable seizes him to clasp her in his arms, that he may feel for one moment—one divine moment—her heart throbbing against his own, but he crushes it down—not for worlds would he offend the delicacy of his dainty love, or startle into life a passion, the slow and sweet dawn of which will bring him such ineffable bliss. He has flirted with many women—the sparkling, ox-eyed, olive-skinned women of his country—but the feeling he had for them was as water is to wine compared with the intense admiration and adoration he has for this fair English girl with the face of an angel.Presently he sings again, lingering over each word with a tenderness and earnestness which are perfectly genuine:"Veux-tu mon cœur?—il est ´ toi,Car il faut bien que tu souviensJe n'ai plus rien qui m'appartientDepuis que j'ai connu ta loi!O prends mon cœur—il est à toi.Si tu savais comme je t'aime,Bien sûr—bien sûr, tu m'aimerais!"His right hand wanders slowly upwards and falls gently on the little white fingers that rest on the piano. His palm is so hot, it seems to burn her, but she does not shake off his touch."Mademoiselle! you know how I love you! And you?—oh, tell me my love is returned a little—even a little!" he whispers in excellent English, flavoured by the musical accent of Italy.Her eyes meet his once more, and tell him eloquently enough that, young as she is, the capability of love is strong within her—but only for an instant she reveals this, the next her white lids droop, but her hand still lies within his.Standing close beside him, with the glamour of his handsome face over her, she forgets his station in life, and the insular reserve of an Englishwoman; she forgets his profession as singing-master, his subordinate position in Society, and she only remembers that though men have flattered her and stared at her, no one has aroused in her the strange new feelings that this poor singing master has done.She believes that she would gladly give up family—everything—all for love, and the world well lost—and with this thought in her mind, she looks at him again with a softness which is not habitual to her glance, her heart beats fast, and, reluctant that he should recognise his conquest, she is turning away, when he throws an arm round her and draws her down until her face is almost level with his own.
"'Bien sûr—bien sûr, tu m'aimerais!'"
he whispers passionately. "Mademoiselle, let me see you once—just once—where no eyes are by to mark how utterly—utterly I love you! Will you meet me? As Heaven is above us I will keep guard over every look and word that might make you repent coming. I love you! I love you!—but that very love makes you a sacred thing in my eyes. My life—my angel! Say—will you meet me?""Where?" she whispers, carried away by the passion and pleading in his voice, but suddenly her conscience smites her, and she adds: " But, no!—it is not possible—I cannot go out by myself!""Yes, you can if your heart leads you! If it does not plead for me, then we will part to-day, but I know you will come—you will make some excuse and meet me in the Parc this evening. I shall be there at nine—oh, mon ange—I only want to hear you say just once that you like me a little! I only want to kiss your hand—I only want to know if I can make you love me—always—always. Promise you will try to come!""Hush!" she says, glancing nervously towards the corner of the room where Mademoiselle Havard still sits on guard, but now with her pale eyes wide open.Ferrari dashes into a lively Italian barcarolle, then stops suddenly, and rising from his seat looks at his watch."We must try this little song another day, I am afraid, mademoiselle," he says in a loud voice. "It is too late now. Au revoir!" he adds presently."Au revoir!" she murmurs, and he knows that she will be at the trysting place at nine o'clock.Perhaps men are inconsistent, like women, but anyway if his feelings were analysed, there would be a little regret discovered in them that she should come. It would certainly have enhanced his opinion of her extreme purity and innocence if she had refused to meet him. Yet he loves her so, that the thought of being alone with her, even for a few flying seconds, drives everything else out of his head, and sends him away in a whirl of bliss.Directly the door closes on him, the girl drops on the music-stool and plays a pathetic little air, " La femme du marin," which has drawn tears from many eyes. She plays it dreamily—softly and absently—with her thoughts leagues away.She has not been brought up as strictly as most English girls are, but she is quite aware that it is totally wrong and against the convenances that she should keep the tryst. Her proclivities may be fast, but assuredly she means no evil as she hesitates. A little love of excitement, a good deal of flattered vanity, leavened by admiration of the man's face, are the sole things that bias her, and, convincing herself that there can be no real harm in going out for a few moments, she hesitates no longer. The temptation is too strong for her, the temptation of meeting again two handsome adoring eyes, and listening to an entrainante voice whispering love-words in her ear. But how is she to evade being seen by somebody as she makes her escapade? The Pensionnat is a good one, the discipline almost severe, the supervision vigilant.She goes on playing small snatches of melody, unconsciously falling into "Home, Sweet Home." The air suddenly startles her out of her dreamy mood. What would those at home think of her going out at nine o'clock of the evening to meet a foreigner, of whom she literally knows nothing save that he is superbly handsome and has the good taste to admire her? Only a poor singing-master too! She remembers that the bluest of blood runs in her own veins, that her mother is ambitious for her, that she is expected to marry wealth, if not rank; but after all she does not care very much about her people, and puts this thought of them quickly aside."I have it! " she cries mentally. "Cis is so like me that Madame and the teachers will never know which of us is absent from prayers. They won't even notice, in that ill-lighted room."Directly she has arrived at this conclusion she closes the piano with a careless thud, catches up her music, and humming " Si tu savais," passes the sentinel without a word, and runs upstairs.Here, in the long passage that lies between the dormitories, she falls upon her cousin—the cousin who is so strangely like her, and yet as unlike her as Heaven is from earth."Cis," she whispers hurriedly, "tomorrow is Sunday. It is fête of the Sacré Cœur at St. Gudule, and I haven't a thing fit to wear. I must have ribbons and gloves, and shall run out by and bye and get them."The girl addressed as Cis opens her pair of great grey eyes in amazement."Going out this evening—so late and alone! It will be quite dark. They will never permit you!""I don't mean to ask permission. Mind you go to my seat for prayers. They'll fancy it's me, and you are such a little saint, they are sure to think you are some-where in the room."She does not pause to look at her astounded auditor, but snatching up her little black cloak and hat that hang in the passage, she runs downstairs and into the long garden—unperceived in the twilight.Here she hides in a tiny summer-house covered with a Virginian creeper glorious in vivid autumnal tints, until she hears the church clock strike the quarter to nine. By this time the evening shadows trail down blackly over her as she walks quickly to her destination. She has been a year in the charming Belgian capital, and knows her way perfectly. The cool air comes and lifts the little bronze-flecked rings of hair on her forehead, and she thinks it delicious to be out with the purple-spangled canopy overhead, instead of being imprisoned within the glaring white walls of the Pensionnat.Reaching the Parc, she sinks down on an out-of-the-way bench, in a tremor of excitement and delight. The very novelty of the situation, the sense of liberty, im-part a charm to it. She is quite content to be here, and feels no impatience for the arrival of her lover. Her nature is too mercurial for any strong impression, and her spirit is so fearless and defiant, that anxiety lest her absence should be discovered has no place in her breast, to mar the pleasure she experiences in her escapade.In a little while, however, there is a presence at her side, and the sound of a voice that has sung itself into what she fancies is her heart, falls on her ear.Child almost as she is—barely nineteen—untutored in worldly ways, a novice in feminine guile, she yet turns her head from the moonlight, so that he may not see her face."Mademoiselle!" he says in a tone of restrained feeling, and full of the respect he would show to a Grande Dame, instead of an indiscreet little schoolgirl who has stolen out to meet a man whom she knows nothing about.The respect or rather reverence in his accents makes his voice seem formal, almost cold, and she experiences both vexation and mortification that, after all, he does not admire or appreciate her as much as she believed.She looks up at him with reproach in her glance. Under the yellow moon's rays she is perfectly lovely, her figure, enveloped in the black cloak, looks less childish than in the close-fitting dress he has seen her in. Her face is as pure and white as carven pearl, and her large eyes have the innocence of a baby.Ferrari, gazing at her—loses his head.He has come here resolved not to show her the passion in his heart till he has sifted her nature—found her to be wholly without evil or guile, and a girl whom he can woo for the wife of an honest, high-principled man, whose ideas of women's goodness and purity are ultra severe. But Venus-Victrix as usual. Beauty, that snare of the Devil, melts his grand resolves into thin air in a trice. He has a cultivated brain, a strong mind, and a refined nature, but with the proximity of this half child, half woman, he is powerless to keep back the burning words that rush to his lips.Grasping her two hands—tiny hands, white as snow and soft as velvet—he bends towards her."Do you care for me, my child?"He asks it quickly, almost roughly, asks it as if suspense on the point hurt him horribly, and yet he feared to end it.She does not answer for a minute. She knows now, however, that he does care for her—does admire her as much as she could wish."It was very wrong of me to come," she says presently, in a very low voice, the voice of a child—thinking—knowing it has done wrong, and repentant of it. And once more her eyes are lifted up to him deprecatingly, and with a charming shyness in their exquisite depths, " but I—could not help coming!""I am satisfied," he cries, drawing a long breath. "You need not tell me that you love me, for your sweet eyes have answered for you. Oh, mon ange! my life! how good it is to be here together, and—alone! It seems almost enough happiness for me. Is it so for you, dear child?"No man has ever spoken to her in such delicious, liquid tones. They arouse feelings she has never felt before. She trembles from head to foot, and a thrill of pleasure goes through her heart, yet amid this new measure of bliss pulsates one sharp throb of pain. It may be a sort of prescience that women often have in the most perfect moment of their life. She dares not try to analyse it, for in a second it is gone—but she may perchance remember it in after years."But no!" he whispers, throwing his arm round her, "delicious as it is to be here, it would be Heaven to be together for ever! Oh, my love! My own! say to me that it shall be so!"He waits for her answer—with bated breath—and in this minute the very voices of the night seem hushed as though in expectation of love-words from her perfect lips.But she says nothing, though her gaze, free and unrestrained from very ignorance of evil, rests on his dark eyes and handsome face, with the open admiration that a savage might show. The colour surges over his cheek as he marks this, and the blood runs riot through his veins. He cannot realise it all—he cannot believe that to him has come such unutterable happiness. A gift straight from Heaven to crown his life! Here she is—a glorious bit of Nature's handiwork—a young, pure maiden, the beau ideal of womanhood he has always worshipped and elected to find, and win. Here she is, like a morsel of delicious tropical fruit, ripe and ready for his hands to pluck if he will—a fair, sweet girl, to live for him, and him only, to the end of her days.Yet he refrains from taking the kisses he longs for from her lovely mouth, close as it is to him, tempting him as it does; he is resolved not to taste those lips until he knows—positively—absolutely that those lips will be true; those kisses he culls—sacred to him."Oh, my child," he cries passionately, letting his gaze dwell on her most exceeding fairness until he feels that life will be nothing without her, "it is true that we have known each other but a short time, but love cannot be measured by time! I hardly think that words are needed between us two; we know all surely, even these brief moments have taught us that; we know that we love one another, that we were made for one another by that Heaven who fixed our destiny the day we were born. Why then should we stand apart? Life is so short—so short. Each fleeting second is so precious, each day to be prized before it falls for ever into the gulf of eternity. Ever since I looked on your face, my angel, it has haunted me day and night. It has visited me in my dreams and lingered in my thoughts, till my brain has grown hot and I have felt that I should go mad with love of you—with the longing for you. Your sweet eyes have gone with me wher-ever I have gone. My child—my dear one, I cannot live without you—and you? I know you cannot live without me. Fate has decided so. My life!—my love! You must be mine—my very own, and I shall wait for that day with beating heart and longing arms, and I know that you will come to me some day, and stay with me, and love me with a love that will know no death!"He says it all earnestly, feverishly, with his face close to hers, his eyes looking down straight into hers, his hand on her shoulder."Anima mià—one word—one little word, just to say that I have not deceived myself, that I am not a vain fool, and believe you care when perhaps I am nothing more to you—nothing more than any other man who has gone mad for you! But no! I cannot believe that. I love you, sweetheart, with all my soul, but I reverence you, and I know that you are too pure, too good to have come here to-night unless you care for me—unless your love for me overruled everything else.""I love you!" she whispers, and she speaks the truth to a certain extent. He is the first man who has spoken to her like this—in the softest, most seductive voice. He is the first man who seems to have gathered to himself all of her virgin heart, and awakened the first echoes of passionate feeling within her.Her grey eyes grow as radiant as the moon overhead, and the smile of a pleased, contented child plays on her lips.He clasps her in his arms now and holds her to him, while her beautiful face lies against his breast with an abandonment that is born of innocence."Swear to me, child, that you will be true to me! Swear that no other man shall hold you in his arms, or touch your sweet lips, or clasp your little hands. See, how the moon and the stars seem to smile on our love. How Heaven itself rejoices in the true union of two human hearts! In this sacred hour of our betrothal cast aside all reserve and shyness, and tell me the blessed, blessed truth, that you are mine, as I am yours—for ever and ever.""For ever and ever," she says in a very low voice, but he hears her, and, stooping, he kisses her white lids, her rose-flushed cheeks, and her little red mouth, and as he does so a man emerges from the shadows hard by. Sauntering slowly along, involuntarily he pauses a moment, as his glance falls on the splendid, striking beauty of the girl, which the clear moonlight reveals in perfection. He looks at her so keenly and steadfastly that her face is impressed on his mind, then, suddenly realising the situation, he turns his gaze reluctantly and goes on his way with a frown on his brow."An assignation, of course," he says half aloud. "I never noticed the man, but of course it's some rascal of a foreigner who has got hold of an English girl, for she is English, I'll swear. No other country but old England ever produced that matchless face."The girl notices the undisguised admir-ation in his glance, and flushes with pleasure, and even with her impassioned lover at her side she falls to wondering who the tall, fair, patrician-looking stranger can be."A compatriot of yours," Ferrari remarks after a casual glance, as if in answer to her thoughts. He is jealous and angry that another man's gaze should have lingered on the beauty which he would hide away from all other eyes but his own."What barbarians Englishmen are! I daresay the man stared at you so hard, that he will surely know you again. Cara! I almost wish you were not beautiful; the thought that other men's eyes can feast on that beauty drives me mad!""What does it matter so long as I care to look on none but you?"
she says with delicious naiveté. "Have I not sworn to keep to you for ever and ever?""My angel! My beloved!" he answers passionately, kissing her again and again, and in the Heaven he has found, he believes thoroughly that he will reign supreme, "that no stranger will intermeddle with his joy."CHAPTER II. THE HONOURABLE JOHN."He is a fool who thinks by force or skillTo turn the current of a woman's will!"ABOUT a mile and a half from the dull old cathedral town of Exeter, and down a long lane—which is a real Devonshire lane—flanked on either side by tall, luxuriant hedges, out of which perfumed heads of honeysuckle and long trails of pink and white wild roses hang out beneath the shade of great spreading oaks and elms, with a lovely copper beech here and there, lending an exquisite dash of vivid colour to the general greenness; a white gate now and again breaks the formality of the way, giving glimpses of true Devonshire pasture, lavish almost to rankness and dotted with big, sleepy-eyed, meek-looking cows, whose tinkling bells sound pleasantly on the evening air and are, in fact, the sole enlivenment of the spot, save a band of nightingales that give out a roundelay in the dusk, while from distant farmsteads comes a shrill bark of dogs.As you go further from the town, the lane narrows and its sylvan beauty is considerably marred by a dozen little cottages, shabby, and tenanted by the poorer class.Past these and within a large meadow, enclosed by a high wooden fence, stands "Brambledene," a red, straggling building which has the appearance of being two small houses turned into one, with a lot of rakish irregular chimneys, and jutting windows, and rooms bulging out without the smallest regard to architectural symmetry. But the Honourable John Delaval—one of that sorely-to-be-pitied army of martyrs, yclept decayed gentry—has fortunately grown philosophically indifferent to appearances in general, so long as he can keep the wolf from the door. He is the fourth son of a spendthrift earl, a scion of a long line of roués and spendthrifts, whose title and position are their best possessions, and whose acres in the North are mortgaged to an inch.By the time the Honourable John reached the age of thirty, he was completely out at elbows. Coats from Poole's were an impossibility, flowers for his buttonhole as far removed from his reach as the moon, cash was nowhere, credit a thing of the past. He was too well known in London to be able to dodge the writs. He had tried all ways and means to arrive at a gentlemanly livelihood, and had signally failed.Business men looked askance at an aristocratic clerk, and infinitely preferred one to the manner born; titled aspirants to honest work usually meet with discouragement and rebuff, and refinement is the last merit wanted in a paid individual.Fairly educated—better educated, in fact, than English aristocracy as a rule—by nature intelligent, and with all the feelings and instincts of a gentleman, he could not dig, and to beg he was ashamed. All his fatherland offered him was genteel starvation, so with his pater's—the old earl's—blessing, backed up by a cheque of two hundred pounds—squeezed with some difficulty out of the family coffers—he betook himself across the herring pond, where the patrician name of Delaval was a dead letter, and carried no greater weight in its sound than the common but better-known appellations of Brown, Jones and Robinson, and where he was free to go in for cheese, or dry goods, or anything else that presented itself as a means of daily bread.But the Honourable John inherited the good looks of his ancestors, and was a fine fellow measuring six feet two inches in his socks, and he not only attracted a considerable amount of notice from the elegant Broadway belles, but got a stroke of fortune as well.Within a couple of months after his arrival at New York, his face and thoroughbred air fired the fancy of an ambitious young woman, the spoilt child and heiress of a remarkably well-to-do owner of a large oyster saloon in Union Square.True, the "cash down" was not much to speak of, but the "expectations," when Providence deemed fit to remove old Washington Plumper from his piscatorial sphere, were wonderful, and to a poor man who could not be sure of enough to pay his next week's board and lodging the prospect of a comfortable future was too much. So the Honourable John sent caste to the four winds, and prejudice along with it, swallowed the bitter pill because it was so well wrapped up in prospective bank-notes, and was thankful.But as the years rolled by, he began to question whether he had cause to be thankful.Miss Victoria Plumper—she was christened Victoria after Her Majesty of England—was far from being a desirable person. In her maiden days she had had no especial recommendation, personally or mentally, but she had seemed to a certain extent harmless and insignificant. As she merged, however, into the Honourable Mrs. Delaval, all the bristly and uncomfortable side of her character came out; she developed the bumps of self-sufficiency, enormous veneration (for herself), and philo-progenitiveness. And as the old owner of the oyster is at the present time—just twenty years after his daughter's marriage—still hale and hearty, and screwy—his son-in-law's lines have not been cast in pleasant places.The Honourable John is not a bad sort, however, and in spite of the godsend a few thousands would be to him, he bears the fact of Washington Plumper's vitality with exemplary patience. His wife is the one drop of gall and wormwood in his cup."There was given me a thorn in the flesh—a messenger of Satan to buffet me," is his frequent but unspoken thought, for the North-countryman loves the pipe of peace, and holds his tongue to try and ensure it. His wife is beneath him in birth, inferior to him in mind and brain, unsympathetic in every feeling. She is "common," in fact, and makes his blue blood bubble and seethe, but he makes the best of his bargain and consoles himself for matri-monial infelicity by a loving devotion to his children. They consist of two girls of the ages of nineteen and sixteen. There were four other little olives, but they are buried in a promiscuous sort of fashion in the different places where the Honourable John and his family boarded and lodged before they finally took root in Devonshire.The clock is at eight, and pater and mater are sitting in their little dingy parlour. There is not an attempt at comfort, far less at luxury, in the room, owing to the niggardly spirit of the mistress of the establishment. A hard sofa covered with horsehair, a few straight-backed, spindley chairs, a shelf piled with secondhand, well-worn books, greedily devoured by the head of the house, and a square deal table. These articles compose the furniture, and fragments of bread, a pat of butter and a dish of flaccid-looking shrimps, denote that the evening meal is going on.In the semi-darkness, the couple make a queer contrast, refuting the belief that husband and wife grow like one another after some years of matrimony. He, tall and straight as a poplar, with a fine, blond, Saxon face, clear-cut features, the mien of a grand seigneur, his linen unreproachable, his hands white as snow, his nails a picture. She, short, stout, Dutch-built, swarthy of skin, her eyes as black as sloes, as sharp as a terrier's, her rough crinkly hair pushed untidily away under a tawdry sham lace cap, her black alpaca gown frayed and greasy at the seams—certainly not an appétisante woman by any means, and a shrew as well, with an unruly member that wags thirteen to the dozen and lashes like a whip.He, quiet, reflective, soft-voiced—a fit specimen of English nobility. She, noisy, full of gesticulation, brusque in movement, and rejoicing in a Yankee twang that irritates the delicate tympanum of his ear, and is more to his distaste than her numerous other failings.A man and a woman, like many another man and woman whom fortune's freaks have tied together, wide apart in spirit, hating one another's presence, but struggling on to the end with the halter round their necks, either out of deference to what the world considers matrimonial obligations or else from some sheer mercenary interest."I met Melville this morning," the Honourable John announces in his usually low, gentle voice. " He wants me to buy the two cows I liked so much the other day.""I hope you were not fool enough to increase your offer of twenty-five pounds for the two," she snaps viciously. "Though I think anyone can do you out of money, except me."The last words have an ominous, aggrieved tone, which he quietly ignores. He is so habituated to jeers and reproaches that they have begun to fall on deaf ears at last."No, I did not increase my offer, though I felt inclined to do so, poor chap; he is so awfully down on his luck, that I can't help being sorry for him. It is a cruel shame he cannot take his proper stand in the world, just because his scamp of a father chose to run through every sou; I feel for him with all my heart. It's odd how class sympathises with class," he adds half to himself, and the man who belongs to a fine old family, but is only a small tenant farmer owning half-a-dozen cows—sighs, sighs so audibly, that the woman sitting opposite to him leaves off crunching her shrimps and eyes him quite vindictively. The fact is that he has trodden on dangerous ground—the huge piece that separates her from him—caste."'Class sympathises with class'—well! that sounds elegant, but it's trash," she sneers. " It vexes me that you have always class on the brain! What is the good of being born a useless fine gentleman when you haven't two pence to rub together? Now I hate such fiddle-faddle! Give me the real aristocracy of the almighty dollar—the big bloods that put down cash handsomely, and hold their heads above credit. Why don't Lord Melville turn his white hands—just like a girl's, they are—to some honest work instead of going about with a long face, and a rusty old velveteen jacket, trying to do people out of their money. I bet those cows you are after are not worth a sovereign apiece. You have never had a cattle ranche, like many of my family. I don't believe you know the difference between a cow and a buffalo."The Honourable John gazes at her open-eyed and open-mouthed. She is really getting too much—too much! If there is a thing he prides himself on, it is being a good judge of pedigree cattle. Wasn't he brought up among one of the finest herds of Jerseys in England?—the herd that his father, the Earl of Cottesmere, spent thousands on, and which yet were accounted the biggest bargain by the best judges around."Those cows a fraud! Why, I never saw better ones. The Melvilles are a very old family—one of the oldest in the United Kingdom, my dear Victoria, and people like these are genuine enough. It's the mushrooms that are doubtful. I would give fifty pounds a piece for the cows to-morrow if I had it. I know Melville wouldn't impose on anyone. His sort never do.""His sort is like yours, I suppose," she says grimly. "Now I just hate his sort! A parcel of stuck-up people giving themselves as much airs and graces as if they were rich. That old mother of his treads one under foot as if one was a worm. I met her in the lane the other day, and she looked at me as if I was a tramp, although I had my new dress on, and that hat, you know, with the three fine ostrich plumes."He bites his lip to hide a smile as he pictures her with her three ostrich plumes, then he looks away in distaste."Lady Melville is very proud and dignified, and no wonder. She is the daughter of one of our biggest dukes, and the widow of an earl. She has the bluest of blue blood running through her veins; everyone cannot boast of that, you know! She is always charming to me, even when I meet her in my threadbare old coat minus buttons, and my old hat, which is not fit for a bull bait.""She recognises 'class' perhaps, especially the pauper portion of it," she answers sharply. "To me, she is simply hateful, and I should love to crush her—airs and all. If I had a fortune, do you know what I would do with it?""Haven't an idea—buy fine clothes for Claire, or set up an oyster saloon in the Haymarket!"She glares at him like a wild cat—of course he is hitting at her paternal proclivities."Oyster saloon, indeed! Well, one could do more silly things than set up an oyster saloon. If it hadn't been for an oyster saloon you would have been starving by this time, or have drowned yourself—but gratitude is not in the heart of man!"He is of a proud and sensitive nature—the ill-bred speech hits him hard. It is partially true what she says, however, though he would have respected the delicacy that kept her from the subject."I am not guilty of the sin of ingratitude—that is peculiar to the mob," he replies in a quiet, dignified tone, "but even if I were inclined to forget about your money, you would take care to nudge my memory on the subject!—but let that pass. When a couple of oxen are yoked together it galls them to pull different ways, my dear Victoria. Now may I know what you would do if you had a fortune?""What I should do? I guess I'd buy the roof over that old Lady Melville's head," she flashes. "I should like to live at High Towers better than any place I have seen."He does not answer her, but sits gazing dreamily out of the window, balancing a bit of buttered crust on his fork."Have some shrimps—they're wonderfully good and meaty, and get on with your supper, for it's growing late.""Thanks—I dislike shell-fish," he answers absently, "they don't agree with me.""Now that's another fling at Washington Plumper's oysters," she exclaims in a loud, rasping voice that brings him back at once from dreamland."I was not thinking of—of—oysters," he murmurs mildly, "I was thinking of High Towers. It is a grand old place, but I don't fancy it would suit you. There is nothing modern or bric-à-brac about it, you know! Now I would as soon live on at Brambledene if I had enough money to give Claire and Bell a fair start in life. Brambledene doesn't offer much social aggrandisement for them, poor little souls, I am afraid. I could die as happy as a prince if I knew the girls were properly provided for—and little Cis as well!""Cis, indeed! that's another of your follies. You were not content with the mouths Providence gave you to feed, but you must go and add another one. Just like men! you are either miserly or wickedly improvident; there's no happy medium in your sex. What earthly right had you to saddle yourself with the keep of that child when you couldn't do justice to your own offspring, I should like to know?" she asks in an aggrieved tone and with an aggressive look."Could I help it? Could I refuse my brother's dying request? The child's aristocratic relations on her mother's side—Lord and Lady Lyonsdale—would have nothing to say to her, because her father, poor old Ned, was a gentlemanly pauper like myself. However, Cis, poor mite, is as quiet as a mouse and harmless enough.""But an expense—always an expense! She has to be clothed and fed, and then she costs double with her finishing school.""Simply because you would not let Claire go to Brussels by herself, and you knew that Cis, young as she is, is steady enough for a duenna, and you were quite right. Claire is by far too handsome a girl to gad about alone. If I had my wish I should keep her always under our eyes. I shall never have a moment's peace when she comes out at the Opera. She hasn't backbone enough to stand flattery—admiration will turn her head, and she'll never keep straight."He adores his children and covertly dashes the back of his hand against his moist eyes as visions of Town men, alias ravening wolves, rise before him, prepared to devour his pretty lamb."Claire will make a grand success on the stage and set fine Society ablaze. Gus Harris never did a better thing for himself than when he promised to bring my girl out at Covent Garden," she answers in a hard, decided voice, her dusky cheeks all aglow with maternal complacency. Her eldest daughter is the one creature on which she showers any amiable feeling she happens to possess, and in return Claire rules her with a rod of iron. "I never saw anyone so beautiful as Claire in my life.""Except Cis," the Honourable John puts in quietly. "Cis and Claire are as like as two peas, except that Cis puts one in mind of moonlight—soft, tender—and Claire of sunshine.""Give me the blaze of sunshine! Cis cannot hold a candle to my girl. Claire is a Queen of Beauty. She is downright elegant! What would she be if she were set off by rich silks and satins and plenty of diamonds and emeralds, when she is just lovely in her old cottons that cost four-pence-halfpenny a yard, or that horrid old green merino that has been turned twice? My poor, dear, ill-treated girl, she ought to be the Empress of Eussia instead of a pauper going to sing for a livelihood. My blood boils to think of the few advantages she has.""'Beauty unadorned'—you know the rest, my dear Victoria. Claire's face is her fortune, and no one looking at her will notice the fourpenny-halfpenny cottons or the objectionable green merino. Her hair is a glory in itself. Titian would gladly have given some years of his life to paint it!""Who cares about that stupid old Titian, whoever he may be—some old fogey pal of yours, I suppose," she snaps scornfully. "I want a prince of the royal blood or a big lord to admire Claire and her hair.""You wouldn't mind the Earl of Melville, though he tries to do us about cows.""Even the Earl of Melville, provided he could keep Claire like a grand lady. He has a fine-sounding name anyhow, and I should like my girl to have a right to go to Buckingham Palace and kiss the Queen's hand, and to go to Marlborough House and the British Museum and the Alhambra and all the other places where the English bloods go, and to buy her frocks in Regent Street instead of having to haggle about a few shillings with that cheating Miss Simpson in Exeter.""And you would like to be mother-in-law to a real live swell, and to crush the old nobility under your feet! Well!—well! who knows what may be in the womb of Time?"Her eyes twinkle at the thought, then her face darkens."I don't believe the Boss is thinking of dying yet," the affectionate daughter mutters impatiently."Don't say ' Boss,' my dear Victoria; leave that to the waiters in Union Square.""Well, I'll say father next time if you prefer it, but Washington Plumper wouldn't understand it. We all called him ' Boss,' and he liked it; you see, there is quite a ring of dignity about the word.""Is there, indeed? Of course it is quite an Americanism and sounds queer to English ears. Then say 'Boss' if it pleases you by all manner of means, there are not many people round here to listen to you.""That's flat enough. We can count our acquaintance on our fingers. They don't care about paupers in this country, I suppose, but if we came in for a lot of money all the neighbourhood would be Tom and Jerry.""Tom and Jerry! Why, surely that's the name of one of your drinks. You meant Jack and Tom, I fancy.""Perhaps I did. How you snap one up if one makes a little mistake. The old nobility don't seem to have had the extra twopence paid for manners, anyway!" she flashes indignantly."If we had money we might bid for High Towers when it comes under the hammer next month," he says with a smile, wishing to appease her."Is High Towers going to be sold?" she questions eagerly, with a malicious look in her face."Without reserve, and more's the pity; poor Melville is off abroad somewhere to try and forget in change that he is homeless and comparatively penniless—Where's the child?""The child " is his youngest olive branch, her name is really the quaint and pretty one of "Bluebell," but, after the manner of most pretty names it is shortened into a commonplace appellation. She is the strangest little creature imaginable; romantic, dreamy to excess, a lover of reading, and with an intense passion for music. She is fragile and as white as snow, with exquisite little features, and a pair of large serious eyes as guileless as a baby's. She is idolized by her father and looked upon by her mother as a very inferior article to her elder sister."Where is the child? Why, in the usual place, I suppose, lying under the apple trees with some rubbishy book of fairy tales. A. more lazy, useless child I never saw. She must really be sent to a good school soon, where they'll knock all romantic nonsense out of her, and besides she must be finished, you know. She can't dance a step or play a bar of 'Yankee Doodle ' or—""She can sing like a bird, far better than Claire does," the Honourable John cries stoutly, roused out of his habitual indolence, as he takes up the cudgels for his especial companion, pet and plaything. "I never put my foot down, but there is a limit to forbearance, you know, and sorry as I should be to oppose your wishes, Bell will never go to a finishing school. They are sinks of iniquity to my thinking. She may not be able to do the skirt dance, she may not be able to thump away on the piano at "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,"but she can do a lot of Greek and Latin, she can keep accounts and she has a wonderful capacity for composition. She is my pupil, and I flatter myself my youngest daughter will be one of our most celebrated novelists some day. She has a fertile imagination, an intense temperament and a poetical nature. Bell is spirituelle, and has the refinement the Delavals are known for.""And a mighty deal of good refinement has done the Delavals; much benefit has it been to you. Bell ought to learn cooking and housekeeping and darning instead of staring up at the stars, writing sonnets to the moon and dreaming away the time. It's downright wicked, I call it.""Bell never did or thought a wicked thing in her life; she does not know what wickedness is. I won't have her run down, poor little mite. There's misery enough, God knows, in this world, without letting misguided notions make a child's existence a burden. Bell would soon be out of this world if she was severely treated, and her spirit broken. She is a delicate little thing, and if we want to keep her we cannot be too careful and tender.""Going out of this wicked world isn't such a dreadful thing as people fancy," the Honourable Mrs. Delaval announces, drearily, lifting her black eyes piously Heavenward. "I am sure I often wish to die, and no wonder.""And yet you would be very sorry to leave this world with all its wickedness; you love the wicked world, my dear Victoria, and you would be loth to leave the fleshpots yet awhile.""Fleshpots indeed!" she answers filliping a shrimp with a contemptuous finger. "Much I get of them! It's all a grind, a pinching and a starving.""No wonder the larder isn't too well replenished when Claire is indulged in every whim and extravagance, and she is extravagant! not that I grudge her anything if we can possibly manage it; but it's late and I must get a breath of fresh air."He runs down the meadow towards a clump of apple trees.Here, in the gloaming, Bell lies on the grass regardless of anything so commonplace as rheumatism. Her fair head rests on her arm, her face is upturned to the sky, out of which all signs of day are fast dying, and she is so wrapt in her fantastical thoughts that her father is close beside her before she knows of his proximity. It is wonderful the loving look that flashes into her eyes as she sees him. Jumping up, she entwines her arm in his."Don't scold, darling. I forgot everything—supper and you—and everything. It has been so beautiful lying here, you know. I watched the stars peeping out one by one through that big bank of cloud and I wondered if it was true what I have been reading to-day about a plurality of worlds. How nice it would be if it was really—really true.""Why, little one?""Because you and I could go and live in a star and be so jolly and peaceful—away from all the bother down here—away from——" She pauses."Your mother," he is just on the point of saying, but stops short. "Why, Bell, I believe it has been raining,"he cries anxiously, as the touch of his shoulder against a big, fruit-laden bough brings down quite an avalanche of water over them both, " the grass must be quite damp, and you'll be ill.""No, no, dear, I am all right. Just look at those rain-drops on the leaves shining like big diamonds in the starlight; they look like the jewelled trees in Aladdin's garden. I wish I was a fairy! Half the mortals I know are so dull and uninteresting. They think of nothing but eating and drinking.""Which reminds me that you must come in to supper at once. There are some lovely shrimps," he says laughing."I hate shrimps," she cries energetically."So do I. I hate all sorts of shell fish.""Not oysters, papa! Mamma says oysters are the greatest blessing we have. I can't fancy oysters being a blessing.""They may be," he says with a twinkle in his eye, then he pauses discreetly, for he remembers that the piscatorial benefits from Grandpapa Plumper have been kept a sealed book from his grandchildren.CHAPTER III. THIRTY THOUSAND A YEAR.Here, where the world is quiet,Here, where all trouble seemsDead, winds and spent waves riot,In doubtful dreams of dreams."THE little shower that had wetted the apple tree boughs and powdered the foliage with diamonds, according to Bluebell's poetical fancy, turned during the night, into quite a soaker, and Brambledene—none too beautiful even in sunshine—looks damp and dreary enough when its inmates settle down to the parsimonious repast yclept breakfast.The Honourable John, in an old, worn-out tweed suit, but looking as clean and dainty as if he had just emerged from a bandbox, cracks his solitary egg listlessly, and absently chops into minute bits his thick slice of brown, leathery toast.After having, in times gone by, his appetite coaxed by luscious morsels of sorts, a nice devilled kidney, a delicate little sole à la financière, scrumptious steak, or a well-cooked cutlet, it certainly does seem hard in the autumn of his days to content himself daily with fare the reverse of appétisant, but according to his wont, he does not grumble. For a man of the nineteenth century, he is wonderfully patient and resigned, but all the same, he thankfully pushes his plate away as the "rat-tat" of the postman comes like a pleasant innovation."From Claire, to say when she is going to make up her mind to come back," the Honourable Mrs. Delaval cries acidly."Another dun from the butcher," the Honourable John murmurs meekly. "He told me the other day meat had risen considerably, and he wanted his money.""Run, Bell, for the letters," her mother orders sharply.Bell, who, like her father, has no proclivities for indifferent food, abandons her porridge and thick bread and butter willingly, and is back again in the twinkling of an eye."No letter from Claire, nor is it a bill. It is a letter for you, mamma, a great, long funny-looking letter," and she holds up an important bluish document which the Honourable Mrs. snatches at roughly.Tearing open the envelope, she glances hurriedly at the contents. As she reads, her swarthy face grows redder and redder and she breathes hard and loud. Then she turns pale, but only for a second. As she begins to realise what the letter is about, her eyes begin to burn fitfully and a vivid patch of crimson rises on her cheeks."John," she almost shrieks, in the delirium of her delight, "read, read!" but overcome by some emotion of pleasure or grief, she leans back in her chair, panting and apparently unable to articulate another word."What is it all about?" he asks, quietly and indifferently, taking the momentous effusion from her shaking hand."What's the letter about?—see what it's about! Oh, John! John! I ought to be sorry, but I—can't be! It is out of my power to be really sorry—but the Boss is—dead and—and——""And we have come in for thirty thousand a year," the Honourable John says very quietly.He never thinks of himself as he studies the document. He is as unselfish a man as ever breathed. For twenty years he has been waiting for a windfall—for some money to come, and for all this wretched grinding and privation to be over, and now that he knows they are over, all he says from the bottom of his heart is:"Let us thank God, my dear Victoria, that the children's future is assured. Claire need not go on the operatic stage."His wife stares at him with vacant eyes; she scarcely hears what he is saying."Remember it is my money, John, settled on me absolutely for my life! and after my death it all goes to Claire! Fancy my girl being such a big heiress! I tell you, John, that my very first purchase shall be High Towers. I said I would buy the roof over that hateful old woman's head if I ever had money enough to do so, and now that I have it, I'll teach the proud old Countess of Melville to be civil to me; I'll teach her to knock under to the only real aristocracy in the world, the aristocracy of ready money, the aristocracy that can walk through the streets with its head up in the air—the aristocracy that pays down its money and has its choice!"The Honourable John looks across the table fixedly at the amiable partner of his bosom. How desperately vulgar and waspish she is, how terribly wanting in all feminine beauty and grace."Can this accession to wealth even reconcile him to being this woman's husband?" he asks himself, with an inward shudder, then he quickly turns away towards his youngest born—his little Blue-bell—who is certainly a far pleasanter object to look upon, with her charming mignonne figure, her big blue eyes and her long hair floating over her shoulders, down below her waist, like golden mist.She sits bolt upright on a three-legged stool, staring alternately at her progenitors."High Towers!"She cannot take it in a bit. "Going to buy High Towers," her mother said.The place that has always seemed to Bell—accustomed as she is to shabbiness and circumscribed space—like a sort of royal residence, fit for the Queen herself, and oh! what an exquisite paradise it looks whenever she peeps through some little gap in the hedge and gets a tiny glimpse of the magnificent old house, crowned with three towers that seem to reach up to the skies. How she has always longed to steal into the enchanted domain, and pluck the bright sweet flowers that she doats on. How she has longed to dream away the hours beneath the shade of the tall ancestral trees, whose great boughs, leafless and snow-wrapped in winter time, seemed like white arms waving to her to come.But of course it cannot be true! It is only a tale, like Cinderella. Her mother is joking, though she jokes but seldom, and as she awakens to this fact, her startled eyes resume their blue serenity, and catching her father's amused glance, she laughs—a ringing laugh like silver chimes."Come along, Bell, we'll go and have a run with the dogs—the rain has cleared up and the sun is shining—the beggars have been scratching and whining at the door for the last ten minutes; they don't under-stand that we are richer to-day than we were yesterday, and make no allowance for our wishing to sit quiet and realise such wonderful news.""Before you go, John, I wish to impress on your mind that I don't wish Claire to hear of the change in our fortunes—mind, Bell, not a word of it if you write. I must insist on my wishes in this matter being complied with," the Honourable Mrs. Delaval says pompously."All right," her husband replies, and he and Bell are off at once from the room, which always seems to stifle the man when his wife is in it.Left alone, she seizes the precious document, which is lying on the table, and presses a dozen frantic kisses on it."The poor old Boss was an awful old miser—bless him—may his soul repose! Thirty thousand pounds—pounds, not dollars—a year, and thirty thousand pounds down! What a big sum it seems, but it's not a bit too big for a place like High Towers. I can hardly believe in such luck. If I found out now that it wasn't all real, I believe the shock would kill me downright, but it is real—real—real!"Her face grows calmer, her swarthy cheek pales and her black eyes lose their fire, and gaze for a few moments greedily on the paper, then she carefully stows it away in her ample bosom."There!" she cries spasmodically. "There, it's all safe! Won't Claire be pleased to hear such news? She might as well have come home long ago, but she is a downright queer girl, there isn't much heart about her, I reckon. She prefers Brussels to home, of course; anyhow, she shan't have the news till she returns. I'd like to get settled down at High Towers, all carpeted and elegant, before she comes back. My beautiful girl! To think what an heiress she is, and what a fine marriage she can make—nothing short of a royal prince is to my liking, but in this horrid Conservative country royalty is as far removed from ladies and gentlemen as if they were sweeps. Anyway, we shall have all the big bloods running after her—the greater the swell the greater the pauper in England—nothing but exchange and barter—so much money for such a title. Claire will be able to buy a real live dook with her money, thank goodness! Fancy me—her mother—having to call her 1 your grace,' but that's the custom in this' country, I have heard. My! won't she put on side considerable! She's fond of being grand now, what on earth we shall have to put up with when she knows about the fortune, I shouldn't like to guess! No more pinching and squeezing for us! rumpsteak for breakfast, every day if I want it—six courses for dinner—it's heavenly to think of! Bless you, poor old Boss! You have done your duty properly towards your child, and you have got your reward by this time. To think that an ugly, little, shapeless creature like an oyster should have brought us such good luck. Bless it—bless them—bless all the oysters that have been eaten in Washington Plumper's saloon! I shall never forget to mention them in my prayers, along with the Boss, for they have all been my best friends in this world. John won't abuse shell fish any more—he couldn't be capable of such base ingratitude."She rises from her chair, and unlocking a drawer in the old worm-eaten sideboard, takes out a little flask of whiskey—she likes it neat, so does not trouble for a tumbler."There," she says, "that's my first real long pull for many a day, and it's all in honour of the Boss; I drink long life—" she pauses, and turns a little white. "What was I going to say? Why, the Boss is—dead—dead as a hammer! Poor, dear old Boss, but I have the real consolation of knowing that he must have died peacefully, and with an approving conscience at having done his duty in a first-rate fashion to-wards me and mine!"Meanwhile, Topsy and Turvey, the little fox-terriers, having had a long run under the now sweltering sun, are lying in the soft grass of the orchard, showing their little red tongues, and their chaperons—the Honourable John and Bluebell—perch like a couple of Love-birds, on a large lopped bough under the grateful shadow of an apple tree.The two have been silent for some moments, principally because they are out of breath like their canine companions, but presently he speaks, while he strokes her bright hair fondly."Shall you like having a great big house, Bell?""I don't mind what size the house is, if you are in it, dear," she answers lovingly, slipping her mite of a hand into his strong, firm clasp, "but mamma was only joking when she talked about High Towers, wasn't she?""No, she was very much in earnest, I think. Shan't you be glad to be rich, Puss? Just fancy how many smart things you will want, smart frocks, smart hats, as many as the Queen of Sheba had, I dare say.""I don't care a bit about smart hats and frocks. I like my old cotton dresses because I can tumble them without being scolded. Perhaps the Queen of Sheba did not care about lying on the grass?""I never heard if she had any proclivities that way. She was a sensible woman, I dare say, not a small silly like you. However, what would you like best?""What I should like best?" reiterates Bluebell reflectively with a queer, dreamy look coming into her eyes. "It's so difficult to know. Papa, I think I should like some nice large trees, larger than these, to shade me, when I lie on the grass. I love lying on the grass, dear. I can think ever so much better out in the open air. It's such a lot of room, you know, with only the lovely sky above one—and, dear, I should like some new books, my ' Andersen's Fairy Tales ' is so torn, but it isn't my fault. I am very untidy, as mamma says. But I really do take care of my books. Topsy and Turvey fought for Andersen the other day, and nearly chawed him up between them. I don't think there is anything else I want very much.""Your requirements are very modest, my Bluebell," he says laughing. "I dare say we can compass the big apple tree and the fairy tales, if we are economical in other things. Wouldn't you like to have lessons in riding, and painting, and music?""Music!" she answers eagerly, a strange bright light flashing in her eyes, and her face flushing warmly. "Oh! how I should love to sing beautifully.""As well as Claire?"She does not answer for a moment, then she says:"Don't you think, dear, that some music makes one's heart beat—one's eyes feel blind, one's hands grow cold, and one's soul soar right away from earth to Heaven? When Claire used to sing, I never felt all this, papa. I wonder why?"He does not reply, but he knows why—he knows that Claire's music is heartless, soulless, and that it never appeals to him like some little snatch of a simple melody that breaks now and then from Bluebell's pretty lips."Oh, how I should love to sing beauti-fully," the girl cries, clasping her little hands enthusiastically. "I should sing all day long, I think. Some songs haunt me in sleep, and make me feel as if I were dead and being floated on angels' wings to the sky. Do you ever feel this, papa?""No, my pet, I am afraid I am too old and prosaic for that sort of thing. Music is all very well in its way, but ne quid nimis, which means that one can have too much of a good thing. I expect we shall be pretty well regaled in shakes and trills when Claire comes home, though by the way, she may not care to practise much now that there is no necessity for her to come out at the Opera. Young ladies of money and position don't practise much at anything now-a-days, except airs and graces," he says drily, then he goes off in a brown study about the future and Bell follows suit, except that with her as with most people of tender years, the present has most attraction."I really think I should be a little sorry to leave Brambledene," she murmurs wistfully."Sorry to leave Brambledene? Why, what on earth could you find to regret in this place, child?""I don't know, perhaps I have grown accustomed to its ugliness, and then the nightingales in the lane are lovely. I don't believe any other nightingales sing like them. I shall never forget that great treat you gave me last year when we were in London. Do you remember, papa? It was when you and I, quite by our two selves, went to the Italian Opera."He remembers, and shrugs his shoulders at the occasion being called a "treat." It was a treat indeed, being boxed up in a row of the cheapest seats with the great unwashed around, and with the grilling heat of a real June night, making the outing downright purgatory."I shall never forget that night, never—never!" Bell goes on in a slow, low voice, and with a curious rapt expression in her great blue eyes. "When the man who acted Lohengrin sang, I really thought I was in Heaven. It was so beautiful. It was like the song of the dying swan, which I have read is the most beautiful music in the world. I have never heard anything like it in my life, except the nightingales. That is why I should like to go on living here, just to listen to them in the lanes."The Honourable John pulls at his grisly moustache and looks a trifle grave.Bluebell, the darling of his heart, is such a queer, imaginative child—such a difficult child to bring up in the way she should go. He shivers as he thinks that some unscrupulous ruffian with a tenor voice, would probably captivate her at once—evidently he did an unwise thing when he took her to Covent Garden and let the sweet subtle sounds of Jean de Reszke's voice steal into her heart."You silly child," he says, "you must really put all such things out of your little head and become a young lady of Society. What sensible man would care to marry a romantic little goose who loves nightingales and fairy tales above everything else?""I don't want to marry—ever" Bell asserts positively, "I wouldn't leave you for the world, dear, unless——""Unless?""Unless Lohengrin asked me," she whispers shyly, "and then I know—Icouldn't resist!"
CHAPTER IV. HIGH TOWERS."The stately homes of England,How beautiful they stand."THE home of the Melvilles for many a generation is a grand old house, that presents a stone face, which is ornamented with elaborately carved balconies and spiral columns, a little after the Italian style. The frontage, in lieu of the ordinary principal entrance, has three enormous portals surmounted by high towers that seem to reach the skies, according to Bluebell's imaginative mind.On the centre of each of these towers, is a marvellous
representation of the Melville crest—a large crowned heart supported by a gauntleted hand.The interior of the huge building contains large rooms, lengthy corridors, wide galleries and tesselated flooring. Right before the high mullioned windows, in the midst of a vast sloping lawn green as emeralds and soft as velvet, rises a tall fountain of purest white marble. It is as old as Mount Horeb, and is chipped and broken, but it is a marvel of sculpture, with a design of three seminude nymphs, holding vases in the shape of Roman urns aloft.On the surface of the marble basin repose large water lilies,
lovely when first budding out their pure virginal charms amidst fresh
and undulating leaves. Thrice lovely when, with alabaster-hued petals fully expanded, they float
regally. Pale with passion they seem, as, their delicate faces are
turned upwards to meet the fervid gaze of the sun-god; the languid
flowers bend beneath the heat of the summer hours, while the deep
dense green of the foliage relieves the intensity of the glowing
colouring. High Towers, though intensely English in most things, yet
conveys the impression of a foreign clime, of a land where the leaf
never falls. The surroundings are simply paradisical,. and the air is
full of soft and subtle perfumes. All round the house, as if in
artistic contrast to the cool green of swelling sward, backed by the
darker hue of groups of gigantic trees, sheltering the blaze and glory
of a multitude of bloom, a broad stone terrace
skirts the lawn, and before it lies a lovely lake fringed with
drooping trees, that seem to kiss the purple water. Hot-houses and
vineries form avenues of glass that the moonbeams touch into gold and
the sun kindles into fires at noonday. Stretches of woodland lie in
the distance full of shadowy dells and verdant nooks. Orchards hold
out their luscious fruit. Here and there towers a monster oak or elm,
and—save the monotonous whisper of leaves, the lilt of the
summer wind, and the ripple of water—all around is silence,
that profound silence in which one seems to hear the great heart of
Nature beat. Through the air steals the fragrance of starry jessamine,
entwining its long feathery arms lovingly round each sister plant, and
mingling its delicious perfume with
that of roses—the peerless queen of flowers, renowned for their
beauty since three thousand years ago, when, so tradition saith, the
first of the species shot up from the earth which was stained by the
crimson tide of Adonis's blood.But a deserted and very neglected place is High Towers, after all, though as prodigal in sweet odours as if money and care had always been lavished on it. Strewn across the broad, ill-tended paths, lie long branches of briony and honeysuckle, tangled and bruised pitilessly under foot. On either side, wherever the eye turns, all manner of flowerets growing in wild profusion blush through all the gradations of white to red, blue-eyed blossoms peep out upon the scene, and cinquefoil creeping stealthily along the grass dots it with tiny golden speckles that gleam and glow in the sunshine. The only living animated objects visible are what some poet calls the bright offsprings of the air, gorgeously spangled butterflies; now above and now below fluttering recklessly among the honeyed flowers—soaring high up in wayward flight, or alighting on some scented chalice to repose and sip. But the butterflies and the blossoms, the sunbeams and the ambient air, are all in sad contrast to the internal appearance of poor High Towers.Within, everything bears a look that gives depression—a look of faded splendour, that brings painfully to the mind the decay of a noble house once rich in the wealth and indomitable pride of the old English aristocracy.The wide tapestried curtains, woven cunningly with devices that might have graced the celebrated Gobelins, hang tattered and soiled by the hand of ruthless Time. The exquisite arras—put in for good Queen Bess's benefit when she slept two nights at High Towers—follow suit, and here and there a superb old Worcester jar or quaint old English marqueterie enriched with silver and platinum, mark by their lone splendour the almost poverty stricken appearance of the general surroundings. Tall-backed prie Dieu chairs, elaborately embroidered by the nuns of the Bleeding Heart, in manifold hues that have unanimously blended into neutral tints, stand formal and uninviting round the dark oak wainscot, and the tesselated floor is neglected and stained. But all the dullness, the discomfort, the pinch of poverty, have been borne wonderfully by the proud old Countess of Melville. She is a rigid devotee, considering a word or a laugh lightly given a dire disrespect to Heaven, and believing that intense mortification of the flesh is the only thing that conduces to a healthy soul. The Melvilles have always been strict Roman Catholics, but the present Countess is the strictest of them all. She loves her only son, but that love has been so pruned and regulated by her religion that most of its fervour has fled, and only a tame sentiment left. All her confidence, all her conversation, is given to a priest, all her devotion and her thought are lavished on the ivory crucifix that hangs on her breast and is frequently pressed to her lips.The dismal atmosphere of High Towers is by no means brightened by her sombre presence. Yet her son has deemed it almost a sacrilege to intrude on the solemn tenor of her life by the guests whose mundane notions and frivolity would horrify the holder of a creed more approaching to fanaticism than reason.There is, however, inconsistent as it may seem, one earthly passion in Lady Melville's breast, an absorbing love for her home, and leaving it seems to her to be death in life.Yet she knows that High Towers is doomed to the hammer—that nothing can keep it in her grasp.Alan, Lord Melville, is twenty-six years of age. He has a handsome patrician face, and a tall, svelte figure, remarkable for its symmetry. In spite of his undeniable poverty he is unimpeachable in dress, but, whatever his dress might be, he is a man to be remarked wherever he goes.In the latter years he has been very down on his luck. There is not a single break, as far as short-sighted mortals can discover, in the dark clouds looming over his fortunes. In fact, he knows well enough that there is but one event in the future that could bring him back the position his forefathers have held, and that is a wealthy marriage.But no signs of such an El Dorado have shown themselves, and if they had, it is doubtful that he would avail himself of them, for, in spite of his having lived a good deal in the world, Lord Melville has the folly to be romantic to a certain extent.He has found plenty of women to admire him, and has never lacked success if he sought it, but he has never troubled himself about any woman much—according to the French rhyme:"On dit que dans ses amours,II fut caressé des bellesQui le suivèrent toujoursTant qu'il marcha devant elles!"The man in fact is no voluptuary—his love affairs have been more in accordance with the ways of the upper ten than from any overdue impetuosity of temperament. He is a true Briton, possessing all the good and bad qualities that appertain to his nation.Blasé as he avows himself to be, there is genuine depth and freshness in his nature, and the noise, the gaiety, the perpetual "life" in town are dear to his heart. He loves London, loves it after the fashion of most of the golden youth—loves it from high to low—from its magnificence down to its lowest—just because it is London. He is not especially extravagant or frivolous, but class and habit have made him believe that the summum bonum of existence is Fortunatus' purse, unfailing as the widow's cruise of oil. He likes to dress well, to dine well, and to finish up his day at White's or Brooks's with an excellent cigar.So, on the whole, Lord Melville's vices and virtues are pretty evenly balanced. He is as handsome as a man needs to be, he is a typical Englishman of the very best social class, one on whom the culture of generations is as apparent as the fine blood of a thoroughbred horse. Tall, neither fair nor dark, with a pair of deep blue eyes under long black lashes, close curling hair of a medium brown, and an air of unmistakable distinction. There is generally something about him—an honest languor in the deep blue eyes—an honest weariness on the face, that lead those who look below the surface to imagine that he is not a really happy man, or at any rate not a well satisfied one. Though he is by no means "sans peur et sans reproche," he is not either a "Don Juan."The fashionable follies of the day used to come as naturally to him
as his daily bread—but within the last year he has renounced
all extravagant pastimes and expensive toys, for he has to face the
fact that the home of his forefathers must pass out of his life.Pass away into the hands of strangers for ever.What a thrill of unhappiness the thought brings to the man's heart, but he wears a brave front, and no one looking at him could guess what he feels when he takes his last look at the old familiar scenes among which he was born, and which have been a part of his very life.CHAPTER V."WILL YOU SWEAR IT?""Yea, I know this well: Were you once sealed mine,Mine in the blood's beat—mine in the breath,Mixed into me as honey in wine,Nor time that sayeth and gainsayeth,Nor all strong things had severed us then."THE tryst in the Parc at Brussels was only the forerunner of many more. Claire Delaval had crept out in the dusk, and her absence of an hour has never been observed, and now she has grown more hardy and the hour is lengthened into two—hours that pass like seconds to the Italian singing-master and his pupil.Which of us, however, do not know by the time we have reached one score, that omnia vincit amor? There are, in truth, moments in life, moments when that divinest of delusions and folly that men call "love" holds autocratic sway, moments when heat or cold, sunshine or snow—in fact all external things—present exactly the same aspect to the full heart revelling in its delicious sense of reciprocity. The modern Adam and Eve of the Brussels Parc, in their retreat beneath the spreading trees, are indifferent to everything but their two selves. The man's dark eyes seek his love's grey orbs with a passionate intensity that commingles with a sort of wistfulness, and the few wavering lines round his mouth which are his only defect, show up in absolute feebleness.It is palpable enough that to him the universe holds but one woman. He is not more foolish or credulous than most of his sex, yet he believes that an angel in woman's guise sits by his side. Mad havoc the charming face has made in his heart, the beauty of it thrills his veins, the proximity of it makes his blood run riot. Strange to say, with these earthly influences over him, passion-tossed, weak as a reed in the blast, the love that leaps and flows and burns in his pulses and soul, is a tender love and a true one—not a model love by any means in the eyes of the stiff and starched but true and tender in comparison to the love men give women nowadays.Broad statuesque lids, white as milk and heavily fringed with long, curling lashes, veil the windows of the girl's soul—her great grey, luminous, almond-shaped eyes. Young as she is, Heaven only knows what those sweeping lashes hide! There may be love infinite, love single-minded, heartfelt, pure and self-abnegatory—or there may be mockery incarnate, the diabolism of an embryo Jael or Delilah within their depths for aught he knows.Still he is as wholly and absolutely hers, body and soul, now and till Doomsday, as if his faith were pinned to the purest and most immaculate of maidens and equalled in magnitude his blind and unreasoning worship.It is only a case of Venus Victrix; another proof that a woman's single hair is a man's strongest chain. The marvellous loveliness of her face has a glamour for him, just as it might have for a man a thousand times firmer and more resolute than himself, a man perchance less passion-ful, less prone to be enslaved by lust of the eye. Marco Ferrari does not pause to question whether this half-child, half-woman, he adores is pure and good and true, as a woman should be. While he gazes entranced on her beauty, it is not likely he can conceive her to be evil, black as Gehenna within. He would laugh to scorn the very idea that so fair a casket could hold aught but a priceless pearl.An intense, all-absorbing desire possesses him this evening, that no human gaze save his own should rest on the ripe perfection of face and form that has fired his heart and brain. So strongly does he feel this that he believes he could kill her sooner than let another man pluck the beauty he covets. The word "covet" is used advisedly, for, lovers as they are and have been for the period of months, he covets the full and clear revealment of the heart in her fair bosom—he covets greedily the kisses that she has hitherto yielded him, but never proffered.Most women are sphinxes and paradoxes. This girl, to those who know her, has always created a wonder if she ever was a child, or whether she came into the world with her feelings fully matured, and with wiles and blandishments at the end of her taper fingers.The starlight shows her face to him, a face that has no flaw, her
waving bronze-flecked hair glitters like burnished ore; her lids are
lowered, and somehow she looks cold and reticent, and apparently as
soulless as Galatea.Maddened by her beauty, stung by her coldness, Ferrari seizes her hands, while his own quiver at the touch—for he loves her so!His heart and his manhood lie at her feet, and he would rather she trod them ruthlessly in the dust, than that they should crown any other woman's life with joy and glory."Look at me, my darling. Let me see your eyes," he cries impetuously. He yearns to read her real feelings towards him, and, unconsciously perhaps, he has more faith in her glance, than in the pretty lips—so tempting—yet so like a child's.His impetuosity sounds rather masterful, and she likes it. It suits her own imperious nature, and touches her more than gentleness or sentiment.She slowly lifts her eyes to his, and what she reads in his fervent gaze, brings a hot, flickering colour to her cheeks, melts away her look of coldness and, sending a swift glow to her features, renders her doubly beautiful.In this moment, perchance, soul meets soul, though one soul—his—is as far above the other, as the stars are above the earth. In sudden moments like these, in the twinkling of an eye, the veil of deceit and worldliness is uplifted, and soul meets soul just to show mankind that Love is Life, and that without love human beings might as well be cabbages or oysters.Like a second Pygmalion, Ferrari looks at the beauty he has invoked. With a quick, impulsive gesture, he catches her to his breast, and holds her there. It is her kingdom, in which she reigns sovereign—fickle, capricious, perhaps unworthy, but absolute and alone.So they rest for a little while. The Parc is deserted and the silence lies unbroken save by the quick throbbing of his heart. It is a glorious night, the wind is slothful and warm, the twinkling lights outside the Parc fall mellow and chastened by the clustering foliage, and nature's pulse seems stilled into ineffable peace.Alone! he and she! with the clear sky above them, and only the soft, shy eyes of the stars watching.It is just the hour for love and happiness, an hour to steep with pleasure one's life, an hour when, lip to lip and hand in hand, the joys of Eden concentrate in a few fleeting moments. But yet the man's heart throbs with pain."When we part, shall you grieve, dear child?" he asks brokenly, and he strains her closer in his arms, for the thought of parting cuts him like a knife.A bright head with waving bronze-flecked tresses drops on his heart with an utter abandonment that startles him. Galatea no longer, it is a tender, loving woman, who gives him back love for love. Her coldness has been a sham throughout. Claire Delaval is a born coquette, and trifling and dallying with men's affections will be meat and drink to her by-and-bye. She already knows how to play with human feelings, and, as Watts says of the bears and lions, "it is her nature to."She really believes this moment that she adores this handsome, fervent lover, as much as she can adore, but in reality her feelings are a mixture of gratified vanity, a craving for conquest, with a savour of incipient materialism."I shall die!" she flushes passionately. "Yes!" she reiterates. "I shall die when
we part—but——"She pauses a second—a vivid recollection that she is uncommonly badly off in the world's goods, that she is doomed to be a plaything of Fortune, comes to her mind—she remembers the dreary sordid life at Brambledene, the absence of all things pleasant, the presence of all things hateful, the awful prospect of wasting her sweetness on the desert air, if she cannot secure a livelihood on the operatic stage.Prudence whispers to her that it might be as well to assure her future in some way if she can. What if this lover of hers is only a singing-master? What if he is not over wealthy? He has muscle, he has stalwart limbs to work for her, while she sits in the dolce far niente of indolence and comfort that she loves. She has nothing to lose, but much to gain. Her home is undesirable. Poverty has made her father unsociable, her mother she is ashamed of, her cousin and sister have no place in her affections. Surely as Marco Ferrari's wife, she will be a million times happier, and better off! While she reasons thus, Ferrari is far away in a land of dreams, in which such gross common-place things as practical calculations and interested scheming have no part.He is simply drunk with the ecstasy of the first caress she has given, and through the delirium of a love-sick brain, a great wonder fills him, that such perfect lips have been offered, such beauty yielded to his clasp with the abandon of a child.Surely he has reached Heaven!Blind with the subtle glamour of passion he only sees the glowing flowers of Eden, while the trail of the serpent is hidden from his gaze."Why must we part, uncertain when or where we shall meet again?" she whispers.He starts, he hearkens—his head whirls, and a mist rises before his eyes, as he tries to realise this lovely creature as his very own.She seems as far above him as the sun is above the earth. Still, he has wooed her, with other thoughts and intentions. He has had no desire for a clandestine marriage. He has only wanted to convince himself that she was pure, sweet, innocent and worthy as a woman can be, before he made her—openly, proudly, before all the world—his wife.Surprised at his silence, half-indignant that her suggestion has not been seized upon with avidity, she feels a keener desire to have her own way."I thought you loved me so!'' she murmurs. "I thought that the prospect of our never parting again, was as dear to you as it is to me!""Love you!" he exclaims hastily. "Love is a tame word for the storm that rages in my soul! I would lay down my life right willingly, if for a little while even I could call you my very own. If I could feel that I am to you, what you are to me—that every pulse in your frame answers to mine—my darling, my queen. It would be torture to leave you unfettered, but it would be ten time torture to part, knowing that other men's eyes feasted on the beauty of my wife. That horrible thought would drive me mad, for we must part for awhile, my love. I could not in honour take you forcibly, clandestinely from your home. It would be an insult to you, whom I love and reverence with all my heart. I want you to be my wife, but the marriage must be open and above-board. Your people must give you to me willingly, and all the world must know that neither you nor I are ashamed of our choice."There is a short silence, then her arm drops from him, and she says in a quiet, constrained voice:"It is time for us to say good night and good-bye; my people will never let me marry you; there was but one way to avoid our parting for ever, and—and you have refused it—good bye."She moves off, but with one quick bound he reaches her and catches her in his arms."Let me go!" she says impetuously. "Do you think I am only a plaything for your idle hours?""Oh, love! My love, don't drive me wild by such words," he pleads brokenly. "Don't you know that I am striving to act like a good and honest man? Don't you know that I am as wax in your hands, that your word is my law? Don't youknow it? Do as you will with me—bind your life to mine—but for God's sake do not blame me later—do not be false to me—do not ever forsake me!"She sees truth written on every feature of his face—the handsome face that has captivated her fancy."I'll never blame you—I'll never be false to you—I'll never forsake you!" she whispers."Will you swear—swear with your heart against mine—with your eyes looking into mine?""I swear!"He stoops and seals the oath with a passionate kiss.CHAPTER VI. MAN AND WIFE.Veux-tu mon cœur—il est à toi,Car il faut bien que tue souviensJe n'ai plus rien qui m'appartientDepuis que j'ai connu ta loi!"O prends mon cœur—il est à toi!Si tu savais comme je t'aimeBien sûr—bien sûr—tu m'aimerais!"CLAIRE DELAVAL sings her song now with all the fire and passion that the most exigeant lover could desire, and the handsome face of her singing-master grows radiant as he listens. All the listlessness, the want of "soul," in the first lessons have been dispersed to the four winds by the all-powerful touch of love, and as her clear notes rise and fall and thrill through his heart, Ferrari feels that she is his, that he has won her for all time."Play something,"she whispers, for the sheep-dog, Mademoiselle Havard, is unfortunately wide awake to-day and doing her eternal knitting.His hands wander over the keys in a lovely improvised air. He does not know himself what sounds emanate under his skill, for his eyes are lifted to the girl's face with the adoration and reverence a devotee gives to his saint, and as the exquisite form leans close to him his pulses throb at the proximity."In two days more I go to England, Marco," she says hurriedly. "There is no hope of delay."The man's face, so full of happiness a moment back, grows white as death, and infinite pain creeps into his eyes, his lips quiver and no sound comes from them, and all the while he plays on mechanically, but the air has changed into a plaint—a plaint that comes from the heart—and as it strikes his own ear, he thinks to himself it is a requiem for dead hours, the blissful hours that will never come again."Tomorrow at one o'clock—for God's sake come!"he says with pallid lips, in a low, hoarse voice.She bends her head in assent, stoops down on pretence of picking up her handkerchief, which she has purposely dropped, and in another instant Ferrari feels the warm pressure of her perfect mouth on his cold hand.This kiss sends the blood flying back to his cheek. He looks up at her fixedly. His life—his love! And in another moment his mind is made up. What is honour, what are actions of which his conscience disapproves? What is anything in comparison with the agony of letting her go away unfettered! If she knows she is married to him it will keep her true. It will be her strongest armour against temptations. As he realises this fact he flings away the memory of all the feelings he has hitherto held regarding women and marriage, flings the memory of them aside as recklessly as he would fling away his life, if by doing so he could secure to himself for even a little while her fair face and form, and above all, her heart—a little while, in which the joy and content of years would be concentrated. As he decides on the course of action, which must be the prompting of the Devil, he feels happier, and the cloud passes from his eyes. One grasp of his love's hand, and then he addresses the sheepdog in a cheerful voice."I have given my last lesson to mademoiselle. She leaves for England in two days. Bon voyage!" he adds with a smile, looking at Claire as he leaves the room."What frivolous wretches men are," Mademoiselle Havard thinks. "I fancied he was êpris with that girl, and he parts from her with a smile on his lips—Ciel! Men are detestable creatures! If a man had ever had the impudence to like me I would have sent him to the rightabout at once."The palace clock is chiming three as Ferrari and Claire enter the Parc, and seat themselves on the bench beneath the trees, where they have held their trysts. The hour is unfashionable, and the Parc virtually deserted. The only signs of human life are a few white-capped bonnes and the children they are in charge of, and the couple, who are certainly engrossed in themselves, excite no observation.They were married half-an-hour ago.Later on, Ferrari has determined, there shall be a marriage in a Protestant church in England—a marriage hallowed by the presence of her parents, and their unqualified consent to her choice.This marriage ceremony in an out-of-the-way church in the suburbs of Brussels, brings him but one satisfaction—Claire will surely keep to the man whom she calls "husband.""There is nothing external to bind us—not even a ring," he murmurs, crushing her white fingers in his grasp, "nothing save your own oath. You will remember it, my darling—my life! You will never forget that if our union might seem a little informal in the eyes of men, in the eyes of Heaven you are my wife, and our marriage is not only of hands but of hearts. Swear to me that you will never forget this day," he cries, and turning her face upwards to the sunlight, he tries to scan each feature."Of course I swear it!" she answers, but the milk-white lids droop over her big velvety eyes, and hide their changeful depths from his eager scrutiny, and a sigh breaks from Marco Ferrari amidst his burning kisses.Both of them are deceivers, but he is nobler than she is, for he has erred from an over-powering love and an uncontrollable desire to keep this girl true to him, while she has married him from the lower and baser passions of selfishness, interestedness and vanity."Where shall I write to? I shall want to write very soon, my dearest. It will be a relief to my misery and loneliness to tell you all—all that is in my heart. Oh, my darling—my wife—Heaven only knows how I shall live through the time that keeps us apart!""I must write to you first, Marco. I shall have to break to my people about our love—I don't know how I shall dare to whisper even of marriage! They will not be pleased, I am afraid, at my caring for you. They are poor, and they have looked to my making a grand marriage for a turn in their fortunes. It is very wrong of me to disappoint them, but I couldn't help loving you, could I, c'était plus fort que moi?" she says prettily, nestling her bright head on his shoulder, and looking up at him with tender eyes."My beloved, how can I ever repay you for having given yourself to me? Heaven grant that we may meet again—never to part!""I must go!" she cries, startled into a sense of time and discretion by the clock striking four. "Good-bye, till—when? This is Wednesday—I leave on Friday—we must meet to-morrow, Marco! I cannot part from you to-day!"He is silent for a moment, struggling with himself. True, she and he have gone
through the ceremony of marriage, but still——Shall he see her to-morrow? The temptation is frightful—she is so loving, so demonstrative, her eyes look into his so softly, her lips seem to woo his caresses, her hands nestle in his palm. He would be more than man if he could be as stoical, as cold, as honour bids him. He remembers that if he resists now, if he can steadily put her away from him and his longing till she is his wife in the eyes of all the world, he will have his reward—the reward of an approving conscience."No," he says. "It is hard for me to say it, but it is best that we should not meet again before you go. Oh, my love, you don't know what a temptation you are to me! —you don't know how I have struggled with my longing and yearning for you. I will come to England directly you bid me do so, and then you will become my wife in the presence of your relations. Meanwhile, think of me as I shall think of you, and pray as I shall that our probation may be short. I would fain give you something tangible to remind you of me, but you must promise me that if ever your feelings change towards me you will fling it away where none will ever find it." And he takes a ring off his watch-chain and slips it on the third finger of her right hand."I dare not put it on the finger where your wedding-ring should be, for it is said to be an unlucky stone."She holds up her hand to the light, and a half hoop of rare opals burn and scintillate before her eyes. It is the first valuable trinket she has ever possessed, and like a child she is enchanted with her new toy."Oh, how beautiful!" she cries. "And what an expensive ring! Where could you have got it, Marco—I thought you were a poor man?""No, I am a rich man—rich in the possession of my wife. The ring belonged to an Italian prince once, and his initial is on it-'M.' Now, my Claire—how I love your pretty English name—you are Claire Ferrari now. Remember that, and it will keep my darling true to me, I pray. Remember that you are my own wife in the eyes of God, and that you will soon be my wife in the eyes of men. Heaven keep you and guard you from all ill and temptation. Good-bye!""Good-bye!" she says, and tears come into her eyes.And these tears are more real than aught else about her.He gathers her into his arms—rains passionate kisses on her cheeks, and lids, and lips, and, ashamed that even she should see the emotion in his breast, walks aways hurriedly. Claire looks after him, admiringly. He is so tall and so distingué, that her heart swells with pride."Who would believe he is only a singing-master? He looks like a prince—but—what's the use of looking like a prince when one is nothing but a singing master?" she adds regretfully, pulling off the opal ring and slipping it on to a narrow black velvet ribbon she wears round her neck. "I can't wear it openly at Brambledene—papa would suspect something wrong, and mamma would want to sell it! I am glad I have married Marco, I wish we were properly married and everyone knew it, that I might get away from that hateful Brambledene, and all its poverty and discomfort. How funny it is to be only half married—but it has its advantages, I suppose—one has time for reflection, and if one finds one has made a mistake, there may be ways to rectify it—whereas a proper marriage binds one down to a man even if he turns out a brute. I don't believe I should have hinted to Marco about our getting married, only I dreaded going home so much! Yet I love Marco—love him awfully—I only wish he was rich and had a title, one feels ashamed of confessing one has married a singing-master! I shall not say a word about Marco at home, I will wait and see what turns up—and very likely I shall be glad to have married anybody, if Brambledene is to be my residence for the term of my natural existence!"Meanwhile, Ferrari thinks as he walks along, "What a blackguard I have been to take her at her word! The Devil himself put it into my head to do so, that I might bind her to me—my Claire! I could not let you go, believing yourself free to care for some other man! The thought of it drove me mad! Thank God our love has no reproach to stain it—the very kisses I have plucked from her sweet lips, have brought remorse in their train because they have been clandestine caresses—and I would to Heaven all the world knew that she was mine and I hers. I glory in my love for you, my own—my pure, sweet darling! And it hurts me to think that aught of deceit or concealment should come near the holiness of our love. But all will soon be right, and you will be mine—my very own, body and soul! Ah! Maurice Spagnoletti told me I was a fool for believing that a good, pure, disinterested woman exists!"CHAPTER VII. THE PRODIGAL DAUGHTER."Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel,Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour,The snow white-limbs and the cruelRed mouth like a venomous flower!"THE wish of her heart, or rather of her spiteful nature, is accomplished, and the Honourable Mrs. Delaval is comfortably installed at High Towers.No person to the manner born of excess of luxury, of intense sybaritical enjoyment, could drain the goblet to the very dregs as this woman does. She sips the cup of material enjoyment like the humming bird, that never, for lack of patience and vigour, leaves one single drop of sweetness in the chalice.The choicest of everything in her new property is appropriated to her own especial use. It is her money—and she never forgets the fact—that has bought this splendid place, it is her money that has decorated it and furnished it, and filled it with rarest objets d'art. Only the selection of these last has been allowed to her husband, perhaps from an inward conviction that she has really no particular love for such things and no taste in choosing them.Her windows look out on the most brilliant bloom and the most stately trees, and her own room is the most gorgeous and costly in the house.She sits at her solitary breakfast—taken towards noon, as she has heard fashionable ladies take it.She is growing a little restless regarding the arrival of her eldest daughter from Brussels, but her restlessness fails to diminish her appetite, which has always been keen, but is now fastidious as well.The wretched fare—the discomfort and poverty of Brambledene are hideous things of the past. She is a suzeraine now of a big mansion in which a real live princess might be content.She goes on with her meal with excellent relish. She is, as the Honourable John said, devoted to the fleshpots. She carefully picks out the dainty white meat from the breast of a chicken that reposes on a solid silver dish. She pecks at a savoury truffle or two—easily disposes of a couple of kidneys, broiled and flavoured highly with champagne—and then she lazily disturbs the little island of cream that floats on the surface of her chocolate with a massive gold spoon, which she every now and then examines with a rare and sensuous pleasure in costly adjuncts."Good gracious, I wonder how I managed to get along without such things," she says aloud. "I guess I couldn't do so now!" And leaning her square-built figure back on her velvet lounge, she surveys her surroundings with a complacent smile."How rich and elegant everything looks! Poor dear Boss—bless him—and his oysters! It is like a lovely dream—only I know it's real—downright real. And the horrid days of pinching and grinding are gone—gone!"Catlike, she sits and purrs and laughs spitefully, and gives a contemptuous sneer as she thinks of the old Countess of Melville, who had occupied this room before her. Then she puts out a coarse, dingy hand—even at this early hour bedizened with diamonds and emeralds—and draws a dish of clustering purple and amber grapes towards her.Taking the finest bunch, she half closes her little black eyes and, lying back on the embroidered cushions, gives herself up to the enjoyment of the delicious fruit.Suddenly the door opens and a girl bursts in—bursts in like a ray of sunlight—like a flash of lightning—a girl above the height of most women, with a charming figure robed in pale grey, and with a beautiful bewildering face under a big picture hat."Claire!"She clasps her daughter in her arms and kisses her again and again with tears of joy running down her dark cheeks. This is the child she loves—the girl for whom even in her poor days she has stinted herself—the girl who is to fulfil the grand destiny she has sketched out for her.But Claire soon releases herself from the clinging maternal embrace with an impatient gesture."Papa told me all about this place on our drive from the station," she says, standing in the centre of the room and looking round. "Well, I never thought we should have such grand diggings as this!" And turning towards her mother, she stares at her fixedly for a moment, then bursts out laughing.Her mother is so very different to what she was a year ago. The tawdry cap, that was never too clean, and which did duty at Brambledene, has been discarded for an exquisite trifle in point lace, with a top-knot of pale blue ribbon; the old dirty alpaca gown—greasy at the seams—has made way for a sweeping garment of rich salmon satin, the old familiar shoes—not too dainty shoes—in which the lady used to trot about in domestic avocations, have vanished, leaving in their place velvet slippers embroidered in gorgeous rainbow hues."What are you laughing at, Clairie?" Mrs. Delaval asks in surprise."First of all—don't call me Clairie, for Heaven's sake, mamma. It is so vulgar. What am I laughing at? Well—I can't help laughing. It is all like the transformation scene in a pantomime, and you are the funniest part of it! Good gracious—how you are got up! You look just like a woman I saw at the carnival at Brussels—every colour under the sun—and—such an old guy!""Claire!"The Honourable Mrs. Delaval literally gasps out the name—she is so mortified, so disappointed, that her breath seems to have left her. Then she shuts her eyes and throwing herself down on a sofa—she falls into hysterics. Claire quietly takes up a superb scent-bottle, all crystal and gold, and puts it to the maternal nose. Finding this of little avail, she dashes a glass of iced water over the point lace headdress, mercilessly drenching its delicate topknot of azure. Seeing her mother's eyes begin to open, she draws a chair to the table, and helping herself to a goodly supply of Muscatel grapes, she waits till the paroxysm of weeping expends itself.It does not last much longer, her mother applies a cobweb of a handkerchief to her lids and pulls herself together with a profound sigh."I never expected to be insulted by my own child like this!" she sobs. "It's quite true that sharper than a child's tooth is an ungrateful serpent," she adds, mixing up her words in her agitation.Claire, with her lovely head thrown back and a huge grape between her pearly teeth, regards her with a cool, level look."I don't want to insult you—but I couldn't help laughing—I couldn't!—I—couldn't!" she says with another little burst of merriment. "Never mind, dear old thing, I'll see after your garments now and make you look quite respectable!""I wish to be fashionable and not respectable," is the captious answer. "This salmon wrap was copied exactly from La Mode, by Madame Lauri in Regent Street. She said salmon was my colour—that it suited my complexion beautifully—all rich, dark complexions go with salmon so well. Of course you don't think much of my complexion, you prefer the Delaval colouring, but many people admire dark skins much more than fair dolly faces.""If the Delavals have fair dolly faces, I certainly consider they are more pleasant to look at than dingy ones," Claire announces coolly. "But you will look very nice when I get you a good grey silk. Black and grey is quite a lady-like mixture, you know," she adds mischievously.Her mother reddens with anger and mortification."Thank you for being so complimentary," she says with a sneer. "I don't think your stay abroad has improved your manners, whatever it has done for your singing.""Don't talk about my singing, please, Mamma. I am not going to sing any more, but sit idle all day with my hands in my lap, and look pretty, that is the proper thing for all heiresses to do!""You are counting rather early on your heiress-ship, Claire! You forget you will only have your money after my death, and I have a strong constitution, like my family. All the Plumpers live to ninety, most of them have lived to a hundred.""Good gracious! what an awful thing for the Plumpers.""Why?""Because I can't imagine any woman caring to live when she is old and ugly. Nobody cares for old, ugly people.""So you think me old and ugly, Claire, and you don't care for me?"Claire sees the hysterics in the distance and jumps off her seat."Don't be an old silly," she cries impatiently. "Of course, if you are ever so old and ugly, I care for you—there, give me a kiss."Mrs. Delaval tosses her head and turns away."You forget who I am now, my dear Claire. It was all very well to sit upon me at Brambledene, but I consider that in my present position I am entitled not only to politeness but respect. I am the mistress of High Towers, you know!" she says with a ludicrous attempt at dignity.Claire, as she listens, breaks again into a ringing satirical laugh, and her mother gives a start, and sitting up straight as an arrow, stares hard at the exquisite face opposite—a face fair as an angel's, enframed in a mass of rich, bronze-flecked hair, which has become loosened from its fashionable coiffure; eyes, large and star-like, and of a rich dark grey, give her back a glance replete with mockery in their gleaming depths.Now the woman, who really loves her daughter better than anyone in the world, forgets her own wounded vanity, and grieves that the girl she has always doated on and spoiled should speak and laugh in this way."Claire, you should not laugh like that," she cries reproachfully. "I hope your stay abroad has not made you hard and wicked. You are not the same girl you were a bit. I don't believe you are my daughter!""I am Claire Delaval, mamma, at your service. And see, I am no spirit but down-right flesh and blood," and she flings her charming snow-white arm round her mother's neck with a violence that pains her; "as for abroad having made me hard and wicked, perhaps it has. I believe wickedness and deceit and everything that is bad is innate in me, but you know I am extra beautiful, and a beautiful face covers a multitude of deficiencies."Mrs. Delaval shakes her head as she surveys the vaunted beauty that is almost bewildering in its vivid tints."But I don't care to talk of my beauty just now, mamma, I want to talk about High Towers. What an exquisite place it is? It isn't a snare—a delusion of the Devil—is it? I cannot believe it is ours—really and truly ours!""Not ours—mine, and yours—by and bye. I hope you will marry a great swell, Claire. It will break my heart if you don't.""Your heart will have to break then, mamma, for I don't think I shall marry, and certainly not a 'swell.' I hate swells, they are so stupid and stuck-up. I like men with brains, who are clever enough to earn their own living.""Earn their own living! Good gracious, Claude, wherever have you picked up your low notions and tastes? I suppose you would like to marry a butcher or a baker—creatures who can't spell their own names, but who earn their own living by cheating and all that sort of thing.""Butchers and bakers are not in my line; I like a man who is refined and accomplished," the girl says with a dreamy look stealing into her eyes,"a man who is a perfect musician, for instance, whose voice has the power to thrill one through and through. It would not signify if he was a prince or an ordinary gentleman, his music would make him irresistible in my eyes!""Music! if that's all you want I suppose you will lower yourself by falling in love with some low, singing fellow, without a twopence in his pocket or a decent shirt to his back; a fellow whom a rich tallow chandler could have at his beck and call for a couple of sovereigns! Music, indeed! By music I suppose you mean those great dreary sounds that people call ' classical.' If I am obliged to listen to music, give me a jolly good tune on a nice street organ—a tune that would take me back to the days when I was the best dancer at all the hops in Broadway."Claire opens her eyes, and stares again at her progenitor. It amuses her to picture the short, squat, Dutch-built figure going through the evolutions of a square dance or revolving in a waltz."I can't fancy you dancing, mamma! How funny you must have looked if you were the same figure as you are now," she says frankly. "And, I beg of you, never give out your sentiments about music to the refined circle of acquaintances that of course we shall have now that we own High Towers. If you do, we are sure to be cut by them all, in spite of our having come in for such a lot of tin.""And don't you use such expressions as 'tin,' my dear Claire, it is not a lady-like word by any means. Wealth is the proper term. You haven't improved in your mode of speaking English, I am afraid.""Perhaps I haven't," Claire says curtly."How dreadfully hard your face looks, Claire, just as if childhood had left you for ever!""So it has, I think, and I am heartily glad of it. Women need firmness, and courage, and tact, and in all these things you are terribly wanting, mamma.""How unkind you are to me," the woman whimpers. "I, who have loved you best of all. Do you know, Claire, I had fallen asleep, just before you arrived, and was dreaming of you; I dreamt you were so fair and sweet, with an angelic smile on your mouth, and I see you now with features like stone, and mockery on your lips. Oh, Claire—child—I almost wish you had never gone abroad!""So do I—for some reasons," Claire mutters, and over her alabaster skin a deep red flush surges, her lids droop, and she puts down her teeth on her under lip; none know but she what thought brings the flush—if it is joy or regret—but certainly she looks wistfully round the room as if she loves its grandeur, and being poor again would be very much against her wish." There is one thing, mamma, I want to impress on your mind, don't you ever say anything but just ordinary talk before Cis, she is a hateful little prude, and thinks every thing wrong. I cannot fancy where she got all her straight-laced notions from, they did not descend from the Delavals or I might have come in for a slice of good-ness. I suppose her mother must have been a saint or something.""She was better than that, she was the Honourable Miss Montresser, and had better blood in her veins than even poor Dick Delaval.""And my mother has no pedigree to boast of, has she, mamma-nothing worth mentioning, eh? I really think grandpapa Plumper must have to answer for the leaven of wickedness in my nature, but never mind—as I said before—my face covers a multitude of sins. Thank goodness, the Delaval beauty has come to me as well as to Cis!" Saying which she waltzes round the room, and ends her little dance by a gesture which savours much more of the Jardin Mabille than of the dignity befitting the grand-daughter of a peer of the realm, or of Washington Plumper's heiress."What a sweet place High Towers is," she says once more, pulling up the window and gazing out on as lovely a prospect as can be seen in England. "It's a place lovely enough to live for! I wish it was mine already!"Mrs. Delaval starts as the words fall on her ear."It could only be yours if I was dead!" she whispers in a scared voice, and with a white face, as she feels that this best-beloved child would not care if she were dead on the morrow—nay, she would be—glad!"Yes, I know," Claude replies carelessly. "Of course, I like you to be alive, but one would love to be rich and to enjoy life while one is young, you see. You are not a bit delicate, and by the time you died I might be quite old and not care about High Towers or anything else," she murmurs regretfully.The woman who hearkens shivers. She is a selfish woman—self has been always paramount in her, and her affection for this daughter has been second to it. Strangely enough too, this affection has been dashed with distrust, and she has never believed in Claire's truth even as a little child."She is thinking what a good thing it would be if I was murdered or done away with somehow!" and her voice is unsteady as she says: "You can marry a rich man while you are young and good-looking, and then you won't be wickedly longing for my death, Claire! You have given me the creeps by your words!" and she shivers again.Claire shrugs her shoulders and smiles."Don't smile in that horrid fashion, child. It's a real ghastly smile, and your head's full of scheming, I know, but I am not going to die to please you yet. I am well and hearty, I can enjoy my rumpsteak for breakfast and my six courses at dinner, and I like High Towers, so I'll hold on as long as I can. Now sing me something, it will distract my thoughts, and besides, it's aggravating to think of the money spent on you at Brussels, and to know that there's no occasion for you to sing now that we are so rich. I daresay you have not been taught to sing a single song properly at that foreign madam's, who knows how to charge—'the very best masters employed,' she says in her printed puff, and I guess you have only had lessons from some stupid woman, and have never set eyes on a master at all!""Oh, yes, I have," Claire answers, flushing a little. "I had a first-rate master; I only wish he was at High Towers, and I should sing from morning till night to keep myself from being dull in this old country place.""Sing something he taught you, that I may judge whether he was a first-rate master or not. Some song that you can sing at Buckingham Palace, if we are asked to dinner there, or at the Lord Mayor's banquet.""All right, you won't understand it, mamma, but that does not matter. It is a lovely song, full of refinement. It is sung at all the Court concerts at Brussels, and I believe Adelina Patti was anxious to learn it as an encore, but it did not quite suit her voice.""First of all, Claire, what do they call your voice? Is it treble or bass? I like a good bass voice best, it is so rich, and makes itself heard all over a big room."Claire laughs heartily, and when she has recovered her gravity, she sings in a clear, ringing voice—clear and sweet as silver chimes—a sort of coster song she had picked up from the Brussels gamins."Le Roi disait au Prince de Joinville,Parbleu, mon fils!Je donnerais pour embrasser cette filleTout mon Paris.Je donnerais ma Garde NationaleEt mes Dèputès, Et je mettrais ma couronne royaleEn Mont Piètè,Oui!—en Mont Piètè.""Oh! it's a beautiful song, Claire! I only wish you were going to sing it at Covent Garden before the Prince of Wales. I know he would get introduced to you at once, and I want to know him more than anybody else. I must say Italian songs are much the most taking.""That's the reason this one is so much admired," Claire says, and then laughs again.CHAPTER VIII. "OF HAPPINESS AS A POSITIVE STATE I KNOW NOTHING.""We stand on either side the sea,Stretch hands, blow kisses, laugh and lean,I toward you-you toward me,But what hears either save the keenGrey sea between?"IT is a day of days, though only very early spring, a day on which to feel ineffably content to enjoy to the utmost what the Italians happily express as the dolce far niente of existence.There is a soft, rustling sound up in the tree boughs. There is a faint and monotonous murmur of greedy brown bees settling down contentedly on the scented heads of blossom. The morning bears on it an unwonted crimson, the spring flowers seem brighter and sweeter than usual. The clouds stand like so many great pillars of heaven, and it feels just like a hasty snatch of golden splendour that has gone astray from Paradise. It is an hour in which pleasantness seems perforce to descend from the purple domes above, like an angel of peace, so that the restless hearts of mortals may be satisfied.Claire Delaval leans listlessly against the old marble fountain, with the velvety turf, which is yet virgin from the sun's kisses, making a dainty carpet for her dainty feet.She has been at High Towers three months, and she is heartily weary of the exquisite surroundings. After all, one cannot live on scenery, according to Dr. Johnson, and the dells and glades and hollows around, charming and picturesque as they may be, cannot satisfy the eye unless someone—or rather, the one—is by to expatiate on their beauty. Claire is not made for a country life; she has a bold and independent nature that can brook no control, and that rebels against all conventional shackles with undisguised contempt. Possibly she does not understand what Bohemianism is, but nevertheless she is Bohemian to the backbone.And it is not to be wondered at, for she has belonged as it were from childhood to the Bedouins of civilization and has run rampant through that status of life that want of money brings in its train. Her early years have unfitted her for the life which destiny has brought, and a treadmill of domestic and social duties proves so distasteful to her, that no paraphernalia of wealth, no jewels, no carriages and horses, or any other of the pomps and vanities that most women love, can really reconcile her to her lot. Perhaps, if Washington Plumper's money had come direct to her, it would be different, but the life of her mother lies between her and the wealth she covets. If she had it, she would spend it on her particular world—the Bohemian world—that free and beautiful world in which she believes human creatures really live, instead of vegetating. She has a nature as wild as a hawk's, and with an innate craving for excitement, Claire's life is surely not enviable. She is for a young girl, curiously haughty—haughty as an empress, and wearing her hauteur as if born to the purple; but it is not really pride that makes her so, for if by any untoward chance before the change in the family fortunes, she had reached beyond Bohemia and have found that free and easy band to whom social shackles are quite unknown, she would have flaunted la Reine galliarde's colours royally, and have gladly sunned her superb beauty in that alluring but ephemeral joy—called success.There is very little of the freshness of girlhood about her now. She has very little of the sanguine feelings of her age. All she seems to see of hope and happiness are through a glass darkly, but this is because she has known life without gloss or glamour from the hour she began to understand or reason.Her mother has been her worst enemy, and has undone all the good that the companionship of her father might have done her.She leans against the marble fountain, her great eyes wandering absently over the lovely domain which will be hers—"but when?" she asks herself.There is almost an expression of vacancy in her eyes, a curl of ineffable weariness on her red lips, a look of intense boredom on her features. "If he was only here," she says passionately to herself, with a heavy shadow passing over her face. "He" of course means Ferrari, and yet she has only written to him twice in three months. Letters full of tender words, protestations of fidelity, longing for his presence, bitter regrets at his absence, and signed, "your loving wife."But she has given him no address to write to—she is hungry for sweet words from him, but rather than let him know where to find her, she is content to have no tidings of the man whom she believes to be her husband.Truth to tell, she has not ventured to broach the subject of her love for him to her mother. She is afraid to bring down the inevitable storm of anger and disappointment on her devoted head. If Marco Ferrari had only been a "swell," as her mother vulgarly calls it—but Claire feels that she will never be able to call up courage enough to own to her love for a singing-master—"a low fellow whom a rich tallow chandler can have at his beck and call, for a sovereign or two," her mother had said—and oh! how the words had rankled in her mind, choking back the true, honest affection that Ferrari believes hers to be."I shall never be able to confess I am married—never," she mutters impatiently. "I do love Marco, but I almost wish I had never gone to Brussels—that I had never seen him! If I had only known of this money! Suppose our marriage was 'informal in the eyes of men,' that is what Marco said. I wonder if—if—by any chance, it could be proved so! What a wicked girl I am to have such an idea in my head, but I can't help it—I love Marco—he is so handsome and he loves me so much, poor fellow—yet—liberty is sweet, especially if one is rich!"Another girl, the prototype of Claire, a girl of marvellous beauty, but slighter than Claire, with a more delicate and refined face, comes across the lawn and leans with a smile of pleasure against the opposite side of the marble fountain. She bends her head over the big white water-lilies that spread themselves out in their emerald robes, as if courting admiration. Suddenly Cecil Delaval looks up and catches sight of the cloud that sweeps over her cousin's face."Oh! isn't it all too beautiful?" she cries, with the pleasure of a child. " Look at these exquisite lilies, Claire—even they are worth coming to High Towers for!"Claire shrugs her shoulders and her lips curl contemptuously."What a baby you are! ' pleased with a rattle, tickled by a straw.' I hate lilies.""Hate lilies?""Yes, I suppose it's because they look so white and innocent, and serene; one can't think of stupid flowers and things, when one is unhappy.""Can nothing make you realty happy, Claire?"Cecil asks wonderingly. "You have got everything to make you happy here, surely. It's different to Brambledene!"Sweet and soft external influences thrill and move Cecil Delaval's inmost soul, for the girl is a born artist, and in every fibre of her imaginative and almost too impressionable temperament she feels the witchery of Dame Nature, who wears
to-day her royal beauty like a joyous bride. Cecil never cares to shut out the outer world, in which she finds far greater pleasure than in the sumptuous rooms of High Towers, and in the woods, amongst the dells and glades, she is as happy as a queen. Butterflies and water-lilies, tangled blossoms, the emerald foliage, the swelling sward, are all objects of intense enjoyment to her, after her cramped young life with her parents in a cheap London suburb, and, later, within the circumscribed space of Brambledene, and—above al—with the presence of "Aunt Victoria" on the scene."Do you mean to say that all this loveliness doesn't make you happy, Claire?""Can anything make real happiness, you silly child? Of happiness as a positive state, I know nothing—nothing—because I cannot remember one single incident in my life when enjoyment hasn't had some drawback. I have only been able to make my comparison by a greater or a lesser degree of poverty and misery. Don't looked shocked at such sentiments. If you had always been brought up with Bell and me, Cis, I dare say you would look at things in the same way as I do, that horrid—horrid life—first in some temporary lodgings, discomfort, really not enough to eat very often! Bell and I have often saved up a penny for a bun to satisfy our appetite—then at Brambledene, has made me old before my time, and has taught me the hardness and injustice of this world. I know that poverty is considered an awful crime, and that rich and happy people always look with suspicion and distrust at the poor things who haven't a shilling in their pockets to knock against another. Of course, now that grandpapa Plumper's money has brought High Towers and a lot of money, we think ourselves very grand—but Society, that is good London Society, will think us parvenues and intruders in a sphere to which we are not accustomed, and it will wish to kick us out. Papa, of course, comes of a decent stock, but mamma!—Cis, I do believe she is nothing but the daughter of a horrible old shopkeeper!""Perhaps Mr. Plumper was a wholesale man," Cis suggests soothingly, for she always loves to pour oil over wounds. "They don't think wholesale people really shopkeepers. I have seen in the newspaper that the Marquis of Londonderry sells coal, and a Lord something sells milk. Now that Mr. Plumper is dead, poor old man, I daresay no one will remember what his profession was.""Profession! What a goose. you are. Why don't you say the proper word, trade? I am quite sure my whole life will be spoiled by my grandfather's having been worse than a nobody. I wish I had never been born," Claire says peevishly."I am very glad I have not learned to have such miserable ideas, such dreadfully morbid feelings," Cis cries quickly, as her gaze follows the flight of a pale yellow spring butterfly skimming over daffodils the same hue as itself. "But I care so little for the world, that it matters very little what it thinks of me.""That is because there is no one in the world who takes any especial interest in you, Cis. I do so want to go up to town to-morrow for a day or so. I am so sick of these eternal lilies and butterflies and flowers, I want to see some of my own species. I have not set eyes on a man for a week, except that curate who looks as terrified of me as if I was a mad dog. I detest curates, they are all alike. Big hats, long, sallow melancholy faces, lanky legs. Mr. Percival is too awful.""He is evidently very shy, poor fellow, and I must say he gives me the impression of wishing to avoid you.""He has no taste, he is the first man who has not admired me," Claire says conceitedly. " Of course I could make him like me, if I chose, but I don't know if it is worth the trouble. I may have a try by-and-by, if it's only to keep one's hand in.""Surely, Claire, you would not play with a man's heart, just to gratify your vanity?" Cis says, earnestly."Yes, I would—but never mind about Mr. Percival—will you come to London tomorrow?"Cecil looks up regretfully. She is not a bit tired of her nice turfy seat. She adores listening to the rustling of the leaves overhead, and to the music of the brown bees. London has no attraction for her, but yet, Claire must be obeyed. Claire is the ruling spirit of the household, every member of the Delaval family is subservient to her whims and caprices, and to rebel would be to evoke a storm from the mistress of the establishment, and even a gentle expostulation from the Honourable John's mild lips."Yes, I'll go with you," she says reluctantly. "Shall we take Bell with us?""Bell? No! Why should we be hampered by that child? She is beginning to give herself all the airs and graces of a grown-up already, and requires being sat upon. I shall not aid and abet in spoiling her, for one. Papa encourages her in everything, and soon she will be unbearable; his last fad is to give her Italian and singing lessons, riding lessons, and goodness knows what else. No income will stand such extravagance. What is the use of bringing her up in luxury? She won't have a penny when mamma dies, except what I choose to allow her.""Bell is a dear, good, little thing, and perfectly unspoilable," Cecil asserts stoutly. Bell is her pet, and Bell in return doats on the ground Cecil stands on."I'll go and interview the mater about our trip to town. Of course I shall have to battle with a dozen ridiculous objections. Would you believe it, Cis? Mamma is going in for convenances, and I don't believe she knows a bit what the word means. 'It is not the fashion for girls to go about London without a proper chaperon,' or 'My dear Claire, you are too beautiful to go about unprotected,' or 'I'll try and exert myself and take you.' From this last, Heaven deliver us! Fancy walking down Bond Street under the mater's wing! I should die of shame.""You really ought to remember how Aunt Victoria loves you, Claire, and forget any little short-comings about her. You don't know how I wish for my mother to be alive.""Your mother was a real lady, mine—well, let that pass. Anyway, I shall not go up to town without you—not that you and I are great pals, but you are so namby-pamby and harmless, such a stupid little nonentity, that I don't remember your existence half the time."Tears rush to Cecil's eyes, tears of wounded feeling rather than of anger, at the unflattering speech, but she bends over the water-lilies and quickly brushes the drops away.After all, no one knows Claire's nature better than she does, and she ought to be accustomed by this time to crushing remarks.But the words, crushing as they were meant to be, seem to pass entirely out of the speaker's mind, as, after a momentary reverie, and without even glancing at her cousin, Claire saunters slowly towards the house, and entering her mother's grand boudoir, all amber and gold, and crammed with bric-à-brac—some in good, mostly in bad, taste––throws herself on an enormous satin lounge, and closes her eyes, while the Honourable Mrs. John looks at her with the intense admiration she always has for her eldest born."Mamma, I want to go up to Town tomorrow," Claire says presently in a languid tone; "I suppose I may?""Well, I don't know," is the answer hesitatingly given, and at it the girl flares up at once."Well, I know," she replies imperiously. "I want to go, and of course I shall go. The dullness of this place kills me; nothing to see but grass and flowers, and cows and sheep, not a man about but the gardeners and stable boys. I warn you, I shall run off with one of them if you don't let me have some distraction! I am just eating my heart out at High Towers. I much prefer Madame de Bernard's uncomfortable rooms in Brussels to the great dreary ones here. There was some life there!" and Claire colours, while a peculiar look comes into her eyes at the memory."Great dreary rooms, indeed!" her mother answers sharply. "Good gracious, what do you want if High Towers does not suit you? It is good enough for the Queen and all the Royal Family to live in, I am sure—and you, Claire, who have been half starved, dressed almost in rags, and never had a drive except in a hired fly, are downright wicked to be discontented now. It's like flying in the face of Providence. But you are a regular Delaval—now the Plumpers are quite another sort.""Rather!" cries Claire, sneeringly. "I wish, mamma, you would not remind me that half of me is a Plumper. I love the Delavals with all their faults, as you call them. They may have been fond of gambling and drink, and racing and flirting, but they are all aristocratic vices—born with them very likely—and with nothing low or vulgar about them. Now the Plumpers—but never mind about them—let us forget they ever existed, if we can! I want to talk to you about going up to Town to-morrow; I think to-morrow will suit me.""I daresay it will, and of course if you are determined to go you will, but your papa will be vexed.""Papa is never vexed; he is the dearest old thing in the world!—a regular Delaval! I wish he had money of his own, he would be jolly enough then. It must be awful to be dependent on you.""Well, you've got your wish. Your papa has had a letter to-day telling him that his cousin, Lord Tarlington, is dead, and has left him five thousand a year.""Really! Really? And did papa Jump for joy?""No, he sat quite still, stared at nothing, and then gave a sort of gasp. 'There'll be something for Bell and Cis when I'm gone over to the majority, thank God!' was all he said.""Just like him, he always thinks of others first. ' Honour thy father and thy——' "She stops short and laughs. " I shall honour my mother too when she gives me a nice little cheque. I want some new things for the flower-show at Exeter next week. You don't want Miss Delaval, of High Towers, to be seen in anything but the very last Paris fashions? Then there's my room and Cis's at the hotel, and a theatre or two; say fifty pounds, mamma—at's reasonable enough, isn't it?""Reasonable! Good heavens, child, one would think you were one of the Waleses, or the Edinburghs. Wherever have you got your extravagant notions? Not from me, I am sure.""From the Delavals. Joking apart, mamma, you really ought to give me a good deal of money whilst you are alive, or I shall be thinking it a splendid time when you are gathered to the Plumpers, you know!"The woman winces visibly at these heartless words, and, without replying, she goes to herescritoire, and taking out a fifty-pound note, hands it to her daughter with a solemn dignity that amuses Claire."Shall I go and see about a house, mamma? This is the end of February, and wemust be in London for the season—in the early part of May. The house will of course want a lot of decorating, and making smart, so we should bespeak one at once. Mayfair is most fashionable, and Curzon Street is full of aristocrats, I have heard."Her mother listens, and rather resents Claire's quiet fashion of ordering everything, but she feels she cannot alter a system now which she has allowed to go on for years."As you like," she says," but you must not agree to too long a rental; our income, thanks to your poor, dear grandpapa, is pretty fair, but we must not make ducks and drakes of it. How much do you think the house will be for the season?"Claire screws up her rosebud of a mouth in as ugly a grimace as she can make."Grandpapa Plumper left you something beside the money," she says flippantly;" he left you a nature as close as an oyster!"Mrs. Delaval gives a start. Good gracious, does Claire know the source from which the money comes? if so, peace is a thing not to be expected. At the smallest provocation Claire will throw oysters in her teeth until life will be unendurable."Well, mamma?""Well—what?""Do you think two to three thousand will be too much for the season?""Two to three thousand pounds for a paltry three months! Are you mad, girl? I would rather die first."CHAPTER IX. A MEETING IN HYDE PARK." But love so lightly plighted,Our love with torch unlighted,Paused near us unaffrighted,Who found and left him free,None seeing us cloven in sunderWill weep or laugh or wonder!"CLAIRE kisses her father lovingly, and then walks into her mother's usual resort, the boudoir, and finds her taking her comfortable morning repast, of rumpsteak flavoured with the vulgar esculent that often accompanies it. She has her back to the door, and does not hear her daughter's footfall, so engrossed is she in her beloved flesh-pots."Good-bye, mamma! we are just off," Claire says hurriedly, and turning away."Won't you kiss me, Claire? You ought always to kiss me when you are going away, for life is very uncertain, and one of us might die," Mrs. Delaval says quite pathetically, with a suspicion of a tear in her little black eyes.But neither voice nor tears reach Claire's heart."Am in an awful hurry," she cries, banging the door.The woman who has hitherto doated on this girl, pushes away her unfinished meal and throws herself back in her chair."I believe she'll end by making me hate her!" she mutters between her set teeth. "Flesh and blood cannot stand such behaviour, such ingratitude. It's the money that's done it. She cared for me more when we were poor, but now—I know she is just longing for my death that she may be mistress here, mistress of High Towers—the place which I have always thought I should be mistress of for many a long year. Well, well! I guess Providence won't sympathise with an unnatural daughter's wishes, so I am good for a quarter of a century yet, I hope."After some hours of shopping and visiting house agents' offices, Claire and Cecil have their five-o'clock meal at the Grand, in which they have taken up their quarters. Both of them are tired, but Claire's restless temperament yearns for change always, so, when they have done justice to their bread and butter and coffee
and cream, she proposes to take a stroll and look at the shops."Shops are twice as pretty when they are lit up," she says, and of course Cecil is bound to agree.Strolling up Piccadilly, the excessive beauty of both girls provokes looks of admiration from all the masculine element—an admiration which Claire thoroughly enjoys and appreciates, but which brings a hot flush to Cecil's delicate face, and makes her draw down a veil.Approaching Hyde Park Gate, she is on the point of suggesting that it would be advisable to return to the hotel, when she is startled by Claire's hurried voice."Go and sit down on the first bench and wait for me, Cis," she whispers breathlessly, and her tones tremble just a little.In the next instant, Cecil finds herself alone, and sees Claire rapidly following a man, who even in the dark strikes her as being distingué looking, a tall man, with a fine girth of chest and shoulders that seem familiar to her."Marco!"The man starts, staggers a little, then, rushing forward, he clasps Claire's extended hands."Oh! thank God!" he cries passionately. "Love! my own darling! I see you at last!""Did you want to see me again, Marco? Do you love me as much as ever?" she questions softly."You know it! I tried to keep away from England, as you wrote you wished it, Claire! You have only written to me three times in three months; then when you said in your last letter that you were going to live in London, I was obliged to come. I could not bear to think that the sea divided us, so I made up my mind to find you somehow, to see you, unseen. My one thought since we parted has been to look on your face again, to claim you before all the world as my very own, to have my wife with me for as long as life lasted. One whole month I have been here. Each morning I have started out in the fond hope of seeing you, each night I have gone to bed miserable, disappointed, despairing. God and my own heart only know what I felt!""And you are really glad to see me again?""Glad!""I know you are glad, I know you love me," she says confidently, her big, luminous eyes lifted to his face, their depths all a-fire."Love you? I love you more than my life, my child—more than my soul. There is nothing I would not sacrifice to reach you—nothing," he says impetuously, almost incoherently, grasping her hands in a vice that hurts her soft, white flesh.But she does not flinch; the sight of his handsome face, his dark, passionate eyes, makes her think that she is desperately in love with him."I must see you to-morrow, Marco," she says hastily, remembering that Cecil may have followed her, "but I must go back to my cousin now. I left her near the park gate. I hope she did not recognise your figure!""What if she did, Claire?" he says in a mortified tone. "Are you so ashamed of your poor singing-master? Will not your love for me make you forget the humble position I hold in the world? Claire,
beloved—true love magnifies the humblest thing on this earth. Love—real love—forgets if the object is poor, insignificant, or even unworthy, and would fain lavish its heart of hearts on him—passing by Kaiser or King! My Claire—you are too young, too innocent, to understand my devotion to the full, but by-and-bye, when we are together, I will teach you 'to love,' assured that the intensity of my passion will awaken a response! You told me in your letter that you dared not for the present tell your father and mother about me. Be it so!—your will is my law, and to please you I am content to suffer. But—oh, swear to me, dearest, that no other man's image will efface the memory of your singing-master, poor as he is, humble as he may be! Swear that you will be true as steel to me—that you will never forget the loving words you have spoken, the kisses that I have taken from your sweet lips.""I swear," she says, and she takes her oath in all good faith, for at this moment she persuades herself that it would be impossible for her to care for anyone but him. "And you, will you swear that no other woman will take you away from me?""Take me away from you! Oh, my child, we southerners love in a fashion very different to your countrymen—an English-man loves himself first, and then the woman he professes to care for; in Italy—the beloved woman is the one aim and end in life, the one thing for which a man lives or—dies."Claire looks up at him adoringly as he he speaks. It is very pleasant to be the end and aim of a man's life—to be the one thing for which he is prepared to live or—die.The two are standing beneath the shadow of a tree. They are silent—recognising the happiness of being together again—here, in the solitude of a place where none know them—face to face and hand in hand—her warm breath floats past him and the fragrance of her bright hair thrills him. Presently he stoops and kisses her—a kiss in which love—true, honest, ineffable love—comes trembling from his heart."I don't believe I can wait much longer, Claire! You must decide soon where we are to meet, and when you will marry me over again, or I shall go to your father and claim you!" he says passionately, and he throws his arm round her and hears her heart beating against his own, and he knows that his scanty stock of patience will soon be exhausted. He cannot live without her. It is a veritable heaven to feel her near him, to gaze unrebuked on the exquisite face that dazzled him at first sight and then fired his brain and soul. It drives him mad to think that other men can feast on her beauty. He gloats over her himself, and is not satiated. And when he recollects that she is his, and that she will belong body and soul to him later, Marco Ferrari feels dizzy and bewildered with his infinite bliss. On the burning lava of his feelings falls—like a lump of ice—Claire Delaval's answer. True, she speaks with her head on his breast and her soft warm hand close held in his."We must wait, Marco; things over which I have no control keep me just now from telling them at home about our love. My mother is an ambitious woman, and if I breathed one word of it she would shut me up, I believe. Darling—we must wait!""For how long?" he asks feverishly. "Don't drive me mad, Claire! You are my wife—your duty is to me, and nothing ought to come between us two. If you do not tell me soon that you have made up your mind to brave everybody and everything for my sake, you will render me desperate. Claire—have you forgotten your marriage vows already?" he demands with a little sternness that startles her."No—oh no!—but it is best for both our sakes that we should wait a little longer, and after all, Marco, there is a mystery—a romance—about our love now which makes it doubly sweet! I will write to you as soon as I can bring my courage up to daring my people's anger, and you can come to England again.""Come to England again, Claire! I am a singing-master, as you know. I have no means to travel, I spent all I saved to trace you; my funds are low, and if we part it will be months before we meet again. Does not the thought of this move you to action? Can you bear to part for an indefinite time?""No!" she cries, and reaching up she passes her hand caressingly over his hot cheek, "but see, I have plenty of money," and she draws out a roll of bank notes and holds them towards him."Here are the means to come back to England directly I write to you—Marco—you foolish darling, to think that I should let you go, uncertain when we should meet again. Don't you know that I love you?—love you ever so much more than you love me?"He gives a short, bitter laugh. She has become the very essence of his life—the only thing his eyes care to look upon. Could there exist a passion more intense and true than he lavishes on her? He smiles a little as he sees the bank-notes in her hand, and pushes them gently way."Never mind about the money, Claire. If I come again it will be by my own exertions—I could not take those notes. It seems as if my pride and my manhood both suffered at the very thought of your offering me money."And Ferrari unconsciously draws himself up, and looks as proud as a prince."But, as I am your wife," she says reproachfully, "my money will all be yours—when we are married over again, you know!""When we are married again—yes—but never mind about that. I want you to remember what a false position this is for both of us—we are man and wife, and—yet—we are not! Give up the world and the advantages the world offers—no matter if your parents give you to me without a shilling—I have enough, and more than enough to keep my wife as she should be kept. Oh, my darling one—my beloved—be true to me, and to yourself, and make our marriage complete. If you believe that your people's consent will be withheld, nerve yourself to marry me without it. If an infinity of love—love so devoted, so earnest, so impassioned, that it must hallow each hour of life, leaven each moment with happiness, and make even death together not to be dreaded—will satisfy you, you will never regret that you have yielded to your poor singing-master's prayer."How eloquently he pleads, she thinks, and how handsome and stately he is, and she recollects with a throb of vanity that this superb specimen of mankind is her devoted, that in her palm she holds his destiny, in her lies the power of crowning him with sorrow, or elevating him into joy. She wavers a little moment.In spite of her desire to have one real good season in Town, to feel that she is the belle par excellence—a very queen of hearts—that from royalty downwards men will admire her—it is very delicious to feel herself encircled by this man's stalwart arms, to be convinced that she is sole mistress of his heart, that to her, and her alone, he will give look and word and love with the loyalty and fidelity of a dog.Will the world she has begun to long for since wealth has surrounded her—will the buzz and hum of admiration which she craves for—will the ephemeral homage of Society's moths make up for Ferrari's life-long devotion, for the overflowing idolatry of this one strong heart?It is a terrible temptation the world, the flesh, and the devil offer her. Better if she yielded at once to love's glamour, and married Ferrari in a church of her own faith, defiant of her people, but safe in an honest man's home.But her bad angel whispers that she is young, and very beautiful, and that she will be passing rich. It seems hard that with all these advantages she should never reach beyond the humble position of a singing-master's wife. Her relations on her father's side would be ashamed to own her even.At last she makes up her mind.Ferrari has told her that the marriage in Brussels was not a formal one—she does not understand why it is so, but of course Ferrari knows, and she is quite willing to abide by his judgment. She will go through the ceremony again, as he wishes, some day—not far off perhaps, but not yet; she must taste the pleasures of the world before she settles down as Joan to her Darby in some unfashionable abode suited to their humble lot—that is until her mother's death. If her mother were dead now, and all Grandpapa Plumper's money her own, she believes she would not hesitate to become Ferrari's wife. She dreads a life of poverty, she is sure poverty must be such an enemy to love for a husband, and that if she had to screw and save as her mother used to do at Brambledene, that she would positively dislike the man who had drawn her down to such an existence. But with luxury and plenty of money about, with capa-bilities given her of really enjoying life, she would marry Ferrari now and not repent of it."Marco, you must not be impatient. You will be glad yourself of the delay when you know that during absence and uncertainty my love for you has not swerved one jot. I promise you that I will broach the matter to my father and mother, and that if they are obstinate and will not give their consent—well, then I will marry you without it. You refused to take my money, but you will not refuse this ring, darling, just to remind you of me! 'Exchange is no robbery,' you know, so I give you this in exchange for the lovely opal ring which I always wear here," and she points to her heart.She slips a single stone diamond ring on his finger."With this ring I thee wed!" she whispers. "You must be constant to me now, Marco; it would be vile of you to forget me for another woman now."He lifts his hand to his lips, and kisses the symbol of eternity, and as the brilliant glitters in the starlight, he starts and thinks it looks as hard and cold as his own life, and a shadow creeps over his face."I must go now, darling; I will write to you very soon. Where shall I address?""To Marco Ferrari, care of Prince Colonna, Florence.""Care of Prince Colonna, did you say?" she asks, opening her eyes wide."Yes. I know him intimately," he answers quietly."I wonder if he will approve of your choice?" she says laughing."He will think you perfect, as I do, my dearest—I could stake my life on it!" he replies with a smile. "But before we part, Claire, tell me where to write to you. I cannot exist without writing to you—it will be the next best thing to talking to you!"She reflects a moment."Much as I love hearing from you, you had better not write just yet, we are so unsettled, looking for a residence, that your letter might get lost, and that would be so hard to bear. I think we are coming to London soon, and there are plenty of post offices here—and, Marco, when you do write, address always to Miss C. Delaval, not Claire, mind."He scarcely hears her words in the turbulent feelings her mention of London has brought him—coming to London, and to stay! London—that he considers as more dangerous than Paris even! And it is here, amidst frivolity, folly and vice, that the girl who is to be his own wife is to be located, and, as far as he knows, unprotected, save by the love which she professes for him. But he is helpless—his heart quails at the picture he conjures up. Claire, with her vivid tints, her glorious syren eyes, the cynosure of the men about town, whose whole existence is one dream of women, and love, and pleasure—women who are not good, love which is not pure, pleasure that brings misery in its train. He has trod the well-known path himself in the days gone by. Venus has beckoned him, Messalina has tempted him, Delilah has opened his eyes—and it is amongst such a hideous sisterhood that his sweet, guileless, innocent dove is to dwell. It is in such companionship that she is to learn the charms of folly and vice."And when I write to you to come to me, Marco, you will come at once?" she asks imperiously."I will," he answers huskily, folding her in his arms and murmuring a prayer that while he is absent she may be guarded from all evil. "Of course, I will come! I could not stay away a moment after you gave me leave to come to you. I should eat my heart out with longing if I did!""We shall soon meet again!" she cries in a bright, ringing voice. "I know it, something tells me so!" And her gladness is not feigned, for she does love him, though in a fashion of her own. A worthless material sort of love she gives him, that is not worthy of the man, who is realty good and true to the core."Very soon, please Heaven, and then no more delay. I shall have you for my very own, and no strangers shall intermeddle with our joy—Claire, beloved, is it to be so? You will not torture me, put me off with promises, break my heart by coldness or fickleness?""Never" she answers softly."I shall count the days till we meet—never to part again!""My life!" he cries passionately, looking down on her with eyes full of the most fervid admiration and worship a man can give a woman. "And promise me something else, Claire!""I'll promise you anything—everything, except to hate you or forget you!""Then promise me—swear to me—that if you ever cease to love me, that if—if—" he pauses while his lips quiver and his face waxes white, "if by any chance you learn to care for any other man, you will never let me know it—you will kill me, sooner than tell me of your falsity!"Claire laughs, laughs merrily yet mockingly, just as she would laugh at some melodramatic burst in a second-rate theatre, which, to her matter-of-fact temperament, would sound far - fetched and ludicrous."I promise! but there is no chance of your dying by my hands, unless—unless—Marco, I strangle you so—" and she winds her arm round his neck.It is the first time she has been so demonstrative, and Ferrari, inconsistent with his passion for her as it may seem, recoils a little from the free gesture. Then the proximity is too much for him, and he forgets prejudices in the pleasure it gives and makes excuses for her at once. Of course she believes she is really his wife, and a wife may surely show her heart to the husband she loves!Claire is a loving, passionate woman at this moment, but the germs of Delilah and Jael are in her, and if a necromantic mirror of the future could be held up to Ferrari's gaze—only a singing - master though he be—he would avoid the clinging arms and the passionate caress like a pestilence, and draw himself away from her with scorn in his soul.The winding arms, and lingering caress, are but a foreshadowing of the fate that is laid up in the womb of Time."Suppose—mind, I only say suppose—I did learn to love someone else, would you give me up quietly? A man should be too proud to claim a woman if she preferred someone else!""Would I give you up, Claire? No—a thousand times—no. The man who takes you from me, must give his life—or have mine!""But if I—loved him?""Then I would kill—you—" he cries feverishly. "And yet—no! I could not kill you, I could not doom a face like yours, a form so fair, to death—I don't know what I should do! Don't try me, Claire, by such cruel words.""I won't!" she whispers tenderly. "I like you to love me in this fierce, brigand fashion, just as they do in the old-world novels, that is—that is——""That is?""So long as I love you back—you know!"In a ringing voice she says this, and Ferrari shudders. Then he strains her in his clasp as if afraid that something or somebody will surely divide them."Tell me, Claire, my darling, my angel—is change possible with you?" he asks gravely.She is silent."Answer me!" he cries, almost sternly.She looks up into his face, a smile on her lips and mockery in her eyes."Well, all things are possible in this world, I suppose," she replies slowly and deliberately."Claire!"His voice, losing its usual harmonious tone, sounds loud and even harsh, and he releases her at once from his arm."Don't speak like that!" she says, clasping her hands in feigned pleading. "I am loving you desperately at this moment—don't, for mercy's sake, let anger or anything horrid spoil everything.""But we cannot always control""Of course we can control everything," she breaks in impetuously. "I can—I know! Kiss me, Marco, and be friends."But he is too much hurt to obey."I ought not to have said what I did," she murmurs penitently, slipping her hand into his. "It makes me miserable if you are cold to me!"He gives a short, mirthless laugh. God and his own heart know how little of coldness lives within him."Don't you believe me, Marco?""No!""And yet you know that I love you, and that I shall love you so long as you love me!""'Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,' your Shakespeare says. I agree with him, and I cannot forget that change seems quite possible with you!""I was only joking. Is it possible that I shall change, when no one half so nice, half so handsome, as you are, is likely to cross my path?""Love me for myself, Claire, not for my face! Scores of men are better-looking than I am, but no man will ever love you with love like mine. How little you know what you are to me! No woman walks the earth who could wean from you the veriest shadow of a thought. I may be unworthy, poor, a nobody, not a fit object for your liking—but still, I am yours, Claire, body and soul. I pray you ever to forget that you have my life, for good or evil, in your hands!"His eyes grow as dark as night with agitation, and she knows that he speaks the real unvarnished truth. She feels that she is the life of his life."You believe me, Claire?" he goes on im-petuously. "Speak to me, tell me that, with all my failings, you do not for one moment credit me with hypocrisy or falsity.""I believe you care for me dearly, but not more than I care for you—Darling!" she whispers lovingly."Thank Heaven! And, Claire—another thing. If—if you should learn to love some other man, you will never let such a horrible feeling as hate creep into your breast for me, will you?"She laughs brightly enough."I'll try not to hate you—ever! Oh, what a foolish fellow it is, but so handsome—handsome as Apollo!"She passes her hand caressingly over his face, and looks at him with genuine admiration.Handsome! She is always harping on his aquiline features—on his beauty.Ferrari is not by any means a vain man, though foreigners as a rule are given to vanity. Undeniably handsome men are less vain than ugly ones, and instead of feeling flattered he experiences a regretful sensation.He is as has been said before peculiar in his ideas about women, and women's purity. He wants the girl's heart, and not her admiration."My face is not worth your thinking about, dear one. Something, sickness or accident, might mar it, you see. Will you remember what I feel, Claire, while we are separated? Will you bear in mind always that my whole future belongs to you, that on you it depends whether when I come back, it will be to Heaven or to torture and misery? Oh, will you be true to me, my own! my love! as I shall be true to you? Will you recollect that when a man loves a woman better than his soul, when he holds her dearer than his honour, when her slightest wish or word is his law, her presence light and joy, her absence desolation—she has no right to spoil his life, and cast him aside like a broken toy or a worthless glove?""I will remember all! I will never forget you night or day. I promise to be true—true as steel. I promise that no man shall have look or word from me that I would not give in your presence—yes, Marco, I love you with every bit of my heart and soul. I have never loved anyone but you in my life. And I'll love you till I die!"She lifts towards him two great loving eyes. Eyes so glorious, so irresistible, that he is forced to believe them even if he doubts her words, but he does not doubt at all. This is the woman who realises his ideal, and when he lays his last good-bye on her lips, it is with almost a light and hopeful heart that he leaves her.Meanwhile Cecil, with her veil drawn down tightly over her features, sits trembling and nervous on the bench. The day has closed in and the hour is growing dangerous, when Claire walks up to her——"You don't mean to say you are frightened, Cis? What an absurd little prude you are—no one wanted to eat you up, I am sure!"It is so dreadfully late to be out, "Cecil answers in a tremulous little voice," and I felt so afraid all by myself, I thought you had forgotten all about me and were never coming back. Who was that man you followed, Claire? His figure put me in mind of someone——Oh, I know. It was Signor Ferrari, wasn't it?"Claire bites her lips in vexation, but deems it advisable to acknowledge to the fact at once.Yes, I wanted him to write down the names of one or two songs that would suit my voice. Mamma wants me to learn some new ones to sing at dinner-parties. So we went into a stationer's just outside there," and she points vaguely to another gate further up in the Park."It's more than an hour, I am sure, since you went, Claire," Cecil says reproachfully. "How long it took him to write the names!""That is because he could not recollect them at first. Come! I am famished, and want my dinner."Cecil is very glad when the time comes to go back to High Towers. London has no attraction for her, and all the noise and hum of busy life that Claire delights in weary her to death."How can people live in London?" she says half to herself, as she sits opposite her cousin, watching the great city fading into distance. "How lovely High Towers will seem!"High Towers! I hate the place,"Claire mutters impatiently," one might as well be shut up in a convent."Except that there is not even a priest in High Towers, to admire you!" Cecil says laughing.END OF VOLUME I.PRINTED BY KELLY AND CO. LIMITED, 182, 183, AND 184, HIGH
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