Imatges de pÓgina



commenced to flag again, it has only been ing season is over, and wonders how he since

shall amúse himself for the next six Since when?

months; Isabella is as quiet, and timid, Since the arrival of Tommy Brown and reserved, and melancholy as ever; and among them! As Colonel Mordaunt's Mrs. Quekett still keeps the peace. thoughts, travelling backward and taking Not that she never meets her mistress notes by the way, light on this fact, he face to face-that would be impossible in rises from his seat, and walks aimlessly a place like Fen Court—but a quiet “goodabout the room.

morning" or "good-night” in passing, a “D-n that child !” he says, without the čurtsey on her side, and an inclination of least reserve; “I wish to Heaven we had Irene's head upon the other-is all the never seen or heard of him."

communication that takes place between And then he goes out to his stables and them; and, as far as my heroine can diskennel, and tries to forget all about it; but cover, Mrs. Quekett has never again dared the idea haunts him, nevertheless, and to correct Tommy, although the child's often after that day Irene, glancing up aversion for her, and terror of going near suddenly, finds him studying her face, any room which she occupies, seem with an earnestness, not altogether born of though she had taken some means of letaffection, which puzzles while it wounds ting him understand what he has to expect her.

if he ventures to presume on her forbearMrs. Mordaunt, in desiring her husband

Yet though outwardly there is to inform Mrs. Quekett that peace between peace, Irene has many an inward heartthem can only be maintained at the cost of ache. The subsidence of her husband's all communication, has entered into the first adoration (which would have been worst pact with the housekeeper she could quickly noticed by a woman in love with possibly have niade. For Rebecca Quekett him) gives her no uneasiness. On the conis a woman to be conciliated, not to be trary, had she observed and questioned her dared. She has her good points (no human own heart on the subject, she would have creature is without) and her weak points; confessed the change was a relief to her. and were Irene politic enough to draw out But there is something between them, bethe one or trade upon the other, she might yond that—an undefinable something, turn what promises to be a formidable en- which can be felt, if not explained. It is emy into a harmless, if not a desirable the cold cloud of Reserve. There is that friend. But she is too spirited and too between the husband and wife which they frank to profess to be what she is not; and dare not speak of, because they know they so, from the hour that Colonel Mordaunt cannot agree upon the subject; and Reserve timidly announces his wife's determination feeds upon itself, and grows by what it to his housekeeper, the future of the for- feeds on. mer is undermined. Mrs. Quekett does not The heart has many little chambers, and lay any plans for attack. She gives vent to it is difficult to keep one door closed and no feelings of animosity, nor does she, at throw open all the others. And so, imperleast openly, break the truce; but she re- ceptibly, they drift a little further and members and she waits, and Mrs. Quekett further apart from one another every day. does not remember and wait for-nothing. Irene has no object in life apparently but

The months go by. Oliver Ralston has the education of the child-Colonel Morprocured employment with another country daunt none but the care of his kennel and practitioner, somewhere down in Devon, his stables. Irene is kinder to the horses and is working steadily. Tommy has passed and dogs than he is to Tommy. She often his third birthday, and under the tuition of accompanies him on his rounds to stroke, his adopted mother, is becoming quite a and fondle, and admire the noble animals, civilized little being, who has learned the but he seldom or ever throws a kind word use of a pocket-handkerchief, and speaks to the boy. English almost as well as she does. Colo- Indeed Tommy is almost as afraid of him nel Mordaunt, as kind as ever to his wife, as he is of Mrs. Quekett. Colonel Morthough perhaps a little more sober in dis- daunt, at all events, comes second in his playing his affection for her-a fact which list of “bogies ;" and sometimes Irene Irene never discovers-finds that the hunt- feels so disheartened, she almost wishes she had never seen the child. But the re- pose one of my last year's dresses will do membrance of her promise to his mother for Glottonbury. But really, I feel as (whom she has grown to pity far more than though I should be quite out of my eleherself) will soon recall her to a sense of ment. Who will be there ?!! pleasure in her duty. But she is no longer "Most of the county people, I conclude so happy as she was at first. The gloss has -the Grimstones and Batcherley's, and Sir worn off the new life-change has ceased John Cootes's party, and Lord Denham to be change-and sometimes an awful and the Mowbrays. Sir John and Mr. sense of regret smites her, and makes her Batcherley are down upon the list of stewhate herself for her ingratitude. But we ards, I see. I am gratified at their includcannot force ourselves to be happy; and ing my name. Then there will be a large the extrene dullness of Priestley does not party of Mr. Holmes's friends from town, contribute to make her shake off a feeling and among them Lord Muiraven. Isn't of which she is ashamed.

that a member of the family your aunt, Meanwhile, the bleak cold spring creeps. Mrs. Cavendish, was so fond of talking on, and loses itself in April.

about?" One morning, as they are all seated at But to this question Colonel Mordaunt the breakfast-table, Colonel Mordaunt has receives no answer. Presently he looks a large and important-looking envelop put across the table to where his wife is tracing into his hand; and his correspondence in fancy patterns with a fork upon the cloth, general being by no means important, its and thinks that she looks very pale. appearance attracts attention.

“Do the Cavendishes know Lord Nuir"An invitation, I should imagine,” re

aven por marks Irene, as she looks up from butter- “I believe Mary met him once at a ball." ing Tommy's fourth round of bread.

“Do you know him ?” “Wait a moment, my dear, and we shall “No!" see. Yes, exactly so; and a very proper “Then what the deuce was your aunt attention for them to pay him. I shall always making such a row about him for?'' have the greatest pleasure in complying “I don't know." with their wishes."

“Aren't you well ?” “What wishes, Philip? (No, Tommy, "Perfectly, thank you. When is this no jam this morning!)"

to take place ?" " That I shall be one of the stewards. It “Next Tuesday week. It is short notice; seems that our new meinber, Mr. Holmes, but Mr. Holmes's visit is unexpected. He is about to visit Glottonbury, and the peo- seems to have made his way in the eounty ple are desirous to welcome him with a wonderfully.” dinner and a ball in the town hall. And a “Is he a young man ?” very happy thought, too. The festivities “Thirty or thereabouts. I saw him at will please all classes ;-give employment the election. He has a pleasant voice and to the poor, and amusement to the rich ;- manner, but is no beauty. He and Lord and the ladies of Glottonbury that cannot

Muiraven and a Mr. Norton are to be the appear at the dinner will grace the ball. guests of Sir John Cootes." An extremely happy thought. I wonder “Are any other strangers coming with who originated it.”

them?" "A public dinner and ball, I suppose ?” “I don't know. My letier is from Hud

Generally. so-but they will send us dleston. He doesn't mention it." tickets. Of course, my dear, you will I wish you would find out."

Why?" “To the ball? O, indeed, I would rather “Because it will make a great difference not. I have not danced for ages."

in the evening's enjoyment. One doesn't “There is no need to dance, if you will care to be dependent on the tradesmen of only put in an appearance. As the wife of Glottonbury for partners." a man holding so important a position in "I thought you didn't mean to dance." the county as myself, and one of the stew- "No more do I-at present. But there ards of the dinner, I think it becomes your is no knowing what one might not be duty to be present, if you can.”

tempted to. Anyway, find out for me, “Very well, I have no objection. I sup





“What friends Mr. Holmes brings with arrays her in one of her dresses of the past him

season, she is amazed to find how much "Exactly so. Will you ?"

her mistress has fallen away about the “I cannot understand what interest the neck and shoulders, and bow broad a tuckmatter can possibly have for you, my er sbe is obliged to insert in order to remedear."

dy the evil. But Irene appears blissfully “O, never mind it then. Have you quite indifferent as to what effect she may profinished, Tommy? Then come along and duce, and is only anxious to go to the ball order the dinner with mainma." And, and to come back again, and to have it all with the child in her hand, Irene leaves

She is terribly nervous of encounthe room. Colonel Mordaunt looks after tering Lord Muiraven (although, from the her suspiciously. “Who on earth can she descriptions of Mary Cavendish, she knows be expecting to come down from London he cannot in any way resemble his younger to this ball ?” He is beginning to be sus- brother), and yet she dares pot forbid her picious about very little things now-a-days, husband to introduce himn, for fear of proand he alludes to the subject in an irritable voking an inquiry on the reason of her resort of manner two or three times during quest. She arrives at the Glottonbury the forenoon, until he puts Irene out. town hall, in company with Isabella, at

“Look here, Philip. I would rather not about ten o'clock; and Colonel Mordaunt, go to this ball at all. I have no inclina- as one of the masters of the ceremonies, tion for it, and the preparations will prob- meets her at the entrance. ably involve a great deal of trouble. Please “Are you still determined not to dance ?" let me stay at home.”

he says, as he leads her to a seat. “ Indeed I cannot hear of it. You must Quite so. Pray don't introduce any go, and look your best. As my wife, it I feel tired already." will be expected of you, Irene."

He glances at her. “To be jostled by a crowd of trades. • You do look both pale and tired. people !” she murinurs. “I hate a public Well, here is a comfortable sofa for you. ball at any time, but an election ball must Perhaps you will feel better by-and-by. I be the worst of all."

must go now and receive the rest of the "I don't see that. The rooms are large, company." and the arrangements will be conducted on “Yes! pray don't mind me. I sball the most liberal scale. All you will have amuse myself sitting here and watching to do will be to look pretty, and enjoy your- the dancers. O Philip,” her eyes glistenself; and the first is never difficult to you, ing with appreciative delight, “ do look at my darling.”

that green headdress with the bird of par“Well, I suppose I shall have to go after adise seated on a nest of roses !" that, Philip. Only I don't consent till I “You wicked child! you are always have seen a list of the expected guests making fun of some one. How I wish I from town."

could stay with you! but I must go. I * Why this anxiety about a pack of shall look you up again very soon.” strangers ?” exclaims Colonel Mordaunt, He disappears among the crowd as he pettisbly. But he procures the list, never- speaks, and Irene is left by herself, Isabella theless. It contains but one name with (to whow anything like a passing jest on wbich she is in the least familiar-that of the custume of a fellow-Clıristian appears Lord Muiraven.

quite in the light of a sin) having walked "And these are really all ?” she says, as off to the other side of the room. For a she peruses it.

while she is sufficiently amused by watch“Really all! There are at least twenty. ing the company, and inwardly smiling at Are they sufficient to satisfy your lady- their little eccentricities of dress or manship?

ner, their flirtations, and evident curiosity “Quite” with a deep-drawn sigh. “I respecting herself. But this sort of enterwill not worry you any more about it, tainment soon palls, and then she begins Philip. I will go to the ball.”

to question why she cannot feel as happy

as they appear to be; and her thoughts On the evening in question, however, wander over her past life, and she sinks she is not looking lier best; and, as Phæbe into a reverie, during which the lights and tlowers, the dangers and the music, are yourself. Allow me to introduce to you lost or disappear; and virtually she is Lord Muiraven!" alone. How long she sits there, motion- At that name she starts, flushes, and less and silent, she cannot afterwards ac- looks up. But, as her eyes are raised, all count for; but the sound that rouses her the color dies out of her face, and leaves it from her dream and brings her back to of a gbastly white. For the man whom earth again is the voice of Colonel Mor- her husband has introduced to her as Lord daunt.

Muiraven is-ERIC KEIR! “My dear," he is saying, “I have found

(TO BE CONTINUED.) a companion for you who is as lazy as




anything remarkable; I am not sure, even, THOSE Wonderful days of old romance, that it has any special moral," unless it of chivalric knights, who went forth for the night possibly be that old, old one of the release and defence of “faire ladyes,” vessel, knit like a sheet at the four corclad in glittering armor, with nodding ners, descending out of heaven, wherein plume and gleaming lance, of which we were all manner of beasts of the earth, and have all read with thrilling pulse and bated creeping things, and fowls of the air.” It breath, feeling our own blood warm and is barely possible, old as it is, that we have stir with emulative desire, are dead and not all learned the lesson taught to Peter buried under the weight of this practical in the vision on the housetop. But to the age. The car of Progress has swept re-i story. morselessly over gallant knight and trou- Something like twenty years ago, in one badour, crushing them beneath its advanc- of the pretty valley towns that cluster along ing wheels, and leaving them to sleep for- the pleasant Connecticut, there stood, a ever in the heart of their own dead centu- little aside froin the sinall straggling vilries. But though forms die and modes lage, on a broad sunny plateau, a massive change, the spirit, escaping from its worn- stone mansion, the grounds overrun with out frame, lives again in every age, an im- weeds and wild grasses, and the windows mortal entity. Chivalry is not dead, though with rauk untrained vines. The man who the dust of centuries has long since swal- owned it had been in Europe three years, lowed plume, and belt, and lance. Every and might remain there as many more, for age has its test, and every age has its aught the neighbors knew. But, to their knights, though chivalry is too often reck- surprise, one morning they saw smoke isoned a lost art-an echo merely from the suing froin the chimneys, and a little later, tombs of the ages. Uulike the olden or- the owner, Mr. Grantley, came down and der, this is without organization, and often engaged a man to move his furniture to the witbout recognition, till, in some supreme nearest city the following day. moment of pain or peril, it springs sudden- “The new owner will be here in the ly to life, facing danger with lifted lance morning,” he said; “ so it would be well to and dauntless face. We call it bravery, load the goods to-day, perhaps.” heroism, self-sacrifice; but it is only the The new owner?”' repeated the surold spirit in modern garb. Perhaps what prised teamster, his whole face and attiperplexes is most is its democracy. Our tude a most unmistakable interrogation knighthood of to-day is as likely to blossom point. out in the life of some graceless fellow, Yes, I have sold the 'Glebe' to Mr. like Hay's famous "engineer," as in that William Montford, of New Haven. He is of some pure, cultured, saintly soul that to take immediate possession, as I have shrinks from the contamination of his pres- said.” Then, after a slight pause, he addence with ill-concealed disgust.

ed, “I hope you will like him. I think The simple story I propose to relate is a you will; he is considered a very excellent case in point. I do not claim that it is man, I believe."

Su William Montford took possession of on all occasions; unless he approved, noththe “Glebe,” to the great improvement of ing could be undertaken-with any thought that fine but neglected old place. Trees of success, at least. were set, lawns trimmed and rolled, choice When Mr. Montford had been in Sanplants and shrubs brightened the parterres, born less than five years, one day, to his a silvery fountain threw its misty sheen surprise and annoyance, a tall ill-dressed over rare aquatic plants, and blossoming boy, of perhaps a dozen years, came to his vines trailed from elegant-fashioned vases door and announced himself as the only of loveliest design and substance. Mr. son of Philip Murdock, and announced, Montford was a man of taste, certainly, inoreover, that Philip Murdock was dead, and year by year the Glebe grew in beauty, and had written a letter-here the boy proand its owner in wealth and favor. And duced the letter-the day before his death, so eighteen years went by, bringing us, at and bade him (the boy) take it when all length, to the real opening of our story. was over to his cousin William Montford.

Mr. Montford had but one child, a fair Mr. Montford took the letter rather unsunny-faced girl of twenty, who, since her graciously, and bidding the boy follow mother's death, some four or five years, him, went into the long sunny drawinghad lived alone with her father and their room, and, standing in the middle of the two servants at the Glebe. Perhaps it was room, tore open the envelop, drew out the the quietness and retirement of her life letter, and proceeded to read it with a disthat gave her that peculiar, shy, gentle satisfied face. diffidence; though I think, rather, that it In the meantime, the boy had paused was her natural diffidence and sensitive- just inside the door, and stood looking furness that led her to choose retirement. tively about him, shifting a dirty tattered Dora was

so totally unlike her father cap from one hand to the other, and lookthat one could not help remarking it. Mr ing most unmistakably uncomfortable. Montford was fully aware of his own worth Very evidently he was not accustomed to and virtues, and was never guilty of under- rooms like this, and was at a loss how to valuing himself. He was a man of wealth dispose of himself. and standing in the community, and he Presently Mr. Montford wheeled round, never forgot the fact for a moment. No the open sheet still in his hand, and one who came in contact with him ever brought the full force of his stern gaze to forgot it, either; for some reason it was bear upon the poor boy, who not only felt quite impossible, though perhaps they but looked decidedly out of place in that might not have been able to explain why bright luxurious room. exactly. He was also very virtuous and “ It is only the same old story-' unforupright, and consequently, having no weak- tunate!!” Mr. Montford said, contemptunesses himself, despised those who did ously. “I dare say you inherit your fahave them. He had “no sympathy for ther's peculiar gift; you look enough like evil-doers,” he said, coldly, almost angrily. it, Heaven knows !" That weakness wbich pities the sinner, A faint red surged to the boy's temples, while it detests the sin, never beset him. half hidden by the long unkempt hair. Mr. Montford had also a very deep-seated Do you know what is in this letter, dislike for "unfortunate” people. It had boy?” he demanded, sharply. always troubled him to account for the No; father said he would rather I need of the existence of such disagreeable wouldn't know," he replied, a sudden falanomalies. He had never been unfortu- ter breaking up his voice. nate, and no one else need be, unless they “It's a pity your father hadn't been as desired to be, he argued.

considerate in some other things; it might As there were weak people, and unfortu- have saved him from becoming a pauper!" nate people, and possibly now and then an was the sneering reply. "evil-doer,” in Sanborn, Mr. Montford, “My father was not a pauper!" the boy despite his goodness and greatness, was cried, indignantly, standing suddenly erect, not, perhaps, so universally popular as a and turning a fierce defiant face towards man of his virtues ought to be. Neverthe- Mr. Montford. less, he was held in a sort of awe and ven- “ Indeed! Ho comes it, then, that he eration, and looked up to with deference sends his boy to me with this pitiful drivel

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