The Reproach of Annesley Vol. 1

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DU fe - &€

i]
R EACH VOLUME SOLD SEPARATRLY.

COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

VOL. 2590.

THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

BY

MAXWELL GRAY.

IN TWO VOLUMES.—VOL. I.

NEAL'S ENGLISH LIBRARY |
248, Rue de Rivoli. PARIS :
+ PLACE DE LA ConcorDE '

This Collection
published with copyright for Continental circulation, but all
wchastrs art carntstly reguested not to introduce the volumes wr
slo Lingland or into any British Galony. «
‘. . ;

COLLECTION

OF

RITISH AUTHORS

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

VOL. 2590.
IE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY BY M. GRAY.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL, I.

’
1

‘‘Give me the man that is not passion’s slave.”

% .
iS

THE REPROACH

OF

ANNESLEY

A NOVEL

BY

MAXWELL GRAY,

AUTHOR OF “THE SILENCE OF DEAN MAITLAND,” ETC.
COPYRIGHT EDITION.

IN TWO VOLUMES.—VOL.I.

LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1889.

RA454, 25.650
LY .

HARVARD COLLEGE LtaRARY
FROM THE LISRARY OF
PROF. JAMES HARDY ROPES
MARCH 14, 1934

CONTENTS

OF VOLUME I.

PART I.
STHAPTER I. Footsteps... ...+..2.6 +. 9
Il. FireLight. . . 2... 1 1 eee 24
III. Shadows . . . 2. 1. 6. 2» «© «© © «= 42
— IV. The Meett. .......242442 «57
V. Spring Flowers . 2. . 2. 1. 1 2 © +e) 73
VI. Thorns ........2.2.+..~ «89

PART II.

CHAPTER I. Apple-Blossoms . a rie c0Y/
— II. Archery . . ... 2. 2 es... =D
— III. Sunset on Arden Down ..... . 128
— IV. Messrs. Whewell and Rickman. . . . I41
— V. Storm... 2 6 we ew ew ew ew we 8S

PART III.

CHAPTER I. Light and Shade . ....... ‘I7!1
— II, Over the Hills and faraway. . . . . 192

CHAPTER III.
— IV.
— V.
— VI.
_— VI.

CHAPTER I.

CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.

On the Balcony
Unspoken Thoughts
What the Pines sang .
The Inheritance

By the River

PART IV..
Sheep-Shearing .

nv NO DB NO ND

THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

PART I

CHAPTER I.

FOOTSTEPS.

SILENCE and solitude reigned all around; a solitude
invaded by the appearance of no living creatures save
distant flocks of sheep dotted at large over upland
pastures or grouped in wattled folds; a silence rather
deepened than broken by the peculiar and by no
means unmusical sound of the wind sweeping through
the short pale-yellow bents which rose sparsely above
the fine rich down-turf. The narrow, white high-road
ran straight along the summit of the down; it was un-
fenced on one side where the turf sloped so abruptly
towards a rich cultivated level as to make this almost
invisible from the road, and on the other bounded by
a bank, purple in summer with wild thyme, and crested
by a high quickset hedge, which effectually concealed
the northern slope of the down and the wooded country
beneath it spreading away to the sea. This thorn hedge,
which, in default of leaves and blossoms, bore masses
of thick and hoary lichen, instead of growing erect from

{0 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

its bank, running nearly east and west, was arched over
to the north-east in an accurate curve, due to the fierce
briny sweep of the prevailing winds, and was by the
same agency smoothly shorn on the windward side.
These strong salt winds, blowing off the sea and fre-
quently rising to gales, give all the trees and hedges
within their influence a marked family likeness, stunt-
ing their growth, and forcing them to bow to the north-
east as if suddenly made rigid in the height of a south-
west gale.

But the salt south-west was silent on this cloudy
March afternoon, and in its place a bleak east wind,
whirling the white dust from the flinty chalk road, and
quieting gradually down as the sun drew nearer the
west, waS sweeping over the short turf with its low,
lonely sound, which is half whistle and half moan. The
rich level to the south of the down sprinkled though it
was with occasional farms, each having its cluster of
ricks and elm-trees, and varied here and there by, a
village spire rising from a little circle of thatched roofs,
looked solitary beneath, the grey sky. It terminated on
the east in some picturesquely broken hills, interrupted
by a long, level grey band, which was the sea, and on
the south in more hills of moderate height and irregular
outline, which derived an unusual grandeur this after-
noon from the deep purple shadows resting upon them,
and emphasizing their contour against the silvery grey
sky, a sky full of latent light. On the west again
there were hills of gentler outline, beyond these little

FOOTSTEPS. +o |

glimpses of plain and woodland, and on the farthest
limit a curving break filled with ‘a polished surface of
sea, reflecting the dim yellow lustre of the declining
sin, which glowed faintly through the curdling clouds
above. : |

The wind went on singing its strange low song to
the bleak down-land; the far-off farms and villages gave
no sign of life; but one solitary sea-gull sailed slowly
by on its wide, unearthly-looking wings far below the
level of the high-road, yet far above the plain beneath,
uttermg its complaining cry, and receiving the pale re-
flected sun-rays upon its cream-white plumage, thus
making a centre of light upon the purply-grey darkness
,of the plain and the hills. It passed gradually out of
Sight, and the silence seemed more death-like than be-
fore,

Yet life and music were near, and only awaiting the
summons of soft airs and warm sunbeams to spring
forth and make the earth glad with beauty and melody.
The gnarled, storm-bent thorns were showing tiny leaf-
buds on their brown branches where the tangled grey
lichens did not usurp their place; cowslips were push-
ing little satiny spirals through the short turf on the
hedge-banks; down in the copses, and beneath sheltered
hedge-rows, primroses were showing their sweet, pensive
faces, and white violets were budding. Many a nest
was already built; many a bird already felt the welcome
pressure of eggs beneath its warm breast and tasted
the fulness of the spring-time; the tall elms on the plain

12 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

already wore their warm purple robe of blossom; black
buds on grey ash-stems in the copses were swelling to
bursting-point above the primroses. Yet all seemed
lifeless; the red-brown leaves on the oak boughs
shivered in the blast; it was scarcely possible to
prophesy of the green and golden glory that would
clothe them in one brief month. Could those dry
bones live?

Presently something black rose silently and swiftly
above the green turf border of the chalk road. Beneath
it appeared a human face, next a pair of broad
shoulders, and finally the whole figure of a man
emerged, as if from the heart of the earth, and stood
fully outlined against the chill sky.

He was young, and strongly rather than gracefully
built; the keen wind, from which he did not flinch by
so much as an eye-blink, imparted a healthy pink to his
clear complexion. His fair hair was crsped by the
wind, and his grey eyes looked all round the wide
scene, on which his back had been turned while stepping
lightly up the down, in a singular manner. Instead of
gazing straightforward like other people’s they looked
downwards from beneath his eyelids, as if he had dif-
ficulty in raising the latter. Having rapidly surveyed
earth, sea and sky, he turned and walked westwards
along the edge of turf by the road, so that his foot-
steps still made no sound, drew a watch from his pocket,
then replaced it beneath his warm overcoat, muttering
to himself, “Early yet.”

FOOTSTEPS. 13

soon he heard a sound as of a multitudinous
Scraping and panting, above which tinkled a bell; a
cloud of dust rose from the road, showing as it parted
the yellow fleeces and black legs and muzzles of a flock
of Southdown sheep. He stood aside motionless upon
the turf, to let them pass without hindrance; but one
of the timid creatures, nevertheless, took fnght at him,
and darted down the slope, followed by an unreasoning
crowd of imitators. It did not need a low faint cry
from the shepherd, who loomed far behind above the
cloud of white dust, himself spectral-looking in his long,
greyish-white smock-frock, to send the sheep-dog sweep-
ing over the turf, with his fringes floating in the wind,
and his tongue hanging from his formidable jaws, while
he uttered short angry barks of reproof, and drove the
truants into the nght path again. But again and yet
again some indiscretion on the part of the timid little
black-faces demanded the energies of their lively and
fussy guardian, who darted from one end of the flock
to the other with joyous rapidity, hustling this sheep,
grumbling at that, barking here, remonstrating there,
and driving the bewildered creatures hither and thither
with a zeal that was occasionally in excess, and drew
forth a brief monosyllable from his master, which caused
the dog to fly back and walk sedately behind him with
an instant obedience as delightful as his intelligent
activity. The actual commander of this host of living
things gave little sign of energy, but walked heavily be-
hind his charges with a slow and slouching gait, par-

r4 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

tially supporting himself on his long crooked stick, and
carrying under his left arm a lamb which bleated in the
purposeless way characteristic of these creatures. Yet
the shepherd’s gaze was everywhere, and he, like his
zealous lieutenant, the dog, could distinguish each of
these numerous and apparently featureless creatures
from the other, and every now and then a slight motion
of his crook, or some inarticulate sound, conveyed a
whole code of instructions to the eager watchful dog,
who straightway acted upon them. All this the young
man motionless on the turf watched with interest, as. if
a flock of sheep were something uncommon or worthy
of contemplation; and when they had all gone by, and
the shepherd himself passed in review, his yellow sun-
bleached beard shaken by the keen wind he was facing,
he transferred his attention to him.

“Blusterous,” said the shepherd, making his crook
approach his battered felt hat, when he came up with
him.

“Very blusterous,” answered the gentleman, nod-

ding in a friendly manner and going on his way.
' This was their whole conversation, and yet the
shepherd pondered upon it for miles, and _ re-
counted it to his wife as one of the day's chief inci-
dents.

“And I zes to ’n, ‘Blusterous’—I zes; and. he zes
to me, ‘Terble blusterous,’ he zes, Ay, that’s what
’ee zed, zure enough,” he repeated, with infinitesimal

FOOTSTEPS. 15

variations, while smoking his after-supper pipe in his
chimney-corner.

Thus, you see, human intercourse may be carried
on in these parts of the earth with a moderate expen-
diture of words.

Gervase Rickman went his way pondering upon the
shepherd and his flock. How foolishly helpless and
helplessly foolish the bleating innocent-faced sheep
looked, as they blundered aimlessly out of the road,
one blindly following the next in front with such lack
of purpose, that the wonder was that here and there a
Solitary sheep should have sufficient intellect to strike
on a fresh path and mislead his fellows. And how ab-
ject they were to the superior intellect and volition of
the dog; how tumultuously they fled before him, thus
involving. themselves in fresh disorder; how tamely they
yielded to his behests, when so small an exercise of
will on the part of each might have baffled him, in
spite of his ternnble fangs; above all, how like, how
very like the mass of mankind, “the common herd,”
as they were so aptly called, they seemed to his musing
fancy!

With what a sheep-lke fidelity do men follow the
few who from time to time blunder upon original paths,
how blindly do they pursue them to unknown goals,
and how abjectly do multitudes permit themselves to be
swayed by the will of one with sufficient daring, energy,
and intellect to dominate them! The mass needs a man,
a strong personality, a powerful volition to lead it; it

16 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

bows to the strongest, to a Moses, a Cesar, a Gregory,
a Charlemain, a Cromwell or a Napoleon; democracy
is but the shadow of a shade—the aimless revolt of the
aimless many against shackles that have been silently
forged in the process of the ages—a revolt ending in
the incoherence of anarchy, weltering helplessly on until
one is born strong enough to lead and create anew;
then the centuries solder and cement his work, and
give it a fleeting permanence, and thus a civilization is
born. Or the centuries refuse their sanction, and the
work slowly resolves itself again to chaos. So Gervase
Rickman mused.

But he was not of the herd; he would follow none.
He felt within himself an intensity of purpose, and a
passion of concentration, together with a strength of
intellect that must lift him above his fellows. So he
thought and mused, not knowing what was within him
and into what channels the current of his character
would set.

He went on his way, still keeping to the turf, and
thus still silently, for it was his habit to move with as
little sound as possible, until a barrow rose steeply be-
fore him and compelled him to take the road. He was
now approaching the end of the down road, at the ex-
tremity of which, where the thorn edge ended, there
stood a little lonely inn in an empty courtyard, fenced
by a low stone wall. On one side of the small house
was a tree, bending as usual to the north-east, and im-
parting that air of perfect loneliness which the presence

FOOTSTEPS. 17

f a single tree invariably gives to an isolated building.
‘he inn proclaimed itself the “Traveller's Rest” by a
ign over its low porch and closed door. There were
10 flowers in the little court, though it faced the south;
either tree nor vegetable grew in the barren enclosure,
which was tenanted solely by a large deer-hound
itretched in a watchful attitude before the porch.

Mr. Rickman did not look at the inn, though a side
glance of his eyes took in the dog with a sparkle of
satisfaction; while the dog on hearing his footsteps,
which were: also faintly audible to two women in an
upper room, slightly pricked his ears and looked at him
with an indifferent air, dropping his muzzle comfortably
on to his fore-paws again when he had passed.

Another road crossed the level chalk road at mght
angles just beyond the solitary inn. Opposite the inn-
front on the turf was a stagnant pond, the milky water
of which was crisped to ripples by the keen wind, and
in the angle formed by two roads stood a wooden sign-
post.

When he reached the sign-post, Gervase Rickman
leant against it with his back towards the inn, which
was now some distance from him, and gazed over the
broad expanse of level champain to the dark hills, on
the broken slopes of which the shadows were shifting.
He did not appear to mind the wind, which caught him
‘ull in the side of the face, ruffled his hair, and obliged
um to press his low felt’ hat more firmly over his
sows; the sound it made among the withered stalks

The Reproach of Annesley, 1. 2

18 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

above the sward pleased him, and he mused and mus
in the stillness, an image of peaceful contemplatic
with his refined features and look of quiet concentrat
power. :

While he was thus musing, his quick ears caug
the sound of footsteps in the distance behind him; b
he did not turn his head, for the footsteps were tho
of a stranger and could not interest him, so he thoug!
They were the firm elastic steps of a man in the flow
of life, they smote the hard road with an even joyo
rhythm, and were accompanied by the clear cheery ton
of a voice singing,

‘“‘As we lay, all the day,
In the Bay of Biscay, O!”

Both song and footsteps penetrated to the qu:
upper chamber in the inn, where two women sat |
gether, one wasted with mortal sickness and wear:
the unnatural rose of fever in her face, the other radia
with youth and health. The latter paused in her rea
ing and looked up as the strain of manly song bro
upon the quiet of the sick room; the invalid’s fa
brightened, and she said it was a pleasant song.

“It is a good voice,” said the reader, “and t.
voice of a gentleman.”

The singer went joyously on his way, and pause
in his song when he saw the motionless figure at tl
foot of the sign-post. Gervase Rickman still gaze
dreamily away over the valley to the dark hills. A m:
has but to purpose a thing strongly to gain his purpos

FOOTSTEPS. 19

he was thinking; fate is but the shadow of an old savage
dream; a man’s life is in his own hands. In fancy he
saw the flock of sheep driven on and on along the
dusty highway by the shepherd, whose figure suggested
all sorts of images to his mind, save the august image
of the Shepherd of mankind.

“To Medington four-and-a-half miles,” was written
on one of the arms of the sign-post above his head,
and the pedestrian reading this, paused a moment and
looked at the silent figure beneath, which with averted
gaze appeared unconscious of his approach.

“Is this the only road to Medington?” he asked.

“No; there are four,” replied Rickman, facing about,
but not meeting the level gaze of the stranger, as he.
rephed to his salutation.

“Which takes’me past Arden Manor?” asked the
stranger, who looked as if he would enjoy a friendly chat.

“Neither.”

“Surely that is Arden Manor I saw lying beneath
the down by the church as I came along?”

“Yes.”

“An old gentleman named Rickman lives there, I
think; a queer old dry-as-dust of a fellow, who collects
antiquities.”

“A Mr. Rickman, F.R.S., lives there,” replied Ger-
‘ase, with a dry smile; “he also collects beetles. You
ae perhaps a brother naturalist or antiquary?”

“I know a beetle from a butterfly and that’s about

all,” he said. “No; I was to go over the downs from
ak

20 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Oakwell and meet a friend by Arden Manor on the
road to Medington. I have evidently gone wrong.”

“No: you are quite right. If you keep straight on
you will come to Arden Cross at the foot of the hill.
For Arden Manor you turn to the left, but that takes
you away from Medington. Turn up the lane to the
right, and you go direct over the downs to Medington,
or straight on by the high-road you get to Medington.”

“Paul meant Arden Cross,” reflected the stranger
aloud. “Thank you. I remember the down path now,
that is the short cut. Can you help me to a light? This
wind is too much for matches.”

Gervase opened his jacket, and in the shelter thus
made the stranger, stooping, for he was tall, struck a
match and lighted a short pipe, thus giving the other
the opportunity of a close and unobserved scrutiny of
his face in the glow of the match. It was a dark,
healthy, well-favoured face, on the whole the kind of face
that goes to the heart of every woman, old or young.

“A good-looking fool,” thought Gervase, consigning
him mentally to the majority of mankind. “Edward
Annesley, no doubt; an officer, by his moustache and
swagger.”

He was wrong about the swagger: though the
stranger walked like a soldier. Having lighted his pipe,
the officer, thanking him for his courtesy, went on his
way down the hill, and was lost to sight before the
sound of his footsteps ceased to ring upon the hard
road, Rickman looking after him with a superior sort of

FOOTSTEPS. 21

smile, until the sound of other steps approaching from
behind stirred every fibre within him, and lit a flame
in his veiled grey eyes. On came the steps, swift, light,
and even, very different from the soldier’s firm strides,
though telling like them of youth, health, and a light
heart; yet Gervase, for all the stir of feeling they evoked
within him, appeared to take no notice of them, but
continued his rapt contemplation of the shadowed hill-
slopes, brightened now by long moted shafts of light
from the -sinking sun, around which the clouds were
breaking away in beautiful glory as the keen wind stilled
itself more and more in shifting to a warmer quarter.

A voice soon accompanied the light footsteps, echo-
ing in a woman’s round, clear notes, the soldier’s song:

‘“‘There we lay, all the day,
In the Bay of Biscay, O!”

At this point Mr. Rickman left the post against
which he had so long been leaning, and strolled quietly
on without turning his head, while the singer, who made
rapid progress, repeated her snatch of song, and the
hound, which had been lying before the inn-door, flew
before and around her in widening sweeps, all the grace
and strength of its lithe slender body showing to the
Utmost advantage, until it included Gervase in its gyra-
tions, whereupon he turned and waited, while a tall
young woman came up with him.

“I thought you would never see me, Gervase,” she
said. “What deadly schemes were you meditating
under the sign-post?”

22 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“I was watching the weather,” he replied; “the wind
is chopping round, we shall have a change. Where
have you been?”

“With Ellen Gale; I am glad for her sake the wind
is changing, the east wind is so bad for her.”

She came between Gervase and the setting sun,
which grew more radiant each moment, and now sent
forth a dazzling mesh of golden rays to tangle then-
selves in the fine growth of curling hairs roughed by
the wind from her rich plaits beneath, thus forming a
saint-like halo around the face of Alice Lingard, a face
distinguished by that indefinable charm, which is the
very essence of beauty, and yet is often wanting in the
most perfect features. It was a charm which went to
the very heart of the young man walking by her side,
and yet which he could not descnbe; he knew only
that it was lacking to every other face he had ever
seen; he knew also that it was not given to every one
to discover that hidden grace. For each face has its
own charm, the magic of which has different power over
different people, and enchants many or few, according
to its own intrinsic potency.

The two walked on together at Alice’s brisker pace,
talking with the unconstraint of familiar friends; Alice
involved in the glory of the warm sun-rays, while a
deeper rose bloomed in her face as the fresh air touched
it, and her blood warmed with the exercise; Gervase
for the most part listening, and monosyllabic.

They passed a large deserted chalk quarry, its steep

FOOTSTEPS. 23

clifsides looking ghost-like, save where a stray sunbeam
shot its long gold lustre upon them, and then they came
round the shoulder of the down and saw, nestling
beneath it, a church with a low, square, grey tower and
4 gabled stone house sheltered from the south-west by
4 tow of weather-beaten Scotch firs; lower down along
the valley ran a straggling village, all thatch and greenery.
Then they left the chalk, and dipped into a deep sandy
lane with steep banks and overhanging hedges, and
here in sheltered nooks primroses were looking shyly
forth, and violets were pushing tiny buds to the light.

“But not a violet is out yet,” said Alice.

This was the moment of Gervase’s triumph. He
took from a deep pocket a something carefully folded
ina leaf, and, uncovering it, presented to his companion,
with a quiet smile, a little posy of white violets, pink-
tipped, and set in a gleaming circle of leaves.

She took it with an exclamation of pleasure, and
lifted it to her fresh face to inhale its delicate fragrance.
“To think that you should find the first!” she said, half
jealously.

He was in the seventh heaven, but said nothing.
He had secretly watched the budding of those violets
for a week, and walked far and quickly to gather them
for her that afternoon, and now he had his reward in
Seeing her caress the flowers and talk of them for a
800d five minutes, till the sound of hoofs along the lane
behind them made her look up.

2 .
4 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER IL
FIRE-LIGHT.

THE rapid beat of hoofs and the roll of wheels drew
nearer and nearer, and a dog-cart drawn by a service-
able cob flashed down the hill towards the pedestrians
with many a scattered pebble and spark of fire, for the
dusk was now falling.

On reaching them, the driver pulled up the cob,
gave the reins to the groom, sprang to the ground, all
in a flash of time, and was shaking hands with Gervase
and Alice, and walking by their side almost before they
had time to recognize him. Alice gave him a frank
smile of welcome, and Gervase smiled too, but he
murmured something inaudibly to himself that was not
flattering to the new-comer.

The latter was a young man, with a dark, strong,
intelligent face, which had just missed being handsome.
He walked well, dressed well, and had about him a
certain air which would have challenged attention any-
where. He did not look like a parish doctor.

“And how are they all at Arden?” he asked, in a
full cordial voice. “Where did you get those violets?
It is enough to make a man mad. I thought these were

FIRE-LIGHT. 25

the first.” And he drew a second little bunch of white
violets from his breast-pocket and gave them to Alice,
who received them with another frank smile.

“How kind of you to think of me!” she said.
“Gervase found these, but he was only five minutes
ahead of you.”

Gervase smiled inwardly; the new-comer’s face
darkened and he silently returned the rude observation
the former had made upon him a moment before; and
then comforted himself by the reflection, “Gervase is
nobody.”

“So you have been visiting my patients again, Miss
Lingard,” he said aloud; “you must not go about making
People well in this reckless way. How are we poor
doctors to live?”

“Did you find Ellen any better?” she asked.

“She was wonderfully perked up, as the cottagers
say; | knew you had been there, without any telling.
We must try to get her through the spring winds. I
Say, Rickman, you haven’t seen such a thing as a stray
cousin anywhere about, have you?”

“I did catch sight of such a creature half-an-hour
since,” he replied. ‘He asked me the way to Meding-
ton by Arden Manor, where one Paul, it appeared, had
agreed to meet him.”

, “A tall, good-looking fellow with a pleasant
ace— —?”?

“And a beautiful voice,” interrupted Alice. “It
Must be the gentleman I heard singing past the ‘Tra-

26 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Veller’s Rest,’ Gervase. I was just going to ask if your

had seen him.”

“He sings like a nightingale. Yes; that was no

doubt Ted. Oh! you will all like him. I shall bring

mM over to the Manor, if I can. I don’t say if I may,”
he added with a smile.

“Because you know we are always pleased to see
your frends,” returned Gervase. “But your cousin is
an old friend of ours, Annesley, and evidently remem-
bered us. He asked if a queer old fellow named
Rickman lived in Arden Manor down there.”

“The rascal! Did you tell him he was speaking to
the queer old fellow’s son?”

“Not L I wanted to hear what he would say
about us.”

“What a shame?” said Alice; “those are the bad
underhand ways Sibyl and I are always trying to over-
come in you. Well, Dr. Annesley, here is Arden Cross,
but no cousin, apparently.”

“He would be well over St. Michael’s Down by this
time,” added Gervase. “But who is this, coming down
the lane?”

Two figures emerged from the deeply-shadowed
lane which led from the down to the paler dusk of the
Cross-roads, and discovered themselves to be an elderly
labouring man and a youth, who touched their hats and
then stopped.

“Evening, miss; evening, sir. Ben up hoam, Dac-
ter? Poor Eln was terble bad ’s marning,” said the

FIRE-LIGHT. 27

elder, who was no other than the host of the “Travel-
ler’s Rest,” Jacob Gale.

“Ellen was better,” replied the doctor cheerfully.

“Oh! yes; she was really quite bright when I saw
her,” added Alice, in a still more encouraging voice.

The man shook his head. “She won’t never be
better,” he growled, “though she med perk up a bit
along of seeing you, miss. I’ve a zin too many goo that
way to be took in, bless your heart. How long do ye
give her, Dacter? I baint in no hurry vur she to goo,
as I knows on,” he added, with a view to contradict
erroneous impressions.

The doctor replied that it was impossible to say;
she might linger for months, or she might go that
hight.

“They all goos the zame way,” continued the man,
“one after t’other, nothun caint stop em. There was
ho pearter mayde about than our Eln a year ago come
Middlemass, a vine-growed mayde she was as ever
I zeen,” he repeated in a rough voice, through which
the very breath of tragedy sighed; “zing she ’ood like
4 thrush, and her chakes like a hrose. A peart mayde
Was our Eln, I war’nt she was.”

“She is very happy; she is willing to go,” said Alice,
trying to comfort him.

“Ah! they all goos off asy. My missus she went
lust; a vine vigure of a ooman, too. Vive on ’em lies
down Church-lytten there, Miss Lingard, and all in
brick graves, buried comfortable. They’ve a got to goo

28 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

and they goos. Hreuben here, he'll hae to go next.
There’s the hred in ’s chakes, and he coughs terble
aready.”

Reuben smiled pensively; he was a handsome lad,
with dark eyes and a delicate yet brilliant pink-and-
white complexion.

“Nonsense,” interposed Paul, “Reuben’s well enough.
You shouldn’t frighten the boy. Give him good food,
and his cough will soon go. Don’t you believe him,
Reuben. You are only growing fast.”

“He’ll hae to goo long with t’others,” continued the
father, “dacters ain’t no good agen a decline. A power
of dacter’s stuff ben inside of they that’s gone. They've
all got to goo, all got to goo.”

“Reckon I’ll hae to goo,” added Reuben, in a more
cheerful refrain to his father’s melancholy chant.

Alice tried in vain to reason the pair into a more
hopeful frame of mind, and then scolded them, and
finally bid them good-night, and they parted, the heavy
boots of the two Gales stnking the road in slow
funereal beats as they trudged wearily up-hill, the
lighter steps of the gentlefolk making swift and merry
music downwards.

“Oh, Paul!” said Alice, turning to him after a back-
ward glance at the father and son, “we must save
Reuben; we cannot let him die!”

“My dear Alice, you must not take all the illnesses
in the parish to heart,” interposed Gervase; “the boy
will be all mght, as Annesley told him. Why try to

i

FIRE-LIGHT. 29

deprive Gale of his chief earthly solace? The old fel-
low revels in his own miseries. It is a kind of distinc-
ton to that class of people to have a fatal disease in
their family.”

“Hereditary too,” added Paul; “as respectable as a
family ghost in higher circles.”

“Or the curse of Gledesworth. I am glad the curse
does not blight the tenants as well as the landlord,”
continued Gervase. For Arden Manor belonged to the
Gledesworth estate.

“Or the Mowbray temper,” laughed Paul. “Nay,
dear Miss Lingard, do not look so reproachful. I am
doing my best for Reuben. But he is consumptive, and
I doubt if he will stand another winter, though his
lungs are still whole. We must try to accept facts.
Why, we poor doctors would be fretted to fiddle-strings
ina month if we did not harden our hearts to the in-
evitable.”’

“But is this inevitable?” asked Alice, with an
eamest gaze into his dark-blue eyes that set his heart
throbbing. “Need this bright young life be thrown
away? I know how good your heart is, and how you
often feel most when you speak most roughly. But if
Reuben were Gervase, you know that he would not -
have to die.”

“You mean that I should order Gervase to the
South. Doubtless.”

“Very well. And if we set our wits to work we
May expatriate Reuben. We must. Gervase, you are

30 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.,

great at schemes. Scheme Reuben into a warm climate
before next winter.”

“We have received our orders, Annesley,” replied

Gervase, laughing, as they turned up a broad lane, at
the end of which the grey manor house, with its gables
and mullioned windows, loomed massive in the dusk—
a dusk deepened on one side by the row of wind-
bowed firs.

Paul accompanied them, as a matter of course,
though he had turned quite out of his homeward way;
while his servant, without asking or receiving orders,
drove the dog-cart round to the stable-yard, whither
the cob would have found his way alone, so accustomed
was he to its welcome hospitality.

Through the gateway, with its stone piers topped
by stone globes, and up the drive bounded by velvet
turf of at least a century’s growth, the three walked in
the deepening dusk, and saw a ruddy glow in the un-
curtained windows of the hall, round the porch of which
myrtle grew mingled with ivy and roses. Gervase
opened the door, and they entered a spacious hall
wainscotted in oak, carved about the doorways and the
broad chimney-piece, beneath which, on the open
hearth, burnt a fire of wood. The leaping flames
danced merrily on the polished walls; on a broad stair-
case shining and slippery with beeswax and the labour
of generations; on a few old pictures, some trophies of
armour and some oaken settles and chairs of an old

FIRE-LIGHT. 31

quaint fashion; and upon a table near the hearth, on
which a tea-service was set out.

An elderly lady sat by the fire, knitting and occa-
sionally talking, for want of a better listener, to a cat
Sitting bolt upright in front of the fire, into which it
Stared, as if inquiring of some potent oracle, and some-
times turning its head with a blissful wink, in response
to its mistress’s voice. This lady was small and slight,
wih a rosy, unwrinkled face, grey hair, and an ex-
pression so innocent and sweet as to be almost child-
like, yet she resembled Gervase sufficiently to prove
herself his mother. Mrs. Rickman’s grammar was hazy
and her spelling uncertain; she was not sure if meta-
physics were a science or an instrument; she habitually
curtsied to the new moon, and did nothing important
on a Friday (which sometimes caused serious domestic
inconvenience); but her manners were such as imme-
diately put all who addressed her at their ease, and her
pleasant uncritical smile encouraged, even _ invited,
people to tell her their troubles and confess their mis-
doings,

)

“Come, children,” she said cheerily, rising when the
door opened to busy herself at the table, “here is tea
just made. What, Paul? I did not see you in the
dusk. We have not seen you for an age, three days at
least. Gervase, throw me on a fresh log, my dear.”

“We certainly deserve no tea at this time of night,”
said Alice, who was busy laying aside her hat and furs,

32 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Come, Hubert, leave the doctor alone and lie down
by Puss.”

The deer-hound, who had been fawning on Paul,
stretched himself on the rug on one side of the fire,
not daring to take the middle, since Puss disdained to
move so much as a paw to make way for the new-
comer.

Alice took the chair Gervase placed for her, and
began showing Mrs. Rickman her two bunches of violets,
one of which she put in water, and the other (Paul ob-
served with a thrill that it was his) in her dress.

“And where are Mr. Rickman and Sibyl?” he asked,
flushing with a secret joy, while Gervase was deeply
pondering the disposition of ‘the violets, and persuading
himself that his bunch was the more cherished, since it
was secured from fading, and yet not quite sure on the
point.

“Sibyl is at the parsonage practising with the choir,”
said Mrs. Rickman. “Mr. Rickman is on the downs
examining some barrows which have just been opened,
and no one knows when he will be back. Alice, my
dear child, what a fearful state your hair is in!”

Alice put up her hands with a futile attempt to
smooth her curly wind-blown hair. “It doesn’t matter
in the firelight,” she replied.

“Miss Lingard is quite mght about the firelight,”
said Paul, in his stately manner. “An elegant negligence
suits best with this idle moment in the dusk. Yes, if
you forgive my saying so, Alice, you make a delightful

FIRE-LIGHT. 33

picture on that quaint settle, with the hound at your
knee, and the armour above your head, and the
hearth blazing beneath that splendid old chimney
near.”

He did not add what he thought, that the grace
wih which she sat half-reclined in the cross-legged
oaken seat, and the sweet expression of her face lighted
by the flickering flames, made the chief charm of the
picture.

“Dr. Annesley,” replied Alice, meeting his gaze of
earnest and respectful admiration, “you are becoming
a courtier. I do not recognize my honest old friend,
Paul, with his blunt but wholesome rebuffs.”

“It is I who am rebuffed now,” he replied, singularly
disomposed by the gravity of her manner.

“Nonsense, Paul,” interrupted Mrs. Rickman. “Alice
can only be pleased by such a pretty compliment. You
ought to be of Gervase’s profession.”

“Yes; I always maintained that Annesley would
make a first-rate lawyer,” added Gervase.

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Annesley, with a fervour
that was almost religious.

Gervase laughed, and rose to settle a half-burnt log
which threatened to fall when burnt asunder, thus ruin-
ing a fire landscape on which Alice had been dreamily

gazing.

“How cruel you are—you have shattered the most.
romantic vision of crags and castles!” she said. “And
The Reproach of Annesley. f, 3

at THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

you have destroyed the poetry of the hour, for I mus
light these candles.” |
“Were you seeing your future in the fire?” P
daked, lighting the candles she brought forward, thrilli
with delicate emotion when he touched her hand
(leutally, and caught the play of the candle-light on
features. 4
Gervase watched them narrowly, though furtive
with a secret pity for Paul, for a vision less keen thas
hin might detect a total absence of response on her p:
uy the young doctor’s unspoken feeling; and then h@
thought of his own future, which he read in the dw
ved glow of the fire, while the others kept up a desulj
tory conversation in which their thoughts did not entex
He had drifted, he scarcely knew how, into
Office of Whewell and Son, solicitors. His mind im
those early days had taken no bent sufficiently strong
'© make him resist his father’s desire that he should
follow law, since he declined the paternal profession 6
Physic, a profession which Mr. Rickman, a Londos
Physician with a fair practice, had early left because hd
said he could not endure the whims of sick people, be
really because, having a competency, he wished
Pursue his favourite studies in the quiet of Arden,
where Sibyl was born when Gervase was about nine
years old.
But once in the office, he found much to interest
him, and after making progress from a desire to do hit
duty and please his parents, whose hopes all rested or

FIRE-LIGHT. 35

their only son, ambition awoke in him, and he decided
to make himself the head of the firm, and the firm the
head of the profession in the county. This, at eight-
ani-twenty, he had accomplished. Whewell and Son
was now Whewell and Rickman. The younger Whewell
had renounced a profession that wearied him, and the
elder was at an age when love of ease is stronger than
love of power, and it was well known that the junior
partner was the soul of the business, which daily in-
creased.
As far as a country solicitor could rise, Gervase
Rickman intended to rise, and then he intended to
enter Parliament, where he felt his powers would have
an opportunity of developing. This purpose he had as
yet confided to no one, though he was daily feeling his
way and laying the foundations of local popularity. A
man who makes himself once heard in the House of
Commons has, he knew, providing he possesses the
genius of a ruler of men, a destiny more bmniliant than
that of any sovereign in the civilized world, and Gervase,
looking at the burning brands and listening to the
harmonious blending of Paul’s deep voice with Alice’s
pure treble, saw such magnificent prospects as the others
did not dream him capable of entertaining. And through
all those princely visions Alice moved with an imperial
grace.
“But what has become of your cousin all this time?”
Alice was asking the doctor,
3*

36 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Over the downs and in Medington by this timed
We don’t dine till half-past seven, so my mother wif
have a good hour to purr over the fellow and maké
much of him. Ned always was a lucky fellow if yoq
remember, Mrs. Rickman. He had the knack of making
friends.” :

“He was a winning and well-behaved boy, I
member,” she replied. “How fond Sibyl was of him!§¥

“It is just the same now, or rather it was at schoo§
Whatever Ned did, people liked him. If he neglect
his lessons, he always got off in class by means a
lucky shots. Other fellows’ shots failed. Born unde
a happy star.” "

“Yet he must inherit the curse of Gledesworth, '
Alice said. |
“Qh! that is at an end. Reginald Annesley, beings
in a lunatic asylum, fulfils the conditions of the distich,

‘“Whanne ye lorde ys mewed in stonen celle,
Gledesworth thanne shalle brake hys spelle.”

“Facts seem against the theory,” Gervase said}
“since the estate cannot now pass from Reginald Any
nesley to his son. By the way, have you not hear
Paul? Young Reginald is dead, killed while elephant
hunting in South Africa.”

“Captain Annesley? Reginald? Dead?” cried Pa
with excitement. “We heard he was in Africa, and hig

FIRE-LIGHT. 37

wife and baby came home. Are you sure? Is it not
some repetition of poor Julian’s story?”

“It is perfectly true,” replied Gervase, who was
agent to the Gledesworth estate; “the news arrived
yesterday.”

Paul Annesley’s father was first cousin to the An-
nesley who owned the estate, and who was only slightly
acquainted with him. Paul did not even know any of
those Annesleys, and the mad Annesley having had
three sons, one of whom was married, and all of whom
had grown to manhood, the prospect of inheriting the
family estates had never entered his wildest dreams.
But now only two lives stood between him and that rich
inheritance; the life of an elderly maniac and that of
a infant. No one knew better than he how large a
Percentage of male infants die.

“It is terribly sad,” he said. “Oh! it does seem
as if the curse was a reality, and worked still.”

“T never believed in the curse,” said Mrs. Rickman;
‘and I disbelieve it still. People die when the Almighty
ees fit, it is not for us to ask why.”

But Alice was a firm. believer in the curse of Gledes-
orth, and defended its morality stoutly. Why, if
lessings are attached to birth, should not pains and
enalties cling to it as well? she asked. Was it worse
9 be a doomed Annesley than the offspring of a criminal -
r the inheritor of fatal disease, like the family at the
Traveller’s Rest?”

38 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“I think I would rather be an Annesley,” she addet
turning to Paul with a smile that seemed to reach th
darkest recesses of his heart, and kindle a glow of vita
warmth within him.

Then they fell to discussing the Gledesworth legend
In the days of King John a lord of Gledesworth died
leaving one young son, and the dead lord’s brother, no
content with seizing the lands, drove the widow an
orphan from his door. One day in the hard winte
weather, the widow appeared in want at the usurper'
gates and begged bread for the starving child. An
because she was importunate, the wicked baron set hi
hounds upon them and they killed the heir. Then th
widow cursed the cruel baron, fled into the forest an
was seen no more. But from that hour Gledeswort
lands never descended to the eldest son; so surel
as a man owned Gledesworth, sorrow of some kin
befell him; the land was a curse to its owner, as wa
the Nibelungen Hoard to whomsoever possessed it.

The morally weak point in the curse, as Gervas
often observed, when beguiled to discuss the tragi
stories of that fatal line, was that there appeared to b
no chance of expiating the wicked baron’s misdeed:
while the number of innocent victims who suffered fron
the curse was appalling.

“You are a hardened sceptic,” Paul said. “Beside:
you forget the ‘stonen celle.’ ”’

FIRE-LIGHT. 39

“Worse still. Because no owner of Gledesworth
| hkes to exchange it for a stone cell, are all his
descendants to be doomed?”

“You cannot measure a retribution which for good
and for ill extends into the infinite, by the events of a
rudimentary and finite world,” Alice said.

“Quite so,” replied Paul; “I confess to a great
affection for the family curse. It keeps the idea of
God before men’s minds, though only a God of retribu-
hon,” an observation which cheered Mrs. Rickman’s
kind heart, troubled as it was by sad rumours of
Annesley’s scepticism, and led on to a discussion in
which they all lost themselves in the old interminable

’ puzzles of the origin of Evil, the limits of Fate and the
bounds of Will, till the hall clock gave musical warning
of the hour, and Paul took hasty leave, finding himself
belated.

When he was gone, Alice drew a chair to her
adopted mother’s side and began to tell her what she
had done all the afternoon, and was duly scolded for

_ various lapses of memory. She had lived in that house
from her thirteenth year, being an orphan placed there
by her guardians, that she and Sibyl might benefit from
each other’s society, and they had studied and grown
up together so happily, that Alice hoped, on becoming
the mistress of her own little fortune a year hence, to
remain with them.

40 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Stay a minute, Alice,” Gervase said, when a few”
minutes later she was about to follow Mrs. Rickmax?
upstairs. “If you are not tired, I should like you ti
let me rehearse my speech for the Liberal meeting nex ©
week,”

Alice willingly acquiesced, but asked if it would not&
be better to wait for Sibyl’s return.

He laughed, and said that Sibyl had already beer®
‘treated to two rehearsals; so Alice took up her statior®
in the corner of the hall furthest from the staircases
which Gervase ascended till he reached the landings
behind the balustrade of which he stood beneath &
lamp and looked down into the wide echoing hall, the
dark panelling of which was but faintly lighted by a
swinging lamp in its centre, and by the fitful fire-glow-
Alice was scarcely seen; but not a gesture or look
of Gervase could escape her, and she was surprised
when, taking a roll of notes from his pocket, his form
dilated, his eyes kindled as they took a commanding
glance of the wide space before him, and he sent
his voice, which in conversation was harsh, echoing
through the hall with a power which she had never
suspected, and invested the political common-places
which he uttered with a certain dignity. The cat
sprang up in alarm; Hubert rose and sat listening at
his mistress’s feet with a critical air; Alice cried “Hear,
hear!” and “No, no!” at intervals, for a good half-
hour. Then the door opened, and Sibyl returned

FIRE-LIGHT. 4

from her choir practice and made an addition to the
audience,

“And did you ever hear such rubbish in your life,
Sibyl?” Alice asked, laughing.

“No,” she replied, “I was never at a political meet-
ing before.”

42 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER III.

SHADOWS.

EDWARD ANNESLEY, finding no trace of his cousin
at Arden Cross, took the path indicated to him over
the next link in the chain of downs, dismissing Gervase
Rickman from his mind with a dim momentary re-
membrance of having seen and disliked him before.

Thus every day we pass men and women whose
hearts leap and ache like our own, taking no more
count of them than of the stones along our path, though
any one of these may turn the current of our destiny
and alter our very nature.

The setting sun was now breaking through the
splendour of the shifting clouds and lighting up, like a
suddenly roused memory, the once-familiar but half-for-
gotten landscape, with its limits of hill and sea, its lake-
like sheet of slate roofs down in the hollow where the
confluence of two slow streams formed the River Mede.
The lake of blue roofs, brooded over by a dim cloud
of misty smoke, out of which rose the tall white church
tower, its western face touched by the sun’s fleeting
glow, was Medington, the town in which he had passed
many a school-boy’s holiday.

SHADOWS. 43

All was now familiar: the furze in which he and
Paul once killed snakes and looked for rabbit-holes;
the copses where they gathered nuts and blackberries;
and the hamlet with the stone bridge over its mirror-
lke steam, widening into a pond at the foot of the
hill, which fell there in an abrupt steep, down which
the cousins had made many a rapid descent, toboggan-
ing in primitive fashion. ‘There stood the mill with its
undershot wheel; the plaintive cry of the moor-hen
issued from the dry sedge rustling in the March wind;
all sorts of long-forgotten objects appeared and claimed
old acquaintance with him. ‘The chimes of the church
clock came floating through the dim grey air like a
fnendly voice from far-off boyhood, and after a little
musical melancholy prelude, struck six deep notes.

He took the old field-path, thinking of things and
people forgotten for years, and reflected that the two
boys who played in those fields and who afterwards
passed a year or two at a French school together, were
now men, partly estranged by the exigencies of life,
until he found himself in the clean, wind-swept streets
of the town, where the lamps were every moment show-
ing tiny points of yellow fire in the dusk, and the shop-
windows were casting pale and scant radiance upon the
almost deserted pavement; for even in the High Street
there were few passengers at this hour, and little was
heard save the cries of children at play, and the occa-
sional rumble of a cart and still more occasional roll of
a carriage. No one knows what becomes of the in-

44 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

habitants of small country towns when they are not
going to church or to market; the houses stand along
the streets, but rarely give any sign of life; the shops
offer their merchandise apparently in vain.

He stopped before a large red-brick house, draped
with graceful hangings of Virginia creeper, now a mass
of bare brown branches rattling drily in the wind; a
house which withdrew itself, as if in aristocratic ex-
clusiveness, some yards back from the line of houses
rising flush with the street, and was fenced from in-
truders by a high iron railing, behind which a few
evergreens grew, half-stifled by the thick coating of
dust upon their shining leaves. There were three
doors, one on each side, and one approached by a
flight of steps in the middle; on one of the side doors
the word “Surgery,” was painted, and upon the railings
was a brass plate, with “Paul Annesley, Surgeon, &c.,”
engraved upon it.

He was admitted by the central door into a large
hall occupying the whole depth of the house, and hav-
ing a glass garden-door on its opposite side. He had
scarcely set foot within it when a door on his right
opened, and from its comparative darkness there issued
into the radiance of the lamp-lit hall a tall and stately
woman, with snow-white hair, and large bright, blue
eyes. Save her snowy hair, she showed no sign of age;
her step was elastic, her figure erect as a dart.

“How do you do, Aunt Eleanor?” said Edward,
going up to her and kissing the stid blooming cheeks

SHADOWS. 45

offered for his salute. “I missed Paul, as you see.
How well you are looking!”

Mrs. Annesley held his hands and looked into his
face with a seraphic smile, while she replied to his
salutations, and said, with formal cordiality—

“Welcome, dear nephew, welcome to our dwelling.
Paul should have been here to receive you, but his
medical duties have doubtless detained him. You know
what martyrs to duty medical men are. You may re-
member your dear uncle’s life with its constant inter-
Tuptions.”’

“Yes, I remember,” returned Edward, not dream-
ing that his cousin’s medical duties at that moment
consisted in drinking tea in the firelight and talking to
a most attractive young woman. “I suppose you never
know when to expect Paul.”

“Never,” she said, taking Edward’s arm and walk-
ing with a slow step and rustling dress into the draw-
ing-room, which was darkened by heavy curtains in the
windows, and was only lighted by the fitful gleam of
the fire. “Indeed, my life would be very sad and
solitary but for the happiness it gives me to think that
my dearest child is of so much use to his fellow-crea- .
tures. That, dear Edward, is my greatest consolation.”
Mrs. Annesley sank with the air of a saintly empress or
imperial saint upon her throne-like arm-chair by the
fre, and sighed softly and smiled sweetly as she ar-
ranged the white-satin strings of her delicate cap,

46 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

which bore but a traditional resemblance to the widow's
cap she had long since discarded as unbecoming.

Having dutifully placed a footstool for her, he took
his seat on the opposite side of the fire, and begam
losing himself in admiration and wonder of his seraphic -
and dignified aunt just as he had done in his boyhood,
indeed something of his boyhood’s awe returned to him
in the fascination of her presence.

She still sat as upright as in those days; neither
arm-chair nor footstool were needed, save as adjuncts
to her dignity. Every little detail of her dress showed
the accuracy and finish that only women conscious of
a power to charm bestow on such trifles: there was old
rich lace in her cap and about her neck; a few costly
jewels, old friends of Edward’s, were in her dress, a
ring was on her hand, the diamonds in which caught
the firelight and broke it into a thousand tiny fierce
flames; when she smiled, her well-formed lips showed
a row of perfect pearls. She was an imposing, as well
as a handsome figure.

Her nephew gazed earnestly at her for some time,
while she went on in her smooth and gentle tones, ask-
ing after his mother and sisters, and telling him various
little items of family news; while the firelight played
upon the soft richness of her dress, drew sparkles from
her eyes and her jewels, and threw her shadow, as if
in impish mockery, distorted into the changing shapes
-of old witch-like women, upon the wall behind her.

“Well, Aunt,” he said at last, “I need not ask if

SHADOWS. 47

you are well. You don’t look a day older than you
used to. I have done nothing but admire you for the
last ten minutes.”

“So, sir,” she returned, smiling, “you have already
leant the arts of your profession, and know how to
fatter. Fie on you, to practise on your old aunt! And
pray, how many young ladies have you bereaved of
their hearts in this manner?”

“None,” he replied, laughing. “I am not a lady-
killer. I am put down as a slow fellow.”

“Nay, my dear kinsman; I cannot believe that the
ladies of these days have such bad taste. You have
grown into such a tall fellow, you remind me of my
sated husband.”

“My mother thinks me like my Uncle Walter,” he
replied, wondering by what process his lamented uncle
had been canonized after death, since during his life
his injured wife accounted him the greatest of sinners;
“an ugly likeness, she tells me with cruel candour.
Here comes a carriage. Is it Paul’s?” he added, going
to the window and looking into the dimly-lighted street.
“What a capital cob!”

The Admiral, as the cob was called, brought his
rapid trot to a sudden end. Paul sprang up the steps
with a rapidity which in some men would have been
undignified, but in him only gave assurance of bound-
less vitality, and came in bringing a breath of the fresh
night air and a suggestion of healthy manhood and out-

of-door hfe with him.

48 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

The cousins met with less of the savage indifference |
which Englishmen usually think fit to assume to wel-
come their best friends; they shook hands more than
once, and smiled. Paul even said that he was delighted
to see his dear Ted, that it felt like old times to see
his honest face, and that he hoped he would be able
to extend the bref visit he purposed making; while
Edward avowed that it did him good to see his dear
old Paul, and that he was glad to find the old fellow
looking so jolly. Then they shook hands again, and
the firelight danced upon Paul’s irregular features and
dark fiery blue eyes, and brought into unusual pro-
minence a white scar beneath his left eye.

Edward remembered how Paul got that scar, and
felt cold chills running over him.

After one more mighty grasp of his cousin’s hand,
Paul turned to his mother, who presented each cheek
to him as she had done to Edward, and solemnly
blessed him, as if he had been absent for months, or
was at least a Spartan son returning with his shield
rather than upon it. Then Paul enquired with an air
of deep solicitude about various evil symptoms with
which she appeared to have been afflicted in the morn-
ing, and was informed that all had happily yielded to
treatment, save one.

“T still have that dreadful feeling of constriction
across my eyes,” she said, in a tone of mournful re-
signation.

“Have you, indeed?” returned Paul, earnestly,

SHADOWS. 49

“Perhaps a little wine and your dinner may remove it.

If not, I will give you a draught. I will take Ned at
, once to his room, and then we can dine without delay.”
Edward’s surprise at finding his comely aunt the
victim of so many dreadful pains was forgotten in the
lively chat of the dinner-table, as well as in the great
satisfaction that meal afforded him after his long walk.
“Your renown has already preceded you, Edward,”
Paul observed. “Arden is already full of your arrival.”

“Arden? Why I saw no soul there!”

“No? Have you forgotten the sign-post?”

“What! was that squint-eyed fellow an acquaintance
of yours?” he asked.

“What do you think of that, mother, as a descrip-
tion of Gervase Rickman?” said Paul.

“You don’t mean to say that was Gervase Rick-
man?” exclaimed Edward. “I thought I had some
faint remembrance of him. Heaven only knows what
I said about his father! If he recognized me, why on
earth couldn’t he say so?”

“He was not sure till he described you to me. By
the way, mother, I forgot to say why I was late. I met
Rickman, and had to turn in at Arden.”

It is thus that Love demoralizes; nothing else would
have made Paul Annesley invent lies, especially useless
ones. His mother looked amused at his demure face,
then she glanced at Edward and laughed.

“And how was dear Sibyl?” she asked with satiri-
cal gravity.

The Reproach of Annesley, 1, 4

50 | THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Sibyl? oh! I believe she was very well. She w
out. You remember little Sibbie, Ned?” Paul sat
tranquilly..

“A little mischievous imp who was always teasit
us? Qh! yes, I daresay I should scarcely recognize }
now. Is she grown into a beauty?”

“Are not all ladies beautiful?” returned Paul. “
shall go over and judge for yourself before long.”

“T heard a sad piece of news at Arden,” he com
tinued; “Captain Annesley is dead.”

“Who was he?” asked Edward, indifferently. “ a
is an Annesley in the 1ooth Hussars; I never met him.”

Mrs. Annesley flushed deeply and said nothing for.g
few moments. Paul looked at her, and the unspokes
thought flashed from one to the other, “this brings
very near the Gledesworth inheritance.”

“How very sad!” she said at last, in rather a hang
voice, while Paul bit his lips and then drank some wing,
half ashamed at the interpretation of the swift glance. |

“It is important that you should know who Captain.
Annesley was, Edward,” he said after a minute, “be-!
cause afler me, you are the next heir to the infant soa:
he leaves.” —

“This is ghastly; the idea of my being your heir!” |
replied Edward, who was speedily enlightened as to the ,
exact relationship, and properly refreshed on the subject’
of the half-forgotten legend, in which he apparently:
took but a languid interest, and the conversation pre-
sently drifted to other topics.

“< s

SHADOWS, 51

After dinner Mrs. Annesley played some sonatas,
md Edward sang some songs to her accompaniment till
Paul, who had been up the night before, and in the
ppen air all day, sank into a sweet slumber. The other
two sat chatting in low tones, Edward describing his
life as an artillery officer in a seaport town not far off,
discussing his chances of promotion and his next
brother’s progress at Woolwich, and hearing of Paul’s
position, which was not a happy one. Dr. Walter
Annesley’s partner, who had carried on the business
nce his death, unluckily died soon after Paul began
lo practise with him, thus leaving Paul to make his way
ingle-handed. Patients distrusted his youth and went
o older men, so that things were not going as smoothly
s could be wished, and the practice scarcely paid
'aul’s personal expenses. So they chatted till the
ervants appeared, and Mrs. Annesley read prayers,
rst asking Paul if he felt equal to performing the task
imself after his labours, which he did not.

“Come along and smoke,” said Paul with alacrity,
yhen his mother had bidden them good-night. “I
moke in the consulting-room.”

“Why there?” asked Edward, doubtfully.

“Well! you see it is the only place. I dare not
moke anywhere else. [I tell the patients it insures
hem against infection, and receive the old ladies in the
ining-room. I was nervous about her reception of
ou. . But, I see you are in high favour.”

“She seems perfectly angelic,” replied Edward,

re

52 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

selecting a cigar from the box offered him. “By
way, I had no idea she was in delicate health.”

Paul laughed. “I doubt if any woman in the th
kingdoms enjoys such brilliant health as my d
mother,” he replied, “but she is never happy with
some fancied ailment. I give her a little colou
water and a few bread-pills from time to time.”

He did not add that Mrs. Annesley’s ailments ¥
in an inverse ratio to her amiability and formed a g
domestic barometer.

Just then there was a tap at the door, and a
voice said, “May I come in?”

“Certainly,” replied Paul in some trepidation,
his mother entered.

“TI will not intrude, dear children,” she said;
merely come to tell Edward on no account to rise
our early breakfast unless he feels quite rested, anc
bring him this little gift of my working.” She vanis
with a “God bless you, dear boys,” before her nep’
had time to thank her, after which both young 1
breathed more freely, and Edward took an embroide
tobacco-pouch from his parcel.

“Poke the fire, Ned,’ Paul said cheerfully, w
the door closed after her. Then he opened a cli
where stood a skeleton partially draped in a dress
gown, which the fleshless arm, extended as if in de
mation, threw back from the ghastly figure, and crow
by a smoking-cap rakishly tipped on one side on
skull. “Let’s be jolly for once, ‘have a rouse be:

SHADOWS. 53

morm.’” He transferred the dressing-gown from
the bare bones to his own strong young shoulders, and
the cap from the grinning skull to his dark-curled brow,
beneath which the cruel scar showed. Perhaps it was
Kdward’s fancy, excited by the suggestive revelation of
the skeleton, which made the scar appear unusually
distinct and livid; perhaps it was only the light.

“How kind of my aunt to make this,” he said,
elooking at the pouch.

“She is kind,” commented Paul, his temporary
gaiety vanishing as quickly as it came; “no woman has
amore heavenly disposition than my dear mother when
free from those attacks, which are probably the result
of some cerebral lesion.”

“Perhaps,” Edward suggested hopefully, “she may
‘grow out of them with advancing years.”

“Perhaps,” sighed Paul. “But all the Mowbrays
are the same, you know. It is in the blood. My uncle
Ralph Mowbray was offended with my father once, and
he lay awake at nights for six weeks concocting the
Most stinging phrases he could think of for a letter he
wrote him. I'll show you that letter some day.”

“Well! I hope it will never break out in you, Paul,”
sad Edward, incautiously.

“I, my dear fellow?” replied Paul, with his good-
lempered smile, “there is no fear for me. I am a
pure-bred Annesley.”

“Ah!” said Edward, looking reflectively at the fire.
“There has not been a serious explosion since New

84 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Year’s Eve,” continued Paul, clasping his hands at
his head, and looking at the chimney-piece, which
adorned with a centre-piece of a skull 4nd cross-bo
flanked by several stethoscopes and other myster
and wicked looking instruments, and above which
the smiling portrait of a lovely little girl, with a str
likeness to Mrs. Annesley. “You know how I val
the Parian Psyche of Thorwaldsen’s you gave me?
knew it, for she took it in both hands and dashe
on the hearth.”

Edward again felt cold chills creeping over |
and his gaze followed Paul’s to the dimpled child-
he had loved, Paul’s only sister Nellie, whose end
been so tragic.

“And what did you dor” he asked.

“Oh! I just sent the Crown Derby tea-service |
it,” replied Paul, “so pray don’t notice the absenc
either.”

“She valued the tea-service,” said Edward, inwé
thankful that the fiery Mowbray blood did not flo
his veins.

“Imagine the smash,” said Paul, pensively. “
the deed was scarcely done, when the door is ope
and in walks the vicar and stares aghast at the L
and Penates shattered on the drawing-room hearth.
mother turns to him with the most heavenly smile
wishes him a Happy New Year. ‘And just see '
that clumsy boy of mine has done,’ she adds qui

SHADOWS. 55

pointing to the fragments. ‘Quite a genius for up-
setting things, dear child.’ ”

“I thought I heard something fall,’ replies the in-
- Rocent vicar, quoting the line about ‘mistress of herself
though China fall,’ and congratulating me on having a
‘Mother with such a sweet temper.”

Edward mused for some time on the misery of his
cousin’s life, a misery rarely alluded to by Paul himself,
and any allusion to which on Edward’s part he would
lave deeply resented. He knew that the chain must
pressing heavily for him thus to disburden himself,
nd he suggested that he should marry and have a
uiet home of his own; to which Paul replied mourn-
illy, that he was not yet in a position to set up house-
eeping.

“Though indeed——” he added, and suddenly
opped.

“Well?”

“It seems so brutal to build on a baby’s death,” he
plied; “and yet——”

“It alters your position, Paul,” said Edward, “and
eing sentimental about it won’t keep the baby alive.”

“True.”

“I think I may assume that the ‘unexpressive She’
ias already been found,” Edward said, remembering
he dark hints during dinner, and Paul smiled mys-
enously.

“Perhaps I may meet her at Arden?” Edward added.

“Who knows? But I have never yet spoken. I am

56 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

not entitled by my prospects to do so. I don’t knoe
if I have the smallest chance. And when you see h
Ned,” he added, with some hesitation, “perhaps you
will remember——”

Edward burst out laughing and grasped his cousin’
hand.

“Don’t be afraid,’ he replied, “I am not a lady’s
man; and if I were, Aphrodite herself would not tempt:
me to spoil other people’s little games.”

“Remember your promise,” said Paul solemnly, and
they separated for the night, Edward wishing his cousin
success, and thinking as he took his way upstairs that ’
whatever Miss Sibyl Rickman’s character might be, the
Rickman blood was reputed to be an eminently mild
and tranquil fluid, well calculated to temper the fire o/
such of the terrible Mowbray strain as might have bee
transmitted to Paul.

ee ed

THE MEET. 57

CHAPTER IV.

THE MEET.

WHEN Paul Annesley appeared at breakfast next
moming he had a heavy look, and yawned a good
deal, for which he apologized, observing, casually, that
he had been called up at two in the morning, and only
got home at six.

Mrs. Annesley’s comment upon this was a tranquil
remark that it usually occurred three nights running;
but Edward, whose deep slumbers had been invaded once
or twice by sounds which roused him sufficiently to make
him wonder if he had fallen asleep in the guard-house,
questioned his cousin, and learned that he had ridden five
miles on the cob he had used the day before, to a cottage
ina dell, which could be approached only by a footpath;
that he had tied the Admiral to a gate in a field, and
left him while he visited the patient, who died.

In the meantime, the horse had broken loose, and,
after a long and tantalizing chase round the field, Paul
dropped and broke his lantern, wandered knee-deep
into a pool of water, and slipped down once or twice;
after which he decided to walk home through the dark,
drizzling morning, leaving the provoking steed to his

58 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

fate. This proved to be nothing more dreadful tham
being captured at daylight by the patient’s husband,
and led back to Medington, whither the widower was

bound for various sad necessities. He now stood, with

the animal before the door, even while the cousins

were talking, a picture of homely tragedy.

In spite of these nocturnal adventures, Paul was |
bent on going to the meet, which was at the “Travellers’
Rest” on Arden Down that day; he was further bent
on Edward’s accompanying him, though a search through
the livery stables of Medington resulted in the produc-
tion of nothing better than an immense gaunt old chest-
nut, which had once seen good days, requiring some
moral courage to ride. Paul, with a truly heroic mag-
nanimity, offered his cousin his own little thorough-bred,
Diana, whom he loved lke a child; but Edward, with
scarcely less heroism, declined, and the cousins started
off on their dissimilar steeds.

As they trotted quietly along, Paul stopping occasion-
ally to visit a patient, Edward thought a good deal
about him and his mother. What a good fellow he
was, how cheerfully he faced the hardships of his lot,
and, above all, what an excellent son he was to that
very trying mother! Few sons were so much loved as
he, and his affection for his mother was deep and
strong. He must have been very desperate when he
smashed the tea-service; it was the sole passionate out-
break on his part of which he had heard.

He thought of his own kind and sweet-tempered

THE MEET. 59

Mother, also a widow, and to whom his conscience told

im he was not as dutiful as Paul to his wayward

parent, and wondered how it would have fared with
himself, had his father married Eleanor Mowbray, as
family tradition, confirmed by gentle Mrs. Edward An-
nesley’s severe strictures on Mrs. Walter, reported that
he had wished to do.

Over the chimney-piece in his bed-room at Meding-
ton was a portrait of Eleanor Mowbray which haunted
him. It was taken at the time of her marriage, and
represented a lovely girl in the childish costume of
early Victorian days, with arch blue eyes peeping out
from between two bunches of curls in front of the
cheeks. He had gazed fascinated upon it, vainly trying
to detect the lurking demon behind the angel semblance.

He was on a visit to Medington when Nellie’s death
occurred. The child, then twelve years old, on being
severely and unduly scolded for some slight fault by
her mother, who was chasing her from place to place,
harassed at last beyond endurance, had turned, seized
a brush from the hall table, and thrown it at Mrs. An-
nesley. Edward was standing by.

“Unditiful child! You have killed me! You are
unfit to live. Never let me see you again!” the mother
burst out with fierce vehemence.

The child took her at her word, and ran out of the
garden door; Edward never would forget her white
face as she turned before disappearing.

Next morning he saw her slight body borne drowned

60 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

into that hall. She had not been missed; being in dis-
grace, she was supposed to be hiding about the house
somewhere, until she was found by the river side, and

thus tragically brought home.

Were there other demons lurking unseen behind
other angel faces? he wondered. Did Eleanor Annesley
in those innocent bridal days dream of what she was
capable? did she even now realize the horror of the
thing which at times possessed her? Paul, though he had
“sent the tea-service after” the Psyche, did not dream
that the curse of the Mowbrays had fallen on himself.
For not only is each human being an enigma to his
fellows, a dark mystery fenced about on every side by
impassable limits which obscure his nature almost as
effectually as Sigfrid’s Tarnkappe, or Cloak of Dark-
ness, did the hero’s bodily presence, but, what is still
stranger, each is an insoluble mystery to himself. No
one can tell how he will act in unforeseen circum-
stances, which may prove the touchstone to reveal un-
suspected qualities; nay, even when the fierce discipline
of life has brought many unexpected features to light,
and a long record of good and ill is written on the
memory, who can analyse the motives, mixed as they
must be, which prompted those deeds?

Paul in the meantime was haunted by the vision of
Alice, sitting in the carved oak seat beneath the armour,
with the hound at her knee, in the fire-lit hall, and
considering if he could manage to have himself landed
at Arden Manor before the end of the day; for the

THE MEET. 61

days on which he did not see her became more and
more flat and unprofitable.
‘Except I be by Sylvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale;
Unless I look on Sylvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon.”

Then he mused upon the news he heard there,
and thought how it would have been with him, had
Reginald’s baby not been born. His prospects were
so dark, he could not help thinking of Edward’s happier
circumstances, his more agreeable life and comparative
wealth. :

Now the chestnut pricked up his ears and looked
about him with a joyous excitement, which rivalled
Diana’s own youthful ardour, and they knew that the
hounds were near; Paul pressed on through the ever-
growing stream of horses and carriages to see his
patient, leaving his cousin to follow at leisure.

In spite of the leaden sky and thick moist air,
which obscured all but near objects, the desolate spot
on which the lonely inn was built looked gay and
anmated this morning. In front of the low stone wall
of the courtyard moved the parti-coloured mass of
hounds, their sterns waving with half-suppressed en-
thusiasm; out of their midst rose the huntsman on his
bnght bay, his scarlet coat emphasized by the grey
background of the inn. ‘That awful personage, the
Master, splendidly mounted and brightly clad, with a
World of care on his brow, was exchanging polite

62 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

common-places with gentlemen, to some of whom his
expressions later in the day would be less civil and
more forcible. The mass of riders wore dark coats,

but the proportion of red was enough to brighten the

whole picture. Four or five farmers on good horses of

their own breeding, two or three beautifully equipped

county gentlemen, a few ladies, some half-dozen nonde-

script riders, including a clergyman, who said he was

only looking on, a rabble of boys, with half-a-dozen

officers from regiments stationed near, made up the

field. A barouche, two landaus, three waggonettes, a
few phaetons, gigs and dogcarts, an empty coal-waggon

and a butcher’s cart, were drawn up in the road, and

Edward vainly scanned the ladies in these vehicles in
search of the object of Paul’s affection.

Then he glanced at the solitary inn, and thought
of the suffering that a thin wall separated from the
animated group of pleasure-seekers. Reuben Gale was
walking Diana up and down, and exchanging plea-
santries with the Whip. His father was leaning on the
low wall, with an empty pewter-pot in his hand, enjoy-
ing the scene just as if his daughter were not dying
and he had not all those graves down in Arden church-
yard. People were laughing, chatting and smoking;
horses were champing their bits, and sidling and stamp-
ing with the exultation of the coming hunt. The warm,
damp air was laden with the scent of opening buds,
trampled turf and trodden earth; the luscious flute-notes
of thrushes, and the tender coo-coo of wood-pigeons

THE MEET. 63

came from the copses below and mingled with the
occasional neigh of a horse or wine of a hound. There
was a joyous thrill of expectancy that made Edward
forget his steed’s shortcomings, and neither he nor any
one else thought of the background of tragedy which
shadowed every human being present.

Among the horses was a beautiful white Arab,
easily distinguished by the characteristic spring of the
tal from the haunches, and Edward observed the
animal with such interest that he did not notice the
nder. The latter, however, pressed his knees into the
Arab, and sprang forward so suddenly that the excited
Larry backed into an unpretending phaeton, containing
an old gentleman and a young lady. He caught the
flash of a pair of dark eyes, as he turned after getting
free, and apologized, and then found himself accosted
by the Arab’s rider, a Highland officer of his acquaint-
ance, who bestowed some ironical praise upon the un-

lucky Larry.
Edward laughed, and explained that it was Hob-

son’s choice.

Captain Mcllvray regretted that he had not known
In time to offer him a mount. “But, my dear fellow,”
he added in his affected drawl, “you said you were
staying at Medington.”

“Yes, I am staying with some friends who live
there.” .

“Really,” returned the Highlander, “do you mean
to say that anybody /ves in that beastly hole?”

64 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Some few thousand people live there, I believe.”
“Ah! you mean, Annesley, that they don’t quite die
there, eh?” he asked, not at once seeing the rebuke.

“I mean that they live pleasant and profitable lives
there,” he replied, wondering if Paul’s life were either
pleasant or profitable.

Captain Mcllvray appeared to muse in some wonder —
upon the assertion, while a humorous twinkle in his eye
showed that he was conscious of his own affectation —
and of Edward’s irritation over it. But he did not yet
see that he had been rude.

“And who are the virtuous people who live the
supewior lives in the stweets of Medington?” he con-
tinued, determined not to be put down, and thus
emphasizing the first discourtesy.

“Paul Annesley, my cousin, a doctor,’ Edward
answered, in the neutral tones which best rebuke rude-
ness; “that brown mare with black points is his; he is
visiting a patient in the inn there,” he added, seeing
that Captain MclIlvray perceived at last that he had
made a mistake. “He doesn’t pretend to hunt, but
says he can’t help it if the hounds will run in front of
him.”

“Vewy good weasoning, vewy clever mare,” the
Highland officer said. “No idea you had friends there.
Thought it was an inn.” ‘Then he asked to be intro-
duced to the cousin, just as Paul came up on Diana,
and Edward introduced them.

THE MEET. 65

“And now, Edward,” said Paul, after a few words,
' “T must re-introduce you to some old friends.”
_ And, turning, he led him up to the very phaeton
into which the chestnut had just backed, and the owner
Of the dark eyes, who had unavoidably heard every
word that had passed between the two officers, proved
o be no other than Sibyl Rickman.

“IT should never have known you for our old friend,
ibbie,” he said with unaffected admiration. ‘Then the
ack moved off to the copse below the inn, and the
yaeton was drawn with the two horsemen into the
oving stream which followed it, so that he had only
ne to observe a pretty voice and laugh, an animated
ce and an easily excited blush, as the charms which
on Paul’s heart.

But Sibyl, having overheard his conversation with
ie Highland officer, formed an estimate of his character
hich she never altered. She mused on it while talk-
g at the cover-side to Paul, when Edward was renew-
g his acquaintance with Mr. Rickman. It seemed to
ie dreamy imaginative Sibyl that so fine a vision of
yung manhood had never before been revealed to her.
‘is very gesture when he patted the neck of the de-
nsed old horse went to her heart, and remained there
ww ever.

The air was now alive with expectation; the eager
ry of a hound broke out and set the horses’ ears
uivering; the plaintive sound of the horn was heard;
hips cracked like pistol-shots in the heart of the wood;

~

Zhe Reproach of Annesley, 1, 5

66 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

the last cover hack was exchanged for a hunter, git
were tightened, bits examined, cigars thrown away a
conversation became spasmodic. Again the passionalé
cry of a hound, another and another, then silenc&
more horn blowing, more pistol cracks, and demonial
yells from human lungs, finally the full triumphag
chorus of the pack.

Then a strange jumble of sounds and excitement, &
general stampede of saddle-horses, all kinds of misbey
haviour on the part of those in harness, a universal
madness seizing man and beast, and the cover-side i
a few moments Is deserted, nders streaming across
fields, and carriages along the nearest high-road, be
cause a small reddish-brown animal with a bushy tail
has just whisked cautiously out from the far side of the.
coppice, looking behind him with a sagacious grin, and]
rejoicing that the nearest muzzle sniffing his trail is a
good way behind.

Straight along the valley beneath the down flashed.
Reynard, and what he thought of the splendid canine
chorus behind him, and whether he appreciated the
melody of the fine pack and was soothed to find them
“matched in mouth like bells,” unfortunately nobody
knows. Yet one cannot help thinking that it must be
a fine thing to dart away thus at full stretch, and by
the exercise of all one’s powers to strain and perhaps
baffle all that tremendous following of instinct, strength
and skill; to fight alone—one small, solitary animal—
all those trained monsters in the chiming pack, those

THE MEET. 67

‘gigantic, high-mettled steeds, and that great army of
thinking men. At all events this particular fox, rejoic-
ing that his last meal had been opportunely timed to
put him in trim for a run, laid his legs to the ground
smartly, and gallantly resolved, if it came to the worst,
lo die hard.

On dashed the hounds, mad with exultation, utter-
ng their wild music; on thundered the field, horses and
nen alike intoxicated with the chase, and neither think-
ng of Reynard’s sensations. Now the Master’s face is
lame with wrath and his denunciations are loud and
yungent, as some reckless rider blunders over the hind-
nost hounds; the huntsman and the whip are alive in
‘very nerve; the best nders are restraining the eagerness
# their steeds; field after field 1s swallowed up, hedge
ind ditch and brook are cleared, with every field the hunt
s drawn out into a longer and thinner stream; timid
iders are seen scrambling along hedge-rows in search
4 gates and gaps; there lies a horse, hoofs uppermost,
ind near him his rider with red coat all tarnished, and
ace spotless breeches stained with mud. There is a
ty of “Ware wheat!” that cunning little brown beast
as bolted straight across a field of young corn. On he
ashes, less hindered by obstacles than any othcr
ember of the hunt, which perhaps makes him grin so
rdonically as he flies.

The carriages see most of the fun from the high
iad; but now the hunt has vanished from their view,
id spectators can only form shrewd guesses as to the

5*

68 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

whereabouts of the pack, and tyros are beginning’
find that hunting is more complicated than it seem#

Paul and Diana have gone as straight as any bé
only once did they swerve aside, and that was to av
over-riding Captain Mcllvray, whom they observed sittl
with an air of bewilderment in the middle of a m
whither his horse (who, after coming down on his ne
was now picking himself up and continuing his cou
riderless and undaunted) had pitched him while taki
a stiff fence. Nothing but delight reigns now in Paw
breast: neither the shadow of the Mowbray temper
the glory of Alice Lingard’s presence in the fire-lit
affects him, and when he sees another man flying ¢
of his saddle he is half angry lest he should have ctf
trived to break some bone and so need his aid. BY
the man knows how to fall, and is soon mounted agaitf
followed by Mcllvray, who has escaped with a few
bruises, on his recaptured Arab.

As for Larry, he and his rider alike forgot his ad
vanced age in the first burst of joyous excitement, ard
pounded over a field or two, taking a moderate fence,
with the best. But at the second fence, a good sons
bullfinch, horse and rider, dreadfully mixed up, came
rolling down the opposite bank together, and Edward
had to execute a vigorous roll of his own devising té
get free of Larry’s hoofs. The old horse appeared none
the worse for his tumble, and the rider, finding that his
own bones were intact, went on with moderate ardour,
seeking gates and gaps in fences. What with these

THE MEET. 69

delays, and the necessity of going softly lest Larry
should come down again, Edward was more than once
thrown out, finding the trail again by dint of observation
md surmise, and finally found himself a solitary rider
ta the slope of the down, with a spent horse, and the
lounds nowhere. “Poor old fellow!” he said, patting
larry’s hot wet neck, as he walked quietly along, “I
doubt if any horse has done so gallantly as you to-day.
Vou gave me the best you could, and now we will jog
quietly home.”

But the thing was to find a road; and they went
through a couple of fields without seeing a living crea-
ture or discovering any means of reaching the high-road
Edward knew to lie along the valley. The rain
had cleared off, the breath of primroses and violets
came deliciously on the moist, mild, spring air, and
the larks sang in distracting raptures and whirls of
song.

The next field showed a pretty sight. It was fresh
ploughed, and the scent of the warm earth rose from
its symmetrical furrows, along which came, with rapid
even strides, a2 man bearing on his left arm a wooden
basket of peculiar shape into which he continually
lipped his nght hand, and, with an indescribably grace-
ful movement, rhythmically matched to the motion of
us steps, scattered a shower of seed-corn over the
yaping furrows. It was delightful to watch this man, in
us skilled strength and unconscious dignity, stnding
with swift even step and swift even sweep of the nght

7O THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

arm up and down the ridge of lines, exactly throw
his golden rain with strenuous but regulated toil.

The sower paused and breathed while he re
his basket from a sack standing upright in the fi
and started off again, followed by a couple of h
and a man with a harrow to rake the seed into
soil. This man moved more leisurely, cracked his
cheerily, and whistled a mellow note when not u
strange sounds to his horses, and of him Edward ask
the nearest way to Medington.

Having reached the end of the furrow, the man
with the harrow caused his steeds to stop, and, taki
off his cap and burying his fingers in his curls, looke
with a perplexed air up and down and all round 1
profound silence for some moments. One might sup
pose that he was silently invoking the inspiration of:
some deity. Then he observed cautiously, “Darned if,
I knows.”

“How am I to get down into the high-road then!”
asked Edward.

“You med goo over down,” continued the man,
ignoring the second question, which had scarcely had
time to penetrate to the remote regions of his brain,
“but ’tis ter’ble hrough. Then agen, you med goo
along down hroad.”

“Exactly,” replied Edward, no wiser than before.
“but how am I to get into the road?”

“Zure enough,” he returned, addressing the sower;
“how be he to get into hroad?”

THE MEET. 71

“Is here no lane?” asked Annesley, looking at the
naze of fields between himself and the far-distant road
in the valley.

“Ay,” replied the sower, who was resting now, and
bringing out his dinner from a bundle, “you'll zoon
vind he. Goo on athirt them turmuts; there’s a lane
over thay-urr.” And he pointed his thumb vaguely over
his shoulder.

He rode athwart the turnips accordingly, not know-
ing that the sower considered “over there,” with a
westward direction of the thumb, sufficient indication of
the whereabouts of America, found a gate, and at last
came upon a steep furzy slope the other side of the
turnip-field. The ground gradually became rougher and
steeper, and suddenly he found himself rapidly des-
cending an almost perpendicular slope which the curve
of the ground had hidden from him. He was just going
to dismount, when he was relieved from that necessity
by the sudden collapse of Larry, who stumbled over a
rabbit-hole, and came crashing down head over heels,
and rolled in a most complicated manner to the bottom;
while Edward, on finding himself shot over Larry’s head,
instinctively guided his own rolls out of the horse’s orbit,
and, arriving at the bottom by a separate track, kept
his bones unbroken.

The chestnut, less fortunate than his rider, was cut
on his shoulder and knee, and presented a melancholy

72 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

spectacle when he scrambled to his feet, and set about .
to console himself by browsing on the short turf near
him; and Edward, reflecting that hunting on a worn-
out hack has its drawbacks, began to wonder what was
to be done next.

SPRING FLOWERS. 73

CHAPTER V.

SPRING FLOWERS.

He found the high-road at last and a cottage, where
he turned in and washed and bandaged Larry’s knee.
Then he set off on the road to Medington on foot, as
fast as the woful limp of the unlucky chestnut would

; permit, with the bridle over his arm, and cheerily troll-
ing out reminiscences of the Bay of Biscay. The road
was long, the Bay of Biscay came to an end, and Larry
heard with interest all about Tom Bowling, whose “soul
is gone aloft.”

Presently they reached a little village of thatched
cottages in gardens, dotted on either side of the road,
and there beneath the slope of the down Edward recog-
nzed the low square tower of Arden Church, with the
manor house just beyond it, and burst out lustily with
“Twas in Trafalgar’s Bay.”

“For England, Home, and Beauty,” repeated the
Singer in softer notes, wondering if the “Golden Horse,”
picturesquely shaded by a row of sycamore-trees,
fumished good ale (for it was now quite hot and the
sun was struggling through the clouds), when he saw a
phaeton approaching the turning to the Manor, and re-
cognized the dark flash of Sibyl Rickman’s eyes.

74 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

The phaeton pulled up. Mr. Rickman condoled
with him upon his melancholy plight, and bade hm :
turn in to Arden at once; to which Edward at first de
murred, averring that he was not presentable.

That difficulty was soon got over. Larry was com
fortably stabled; it was agreed that his owner should
send for him later. A little soap and water and a bor-
rowed coat, made Edward quite presentable, and his
host, surveying him with satisfaction, and observing that
he had grown a good deal since he last saw him, con-
ducted him along a panelled corndor to the drawing-
room, a cheerful apartment in white painted wainscot, ,
with an oriel window looking southward on a sunny
old-fashioned garden, which was even now bright with
early spring flowers.

The sun had at last burst through the clouds, and,
as the drawing-room door opened, a flood of sunshine
poured through the oriel upon his face, half-blinding
him for a moment. Then he saw Mrs. Rickman at
work in an easy-chair by the fire, and near her Sibyl
with a book, looking, now that she had put off her
wraps, the pretty graceful creature she was.

Having spoken to Mrs. Rickman, he turned once
more to the light, vaguely conscious of a disturbing
presence in that direction, and there, rising from her
seat beneath the glowing oriel window at a table on
which she was arranging some flowers in vases, with
the rich sunshine calling out all the gold tints in her

SPRING FLOWERS. Wo

brown hair, and making a tiny halo about her head,
he saw Alice Lingard.

He stood still, and fixed a long earnest gaze upon

her, not at first noticing Mrs. Rickman’s introduction
of “Miss Lingard, our adopted daughter,” while a sud-
den light irradiated Alice’s eyes and a warm glow
suffused her face. In one hand she held some daffodils;
as she rose, she overturned a basketful at her feet, and
from the folds of her dress there glided primroses,
violets and other spring flowers, of which the bowls
and vases on the table before her were full.

“QO Proserpina,
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let’st fall
From Dis’s waggon! daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,
Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
The great sun in his strength.”

They were all there, those delicate flowers of hope
and spring for which Perdita longed, to give to her
young prince; they made a fit setting for the young
and gracious creature who rose from their midst, scatter-
ing them as she rose.

Her clear, tranquil gaze met the stranger’s frankly
for a moment, while a slight tremor made the slender
daffodils quiver in her hand; but his long and silent glance
in no way offended her, nor did it strike any one else
as disrespectful. It was as if he had been gazing all
his hfe at that sweet vision among sunshine and flowers;

76 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

yet everything within him seemed to die and be bor! —
again as he gazed; life became glorious and full of
dim delicious mystery in the sudden air of intense
feeling. He did not say, “This woman shall be mine,” —
for he felt that she was his and he was hers for ever
and ever.

Then he became aware that in rising she had over-
turned the basket of flowers, and after the silent rever-
ence which he made on being introduced, his first action
was to kneel before her and restore the scattered flowers
to their places.

“Tt is a sudden leap from winter to spring, from
the wet morning with the hounds to all these flowers
and sunshine,” he said, as he handed her a mass of
blue violets.

“Yes, the spring always comes suddenly upon us,
when it does come,” Alice replied, grouping the violets.

“But, unluckily, it does not always stay,” broke in
Mr. Rickman, in his rough voice, which resembled the
rasping of a chair drawn over a stone floor; “even the
Italians, who know what spring really means, the spring
northern poets dream about and never see, have a
proverb to that effect; about the first swallow, Sibbie,
my dear.”

“Nobody wants our musty old proverbs, papa,”
replied Sibyl, with a graceful impertinence that always
pleased her indulgent father, “Mr. Annesley would far
rather have some dinner.”

“Perhaps he would like some violets as a welcome

!

SPRING FLOWERS. "9

back to Arden, Alice,” suggested Mrs. Rickman. “Those
grey Neapolitans are the sweetest. I can scarcely be-
lieve this is little Ned Annesley shot up so tall.”

“There, Mr. Annesley,” Alice said, handing him a
bunch of the double violets, “I present you with the
freedom of Arden. Miss Rickman should have done
it as the real daughter of the house.” She looked up
with a frank smile, which made him feel as we do in
dreams when we light upon some long-lost treasure and
imagine that an end has now come to all care.

Mr. Rickman began to discourse, in his harsh yet
kindly voice, upon the extensive use of flowers in the
religious and civil life of the ancient Greeks, and
Edward smiled to himself when he recalled Gervase’s
schemes in school-boy days to start his father on an
absorbing monologue, and so divert his attention at
critical moments. Mr. Rickman had not changed in
the least; his small keen blue eye was just as bright,
his face as dned-up and lined, his slight wiry figure
had the same scholar’s stoop, and his manner was as
absent and dreamy as in those boyish days.

Soon they found themselves at table in the dark
oak-panelled dining-room, but it seemed less dark than
when Edward had last seen it; the pictures, with their
fine mellow gloom, still hung dusky in the darkness;
but some silver sconces and bits of old china bnghtened
the walls; a vase holding daffodils made a lustre against
a black panel and harmonized with a blue china bowl

78 THE REPRUACH OF ANNESLEY,

of the same flowers on the table. Yet not these trifles
alone brightened the darkness of that familiar old
room.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Rickman, when Annesley said
something about the unaccustomed brightness the flowers
wrought; “the feminine eye is ever seeking the orna-
mental. My daughters are occupied from morning till
night in trying to beautify everything. Happily they
do not seek to improve my appearance”—this was too
evident—“and respect the sanctity of my study——”

“The dirt of his den,” interrupted Sibyl.

“The whole of human history is permeated by this
peculiarity of the female mind,” continued Mr. Rick-
man, abstractedly gazing into space; “all legend is per-
vaded by it. I purpose one day to bring out a paper

“On the ‘Influence of the Feminje Love of Ornament
upon the Destinies of the Human Race.’ My paper
will embrace a very wide range of thought. I suppose
there is no period of human history when the feminine
desire to wear clothes did not manifest itself; the passion
for improving upon the workmanship of nature by art
is evinced to-day in the rudest savage tribes as well as
in the highest circles of European fashion. A necklace
has in all nations been the most elementary article of
female attire; a woman paints her face and tattoos her
body long before she arrives at the faintest rudiment
of a petticoat. I need not remind my readers,—I mean
you, my dears, and Annesley—of the part a necklace
played in the tremendous drama of the French Revolution,

SPRING FLOWERS. 79

and there are numerous episodes in that sanguinary
tragedy ——”

“But we can’t dine on a sanguinary tragedy, papa,”
sad Sibyl; for, having started himself upon a congenial
lopic. her father had laid down his knife and fork, and
with folded hands was placidly contemplating the joint
"_tapidly cooling before him.

“True, my dear, very true, I had forgotten the
dinner,” he replied, with his accustomed meekness,

while hastening to carve the joint; “the female mind—

but perhaps, Annesley, the female mind may not in-

terest you. At all events you can read my notes upon

the subject later, and you may be able to furnish me

with the results of your own experience in that branch
j of study.”

In spite of his pedantry, Mr. Rickman was in An-
nesley’s dazzled eyes a charming and interesting old
man, with his stores of out-of-the-way knowledge and
his simplicity concerning the things of every-day life.
Mrs. Rickman seemed the most loveable old lady, as
she truly was, and Sibyl the wittiest and prettiest of
sprightly maidens: the simple food before him might
have been a banquet, the Arden home-brewed ale was
adrink for gods. It is difficult for cold blood to realize
the enchantment that fell upon him, the kind of en-
chantment that makes everything around one charming,
oneself included.

He could not tear himself away. After dinner his
host, finding him so good a listener, took him to his

80 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

study and showed him his treasures—coins, gems a!
antiquities; but when these were exhausted, he linger
still as if spell-bound, apparently listening to the noté
of a piano sounding through the house. Some i
stinct told him that Alice’s hand was evoking the s
lemn harmony. :
She continued to play when he entered the drawin

room whither his host led him, looking up to ask
they “minded the music.” He took a seat by Siby
his eyes following the slender fingers which drew tl
living music from the passive keys, and his mind fi
of unspeakable thoughts. Then she sang the beautif
song,—

‘Tell me, my heart, why morning’s prime

Looks like the fading eve,”’—
which is like the long-drawn sigh of an excessive ha
piness, and he listened in ever-growing delight. Sit
looked at him once during the music and a stran
feeling came over her; his face was like that of
St. George she had seen pictured somewhere, so ra
and earnest.
Then, at Mrs. Rickman’s request, Sibyl sang,
Alice’s accompaniment, the following song:
‘Once have I seen and shall love her for ever;

For the soul that glanced from her eyes to mine

Is lovely and sweet as its delicate shrine;

But once have I seen and must love her for ever,

All my heart to her resign;

Though never for me her eyes may shine,
Though never perchance may I divine

SPRING FLOWERS. 81

How ’tis when lives together twine,
Since once I have seen I must love her for ever.”

Still he lingered, though the afternoon, which grew
more balmly and beautiful towards its close, was wear-
ing away, and one of the girls opened the window wide
to let in the sunny air, and he knew that he ought
to go.

“And is Raysh Squire alive?” he asked, seeking some
excuse for lingering. “I should like to see the old fel-
low again.”

“You may hear him at the present moment, mnging
Your poor cousin’s knell,” said Sibyl, calling his atten-
tion to the tolling from the steeple near, which had not
teased since he approached the village, though it had
been but faintly heard through the closed windows, and
Mr. Rickman suggested that the ladies should take their
guest to the belfry and reintroduce him, a proposition
Edward eagerly seconded.

Even while they spoke, Raysh Squire came to the
nd of his monotonous and melancholy office in the
hill belfry, and went out into the afternoon sunshine,
tretching his stiffened arms and yawning. As he did
0, he saw a figure in shirt-sleeves by a barrow on the
ther side of the churchyard wall in the vicarage grounds,
tretching his arms and yawning with equal intensity,
nd since nothing fosters friendship like a community of
nterests and occupation, this sympathetic sight moved
im to drag his slow steps across the mounded turf to
tat quarter, and, resting his arms on the wall, to look

The Reproach of Annesley, I. 6

82 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

over it, just as the figure in shirt-sleeves, which was tha
of a young and stalwart man, executed a final yawn #
surpassing excellence, and seating himself on the bat
row, began to fill a short pipe. _ :

“Warm,” said the sexton, a long wiry, bony figure
with a fleshless face, black hair, and whiskers touched!
with grey. :

“Warmish,” replied the gardener, slowly, without
raising his eyes from the turf on which he was gazing,
while he kindled the pipe he held in the hollow of his
hands.

Then the sexton, turning round towards his cottage,
which stood at the churchyard gate, beckoned to his
grandchild to bring him the mug she held in her hand,
which contained his “four o’clock,” a modest potation |
of small beer. |

“Buryen’ of mankind, Josh Baker,” said the sexton,
after applying himself to this refreshing cup, and thus
concealing his features for some moments, “is a dryen
tradde.” ,

“Ah,” returned the gardener, after slowly and so
lemnly surveying the sexton’s withered features for some ‘
time, “you looks dried, Raysh Squire.” Then he with: |
drew his gaze and puffed with long, slow puffs at his
pipe, bending forwards, his arms resting on his legs,
which were stretched out apart before him, and his
hands clasped together.

“Buryen’ of mankind,” continued Raysh, after a
thoughtful pause, during which he sought fresh inspira-

SPRING FLOWERS. 83

4on from the “four o’clock,” “is a ongrateful tradde.
Vor why? Volk never thanks anybody fur putting of
em underground.”

Josh pushed his felt hat back on his yellow curls,
ad apparently made a strong effort to take in this
strikingly new idea for a moment or two, after which
he replied, “I never yeard o’ nobody returning thanks
vur the buryen’, not as I knows on, I haint.”

“No, Josh Baker, and I war’nt you never will, wuld
boins as you med make. A ongrateful traide is buryen’,
a ongrateful tradde.”

“I hreckon you’ve put a tidy lot underground,
Master Squire,” said the gardener, after a pause.
“Hreckon, I hev, Josh,” returned the sexton, with a
slow lateral extension of the lines in his withered face,
resembling a smile. ‘“Hreckon I’ve a putt more under-
ground than you ever drawed out on’t, aye, or ever wull.
Pye putt a power o’ quality underground, let alone the
common zart. Wuld passon, I buried he, and the Lard
knows where I be to putt this here one, the ground’s
that vull. Eln Gale, she’s a gwine up under tree there.
' [shown her the plaice; ‘And I'll do ee up comfortable,
Eln,’ I zays. ‘Thankee kindly, Master Squire,’ zes she;
‘you allays stood my vriend,’ she zays. ‘Ay, and I
allays ool, Eln, zays I, ‘and Ill do ee up proper and
comfortable, and won’t putt nobody long zide of ee this
twenty year to come.’ ‘Thankee kindly, Master Squire,’
she zes, ‘’tis pleasant and heartsome up under tree

when the pimroses blows, and you allays stood my
G*

84 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

vriend.’ There aint a many like Eln. A ongratef

traide is buryen’ and a dryin’ traide.”

“You aint ben’ burying of this yer Capen Annesley;
Raysh,” objected the gardener after some thought

“How be um to bury he, if so be as he’s yet by ®.;

elephant?”

“Hreckon they'll hae to bury the elephant, Josh
Baker, if so be they haes Christian buryen’ in they out-
landish plaices o’ the yearth. I’ve been a hringen of
en’ out vur dree martial hours, and I’ve a done what I

could vor ’n, I caint do no more. I hringed ’s grand- |

father out and ’s brothers, hringed ’em out mezelf, and

terble dry work ’twas. Ay, I’ve pretty nigh hringed em —

all out. Annesleys is come to their last end.”

He illustrated this melancholy assertion by a final
application to the “four o’clock,” having brought which
to its last end, he handed the mug to the little wide-
eyed grandchild, who trotted off with it.

“This yere doctor 0’ ourn’s a Annesley; there’s he
left,’ objected the gardener.

“There’s Annesleys, and there’s Annesleys, Josh
Baker. Zame as wi apples, there’s Ribstone Pippins
and there’s Codlings. They Medington Annesleys is a
common zart,” said the sexton, his voice conveying
severe rebuke for the gardener’s ignorance, mingled
with compassion for his youth. “Ay, Josh Baker, this
yere’s a knowledgeable world, terble knowledgeable
world ’tis to be zure.”

SPRING FLOWERS. 85

The gardener was too much crushed by this com-
imation of axiom and illustration to make any reply,
eyond doubtfully hazarding the observation, “Codlings
les well,” which was frowned down, so he continued
smoke steadily with his eyes fixed on three daisies
fore him, while the scent of his tobacco, which was
loubtful odour, mingled with the scent of the mown
ss in his barrow with most agreeable results.

The sexton meantime leant upon the mossed stone
|, enjoymg the double pleasure of successful con-
ersy within and the warmth of the March sunbeams
1out, and listened with vague delight to the rich flute-
's of a blackbird near, till the click of the churchyard-
cet made him turn his head in that direction and
¢ slowly thither, while the gardener still more slowly

and wheeled his barrow with its fragrant burden
's destination.

“ Afternoon,” growled Raysh, pulling his hair slightly
e approached the ladies from the Manor, and looking
hem as much as to say, “What do you want now?”
“You may as well look pleasant, if you can, Raysh,”
Sibyl; “we have only brought you an old friend.”
“You don’t remember me, Master Squire, I daresay,”
. Annesley. “I was here as a boy with Mr. Gervase
zman and my cousin, Paul Annesley.”
“I minds ye well enough,” replied Raysh. “Master
lard you be, and a terble bad buoy you was to be
You and t’others between ye, pretty nigh gallied

86 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

me to death. Not as I bears no malice, bless ¢
Buoys is made a purpose to tarment mankind, zame 4
malleyshags* and vlays, and buoys they’ll be till kingdon
come, I hreckon.”

“T fear we did lead you a life of it. I seem t
remember getting into the tower and ringing the bel
at some unholy hour.”

“D’ye mind how I whacked ye vor't?” replied tt
old man, brightening at the recollection. “You mind
Miss Sibyl; you zeen me laying the stick athirt tl
shoulders of en’ and you zinged out to me to let ¢
off, and I let en off. I’d gin en a pretty penneth avo
you come,” he added, with satisfaction.

“And I had forgotten this service, Miss Rickmar
said Annesley, laughing. “Perhaps some day I m:
repay the debt, though not in kind. Can we get in
the church, Raysh?”

“You med get into church if you’d got ar a kay
replied the old man; “but if you aint got ar a k.
you'll hae to wait till I vetches one vor ’ee.”

“He gets more arbitrary every day of his life,” e
plained Sibyl laughing; “and we spoil him more ar
more.”

Alice stopped at the churchyard gate to see tl
sexton’s ailing wife, and this circumstance cause
Annesley to hurry through the church with only half z
interest in the tombs of his ancestors who were burie

* Caterpillars.

SPRING FLOWERS. 87

there, and the humours of his old friend Raysh, whose
“chrisom” name was Horatio, he told him. He had
tung out George the Third, his two sons, and rung in
the latter and Queen Victoria, he informed them,
‘widently thinking that neither of those sovereigns could
lave quitted this mortal scene without his aid.

“Ryalty,” he observed, “takes a power o’ hringen,
id well wuth it they be. I don’t hold with these yer
ibicans, Mr. Annesley, as wants to do away wi’ Queen
ictoria. They med zo well let she alone, a lone lorn
man what have rared nine children. Wants to make
rerythink so vlat as the back o’ my hand, they publicans
dos. Ah, you med take my word vor’t, when you
egins zetting down what the Lard have made high,
dtu never knows where’t will end. They begin wi’
lerks. Thirty-vour year I stood under passun, and
ddicated the volk with Amens, and giv out the Psalms
ihat was zung to dree viddles, a clarinet and a bugle,
S you med mind when a buoy. And now they’ve a
et me down long wi the lay volk, as though I wasn’t
ara bit better than they. Ay, that’s how they began,
ure enough, and the Lard only knows where they med
nd. We caint all on us be Queens, and we caint all
a us be clerks, as stands to rayson. Zo those yer
adical chaps they ups and zes, ‘we wun’t hae no clerks,
x no Queens, nor no nothink,’ zes they. Ay, that’s
Ww tes, zure enough.”

Annesley replied that, being himself a plain man,
10se business it was to serve the Queen, he was no

88 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

politician, and, having sealed this assertion by the pres
sure of a crown-piece into Raysh’s fleshless palm, came
out of the church, thus leaving a good impression upon
the old sexton, who remained behind to tidy up the
belfry before finally locking the doors.

THORNS, 89

CHAPTER VI.

THORNS.

It would have been better if Edward Annesley had
resisted the spell which kept him chained to the spot
that afternoon; but he did not. He lingered outside
the sexton’s cottage, waiting for Alice, and talking to
Sibyl of the days when they were children.

“We were such extremely tiresome children,” Sibyl
sad, “that I can’t help hoping that we have a chance
of growing into at least average Christians.”

Then it was that some demon inspired him with
the notion of forwarding Paul’s suit by proxy, and he
replied that one of them, namely Paul, had matured
into something far beyond the human average, and that
all he wanted to bring him to absolute perfection was
a good wife. When he said this he looked straight
into Sibyl’s bright eyes, but without evoking the embar-
rassment he expected. |

Then he blundered further into some observations
upon the wisdom of marrying a friend known from
chiidhood, and said finally that he thought such a
fnendship the best feeling to marry upon.

“Do you think so?” she returned wistfully, and

go THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

with the self-forgetfulness which lent such a charm to
all she said; “I can’t help thinking that Z should like.
a little love.”

“A little,” he echoed, looking with warm admire
tion at the bright face still so unconscious of itself; |
“oh! Miss Rickman, it is not a little, but a great deal .
of love that such a face as yours commands!”—He
broke off, feeling that he had blundered seriously.
Sibyl bent over a honey plant encrusted with pink
scented blossom, about which the bees from Raysh
Squire’s hives were humming—an old-fashioned cottage
plant, the scent of which ever after stirred unspeakable
feelings within her—for a moment, and then, quickly
regaining her composure, replied “What rubbish we
are talking! we want Gervase to put us down with one
of his little cynical speeches.”

“Has Gervase grown into a cynic?” he asked,
wondering how great an ass he had made of himself,
and greatly relieved when, the long recital of Grand-
mother Squire’s woes being at last ended, Alice came
out from the honeysuckled porch.

“Grandmother Squire is in the loveliest frame of
mind to-day, Sibyl,’ she said. “‘Sure enough, Miss
Lingard,’ she told me, ‘we be bound to putt up with
Providence, hreumatics and all. Not but what I’ve a
had mercies. There was the twins took off, and what
we yarned in the chollery.’”

“Poor old soul!” commented Sibyl, as they turned
away from the cottage, “her rheumatism does try her.

THORNS. g!

* She said only yesterday, ‘Raysh is bad enough, and

I've a put up with he this vour and vorty year. But
' Raysh aint nothing to rheumatics, bless un!’—-—-Oh!”
Sybil’s gay voice suddenly changed to a shriek of terror
—“He will be killed!” she cried, and flew down the
lane to the high-road, preceded by Annesley, who leapt
the gate she was obliged to open, while Alice ran to
call Raysh.

At Sibyl’s cry, and the grating sound of an over-
tumed vehicle dragged over the gravel, the others
tured their faces to the high-road, where they saw a
half-shattered dog-cart, jolted along by a powerful iron-
grey horse, which was kicking against the ruin at his
heels and maddening himself afresh at every kick. At
the horse’s head, and holding him with a grasp of iron,
was Gervase Rickman, hatless, and in imminent peril
in his backward course, but making his weight tell fully
against the plunging horse, whose progress he oc-
» Casionally arrested altogether for a moment.

He had evidently been struggling for some time

| with the frightened animal; his face was pale with
fatigue, and his hair damp with sweat. At some dis-
tance further up the road lay the unfortunate groom,
who had been thrown out by the overturn of the vehicle,
and who occasionally got up and tried to walk, and,
then, throwing up his arms in agony, fell again, hurt in
the leg; while Gervase struggled pluckily on, now and
then calling for help. Some women came out into the
cottage-gardens and shouted the first male name that

Q2 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

occurred to them. Joshua Baker came pounding heavily ‘
over the vicarage lawn, with wide-spread arms and an
action like that of a runaway cart-horse. Raysh issued :
from the churchyard with a lengthened but certainly 4
not hurried stride, and arrived in time to bestow his
benediction on the cutting of the last strap. Annesley
reached the spot first, Sibyl and Josh were a good -
second, and in a few minutes the first-comers had cut
away the wreck and set the frightened horse free,
Gervase still clinging gallantly to the beast’s head, in
spite of his indignation with Sibyl, who tried to help
the men, and certainly kept the wreck from falling upon in-
stead of away from the horse, until the creature, released
from the clattering encumbrance at his heels, gradually
quieted down, snorting and quivering less and less.

By that time the owner of the equipage came ru
ning up from a house beyond the village, where he
' had been visiting a patient, while the unlucky groom,
having dozed off in the afternoon stillness, had been
taken by surprise when some pigeons flew suddenly up
under the horse’s nose and started him off. Before the
frightened lad could get the reins properly in hand, the
headlong course was terminated by a cannon against
the bank at the corner, and he was pitched out.

In a very few minutes the wreck was cleared from '
the road, the runaway led off, the injured lad taken
into the “Golden Horse,” and attended to by his
master, for whom a four-wheel had been got ready,
and the Manor party moved off slowly homewards.

THORNS. | 93

Annesley forgot his prejudice against the “squint-
eyed fellow” of the previous day; he could not have
renewed his acquaintance with Rickman, whom he had
last seen a lad in his teens, under better circumstances.
His heart warmed towards the sturdy figure he had
seen putting out all its strength against the great horse,
with eyes glowing with courage and determination and
every nerve instinct with vigour and gallantry.

“Well, Annesley,” Gervase said, with a careless
laugh, when they had reached the house, “perhaps you
ought to know that you have been playing the Good
Samaritan to Paul’s most deadly foe. You may have
beard of some of the misdoings of Davis. No? Then
you will before long.”

“I thought I knew the man,” Annesley replied.
“What! not the son of old Dr. Davis, he looks too old?
Why does Paul dislike him? He seemed a good fel-
low.”

“That old look is the head and front of his offend-
ing. He gets all Paul’s patients by it. It is hard upon
Annesley, who has twice his brains and education. He
studied at Paris, as you know, after walking the London
" hospitals, while Davis scrambled through his course as
best he could, and took a second-rate Scotch degree.
Yet Davis succeeds; he so thoroughly looks the family
doctor, and was an aged man in his teens. Paul is rich
in legends of the atrocities committed by Davis through
ignorance and stupidity.”

Annesley replied that Paul’s youthful looks did not

94 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

seem a sufficient set-off against skill and science; but
Rickman explained that other things were against Paul,
“You may have noticed,” he added, “that he has an
unlucky habit of speaking the truth; he has never
mastered the truism that language is given us to com
ceal our thoughts.”

Edward had observed his cousin’s bad habit, but
did not see how it could affect his success.

“My dear Annesley,” returned Rickman, “have you
not yet observed men and discovered the fatuity of the
truth-speaker? Animals have no language because they
have nothing to conceal; they can communicate facts tc
each other without speech. But men, that is civilizec
men, only exist by means of concealments; if the savage
virtue of truth prevailed, society would revert to chaos
Now, for instance, Paul is called to a man who is killin
himself by drinking spirits; the patient complains o
his miseries, and asks what is the matter with him
‘Gin is the matter with you,’ replies Paul, ‘and if you
don’t leave it off you will be a dead man before long.
Whereupon Paul is sent off, and Davis called in. Davi
looks grave and sympathetic; he talks about complica
tions and obscure symptoms, and gives the complaint ;
Greek name a yard long. ‘In the meantime,’ he says
‘alcoholic stimulants, even in the most moderate degree
may prove fatal.’ Davis has studied the use of speech
Annesley has not.”

“T like Paul’s way best,” Sibyl observed.

“You are a young savage,” replied her brother,

THORNS. 95

“Still, I do not see why Paul should be at odds
with Davis,” persisted Edward.

“Well! you ave a refreshing young party!” thought
Gervase. “Annesley is jealous,” he added aloud—<“all
the Mowbrays are. I should like you to observe
; casually, when you get home, that you met a delightful
, fellow named Davis, and helped pick up his fragments.
You will then hear something not to the doctor’s ad-
vantage.”

“Language is used by some people to conceal their
thoughts,” commented Annesley. “I suppose, Mrs.
Rickman, that you take that grain of salt with your
son’s statements.”

“Always when he indulges his cynical vein,” she
replied. “But seriously, Mr. Annesley, the name of
Davis acts on your cousin—yes, and on Mrs. Annesley
—like a red rag on a bull, and people who are intimate
with the Annesleys don’t visit the Davis set, and the
Davis set don’t mix with the Annesley set. The medical
profession is a jealous one.”

“Raysh Squire,” Edward replied, “says that jealousy
dislodged him from the reading desk. Raysh is as
great a politician as ever—doesn’t look a day older
than he did years ago.”

“The old rascal wears well,” Gervase added. “He
says it is brain that keeps him sweet. Nobody can
‘get upsides with’ him. Raysh is the only man I ever
heard talk sense upon politics.”

“Why, Gervase, he is a rank Tory,” cried Sibyl,

96 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“and you are a Liberal! How can you agree
him?” .

“Innocent child! Who said that I agreed with him
I only said he talked sense in politics, which I
care never to do, because people would never listen to:
me if I did.”

“Really, Gervase,” said Alice, “I cannot understand
your politics. With us you always talk like a Com
servative, and yet whenever you write or speak in public
you express the most extreme Liberal opinions.”

“Party government,” replied Gervase slowly, “Is a
useful machine, but it has its drawbacks. One is, that
it obliges men to adopt a certain formula of clap-trap
and stick to it.”

“Just so,” said Annesley, rising to take his leave.
“If you want to keep your hands clean, you must leave
politics alone.”

“J don’t believe it,” cried Alice warmly. “I cannot
believe that honour and honesty are not necessary in
the government of a great nation. Men are so weak
before evil, so ready to bow down before the mean and
base. If they had but the courage to stand up before
Wrong and say, ‘We will not bow down to it, we do
not believe in this god; Right is stronger than Wrong,’
what a different world it would be!”

“Tt would indeed,” replied the young men simul-
taneously, but each with different meaning, and Gervase
explained that he was not speaking of ideal politics but
of party government—a very different matter. Then

)

THORNS. 97

Edward took his way homeward, musing upon the

‘sudden fire in Alice, and stirred by her words, though

-he seemed to listen to Gervase, who walked part of
the way with him.

Paul Annesley did not appear until dinner was

t served; he had been in at the finish of the best run of
b: the season, and on his return had to make another
Journey. He was fagged and half-stupid, in poor con-
‘dition to entertain the small dinner-party before him,
Which was to be augmented later on by a contingent of
Young people to tea.
“For Heaven’s sake, Ned,” he managed to whisper
fo his cousin, “entertain all these solemnities for me!
I am dead-beat, and as stupid as an owl.” An order
that Edward received and carried out literally.

For a full hour after dinner the wearied doctor
could do nothing but yawn, until in desperation he went
out of the room and got himself some strong coffee,
while his cousin took his place.

Medington parties were not very brilliant, as a rule;
the same set of people transplanted from house to
house, and going through exactiy the same rites and
ceremonies at each, produced rather a monotonous effect
upon one another; a stranger, and especially a stranger
of the sex which is so sadly in the minority in country
towns, was a welcome addition to these meetings.

Paul was called out again just after his dose of
coffee, and when he returned and entered the room un-
noticed, to find people amusing themselves to an unusual

The Reproach of Annesley. Ll, (

98 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

degree, himself a nonentity in his own house, ‘and ki
cousin quite at home in his place, a queer feeling "
over him. He sat silent and gloomy in a remote
mentally recalling all Edward’s past misdeeds, and dis
paragingly criticizing his present demeanour.

His old offences of being taller, stronger, in better
circumstances, and in a profession that he had himself
most regretfully renounced from a sense of duty,
vived, though perhaps Paul was not aware of it.
he consciously thought was that Edward was not the
good fellow he had been; his manner was not quite up
to the mark; there was a certain coxcombry about his}
that he really was sorry to observe, and so on,

During these gloomy reflections, his cousin observed
to him in passing his chair, just as some one was about!
to play on the piano, “How well Miss Rickman sings!” }

“How on earth do you know how she sings?” |
growled Paul. ,

“T spent the afternoon at Arden,” was the disquiet
ing reply, which set Paul pondering as to how he got |
there, and, above all, why he went.

Then he heard his mother request his cousin to do
some little service that should have fallen to himself,
‘and again began mentally depreciating him, until he
looked up by chance and caught the reflection of his
haggard, scowling face in a mirror, and started with a
shamed sense of his own paltriness which made him
gloomier than ever.

I cannot imagine what I should have done without

| THORNS. 99

rou to-night, Edward,” Mrs, Annesley said when the
xeople were gone, “Paul was utterly fagged and stupid.
Another time it would be better for you to leave the
foom altogether, Paul.”

“Fine young man, that cousin of yours,” said an
elderly gentleman whom Paul was helping into his coat
in the hall; “glad to see him, whenever he likes to look
im.” Was it possible that these trumpery things could
add to the acerbity of Paul’s feelings? He would have
scouted the idea.

Overcome with sleep as he was, he would -not go to
bed until he had had a few words with his cousin,
thom he took to his room to smoke.

“TI think,” he began, after a few fierce puffs at his
ipe, “that you might have waited for me before calling
n the Rickmans. As I told you, I had arranged my
ork on purpose to have a spare morning to-morrow,
1d meant to drive you over to luncheon.”

He was only half mollified when Edward recounted
is misadventures with the chestnut, and his accidental
1eeting with the Rickmans at their door.

“You military fellows never suffer from want of as-
urance,’ he grumbled; “you seem to have made your-
elf pretty well at home at the Manor.”

“It was not due to personal merit; I was received
is your cousin,” he replied. “I say, Paul, I congratu-
ate you on your choice. I am glad you forewarned
ne; such a charming girl, and so clever as well as
pretty!”

7*

100 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Paul’s eyes flashed; he could scarcely bear even
hear her admired by another, and the word “prettf
seemed so inadequate to express the lofty charm t
made a sort of paradise about Alice. 1

“And do you suppose,” he replied in his haughtied
manner, “that my choice would be less than the veg
highest? No mere prettiness would attract me. I m
never win her, I may never even have the right §
speak to her. But I shall never decline upon a meani
choice.”

“Oh! you will win her, never fear,” replied-Edwar@
on whom this arrogant tone jarred. “But why not driw
over all the same to-morrow? It would only be civ
to thank Mr. Rickman for stabling the unlucky
nut.”

“Tt would be more military than civil,”
Paul with asperity. “If you begin an acquaintance by
coming two days following to lunch, how on earth you
are to carry it on, Heaven only knows!”

It must have been the iced pudding, Edward
thought; something has disagreed with him.

“You did not tell me,” he added aloud, after long:
and silent reflection on the face he had seen in the:
sunny oriel among the flowers that morning, “how Miss’
Lingard came to form one of the Arden family. Has
she been with them long?” '

“When Sibyl was about thirteen they advertised for:
a girl of the same age to educate with her. Then Miss
Lingard’s guardians placed her there. She has no tieg

THORNS. IO!

her own, and having become attached to them, and
to her, she now considers Arden her settled

home.”

“They all appear fond of her, even Gervase,” re-
trned Edward. “She treats him quite as a brother——”

“Did that strike you?” interrupted Paul.

“Oh! yes, she scolded him just as my sisters do me.
And she picked up his hat and dusted it in the most
matter-of-fact way, and he took it without a word of
thanks. How pluckily he stood up to the kicking
horse! I like Rickman. I like them all,” he added
warmly. “Such genial people, so clever, and yet so
homely in their ways. I like homely ways. I like the
dear old house. It seemed all sunshine and music and
flowers!”

Paul’s dark face flushed, and his eyes flashed so
that the whites were visible.

“Now I know,” he thought, “where he got those
; confounded violets.”

For, going to seek his cousin in his room just before
dinner, the scent of flowers attracted him, and he saw
a bunch of double grey violets in water on a table. He
knew his habits well, and buying flowers was not among
them; so he laughed and came to his own conclusions.
“Some girl gave him those violets, I'll wager; and the
fellow will be sentimental for about half an hour over
them.”

But, now he knew that Edward had been to Arden,

102 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

where in a warm nook beneath the south oriel
double violets grew, a spasm clutched at his heart.

“And so they gave you violets?” he said, trang

“Violets? What violets?” asked the other, with
unsuccessful effort to appear indifferent.

“Those in your room. They scent the house.
and a fire cannot be hid, neither can violets.”

“They were given me by the ladies of Arden;
Edward explained, with an embarrassed and
apologetic air.

“Really?” replied Paul, in dulcet tones. Then he
rose and walked to the closet which contained the
skeleton, and opening the door, shook his fist at the
grinning skull within, uttering in a low tone the sole
word “Damnation!” Then he returned to the fireside
much refreshed, and quite unnoticed by his cousin,
whose slight natural powers of observation were now :
totally obscured by the circumstance of his having fallen -
head-over-ears in love.

The cousins did not go to Arden next day, but on
the following day the Rickmans dined with the Annesleys,
and all, excepting Gervase, arrived early in the after-
noon, making the house, according to their custom,
their headquarters while carrying on an extensive shop-
ping campaign. )

Perhaps it was odd that Edward Annesley, who was
ostensibly playing bilhards at the club opposite the
Berlin-wool shop, should, after long reconnoitring at the
window, bethink him that Mrs. Annesley had lamented

THORNS. : 103

-Ikaving come to the end of her knitting-cotton, and
: Straightway sally forth and enter the fancy-work shop,
where he appeared as much surprised to find the Arden
ladies as they were to see him.

“I want—ah!—some cotton—to knit with,” he ex-
plined in answer to the shopwoman, when Sibyl told
km that she had thought knitting as a means to kill
fme was confined to the lower ranks of the army, and
Was not affected by officers. |

“Officers,” he replied with solemnity, “are always
delighted to be useful—when they can.”

“A capital proviso,” replied Sibyl. “I should have
thought being ornamental exhausted their energies.”

“Do not heed that mad girl,” said Alice, smiling
indulgently; “she is out for a holiday.”

But he heard a great many more teasing remarks
that afternoon from Sibyl, whose grace and dainty man-
ner carned her safely through much that in others
might have seemed pert, and the end of it was that
Paul, who came in to tea on purpose to meet the Arden
_ ladies, was scandalized to see the two younger walking
. leisurely up the street, accompanied by his cousin, laden
with books from the library.

Mrs. Annesley laughed when she heard of her
nephew’s civility in buying cotton for her; but Paul
looked very grim, and watched him closely all the
evening.

Edward sang to Sibyl’s accompaniment, and turned
her leaves for her when she sang, and then he sat by

104 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

her side and talked; while Alice played to Ger
violin, and the elders, including the watchful
played whist.

No word or movement on Alice’s part es
Edward’s notice; but something, which was part
chivalry of deep feeling, and partly the pervers:
which besets lovers, made him careful to conce
interest in her, and appear more occupied with
‘whom he cordially liked. Thus Paul was put
wrong scent, and was more genial to him that
than ever,

“Sibyl is undoubtedly the attraction,” he thou

PART II

a

CHAPTER I.

APPLE-BLOSSOMS.

A FEW weeks after Edward Annesley left Meding-
ton, which he did without again meeting the Manor
family, Paul unexpectedly arrived at the garrison town
in which his cousin was quartered, and spent some days
with him, in a dejected frame of mind. Before return-
ing to Medington, he reminded Edward of his promise
given on his first evening at Medington, to the effect
that he would not spoil his chance of success at Arden
Manor, which the latter renewed, laughing at his cousin’s
seriousness. Paul then spoke of his wishes with regard
to Alice Lingard, whose name he did not mention, and
of the pecuniary difficulties which prevented him from
asking her to marry him. But he did not say that he
Was actually in debt, having lost heavily through run-
ning Diana in a steeplechase, nor did he say that he
was in the habit of associating with men of ample
means, notably the Highland officers to whom Captain
MclIlvray had introduced him, and sharing in amuse-
ments that he could not afford.
“Don’t you think,” Edward said, “that your mother

108 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

would furnish funds for the marriage? She must know
that marriage is an advantage to a doctor, and she 3s
very fond of you.”

“She is the best of mothers;..but she would never
see that we could not all live under one roof. And I
would never subject any girl to ¢hat. The fact is,” he
broke out after a gloomy pause, “my life is wretched.
But when I think of 4er’’—here his face changed and his
eyes kindled,—“‘it is all different: there is something to
live for. It is maddening that I dare not speak yet
Heaven only knows when I shall be in a position to do ©
so, and in the meantime there she is in her youth and
beauty exposed to the attentions of every chance comer.
And it cannot go on for ever. I hate every man who
goes to that house; I feel that unless I am quick, the
fated man must come at last. I tell you, Ned, it is the
torture of hell.”

His cousin advised him to end his suspense at once.
“You stand upon a fanciful punctilio, Paul,” he said,
“and for that you may spoil her life as well as your
own. Speak to her and ask her to wait for you. You
have a profession and a fair start in it, not to speak
of the Gledesworth contingency, and hope will give you
courage to win your way. If she loves you, she will
be glad to wait; and if she does not, why the sooner
you know it the sooner you will get over it and form
other ties.”

“Get over it!” cried Paul, looking up. “A man
does not get over such a passion as this. Certainly

APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 109

/aman of my paste. Why only to see her is heaven,
dto be without her, hell. The Mowbrays never do
ything by halves.”

“Then do not do this by halves,” returned Edward

reenly. “Lay siege to her affections at once, and

iake up your mind to win her. And if you had not a

enny in the world, is it a light thing to offer a heart
ke yours? I hear men talk of women, and I hear
hem speak of their sweethearts and wives, but I never
rear men speak as you do. I believe, Paul, that a
deep and serious passion is a very rare gift from
Heaven. And I believe there is nothing like it in the
whole world. Nothing so lifts a man from earth and
reveals Heaven to him, nothing so makes him hate and
despise his meaner self, nothing——”

“By Jove,” interrupted Paul, with a genial laugh,
“the youngster has got the complaint himself!”

Edward replied that he might take a worse malady,
and reiterated his advice with regard to decisive mea-
sures, and they parted, Edward marvelling at Paul’s
dejection and discontent.

He did not know how deeply Paul had yearned for
a military life, and what it had cost him to obey his
mother’s wishes in renouncing it, nor did he know why
Paul had taken that little holiday and fled to Portsmouth.
It was because the demon had once more entered into
Mrs. Annesley.

“What a sweet woman dear Mrs. Annesley is!” the
curate’s wife was saying at the Dorcas meeting on the

IIo THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

very afternoon of Paul’s flight. “I wonder what keeps
her away from us to-day?”
She little dreamt that it was the devil himself.

It was now mid-Apmil, and at last there was respite
from the bitter sting of the east wind; every day seemed
more lovely than its fellow; in warm still nights, from
‘the copses by the brook, the passionate music of
nightingales arose, breaking the deep charmed silence
and echoing through the dreams of sleepers in Arden
Manor. No one there ever referred to their chance
visitor of the early spring except Ellen Gale, who, when
Alice paid her accustomed visits, would sometimes
allude to the voice they had heard singing past the
window. “And you were right, miss; you said it was
a gentleman’s voice,” she often repeated.

“Yes, Ellen, and the voice of a good man,” Alice
would reply. “There is so much in a voice.”

“Ves, miss; yours quiets me down my worst days.”

Alice and Sibyl were in the music-room on one of
these golden afternoons, surrounded by books, easels,
and other evidences of their daily employments. Sibyl’s
cat was coiled on the wide cushioned window-seat
beneath the open lattice, through which a flood of sun-
shine poured; the deer-hound lay stretched on a bear-
skin beneath it, sleeping with one eye, and with the
other lazily watching his mistress, who sat listlessly at
the piano, improvising in minor keys.

The melancholy of spring was upon Alice, that

APPLE-BLOSSOMS. Ii!

strange compound of unspeakable feelings; the strenuous
life of the natural world, its beauty and its melody,
stirred depths in her heart that she was too young to
understand; when some bird-note came with unexpected
passion upon the silence, she felt as if her heart were
being torn asunder and the old orphaned feeling of her
childhood rushed back upon her. The simple interests
of her quiet life now failed her, former occupations
grew stale, there was a hardness and want of she knew
not what in the brilliant sunshine and cloudless sky.
She wondered if after all it were true that life, to all
but the very young, is a grey and joyless thing. Hitherto
the future had seemed so full of dim splendour, so
pregnant with bright possibility, all of which had unac-
countably faded.

As she sat at the instrument playing dreamy music,
she mused upon that day of transient spring, set like a
pearl in a long row of chill sullen days, when she sat
busied with her flowers in the onel and the door
pened and Edward Annesley appeared. What a
onight world it was into which he stepped! How long
t seemed since then! He had vanished out of their
ife as quickly as he had entered it; no one ever men-
ioned him now. Perhaps he would never come again.

The thought struck chill to Alice’s heart, the colour
aded from her face, while the music died away beneath
ier nerveless fingers.

After a brief pause she began to play again, and
ang with Sibyl the following duet;

112 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

“THE ComING.”

‘‘The daisies fell a tremble,
Their tips with crimson glowed,
When they hastened to assemble
In troops to line his road;

‘‘The daisies fall a tremble
And bow beneath his feet
As they would fain dissemble
Their joy his eyes to meet;
‘‘The roses hang to listen
From the briar across the way,
Where the morning dews still glisten,
For the first words he shall say;

‘‘ And the little breezes, bringing
Song and scent and feathered seed,
Are glad to waft his singing
Across the sunny mead.

‘¢He cannot heed the daisies,
The roses or the breeze;
He is here—among the mazes
Of the orchard’s friendly trees.”

They sang the first four verses to an even-flowing
melody in a major key, but the last to a more powerful
measure, accompanied by minor chords which resolved
themselves into exultant major harmonies to burden the
phrase “he is here,” which was taken up alternately by
the two voices and repeated by them in different musical
intervals in the manner of a fugue, so that the words
“he is here” flew hither and thither, and chased each
other above the harmony in a rapture that seemed as
if it would never end, until the last lines rounded off
the song in a joyous melody with major harmonies,

APPLE-BLOSSOMS, 113

arcely had they made a silence, through which
ng of a blackbird pulsed deliciously from the
1 hard by, when they were startled by the sound
an’s voice crying, “Thank you,” from beneath
idow.

bert started up with pricked ears, and the two
ent to the open lattice and looked out. Just
1 the window on the broad turf walk was a
seat lightly shaded by a tall apple-tree, leafless
but ethereally beautiful with crimson buds and
- open blossoms of shell-like grace, which out-
ie boughs in purest red and white on the pale
y. Sitting there was Mrs. Rickman, and stand-
her side, looking upwards with a spray of the
just touching his crisp-curled hair, was Edward
'y.

e flushed brightly; Sibyl turned pale.

yert stood beside his mistress, almost as tall as
h his paws on the window-sill, and wagged his
1 a whine of joyous recognition; then, in his
e, he courteously requested the ladies to descend
come the new-comer.

> were half afraid to speak,” the latter said
low. “Do, please, go on singing.”

the singers were effectually silenced, and pre-
ame into the garden, and chairs were fetched
arcle formed beneath the glancing shadows of
le-tree.

sroach of Annesley. I. 8

TI4 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Mr. Annesley has walked seven miles to see us,
Mrs. Rickman said; “we must make him welcome.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Annesley,” Alice replied
with her exquisite smile and tranquil voice,

“Oh! yes; we are glad to see you,” added Sibyl i
her light treble; “it is not every day that people troubk
themselves to walk seven miles to see us.”

Then Edward said that he would not have acceptec
his invitation to stay with his friends, had they no
lived within a walk of Arden, and as soon as he had
said it, he knew that he had gone too far, and ever
one except Mrs. Rickman, who had a happy knack o
seeing nothing that was not delightful, saw it too;

“Then,” asked this innocent lady, “why not spent
a few days with us?” This was exactly what he longet
to do, but he was too confounded by his bare-face¢
hint to reply at first. “What a clown she must thinl
me!” was his inward reflection. | |

Then Mr. Rickman came out with the half-wakec
air with which he usually regarded the outer world
and having with difficulty detached his mind to som
extent from the consideration of a human bone, tha
was probably pre-Adamite, and fixed it on his guest
added his hospitable entreaties to those of Mrs. Rick
man. Finally it was decided that Annesley should take
up his quarters there and then at the Manor, sending
a messenger, with explanations, for his portmanteau.

Alice looked: down on Hubert, whose graceful ‘head
lay on her knee, during this discussion; but Edward

' APPLE-BLOSSOMS. . T15

her face and thought he saw a pleased look
r it when the decision was finally reached, and
she looked up and met his earnest gaze, and
eauty of the spring rushed into these two young

ie meantime ‘Paul Annesley, who had now re-
from the temporary despondency which drove
y from home, was enjoying that lovely Apml
1 with the intensity that he was wont to throw
ything, and was at that very moment driving
> dusty high-road as fast as the Admiral could
the direction of Arden. A set of archery
had arrived at the Manor, and he had re-
istructions to come over as soon as he could
', to help the ladies learn shooting; not that he
yr invitations to that house, but a valid excuse
ng an hour there was extremely pleasant. He
‘o the stable yard on reaching the Manor, and,
chat the family were all in the garden, took his
1er without ceremony, and when he issued from
yew walk which opened into the lowest terrace
bleau which struck him dumb.

1e top of the long and broad turf walk was a
lown against the house stood Alice in the act
ng a bow; her hands were being placed in the
sition by Edward, whom he had every reason
se miles away. Sibyl, leaning upon a bow at
stance, was looking on, and teasing Alice for
. Of skill. Mr. and Mrs. Rickman were watching

8*

116 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,.

the scene from beneath the apple-tree, and Hubert,
sitting very straight on his tail, was gazing intently be-,
fore him, evidently turning over in his mind whether
he ought to permit so great a liberty to be taken with
his mistress. Alice drew her bow, the arrow flew:
singing towards the target, the extreme edge of which
it just grazed. Edward uttered a word of applause,
which Sibyl joyously echoed; nobody heard Paul’s quick:
footfall upon the turf walk, except Hubert, who rose
and thrust his muzzle into his hand, so that he stood far:
some moments silently watching the progress of
shooting with a deadly conviction that he was me
wanted there. Perhaps Edward looked a little guilty;
when he saw his cousin, and took some quite needles,
trouble to explain how he came to be there, but pery
haps it was only Paul’s fancy.

“Vou have been before me, Ned,” he said, after he-. -
had been duly welcomed, and in reply to these laboured -
explanations; “I came to start the shooting. You appear:
to be a past master in the craft.”

“Oh! yes. We have a good deal of archery. i,
believe you are a good shot. Now we can have &
regular match.”

But Paul’s pleasure in the pastime was gone, he
scarcely knew why. He had a great mind to go away
and say he was engaged, but on reflecting that this.
vengeance would fall only on himself, thought better of
it and remained, apparently in the happiest mood.

ARCHERY. 117

CHAPTER II.

ARCHERY.

“AnD what do ’em call this yere sport?” asked
Raysh Squire, who was helping the gardener in an extra
spell of work at a little distance from the archers, and,
having now finished setting in a row of young plants
along a taut string, was pausing to contemplate his work
wih an admiring eye. “Zimple it looks; mis’able
ample.”

“Archardry, they calls it,” replied Jabez, finishing
his own line of plants, and unbending his body slowly
til he reached his normal height; “calls it archardry,
along o’ doing it nigh a archard. Poor sport, I ‘lows;
give me skittles or quoits.”

“*Tis poor sport, Jabez,’ returned Raysh, impres-
ively, “vur the likes of we. But I hreckon it ’s good
tnough vur gentry. Mis’able dull they be, poor things,
o be zure. My wuld ooman, she zes to me, ‘Lard,
tow I pities their poor gentlefolk, Raysh,’ she zes;
vorced to zet wi’ clane hands from morning to night
thout zo much as a bit of vittles to hready,’ she zes.
‘erble hard putt to they be to beat out the time athout
iling their hands. Archardry’s good enough vur they,

118 THE REPROACH .OF ANNESLEY.

Jabez Young. But give me a gaime of bowls and
mug of harvest ale.” And Raysh majestically bent ii
long body till he reached his line of string, which
pulled up and posted further on, when he dibbled 3
second row of holes along its course, Jabez, a s
fellow in the prime of life, looking on admiringly il
Raysh was half-way down his row, when it occurred 10;
him to pull up his own line and post it afresh.

- “I dunno,” Jabez observed, when he had planted.
half this line, “but what I’d as zoon hae nothen to da
mezelf.”’

“Ah, you dunno what’s good vor ’ee,” retumed.
Raysh, with tolerant contempt; “you ain’t never ben”
tried that way, Jabez; your calling is entirely gineral
So zoon as you putts zummat into ground, zummat
comes out on’t, and you never zets down, zo to zay.
Now buryen ’s entirely different.”

“You med zay zo, Raysh Squire,” said Jabez; “what
you putts into ground bides a powerful long time there,
I ’lows.”

“I "lows it do, Jabez, when putt in in a eddicated
way. I’ve a-knowed they as turns over coffins what ain't
more than a score o’ years old. Buryen of mankind,
Jabez Young, is a responsive traide; ’taint everybody,
mind, what’s equal to it. You med take your oath of
that. You minds when the Queen zent vor me to Bel
minster about that there bigamy job, when Sally White
vound out Jim had had two missuses aready? Passun
and me sweared we married ’em regular. Pretty nigh

ARCHERY. 11g

drove me crazy, that did. There they kept me two
martial days athout zo much as a bell to pull or a
church to clane. Two martial days I bid about they
there streets till I pretty nigh gaped my jaws out 0’
pot. I’d a give vive shiln if I could a brought my
church and churchyard along wi’ me, or had ar’ a babby
to christen, or so much as a hrow of taties to dig.
‘Missus,’ I sez to the ooman what kept the house we
bid in, ‘wullee let me chop a bit o’ vireood vor ee? I
be that dull,’ I zes. ‘Iss, that I ool!’ she zes. ‘And
the moor you chops the better you’ll plaze me,’ she zes,
and she laffed, I lows that ooman did laff. Zimmed as
though I’'d a lost mezelf. ‘Where’s Raysh Squire?’ I
zmmed to zay inzide o’ mezelf all day long. But zo
zon as I heft that ar chopper, I zimmed to come nght
agen. ‘I minds who I be now,’ sez I. ‘I be Raysh
Squire, clerk and zexton o’ Arden perish, aye, that I
be” and dedn’t I chop that ar ooman’s ood!”

“I never ben to Belminster; mis’able big plaice,
bent it?”

“Big enough, but ter’ble dull; nothen to zee but
shops and churches over and over agen. Jim White, he
took me along to see the plaice. We went and gaped
at the cathedral; powerful big he was—lI ’lows you’d
itare if you zeen he. Jim, he shown me a girt vield
m’ trees in it outside of ’en, and girt houses pretty
ugh so big as the Manor yender all hround., ‘This
1ere’s the Close,’ he zes. ‘But where be the bedstes?’
es I. ‘Bedstes?’ a zes, ‘Goo on wi’ ye, ye girt zote,’

120 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

a zes; ‘there baint no beistes in this yer Close. *Tis pas
suns they keeps here, taint bedstes!’ Zure enough, there:
was passuns gwine in and out o’ they housen, and a
girt high wall all hround to pen ’em in. Ay, they keeps:
em there avore they makes em into bishops,” he ex-
plained, with a magnificent air of wisdom, fully justified
in this instance by his ecclesiastical profession, as Jabez
reflected while slowly digesting this piece of information

The old-fashioned garden lay on a slope, the vege: |
table portion being only separated from the flower-
borders on either side the broad turf walks which in-
tersected it, by espalier fruit-trees, now studded with
the crimson silk balls of the apple, or veiled with the
fragrant snow of the pear, so that the archery party on
the turf were well seen by the labourers on the soil,
and vice versé. Jabez went on planting another row
in meditative silence, until an unusually wild shot from
Sibyl sent an arrow over the flower-border through some
lines of springing peas, into a potato-bed, when he
stopped and called out in loud reproof.

“You med so well hae the pegs in if you be gwine
on like that there,” he growled, when he had found the
arrow and brought it back; “the haulm’s entirely broke,
Miss Sibyl, that ’tes.”

“Never mind, Jabez,’ she replied soothingly, “it
is the first time;” and she added something about wire-
netting.

“Vust time!” he grumbled, returning to his cab
bages, “A onbelieven young vaggot! I never zee such

ARCHERY. 121

t mayde vur mischief. Miss Alice, she never doos like
hat.”’

“Ay, Jabez Young, Miss Alice is a vine-growed
nayde and well-mannered as ever I zee,” returned
Raysh, “but she’s powerful high. She doos well enough
fundays and high-days when there’s sickness or death,
but I “lows she’s most too high vur work-a-days. Give
me tother one work-a-days.”

“Ay, Raysh, you was always zet on she.”

“T warnt I was. I warnt I be terble zet on that ar
mayde, I be. I minds her no bigger than six penneth
” hapence, a jumping into a grave alongside o’ dear
wuld Raysh, a hiding from her governess; well I minds
the. I couldn’t never abide buoys, but that ar mayde,
[ was terble zet on she. I warnt I was. She caint do
nothun athout Raysh, ’tes Raysh here and Raysh there.
She’s growed up mis’able pretty. All the young chaps
is drawed after she, ’tother one’s too high vor em. She
aint vur work-a-days, Miss Alice aint. She thinks a
powerful dale of me, too, do Miss Alice, she always hev
a looked up to me, zame as Miss Sibyl there. Never
plays nothen on the organ, athout I likes. Its ‘How
do that goo, Raysh?’ or ‘Baint that slow enough,
Raysh?’? Ay, they thinks a powerful lot of me, they
maydes.”

“Miss Alice is the prettier spoke,” said Jabez. “Ah!
here goos that young vaggot again! Hnght athirt my
eins! Take em all hround, I lows you won't find

122 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

two better-mannered young ladies than ourn in all the
country zide.”

“I warnt you wunt, Jabez Young, or two what
shows more respect to they as knows better than their-
selves. I never wouldn’t hae no zaice from em when
they was little. A power o’ thought I’ve a giv’ to they
maydes’ manners, to be zure, a power of thought. Mr.
Gervase too, as onbelievin a buoy as ever I zee, and
that voreright he couldn’t hardly hold hisself together,
and a well-spoken young vellow he’s growed up. Our
Mr. Horace wont be nothen to he. Passun he spared
the hrod and I ’lows he’ve a spiled the child, as is hwrote
in the Bible.” And he bent over the fragrant earth
again with a slow smile of complacency extending the
wrinkles of his face laterally, unconsciously cheered as
he worked by the merry call of a cuckoo, the melody
of the song-birds, the voices of the archers and the |
frequent and musical laugh of Sibyl.

“There never was such a mayde for laughen!”
Raysh observed of his favourite, “that open-hearted!”

Alice laughed more rarely, though she, too, could -
laugh musically. It is odd that only women and children
laugh gracefully; grown men, if they venture beyond a
restrained chuckle, bluster out into an absurd crowing
falsetto or a deep blatant haw-haw, infectious, mirth-
provoking, but utterly undignified. Gervase Rickman
knew this, and since the loss of his boy-voice had not
laughed aloud, except at public meetings, when he pre
duced an ironical laugh of practised excellence, which

ARCHERY. 123

was calculated _to discomfit the most brazen-nerved

Speaker. When he came home that evening and heard
his sister’s pretty laugh wafted across the sunny flowery
garden, amid the music of the blackbirds and the cooing
of the far-off doves, something in it—it may have been
the certainty that it was too joyous to last, it may have
been the tragic propinquity of deep joy to sorrow—
touched his heart with vague pain. For Sibyl was the
darling of his heart; he was proud of her beauty and
talents, and cherished for her schemes and visions which
he was too wise to give voicé to.

He too was dismayed at the unexpected apparition
of the younger Annesley, but he did not realize the full
horror of the situation, since he naturally concluded that
he had come in Paul’s train, and would leave with him
before long.

He declined to shoot, with the remark that lookers-
on see most of the game, and sat beneath the apple-
tree with his father, on whom the pleasantness of the
scene and the unusual beauty of the day had prevailed
over the charms of the pre-Adamite bone for an hour
or two, and his mother, who had fallen completely
into the womanly groove of enjoying life at second-
hand.

Though they looked upon the same scene, the
son and the parents saw each a different picture. It
was a pleasant scene in its way. The old-fashioned

garden, with its bands of deep velvet turf, its fairy
troops of tall narcissus drawn up in the borders, their

ARCHERY. | 125

of the archery should disperse the temporary cloud and
put her in unusual spirits, while Sibyl, who was more
introspective and who sometimes rebelled against the
monotony of their simple life, was conscious of a tran-
qul expectancy that cast a glamour over everything
and gave the very apple-blossoms a new beauty.

The few words which passed between Edward and.
Paul Annesley that evening were of such a nature that.
the former came to the conclusion that something must
have disagreed with the doctor. But indigestion is not
the direst scourge of humanity. Jealousy is far more
painful.

Not that the unfortunate young man yielded to it.
His better nature revolted against it. He reflected on
Edward’s promise and on his admiration of Sibyl, and
succeeded for a time in stifling the flame of this un-
comfortable passion, when a trivial incident made the
smouldering fire blaze up with redoubled fury.

Alice, wearing some narcissus in her dress, was
bending to pick up her glove, when she dropped a
flower without perceiving it. Edward, who was just
behind her, stooped as she passed on, and, with a rapid
dexterity which must have baffled any but the Argus
eyes of jealousy, caught up the flower and hid it in his
coat, occupied apparently all the time in stringing a
bow.

Only Paul saw the flower episode; he saw and felt
and turned pale, a symptom of mental perturbation

126 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

which did not escape Gervase Rickman, who pondered
upon it. _

Gnawed as he was by these jealous feelings, Paul
could not tear himself from the scene which constantly
renewed his sufferings, but lingered till the twilight,
when it was still so warm that Gervase’s violin was
brought out and part-songs were sung, till a nightingale
began its golden gurgle hard by and charmed them all
into silence.

Perhaps it was something in Sibyl’s face, upturned
with a rapt look towards the ruddy mass of apple-bloom,
as she listened to the splendid song, which enlightened
her brother, and so wrought upon him that he drew his
bow fiercely across the strings of the violin, and, using
a minor key, played with such pathos that it seemed as
if he were touching the sensitive chords of his own
heart and thus wrought upon those of his listeners. He
knew now why Sibil was so deeply interested in military
things and had of late made such martial poems, why
She had enquired specially into the functions of artillery
and the degree of peril to which artillery officers are
€xposed when in action, and he saw through the inno-
cent artifice which assigned reasons for this sudden
Interest and made her avoid the most casual reference
to one particular artillery soldier. Then he thought of
Edward’s evident admiration for Sibyl, and the attentions
he had paid her, and resolved that Edward should marry
her, a consummation that, as he thought, his. strong
will and subtle brain could certainly bring about. ‘There

ARCHERY. 127
was nothing on earth so dear to him as Sibyl’s happiness,
he imagined, scarcely even his own; and his melodies
grew wilder and more heart-piercing, as he thought
these things.

“IT never remember such weather for April,” Sibyl
sad later, feeling vaguely that a day so exceptional

could not be repeated.
“There has been no such April since you were born,”

her father replied. ‘Too good to last.”
Yet it lasted through ‘the three idyllic days that

Edward Annesley spent at Arden.

128 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER III.

SUNSET ON ARDEN DOWN.

FOOTSTEPS were so rare on the lonely road which
led past the “Traveller’s Rest,” that it was scarcely
possible for any to pass unheard by at least one of the
inmates of that solitary dwelling. Ellen Gale had
listened for them as a break in life’s monotony when
in health and actively employed, and now, in the long
solitary silences of her fading life, they had become the
leading events of day and night, and much practice had
taught her to discriminate them with such nicety that
she could tell from their peculiar ring on the hard road
whether they were those of youth or age, man or woman,
gentle or simple. Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon
there would be a double footfall, light, yet lingering,
and she knew that sweethearts were passing, and won-
dered what the end of their wooing might be. And
then at times some memory stabbed her to the heart,
and she turned her face to the wall.

‘‘Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio
Meno costoro——”
cried Dante, his pity mingled with something akin to
envy, when he met the lovers of Rimini, united for ever

SUNSET ON ARDEN DOWN. 129

the terrible tempestuous hell, whither so many sweet
ughts had brought them.
Sitting at the window one bright April evening,
n heard the heavy, dragging steps of a labouring
whose youth was worn out of him, and she knew
heir ring that they were those of Daniel Pink, the
herd.
‘You goo on, Eln,” cred her father, sceptically,
| she told him who was coming, “you caint tell by
ound.”
I warnt she can,” corrected Mam Gale, Jacob’s
er, who was moving about before the hearth-fire,
with ironing, “terble keen of hearing she ® be, to
1re. ?
len smiled with innocent triumph when she per-
d the weather-beaten form of the shepherd turn in
e wicket, and clank with a heavy angular gait over
arge flints with which the court was pitched, fol-
1 by his shaggy dog.
Ay, here ee be, zurely, Jacob,” said Mam Gale,
ag up from her ironing with a slow smile. “Come
, Dan’l,” she added, raising her voice to a shnill
“How be yer”
Evening,” said the shepherd, stumbling heavily
the flagged floor of the kitchen, and dropping him-
m to a settle by the fire, while Jacob Gale, briefly
»wledging his entrance by a sullen nod, and a
m ’s evnen,” kept his seat on the opposite side
e fire, and smoked on.
Reproach of Annesley. I. 9

130 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“How d’ye zim, Eln’” asked the shepherd,
some minutes’ silence, during which the click of
Gale’s iron and the song of the kettle on the fire
heard.

Ellen replied cheerfully that she was better,
hoped to get out in a day or two; and she 1
yearningly out of the window, where she could see
blue sky and some martins, who were busy building
nest in the thatched eave above with much
twittering and fuss.

“They be allays like that in a decline, when
be took for death,” said Mam Gale, lugubriously, “
things, towards the end they perks up. The many
zeen goo, shepherd.”

“When be ye gwine to ’Straylia, Reub?” asked
shepherd.

“Not avore Ellen’s took,” he replied. :
“And he baint agwine then, Dan’l,” added Mam
Gale, suspending her ironing. “What call have he to

goo vlying in the vaduce o’ Providence, when’s time’s

come vor’n to goo? Down-right wicked I calls it.”

“Zims as though you med zo well hae a chance
live, Reub,” suggested the shepherd, taking the
Reuben brought him, and applying his bearded face to
it; after which he paused, smacking his lips and ponde»
ing deeply upon the flavour of the draught.

“I med so well live,” repeated Reuben wistfully. .

“Everythink’s upside down out there,” said Mam
Gale, contemptuously; “the minister he zes to me, e

SUNSET ON ARDEN DOWN. Ij!

's, volks walks along head downwards over there, ee
wg ??

“And that’s what Willum Black zes, zure enough,’
choed Jacob, solemnly, “’s brother went out ’Straylia;
e zes as how the zun hnises evenings when volks wants
© go to bed, and goes down agen mornings when ’tis
ime to get up, out there.”

“Zo they zes,” added Mam Gale, dubiously. “Volk
says there’s winter bright in the middle o’ summer
there.”’

“How do the carn grow if they gets winter weather
im zummertime?’’ asked the shepherd, after profound
Meditation.

Reuben supposed that it grew in the winter, and
tilent meditation followed, broken only by Mam Gale’s
reiterated assertions to the accompaniment of the click-
ig iron that “volk med zo well be buried comfortable
‘m Arden church lytten, as goo about head downwards
out there.”

“A-ah!” growled Jacob, before leaving the room to
Receive an approaching customer, “I don’t hold wi’ these
yr new-fangled notions. Volk used to die natural
eaths right zide uppermost in my young days.”

Then the shepherd, seizing an opportunity for which
he had long been waiting, and diving deep into the
ecesses of his garments for something which he ex-
racted with difficulty, produced two large ripe oranges.

“My missus zeen em in Medington, and she minded
¢,” he said apologetically, looking with a beaming face

g*

132 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

at the oranges, which from long propinquity to it
almost as warm as the good fellow’s heart; “taint
dreppence, she zaid, and Ellen Gale med so wel
€m when she can get em.”

“Tt was very kind,” replied Ellen; and the shey
Sank into a pleased silence, and gazed steadily a
pretty fading girl and at the oranges on the windo
before her beside the bunch of wall-flowers and
anthus he had silently placed there on his entranc

“Mis’ble zet on vlowers, my missus is,” he
tinued. “‘Let the viowers bide longside of the tai
She zes, ‘vlowers don’t ate nothing.’ Taities is vl
€nough vur me.”

“Flowers don’t do here,” Ellen said, “it is too |
The doctor says it’s too keen for me, but health
sound chestes.” '

“Some thinks Dr. Annesley aint wold enougl
his work,” the shepherd said; “Davis is the ma:
they.”

“If he aint wold enough aready, he never wil
Dan’! Pink,” retorted Mam Gale with decision. “I
a helped dree on us off. I don’t hold with new-var
things. Give me a dactor what hev zeen all our »
off comfortable.” |

“Davis hev buried a tidy lot,” urged the shep:
““Come to that, he and his vather avore un have he
SO many under ground as Annesley and his vathe:
together.”

“You med talk, Dan’l Pink,” retorted Mam (

SUNSET ON ARDEN DOWN. 133

her ironed linen aside with scorn, “but you wunt
cleverer dacter than ourn in a week o’Zundays.
t, wold Annesley, was cleverer drunk than any
rs sober.”
1 may say that, mother,” added Jacob, return-
1 minds when he come in one wet day and
a pint of best spirits straight off. Zes to me,
went away, he zes, ‘Don’t you never marry a
vith a tongue, Jacob Gale, or you med want to
mm with summat stronger than water.’ Didn’t
lrunker than Dan’ there, that a didn’t.”
ver yeard the wold chap drinked avore,” said
neditatively.
vasn’t knowed not to zay in a general way,”
icob, “’wold chap knowed how to carr ’s liquor
dn’t drink reg’lar. Married the wrong ooman,
lere *twas.”
was a vast too good vor’n,” added Mam Gale;
aly was high and her ways was high, and he
he wasn’t the biggest man in ’s own house,
he way with men. They cain’t abide to be
yest indoors, whatever they med be outdoors.”
e enough, a ooman didn’t ought to be better
man, ’t aint natural like,’ commented Jacob.
n the Bible; vur why? Eve yet the apple, and
> thought he med so well jine in.”

he alone vur that when ee zeen ’twas hnpe
imented Mam Gale with seventy.

shepherd was so struck by Jacob’s observation.

134 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

that he remained silently gazing at the window,
which the glories of an April sunset could be
diffused over the wide reach of sky, for five full min
while his rough-coated dog, who had followed him!
and lain tranquilly dozing at his feet, roused by
thoughtful look on his master’s face, sat up and wa
him, hoping for a signal to move.

While the shepherd gazed thus, he observed &
change in Ellen’s face, which was just before him—s
change like that in the sky when the red flush of sunsel
spread across it a moment before, a brightening of hu
and a sublimation of expression which filled him witl
awe. “She’s a thinking of kingdom come, where she’:
bound before long,” he reflected.

But it was a more tangible gladness, though it par
took of the deepest charm of that undiscovered land
the joy in what is higher and dearer than self, whid
thus transfigured Ellen’s pretty hectic face; it was th
sight of two figures whose outlines were traced upot
the pink-flushed sky, two young figures followed by }
hound; they talked as they went, their faces lighted
with the changing rose-tints of the tranquil evening.

“Miss Lingard! so late!” exclaimed Ellen.

“And young Mr. Annesley ‘long with her,’ com
mented Reuben, rising and looking out.

“TI hreckon she’ve vound somebody to keep com
pany with at last,” added Mam Gale, comprehendin
the situation at a glance. “Personable she be an

SUNSET ON ARDEN DOWN. 135

zasant spoke as ever J known. But t’other one hevs
| the sweethearts. Menvolk never knows what’s what.”

Little did Alice imagine the construction that would
e put upon this innocent evening stroll. Reuben’s
isinclination, or rather that of his friends, to the emi-
tation scheme Paul and Alice had arranged together,
tad been discussed in family conclave that day, and
édward had again brought forward his suggestion that
Reuben, if still sound, should enlist in an India-bound
regiment and thus get the benefit of a few warm winters.
Alice had just started to broach the subject that evening,
when Sibyl suddenly suggested that Edward had better
follow her, and thus explain clearly what he intended.

“A capital idea,” added innocent Mrs. Rickman.
“You will soon overtake her if you make haste.”

He did not wait for a second bidding, and Alice
had not crossed the first field before Edward was by
her side.

He was to leave Arden next morning, and the con-
Siousness of this brought something into his manner
that he would not otherwise have suffered. He spoke
if his prospects, the earliest date at which he hoped to
% promoted, and the chances of remunerative employ-
hent open to him, and Alice listened with a courteous
tention, beneath which he hoped rather than saw
omething warmer. He referred to the Swiss tour pro-
scted by the Rickmans for the autumn, and to his own
tention, favoured by Mrs. Rickman, of making the
ame tour at the same time, and they both agreed that,

136 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

to make the excursion perfect, Paul, whose mother wi’
to be of the party, should manage to be with them.
Nothing more of a personal nature was said, bt:
they each felt that this evening walk made a change it
their lives, putting a barrier between all the days whid
went before and all that were to follow after. They
strolled slowly along in the delicious air, pausing to see
the purple hills dark against the translucent westem
sky, the colouring of which spread upwards, first gold,
then primrose and .pale green edged with violet, to
clearest blue, just flecked by little floating clouds bke ;
cars of gold and pearl; pausing to look eastward across
the plain to the line of grey-blue sea, and to listen to
some deeper burst of melody from the woods and sky;
pausing, above all, at the chalk quarry, a mysterious
melancholy place, haunted by legends and traditions.
Standing, as they did, on the high-road leading past the
wide entrance to it, they saw a broad level of white
chalk, broken here and there by a milky pool, a small
tiled hut and dark shadow-like spots upon which a slow
accretion of mould had encouraged a faint green growth,
half moss, half grass, and surrounded by an almost
semicircular wall of grey chalk cliff with a narrow dark
outline of turf, drawn with sharp accuracy between itt
and the sky. This cold pale cliff was shaded and veined
here and there, where no quarrying had been recently
done, by such beginnings of vegetation as clouded the
ground, and was broken further by one or two black
spots, which were caves. Some ravens flew croaking

SUNSET ON ARDEN DOWN. 137

heir holes in the cliff-face with a grim effect,
the swallows darting about in the sunshine and
<s singing above could not wholly neutralize.
haps it was the sense of contrast between them-
and this desolate scene that made them linger
nated silence before it, and while they lingered,
it changed, the sinking sunbeams filled the sky
olten gold, and the rampart of cliff turned from
grey to warm yellow; then it glowed deep orange,
last it blushed purest rose.
shall never forget this,” Edward said, when they
and he saw the face of Alice suffused with rose-
rainst the rose-red cliffs.
ew more steps took them to the inn on the crest
hill. The shepherd rose and left at their ap-
and the new-comers entered the kitchen, which
dark after the brightness outside. Mam Gale’s
d bronzed face, surounded by a white-frilled cap
der her chin, beamed with welcome; her purple-
labour-darkened hands and arms, which were
visible below the small plaid shawl pinned tightly
r bowed shoulders, ceased to ply the iron, and
ne forwards to hand chairs to the visitors. The
yw from the hearth emphasized rather than dis-
the gloom of the low smoke-browned kitchen,
it was scarcely possible to see even the shining
y on the black oak dresser, the two great china
id brass candlesticks on the high chimney-piece
: gaily coloured prints on the walls, and the eye

SUNSET ON ARDEN DOWN. 139

Mision of her brother in regimentals, went so far as to
Say that she had heard of respectable soldiers. Reuben
eagerly corroborated her, and Jacob and his mother had
80 far recovered from the shock as to listen to Edward’s
proposals, when the sound of wheels was heard, a vehicle
, Stopped at the wicket, and Paul Annesley’s firm, quick
{ steps struck the courtyard flints and stone passage, and
_ he came with cheery energy, unannounced as usual,
' into the firelit kitchen.
“Sorry ’'m so late, Mam Gale, I was called out of
my way. Ellen still up? That’s mght, my lass;” he
had proceeded thus far, his hearty, mellow voice filling
_ -the kitchen with a breath of hope and health, when he
became aware of the two figures seated near each other
by the window, and he stopped, as if thunderstruck, a
fery spark flashing from his eyes.

“We had better go,” Alice said, turning to Edward,
as she rose after acknowledging Paul’s entrance. “Good-
bye, Ellen, we must not take up the doctor’s time.”

There was something in this “we” that acted upon
Paul like fire upon gunpowder, and he viciously ground
his teeth.

He assured them that there was no need for them
fo go, but they went nevertheless, and he then stood
before the window, talking to Ellen. He looked out into
the violet dusk, watching intently while the two figures
lessened and finally disappeared, and Ellen wondered
at the strange look on his face, which she had only

140 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

known hitherto full of kindness and good-humour, and
at the preoccupied manner that made him ask the same
questions over again. His visit was as brief as he ceald:
make it. An irresistible power drew him; he sprang
quickly to his seat and set the Admiral off at his best
pace, but avoided the nearest way home, choosing that .
which led past Arden Cross.

The fleeting glory was gone from the chalk quarry,
which showed desolate in its pale gloom, and seemed
a fit abode for spectres. A figure springing up behind
a heap of stones by the road made the Admiral shy
violently, and though it proved to be only that of a °
loitering child, Thomas, the groom, trembled all over
and was bathed in a cold perspiration, for he knew
that ghosts haunted the pit. As for his master, he
punished the Admiral’s mistake with such severity that
the horse tore down the hill like a whirlwind, jerking the
light dog-cart from side to side, and obliging the
frightened Thomas to cling on with his hands, while
the white-heat of passion kept his master firm, so firm
that he was able to turn his head aside and gaze
steadily across the dewy hedge-rows at the two figures
walking through the fields to the Manor, until the bend
of the road hid them from his sight.

MESSRS. WHEWELL AND RICKMAN, Iq!

CHAPTER IV.

MESSRS. WHEWELL AND RICKMAN.

THE streets of Medington were all alive one sunny
’ Spring morning. Men were busy in the market-square
placing hurdles for sheep and pigs; shopkeepers were
tuning their wares out of dark recesses, and arranging
them on the pavements, to the great discomfort of pas-
' Sehgers; carts—-laden with wicker baskets, whence
issued mournful cackles and quacks of remonstrance
from victims unconscious of their doom, and all sorts of
country produce, including stout market-women—rolled
Slowly into the town, drawn by thoughtful horses, who
Yentured upon no step without first duly pondering its
advisability; small flocks of meekly protesting yet docile
sheep, and disorderly herds of loudly rebellious and re-
calcitrant pigs, were beginning to enter the streets from
divergent country roads; housemaids, giving the bell-
pulls an extra Saturday cleaning, loitered over their
work, and looked up and down the street, to catch
Sight of country friends; clerks and shopmen wished
the day over and Sunday morning come with its quiet:
it was market day, the least sabbatical and most bust-
ling of the seven,

0. ray Seen

142 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Daniel Pink was passing slowly along the Hig
Street, his little frightened flock bleating and panting
ahead of him, and seizing every opportunity for blun-
dering into false positions to an extent that almost de-
prived Rough the dog of reason in the passionate in-
dignation it aroused in his shaggy breast. Daniel laid
his crook in this direction and that, and spread out his
arms and grunted to his four-footed heutenant, and was
so engrossed in taking his charges safely past the ve-
hicles and open doors through which they were eager
to dart, that until he was some distance past he forgot
to look as usual at Paul Annesley’s door, to see if
cherry-cheeked Martha, his daughter, was on the look-
out. Then he threw the bunch of flowers he had car-
ried in for her with such aim that she caught it just in
time to prevent its striking the face of her master, who
opened the door behind her, and to her dire confusion
came out at that moment.

“Wallflowers, Martha? Curious things to clean brass
with, eh?” he said, with a good-tempered smile; and
he stepped briskly down the street, his face darkening
when he remembered the scene at the “Traveller's
Rest” the night before.

The shepherd had been thinking of the same scene
as he came along. He had related the conversation to
his wife on his return to his lonely cottage, so that they
had remained up beyond their usual hour talking over
the dying fire; Mrs. Pink would for many days declare
in the same words her conviction that it was better to

MESSRS. WHEWELL AND RICKMAN. 143

die nght side uppermost in England than to tempt Pro-
vidence by journeying to a world in which everything
| was upside down, and the very Commandments were
probably by analogy reversed; while Daniel would as
frequently observe that they raised a “terble lot of
ship” out there, that he had once known a steady
youth who enlisted when crossed in love, and that
, Ellen might possibly see the harvest carried home.
After the last saying he would generally be silent
for some time, wondering to what unknown land Ellen
would journey then. A great part of Daniel Pink’s
time was spent in wondering; the few events of his own
and other lives, however deeply pondered upon, were
son exhausted, and then there were long lonely hours
in sunshine and storm, on the wide windy downs, under
the shelter of a bent thorn or a wind-bowed hedge, in
the silent nights when great flocks of stars passed in
orderly procession over the vast black chasms of space
above him, or the hurtling storm swept round him—
lng empty hours that had to be filled with thoughts
and imaginings of some voiceless kind. And some-
tmes the musings of simple shepherds are grander,
and their unspoken sense of the mystery and beauty
which enfolds their obscure lives is deeper, than we
imagine.

Gervase Rickman on his way to his office through
the market, nodded condescendingly to the well-known
weather-beaten figure standing among the pens. If he
thought of him at all, it was as a slightly superior ani-

144 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

mal. Who expects to find a poet or a prophet ben
a smock frock or fustian jacket?

Gervase hurried along to his office, which stood j
off the market-square, full of thoughts, for the most
common-place, even sordid, principally concerning
business affairs of half the county. He was later tha
he intended to be, and found the day’s work in full
swing when he stepped into the outer office, whose oc!
cupants suddenly became very diligent on his entrance.
He took in every detail as he passed swiftly through,
and sprang up the stairs to his own private room, fol
lowed by the white-headed clerk, who had been the
confidential servant, and, by virtue of his service, mas
ter, of the firm of Whewell and Rickman since before
Gervase was born.

The room had a bow-window, giving upon a street
which crossed the High Street at nght angles, and com-
manding a view of both these streets and the broad
market-place at their junction. This window differed
from those usual to lawyers’ offices because it was pet-
fectly clean, and its transparent panes were obscured
only to a moderate height by a wire blind, transparent
to those within the room, though opaque from without
Rickman’s desk was so placed, that while sitting at it |
he could, if so minded, observe all that was passing in —
the focus of town life beneath this window. Not that
he enjoyed such leisure as to need window-gazing to
fill it up, for more business was done in that bow-win-
dowed room than in any other in the town.

MESSRS, WHEWELL AND RICKMAN. 145

He was vexed at being a little late on this bustling
iarket-day, and still more vexed at the cause of his
elay, which was a woman. He hastened to look at
he letters before him, while his roving glance swept
he street as he listened to the old clerk’s communica-
bons.

“Dr. Annesley called and was much put out,” the
latter said; “he could not wait, as he was starting on his
euntry rounds. He wrote this note.” The note was
ref.
| “I must have that money, no matter at what interest,” it ran.
“Could I raise some upon the Gledesworth prospects? Call before
'Yu leave town to-day.—P.A.”

“My good fellow, why will you mix with rich and
ile men?” Rickman thought to himself.

“That will do, Hughes,” he said, and the old clerk
left him to his work, and there was silence in the room,
woken only by the rapid course of the lawyer’s pen.

His face was heavy with care, and he was not quite
30 sure as he had been of the potency of human will,
und especially of his own. The check Alice Lingard
had given him two days before on Arden Down, when
he had formally asked her to marry him, hurried on to
decisive measures by the necessity of putting a stop to
Edward Annesley’s apparent designs, was severe and
far less easy to bear than he had anticipated—for he
was too good an observer not to have known that Alice
would never accept his first offer; he relied upon time
and circumstance, the power of his will and the con-

The Reproach of Annesley. 1, 10

146 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. -

tinued stress of his passion, which was patient as
as ardent, to win her.

“My mother,” he reflected, while another portion
his active brain was occupied with the subject beneaf
his pen, “is the most amiable of human beings, but §
is the most simple and unobservant. My father h
talents, but with regard to all that concerns human lif
and conduct he is an infant in arms. How on earf
Sibyl and I came by our brains, Heaven alone knows
on the whole we should be thankful that we have
If that stupid little Sib would but take a fancy to Pa
she might catch him at the rebound. And Paul he
expectations. Paul saw them together last night asi
enjoyed it as much as I did. But women are so wu
reliable, they upset all one’s calculations, one nev
knows what they will do next. As for that good-looli
ing fool——” Gervase sighed and paused in |
work; he did not like to admit to himself that he ha
made too light of him, yet he feared it, and when}
thought of Sibyl’s secret he burned with hatred for i
man who had so deeply touched her heart. He looke
out upon the thickening stream of passengers in thf
street and saw one of whom he made a mental nog
and went on writing with the under-current thought tha
nothing was any good without Alice, and that the
strength of his desire for her love was sufficient warrant
for his winning it. “And what a man she might mak
of me!” he thought, perhaps with some dim deeply
hidden notion of: propitiating Providence with th

MESSRS, WHEWELL AND RICKMAN. 147

omise of being good if he could but get his
weted toy.

While his pen flew over the paper he recalled the
eginning of this attachment, now fast developing into a
pssion.

- It was Alice’s seventeenth birthday, and he was talk-
to his father about her affairs, when the latter re-
ked that she had now grown a tall young woman.
“And we shall lose her, Gervase,” he added. “She
marry early. Besides her good looks, she has what
value more, money.”

| Then Gervase thought how convenient her little
e would be to a man in his position, and reflected
that, ambitious as he was, he could not reason-
expect to find a better match. While thus musing,
strolled out into the garden and saw Alice, yester-
ky one of “the children,’ an overgrown girl, an en-
umbrance or a toy, according to the humour of the
Moment, gathering flowers, unconscious of his observa-
ion. It was a different Alice that he saw that day;
he child was gone, giving place to a young creature who
ompelled his homage. He offered her his birthday
Ongratulations with deference, his manner had a new
eserve. “She shall be my wife,” he said to himself
vith a beating heart. :

Three years had passed but this purpose had not
altered. Then came the check on Arden Down. This
xcurred at a gipsying excursion by the Manor party,
luing which he found himself alone with her. He

10*

148 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY, -

knew that it was too early to press his suit, but
Annesley’s visit forced his hand.

Alice hoped that it was but a passing fancy
tried to impress this view of the affair upon him. “¥§
are making a mistake,” she said; “you would not’
happy with me. I have not even ambition. Let
forget this, dear Gervase. Otherwise I must leave yt
I hope you will not drive me away from Arden. EF
my only home.”

They were standing by a gate on the down, looki
over the plain, which stretched away with its buddi
trees half veiled in leafage to the blue belt of se
cowslips nodded in the hedge near them; the gre
spring chorus of birds was borne faintly from the vallef
up to their airy height; the world was full of music a
beauty. Gervase looked straight into Alice’s eyes a
fascinated her by the magnetism of his glance, and
spoke as if moved by a power beyond his control.

“Tt is no mistake,” he said. “You are the o@
woman for me. And I will win you,” he added
deep, almost menacing tones. “It may be years fg
But I wl? win you, I shall win you. Yes; in spite q
yourself.”

Alice trembled; she could not withdraw her &
cinated gaze from his. The air of conviction with whi
he spoke seemed prophetic; her heart beat painfel
she was on the verge of tears.

But she was no weakling; she summoned all he

MESSRS, WHEWELL AND RICKMAN. 149

gces to meet and defy him. “How dare you speak
ke that!” she said in cold, cutting tones.

4 “I dare,” he replied, with inward trembling but out-
determination, “because I love. Forgive me,
»’ he added more gently, when she turned away
a look of scorn, “I was carried away. Forget my
Forget my folly. Let us be as we were be-

33

Then tears came to her relief. She quickly checked
smiled once more, and there was peace between

After that he was careful to suppress all traces
the lover in his manner, and she was gradua!ly reas-
He was also careful to draw her observation to
attentions which Edward Annesley appeared to pay
® Sibyl, and to confide to her his approval of the
atch.

That Edward was winning Alice’s heart was bitter
© Gervase; that he was winning Sibyl’s, and threatening
© spoil her life, was almost more bitter. He resolved
that Sibyl’s life should not be spoilt; he determined to
bring Annesley to book, and show him that he was
bound in honour to marry her. But this step needed
the most subtle treatment; the slightest mistake would
be fatal. Besides, he feared to precipitate whatever
designs Annesley might have with regard to Alice, by
premature interference, and contented himself with
being at Arden as much as possible during Edward’s
visit, and making arrangements to keep him apart from
Alice during his absence, in which small schemes he

150 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

was greatly aided by the transparent simplicity of I
mother.
Truly this unfortunate young man had more tha
enough to burden his active brain, and just whens
was important, in view of the approaching county ed
tion, to give his mind entirely to political affairs. W
men seemed to be made expressly to torment and pé@
plex mankind, as Raysh Squire observed of boys. /
Sibyl, whom he loved with an instinctive clinging afiet
tion almost as deep as his self-love, had been but 4
man. “But then,” he reflected, “perhaps we shout
have wanted the same woman. ‘That fatal sex wou
still have ruined all.” |
He had hitherto said that he would not live with
out Alice; now he found that he could not. Wealt
success, power and position, things that he had yearne
for and purposed to win by the strength of his intelle
and energy, suddenly lost all value in themselves;
without Alice they were no good.
“TI must and I will have her,” he muttered, das
ing his pen fiercely into the ink-bottle, at the con
clusion of his task. :
His reflections were disturbed by the opening &
the door; the not very usual sound of a lady’s dres#
rustling over the matting was heard, and Mrs. Annes
met Gervase’s fierce intense gaze with one of her
seraphic smiles.
In an instant the young lawyer’s glance fell, and
changed to its everyday suavity as he rose with a smile,

MESSRS. WHEWELL AND RICKMAN. 15!

an which surprise and welcome were equally blended,
' to receive his unexpected visitor.

“You are doubtless surprised, Mr. Rickman,” she
: said, taking the chair he placed for her, “that I should
‘visit you instead of sending for you as usual. I have
‘€@ reason.”

“That is of course,” replied Gervase. “You know
Jam always at your service at any moment.”

“T thought your country clients would scarcely have
amved at this early hour, and I might therefore seize
the opportunity of calling on you on my way home

moming prayers without attracting attention at
home. My beloved son is, I fear, in sad difficul-
ties.”

“Indeed,” returned Gervase, with a look of sur-
prised interest, while he moved a paper softly over
Paul’s note, “I am sorry for that.”

“Ts it possible,” continued Mrs. Annesley, studying
his face with an astonished air, “that my dear boy has
not consulted even you upon the subject?”

“My dear Mrs. Annesley,” returned Gervase, laugh-
ing, “do you suppose that we lawyers discuss our
client’s affairs even to their nearest friends?”

“True,” she replied, annoyed at herself. “I had
forgotten Mr. Rickman for the moment, and was think-
ing of my young friend, Gervase. It is most probable
that you know more of these unfortunate complications
than I do, for my child, I cannot tell why,” she added,
applying her handkerchief to her eyes, “has not

t
k
+
a

152 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

honoured me with his confidence. I feel this, 42
Rickman, as only a sensitive and devoted womzs
can.”’

“Doubtless,” he said, with courteous patience.
“Hang the woman! why in the world does she come
here plaguing me with her feelings?” he thought—
“You have reason, then, to suppose that Paul is in dif-
ficulties of some kind upon which he has not consulted
your” he added.

“Dr. Annesley,” she continued with severe dignity,
“has incurred debts of honour, which he does not find
himself in a position to discharge without serious in-
convenience. I need scarcely tell you, Mr. Rickman,
that my son’s income is most insufficient for a young
man of his birth and tastes. His professional success
has not as yet been by any means proportioned to his
talents and energy. His youth is against him. It
naturally prejudices those who have every confidence in
his skill. My son is proud; he prefers to make his
own way, and no longer accepts an allowance from me,
as you are aware. I honour his independence, but”—
here she dropped her dignity, and suddenly became
natural in a burst of real feeling,—“I do think he
might come to me in his trouble.”

“T daresay,” Gervase said soothingly, while Mrs.
Annesley daintily dried her tears, “that if he is, as you
think, hard up, he sees his way out of the scrape, and
does not wish to worry you if he can possibly help
himself.”

MESSRS, WHEWELL AND RICKMAN. 153

<=: “That is just what hurts me, Gervase,” replied Mrs.
| sg Annesley, still oblivious of her dignity. “He might
tknow that I would grudge him nothing. It is hard
that a man like Paul should never indulge in the tastes
aod amusements natural to his age. And I am ready,
& he might know, to incur any sacrifice to extricate
him, I would rather live in a hovel than see my son
Imable to meet debts of honour.”

“We all know what a devoted mother he has,” said
the politic Gervase. “I infer, then, that you wish to
fnd him the money.”

' Exactly, dear Gervase; with your accustomed
penetration you go straight to the point.”

“Well, then,” said Gervase, glancing unobserved at
his watch, “why don’t you mortgage some of your
house-property? That would be better than selling
stock just now. How much does he want?”

“That I believe you are in a better position to say
than I am,” she replied, with a dry little smile.

Gervase also smiled, and said that the mortgage
should be effected at once, since he knew where to
find the money, and in a surprisingly short time he
contnved to get the whole of Mrs. Annesley’s wishes
expressed, and learnt that Paul was to be kept in
doubt until the transaction was effected and the money
in his mother’s hands, when she intended to surprise
him.

“Excellent young man,” thought Mrs. Annesley, as
she swept down the stairs and through the outer office,

154 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

where the busy clerks inspired her with no more fellow-
feeling than the sheep in the pens outside. “He has

never given his mother a moment’s anxiety. I suppose |

nothing would have induced him to run a horse unless |

he were quite sure of being able to pay the con-
s€quences. Quiet and prudent, the son of a mere

physician, how different from my brilliant Paul! The -

blood of the Mowbrays is not in 4s veins.” She forgot

that Paul was not even the son of a physician, since _

Walter Annesley had been but a country doctor,
whose untimely death had not improved his son’s pro-
spects.

She walked joyously home through the ever-thicken-
ing stream of vans and carts, considering what ex—
penses she could cut down to meet the interest of the
mortgage, really glad that a load of care would be
lifted from Paul’s heart, but anxious that he should ac-
knowledge and admire her sacrifice; few things pleased
her so much as to be considered a martyr; she was a
woman who could not exist without a grievance.

She wondered how Heaven came to afflict her with
such a son, though she knew very well that she would
not have loved him half so well had he been steadier
and less extravagant. Destiny had evidently made 4
mistake in setting a man of his mould to wield the
lancet; perhaps that view had also occurred to Destiny,
and resulted in the recent removal of Reginald Annes-
ley from the Gledesworth succession.

~

STORM. 155

CHAPTER V.

STORM.

Fut of these thoughts, Mrs. Annesley entered her
house and went through her usual tranquil occupations,
all of which, however homely in themselves, were
characterized by a certain elegance peculiar to her-
self.

The maids trembled when summoned one by one
toher presence to be called to account for the various
doings and misdoings of the week, and were equally
awed by reproof or commendation, though, being
human, they preferred the latter. Certain dainty dust-
ings of bric-A-brac by her own hands occurred on Satur-
lays, and the subsidiary dustings and cleanings of
vhich they were the crown and summit, were truly
wful in their immaculate perfection. She arranged
resh flowers, and terrible was the fate of that maid
ho brought an imperfectly-cleaned vase for their
‘ception, or spilled the water required for them. These
eekly duties were all completed, and Mrs. Annesley,
trayed in fresh laces, was sitting in the drawing-room
ith some elegant trifle representing needle-work in her
und, when about one o’clock the Rickmans’ phaeton

I 56 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

drove up to the door with Edward Annesley, whom
she expected to lunch with her on his way from Arden.

Paul had returned from his country round, and was
watching the arrival of the phaeton from the window
of his consulting-room with an eager intensity strangely
disproportioned to the event. The grey mare trotted
in her leisurely fashion up to the door, totally ignoring
the unusual stimulus of the whip, which Sibyl applied
smartly, in the vain hope of infusing some dash into
her paces. Mrs. Rickman occupied the front seat by
her daughter’s side, and was protesting against her
cruelty; but the grey mare might have been a flying
dragon, and these ladies harpies, for all Paul cared;
his fiery glance was concentrated on the back seat, in
which were Alice Lingard and his cousin. The latter
was on the pavement before the vehicle had stopped.
His farewells were soon said, and the phaeton drove
off with the nearest approach to dash ever made by the
grey mare, in response to an unusually sharp cut of
Sibyl’s whip. Edward stood on the pavement looking
for some moments after the vanishing carriage, with an
expression that was not lost upon Paul. Then he
slowly turned, crossed the pavement, turning once more
in the direction of the carriage, now lost to view, and
finally went up the steps and rang the bell. Paul felt
that he was still looking in the direction taken by the
phaeton, though he could no longer see him.

He had seen what passed between Edward and
Alice at parting; only the lifting of Alice’s gaze to Ed-

STORM. 157

ward’s when he wished her good-bye, but with a look
$0 luminous that it went like a stab to Paul’s heart.
These things so wrought upon him, that he seized a bust
| ofGalen from a bracket by the wall and dashed it to
"pieces on the ground.

He had scarcely done this, when a patient was an-
hounced and condoled with him upon the accident.
Paul smiled grimly in response, and proceeded to his
business, a small, but delicate operation on the eye,
which he effected with a steady and skilful hand. No
one in Medington knew what a skilful surgeon he was;
even his mother did not credit him with professional
excellence.

They were already at table when he went in to
luncheon; Edward, quite unconscious of the storm he
had set raging in his cousin’s breast, seemed unusually
fnendly and pleased to see him.

“I was afraid I might miss you, after all,” he said,
nsing and grasping his hand in a grip so warm that he
did not perceive the coldness with which it was re-
ceived. “I know what a chance it is to catch you at
luncheon, especially on a market-day.’”

“Not when I have guests,” replied Paul, with an
extra stateliness, which Edward would have been in-
capable of perceiving, even if his mind had been less
Pre-occupied; “only the most important cases keep me
from home under such circumstances.”

“He never suffers the professional man to obscure
the gentleman,” said Mrs. Annesley.

158 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

“He would not be your son if he did,” Edward re-
turned.

Mrs. Annesley was so light of heart in consequence
of her morning exploit, that she chatted away most
graciously and gaily, and set Edward on the congenial
theme of his visit to Arden, and the virtues of the Rick-
man family. Paul observed with ever-deepening gloom
that he did not mention Alice, he only named Sibyl
when speaking of the ladies.

After luncheon there was still an hour to waste be-
fore Edward’s train was due, and he was yet uncon-
scious of anything unusual in Paul, when the latter
asked him to go out in the garden with him. The
garden was. large; it extended not only by the full
breadth of the house to a wall bounded by the parallel
street, but ran along that street for a little distance at
the back of other houses. Beneath some tall limes,
the crimson-edged branches of which were now showing
a few fluttering transparent leaflets, pale green against
the blue sky, there was a stretch of rich deep sward,
the growth of at least a century. Here were benches,
and sitting on one of them, one could see the flower-
garden and the back of the house half hidden in ivy
and creepers.

Quite silently the young men strolled through the
whole length of the garden, Edward looking at the
scented hyacinths, the flowering currants, old frends
he knew so well, the great elm with the long disused
swing and the delicate veil of April green about its

STORM. 159

lover branches, and vaguely enjoying the mystery and
Mchness of the spring; Paul with his eyes cast down,
his lips closed firmly, his ears deaf to the song of the
blackbirds who found homes in that pleasant garden,
and whose music seemed like a romantic picture painted
On the prosaic background of the town noise.

Edward threw himself on a bench and stretched
his legs comfortably before him in the sunshine, while
he took his short pipe from his pocket and began to fill
it, and was just beginning to wonder why Paul did not
smoke. Then he looked up and was surprised at the
expression on the face of Paul, who was standing be-
fore him, a dark figure against the sunshine.

Paul was extremely pale, his eyes appeared black
with intense feeling, his lips moved as if trying to frame
some speech of which he was incapable, and for a few
moments he gazed silently at his cousin.

“What is the matter, Paul?” the latter asked,
changing his careless attitude for a more upright posture.
He had heard something of Paul’s pecuniary straits,
and thought that he might be on the verge of asking
help of him. He knew that his introduction to Captain
Mcllvray had been rather unfortunate. Mcllvray and
Paul, being congenial spirits, had rapidly become in-
timate; this intimacy had brought Paul into immediate
contact with the other officers of the regiment, and in
lun with their fnends. Those Highland officers were
all men of means and family, they were nearly all un-
Married, and more or less fast, and the usual conse-

160 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

quences of a young man associating with richer
than himself had ensued. Late hours, play, mode
by a rich man’s standard, but high by a poor man’
steeple-chasing by a horse due at sick people’s doors,
and suchlike, had combined to empty the doctor’s
pockets and scandalize his patients, particularly the
steady-going burghers of Medington, who did not care to
trust their families or themselves to the hands of a young
man, who, instead of occupying his leisure with medt-
cal books, consorted with a “set of rackety officers;”
and for all this Edward felt to some extent responsible.

“T asked you,” Paul replied in the incisive tones of
white-hot passion, “to come out here, because I think
it time to come to an understanding.”

“An understanding of what? If it is money, dear
fellow, I think I can promise to help you.”

“Money,” repeated Paul with ironical laughter,
“money indeed!”

This lofty scorn of that cause of so much mischief,
the lack of which is so excessively inconvenient to
ordinary mortals, was less edifying than amusing in a
man who was head over ears in debt, and a half smile
stole over Edward’s face when he heard it. A certain
grandiose manner which Paul inherited from his mother,
and which sometimes degenerated into affectation, often
amused his simpler-mannered cousin, and provoked him
to the expression of wholesome ridicule. But the tragic
set of Paul’s features warned him that anything in the
shape of laughter would be ill-timed, so he composed his

v

STORM. 16f

lace to a decent gravity, observing that he had feared,
from certain hints Paul had given, that times were hard
lwith him, and that he was delighted to find himself
‘mistaken.

“If it isn’t money,” he reflected, “it must be love.
Though, how on earth I am to help him at that, I
don’t, know.”

~ “You seem a cup too low,” he added aloud.
Come, cheer up; whatever it is, you have the world
‘before you, and a stout pair of arms to fight it with.”

“Thank you,” Paul replied with sharper irony, “I
Fam in no need of either your advice or your sympathy.”

“Then, what in the world does he want?” thought
‘the other. “It cannot be his mother’s temper.”

“Surely you must know what explanation I require,”
continued Paul, relieving his irritation by dinting the turf
sharply with his heel. Edward possessed that perfect
good temper which results from the combination of a
good digestion, a clean conscience, and congenial circum-
stances; the undisturbed amiuability with which he met
his fiery cousin’s determination to quarrel with him was
most aggravating. “Is it possible,” Paul thought, con-
centrating his blazing glance upon that cheerful face,
“that this man can be such a hypocrite as well as
traitor? I wish to know,” he added aloud, “the object of
your visits to Arden Manor?”

“Indeed?” The good-tempered face darkened now.
“That is my affair.’ Edward rose from the bench,
made a few steps and then retraced them. “Do you

The Reproach of Annesley. I. I!

162 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

for the express purpose of asking why I visit at Arden

“For the express purpose,” replied Paul, the b
coming audibly through his quivering nostrils. |

The momentary irritation passed away and Edw
laughed.

“Vou always were a queer fellow,” he said; “
why this paternal interest in my goings and comings

“T warned you,” continued Paul; “I explained
situation to you; I have spoken to you since of my h
and wishes. You have indeed honoured my confide
The very first day you went there by stealth. It
unnecessary, you might have gone openly. A se
time you went by stealth when every one consid
you to be miles away. Yet, after what passed in
presence, secrecy was absurd. Do you suppose me
be blind? We all know that a girl flirt delights i
trying to make conquests of those who belong to others.
That a man should descend so far is, I own, almost
incredible. But one must believe the evidence of one’s;
senses. That a man, I will not say a gentleman, a man,
with the most elementary notions of honour should
deliberately pay his addresses in a quarter to which——”:

“My dear Paul,” interrupted Edward, keeping a
grave face with difficulty, “what a ridiculous misunder-
standing this is! Beware of jealousy.”

“Jealousy!” cried Paul, flinging away from him with
his eyes rolling. “Jealousy, indeed! I saw you,” he
added inconsistently, “when you said good-bye at my

mean to say,” he asked, “that you brought me out ef

STORM. 163

to-day. And on that night I saw you placing her
; on the bow with your infernal fingers——”
And were not jealous? Sensible fellow! Seriously
are in a painful position, and it makes you, as you
me the other day, over-sensitive; you cannot see
$s in their night proportions; you exaggerate
3.”
‘Is it a trifle that you are almost an inmate of that
2? that she gives you flowers? that you treasure up
wer she drops? that you look into her eyes as I
you look an hour ago? that you sing with her?
alone with her? act like an idiot when she is near?
ll that is sacred——”
Come, listen to reason; I admit you are not jealous.
as you said the other day, it makes you wretched
is uncertain state of affairs even to hear of other
going to the house, much less being civil to her.”
Civil!”
One must be civil to ladies, especially in their own
2s. I was bound to teach her to shoot. But I am
sent of the other crimes you impute to me, I swear
Look here, Paul. I will stand more from you
from any man living. But you go too far. You
1ard hit and in a false position, and that makes
forget youself. Put an end to all this, for pity’s
_ask her to marry you and have done with it.”
Have done with it; that would, no doubt, be
‘able to you,” Paul repeated, with a grim smile.
I may be mistaken, after all; you have no doubt
11*

164 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

been $0 obliging as to try to advance my su
proxy.” '

Edward turned red when he remembered his.
fortunate essay in that line in Arden churchyard.

“Nonsense,” he replied, laughing. “Come, ¥
have the field to yourself. I shall not be seeing
for weeks. In the meantime, come to the point,
let me congratulate you on being engaged before
come back again.”

The easy way in which he proposed this im
thing turned all Paul’s blood to fire, made his
swim, and clouded his eyes for a moment. He
that Edward and Alice loved each other, and,
than that, he knew that Edward, while speaking
this insolent nonchalance, was fully aware that he
won Alice’s heart. The fire of inextinguishable
burned in his breast, and the madness of jealousy
sessed him; the parting look between the two pierce
like a poisoned arrow to the core of his heart; it wal
well for him that no deadly weapon was at hand a
his cousin’s last words would have been spoken.

“You have no explanation to offer then?” he asked

“There is nothing to explain. You accuse me q
paying too much attention to the lady of your choic
I reply that I have not done so.”

“Can you deny that you love Alice Lingard?” h
urged.

“Surely you mean Sibyl?” Edward faltered, wit
a sudden pallor. “Rt was she of whom you spok

STORM, 165

night. I had not even heard of Miss Lingard’s

istence.”

“Then it is true,” Paul said tragically; and for

moments neither cousin could do anything but
to realize the painful situation in which they found
Ives.

“It was not my mistake alone,’’ added Edward, who
las now grave enough. “Your mother jested on the
ubject the first night I spent there.”

“Are you engaged to Miss Lingard?” Paul asked,
uming a stony face, from which despair had taken all
be fury, towards the pained glance of his cousin.

“No,” he replied, and for the moment wished he
ould have said yes. If he had not already won Alice’s
leart, he knew that he was on the high road to it. He
tight have spoken the night before, but he considered
k scarcely seemly to be so precipitate. And, now that
be had not actually committed himself, he did not
know what to do. He had certainly injured Paul, and
in a way that made atonement impossible.

“I am sorry for this,” he said, after a pause, “more
sorry than I can say.” And yet he doubted if his
advent had done Paul much harm. He had had the
‘first chance and had missed it. But what if Alice had
‘weemed to accept his attentions for the purpose of
\drawing the laggard lover on? Girls often did that.
| Girls like Alice? Oh, no; Alice was different; she was

tot to be measured by ordinary standards.

The discovery that Edward had not played him

166 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

false, and that he had consequently no grievance again
him, served rather to intensify the jealous anger whi
devoured Paul’s heart. Every expression of regret d
Edward’s part was another assurance that Alice
been stolen from him.

“You must never see her again,” he said decisiv
An apple-tree covered with blossom rose behind ht
and traced its pink and white branches upon the
blue sky. He turned and took a thick bough in
hands and snapped it like a stick of wax, and the pi
tracery was now marked on the green turf at his’‘f
Edward plucked some of the red twigs of the hi
tree, and twisted them round his fingers until he n
brought the blood. The blackbird fluted melodi
the hum of the busy market-place went on, the ch
clock chimed the hour, and the gnomon of the tree
shadows changed its place on the turf-dial, while the
two cousins stood silent, facing each other, divided thi
way and that by distracting thoughts.

“I cannot promise that,” Edward replied at last
“We cannot both have her, but one must. She is no
to be left to linger out her youth in doubt. I give yo
three months. That is a long time. Six weeks ago.
had never heard of her.”

Paul made another deep dent in the turf. Thret
months was no time, and how could he ask a womal
to marry him in his present circumstances? Besides
would Alice forget Edward in three months?

Edward was asking himself the same question. H:

STORM. 167

1 no right to believe that she would ever think of
1, and yet it seemed impossible that the stream of
ir lives, having once mingled, could ever divide
un. But Love is jealous. Alice had known Paul
years; she admired his character; she might easily
ak his own feeling for her, if not followed up in
se three months, a passing fancy, and would certainly
snch whatever feeling for himself might have been
Minating within her, when she saw that Paul’s happi-
is depended upon her.
“Three months is no time,” Paul said.

“You must indeed be blind,” returned Edward, “if
1 cannot see what a tremendous advantage those
ee months will give you. She will think I have
gotten her.”

Paul did not think so, yet he wondered that Edward
ild face such a possibility. After all, did this
d-blooded fellow really care for her? Surely not as
did.

“T cannot live without her,” he cried in his stormy
y, “and perhaps you can.”

“Yes,” replied Edward slowly, “I caz live without

Perhaps I should be no good to her. If only she

happy! If she takes you—and I cannot say that I
h that—it must be as Heaven pleases—I shall
get this, I shall try to be her friend—yes, and
irs. It is something to have known her, more to
re loved her. Heaven bless her! ‘Till three months

33

n.

168 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

He was gone.

Paul was touched. The pendulum of his impe
nature swung to the other extreme. He could not ha
yielded that advantage, and he thought that if Ah
took Edward she would take the better man. Hs
remembered what a golden strand his cousin’s frie
ship had woven in his lonely childhood and
all his life. A thousand forgotten things revived 1
his memory; he thought what a good fellow Edward
was! what days they had had together! He knew that
not every man had such a friend, and few women such
a lover. And a vague foreboding warned him that the
life-long comradeship would never be renewed. At
last he turned to go back to the house, and met a
maid tripping over the turf with a note. “From Mr.
Rickman, sir,” she said. He opened it with a pre ,
occupied air and read: |

‘“‘The infant Annesley died this morning. G. R.”

He was now the actual heir of Gledesworth. The
present owner was incapable of making a will.

“Poor little fellow!” he exclaimed; “poor baby!
poor young mother!”’ |

Then he went in to convey the weighty tidings to
Mrs. Annesley.

‘Edward was now on his way home with a heavy
weight on his heart, thinking that the two best things
in his life, his love and his friendship, had been broken
at one blow.

PART IIL

CHAPTER I

LIGHT AND SHADE.

Ir was a dark day in May, one of those weird, poetic
days, full of purple shadows broken by bursts of hazy
sun-gold, in which the most lovely and capricious of
months hides its youth and freshness under a gloom
borrowed from autumn as if in sport.

Mysterious folds of gloom were wove about the
downs; great masses of purple and umber shade
floated solemnly over the level lands below them; the
hills on the horizon borrowed an adventitious grandeur
from these broad cloud-shadows, and from the dark
haze swathed about their flanks; the level band of sea,
where the hills suddenly broke away from the shore,
was dark, dream-like and lighted by fitful gleams of
gold; here and there, when a rift in the heavy clouds
let the sunshine through in a long, misty shaft, an un-
expected field, cottage or village tower shone out from
the surrounding haze, only to fade into the warm gloom
again with a most magical effect; the dense dark woods,
which looked autumnal in the shadow, ‘smiled now and
again under the sun-bursts into the exquisitely varied
tints of fresh May foliage.

172 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

On such a day nightingales sing in the stillness of
the shadowy woods, and now and then blackbirds
interrupt them with their flute-notes, while larks keep
fluttering upwards with sudden torrents of song. On
such a day the cuckoo is less persistent in his merry de-
fiance, and doves moan continually in fragrant firwoods.

The square solid tower of Arden church looked ;
darker and grander beneath the deep cloud-piled sky,
a solemn shadow brooded over the thatched roofs and
stone walls of the cottages, over the grey gables of
Arden Manor, and the dark-tiled Parsonage roof. From
the church-tower there hung in rarely-stirred folds 4
flag, half-mast high; one or two were shown in the
village; the throb of the slow-pulsed knell vibrated upoa
the quiet air. Raysh Squire was once more exercising
his melancholy function in the chill darkness of the
belfry, whither even on the brightest summer days a
wandering sunbeam rarely strayed, and then only in
slender, half-dimmed rods. Raysh yawned; he had
been pulling his rope for a good hour, and, in spite of
his firm conviction that only such art as he had acquired
in a life-long exercise of his craft could do justice to a
funeral knell, and that such art did not reside in any
mortal arm within ten miles of Arden, he sorely wanted
to see and hear all that was going on outside in the
thronged churchyard, and continually asked for informa-
tion of the little grandchild he had stationed at the
door, which stood slightly ajar for the purpose.

“Baint ’em come yet?” he kept repeating, with im-

LIGHT AND SHADE. 173

patience; and the little one always said, “No; only the
live ones is come.”

A low murmur of voices rose from the village and
hummed under the very walls of the church; the land-
lord of the Golden Horse moved about with a sort of
melancholy exultation irradiating his wooden visage,
and gave up counting the maze of vehicles drawn up
under the sycamore-trees before his door in an agreeable
despair; while his wife and daughter flew hither and
thither with crimson faces and panting chests, in the
vain attempt to be in five places at once and the still
vaner endeavour to discriminate between the numerous
ders heaped upon them, until the landlady became
“that harled,” as she expressed it, that she relieved her
feelings by dealing a sounding box on the ear to the
astounded and unoffending stable-help, thus completely
Scattering what remained of his harried wits; after that
she felt better, though it cost her a solid, silver shilling.

The whole of Arden village, gentle and simple,
every one who was not too old or too ill, was about
the churchyard or along the road; extreme youth was
ho bar to coming out, since it could be carried in arms,
Whence it occasionally expressed loud dissatisfaction
at the lot of man, not knowing how soon it would be
queted once and for all in the silence whence it came.
Everybody wore a bit of black ribbon or crape, and
every face expressed that quiet enjoyment which the
British lower classes experience only at a funeral.

“Where there’s one death in a family there’s sure

174 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

to be three avore the year’s out,” one kind-faced matrot
observed to another with unction.

“Zure enough,” replied the other in an awed voice,
“but taint every day there’s such a sad death as this
yere. My master, he zes there’s trouble for everybody
holding Gledesworth lands, and there ain’t no going
agen it no more than Scripture. Bide still, Billy, my
dear; don’t ee pull sister’s hair now.”

The national temperament, seen pure and unadul-
terated only in the lower classes, delights chiefly in the
dismal; it may be that the countrymen of Shakspeare
and Milton have a natural bias for tragedy; it may be
that strong and deep natures can only be moved by
strong and deep things, such as the dark mysteries of
death and sorrow. At all events the light and bright
things that set other Europeans laughing and dancing,
too frequently move our sober folk only to a sort of
wondering contempt.

Presently a dark procession was seen winding slowly
between the cottage flower-gardens; the vicar, a solitary
and conspicuous figure in his white surplice, issued
from the deep-arched door and walked slowly down to
the lych-gate, to meet the solemn and silent guest with
words of immortal hope; a touching custom, which
seems like the welcome home of a son, never more to
leave the fatherly roof.

Then the occupants of the carts and carmniages
emptied and drawn up before the Golden Horse,
arranged themselves in fit order with those who had

LIGHT AND SHADE. 175

followed the hearse over the downs all the way from
distant Gledesworth, and the silent and unconscious
centre of all the lugubrious pomp was lifted on to the
broad shoulders of eight stalwart labourers, in white
smocks, blue Sunday trousers and broad felt hats, and
bome silently after the welcoming priest into the dim
church, which was already half-full of women in black
(for the men were nearly all following), and where the
ar was tremulous with the wail of the Funeral March
from the organ.

There were no breaking hearts and streaming eyes
at this burial; those who had loved the man lying
beneath the violet velvet pall were gone to their long
home, and he who walked as chief mourner behind
him, Paul Annesley, had never known him. But there
were tears in Paul Annesley’s eyes; his face was pale
with feeling and his heart ached within him with pity
for the man he had never seen, who for ten weary

- years had been a captive, strange to all the joys of life,
dead to all its interests and affections, exchanging no
rational word with his fellow-men, and seeing the face
of none who loved him. Yet though it was well that
the darkness of death should close upon this terrible
affiction, the pity of it struck keen to the heart of the
man who inherited the possessions which had been so
valueless to their owner, and the fact that all the lands
they had traversed that morning, the very land out of
which that small field reserved for God and the poorest
of men was taken, belonged to him, made that darkened

176 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

and silenced life seem the more pitiful to the heir, stand:
ing above the coffin in the flower of his youth.

Paul had been discontented with his lot, and now
one higher than he had ever dreamed of was his. He
was in some sort the lord of all that following of
tenantry who packed the church aisles and thronged
the churchyard in silent homage to the poor dead!
maniac. His sudden good-fortune touched his heart to
the core, made it ache with compassion for his unknown
kinsman, and pierced it with a sense of his own de |
fects. Dr. Davis, his former successful rival, stood not
far off, having come uninvited out of respect to the
dead man, or rather to his position. Their relative
Positions were indeed changed, and Paul was ashamed
of his former jealousy. Gervase Rickman was there as.
steward to the estate; the broad-faced, hearty-voiced
farmers who yesterday might employ him or not as they
chose, were to-day his tenants; their manner to him
had changed already. He was still actually the parish 3
doctor; only two nights ago he rode over the bleak
downs to help Daniel Pink’s wife in her trouble, Daniel :
Pink, who, though not on the home farm, represented -
his father, now too feeble for the service, as a bearer.

There was little air in the dim, massive church,
where the heavy arches rested on low, solid piers of
immense girth; it was obstructed by old-fashioned
Square pews; the light came dimly through the deep,
small-paned windows, many of which, stained richly,
broke the white daylight in various colours over the

LIGHT AND SHADE. 177

¢ effigies of former Annesleys, couched there with

“ice and helm in perpetual prayer. The musty odour
f the unsunned church was stifling; the monotonous
"ice of the clergyman fell sadly upon the ear, echoed
¥ Raysh Squire’s still more monotonous church falsetto,
Mplaining of the brevity of man’s stay upon earth
d its sadness; these things, and the strangeness of
: thoughts which came upon him as he stood in a
sition to which he was not born, and which was yet
by birth, so wrought on Paul that he could scarcely
nain there, and was glad when the rite in the church
s done, and they came out into the free air again,
1 the buzz of low voices died away before them.

A sun-burst fell upon the violet pall; it lighted the
ite smocks of the bearers, the weathered stonework
the church, the delicate green of the elms where
ks were cawing, and glorified the faces of the crowd.
al wondered how his turn of fortune would work on
ce? It would be nothing without her, and though
now contrasted his position with Edward’s trium-
antly, he would gladly have exchanged with him, or
ik back into the struggling and unsuccessful parish
ctor, if he could but win Alice.

People looked with wondering interest at the pale
e, so familiar to most of them under such different
Ociations, for the most part with harmless envy of
: on whom Fortune had so suddenly smiled, other-
e not without a vague pity. There were whispers
the mysterious doom which clung to the owner of
te Reproach of Annesley. I. 12

LIGHT AND SHADE. E79

rm affections of a home that his own strong arms
uintained, and a plain path of daily duty marked out
‘fore him; he walked upon an earth full of meaning
1d beauty, and looked up to an infinite heaven of
iajesty and wonder. His heart was touched with pity
oth for the rich man they were laying in his tomb, his
ather’s master, and for the young heir who stood living
fore him.

Only when the last words of prayer and blessing
were said, the last rites done, and they turned away
from the vault, the reality of his changed fortune came
home to Paul, and with it a new sense of human respon-
ubility, and especially his own. Yearnings for a better
life came to him on the brink of that dark vault; he
resolved to be worthy of the gifts suddenly heaped
¥pon him. How mean his past life seemed in the light
of these new aspirations!

So he thought as he left the churchyard leading on
his arm the widow of young Reginald Annesley, and
the mother of the dead baby, who, like himself, had
never seen the elder Reginald. One of his first duties
wuld be to make her a liberal provision; for, owing to
tforeseen circumstances and the reversal of natural
(der in the untimely deaths of her husband and child,
scarcely anything had fallen to her share. There was
tven a pathos in the fact that this dead man had care-
‘ally entailed his estates, but vainly, since his issue
ailed and his lands passed immediately to an unknown
leir-at-law.

12%

180 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Mrs. Walter Annesley was in the church, veile
crape, with a handkerchief to her eyes, yet by nom
consumed with gnef. She had indeed one caus
sorrow in the fact that Paul’s inheritance had falle
him so early that he had not time to appreciate
sacrifice she made to pay his debts. She was thir
of the new lord of Gledesworth, and wishing that /
who was sitting unseen at the organ, would medita!
the same theme.

“Let us fly from this dismal place, Alice,”
Sibyl in the afternoon; “of all the humbugs in
humbugging world, funerals are the greatest and
dismal. I will not have any fuss made about me
I am dead, remember that. I am so glad Pa
turned into a little prince. I never realized it ti
day. I suppose he will be too grand to come t
Manor now?”

“Do you want to get rid of him, Sibyl?”

“I? Oh! my dear, he does not come to see
replied Sibyl with an air of raillery apparently lc
Alice, who was busy arranging Hubert’s collar so
leash him. But Sibyl was not easily extinguished
when they had gone a little way through the field
returned to the charge.

“Tam sure that he was not happy, Alice,” she
with a mysterious air; “there was a secret cank

the root of everything, and I believe it was we
money.”

LIGHT AND SHADE. 181

“If you are alluding to Daniel Pink,” replied Alice
with a little smile, “he is the most contented fellow I
know, and though his large family does make him
spoor——”

“ Alice, how provoking you are! Pink indeed!”

- As they were setting forth expressly to visit Pink’s

- wife and welcome the ninth baby, Alice explained that
: it was most natural to be thinking of him.
. “As if people could think of anybody but the new
. ttle king,” replied Sibyl; “I feel quite set up myself.
"Do look rovfid, Alice, and realize that all this belongs
= to Paul Annesley, this very turf we are walking on and
sour own dear Arden Manor down there by the church.
I suppose he could turn us out if he chose, we are a
kind of vassals. I almost wish he would, Arden is so
very dull; don’t you?”

“You are growing restless again. Is this philo-
sophic?” asked Alice, placing the basket she was carry-
ing to the shepherd’s wife on the ground and resting
her arms on a gate halfway up the down.

“No; it’s human. Yes, I am restless. I want—oh
Il want—everything/’’ cried Sibyl.

Alice took the bright face in her hands, and kissed
it “You are a little fool, Sibbie,” she said gently, “a
dear little fool. Write some more verses, it always does
you good. I am not sure that a good whipping would
hot be the best thing.”

“No doubt,” replied Sibyl, while she lifted her head
and gazed on the solemn fields and hills over which

182 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

the great cloud-shadows were slowly sailing in |
and larger masses, thus leaving rarer intervals of
light, as if she were looking in vain for happi
“Do you think, Alice, it will be always like this?
Arden, Raysh ringing the bells, the garden, the dairy,
day’s shopping in Medington, an occasional visitor, Mr
Pink’s annual baby, the choir-practice, and Hora
Merton coming home from Oxford and worrying thé
vicar ?”’

Alice looked thoughtfully at Sibyl’s pretty wistfal.
face and wondered “who he was?” Sureky not young:
Merton himself, the vicar’s troublesome prodigal, whom
she had seen that morning, the only uninterested person
during the funeral, at full length in a hammock undef
the vicarage trees, studying French literature in yellow
paper covers, in obedience to his father’s request that
he should “read a little” during his enforced absence
from Oxford; an absence connected with the ur
authorized introduction of a monkey to the apartments
of a Don, as poor Mr. Merton understood. This young
gentleman haunted the Manor with the persistence of
an ancestral ghost, and was not without his good points,
in spite of the monkey incident; yet though Sibyl
diligently snubbed him, as she did all her victims
soon as the nature of their malady became apparent,
no one could say when and in whose person the fated
man might appear.

“Perhaps there will be a change for us,” Alice said;
“Mrs. Pink may not go on having babies for ever, anc

LIGHT AND SHADE, 183

prace Merton will not be sent down more than once
sain. And some day Raysh will be ringing the bells
3 your wedding.”

“What a trivial notion! Can’t you onginate some-
hing a little less commonplace?”

“Well! for mine then. I am sure that is a new
idea. Then you would get rid of me.”

“I don’t know,” replied Sibyl, “I don’t think you
would go very far.”

“Dear Sibbie, you are more sibylline than usual. I
can’t see the point of the innuendo, unless you mean
me to elope with Raysh,” said Alice, pursuing her way
tranquilly with the basket in her hand.

“I do think you are stone-blind,” continued Sibyl, in
agraver tone. “My dear, don’t you know what every-
body else knows or has known for the last few weeks,
that that poor fellows happiness hangs upon your
breath ?”

Alice grew hot, and made a movement of im-
patiencé; then she asked Sibyl to speak plainly and
leave the subject.

“He is really such a good fellow, and it would make
ts all so happy to have you near, and you would make
him so happy. And his mother wishes it, she even
asked me to try to bring it on.”

“Oh!” returned Alice, with a sigh of relief, “in
sttict confidence, I suppose, Miss Sib. A pretty con-
spirator she chose when she lighted upon you. You
sweet goose, if you must needs amuse yourself with

184 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

match-making, you could not hit upon a worse pis
than to show your hand.”

“But Alice, do be senous——”

“Dear child, I ami serious, and I wish you to under-
stand once for all that it is a mistake, and to help me
spare him the pain of a direct refusal. I saw it all
months ago, and have done my best to put a stop #.
it. I even thought of going away for a time.”

“Jt is in your power to make him so happy,” said ‘
Sibyl pathetically. “You might grow to care for him in
time, you know.”

“Never,” she answered. “I could never—in any
case—have cared for a man of that uncontrolled dit
position—even supposing——”

“Supposing what?” Sibyl asked with a keen look. .

“Oh! nothing. I mean, even if I loved him, I could
never be happy with such a man. I am like my mother.
I saw her misery, Sibyl, child as I was. There was
that in my poor father which made her feel him her
inferior—it is not for me to speak of his faults. Ifl
once found what I could not respect in a man, I could
not live with him. I have a sort of pride——”

“But, Alice,” interrupted Sibyl quickly, “if you
cannot respect Paul Annesley, whom then can you
respect ?”

“Oh, I beg his pardon,” replied Alice, her breath
taken away by this sudden indignation; “I spoke widely.
Of course I respect our old and true friend Paul. But
a husband—that is different— it is something stronger

LIGHT AND SHADE. 185

d deeper than respect, it is reverence that a husband
mpels.”

‘And what can you not reverence in Dr. Annesley?”
sked Sibyl with such remorseless persistence, that
dice began to wonder if Paul Annesley could be the
1ame of him who had troubled her friend’s peace of
nind.

“He is at the mercy of his own impulses,” she
said.

“And they are always good,” pursued Sibyl] vin-
dictively.

“You say a bold thing, when you say that of any
human being, Sibyl. No, I can only give my deepest
reverence to the man who is master of himself. ‘Give
me the man that is not passion’s slave.’ I can value
this one as a friend, but—no nearer. No one knows
what is in Paul Annesley; any turn of fate may bring
him into a totally opposite direction; he might do any-
thing. I tell you in the very strictest confidence what
I would tell no other human being, I tremble for him
now; he will never be the same again, now that his
circumstances are so changed, and what he will be,
Heaven alone knows. As you say, he has good impulses,
but what are they without a guiding principle and a
compelling will?”

“And you alone can give his life a nght direction,”
urged Sibyl. “Oh, Alice! think what it is to hold this
man’s fate in your hands!”

“And what if I hold another——” She stopped

186 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

short and coloured. “Dear Sibyl, you are indeed a
staunch friend,” she added in a gentler voice. “If he
could win you now—a heart is so easily caught at the
rebound.”

“There will be no rebound,” replied Sibyl in $0
even a voice that Alice was sure of the Platonic nature
of her regard for Paul. “The kind of malady yo
inspire, you dear creature, is incurable. People soo
get over the slight shocks I administer, but you aft
fatal.”

Alice smiled tenderly upon Sibyl, but made 10
rejoinder, and they walked on noiselessly over the rich
turf, deep in thought. Sibyl’s regard for Alice had, 38
the other well knew, something of worship; her ardent
nature invested her friendships with a romantic et
thusiasm that sometimes made her calmer friend smile
and often called forth a gentle rebuke from her. Perhaps
Alice’s affection for the younger and more impetuous -
girl was as strong as Sibyl’s, though it expressed itself
less passionately, and had a strong dash of maternal
compassion. Nothing had ever come between them
since they had first met, two shy stranger girls of
thirteen in the porch of Arden Manor, and _ instantly
lost their shyness in the fellow-feeling it engendered
between them.

The first bar was to come that day. It happened
in Daniel Pink’s solitary thatched cottage, which was
built in a nest-like hollow under the down. The girls
entered the low porch, like the welcome guests they

LIGHT AND SHADE. 187

were, and sat in the dim smoke-blackened room, handling
and discussing the ninth little Pink by turns, while the
shepherd looked on with a pleased face, with the deposed
baby in his arms and two chubby children a little older
clinging to his knees.

“Look at the heft of ’n,”’ said the proud father,
“entirely drags ye down, Miss Sibyl, ’e do.”

“I wouldn’t carry him a mile for a fortune,” Sibyl
replied, kissing the little red fist, “not for all the lands
of Gledesworth, Shepherd.”

“I ‘lows you wouldn’t, Miss. Dr. Annesley have
took a heavy weight on the shoulders of ’n. A many
have been bowed down by riches, a many, as I’ve a
yerd zay.”

“And many have been crushed by poverty,” Alice
said.

“Zure enough. *Taint fur we to zay what’s good
for us, Miss Alice. A personable man, but a doesn’t
come up to the Captain, the doctor doesn’t.”

“The Captain?” asked Alice, wondering.

“Oh! he is only a lieutenant. You mean Lieutenant
Annesley, don’t you, Master Pink?” said the ready Sibyl.

“When I zeen he and you walking together, Miss
Lingard,” continued the shepherd gravely, “I zes to
Ineself, I zes ‘Marriages is made in Heaven,’ I zes.
And Mam Gale, she zays——”

“Oh! Master Pink, you won’t forget about the
Seedlings, will you” cried Alice, starting up. “It is getting
80 late. We have stayed too long.”

gece she tasket ame learmg Sabri to follow moe
vesurely. Ske walked sc fast that she had reached the
gaze =. the ecd cof he field through winch the cottage’
was appreached belare Sibvi had left the garden, al
waited fxr her there. with flushed cheeks. Sibyl’s realy
tongue was unaccountably tied when she joined her:
a strange pam was gnawing at her heart, and Alic’s
attempts zt common-place chat did not succeed.

“I can't help thinking that this same Mr. Edward
Annesley might just as well write to us, Alice,” she
said at last “That little note to mother the day afte
he left was the briefest formality.”

“Perhaps,” replied Alice, who had now regained her
self-possession, “he thinks the same of us. You cal
scold him when he comes.” |

“But will he come?” asked Sibyl, with such eager
ness that Alice stopped on her way and looked with |
sudden misgiving into Sybil’s dark ardent eyes and ©
read all. |

“Sibyl,” she said, “oh! Sibyl!” and she tried to
draw her nearer; but Sibyl pushed her back with a
look Alice had never seen before, and walked on in
silence.

In the first bitter flood of jealous agony that surged
into her heart Sibyl felt capable of hating her friend,
then the mortifying memory of her self-deception made
her so hot with self-contempt that every other feeling
wan swallowed up in it, and she longed for the earth

' LIGHT AND SHADE. 189

d open and hide her away. for ever. It seemed as if
he had better never have been born than make so
ireadful a blunder at the very threshold of life; she
thought she could never endure to live any more.
Then things came back to her memory, little insignifi-
Cant details which had passed unobserved at the time,
but which now showed the general meaning of the
Whole story, just as the festal lights reveal the general
outines of a building, and she saw clearly how things
Sood between Edward and Alice. How could it have
ben otherwise? She felt the charm of Alice too
deeply herself to wonder that she should have been
Preferred. It was inevitable that those two should
choose each other. But for her everything had come
fo a full stop. “Entbehren sollst du,” was the message
the woods and fields and sea had for her that day; it
vas written in the deep cloud-piled sky, and in the
ilemn shadows about the hills; the rooks, sailing home
a stately chanting procession, reminded her of it, and
he blackbirds, fluting mournfully down in the copses,
2peated it; even the lark, fluttering upwards with the
eginning of a song, and dropping back into silence,
ad the same meaning in his music.

She paused and allowed Alice to come up with her,
nd seeing that she had been crying, kissed her with a
ort of passion.

“Do you remember the day you first came to Arden,
lice?” she said, “when I found you crying in your
yom after we were sent to bed?”

90 THE REPEOACH OF ANMESLEY.

~And wou comforted me, and we agreed alway:
be trends ~

~And now my crossmess has made you cry, |
poor dear: Amd you are dearer to me than anyb
m the whole universe.”

“Subst ?*

~And there is Gervase out by the ncks wonde
why we are so late. Let us make haste home.”

Then Gervase caught sight of them and cam
meet them, scoldmg them both with fraternal im
tiality for being so late. He had lately taken to Ir
in rooms at Medington to save time im going and ¢
ing from business, and now expected to be treate
a guest m his frequent visits to Arden.

He looked at Sibyl and saw that something
wrong; and Alice looked at the brother and sister
a sort of remorse. In spite of Gervase’s well-a
brotherliness, she was not sure that she had not di
him from his home, and now she had done somet
worse to his sister; all this was a poor requital t
family in which she had been received, a lonely «
The question now arose, how should she set -
wrongs right? How could she stand alone agains
iron strength of Fate?

This helplessness completely crushed her sy
she slipped away to the solitude of her own roor
der the pretext of fatigue, and sat musing long a
open lattice.

Gervase in the meantime had taken his violin,

LIGHT AND SHADE. 1g!

raning against the great apple-tree, whence the blos-
om was now almost gone, drew his bow across the
trings so that they made an almost human cry, a sound
ihat never failed to bring Sibyl to his side, and she
Came out and sat in the seat beneath him, while he
played on in silence strains so mournful and so tender
that they drew the over-charge of feeling from her heart
and the refreshing tears to her eyes, till the “Entbehren
sollst du, sollst entbehren,” which the lark and the
breezes sang to her in the afternoon, seemed the
sweetest refrain in the world.

While he played, a series of pictures rose before
Geryase’s mind, pictures in which he saw himself baf-
fing by continual thrusts the fate which to Alice
&emed so invincible, until he had bound Edward to
bis sister, and Alice to himself.

Alice heard the music from her window, and it
lrew tears from her eyes.

Ig2 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER IL

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY.

Ir is beautiful to be on the line of rail which ru
along the Jura; the mountain rises sheer on one sid
and the steep falls suddenly away on the other, whi
the traveller is borne with birdlike swiftness and direc
ness along the hillside, secure, without effort, straigt
to an apparent block which hinders further progres
But a closer view shows a black spot in the rocky mas
tiny as the nest of some sea-bird on a cliff; it grows :
the distance lessens, till it becomes a dark arch, an
into that darts the train with angry thunder and »
patient panting, and there is blackness all round, an
thick air, and a vague distress of body and mind f
awhile. Then a pale light gleams and a sweet rush |
air follows, and out like a bird darts the long train,
if suspended in mid-air by the mountain-side, till a
other tiny bird-hole appears, and growing, swallows t
the darting length of the train, which is soon cast for
once more on the open face of the steep cliff. All tl
is pleasant in itself, but still more pleasant to one wh
like Edward Annesley, is impatient of the journey}
length and anxious to reach its end.

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 193

He bestowed various inward maledictions upon Con-
inental railways as he journeyed on, and wondered
aow such a blessing as steam came to be bestowed
mpon a people so inappreciative of the speed to be got
Out of it. But the swiftest English express would have
been slow in comparison with the winged desires which
bore his heart onwards to the goal of Alice Lingard’s
Presence. The three months’ embargo was now taken
of and Paul was not yet engaged to Alice; Edward was
-Aherefore free to prosecute his own suit.
.’ The frontier was cleared, the interminable delay of
| the customs officers at an end, and the long sweep of
“the waters of Neufchatel shone greyly along the low
theres in the dim, misty morning. And is this the
gory of Alpine lakeland? this long, grey river between
the low, grey shores? Where are the mountains? where
the pearly gleam of the far-off snow-peaks, shaming the
less ethereal lustre of the white cloud-masses? where
the blue shadows in the mountain-flanks, the distant
hint of glacier and crevasse, the purple folds of the
wooded spurs lower down? ‘There is nothing but a
yall of grey sky brooding heavily over a sheet of cold,
rey water, ruffled slightly by the September breeze;
he sedges and reeds about the banks rustle mourn-
ully; a bird’s wild and desolate cry is heard; no boats
lide over the lonely lake; the train creeps on, and
\dward feels the inward chill of disappointment that
eality too often brings to long brooded hopes.

The train stopped to the accompaniment of cnes of
The Reproach of Annesley. /, 13

194 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Granson;” he got out and strolled through the nar
street to a broad-eaved house with a low portal ope
ing on the pavement, and was soon standing im its ct
flagged hall, clasped in the arms of a gold-haired g
and the centre of admiring and sympathetic gland
from other fair-haired girls who were flitung up a
down the uncarpeted staircase and sighing for the
when fathers and brothers should come to fetch thei
away to their foreign homes.
“I say, Nell,” he remonstrated, after a resigned ki
“if this kind of thing could only be done with so
attempt at privacy.” ;
“I daresay,” sobbed Eleanor, “when I have st
spoken English for months or seen anybody from home
for a year. Wait till you get Heimweh, you hard
hearted thing!”
“Well! pack up your traps and let us be off wi
Neufchatel by the next train,” he said, following hs
sister into the august presence of the school-mistress;
from whom he had much difficulty in wresting the re
quired permission. Then, after being introduced to five
of Miss Eleanor’s very best friends, and dining in 8
very feminine and attenuated manner with the whda
sisterhood, he bore her off at last in triumph by t
afternoon train.
And then a miracle happened. By this time the
Streets were flooded with the warm gold of autum
sunshine, and the lake waters sparkled with sapphire.

reflections, and lo! the heavy pall of grey had been:

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 195

wept away by unseen hands, and behind it, spreading
way into infimite dim distances, gleaming beneath clear
ky, lay range upon range of white, blue-shadowed Alps,
Meir pure summits springing high, one above the other,
ato the very depths of the pale blue ether overhead.
There they lay, terrible in their snowy grandeur, dream-
tke in their marvellous beauty, tinted with the delicate
wansparency of some airy unsubstantial pageant, and
so real and so impressive in their massive reality.

a repose they had in their naked sublimity, lying
teclined like strong gods at rest, girdling about the lake
and = and holding the earth still in their mighty
- “So Neufchatel is tame?” Eleanor asked, watching her
brother's face of rapt admiration with pleased delight.

“There is enchantment in it! Are ‘there witches
hereabouts, Nell?” he replied.

“Only Sibyl Rickman, who passes for something of
he kind. So nothing came of your flirtation, Ned?”

“Which one?” he replied tranquilly. “One a week
$the average you girls impute to me.”

“Oh! we heard all about it. Harriet wrote me some
mg letters from Aunt Eleanor’s this summer. Auntie
Id her all about Sibyl—_—”

“I hope Miss Rickman boxed the imp’s ears well.”

“The Rickmans were pleased, Auntie said, espe-
ally Gervase.”

“Stuff! I say, Nell, tell me what those peaks are

Ned?”
13*

196 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

-Of course you have heard about Paul and Alig
Lingard 2”

“Heard what?” he asked abruptly, facing about wi
a defiant gaze.

“It’s not given out yet, I believe,” replied /
tranquilly, not unwilling to tantalize her brother o
that she had succeeded in interesting him, “but §
course, as Harriet says (for fifteen, I must say, Ham
is very observant), nobody with half an eye can dod
what is going to happen. Paul was like her shadaf
the whole time, and when a girl accepts presents fre
a man ” .

“Do you mean to say,” Edward asked with slo
and distinct utterance, “that Paul is engaged to ME
Lingard?” ;

“Didn’t I say it is not given out? But Aunti
already makes plans for herself, and decides not to liv
at Gledesworth, with Alice. Not that they don’t get of
well, for Alice is like a daughter to her, Harrie say
Everybody thinks it a great lift for Miss Alice. I nerf
much admired her myself. I believe she has an awit
temper. You saw her, of course?”

“Of course. I was there in the spring,” he repheq
absently, and turned his face away to study the spletq
did vision of the far-spreading mountains before him
Stern and awful those couched giants looked now, lying
so still in their snowy beauty; the pitiless purity of tht
lonely ice peaks struck chill to his very soul. Why hat
he come? Would it not be better now, after escorting

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 197

leanor on her way to join her aunt, just to leave her
md go back? It was too great an advantage for Paul
© be near Alice all those months; what else could have
been expected? Naturally he would die out of her
memory, however strong the impression made in those
lew blissful days at Arden might have been. It was
hard and bitter, but the only thing was to face it like
aman. Yes, he would go in and join the party as be-
Hore proposed, and see Alice once more—there was no
gear that he should trouble her peace, appearing thus
"tt the eleventh hour. All the circumstances, which at
me time had seemed so strong in confirming the hope
she returned his feelings—airy inessential things,
% they were, tones, glances, the turn of a head, the
quiver of a lip, the faltering of an even step—faded
Rto nothingness now; probably she had never even
tuessed at his own devotion; so much the better.

“So that is the Jungfrau,” he said at last, in re-
ponse to Eleanor’s long catalogue of summits and
anges. “No? Oh! you mean that? Yes. Very fine.
‘es.’ There were tears in his eyes when his sister
yoked at him, and his face was quite pale; which signs
he set down to emotion at the first glimpse of Alpine
plendour.

“When was Harrie at Medington?” he asked sud-
lenly.

“Just now. She left in time for Auntie to start.
ihe was awfully sorry to go; she wanted to see things

198 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

come to a crisis. I am to watch progress and d
the dénotiment.”

“Are you? Well! don’t begin match-making ¥
awhile, for pity’s sake. When were postage-stamps!
vented? What was Nero’s leading virtue? Upon
principle were Greek armies raised? Who first used ha
pins, and why? I hope you know something besdé
how to chatter French, Miss, since your education §
finished.”

It was growing dusk when they reached Neuf
The lights were beginning to twinkle out in the street
and to double themselves in the clear and waveles
lake, and, as they gradually drew nearer to the hole
whither they were bound, the memories of the few day
Edward had passed with Alice became more impen
tive; he especially felt the power of those momen
during which they had strolled alone together to t
little inn upon the downs, and it seemed to him thi
what had then passed between them, unspoken thoug
it was, could never be erased from either life, whatev
spell Paul’s passionate wooing might since then ha
cast upon her. The first glance in her face, when tht
met, would tell him all, he thought, and his pul
quickened, and a subtle warmth quivered all throu
him, as he saw to the piling of his sister’s luggage '
the omnibus, while the moments fled which were
bring him face to face with Alice.

“Let us walk on, Nellie,” he said at last, rebelhi
against the slowness with which the loading of 1

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 199

mnibus went on, and he led her along the streets at a
pace which took her breath away, downhill though the
path was, and did not stop till they found themselves
in the broad hall of the hotel, enquiring for Mrs. An-
nesley’s apartments.

When they went up there were two ladies in the
shadowy unlighted room; one was Mrs. Annesley, who
tose with her accustomed stateliness and folded Eleanor
in her arms with a welcoming kiss, and then received
Edward more coldly, and formally thanked him for
Cxorting his sister from school, intimating that Paul
could have done it equally well, and politely conveying
to him the impression, which was but too correct, that
he had much better have remained in England.

“But, my dear aunt,” he replied, revolting against
this cool reception, “I had intended from the very first
lo be one of the Swiss party, if you remember. We
uranged it all in the spring, and I only delayed joining
ou because my leave could not conveniently begin
efore.”’

“We have heard so little of you since the spring,
dward,” she replied icily, “that it was not unnatural
) suppose you had thought better of your intention.”

These words he felt were a prophecy of what Alice
ust have been saying in her heart, if indeed she had
rer given him a thought, and he turned to the other
dy, from addressing whom a strong shyness had held
m, and who, though she had risen, yet remained in
e deep shadow of a recess by the window; looking

200 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

her for the first time full in the face, he met the dak
sweet gaze of Sibyl, whereupon his own eyes fell ad
his shyness with it, and he shook hands with her witha
cordial greeting and unembarrassed smile.

“Do say you are glad to see me, Miss Rickman,”
said; “my aunt has so cruelly crushed me that I re -
quire some comfort from somebody.”

“I am glad to see you, though surprised, pleasantly
surprised,” she replied with loyal simplicity, and %
she spoke Edward suddenly and unaccountably begm
to think of Viola, when she held that memorable ca-
versation with the Duke, “I am all the daughters of
my father’s house, and yet I know not——”

What connection could there be between Viola and
Sibyl? yet ever after he could not think of Viola unless
associated with Sibyl.

“And I know somebody else will be pleasantly sur-
prised to see you,” she added, with a gentle smile,
and then his heart began to beat again, and he hst-
ened for the beloved name. “Perhaps you do nt
know,” she added guilelessly, “what a liking Gervase
has for you.”

“Gervase! oh, Gervase!” he echoed, disenchanted.
“So your brother is here? That is all right. He was :
afraid, I remember, he would not be able to leave his”
business.”

“Gervase always contrives to get his way somehow,

business or no business,” she replied. “But here he is
to speak for himself.”

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 201

Gervase came in and received him with the greatest
ordiality, though he too expressed surprise at his ap-
rearance. “Your telegram to Paul gave us all a pleasing
hock,” he said. “Paul turned quite pale with pleasure,”
ae added, laughing, and unconsumed by ithe fiery glance
which Mrs. Annesley’s blue eyes darted at him.

“And where zs Paul?” asked Edward, whose eyes
kept turning expectantly to the door, and whom some
maccountable feeling held from enquiring for the one
Object of his solicitude.

“Ah! where is Annesley, by the way?” echoed
Gervase, turning to the ladies with an indifferent air.

“I think,” replied Mrs. Annesley, “that they went
on the lake together, dear children! It is getting late
for them.”

“Who are ¢hey ?”’ Edward asked, with unaccustomed
roughness,

“Do not ask too many questions, you tiresome fel-
low, never call attention to these things. I must leave
you now,” she replied. “Come, Nellie, child, you will
scarcely be ready in time for dinner;” and Mrs. Annes-
ley swept from the room like some majestic frigate of old
days, with her niece in her train as a little gun-boat;
while Sibyl followed at some distance, with a look to-
wards Edward which he was too angry to perceive, but
Which meant, “I should like to tell you all about it and
telieve you from causeless fears.”

“Look here, Rickman,” cried Edward, turning round
and facing him with a glance so flaming that Gervase

202 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

was obliged to meet it. “Tell me the truth, will you
Is Paul engaged to Miss Lingard or not?”

“No—” was the word surprised from him by this :
unexpected assault? “Ah! that is—I mean—— Yo
heard what your aunt said, ‘These things are better ne
talked about.’ To call attention to them often spas
them. Things, you see, are just now in a most delicate
stage. There is no doubt whatever about the issue of

it; but the engagement is not yet announced, that’s all.

You’ve dropped upon us at an awkward moment, yoo |
see, and your aunt is not overcome with rapture at the —

sight of you—an outsider makes a certain disturbance
—precipitates matters. I fancy they would like to pro-
long the present undecided state—to proclaim the ea-
gagement would draw attention to themselves, which,
of course, is a fnghtful bore.”

“Then the sooner the engagement is proclaimed the
better,” cried Edward, grimly. “My aunt should be
more careful of a young lady committed to her charge.
I should never permit anything of the kind in the case
of my sisters.”

“Nor should I, Annesley, to be quite frank,” re
turned Rickman, becoming suddenly confidential, “I
have but one sister, but I should be extremely sorry for
the man who ventured to pay marked attentions to her
without coming to the point—very sorry for him,” he
added, with a grim pleasantry that was lost upon his
hearer. “But, you see, Miss Lingard is not your sister
or mine either, and Mrs. Annesley is not under our

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 203

charge, and Switzerland ranks next to our own beloved
and befogged island as a free country. Have you found
yourroom yet? I hear it is next to mine, and has a
splendid outlook over the lake.”

Edward followed him, vexed at his momentary loss
of self-control, and after taking possession of his apart-
ment and finding there were some moments to be filled
yet before the hour of /ab/e d’héte, strolled out by the
Waterside with Rickman.

The glorious autumn sunset had silently consumed
itself, the rich colours were all calmed down into a tender
primrose glow in the west, and the pensive twilight was
dreaming with ever-deepening intensity upon the bosom
of the clear dark waters, Lights from the town looked,
half-ashamed of their own insignificance, into the pure
lake-depths, one or two pale stars gazed steadfastly into
the deep heart of the waters, boats glided silent and
ghost-like over the still surface, voices came softened
through the quieting evening, the noises of the town
blended murmuringly, the majestic peace of the moun-
tas brooded over all. The tumult in Edward’s warm
young heart quieted beneath these sweet calm in-
fluences, some feeling of the nothingness of human
€motion in the presence of the Infinite came upon him,
and he felt that he could meet Alice and part with her
with becoming calm, even cheerfulness, and clasp Paul’s
hand with brotherly warmth in congratulating him.
“Dear old Paul! Heaven bless him!” he said within
himself, as he watched a boat containing two figures

204 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

glide noiselessly towards the tiny quay in the hotel
grounds.

An attendant caught the painter and moored the
dim bark to the landing; the oarsman leapt to land,
and turning, handed a second figure, a woman’s, out of
the boat. Then the two walked arm-in-arm with slow
lingering steps towards the terrace-wall, over which
Edward and Gervase were leaning, and passed along
beneath them. There is a certain manner of walking,
a kind of pensive pausing upon every step as if to
linger out the pleasure of it, with a certain inclination
of the taller head to that beneath it, accompanied bya
low and liquid intonation of the voice, which Edward
had always been pleased to consider as proper to lovers,
and lovers only, and such, he assured himself, these two
people undoubtedly were.

The lingering step bore them just before and beneath
the wall on which he leant, and a shaft of hot and
piercing pain shot through his breast, as in the nearest
face he recognized Paul’s, transfigured by feeling, and
knew that the figure at his side must be that of Alice-
There was no need for Rickman to draw him aside with
an observation to the effect that they had better not
disturb the /éfe-d-téte. He shrank at once into the
shadow and let them pass well out of sight, and then
returned silently to the lighted hotel.

“Well! I don’t think any: one can spoil sport after
that, Annesley,” Rickman said lightly, with a quick gaze
in Edward’s face, which was composed but rather grim.

OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 205

“Now is Sibyl’s time, if she only knew it,” he thought;
“his heart is soft with pain and ready for fresh impres-
sions.” And, although people were already going in to
dinner, he found time to whisper to Sibyl to take pity
on the new arrival and make him as welcome as possible,
because the rest of the party were inclined to leave him
out in the cold, and by his arrangement Edward’s chair
was placed next Sibyl’s.

The soup was removed by the time Paul entered.
He did not shake hands with Edward, his seat being
on the opposite side of the table, but merely nodded a
welcome to him, hoped he had not found it too hot in
the train, and addressed some cousinly and affectionate
words to Eleanor, who stood a little in awe of her exalted
kinsman. Mrs. Annesley was in her most seraphic
mood and said pleasant things to everybody. Sibyl
tried to obey her brother’s behest with regard to Edward,
who was quite ready to respond to her gentle advances.
The little party was most pleasant and friendly. But
every time the door opened, there was a simultaneous,
though almost imperceptible movement of Edward’s
head, and a subsequent look of disappointment on his
face; the food he swallowed might have been ink, for
al he knew or cared; the course was removed, and
Sill Alice did not appear, and no one seemed disturbed
about it.

“But where is Miss Lingard?” he asked at last.

“Dear Alice is a little upset. She was out rather
00 long, I think,” Mrs. Annesley replied, with an air of

206 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

mystery; “she will be quite restored to-morrow, n0
doubt.”
Then Sibyl explained to him that Alice had over-
tired herself in a mountain excursion which she had
recently made with some friends who were staying at a
village a few miles away, along the lake shore. Further,
that Mrs. Annesley had intended to drive to meet her,
but had been prevented, and that Paul had gone instead,
but in a boat; that he had lost an oar and thus been
delayed. The end of the history was, Alice was 9
completely knocked up that, but for Paul’s arm, she
could not have walked from the boat to the hotel.
“I didn’t go up the mountains myself for the sunrise,”
she added, “because I was not feeling equal to sucha |
tiring walk; but Alice is always perfectly well, and
people never expect her to be over-tired. It was 4
good thing Mr. Annesley was with her, because he knew |
exactly how to treat her when she fainted.”
“Did he, indeed?” replied Edward. And over 4

succession of pipes he pondered much that night upoo —
the sunrise excursion.

ON THE BALCONY. 207

CHAPTER III.

ON THE BALCONY.

It was not till the next afternoon, when they were
at coffee, sitting under the plane-trees by the water,
that Edward met Alice; and by that time he had so
schooled himself into accepting Paul’s superior claim
tpon her that he was able to command a perfectly
tanquil and friendly manner towards her.

Paul and Gervase had been closeted together all
the morning, on affairs which seemed to have urgency.
Mrs. Annesley had at times been admitted to the con-
fence, and had otherwise pursued the extensive and
interesting correspondence for which she was celebrated.
Edward and Sibyl had taken the eager school-girl, who
Was half-intoxicated by her recent final deliverance from
thraldom, to see such lions as Neufchatel afforded.

But all these occupations had now come to an end,
and the whole party were assembled beneath the sun-
Steeped plane-tops, with the clear, massive jewel of the
deep blue lake before them, when Alice issued from
the hotel and joined them.

It was a change upon Paul’s face at her coming,
‘hat arrested Edward’s attention, and caused him to

208 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

look round and catch sight of the figure in white movin
slowly towards them. She was pale, but not otherws§
altered from when he last saw her, save that the lo
which had remained before him ever since he parted
with her m the street at Medington was gone, and g
as he feared, for ever.

“T was so sorry to be unable to see you, last night,
she said with a tranquil smile, and a slight pameg
quiver of the lip, which he did not understand; ane
she took the hand he offered as coldly as he gave ty
while they both thought of the warm pressure of a few
months since. ,

He replied by some expression of regret for het
illness, and handing her his own chair, placed another
for himself near it, unconscious of the strong interest
with which the meeting was being watched. Paul had
closed his mouth fiercely and firmly, while the breath
came strong and quick through his nostrils and bs
hands clenched themselves. Gervase gave one of his
side-long glances, and placing one hand in his pocket,
broke a pencil into fragments with his fingers. Mrs. At
nesley looked on the pair with head erect, and a peculiar
smile that her son knew, but in this instance did no
notice. Sibyl regarded them with a tender yearning
gaze. It is wonderful to think of the storm and tumutt
of varying passions that was stirred in these different
hearts by the simple incident of two people meeting
and exchanging commonplace observations in renewal
of an acquaintance of a few days formed a few months

ON THE BALCONY. 209

ce. Eleanor alone considered the incident too trivial

observation, and continued chatting to her aunt
ut their pleasant morning ramble, and the delicious
s Edward gave them.

When the pair sat down, and Alice addressed some
nark to Mrs. Annesley in deprecation of the latter’s
pleasure at her leaving her room, the pressure on all
se hearts relaxed; Paul’s stormy face calmed, Gervase
fretted the destruction of his pencil, Mrs. Annesley
me her most engaging smile, but Sibyl’s sweet face
d a disappointed look.

“I felt so perfectly rested, I was obliged to get up,
rs. Annesley, in spite of the doctor’s orders,’ Alice
id.

“You will repent, Alice, and Annesley will enjoy a
vage triumph over your certain relapse, which you
serve for taking no notice of me,’ said Gervase,
nding her some coffee.

“There are two Mr. Annesleys now, and we have
.even the distinction of doctor to help us, since Paul
i; become so grand,” said Sibyl innocently.

“I only wish I had my promotion to help you to
distinction of Captain, Miss Sibyl,” replied Edward;
i It is, Paul is ¢ze Annesley—the head of the clan.”
“And if Paul dies, Ned will be ¢hke Annesley,”
anor added cheerfully.

“T am sorry I can’t oblige you just yet, Nellie,” said
ul, pinching her cheek, while his mother frowned.
ward laughed, and said he would quite as soon have
he Reproach of Annesley. 1. 14

210 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

a live cousin as a landed estate, which Gervase cot
sidered as a polite inversion of fact.
“And why did you knock yourself up in this crue
manner, Miss Lingard?” Edward asked.
Alice replied that it was very usual for people t
overtire themselves on mountain excursions,—a smal
price to pay for the delight of seeing the sun rise upog
the Alps; that she had been unlucky in getting no res
in the little hut in which she had passed the night, am
still more so in being unable to get proper food. “And
to crown all,” she added, “I had to come home in @
uncomfortable boat instead of a luxurious carriage.”

‘‘And Paul lost an oar, too?” asked Edward.

“Yes, but that was my fault,” she replied, colour
ing. “I must needs go and faint instead of steering
and Mr. Annesley’s hands were over-full.”

Paul coloured even more than Alice at the mentom
of this incident, and made no observation. Edward!
was indignant with him for having taken the weary git
alone in a boat, an indignation that Paul echoed i
wardly, though he half justified himself by the com
sideration that it was his last chance and a desperat
one.

“J should have thought a doctor ought to have
known better,” Edward said with some heat.

Alice regretted now that she had not given up thé.
Swiss tour, as she had wished to do when Paul’s ir:
tentions were made manifest to her just before the
started. But he had begged her with such persistance

ON THE BALCONY. 211

| had so pledged himself to refrain from re-opening
uestion she thought finally settled, and there were
Many other reasons, chiefly concerning Sibyl, whose
inded heart she had hoped to heal both by the
age and enjoyment thus afforded and by the clear
erstanding she would gain of Edward’s views, that
had yielded.

And now Edward was there, but he had forgotten
that occurred at Arden, while Sibyl—she feared that
yl remembered too much. Else she had misread
lustre in Sibyl’s eyes and the peculiar exaltation
her face when she bent over her for a good-night
; the evening before.

For some time after Edward Annesley’s visit to
jen in April, the postman’s well-known step had
mght an unacknowledged tremor to the hearts of
h girls, whenever he passed before the window to
'kitchen-door, where there was always a welcoming
rd and a cup of drink for him. As day after day
nt by, and no new and unknown handwriting ap-
ared on the letters delivered, an increasing sense of
appointment, which she neither owned nor analysed,
ik the lustre out of the sunshine and the beauty from
' waxing summer for Alice, while Sibyl grew im-
tient and half-indignant, she scarcely knew why.
ce, a few days after his departure, Mrs, Rickman
eived a letter from Edward, which she read out for
public benefit, a formal little epistle thanking her
his brief and pleasant visit, and containing con-

14*

212 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

ventional greetings to the family. Gradually the ps
man’s step evoked a slighter tremor in the girls’ heef
and the keenness of the vague daily discontent
off; the impending tour was discussed without refere
to Edward, and Alice felt that whatever power
might have had over his thoughts was now gone. &
those signs and tokens of deeper meaning in his wt
and looks, were doubtless misconstructions of her oF
He had been charmed only for a moment, and sep
ficially; she had never touched his heart, and he
now forgotten the passing fancy. Or he might ba
been charmed to the extent of perceiving danger, #
for that very reason have decided, like the senst
man he seemed to be, not to follow up an acquaintal
that might lead him into undesirable paths. While a
reasoned thus, Alice’s cheek lost a little of its youth
bloom and her manner acquired a certain listlessnesl
she blamed herself for having been so ready to mii
construe the passing interest of a stranger, and decide
that it was highly unbecoming to allow him any pls
in her thoughts, hoping that Sibyl had the strength
make the same decision.
In the meantime Paul’s attentions, though delic
and unobtrusive, had been unremitting; he had told
mother of his heart’s desire and enlisted her on i
side; thus Mrs. Annesley’s powerful influence had bed
brought to bear upon Alice, who always had a certéll
tenderness for the stately, solitary woman, ry vel

external coldness and inward passion, whose very

ON THE BALCONY. 213

esses appealed to the younger woman’s generous and
almer nature.

The intelligence that Edward was to join them at
leufchatel, as his sister’s escort, did not reach Alice,
rho was absent at the time it came, till the day of her
eturn with Paul from the mountain excursion, an oc-
‘asion which he had made for himself and utilized for
t formal proposal of marriage. It was then that the
yar had been lost, and that, in a final passionate appeal
for mercy, he had betrayed his consuming jealousy of
Rdward, and spoken of the latter’s expected arrival.
Their solitary situation in the boat together, the vehe-
mence of the fiery-hearted man and the passion with
Which he urged his suit, frightened the tired girl, and
had, as Paul well knew, as much to do with the faint-

fit as the mountain climbing; and now, as Alice sat
‘ader the plane-trees with the cousins, knowing what
Was in Paul’s heart, and seeing Edward serenely polite
aad indifferent, she began to ponder some excuse for
kaving the party.

There had been little communication between the
ousins since their altercation in the garden at Meding-
m; Edward had written to congratulate Paul upon his
tered circumstances when he inherited the Gledes-
orth estates, and Paul had replied with cold formality,
forming him that in the event of his dying unmarnied,
te landed property (which was not entailed) was. to
ass to him, as it would in case he left no will. Ed-
ard thanked him for his kindly intention, expressing

214 ‘FHE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

the hope that circumstances would render ‘it of
effect, and nothing more passed between them.

A letter Edward wrote to Mrs. Annesley was |
answered, a circumstance that made little impress
upon him. Paul had told his mother of what }
between himself and Edward in the garden that spa
afternoon, and at the same time had spoken of
wishes concerning Alice, and Mrs. Annesley, thoug
obliged to acknowledge that Edward had borne hms
honourably in a trying position, had taken sides agait
him as Paul’s rival and enemy, and her former
for her nephew had turmed to a dishke commensuré
with the intensity of her nature.

But Edward, though he could not help seeing. Da
his arrival was unwelcome to his aunt, had no suspic
of all this; he expected to be petted as usual,
dreaming that Paul would have spoken of the {ait
position in which they found themselves, or of the co
pact they had made respecting it. Neither did
think that his presence was now unwelcome to Path,
since the latter had, as he thought, won his point. Bet
was thus unconscious of being a cause of offence to any
one and perfectly tranquil at heart, having subdued the*
rebellious feelings of disappointed love, and did is
best that afternoon to be pleasant and sociable, in spat
of Paul’s grmness and his aunt’s chilling majesty.
Gervase, too, was in a genial mood, and Sibyl was wr
usually animated, and took up her former bantemnng
tone towards Edward, who liked it.

ON THE BALCONY. 215

In the evening the young people went for a starlight
on the lake intending to linger about for the nsing
the moon; Paul excused himself on the plea of
er writing, and Alice on the ground of her recent
gue. They were stepping into the boat, when
ward made a false step in the dark, and he fell
length into the water between the boat and the
y, and had to go back to change his clothes, leaving
other three, to Gervase’s chagrin, to go for their
' alone.
Thus it happened that when he was fit to be seen
un he strolled out on the gallery, and so encountered
ce, whom Mrs. Annesley, unsuspiciously nodding over
lewspaper in her sitting-room, supposed to have gone
bed. When they saw each other the two young
uwts began to beat with sympathetic vehemence, and
first each was inclined to avoid the other and beat
etreat, an inclination conquered by the better feeling
each—some pride in Alice, which rebelled against
nowledging her weakness, a loyal determination on
ward’s part to accept the situation and let no weak
tion conquer him. He therefore approached the
ir she occupied, and, half-seating himself on the
ery rail with his back against a pillar, began in an
mbarrassed strain to explain his return from the
t, and to continue a conversation they had carried
it coffee about various homely topics connected with
en, the health of Raysh Squire, the grey mare, the
y and so forth.

216 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“TI wonder that you remember these tnifles,
Annesley,” Alice said; “though, indeed, they are
chief interests of our lives.”

“There are things one cannot forget,” he repl
safe in his conviction that there was no more hop
fear with regard to her heart; “certainly not :
sunny memories as I have of my little visit to Ar
Not,” he added rather inconsequently, “that 1 ex
Arden people to remember it.”

“I think Arden people’s memories were not
pleasant,” she replied.

“But you had forgotten about my part in the t
he urged, with a slight tincture of reproach. “
were surprised to see me.”

“We thought you had forgotten,” she answered,
that you had changed your mind—that it was b
passing intention—a ‘one of these fine days’ affan
Mr. Rickman says,” and Edward’s heart leapt up at
admission that she had thought and speculated sor
upon it.

“You see I had not forgotten,” he replied
gentle reproach; “I intended it from the first, and
been building on it all the summer.”

“Yes,” she replied with a neutral accent, and a
sigh, which might have been fatigue. Her eyes
turned from him, she gazed pensively across the
lake, lying dark beneath the stars, and upon the
mountain masses, spectral in the uncertain light,
her cheek resting wearily on her hand. Edward lo

ON THE BALCONY. 217

lown upon the quiet face, which was lighted up by the
amp within the room, with kindling eyes and a swift
hot stir of uncomprehended emotion. She did not seem
happy, as a newly affianced bride should; his heart
yearned strongly over her, and his breath came quick.
He could not speak, nor could she; the silence deepened
about them and folded them round as if in a close
embrace; it grew so intense, that each thought the
other must hear sounding through it the heart-beats
which told the too rapid minutes. For a moment he
felt his self-control going in the stress of that silent
communion, felt that he must speak out, and lay his
heart's devotion, vain as it was, at her feet; a quiver
went through him, he grasped the balcony rail with a
fercer grip; he had already unclosed his lips to speak,
When Alice, under the pressure of his unseen but ardent
glance, averted her head, and so shaded it with her
hand that he could no longer see her features; she thus
Overset the delicate poise of feeling; had she turned to
meet his glance, as she dared not, it would all have been
diferent, the currents of many lives would have been
liverted. He mastered the impulse with an effort;
oyalty to Paul, the chivalry which shrank from giving
ler needless pain, a sort of deference to his own man-
ood, all sprang up in answer to the turn of her head,
nd helped him to subdue himself, and break the
veet and passionate silence with calm and measured
ords.

“No wonder that others forget,” he said; “three

218 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

months 1s a long time to keep a2 commonplace converst
tion in one’s head.”

“Yes; three months is a long time,” Alice replied,
not dreaming that she had changed the current of thet
lives by that slight movement of the head, and not
thinking on what airy and infinitesimal trifles fates are
balanced; “and so many things have happened this
summer. Your cousin has become since then another
person, or rather personage.”

“He has indeed! Lucky fellow! This will be 4
fateful summer in his memory.”

“Then we have lost -Gervase,” continued Alict
tranquilly. “And since the election, when he came ov!
So strongly as a political speaker, he has become mort
and more immersed in politics, and is beginning quite
a fresh career.”

“Rickman is a clever fellow,” said Edward, glad
that the tension of feeling was relaxed.

“No one suspects the power that is in him; ¥
shall hear more of Gervase some day. When once he
is in Parliament, he will make a stir. He is the kad
of man who makes revolutions, or arrests them at the
critical moment.”

“How fortunate he is in having a friend who think
so highly of him!” returned Edward, jealously angry @
this prophecy.

“Not more highly than he deserves, as you will se
if you live long enough. Few people know him as we
as Ido. I am his sister, and yet a stranger. I hav

ON THE BALCONY. 219

all the intimate knowledge of a sister, and none of the
natural bias. Sibyl is too hke him to appraise him
properly.”

“Miss Rickman strikes me as the greater genius of

. the two,” said Edward, “and she is so charming.”

! “Isn’t she?” replied Alice, flushing up with en-
thusiasm, and meeting his now softened gaze fully,
While she launched out into an affectionate panegyric of
her friend. “I am so glad that you like her,” she said
at last, “and I am sure that the more you know her
the better you will like her.”

The moon had now risen above the silent hill-peaks,
it was shedding its mystic glory over the calm bosom

| Of the waters, and touching Alice’s radiant uplifted face,

Whence all trace of self-remembrance had fled, with a
More ethereal beauty. The influences of the hour were
potent, the danger signals throbbed in Edward’s breast;
Once more he clutched the gallery rail fiercely, and
thought of the loyalty he owed to Paul.

“You are a friend worth having,” he said at length,
subduing himself to a cold and even utterance; “some
day, perhaps—” here the romantic influences threatened
0 overwhelm him again, and he paused to recover
himself—“you may enter me—if I prove myself in any
way worthy, that is—upon the list of friends—that is
—I hope you may.”

Alice quivered slightly, moved by the glowing in-
coherence of his words, then she summoned all her
pride to resist the rising tenderness and hope within

220 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

her, and looked him directly in the face, where she
saw nothing but serene friendliness, and wondered 2
little.

“Surely you may if you like,” she replied with frank
indifference; and Edward, yielding to a stronger impulse,
took her hand and pressed it too warmly, so that Alice
coloured, and withdrew it with gentle firmness, then
Edward, who was just going to make some allusion t
the connection about to be formed, as he supposed,
between them, started violently, and stood upright,
gazing at something behind her. Alice turned they
and saw, quivering with jealousy, and white with angel;
the face of Paul.

Neither of the three spoke for a few minutes; the
two on the balcony gazed as if thunderstruck at Paul's
blazing eyes and defiant features, to which the bluish
white moonlight imparted an unearthly tint. Long after
wards they remembered that silent gaze, and heard, 10
memory, the strains which now in reality touched their
ears, as the notes of Gervase’s violin floated uncertainly
over the water, melancholy, passionate and pleading.

“T am delighted to find you well enough to be sul
sitting up,” said Paul at last, in a cold hard voice; to
which Alice replied that she was now quite recovered
from her fatigue, and intended to wait up for the boat-
ing party’s return. Edward then observed that it was
extremely pleasant on the gallery, and that he was no!
sorry to have missed the row on the lake.

“I suppose not,” returned Paul icily; “there are fev

ON THE BALCONY. 221

things more charming than to be on a balcony in the
moonlight with congenial society.”

“And charming music,” added Alice, with a faint
tinge of defiance; “either Gervase is excelling himself,
or the water and the distance combine to make his
playing unusually good to-night.”

“And the listener’s mood doubtless,” continued
Paul, with a smile that was like the flash of a steel
blade.

The wild notes of the violin came nearer and nearer;
Paul’s passionate glance was riveted on Edward’s face,
Which looked unusually handsome in its almost stern
Composure under the moon-rays, the beauty of the face
maddened him; in the hot jealousy which consumed
his heart he hated Edward with a strong hatred that
almost surpassed the passion of his love for Alice; for
One wild moment he was impelled to spring upon him,
and hurl him backwards into the depths below.

Instead of which he returned to the sitting-room,
vhere Mrs. Annesley, aroused from the evening doze
y the three voices at the window, was now alert and
bservant, and began to chide Alice gently for sitting
p so late, while her mind was severely exercised to
ccount for the presence of the other two.

ty
ty
iv

THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER IV.

UNSPOKEN THOUGHTS.

Own the day following that memorable evening, Mrs.
Annesley’s party had decided to make an excursion
into the Jura mountains, where Gervase .assured Alice
she would find some new and delightful subjects for
her sketch-book. He had but a bnef time to spare
for holiday-making, and not being very good at real
mountain climbing, made a great point of ther
going into those green solitudes while he was still with ©
them, thus leaving them to take the snqw mou
tains after his departure. Alice, who was now quite
at her ease with him, having assured herself that
he had completely subdued his passing fancy for her,
was loth to disappoint him, else she would have found ©
an excuse for returning to England and thus saved het-
self and Paul the embarrassment of frequent meet-
Ings.

Mrs. Annesley, too, sought a pretext for breaking
up the party, the harmony of which had been so fatally
marred by her nephew’s appearance; she feared that a
crisis had been reached dunng Paul’s row with Alice
on the afternoon of Edward’s arrival, but had no cer-

UNSPOKEN THOUGHTS. 223

1 knowledge to act upon; she reflected, however, that
ward could as easily see Alice at home as upon this
cursion, if he were minded to see her, and therefore
me to the conclusion that things had better take
eir course. Edward went, partly for the pleasure of
eing with Alice, and partly because he was too proud
0 accept the part of a disappointed suitor, and wished
© cultivate friendly relations with Paul and his affianced
wife. But he wondered that the engagement was not
made public, and decided to put the question point-
blank to Paul, considering that he had a right to know
how matters stood. |

Paul, however, held him at arm’s length, and there
was no opportunity of coming to an explanation before
they started upon that ill-fated tour. Paul had taken
afancy to have some old family jewels reset for his
mother in Switzerland in remembrance of this his first
lengthy excursion with her, and was busy that morning
in getting them from the jeweller’s. When Mrs. Annes-
ky saw them, she was so dismayed at the idea of
tavelling about with gems of such value in her posses-
tion, that she begged him to take them back to the
jeweller, and let him keep them until their return to
England.

He was a little vexed that she would not wear the
brooch and ear-rings, at least in the evenings, and
fought against her declaration that she would imperil
neither her maid’s life nor her own by carrying such
Valuables about; but at last, in the presence of the

224 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

whole party, who had been admiring the ornaments
consented to take them back, and tossed the moroce
case carelessly into his breast-pocket.

“TI believe it is all superstition,” he said; “you take
the Annesley jewels for the Nibelungen Hoard. Yos
forget that the family curse is attached to the land
alone.”

Then he went out into the town for the purpose, as
every one supposed, of placing the packet in safety at
the jeweller’s. When he returned to the hotel he fell
in with Gervase, who was sitting under the plane-trees.
by the waterside, studying some papers intently, and
making rapid notes upon them.

Paul looked so earnestly upon his thoughtful face,
before he withdrew in the intention of not disturbing
him, that Rickman, who could see things with his eyes
shut, and perceived that Paul wished to disburden his
mind of something, threw his papers aside in pure
charity, saying that he had finished making his notes.

“What a fellow you are,” Paul said admiringly;
“even in your holiday-time you get through half-a-dozea |
men’s work!”

“J am no drone,” replied Gervase, “but I hike 4
little play too.”

“Look here, Rickman,” continued Paul, “you are
very keen at detecting motives. Do you know why
Edward Annesley joined us?”

“Yes,” replied Gervase calmly, “he came to pay

UNSPOKEN THOUGHTS. 225

resses to Miss Lingard. He made up his mind

9 at Arden.”

1y then did he not communicate with her all

e?” he continued in his impetuous way.

1 he not communicate with her?” replied
innocently; “why should you suppose that?”
suggestion was as sparks to tinder in Paul’s

heart. Why, indeed, should he suppose that?

t at once to the conclusion that Edward had
“He was on the balcony alone with her last
1e added, in such tragic accents as befitted one
an accusation of mortal sin.

s hee I thought that accident singularly op-
’ returned Gervase, as if struck by a new idea.
' gallery in the moonlight—ah! One can see
r cousin means business.”
they never met till the spring. They know
of each other,” said Paul, looking gloomily at
‘king water over which boats were flitting
n the sunshine.

‘se things are soon done. Besides the very
heir knowing so little of each other heightens
ance of the situation,” continued Gervase,
studying Paul’s tortured face from under his
;, and then looking with an interested air at a
scharging its cargo a little distance off. “Boy
affairs seldom come to anything. The way to
wo young people taking a fancy to each other
ow them constantly together under the most
oach of Annesley. 1, 15

--7 TEE KEPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

TsMsac Crcumances. and let them get a th
keo-wieeze of each other's weaknesses. No man &
bec; co his vale. Do you remember old Robins
whe <sed to live 7
-Qh, I know that story!” Paul interrupted @
paventiv. “You are a keen observer, Rickman, #
when. may I ask. did you first observe that Edw
a5 you say, meant business, and what do you supp
are his chances of success?” :
“I confess that I keep my eyes open in ga
through the world, Annesley. And I think your c#
has about as good a chance of success as anybody
had. It’s rather a pity. She ought’ to make a bet
match. Besides that, I doubt if he cares for her
think I know whom he would have chosen but &
golden reasons on the other side. Though, to be s#
these military men flirt right and left without @
smallest regard to consequences.”
“We thought Sibyl was the attraction——” ,
“So she was,” replied Gervase abruptly. And i
moved away, compressing his lips with annoyante, #
calling Paul’s attention to a quaintly rigged vessel pai
ing by. i.
Paul at once fell in with his humour and chang¢
the subject. He saw that Edward’s suit was as di
tasteful to Gervase as to himself, though for differed
reasons. Gervase evidently thought that Sibyl 4
been trifled with, and in spite of what had passed
tween himself and his cousin in their interview in 3

UNSPOKEN THOUGHTS. 227

arden at Medington, he began to wonder if the latter
ad indeed preferred Sibyl until he discovered the
lenderness -of her dower. It was improbable, but
here is no improbability at which jealousy will not
wasp.

Just then, as they were strolling back to the house,

they fell in with Edward, who was going in the same
Girection with his sister. Paul looked on his cousin’s
handsome face, and heard his light-hearted laughter at
fome.passing jest, and a deadly feeling took possession
of him; the bright young face drew him with an intense
fascination; he saw in its gaiety an evidence of triumph,
a easy triumph which scarcely stirred a sense of en-
eavour; its beauty maddened him, a hot passion
‘sged uncontrollably within him, the passion of a
“hitter hatred.
' "Just as Alice’s mere presence had been wont to
thrill him, Edward’s thrilled him now; he could not be
in the same room with either of them without an in-
®nse consciousness of their existence, without marking
he slightest movement or most casual word of each,
ollowing every syllable and gesture of the one with
dassionate love, and of the other with an equally
dassionate hate.

All through the luncheon they took before setting
jut for the Jura, he watched them both, with burn-
ng glances, equally attracted by both, his imagina-
ion lending intense meaning to the few casual remarks
they exchanged, and supplying words to the silences

15*

228 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

which fell upon the unconscious objects of his thought
neither of whom were in tune with the cheerful holdq
air assumed or felt by the rest of the party. |

Once Alice looked up and arrested -one of Paul’s fet
looks. A shade of vexation crossed her face, and #
bit her lips as she turned her head and addressed som
remark to Mrs. Annesley.

In the railway carnage there was a general te
dency to consult books and newspapers, and Mrs. Ad
nesley composed herself in an attitude of dignified #
pose. By some chance or mischance, Paul found lt
self in the inner corner of the carriage with Eleand
while Edward was at the other end by the open dog
sitting next to Alice, and immediately opposite Ma
Annesley. From behind his unread newspaper i
jealous man continued to watch the objects of his @
ferent passions, brooding upon the pain which tore hi
inwardly until it reached a ternble pitch.

He recalled the day of Edward’s arrival at Me
dington, and wished that day had never dawned.
remembered his own expansion of heart and the t
usual confidences he had made to his cousin concem
ing his domestic misery, his poverty and his purpose
marriage. How changed his life was since that ds
what strange and unexpected good fortune had befalle
him! and yet what would he not have given to be on
more as he was then, the struggling, unsuccessful pari
doctor, harassed with domestic troubles and money car”
but possessing the one golden hope of one day winni

UNSPOKEN THOUGHTS. 229

Alice! On that day he had heard of the first in the
chain of deaths by which he had become a man of
wealth and standing.

Death, he mused, is a thing upon which no one can
reckon; framers of statistics may draw up imposing
Columns of figures, they may tell you to a nicety the
Percentage of deaths at this age and that, in this con-
dhtion and that, from this cause and that; and yet when
you leave the abstract of masses and come to the con-
qrete of individual cases, all these calculations fail;
Death is restored to his proper shape, as the most
‘apricious as well as most terrible of tyrants, striking at
Yandom, missing where his shaft is apparently aimed,

sending his dart home in unexpected quarters.

it been otherwise, had it been he instead of Re-
Annesley who was struck down in the flower of

, it had been far better, he would have had rest

from this bitter torment. Or why not Edward? Edward
fwho, as a soldier, was equally liable with Reginald to
sent to savage places, and indulge in savage sports.
heart leapt at the thought of Edward’s death; he
certain that but for his appearance at Arden he
have won Alice. He began thinking of the
Mesibilities which still existed. They had been talking
& luncheon of some recent difficult mountain ascents.
tdward had waxed enthusiastic, and spoken about
aides and ropes, and calculated what time he should
ave after the Jura excursion for attempting some of
ve yet unscaled summits; and Mrs. Annesley had talked

230 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

in Cassandra strain of the fatalities which mar
conquest of peak after peak, trying to tool his
If he would but carry out his intention, a shi
mentary giddiness, a flaw in a rope, an instant’
of nerve, the loosening of a stone, one false ste
part of one of the travellers, not to mention tl
sand chances and changes of weather, or th
possibitities of losing the way or mistaking tl
changing landmarks—what a difference this mig]

Unconscious of these ternble thoughts, Edi
silent by Alice, reading his English paper, and
melancholy pleasure in being at least near he
she perused her book with an undercurrent me
the romantic moments passed on the balcony t
before.

Presently the newspaper was laid aside;
folded his arms and gazed downwards in silent
His glance rested on the folds of Alice’s dres
swept his feet. He was thinking, as Paul surn
her, picturing her at Gledesworth, the head of
household, moving through the long suites o:
rooms with a gentle grace, courted by the local :
honoured by those beneath her, cheering and
the sorrowful and the poor; charming all. He
at the head of Paul’s table; he saw them sur
with guests great and small; he saw them ak
intimate friends—himself, he hoped, amongst th
the winter hearth, or beneath the great el
mighty oaks of their lovely demesne in the

UNSPOKEN THOUGHTS. 231

sunlight, She was made for a life full of leisure and
! dignity, he wondered that he could ever have dreamed
Of asking her to share his lowlier lot—how well she
would fill every place her wealth and station would
assign her, whether charming great people in brilliant
assemblies or dispensing kindness in poor cottages!—
everywhere she must be loved and honoured, especially
by him, and would she perhaps have a kind place in

- her heart for Paul’s cousin and friend? Would the
. shadow of his aunt’s fiery nature fall across her home?
¥ Would her children—he saw them clinging about her,
| large-eyed, round-faced—would they inherit the only
* authentic family curse? Or would the wholesome sweet-
_ bess of her nature prevail over the fiercer strain? He
; Surred uneasily; something slipped from Alice’s pocket

to the ground as she took out her handkerchief. He
picked ‘up her purse, and restored it with a laughing

/ Comment on her carelessness, and Paul thought they

lingered over the exchange so that their hands might

. touch; but it was not so—the purse was given and
| taken too daintily for that.

“Why did we not bring some fruit?” sighed Sibyl,
petulantly. “I am so thirsty this hot afternoon!”

“I will get you some at the next halt,” Edward
replied, and, despite a warning from Gervase that there
Was no time, he sprang out the moment the train
stopped, and made for the dzfet, leaving his friends to
speculate on the extreme improbability of his return
before they moved on.

-
—_

32 TSE FEPRCACH OF ANNESLEY.

The iine-ticnsed poeners leisurely removed a ree
or two: the guaré shi the doors with a nonchda™*'
ay. apd made otservaticons with the aid of his finge*>
and sh:alders 70 a fiend: the ume went on; the engist©
pamted impatientiv. Ih suddenly occurred to the guard
that it was getting late: he exchanged one last remark
with his friend, laughing. gave the signal to start with
a pre-occupied air. and the train steamed slowly out of
the litle station, followed by a parting jest from the
chef de gare, who lounged, wide-trousered and majestic,
across the platform: and then only did Edward retum
from his foraging expedition, and dash madly after the
moving train with the intention of boarding it.

“Hi! hola!” cried the indignant chef de gare, roused
to a slight interest in railway matters by this glamng
infraction of rules. But Edward dashed over the rails
upsetting a porter, who feebly attempted to detain him,
and, gaining the foot-board, made for his own carriage,
followed by official execrations on the English and all
their mad ways. In the meantime the speed had in
creased, they were approaching a tunnel, the door stuck,
and, on opening with a burst at last, detached Edward
from his foothold, so that he fell, clutching at the rail |
with one hand, and hanging thus for one dreadful
moment, during which Paul endured a life-time of
emotion. His terrible wish was being fulfilled before
his eyes; he saw the man he hated actually hurled off
to destruction, and turned sick with horror. He was
too far off to help him, but he moved down towards

UNSPOKEN THOUGHTS. 233

the door in the instinctive attempt to save him, scarcely
knowing what he did, and in the meantime, Gervase,
reaching over Alice, had caught Edward by the collar,
and dragged him in before he had time even to know
that Alice’s hands were attempting the same kind office
with Gervase’s.

“Thank you, Rickman,” Edward said, composedly
taking his seat. “I am afraid I stepped on your dress,
Miss Lingard. Nothing but these mulberries to be had,
Miss Rickman.”

“The next time you commit suicide, Edward,” said
Mrs. Annesley, severely, “have the goodness not to do
it in my presence.”

“Or mine, you tiresome, good-for-nothing fellow!”
Sobbed Eleanor. “I wish you had been killed—it
would have served you right, that it would!”

“Sorry to have frightened you, my dear aunt. It
Was the door sticking that upset me. But it was not
far to fall,” he apologized. “Nell, if you make such

- a idiot of yourself—TIll, I don’t know what I won’t do

Lo you.”
Paul was very thankful when he saw his cousin

' hauled in scathless. In those few moments of peril he

had some inkling of what it might be to have a fellow-

_ @eature’s death upon one’s conscience. Then he looked
at Alice, and saw that she was very pale, and made no
' ©ntribution to the conversation. At that sight the

ferce tide of hate surged back into his heart, and he
Wshed that Edward were lying dead in the dark tunnel

234 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

through which they had glided immediately on F
rescue.

Edward, too, observed Alice’s pallor, and reproache
himself for having given her a shock by his foolharc
ness. The thought came to him like balm, that if }
had been killed there and then she might have shed
kindly tear over him. She had a heart full of pity, }
knew; he remembered her trouble about the 02
sumptive Reuben Gale, and bethought him to ask h
if they had given his plan of entering the army al
further consideration.

“That would never have done,” Alice replie
“But I am quite happy about Reuben now. Yo
cousin has procured him a situation with Mrs. Regina
Annesley, who is to winter in Algeria. Reuben will!
with her there.”

“Of course,” he thought within himself, “Paul do
everything for her now. She wants no other fner
But the day may come—Well, I am a fool! but I
at least enjoy these few days with her!”

It was very pleasant, in spite of the bitter of Pat
success. The stations passed too quickly by; the gr
white peaks were left behind, the country beca
greener and greener, the vineyards had vanished, gr
solemn pine-woods brooded darkly upon the hill sloy
the farmsteads and villages had steeper roofs z
straighter outlines; tillage became scarcer, the cowb
tinkled musically in the distance, the tunnels w
fewer, and the country more thinly populated; tl

UNSPOKEN THOUGHTS. 235

were An the heart of the Jura, and the journey was

we

colle to an end with its sweet companionship. Edward
would have liked to travel on thus by Alice’s side,
silent himself, but within sound of her voice, between
the green mountain-walls, by the rushing streams and
shadowy pine-woods, for ever and ever. Perhaps they
might never travel thus side by side again. Perhaps it
Would be better so. The enchantment was too strong;
it Ought to be broken. He had his life to live, and its
duties to fulfil. Some day, no doubt, he would find a
wife for himself—and here some vague thought of
Sibyl fitted through his brain—and all the usual home-

_ tes; but it would not do to go on dreaming over what

Was now another’s nght. One day more, only one, and
then, having heard decidedly from Paul’s own lips what
their relations really were, he would congratulate them
and withdraw from the perilous fascination till time had
hardened him against it.

Paul, too, was purposing to withdraw after one day
More, one day in which in despair he would try a last
appeal—-not to Alice this time, but to Edward. All
that was manly, and all that was in the best sense
gentle in him rose up against his own behaviour, in
remaining with Alice after what had passed in the
boat; but something stronger than the instincts of a
gentleman held him, to his own shame and inward
Contempt.

The bitter-sweet journey came to an end at last.
The train slackened and drew up by a little wayside

236 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

station above a bleak steep-roofed village. Edwar@@@l
stepped out into the sunshine of the golden eveninggz=
and handed Alice down. Mrs. Annesley drew in he
skirts, and waited till the others were out and her mai c¥
had arrived for orders; and then, the luggage having
been claimed, they wound slowly down through the
echoing empty street, to the vast barrack of a hotel,
which seemed to Edward’s troubled imagination to
claim previous acquaintance with him, though he could
never have seen it unless in dreams.

WHAT THE PINES SANG. 237

CHAPTER V.

WHAT THE PINES SANG.

THE tall pine-trees stood dreaming in the balmy
let of the autumn afternoon; the ruddy gold sun-
ams, brooding upon the vast green roof, found an
‘rance here and there, and shot through many a tiny
erture in long tremulous shafts of powdery light,
ich blunted themselves here and there against the
id red trunks of the pines, kindling them into dull
> with their touch; they shattered themselves into
les of paler light elsewhere among the dark boughs,
d descended softly, their colour fined away into a
n grey memory of former splendour, upon the thick
iseless carpet of fir-needles, where few things grew
t occasional srraggling brambles with more leaves
an fruit.

The low deep murmur which is never wholly hushed
a pine-wood, even at the stillest seasons, rose fitfully
Soft swells of plaintive remonstrance or half-chiding
ess, and died away into a silence broken again by
Ne fuller tone of deeper meaning, hinting vaguely of
C grandeur, the unrevealed glory of which moaned
\f gradually into a yet more mystic stillness, only to

238 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

wake again and again, and cast an unspeakably soot S26
charm upon the solitary rambler among those
and gloomy aisles.

Yet the afternoon was so calm that no breath 4
peared to wake that exquisite wind-music. The lof
pines stood motionless, the blue-green mass of thel!
meeting tops showing dark and still against the pale
tranquil heaven, and, when the eye caught them sid¢
ways on the slope, dark and still against the greo -
mountain-side on which they lay like a mantle. A
subtle stimulating fragrance floated through thos
shadowy aisles; the distant melody of cow-bells from
the breezy pastures came half-hushed to lose itself 2
the dim stillness; the pigeons’ half-querulous, half-cor
tented murmur, the cracking of a twig, the rustle of
some shy animal among the leaves occasionally ruffled -
the surface of the august silence which spreads like 4
deep calm lake through such woodland solitudes.

Alice passed slowly along beneath the vast vibrating
roof, awed and refreshed by the deep calm, her heat
awake to the lightest beating of the mighty pulses df -
Nature, as hearts are when strongly touched, wonder
what the faint fairy music of the pine-tops meant, now |
swayed as if by the far-off passion of some boding —
sorrow, now stirred by the mystic beauty of some ur
utterable joy. Is there any sympathy between the great
heart of Nature, whence we all draw our being, aad
the throbbing human lives into which the vague mus
of its voices is poured? Did the pine melody mow

WHAT THE PINES SANG. 239

or exult over her, or rather give out some strong tones
of comfort and healing? Many things those aged trees
had seen while standing there in tempest and sunshine
—children frolicking beneath them; merry parties of
holiday-makers passing through in noonday stillness
and moonlit calm; lovers doubtless, generations of
them, strolling there apart from the village folk below;
tragedies, perhaps, dark deeds never divulged to the
eye or ear of man. Did the echoes and memories of
these things start up and entangle themselves in the
ittricate mazes which formed the living roof above
her? As she strolled on, the shadows broke and the
tnks lessened in the growing light, till the last
cllonnade stood dark against the blue sky. Was that
the rush of water stealing gently on the ear? There,
beyond where the wood ended, as she knew, the green
nver ran down from its mountain bed, deep and swift,
between precipitous cliffs of rock, the river Doubs,
dividing Switzerland from France.

The rest of the party had gone to spend the day
at the Saut du Doubs in the mountain height above,
Passing along through the wood and by the cliff-walled
fver, Alice, still tired from her last mountain climb,
had remained in the village to bear Mrs. Annesley com-
Pany, and had now left her quiet with her desk and
books, to meet the others on their homeward way.

She had set out full early, and therefore loitered,
lot wishing to walk too far. It was the last time, she
teflected with pleasure, that she should meet Paul. He

240 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

had, on arriving at Bourget the night before, |
that he had but one more day to spend inS
because affairs required his return home.
her that he had shown so little consideration
taste as to remain with them after what had
the boat, when she gave him that distinct
refusal, and he, in his anger, charged her v
his cousin, a charge met by an indignant sile
confirmed his suspicions. His conduct in t
her by surprise, and almost obliging her to
boat alone with him, had distressed her beyon
she could never again feel the old warm fne
him; he had fallen too deeply. She saw
passion overpowered him, and swept on Lk
control over everything, bearing him helpless
on its flood. That was his great fault; it neu
his virtues, and earned her contemptuous
was glad that he had at least come to his se
extent of seeing that he ought now to leave
was glad that his mother did not know what h
and she lavished unusual tenderness upon he
to make up for the closer affection she cc
give her a nght to claim, a tenderness wh
Mrs. Annesley, who did not think that Paul’s
matter-of-fact announcement of his intended
England could result from a disappointment
jectured it to mean rather success, and to m
siderate wish to spare Alice the public ann
of their engagement.

WHAT THE PINES SANG. 241

g in her own perfect self-mastery, Alice, who
ig and had not learnt to bear pitifully with
eakness, felt little tenderness for Paul’s. Self-
he mused, as she strolled in the majestic peace
rest stillness, is one of the most essential quali-
iaracter; no virtue is of any avail without it;
1 belongs, as Gervase so frequently observed
rated by his example, to the man who knows
eep still when the house is on fire.
ise had resigned her like a gentleman, in spite
masterful words of his on Arden down, words
ll rang in the ears of her memory from time
why could not Paul?
ad much, he might surely do without the love
oor girl. Many a woman would be proud to
m; many a woman loved these passion-swayed
ind found a way to control them; he might let
peace.
reon fluttered out above her head; she heard
s clatter as it darted away into the peaceful
above the river; she thought she heard con-
ces and a ccry, and listened intently. Was it
party returning, or was it the wail of a plover?
1 distinguish nothing but the tinkle of a cow-
ly wandering, and far off the faint echo of a
song.
beautiful the world is, and what a divine peace
in Nature! she mused, feeling, young though
a little weary with the passions of men, and
oach of Annesley. 1, 16

242 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

longing with the universal longing of the human !
for “something afar from the sphere of our som
yet always hoping to find it there in that very spl
A mighty peace fell from the calm heaven through
dim murmuring aisles into her heart, and refreshe
like the manna which descended unseen in the
night silence of old, and refreshed the hungering
derers in the desert. She was in one of those
and exalted moods in which our mortality falls
us like a cast-off robe; when the present suffices
past no longer burdens us and the future cas
shadows upon us, but the soul breathes freely |
quiet. No troublous influence touched her, ni
jarred the sweet calm; she did not dream tha
balmy air of that still place was yet vibrating wit
strong conflict of a soul in agony, overmastered
jealousy and hatred of which she was the inr
cause. Nature stands so serenely aloof from the
sions of men, that nothing human can sully her
purity: she neither smiles nor weeps, nor doe
quiver in hot anger, responsive to the joy, the si
or the wrath of the frail creatures who fret out
little hour beneath her broad glance.

The excursion to the source of the river ha
been a great success; the three men were more
pre-occupied, Sibyl was unusually grave; only E
appeared quite at ease.

When they had emptied the provision baskets
picturesque cascade which foams down the live

WHAT THE PINES SANG. 243

@adle of the frontier river, Paul left the group to
and buy fruit at a chalet hard by, and Edward
wed him.
Paul was glad when he saw him coming; he had been
ing all the morning for the explanation he had at
avoided; he faced about at sight of him, but could
neet him pleasantly.
Well!” he said abruptly, the memory of all the
tional wrong Edward had ever done him rushing
tim as he spoke, the school-boy rivalries, the pre-
ce Edward had always taken of him in the liking
angers, his invariable better fortune till the last
ronths, and above all his sudden intrusion in the
dovecot, and his immediate success where he
f had sued vainly for years. Even his cousin’s
'r, calmer temper and his manly self-control were
se of dislike; the very forbearance that Edward
10wn in leaving the field clear to him for three
s, embittered his heart against him; he could not
\ating him for being the better man, and so justi-
Alice’s preference. He had brooded so long over
alous dislike that all the finer elements of his
were suppressed, the affection natural to him
juenched, the old habit of brotherhood broken;
formerly strengthened his friendship now fed his
He was the true descendant of that man who
in awake at night for six mortal weeks, putting
1 edge to the cutting phrases of one wounding
16*

244 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

letter. “Well!” he said, with a slight defiant move!
of the head. |

“Am I to congratulate you?” asked Edward.

“No. And you know it,” he replied with biting
phasis. “But for your sudden appearance here I sh
have won her in time.”

Light leapt into Edward’s eyes; his colour deepe
it seemed to the embittered fancy of the other th:
wore a look of subdued but insolent tnumph.
coming can have made no difference. If you dic
win her in four months you would not in five,
replied.

“Look here, Paul,” Edward added, after some
ments of uncomfortable silence, “you may not be
it, but I am awfully sorry.”

“It is possible that I may not believe it, my
fellow,” Paul said with bitter sarcasm. “Allow 1
congratulate you,’’ he added.

“T quite thought you were engaged; everybody
believes it, and upon my honour—I was—not e)
glad—but pleased that you were the winner, since.
to be out of the running.”

“I admire your magnanimity, my dear co’
thought Paul; “nothing would give me greater ple
than to help you out of a world for which you a
virtuous.”

He did not say this, but when he spoke, the :
of his voice carried him beyond himself, and the
up torrent of jealousy and rage burst madly

WHAT THE PINES SANG. 245

Award was so surprised by this exhibition, which was
revelation to him, that he listened in silent disgust,
istinguishing and remembering nothing clearly beyond
yme wild hint of killing whoever should marry Alice,
t which he smiled forbearingly; the most irntating
hing he could do.

After some vain attempts, as well-meaning as they
fruitless, to bring Paul to a more rational condi-
he gave up.

‘ “T only irritate him in this mood, whatever I can
, he reflected, turning to leave him, stung into a
ptuous dislike for Paul, which was clearly ex-
d in his face. |
Y “Stop!” cred Paul, with a sudden change of man-

; but Edward refused to stop.

Paul strode some paces after him and then stopped,
fxecrating the lack of self-control which had led him
© make himself generally ridiculous. No one is so
letestable as the man who has seen us in an undigni-
led position; and since it was wounded pride which
nost fiercely barbed the arrow of his rejected love, the
ury of Paul’s hate and love and jealousy grew till it
ad fair to stifle him, and it was some time before he
ould sufficiently compose himself outwardly to go back
9 the halting place.

Soon after he had joined them, the walking-party
egan to move away from the spring, when Eleanor,
tho had twisted her ankle just before, found that she
ould not stand on the injured foot, and it was decided

246 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

that she must be carried down ‘to the village, whi
was some miles distant. Her brother, therefore, set
at once in search of some means of conveying her k
to the village, and he had not long started before
followed him, saying nothing of his reason for leavi
the rest of the party.
Sibyl and Gervase never forgot the impression i
departing figure made upon them, as he disappear
gradually down the steep path, till even his face
finally lost to view. He walked with bent head @
moody face like one impelled by some inward fosd
wholly absorbed in troubled thought and dead to
external things. ‘
“Paul is so desperately glum to-day that it is ate
relief to get md of him for a time,” Sibyl obse
“Or is that the professional air, the gravity of i
leech, Gervase, do you suppose?”
“If Paul is glum, Edward is grimness incamnats! |
added Eleanor, pettishly; “they do nothing but scm
at each other. It is no pleasure to be with such a pa
Have they quarrelled?” Gervase smoked thoughtful
and silently for some twenty minutes. Then he tw
Sibyl that he would walk back to the village and 964
if he could help Edward in his search for some meats
of carrying his sister. “If all fails, we three can cany’
Nellie comfortably in an arm-chair,” he said. “I sup
pose Paul will be back in a minute; if not, the chilet
is close at hand, Sibyl, remember.”
Alice in the meantime had ascended as far as she

WHAT THE PINES SANG. 247

wi to go, and was waiting beneath a cluster of firs,
wwe she found a seat upon some faggots by a tree.
~ sat wrapped in a dreamy peace, with a book unread
her knee, listening to the faint undertones which
emured beneath the afternoon stillness—the hum of
ree, the fitful music in the pines, the cracking of a
ad branch—until the warmth, stillness and solitude
perceptibly soothed away her senses and weighed
w eyelids down over her charmed eyes, and thoughts
gi images blended fantastically in her brain on the
tm borders of dreamland. Then a voice stole upon
“x dream, the familiar voice of Gervase, saying she
aew not what, but using incisive and resolute tones;
r replied more earnestly still, a voice that stirred
fe deepest currents of her being, as she awoke, slowly
fpening her sleep-hazed eyes until the tree-trunks in
font of her shaped themselves clearly upon her vision,
wd the blank spaces between them were filled and then
racated by the two passing figures. .

“Yes,” said the voice of Gervase, before the figures
tame into view, “I will keep that part of the business
dark, I promise you that faithfully; one is not bound
io reveal the whole. It would only cause needless
uffering.”

“Especially to fer,’’ returned Edward’s voice; “they
nll naturally suppose I was not present—oh! above all
ke must never know.”

“No; Alice must never know. You may rely upon
ne—-—’”’ He stopped short, dismayed, for by this time

248 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

they had come full into Alice’s field of vision, passing
outside the fir-trees. She was facing the opposte
direction to that whence they came, and was screened
from their view by the tree-trunk behind her until the
had almost passed her, when Gervase’s ever-watchfdl
eyes caught the gleam of her light dress upon te
needle-strewn ground.

“Why, Alice,” he added, quickly recovering his self
possession; “are you alone?”

“Ves; I have been waiting,” she replied. “Where
are the others? What is the matter? Oh! Mr. Annesley,
are you ill?”

Edward’s face was grey, his lips quivered, his
shone with unnatural light; he looked at Alice with’
sort of horror, as if she had been a spectre. Then
and Gervase regarded each other enquiringly for som.
moments, saying nothing.

This silence, so full of meaning, prepared Alice f«
evil tidings, although she was conscious of no thougtt.
while it lasted beyond a weak childish wonder tha
Edward should be wearing Paul’s hat, a triviality tht
she communicated to no one at the time, though #
recurred to her afterwards. She knew the hat by #
piece of Edelweiss in the band, which alone distir
guished it from that worn in the morning by the othef
cousin. :

“There is much the matter, Alice,” replied Gervas:
at last, in grave measured tones. “There has been a:
accident.”

WHAT THE PINES SANG. 249

Alice began to tremble; she had risen from her seat
upon their approach, and now stayed herself against
the trunk of a tree.

‘“‘Be calm, dear,” said Gervase, laying his hand with
soothing and magnetic effect upon her arm; “you must
try to control yourself for the sake of his mother.”

“Tt is Paul,” Alice replied faintly; “is he much hurt?”

“He is dead—dead!” cried Edward, with an agita-
tion he could not control. °
“Oh! no,” exclaimed Alice, “not dead, it is not true.
Paul cannot be dead; it is not true.”

A deep hard sob escaped from Edward.

“It is too true,” continued Gervase in quiet, even
tones which calmed her; “he slipped on the cliff’s edge,
poor fellow, up beyond there where the path is narrow.
Hé fell into the river, and his body was quickly swept
away by the current.”

His body! Alice turned sick and tried to grasp
. the fact that the man she had seen that morning all
; aglow with passion and life, was lying quiet in the
mishing waters below, hushed and silent for ever; all
| the storm and stress of his blighted hopes and vain love
swallowed up and stilled in the green waters flowing so
tranquilly by in the sweet sunshine.

“Oh! Paul! Paul!” she sobbed in sudden remorseful
agony. “Oh! if I had but known!”

“Hush!” said Gervase, in the tones that had such
Magnetic power over her. “It is no use to give way.
Some one must break it to Mrs. Annesley.”

b

250 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Alice scarcely distinguished the sense of his w
though his voice calmed her. ‘That strange ave
Death, had so stirred the depths of pity and 1
within her into the semblance of the remorse whi
never fails to call up for the torture of the surv
that she could only yearn vainly for the lost oppor
of saying one kind word to the man who had love
so strongly and truly, though so wildly and sel
and remember that her last words to him had
words of reproach. The fmendship of years 4
within her, and called up a thousand gentle |
memories of the friend whose life she had unwtt!
marred, it obliterated all the harsher features 0
character and accused her of needless severity t
dead. Why had she refused him? She might
grown to him and loved him, if she had tried
thought in the first overpowering rush of pity
SOITOW.

«« J will tell Mrs. Annesley,” she said at last, ch
back the feelings which surged up within her.
you, Mr. Annesley,” she added, turning to Edwarc
had been looking on in speechless anguish, appa
unobserved by her, “you are her nearest kinsn
you will take her son’s place—will you not come
me?”

“Heaven forbid!” cried Edward; “I am th
person she will wish to see.”

Gervase perceived that each took the other’s
in a sense different from that intended by the sp

WHAT THE PINES SANG. 251

Mile g a subtle smile as he replied, “Annesley is
t will tell her all myself later. Go and break
° know gently to her, Alice. I, in the mean-

'* Must communicate with the authorities. You,

esley,, must return to your sister and Sibyl, who are

lone all this time. You and Stratfield”—Paul’s

‘Vant—«might contrive a litter for her between you,

default of anything better.”

Later on Alice passed an hour with the bereaved
wether, on whom the shock produced a stupefying effect
thich merged in an utter prostration. She was roused
Mm this seeming stupor some hours afterwards by the
Wouncement that Gervase Rickman was ready to give
ft what details he could of her son’s death. After a
ng interview with him she was asked if she would
i¢ to see her nephew, and replied in the affirmative.

Edward, therefore, entered her presence, calm and
mposed outwardly, but quivering with inward emo-
n. He tried to speak, but his lips refused utterance
en he looked upon the suddenly aged and worn face
fore him. Mrs. Annesley was dry-eyed and ap-
ently calm; she rose from her seat upon his en-
nce, and gazed steadily and sternly with glittering
s upon him; then she spoke in the deep and tragic
es she could command upon accasion:

“Where is my son, Edward Annesley?” she asked;

1at have you done with my only son?”

252 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER VI.

THE INHERITANCE,

THE memory of that scene weighed like a lasting
nightmare upon Edward Annesley’s troubled heat
When he entered his aunt’s presence he expected som
thing painful, but nothing ternble; he thought to see §
bereaved mother, he found a tigress robbed of bet |
cubs. All the fierceness in her nature blazed up #
the sight of him, a grim joy possessed her at the op
portunity of denouncing him as the cause of her los} :
for where other women grieved, this one raged. |

He could only stand silent before the storm, doitg
mute homage to her age, her sex, and her bitter sor
row; pained by the sight of a passion so like that he
had witnessed a few hours since in one whose passioas
were now for ever stilled, and hoping that her frenzy ©
would exhaust itself, that she might at least accep
some kind words from him, if nothing more.

That which silently gnawed his heart was enough
without spoken reproach; her words burnt into him like
molten metal, and left life-long wounds. In everything
she said, he had supplanted her son; he had secretly
stolen the heart of Alice from Paul whilst openly trifling

THE INHERITANCE. 253

ith Sy} | whose life he had marred. And now he
iad ctiven Paul to his death that he might snatch his
mhemtanee, Let him take that inheritance with the
CUSe attached to it, and a yet more withering curse on
to that, the curse of a childless widow. She asked him
, how 4 Strong and active man like her son could, ¢f alone,
Sip and fall beyond recovery. She told him that the
Teproach of having survived him would cling to him and
‘bight his happiness for life.

All this she said in a few cutting words, without
agitation, with a deep full voice, standing erect and im-
movable, with a hard brilliance in her cold blue eyes,
and when she had finished, she bid him go and come
Rear her no more. |

He hesitated, looking silently at her stern tearless
face, in which he saw such bitter anger that he thought
the shock must have made her beside herself. He
hoped that what she said was half-unconscious and
would be forgotten when she came to herself. Never-
theless the barbed words struck home, and her cold
immovable calm impressed him with a horror he could
hot shake off, and seeing that his presence only irritated
her, he withdrew with some expressions of regret for
ler condition, and a hope that he should find her
almer on the morrow.

Mrs. Annesley laughed a hard laugh, and said
uietly that she never had been and never should be
almer than at that moment, which was perfectly true.
ut when the door had closed upon him, and her gaze

254 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

fell upon some trifle that Paul had given her, the
deserted her, a sense of her bitter bereaval tool
of her, the memory of a thousand stormy sce
which she had wounded her only son rose up
ingly before her, and she sobbed and moaned, a!
herself to be the most miserable woman upon ea

Edward left her, scarce knowing what he «
whither he went. He and she alone knew he
scar came upon Paul’s face; she had looked whe
occurred as she looked now. He wondered if he
be the same man who had left the gipsy party
river’s source a few hours before and had st
lightly along the rocky path in the sunshine, sing
the lightness of his heart.

He met Sibyl in the corridor, and she, seei
misery in his face, gave way to one of those gu
impulses she never could resist, and laid her
gently on his arm.

“Dear Mr. Annesley,” she said, in her clea
voice, “I am so sorry for you. “All this must
painful.”

He said nothing, but kissed the hand she had
him, and passed on with a full heart. Sibyl alon
doled with him on that day’s work, he reflectec
then the barbed arrow of his aunt’s suggestion
her rankled in his heart.

He went into the sitting-room, where his sis!
on a couch with Alice sitting by her side.

By this time it was dark night, the lonely

THE INHERITANCE. 255

iS Sleep, only the hotel lights still burnt, and even
ey Yte sradually dying out; but the Annesley party
&id 20t yet dream of going to rest, they were waiting
and Watching for the return of the searchers with their
wagic burden.

Alice sat in the shadow; she had only seen Edward
once since the meeting under the pine-trees, and she
ad then observed, in the brief glance she caught of

"in, that the Edelweiss was removed from his hat.

The sight of her stirred Edward with a feeling akin
| © pain—a mysterious something bid him fly from her;
for Paul’s untimely fate had reared a barner between
them, insurmountable for the time. It seemed an un-
far advantage over the dead man, even to recall his
assurance that there was no chance of his winning her,
& to consider the meaning in Alice’s voice, when she
cied upon Paul in her sudden remorse in the wood:
“Oh, Paul, Paul! If I had but known!”

She was very calm now, though he could not see
her face in the shadow; but calmness, he knew well,
was no index to the depth of her sorrow; it was her
hature in joy and grief to command herself. Yet he
thought she wished to avoid him.

“Have you been to auntie, Ned?” asked Eleanor,
itarting up at his step.

“Yes,” he answered heavily, and he sat down and
azed blankly before him.

“Nellie,” said Alice, “do you think you could go to
our aunt?”

256 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“She had better not,” replied Edward quickly; “it :
would be too painful.”

“But Mrs. Annesley must not be left alone,” said
Alice, with some reproach in her voice. “I am afraid
your interview has been trying, Mr. Annesley—but how:
could it be otherwise? Is she no calmer?”

“I believe,” returned Edward slowly, “that she is
Out of her mind.”

“Poor soul! Then I will go to her at once,” said
Alice, rising.

“She is better alone, Miss Lingard,” interposed:
Edward hastily; “pray don’t subject yourself to anything
so dreadful. She is not accountable for what she says
now—no one must believe what she says—her grief
must have its way. Her maid is at hand.—Pray, Miss
Lingard.”—He even barred the way when she would
have left the room, and held the door shut behind him,
until a pressure from without caused him to open tt '
and disclose the face of Gervase, who had seen his
meeting with Sibyl a few moments before.

“Alice is right,” Gervase said, on hearing the cause
of dispute; “Mrs. Annesley is not fit to be left alone;
it would be cruel. Nellie is too young, and just now
too unwell, and Sibyl—well, Sibyl could not be what
Alice is to her.”

Alice therefore went, with every word that Edward
had just uttered so hastily and brokenly sinking per-
manently into her memory. Mrs. Annesley roused her-

THE INHERITANCE. 257

Af at the sight of her to repeat her denunciation lof
dward, in tones of sorrowful conviction this time.

Alice, inwardly trembling, did what she could to
Oothe the now ternbly agitated woman, and bid her
Wasider before accusing Edward in the hearing of
Mhers, thankful that, as she supposed, she alone had as

heard anything.

“Dear Mrs. Annesley,” she remonstrated, “you imply

he had a hand in your son’s death when you
so.”’
' “Alice,” replied Mrs. Annesley, quietly and coldly,
you know where Edward was at the moment of
laul’s fall?”

“No,” she replied simply; “how should I?”

“How indeed?” repeated Mrs. Annesley, setting
er lips hard; “that is what no one knows or ever will
now.”

“It is very simple, dear,” said Alice, “we will ask
tim.”

“Ask him!” returned Mrs. Annesley, with terrible
kcom—“ask him yourself, Alice.”

Then her mood changed, and she suddenly fell to
peeping, staying herself upon Alice.

“Qh, Alice! Alice!” she cried, “my poor child loved
rou—he loved you!” and their tears mingled, and the
utterness seemed to pass away.

Paul’s body was never found. They waited and
vatched in vain that night. Alice thought that if she
suld look once more upon his dead face, and press
the Reproach of Annesley, 1, 17

258 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

one repentant kiss upon the cold brow that could neve
more thrill with passion, even at the touch of her lip
she would be happier and perhaps lose the unreax
ing remorse which troubled her now.
The current was strong at the spot where he {a
the bursting of an Alpine thunderstorm about an lx
after the accident increased the difficulty of the sear
which was quickly instituted. There were good reasom
why the body, if discovered by chance, should be a
cealed again. Paul wore a valuable watch, and had
good deal more money in his pocket than prudeq
people care to carry about, and, as it was ascertaim
that he had not given the diamonds into the jewelle
charge before leaving Neufchatel, and they were
found among his effects, it was inferred that they,
were upon him. :
Edward passed some weary weeks in Switzerland,
time of fruitless search for the missing body, and of ap
parently endless formalities with regard to the death, &
time which he spent entirely apart from his aunt, wha
refused to see him and only communicated with him
through Gervase and her other lawyers. Then he re
turned to England, the gainer of a great inheritancd
that he did not want, burdened with responsibilities and
rich with opportunities that he had never coveted ant
would gladly have renounced in exchange for the sunny
peace of mind he enjoyed when travelling on the raif
through the mountains only a few weeks earlier. |

|
Mrs. Annesley stayed on some little time after his

THE INHERITANCE. 259

leparture before she went home, a white-haired, broken-
xearted woman. Alice Lingard, the only creature to
whom she now showed any affection, remained with
her, surrounding her with tender cares, and trying to
poften the bitter blow wigch had fallen upon her. Sibyl

Eleanor had returned to their respective homes

ediately after the accident; the two women were

alone with their loss, and the elder entreated the
r to make her home with her, and remain with
altogether to cheer her desolation.

But Alice, without refusing absolutely to entertain
his proposal, said that it was too early yet to form any
lefinite plans; they would wait and consider, and
lecide nothing till the healing hand of Time had
Wrought some comfort in Mrs. Annesley’s stricken
heart.

260 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

a)
CHAPTER VIL

BY THE RIVER.

A sHoRT time before they left the village in th
Jura, Alice one day gathered some late autumn flowett
and bound them together, and Gervase Rickman, wi
had remained with Mrs. Annesley, journeying bat:
wards and forwards on business connected with Patlt
death, asked her for what purpose she had gathered
them.

“I am going for a long walk,” she replied, evasivelf
and she did not ask him to accompany her; but be:
saw her go in the direction of the path which wousd
along the river’s rocky bank towards its source, asd
presently he went the same way with a view to meetilg
her as if by accident.

“That old woman will be the death of her if ths
goes on much longer,” he said to himself, glad that he
had urged his father and mother to call her back to
Arden.

It was now October; the hush of the solemn autumn
lay upon the mountain pastures and the fading, dream
ing woods, and although, lower down in the warm
valleys and sheltered folds of the mountains, some

BY THE RIVER. 2601

grapes still remained glowing in the hot sunshine in the
vineyards, and the country was alive with the songs
and shouts of the vintagers, and full of the mellow,
Itoxicating odour of crushed grapes, up there on the
ten Jura slopes the frosts had been keen and the
wnds chill. But on this afternoon all was peace; the
mn shone warmly with a last, relenting glow before the
Mchaining of the winter tempests, and Alice was glad
lb lose herself in the beauty of the quiet season.

She made her way through the wood in which she
Nad rested shortly before she had heard the heavy
adings of Paul’s death a month since, and, though the
Way was long, did not pause until she reached the spot
Mpon the cliffs edge where he slipped and fell on
that unfortunate day. There she rested, looking down
imo the green waters, now turbid from the heavy
@quinoctial rains, and thought it all over. Then she
took the flowers, and threw them carefully down the
cif, so that they might clear the trees and bushes
Which grew here and there in the unevennesses and
defts in the rocky wall, and fall into the river, where
she watched them swerve with the current, and float
down the stream, till a jutting buttress of rock hid
them from her gaze. Just so Paul’s lifeless body must
have been borne away. It seemed as if her heart went
With the flowers and sank in the waters for ever with
the body of her ill-starred lover.

Her face was worn with care, there were dark
lollows beneath her eyes; the shadow of Mrs. Annesley’s

262 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

grief lay heavily upon her youth; it was crushing :

the brightness out of her, and besides that, she
the heavy burden of an unspoken fear within her, ang
waged a daily, wasting warfare with a suspicion tha
grew stronger from the combat. She had ceased openly
to rebut Mrs. Annesley’s accusations of her nepher
but nevertheless the continual allusions made by t
latter told upon her. She learnt now of the long nivale
between the cousins, dangerous half-truths; she hea
of a quarrel at Medington.

Paul had himself betrayed his jealousy of Edw:
in that unfortunate boat scene; the distant and almem
hostile terms on which the cousins were, had be¢
evident to the whole party. Alice knew something 4
Paul’s temper; she knew well what maddening thing
he could say when his blood was stirred to white hed
she could well imagine that Edward’s temper, thoug
sweet enough, would give way before Paul’s cuttsg
sarcasms, and betray him into what was foreign to bi
nature at calmer times. But why had he chosen i
tortuous course of concealment, which the words si
overheard him say by the river implied?

She could not forgive him that; a man capable d
that was not to be trusted, nor was one stained with #-
dark a thing as homicide worth the thought she wa
wasting on him. The reproach was already beginning
to work upon Annesley. |

When Alice had been sitting thus, brooding 0
these disquieting thoughts a good twenty miputes

BY THE RIVER. 263

ming which some of the autumn peace had stolen
to her heart, her mournful reverie was broken by the
pearance of Gervase Rickman.

“This is not a good place for you,” he said, with
tntle rebuke; “I am glad you will soon be far away.”

“It is a farewell visit,” she replied, looking up, her
res bright with nsing tears. “Come and sit on this
xk, and tell me exactly what you saw on that day.
‘hen I have seen it all in imagination clearly before me,
shall brood less upon it, perhaps.”

He sat down at her bidding, and looked wistfully
t her, wishing she would ask him anything else, mean-
ig to ask her to spare him the pain of the narration,
flecting that she would think such shrinking on his
at unmanly, longing vainly to be saved from a tempta-
o beyond his strength.

“Tell me all,” she repeated, seeing that he hesitated;
it will do me good.”

So he took up his tale, and said that he had fol-
Owed the two cousins from the river’s source on the
lay of Paul’s death, partly to see what had become of
aul, who had left them for no apparent purpose, partly
0 help Edward to find some means of carrying Nellie
lown to Bourget; that, as he approached the spot on
thich they were now sitting, where the ground was
token, and sloped suddenly down to the cliff’s edge,
€ heard a cry, and running up, saw Paul clinging to
te birch-tree beneath them, the snapped trunk of which
lowed that it had given way beneath his weight. He

264 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

saw the tree bound and rebound, before it final
snapped, and Paul fell into the water, and was seem
no more. It was his opinion at the time that Pas
who could not swim, had been killed or disabled b
striking on the rocky bed of the stream. He called
and ran for help, which he found in the shape of
some men at work higher up. Edward Annes
then appeared upon the scene. .That was the wha
Story.
“Why did Mr. Annesley not appear sooner, whet
Paul cried for help?” asked Alice, quietly.
“That I am unable to explain,” Gervase returned
drily, “perhaps he did not hear.” |
“Then why did he come at all?”
“Perhaps he heard, but was too far off to arme
sooner.” ‘
“Gervase,” said Alice, turning and looking him fal
in the face; “you are not telling the whole truth.”
He was obliged to meet her eyes for a momem4
but immediately averted his gaze and breathed quickly, |
not knowing what to say. )
“You are concealing something,” she repeated.
“There are occasions, Alice,” he replied, “on whic
one is bound in honour to be silent.”
Then she remembered the promise she had over
heard, and her heart grew faint.
“It may be right for you to be silent,” she returned,
“but only if you have promised.”
“Alice,” continued Gervase, earnestly, “unless you

BY THE RIVER. 265

ish to do Edward Annesley harm, you had better not
ater too closely into details.”

“I don’t believe it,” she replied, vehemently; “truth
nll not harm him, but concealment may.”

“Well! I can only repeat what I say: if you wish
0 injure him, the means are at hand.”

Alice plucked a spray of juniper which grew near,
ind tore it to pieces in agitated silence.

“It 1s curious,” reflected Gervase, “that reigning
winces are always at war with heirs-apparent. The
\nnesleys were the best of friends till this ill-fated in-
eritance fell to Paul.”

“Do you think that set them at variance?”

“Undoubtedly. But Paul had another cause of
infe; he was jealous, you know how causelessly, of
Edward. Paul never could understand how meaningless
we half-a-dozen sugared words from a military man,
xcustomed to two flirtations a week on an average.
He could still less understand that a man who means
‘thing can be jealous from vanity. He was thoroughly
oyal, poor fellow!”

“He was, indeed,” Alice replied, absently. She
ras thinking, with a sinking heart, that she must forget
‘dward, since he had never cared for her, as Gervase,
0 good a reader of character, plainly saw, and with
Totherly affection and delicate tact pointed out to her.
he was thinking, with still deeper pain, that silence
ith regard to that fatal hour upon the banks of the
oubs was the greatest kindness Edward’s friends could

266 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

show him; his own words on that afternoon as well:
Gervase’s present hints were witnesses to that. Ho
blinded she had been to his true character by #
glamour of her unasked love! How little she hs
dreamed that the very failing she censured so severe
in Paul, want of self-control, was that of the man 3
preferred before him; the evil heritage of the Annesle
showing itself, not, as in the slain man, in an unbndle
surrender of himself to his loves and likings, but mn i
inability to master the anger Paul’s sarcasm and w
warrantable jealousy must have kindled in him. Ps
was headlong and uncurbed in love, and thus lost he
Edward was evidently headlong and uncurbed in wra
She repudiated a yet darker motive on the part of t
heir to so rich a property, a motive urged by M
Annesley in moments of confidence; the worst thing
be attributed to Edward probably was yielding to
passionate impulse that circumstances made crimin
She looked at Gervase, and realized that, slight as |
strength was comparatively, a vigorous push on her p
would send him beyond recovery over the verge on t!
broken and mossy ground; she pictured two men wa
ing or standing there, and saw that only blind pass
or criminal intention could ignore the fatal issue 0
blow in such a spot. And passion so blind, so reckl
of consequence amounted to crime. What an inherita!
this man had gained! his heart must indeed be hi
if he ever derived any satisfaction from a thing won
so terrible a cost. Her heart went out in pity to h

BY THE RIVER. 267

ut she hoped that she was incapable of warmer feeling
er such a man. Yet the pity was so strong that it
dlanched her face, and set her lip quivering in spite of
herself.

“Leave me,” she said, turning to Gervase with
dimmed eyes; “let me be a few minutes. If you like
to wait in the wood, I can overtake you.”

He rose at once and left her, with the tact so
distinctive of him, and Alice shaded her face with her
hand and watched the turbid waters flowing past. She
knew that there could be no more happiness for Edward
Amesley in this world unless his heart were quite hard
and bad, as few human hearts are; and she could not
think him very bad, hardly as others might judge the
man she had been upon the verge of loving. She sat
gazing on the river till the hot tears blinded her, seeing
her youth and hope borne away upon the green waters
Which had engulfed Paul Annesley. She wondered
how people managed to live whose hopes were broken;
she had heard of maimed lives dragging themselves
Painfully along through weary sunless years; she tried
0 summon her courage to meet such a fate, but it
seemed too soon yet to piece the broken fragments of
her life together. She wept on till she almost wept her
heart out. Then she grew calm, the mighty peace
Which brooded over the sunshiny afternoon, with its
Careless midges fated to die in an hour, its humming-

S busy in the ivy-blossom, and its pigeons fluttering

268 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

out from the great sombre silent pines, once mtg
touched her heart, and a still mightier peace than eve
that of Nature sank into it. She felt that a life »
broken as hers might be put to some nobler, more uw
selfish purpose than one in which the music had neve
been marred. To blend those broken chords into som
diviner harmony would henceforth give her soul courags
and purpose.

And Edward? She could only pray for him. Pe
haps that strong feeling so near akin to love had bee
given her that sacrificial incense might not be wantag
on his behalf, though he should fail to offer it himsdf;
as was just and due.

She rose and rejoined Gervase in the wood below;
with a serene face and eyes full of spiritual exaltatda §
He looked at her for a moment and saw that she had
been crying; then he averted his glance and offered
her a bunch of late-blooming heather. She fixed it 2
the black dress she wore in memory of Paul, scarcely
acknowledging an attention that was so usual with him,
and they went tranquilly down the hill-side through the
wood and over the marshy waste where the cotton-rust
grew, in the lengthening ruddying sunshine, among th
gradually hushing sounds of the evening, Alice litte
dreaming of the passion which enveloped the purple
heath-flowers as with burning flame. She clung ®
spirit to Gervase, leaning all the more upon his cal
brotherly friendship because of the bitterness which had

BY THE RIVER. 269

sulted from the love of others. Gervase had loved
'r, too, but he had known how to conquer a feeling
hich gave her pain, and she was grateful to him.

When, nearly an hour later, they entered the bleak
illage street, they saw Edward Annesley leaning over
helow stone garden wall of the house in which he lodged,
mith his face turned towards the setting sun. With a
wpe in his mouth and his hands clasped together at
he back of his head, which was slightly thrown back
command a better view of the splendid cloud-pageant
Q the west, the glory of which was reflected on his
le, he looked the picture of tranquil enjoyment, and
he sight of him grated painfully on Alice’s feelings,
found up, as they were, to such a pitch. His heart
Must indeed be hard, she thought, her own recoiling
from the pity she had been lavishing upon him,

When he saw them, he put away the pipe and came
lo meet them, and the ruddy glow of the sunset faded
from his face, which looked pale and careworn.

“I am starting from Neufchatel to night for Eng-
land” he said. “Can I do anything for you, Miss
Lingard?”

“Thank you, nothing,” she replied coldly, and he
kaw that her eyes had recently been full of tears.

“You won’t forget the parcel for my sister, Annesley,
mill you?” said Gervase.

“Certainly not. I will give it into her own hands,”
be replied. “Good-bye, Miss Lingard.”

“Good-bye.” She suffered him to take her unre-

270 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

sponsive hand in his firm clasp and passed on, glad to
think she should meet him no more, at least for the
present; and he remained, gazing after her wistfully,
with a vague presentiment that he might never see her
again.

Gervase left Alice at the hotel door and
returned to Edward, who was no longer gazing at
sunset but upon the blank high front of the hotel, whi
rose sheer and unbroken from the street, vaguely sug
gesting mountain desolation without its accompan
grandeur.

“T am afraid she is feeling it terribly,” he said, when
Gervase came up. |

“Poor girl! what can you expect?” replied Gervase
“The only wonder to me is that she bears up 90
bravely. It does her no good to be here upon the |
scene, making pilgrimages to the fatal spot and throwing
flowers into that dark and dreary river.”

“Of course not,” he returned, wondering how
Gervase could speak of those things in that offhand
way. He had himself seen her leave the village with
the garden flowers, and it was not difficult to guess
where she had been. “Do try and get her away,
Rickman. I cannot understand,” he added, after a
pause, “why they were not formally engaged. There
is no doubt now that she did care for him.”

“None whatever. But Paul’s was a morbid, jealous
nature; he may have taken a mere rebuff for a refusal.”

“True.”

BY THE RIVER. 271

“The best of women have little coquettish ways
Which men never understand,” pursued Gervase, with a
Teflective air. “A girl draws back half shyly, half to
bing her lover on, and the stupid fellow takes her
literally and flies off in a fury and throws himself into
he nearest pond, if he does not take to drinking.”

“Women should be more honest,” said Edward,
lercely. “They should not drive men who love them
o despair. Yet the woman always gets the worst of it
n the end.”

“It depends on the kind of woman.”

“Do you think she has any suspicion of the truth?”
le continued.

“No, I think not. Indeed I am sure not.”

“TI trust she never will.”

“She will canonize Paul and pass the remainder of
er days in worshipping the memory of the man she
rove to desperation in his lifetime. It is a pity.”

“She is young. Time will heal her.”

“You don’t know Alice Lingard, Annesley. Her life
ras spoilt by that unlucky occurrence on the river.
oor girl! Sibyl, now, is of a different stamp; yet they
re wonderfully alike in some respects. I'll see you to
1e station. Time is up.”

PART

Reproach of Annesley. 1.

IV.

CHAPTER I.

SHEEP-SHEARING.

Tue tall elms bordering the lane leading to Arden
anor had just completed their yearly toilet, and spread
ut broad masses of delicate green foliage, as yet un-
\ ged by dust and undarkened by sun, against the
lear blue sky, over which little clouds floated high up,

y and ethereal as fairy cars. Cottage gardens

2 balmy with the indescribable freshness of lilac
5; an occasional rose in a sunny corner opened
s sweet blossom with a sort of shy wonder at its own
Kauty, and was a treasure for a village lad to give to
}sweetheart, because it was so rare. The may had
Mt yet faded from the thorn hedges, it bloomed white
the hollows of the downs, flushing pink and pinker
{summer drew on; buttercups made the deep pas-
3 sheets of burnished gold; the spicy breath of
er filled the air.
- “J hreckon Squire Rickman ’ll hae a powerful
ight of hay this year, Dan’l Pink,” Raysh Squire
pphesied, as he took a thoughtful survey of the
18*

276 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

meadow which lay beyond the rickyard, by the
fence of which he was standing in the fresh suns
one fine afternoon.
The shepherd was too much pre-occupied to
serious heed to Raysh’s prophecies. With out- |
arms and thoughtful face he stood making strange, ¢
like noises at a few sheep, which had slipped by
chance from the pen in the midst of the straw-yard
fore the barn, when the hurdles had been opened
rowly so as to let the sheep through one by onei
the barn, the folding doors of which stood wide,'%
upon the floor of which knelt bare-armed shearers, ¢
with a heap of panting wool before him, through wi
the shears moved with a quick glitter and snappl
sometimes followed by a piteous bleat if a mala
movement drove the keen points into the tet
flesh. |
Rough, the wolf-lke sheep-dog, barked with zeal
skill on the opposite side, and soon managed, with
master’s help, to drive the wanderers back into i
narrow fold, where they stood huddled closely toget
heavy-fleeced and snow-white from their recent W
ing, vainly protesting by querulous bleatings against
spoliation their brethren were undergoing. fF
they were anticipating the time when they too ¥
lie mute and defenceless beneath the shearer’s ha
and then arise, white and attenuated, and trot, the @
spectres of their former plump, fleecy selves, out at §
opposite door into the green meadow beyond,

SHEEP-SHEARING. 277

: shorn creatures nibbled at the sweet grass in the
whine, plaintively bemoaning their unaccustomed
htness, with their slim bodies sometimes streaked
th blood.

It was an anxious time for Daniel; bleak winds and
Ml rains might still come in these early June days; he
Mald not bear to see the marks upon the creatures’
es, and was inclined to blame the shearers’ clumsi-
Mes, while they laid it to the charge of the sheep, who
apt, after a few minutes’ perfect quiescence, to
_ out of a sudden and jerk the operator’s hand.
el was always thankful when shearing-time was
Mi at an end, and the sheep had become accustomed
™the loss of their winter coats. Not so the boys,

M-a-dozen of whom were standing about; they de-
Bited in the fun and frolic of helping to catch the
gray sheep and haul them along with many a tumble
fed tussle, now and then holding a restive creature for
shearer. Still more they delighted in the washing,
ich had taken place down at the valley farm, where
ete was a good pond with hatches, and where one of
lads, helping to push a great fat ram in the water,
Mi fallen plump in with the struggling beast, to the
id laughter of the rest.

The gardener was busy in the barn, the cow-man
MMpped and looked in to see how the shearers were
betting on, on his way from the cow-house with the
Vening’s milk in the pails; John Nobbs, the bailiff,
tood by the pen with his stout legs apart and his

278 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and alk
it was “mis’able warm;”’ Mam Gale, from the “Trave
Rest,” was there to serve out the ale, the four o’c
in place of the bailiff’s wife, who was laid by; a8
and smiling maid, another of the shepherd’s daugl
attended her; the farm-yard was full of sumshiny bi
and alive with the sound of human voices, the ble
and lowing of animals, and cackle of poultry.

Mr. Rickman stood by the bailiff with a pensiv
and looked on with a sort of gentle enquiry in his
remarking to Gervase, who had ndden over
Medington that afternoon, that a master’s eye
everything. So Gervase thought, and his keen g
was everywhere, and every one knew it. The cow
lingered no more than was reasonable on his wi
the dairy; the boys took care to play no tricks, |
sheep through the fold; the carters, bringing
horses to water, dared not loiter; the shearers di
pause in their work while they chattered with that
gossip, Raysh Squire, whose special object in
there it was not easy to define, unless it were th
considered it his duty as parish clerk to keep a
on the vicar’s handful of sheep, since those. ecclesis
creatures were undergoing the same fate as thei
brethren.

Yet this was scarcely necessary, since not
Joshua Young, the vicarage gardener and factotum
lending a hand, but the vicar himself, his roun
on the back of his head, and his spectacles accu

SHEEP-SHEARING. 279

danced upon his nose, stood by Mr. Rickman’s side
id looked upon the group of shearers with interest.
hether the scene suggested any analogy with a tithe
mner to him he did not say.

“A pleasing spectacle, Merton,” Mr. Rickman ob-
trved to him; “so primitive and pastoral. Virgil’s eyes
eheld it, and even David’s. Much as science has
one in destroying the poetry of rural life, we do not
et shear our sheep by steam.”

“Or electricity,” added Gervase; “but we shall.”

“I am glad the weather is warm for the poor
hings,” said Mr. Merton, who was eminently practical.
_ “It is fortunate, or rather providential. God truly
lempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” replied Mr. Rick-
man, under the impression that he was quoting Scripture,
aid thus paying a fitting compliment to Mr. Merton’s
doth.

The proverb was new to the shepherd, who took it
m with his outward ears and laid it aside in the dim
cells of his memory for future contemplation. At pre-
nt he was fully occupied with an idea which had
tome to him years ago, and which refreshed him an-
lually, if the weather was fine, when he stood in Arden
armyard at shear time, and looked through the two
ets of open barn-doors to the upland meadow beyond
—the meadow steeped in sunshine till the grass was
quid emerald and the sheep browsing there were made
f transparent light. The shadowed barn, into which
ome few shafts of light shot transversely, irradiating

280 THE REPROACH GF ASSESC EY

far dark corners, made a black frame fo the s
mead, thus enhanang is bnikance amd lending i
ethereal beauty. Paradise, the shepherd thowgir. |
be something like that green, flower-susred
glowing with ling hght. Up there the Ceh
Shepherd’s flock rested peacefully, feeding im the 1
radiance, some of them with bleeding sides that w
soon be healed for ever. Down m the yard the g
were penned together, hungering, panting, sc
driven they knew not whither or wherefore, lke
in the cruel world. Sooner or later all must be u
the shearer’s hands, like men beneath the stern 3
of necessity; those that kicked bled, those that ly
beneath the sharp blades were unwounded, and 1
quickly set at liberty in the sweet pastures above.
the shepherd mused, looking stohd and vacant, a
stood in his smock frock with his crook in his h
pulling his forelock in answer to some question
dressed to him by the vicar.

“Shear-time aint what it was when you and me
young, Mam Gale,” said Raysh Squire, graciously
cepting a mug of four o’clock from the latter.
minds when half the country-zide come to as
feast.”

“And bide half the night the volk would, wi’ vid
and singing,’ she replied. ‘“Many’s the song I‘
yeard you zing at shear-time, Master Squire. M
on us! here comes Squire Annesley!”

The shearers’ eyes were all lifted at the clid

SHEEP-SHEARING. 281

» farm-gate, through which Annesley was just riding
search of Gervase Rickman, whom he had tracked
mm his office in Medington and finally run to earth at
tden.

Seeing Mr. Rickman, he got off, giving his horse in
harge of a carter, and walked round the pen to the
ree gentlemen, whose backs were turned, so that they
re not aware of his presence until he had nearly
(med them, when Gervase came to meet him.

Mr. Rickman received him with his wonted cordial-
¥, but the Vicar, with a distant salutation to the new-
Omer, said something about an appointment and hur-
ed away, promising to look in later.

Edward’s face flushed and darkened as he looked
ter the retreating figure of the clergyman, and he
lade some satirical reference to the unusual amount of
isiness the latter appeared to have on hand.

“Itis too bad of me to invade your leisure, Rickman,”
‘added; “for if any mortal man earns his holidays,
u do. But I shall not be in Medington for a day or
o, and I want five minutes’ conversation with you, if
u can spare them. How well your sheep look, Mr.
ckman! Are these the prize South-downs?”

“These?” echoed Mr. Rickman with a puzzled air
rather think they are; eh, Gervase?”

“Those in the meadow,” replied Geryase; and he
ced Edward if he remembered when Mr. Rickman
ald not be made to understand why the sheep-

282 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

washing would not do as well after the shearing, wb
he thought would be so much more convenient.

“I remember that sheep-shearing well,” Edw
replied. “Paul and I stayed here a couple of ny
one Whitsuntide holidays.”

The peculiar, unpleasant smell of the sheep, t
querulous bleating, the click of shears and clad
tongues, brought back the far-off sunny holidays cle:
with a mixture of pleasure and pain to his mind.
long ago always has something sad, however swe
may be; but subsequent events had given these
mories a sting. The two boys had helped to push
unwilling sheep into the water. Once they stole s
shears and cut the horses’ manes and poor little Si
hair. She used to trot after them like a little dog,
was always putting them up to mischief, and invol
them in scrapes, innocent in intention. He could
her great dark eyes, and hear Paul’s merry laugh
It pained him to recall those golden days, and t
how far they then were from dreaming of the t
shadow which was to rise between them, extingui
one life, darkening the other.

“To be sure; how time goes and the children 5
up,” Mr. Rickman said, as they went past the mon:
looking barns and the bailiff’s stone-buttressed hou
the Manor; “how the time goes and nothing remains
repeated, going in and leaving them alone to des
their business.

Scarcely a year had passed since Paul’s death,

SHEEP-SHEARING. 283

ttle more than a year since the fated inheritance fell
0 him so unexpectedly by the extinction of the elder
©anch of Annesleys. But Edward looked years older
han when some fifteen months before an accident
drought him to Arden Manor to tangle the web of so
Many lives. Gervase Rickman would not now call him
4 good-looking fool if he saw him for the first time.
His face then wore the unwritten expression of early
Youth, that strange half-tranced look which has such a
charm for older people; it was stamped to-day with an
indelible record; the features, beautiful then with young
and gentle curves, had become marked and masculine,
though what was lost in grace was gained in strength.
The old ready smile and frank, good-humoured look
had given place to a stern, almost defiant expression.
He was now grave and taciturn; the reproach of which
Mrs, Annesley had spoken seemed branded upon him.

Was that Squire Annesley? one of the shearers who
Came from a distance was asking, and was it true, as
folk averred, that he had sold himself to the devil for
Gledesworth lands?

“Some say there’s a curse on the Gledesworth
lands, and it do’ seem like it,” John Nobbs replied;
there was never a Squire of Gledesworth without
Touble yet.”

“Ah! Mr. Nobbs, there’s that on the back of Squire
Annesley would break any one of ourn, let alone the
eft of the curse,” added Mam Gale, with a myste-
10Us air.

284 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. |

“What was it he done?” asked the shearer.

“Some say he shoved ’tother one over cliff,” replied
Raysh Squire. “Whatever he done he drove a bad
bargain for hisself. Gledesworth lands is wide ai |
Gledesworth lands is hrich, but all Gledesworth lant |
isn’t worth what goes on inzide of he.”

“Bad luck they lands brings,” said a shearer; sh
at Squire Paul!”

“A good dacter was spiled in he,” observed Mai
Gale thoughtfully inverting her tin mugs to get nid
heel-taps; “he had as good a eye for the working &
volks’ inzides as Mr. Nobbs hev fur the pints of beest
Poor Ellen, she couldn’t go off comfortable without his.
*Twas he zent our Hreub abroad with young Mrs. At
nesley, and made a man of ’n.”

Then the others recalled traits of Paul’s excellence.
Joshua Young dilated on the wild wet night-ride he
had taken to his father; Raysh averred that no one else
had ever grappled so successfully with Grandmothet
Squire’s rheumatism; Jim Reed, one of the shearers
showed the scars on his arm, which had once beet
torn in a threshing-machine, and which Paul Annesle!
had saved from amputation. To Paul, as to mam!
another artist, fame came in full flood when death ha
made him deaf to it.

“A understanden zart of a dacter was Paul Ar
nesley,” said John Nobbs. “You minds when I wa
down in the fever, Dan’l Pink. There was I with n
more power of meself than a dree weeks babe. Th

SHEEP-SHEARING. 285

and,” he held up a broad brown fist in the sun-
“was so thin as a eggshell; you med a looked
1’en. My missus, she giv me up. Mr. Merton
was pretty nigh time to think on my zins. Squire
nan, he called in a town doctor, let alone docter-
me hisself. Thinks I to mezelf, ‘John Nobbs,’ I
‘you’ve a got to goo, and the quieter you goos
tter, they wunt leat your widow want while she
her health for dairy work.’ There I bid a-bed
‘ver knowed night from noon. Dr. Annesley, he
in and felt the pulse of me. Then he looks
straight at me, ‘John Nobbs,’ he says, ‘you’ve got
nis’able low, but you’ve a powerful fine consti-
it’s a pity to let a constitution like yourn goo,’ he
ind of sorrowful. ‘There aint a man in Arden,’
s, ‘with a better eye fur cattle than yourn, John
> When he said this yer, I sort of waked up,
immed going off quiet like when he come in, and
if I didn’t begin to cry, I was that weak and
Come now,’ he says, ‘you aint easy beat, John

you’ve abeen through wet harvests and bad
x times, and you never give in. Don’t you give
yer fever, John Nobbs. Drink off this yer stuff
ike up your mind you wunt be beat, and you'll
e laugh of we doctors,’ he says cheerful and
‘Make up your mind you wunt be beat, John
’ he says. With that he poured some warm
to me and he heft me up in bed and put some
hround me, and bid me look out of window,

286 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Thinks I to myself, ‘You med so well hae another look
rhound, John Nobbs, avore you goos,.’ And there whet
I looked hround athirt the archard, where the apple
trees was all hred with bloom and the sunshine wa
coming down warm on ’em, and I zeen wuld Sorrel it
close with a foal capering at her zide, and the meadow
beyond put up for hay with the wind blowing the gras
about, and smelt the bedn-blossom drough the ope
window, and zeen everything coming on so nice, |
zimmed miserable queer. Then I says to mezelf, ‘John
Nobbs,’ I zes, ‘you look sharp and get up and mow
that there grass, and thank the Lord, who have give
you as good a eye for judgen cattle and as god
a hand for a straight furrow as any man alive,’ I 24
And here I be,” he added in conclusion, passing a red
handkerchief over his broad face.

“Sure enough, Mr. Nobbs, there you be,” echoed
Raysh, thoughtfully surveying the bailiff’s substantial
body as if trying to persuade himself that he was it
deed no aénal vision lhkely to fade from his gaz.
“Without he you’d a ben in lytten long with yow
vatther up in the narth-east carner by the wall; ayé,
you'd a ben in church lytten, Mr. Nobbs, sure enough.”

“They do say ‘twas all along of a ooman they tw |
fell out,” said Joshua Baker.

“Zure enough,” replied Mam Gale, “Miss Lingard
favoured the captain first, then comes the doctor and
she favoured he, and then they both come together and
she favoured ’em both and then they fell out.”

SHEEP-SHEARING. 287

said one of the shearers, pausing in the act
‘ over the sheep upon the floor before him,
‘ there’s mischief there’s a ooman, I’ll warn’t.”’
iankind,” observed Raysh with mournful ac-
e, “is a auspicious zart, a ter’ble auspicious
2 female zart.”
iankind,” retorted Mam Gale, who was leaving
vith leisurely reluctance, “med hae their vaults,
deny. But massy on us! come to think of
; when their vaults is took away, there ain’t
ft of ’em, nor a scriddick.”
1ankind,” continued Raysh, majestically dis-
this interruption, “was made to bring down
of man. Adam, he was made fust, and he
proud and vore-right drough having nobody
nen, there was no bearen of ’n. Then Eve,
made, and she pretty soon brought ’n down,
was the Fall of Man as you med all hread in
)

goo on, Raysh,” retorted Jim Reed; “you
body knows the Bible athout ’tis you.”
» I ‘lows this young ooman have got summat
' for,” said the stranger shearer; “she ought to
to one and left t’other, which is likewise in
instead of wivveren about between the two to
ruction.”

a mis’able bad job, and talking won’t mend
lon Nobbs, turning the conversation, when he
. Standing on the granary steps at the other

288 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

end of the yard, scattering handfuls of grain before h
for the fowls, who came hurriedly flocking from all par
cackling and clucking and jostling one another as th
rushed helter-skelter in response to her call.

END OF VOL. I.

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COLLECTION

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BRITISH AUTHORS

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

VOL. 2591.
THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY BY M. GRAY.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY
FROM THE LIBRARY OF
PROF. JAMES HARDY ROPES
MARCH 14, 1934

CONTENTS

OF VOLUME IL.

PART IV. (Continued. )

The Question. . . . . . . «ss 9
At Sunset. . . . 2. 2. 2 © © © ~~ 23
Conflict . 2. 2. 6. 6 1 ee ew ee) 89
A Verdict. . . 2. 2. «© 2. © ee 53
Predictions . ..... . +... 68
The Squire of Gledesworth . . . . . 84

PART V.

An English Triumph . . . .. . . IO!
By the Hearth . . . . 2. 1... OT'”MTT
Sibyl] . 2. 1. 1. 1 ww we we ew «133
Spirits . . 2. 2. 1. 6. 6 se ew ew ee) «148
The vacant Chair . . . . 2... - 159
Benediction . . ... ..- + ~ 168

CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.

PART VI.

Page
On the Brink . ........ 8K

Buried alive . . 2. 2. « © «© «© © « 196
The Wedding Dress . . .
Face to Face. . . . «©
Restoration .

~ 6 + 239
Conclusion . . . 2. «© © «© eye © 257

THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

PART IV.

(CONTINUED.)

CHAPTER II.

THE QUESTION.

“Tue business for which Annesley had wished to see
Gervase Rickman was soon done, and did not involve
even going into the house. While they were still talk-
ing and pacing up and down beneath the fresh-leaved
trees, Hubert the deer-hound came bounding up in his
long sweeping stride and placed his muzzle confidingly
in Edward’s hand, looking up at him with a world of
affection in his soft dark eyes.

‘‘This creature loves me,” he said, patting his head;
«¢ dogs are whimsical in their likings: some instinct must
tell him that I like him.”

“He takes no notice of me, the brute,” replied
Gervase with asperity; he was jealous of the dog, who
favoured him with a watchful side-long glance. “I had
to thrash him once, and he never forgave it.”

“And I never will,” was the mute response in
Hubert’s eye. ;

“His mistress cannot be far off,” Gervase added;

“perhaps you will come in, Annesley—the ladies are
all at home.”

10 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“I had intended calling before I heard that you
were here,” he replied with a hesitating air. “Oh, there
is your father,” he said, catching sight of Mr. Rickmas,
who was issuing from the hall porch with his usual be
wildered air, as if he had just waked from a sound
sleep, and was wondering where on earth he was. In
a moment Annesley had joined the old gentleman and
was asking him to give him a few minutes in pnivate,
to which Mr. Rickman readily assented, taking him to
his study, an apartment which had formerly suggested
a necromancer’s cave to Edward’s boyish imagination,
stuffed as it was with all kinds of uncanny things—
fossils, skeletons, minerals, insects, and odd bones, with
unpleasant-looking bottles in which reptiles appeared t0
be writhing and turning.

A chair was with some difficulty cleared from the
general overflow of papers, parchments and books, and
placed opposite Mr. Rickman’s own arm-chair, in which |
he sat, regarding his guest attentively and trying t0
remember if he had recently applied to him on any
subject connected with the house or land which he held
of him. For Edward Annesley had for some months
past been in undisputed possession of the Gledesworth
estates, though there had at first been some difficulty —
in getting probate of Paul’s will in consequence of the
body not having been found. Gervase, however, had
managed cleverly, so that the Gledesworth affairs had
been settled in a surprisingly short time. His evidence
as an eye-witness of the death had satisfied the Court

b.

THE QUESTION. I!

of Probate, before which Edward Annesley .had not
Deen summoned.

A vague notion that rent must be due was the sole
tesult of Mr. Rickman’s mental interrogation, which con-

_ tinued for some seconds, while Annesley sat silent, look-

ing down upon a pile of dusty volumes heaped pell-

Mell at his feet.

“T think, Mr. Rickman,” he said at last, “that you

} ate Miss Lingard’s guardian.”

“IT am one of her trustees, I never was her guardian;
she will soon be of age,” he replied, surprised at the
Question.

“At all events » continued Annesley, “you stand in

Z Place of a father to her.”

“She is my adopted child, Annesley,” he replied;

“she is the same to us as our own daughter—we have

had her so long. I question whether the tie of con-
Sanguinity is as strong as is generally supposed. There
is no trace of it in the lower animals; family feelings
in man are the result of imagination, strengthened by
religion, inherited social instincts, and above all of habit.
Perhaps I may be permitted to observe——”

“And habit has made Miss Lingard your daughter,
sir,” interrupted Edward. “I need not tell you whas
my circumstances are, because you know. I came to
tell you that I have long loved your adopted daughter,
and desire your permission to pay my addresses to her.”

“You wish,” replied Mr. Rickman in extreme amaze-
ment, “to marry—Alice?”

12 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Ves, It seemed right to ask your permission be-
fore asking hers.”

Mr. Rickman very deliberately removed his glasses,
and, taking his handkerchief, began to polish them with
extreme diligence. Having assured himself of theit
spotless brilliance, he replaced them at his eyes with
accurate care and looked through them thoughtfully at
his guest.

“My permission,” he repeated with a troubled ar—
“my permission. My dear Mr. Annesley, this is a very
great surprise to me—a very great surprise. I had
understood—I had been led to suppose—Ah! perhaps
you are not aware that Miss Lingard’s affections have
already been given—your poor cousin.”

Edward’s: face darkened, but his gaze met Mr. Rick-
man’s steadily.

“Your poor cousin,” continued Mr. Rickman, “had
been paying his addresses to her for some time at the
date of his death; I am told, with only too good suc
cess. Certainly the poor child has never been the same
since.”

“T know it,” he replied, “and on that account do

not expect to win her in a moment.”
e Mr. Rickman moved uneasily in his chair and looked
out of the lattice window into the drooping gold splendour
of a laburnum, and watched the languid flight of a bee
humming about the blossom.

“I do not recommend you to prosecute the sult,
Mr. Annesley,” he said after a pause. “Alice is a WO

F

THE QUESTION. 13

man of deep feeling; she will not forget her dead
lover quickly, if at all. You will only waste time and
hope.”

“That is my concern,” he returned. “The question
i, have I your permission—have you anything to urge
against me?”

As he said this, he looked so steadily and even
sternly at Mr. Rickman, and his breath came so quickly
through his nostrils above his close-shut lips, that the
old gentleman’s mild eyes quailed and fell, and he
looked the picture of embarrassed misery, fidgeting on
his chair as if it had been the gridiron of St. Lawrence,
seeking words and finding none.

“Is there any reason why I may not ask Miss
Lingard to be my wife?” repeated Edward sternly.

“My dear Edward,” replied Mr. Rickman, driven to
bay, “you must be aware that there is a—a certain
stigma upon your name—a—a reproach.”

“What reproach?” he demanded proudly.

“My dear Annesley, I believe you incapable of the
Wrong imputed to you, pray believe that. If I thought
differently, of course I should not have received you at
my house and allowed my family to enter yours. But
you must acknowledge that such a stigma is a serious
drawback.”

“T acknowledge it,” he replied.

“T think,” continued Mr. Rickman, “that the stigma
might be removed by the simple expedient of relating
M detail all that you did on that unfortunate afternoon.

14 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

There seems to be a hiatus in your narrative, which nd
doubt you could easily fill.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” he replied. “No words of
mine could remove the stigma, such as it is. I could:
not fill the hiatus. All I can do is to live it down, a
I shall in time. I have a bitter enemy; who may repent.
The question is, do you forbid me to ask your adopted
child to marry me?” |

“It is very sad,” sighed Mr. Rickman, mournfully
playing with a paper-knife. “Very sad. But I can
scarcely venture to forbid you. I must refer you
Alice herself. I shall not forbid her, but should she
seek counsel of me, I should certainly not advise her to
marry a man who is—forgive me for saying what is no
doubt too well known to you—ostracized by his class.”
But it was not the public ostracism which weighed
most with Mr. Rickman; he thought that Edward owed
a full explanation to the family into which he proposed
to marry.

“If I am cut by the county,” replied Edward, “I
need not live at Gledesworth. I have already offered
my mother and sisters the choice of any place they
like to live in. We could let or leave Gledesworth
But the best plan for me is to stay and live it down.
And my mother has agreed to stand by me and face tt
out.”

“J have protested,” said Mr. Rickman, with an alr
of relief, “according to my duty. I will say no more.
(Besides,” he reflected, “as she is certain not to accept

THE QUESTION. 15

it does not really matter whether I object or not.)
-not forbid your suit, but I warn you that it will
be successful. Under the circumstances, you are
last man to make Alice false to the memory of Paul
esley.”

Edward thanked him and rose to take leave of him.
u are very good to me, Mr. Rickman,” he said,
ing his hand; “and though you do not encourage
at least believe that I will do my best to be worthy
er.”

“Don’t go yet, they are all at home, I think,” said
Rickman, satisfied that he had fully done his duty
hrowing all his faculties into the interests of every-
life for a time, and glad to retire mentally into his
ld of abstractions and theories once more; “let us
and find them.”

Edward and Alice had scarcely met since Paul’s
th. On the rare occasions of his calling at Arden
ior, she had seldom appeared, and although she
ed his mother and sisters at Gledesworth Park, her
's had occurred when he was away with his battery.
’e or twice they had met in the street at Medington,
re Alice often paid visits of weeks’ duration to Mrs.
ter Annesley, who lived on still in her creeper-
red house in the High Street, though in greater
2 than of old; but they had not stopped to speak
ach other, on account of Mrs. Annesley’s presence.
Mrs. Annesley had refused to meet any of the
jesworth Annesleys since her son’s death. She had

16 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

been much discomposed at the readiness with wt
probate of her son’s will had been granted by
Court. She complained to Gervase that Edward ou
to have been summoned as a witness of the death.
which Gervase smiled mysteriously, and observed t
it was umnecessary, since the Court entertained
suspicion that he had evidence to give. Only thc
present in court knew what Gervase’s deposition wi
the transaction was too unimportant to be published.

Once Alice, at Gervase’s request, had attended
political meeting at which the county member address
his constituents, previous to an election. Paul had th
been dead about seven months, and Edward, ov
persuaded by Gervase, had consented to make one
the party on the platform and deliver a brief speech
called upon to do so. Except the member and one
two inferior local politicians, no one there had appear
aware of his existence.

When it came to his turn to speak, he stood up 4
gazed with dim eyes and a whirling brain upon thet
accustomed sight of a sea of expectant human fa
beneath him. He was too nervous to notice that |
applause, which in some measure greeted the rising
every other speaker, and which in Gervase’s case |!
been tumultuous, was not forthcoming for him, nor :
his unaccustomed ear catch, an ominous sibilation wh
‘grew into loud hisses. Once he had plunged int
burning house and rescued some sleeping children, m
ing through a sheet of flame to what seemed a cer!

THE QUESTION. 17

, with closed eyes, singeing hair and sobbing
1. With the same feeling of mortal agony and
ame determined hardening of his heart he now
ed into the scorching flame of public speech, and
reatly surprised when his preliminary “Ladies and
men” floated tranquilly through the building with-
rovoking any convulsion of nature, or even bring-
1e roof down, and he said without hesitation or
nlocution that he approved of the programme just
ited to them by their member. Having done this
ut six words, he paused, reflecting that he might
ll sit down, since he had nothing more to say, and
ig the others would be as expeditious, when the
ntary silence was broken by the following sentence
out in a high harsh voice from the back benches,
' killed Paul Annesley?”

ries of “Order!” and “Turn him out!” made a
ntary confusion, and then Edward, roused to de-
, with the sweat standing on his face, began again,
‘rves steadied by the spirit of battle, and dilated
some detail of the member’s programme, inter-
1 by hisses, whistles and cries of “Cain!” “Cain!”
he had to sit down, at the instance of those near
in spite of his fierce determination to face the
r out.

ervase afterwards maintained that these cries came
purely Conservative sources, and were merely an
pt to obstruct and break up the Liberal meeting;
s the meeting passed off quietly after the police
Reproach of Annesley. #l, 2

18 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

had forcibly ejected one .or two ardent spirits, it was:
difficult to believe that the personality had only 2
political orgin.

“He should have left the room,” Alice said, dis
cussing it afterwards.

“Oh, no!” objected Sibyl. “It was better to face
it out, like the brave man he 1s.”

“He will never again take an active part in loca.
politics,” commented Gervase. “I wish I had not a¢
vised him to begin so soon.”

When Mrs. Walter Annesley heard of the occurrency,
she laughed and observed that Heaven was just; but t
Alice she said nothing, the two having agreed tha
Edward Annesley’s name was not to be mentioned
between them.

When Mr. Rickman conducted Edward from bis
study after their private interview, they found Alice and
Sibyl in the garden behind the house, entertaining
Horace Merton and his sister, a child of twelve, who
had strolled in from the vicarage. The grey ridge d
down had a solemn effect against the tranquil blue sky,
and, but for the fulness of the leaves, the loss of the
apple-bloom and the difference of the flowers bordering
the broad turf walk, the scene was the same as on that
April day the year before, when Paul and Edward had
surprised each other there. The pungent fragrance of |
burning weeds helped the similitude, and the tall
St. Joseph’s lilies, with their dazzling white petals and
hearts of virgin gold, stood as sentinels behind Alice,

THE --QUESTION, 19

ace of the soldier-like: narcissus, which had then
d their green lances and held their heads erect
id her.
ilice rose from the bench on which she was sitting
came to meet him; when she took his offered hand
oked in search of the old unspeakable something
ad formerly seen there, but he found nothing save
tled sorrow in the glance that met his. His heart
ive him, and he knew that he must wait before he
| win her; her loss was still too fresh. He sat
like one in a dream, gazing at the young people
were shooting at the target, and stroking the head
‘rt laid on his knee, while Mrs. Rickman chatted
uilly, and Gervase preluded upon his violin at a
distance, where he could see everybody and watch
, thinking many thoughts which his music helped.
Vhen Alice came to the tea-table Edward placed
hair for her and stood at her side, leaning against
2, and began hoping that she would not fail to be
of the luncheon party at Gledesworth at the end
2 week,
If you do not come this time,” he said in a low
so that others might not hear, “I shall begin to
you have some quarrel against me.”
Oh! Mr. Annesley,” she replied earnestly, “pray
xt think that.”
I have enemies,” he continued in the same low
“T hope you are not among them. You promised
that you would be my friend, if you remember.”
2*

20 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“And I am your friend,” she replied, raising he
eyes and speaking very clearly though softly and a litt
tremulously; “I could never be otherwise.”

“Thank you,” he replied, and he- almost started
when he discovered Gervase close at hand offering him
a seat, to take which obliged him to leave Alice, sino
her chair was on the outside of the semicircle, and thé
only vacant chair was at the other end next Sibyl, wit
turned at his approach and welcomed him with ha
usual cordial smile.

“Do you ke being in the army, Mr. Annesley?"
asked little Kate Merton across the table all of 4
sudden, in a silence which followed some peaceful and
commonplace discussion.

“Naturally, Miss Kate. I entered the service 0
my own will,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Then how will you like having to leave it?” cot
tinued the child. “Papa says you were recommendet
to resign——”

“Kate, be quiet,” muttered her brother, pinchinj
her.

“Well, he did, Horace, you heard him,” she wen
on, “and you said it was as good as being turned out.

“If ever I go out again with that brat!” though
Horace, trying to stop the child’s tongue; but Edwar(
would not have her quieted.

“You may tell your papa that I have not been
commended to resign,” he said. “You need not scok
your sister, Mr. Merton; she merely shows me what’

THE QUESTION. 21

ry kind interest people take in my affairs,” he added
rcastically.

After this the conversation was forced and spas-
odic; Edward wondered if the fact of his having
tually been recommended to leave the service by a
rother officer of subaltern rank, as a means of escaping
coldness that threatened to grow into ostracism, could
ossibly have become known, and so have given rise to
us report. |

He sat silent, with a gloomy face and eyes bent
n the turf at his feet. Sibyl looked at him, the soft
te of her dark eyes clouded with pity, and the tenderest
Mpathy speaking from her face. Her father, usually
' unobservant, surprised the look, and his own lined
Ce softened. “What a pity!” he thought to himself,
ny clever little Sib!’’ Gervase saw it and his face
uwkened; Alice saw nothing but the grass on which
‘r eyes, like Edward’s, were bent in silent melancholy.
aen Edward looked up and caught the full stress of
‘aming compassion in Sibyl’s guileless face and his
‘art was touched; for a sympathy so complete, so
ute, and so impotent is rarely seen in a human face,
it sometimes in a faithful animal’s loving gaze. For an
stant Sibyl’s beautiful soul seemed to meet his and
rprise him with its sweetness; then a ripple of
ughter passed over her face, and she began to rally
m on his melancholy. “We are all so dull and heavy
-night, there must be thunder in the air,” she said.
Alice, do tell us how you went to the Dorcas meeting

22 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

at Medington and how the curate came in to tea with
the fifty Dorcas ladies. I often wonder what we should:
do if curates were abolished,” she added. “There
would be nothing to amuse people in little towns.”

“Oh! this story is too humiliating to our poor sex,’
replied Alice, rousing herself frofn painful thought;
“besides, I leave all the little malicious tales to you,
Sibyl; no one can surpass you in that line.”

“Unlucky curate, to fall into Sibbie’s hands,” com
mented Gervase.

But not even Sibyl’s matchless description of the
solitary and bashful curate having tea with fifty grimly
virtuous ladies could beguile the heaviness from Edward
Annesley’s face, though he joined in the laughter tt
provoked; nor did all the merry discussions and illus
trations of curate-worship as practised in the Anglicaa
communion, which Gervase enriched by anecdotes, mort
amusing than authentic, appear to interest him.

Some haunting care embittered everything; he had
the preoccupied look of a man who is perpetually re
membering something he would hike to forget.

AT SUNSET. 23

CHAPTER IIL

AT SUNSET.

THE Mertons left early, and Gervasé Rickman looked
at Edward, thinking he would follow them, which he
did not. Mr. Rickman had long since vanished into
he charmed privacy of his study, and Mrs. Rickman
lad gone in to avoid the dew, but sat at work in a
vindow looking out on the garden.

“I must go to the shearers’ supper,” Gervase said
it last. “Perhaps, Annesley, you would not care to
ook in as well. You would find the humours of a
hear-feast stale?”

“Of course he would,” Sibyl replied for him. “But

shall go and have my health drunk. Nonsense,
xervase, I shall go. You know I always look in for a
vinute. Come at once.”

She took her brother’s arm and bore him off pro-
esting, laughingly, it is true, yet seriously annoyed with
ibyl for coming with him, and angry at Annesley’s
ad taste in remaining with Alice.

The shearers’ supper was spread in the kitchen, a
ong, low, dark room with black oaken beams, filled
iow with the odour of hot food, the sound of knives

24 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

and forks and human voices, and the Rembrandt
shadows caused by the firelight playing on the mixture
- of dusk and steam.

Good ale and good beef had by this time brovgtl
the slow heavy machinery of rustic speech into ful
play. Raysh Squire was telling his: best story: that of
the smugglers hidden in a tomb, whose morning tt
rising from their hiding-place made some early labours,
going to their work, think the Last Day was ome
John Nobbs had just brought forth a new and poverlil
joke, at the remembrance of which he still chuckled.
He was considering which of his songs, “In the low
lands low,” or “A gentle maiden, fair and young,” he |
should sing. Sibyl would fain have lingered at this
scene, the unsophisticated humours of which pleased
her lively fancy, but after the singing. of
_ “#Here’s a health unto our Meister, the vounder of the veist,”
Gervase insisted on her going.

She went out slowly, and leaving the house and
garden passed round by the barns, and strolled away
in the balmy June gloaming, until she reached the belt
of firs, the moaning music of which was now still for
awhile; there she stopped and saw the first pale stars
tremble into the transparent lemon-tinted sky.

She turned her face to the beautiful west, leant her
arms upon the rail-fence, beyond which the shorn sheep
were browsing with plaintive bleating and mellow bell-
tinkling, and watched the familiar miracle of the star-
rising with all the enthusiasm of romantic youth; her

AT SUNSET. 25

ination conjuring up visions and suggesting
, hidden from others: for Sibyl had the sub-
rtune to be a poet, as if being a woman was
tough.

itingale’s song, mellow, rich and turbulent,
m a copse hard by, and the tears sprang to
S. ;
the world is so beautiful,” she mused, “and
e hope of one still more beautiful, what can
lore 2”

J into a train of thought, trying to find out
>xpression to the broad general meaning of
ised and conflicting currents which make up
eam of human life. The best thing in youth,
s unspoiled capacity for enjoyment, is the
eld of vision and conjecture which its dim
rs. Sibyl stood solitary and pensive in the
nlight and mused upon human life, and her
ortion of it, trying to picture what the future
g her, with an ardent face and infinite depths
. in her dark eyes. She saw her parents
ider the burden of years, and clinging to her
t; she saw herself expressing thoughts which
threatened to consume her, and establishing
iympathy between herself and thousands of
ouls. But one side of life might never fully
J to her, a whole sequence of joys and sor-
be denied her, she could be only the specta-
leading events in the drama of life. Thus, she.

26 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

reflected, she might get a truer image of the whole
than if her vision were distorted by the storm and
stress of personal experience. For some deep ir
stinct made a fair unbroken view of life necessary t0
Sibyl.

So these thoughts came to her as she lingered
beneath the firs, her bright face lifted to the sky and
irradiated by its lustre; these and others too deep of
too sad to be uttered.

In the meantime Edward found the opportunity he
had so carefully sought. He was alone with Alic,
whose spirit was stirred by the thought that a crisis i
her life was approaching, and still more by the fea
that she might be too weak to pass triumphantly
through it. They strolled silently between the tal.
white sentinel lilies, the dazzling petals of which short
in glorious purity against the green of the espaliers
Edward was too overcharged with feeling to speak, and
his heart misgave him when he observed how changed
Alice’s face was since the day when first he saw t
If the face had been dear then, it was tenfold dearef
now, though the first glory of youth was gone and its
early lustre dimmed. During the past months Alice
had suffered a wearing, wasting pain, which he was fat
from divining, and the perpetual conflict, while marnng
the beauty of her face, had left its stamp in an ethereal
charm only seen in those who, like Jacob, have wrestled ;
spiritually and prevailed. The patriarch halted on hs.
thigh after that night’s wrestling. No one may issue

AT SUNSET. 39

ive unscarred from such conflict, and Alice never re-
ined her youthful bloom. Her face was thin, her
res were too bright. And though this suffering was,
; he thought, for another, it endeared her to the man
ho loved her so truly.

Of late she had fought hard against the conclusion
hich had forced itself upon her by the river side.
Vhenever she saw Edward she could not accept the
erdict her reason forced upon her. So it came to
ass that her thoughts continually buffeted her and
ave her no rest; she rose in the mornings burdened
y the weight of another’s guilt, and struggled mentally
i the day, till at night she lay down with the hope
lat some misconception existed, and that a straight-
rward recital of all that occurred on that most un-
ippy afternoon would remove the stigma from Edward
nnesley’s name, only to rise and renew the conflict
1 the morrow. And to-day when he uttered those
w words at the tea-table, his voice, the silent devotion
his manner, and the light in his eyes, stirred a new
eling in her, which should have been hope, but was
ar. Till now she had not thought that he loved her;
e had accepted Gervase’s theory that his jealousy,
like Paul’s, was the evil fruit of a passing fancy. His
ry silence, as they paced the turf-walk in the balmy
ening, told her more eloquently of his love than any
eech; and the wild flutter of pulses within her told
‘r too truly that she loved him in return.

After all she was the first to speak; the pent-up

28 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

resolve to question him at all hazards breaking forth
almost before she was aware of it.

“Mr. Annesley,” she said gently and calmly,
spite of the thick heart-beats which nearly choked her,
“I am glad to be alone with you for a moment. !
wish to ask you a very serious question.”’—She stopped,
facing him, and looked down on the grass at their
feet, where the closed daisies really looked like pearls,
margarite.—“You will perhaps think it impertinent.”

“How could I?” he remonstrated, recovering from
the first shock of surprise. “Any and every question
you care to ask can be but an honour to me.”

“You have asked me more than once to be yout
friend,” she continued, “and in that name I venture
ask this, not from curiosity or any mean motive, but
solely for your own sake.”

“Dearest Miss Lingard, this is too good of you,”
he replied, when she paused at a loss for further speech.
“I too have something to ask and something to say,
but I will hear first,” he said, smiling, “what your conr
mands are.”

Alice still looked down upon the closed heads of
the daisies, her hands nervously locked together before
her, her lips compressed, and her face full of feeling
and purpose. The setting sun threw a glory upon her;
swallows wheeled in the pure pale sky overhead; sheep-
bells, farmyard sounds, birds’ songs, and the voices of
village children at play, came borne in softened tones
upon the still evening air; opening roses, meadow

AT SUNSET. 29

over,. lily scents, and the vague perfume of the young
lage, breathed a charm of fragrance about the two
ers, to whom the whole earth seemed charged with
he meaning and melody of etherealized passion. Alice
ould scarcely find words to express her burning
houghts.

“You suffer,’ she said at last, “under an imputa-
lon—that is all the more terrible because it is so
ague.”

Edward started as if a hand of ice had been laid
Pon his heart; the whole world changed for him, the
inlight was grey, and the air lost its balm.

“Ves,” he replied.

“I have thought,’’ she went on, her heart beating
ill more rapidly, “much upon it. And I have thought
lat you might remove this—this reproach.”

“T cannot,” he replied, pale and agitated—“ Alice,
cannot.”

Alice’s memory vibrated with the words she had
eard in the pine-wood. “Promise that you will never
‘IlL—All need never be known.—Above all she must
2ver know.” She knew now that she was the Helen
f that fratricidal strife. °

“Oh, do not say that!” she cried. “Surely, surely
nu should tell all that happened on that day. Per-
aps, after all, you ave told all?” she pleaded, pressing
er hands together in the intensity of her hope. “Oh!
nu have told all, and what is rumoured of something
mcealed is only scandal,” she urged, though his own

39 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

words about concealment sounded in her memory, even 1
as she spoke, like a funeral knell.

He turned away, and then he turned again and;
looked in her agitated face.

“You mean well, dearest Miss Lingard,” he said,
“but this discussion is as useless as it is painful. [can
bear the burden, such as it is. I shall live it down
After all, what is the opinion of others?”

“Is my opinion nothing?” she asked.

“It is everything. Alice, Alice; think as kindly of
me as you can. I love you, Alice, I loved you the first
moment I saw you; do not mistrust me.”

He had now taken her hands and obliged her to
look at him, which she did through tears.

“Tell me the whole truth,” she said.

“No, Alice; believe in me, but do not ask me this,’
he replied. “Of all people I can never tell you the
story of that hour.”

“Would it not ease your mind to speak freely to
one who—who—who is your friend?” she continued,
a way that touched him.

“No,” he answered; “no. It cannot be. I must
ask you to bury this subject in your memory for ever.
Dearest Alice, I know what sorrow fell upon you on that
day. I have not spoken to you of my feelings since,
because I respected your grief. But what is past is
past, and cannot be changed, and you are young and
without near ties. And I have loved you, faithfully and
truly, ever since that day when I first saw you. And

AT SUNSET. 31

came here to-day to ask you—not to be my wife-—it
over-soon for you to think of that, but to begin a new
e and think of my need of you, and let me see you
0m time to time and try to win you. When you know
lat my whole heart is bound up in you, will you not
y to take me for your husband?”

Alice disengaged the hands he had been clasping
\the growing intensity of his words, and stood a little
ther from him, pausing before she replied, with a
tong resolve to put away feeling and listen only to
ity.

“Do you know what you are saying, Mr. Annesley?”
@ asked at last; “you come to me with a stain upon
u, and you refuse to move it by an explanation.”

“Time will efface that stain,” he replied, shrinking
ghtly beneath her words, which cut him to the heart.
{nd though I am stout enough to face the world’s
orn and bear the burden myself, I should never ask
wife to share it. I would ask her to leave this place
id let me find her a home, where these rumours have
ot been heard. I know that this is a disadvantage,
ut if love can atone for anything, my love is strong
nough to atone for this. If you could once learn to
we me, Alice, and you might in time, the world’s
anion would weigh lightly with you.”

She was dumb with amazement. The man who
90d before her, exalted by honest feeling, his face
mest, and his voice eloquent with it, coud not be
ilty of what was imputed to him. Nor could he be

32 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

a dissimulator. Her heart went out to him, she longed
for mental blindness, she would have given half he
life not to have overheard his compact with Gervais
or Gervase’s subsequent hints. If she could but w
that hour from her memory and trust him, as he e
pected her to trust him, then she could give herself t
him with perfect unreserve and share the burden th
was pressing so heavily upon him, with no reproad
from her conscience.

“Mr. Annesley,” she replied coldly at last, “ye
cannot love me if you do not trust me. And if ya
trusted me, you would confide your secret to me.”

“My secret!” a red flash rushed over his {act
“Why do you attribute a secret to me? I see that] cs
never win your love, since I have not won your tris’

He turned away, his face dark in the chill twilight,
and the misery in it went to Alice’s heart. “Let m
trust you,” she besought him, “tell me what foundation
there is for these dark surmises. Believe me, Mr. At:
nesley, I should /ée to trust you,” she added with’
pathos which moved and yet gladdened him. Surey
there was a little love in that beseeching voice, bt
thought, and he seemed to see it in the face up
which he turned to gaze in the pale twilight.

“Trust me,” he said, his voice vibrating with strong
feeling, “trust me perfectly with a large unquestioning
trust. Remember, once for all, I cazzot clear up this
mystery. You do not know what you ask, or you would
never ask it. Trust me.”

AT SUNSET. 33

Alice began to tremble again, and she clasped her
inds together with a silent prayer for guidance. It
ould be so sweet to say “I trust you;” but, knowing
hat she knew, so wrong; the thing she was asked to
ondone was too terrible.

“No,” she replied, “I cannot trust one who does
ot trust me.”

He was silent and heart-struck. Once more he
med aside and gazed blankly away over the balmy
trden, where the flowers poised their heads in a
‘eamy stillness that seemed to yearn for speech, and
brown mystery of shadow was being woven about the
ses away to the firs, beneath which Sibyl was stand-
g unseen, to the meadows where the sheep were
azing tranquilly in the mystic gloaming, to the cop-
ce from the green heart of which a nightingale was
wing, to the hill dark against a sky bright with the
terglow and pierced by a few pale faint stars.

“TI do trust you, and I love you as I shall never
ve again,” he said, after a brief, sharp spasm of pain,
mut it is all over now. Only think as kindly as you
n of me, Alice, and remember me when you want a
iend.”

He was going, but an overpowering impulse moved
‘r to recall him.

“Stay,” she cried, “do not go like this.”

He came back quickly, took her hands, and spoke
thout reserve, wild words of passion.

The Reproach of Annesley. I. 3

34 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Hush!” she cried; “do not speak like that,” and

he was silent.

“Think it over,” he said, presently, “I can wait.
Say that I may come again later.”

The apparition of Gervase at the end of the turf
walk made them start asunder, and they went to meet
him, the agitation in their faces hidden by the friendly
dusk. Gervase appeared surprised to see them “I
thought you had gone long ago, Annesley,” he said, ap-
parently untroubled by the thought that his company;
was superfluous. “What a charming night! Some
body said Sibyl was out here; have you seen her
Alice?”

“Tt is later than I thought,” said Edward; “these
long days deceive one. There is no real night.”

“The moon will rise soon,” returned Gervase; “you
had better wait for her. I envy your ride over the
downs. When are you and I to have our moonlight
stroll, Alice?”

“Not to-night,” she replied, “I am tired.” And
when they reached the garden door, she vanished with
a brief “good-night” into the shadowed house, respon¢-
ing by a slight inclination of the head to Edward's
murmured injunction “Write.”

Then he rode away in the dewy silence, and thought
it all over with a heavy heart in which there glowed
scarcely a spark of hope. Over the ghostly downs in

the faint dusk and in the rising moonlight he rode, up

and down and across for miles and miles, and every

AT SUNSET. 35

Xd of land over which he rode was his own. He
)ked sadly at his fair inheritance sleeping tranquilly in
© magical moonlight, woodland, farm and field spread
er the undulating down land, and in the plain be-
ath; he would have given half his life to be free of
for the price he had paid for it was too heavy. The
* of Paul, as he had last seen it, dark with passion
d bitter with mockery, floated before him ghostlike,
d took the ethereal sweetness from the moonlight,
d dimmed the glory of the calm infinite night. He
w well that the dead Paul was as serious a barrier as
: living one had been. Even if Alice recovered from
r sorrow, this silence between them must ever keep
2m apart; since she did not trust him he could never
pe to win her love.

While he rode away thus in the dim, summer night,
2 tranquil household at Arden quieted down, and
en the family had retired for the night, Sibyl knocked
Alice’s door and entered her room.

“Have you anything to say to me to-night?” she
ked.

“Nothing,” replied Alice, who was accustomed to
is little formula, the prelude to some sisterly con-
lence; “have you anything to confess?”

“My sins have not been very black to-day,” replied
byl, kissing her with unwonted tenderness, “but I
uught—Alice, have you sent him away?”

Alice silently kissed her,

3*

36 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“All the world is against him,” continued Sib
“you should stand by his side.”

Alice burst into tears and said nothing.

“Ts it because you believe these hateful scandals
Sibyl went on. “Surely you cannot think there is a
truth in them?”

“I think,” said Alice, lifting her head from Siby
shoulder, “that he ought to clear himself.”

“How could he?”

“He should make a full and clear statement of
that he did that afternoon.” |

“Yes, And publish it in the papers, and make #
town-crier proclaim it in Medington streets,” retort
Sibyl, scornfully, “and who would believe it?”

It had not occurred to Alice before that he cw
not now clear himself; that the more he noticed t
vague accusations lodged against him, the more st
stance they would take; that nothing short of a pul
trial, with its formal charges and formal refutation
them, ending in an acquittal, could efface the st
upon him. If a man is said to be an untrustwor
man, it is impossible to disprove the charge; if h
accused of forgery, he cannot be held guilty unt
charge is supported by reliable evidence. No spe
accusation could be brought against Edward Annes
the worst that was urged against him was matte!
surmise at the most. The case stood thus: the cou
had quarrelled, and it was known that they had b
near each other, if not together, within a few min

_ AT SUNSET. 37

the violent death of one; it was not known where
> survivor was at the moment of the accident, the
al termination of which only was witnessed by a third
tson. The death was of great advantage to the sur-
or, the motive for crime was present. The fact that
: dead man’s mother refused to meet his heir and
* nearest kinsman was impressive. How all this was
ywn, and how all these surmises and conjectures had
2n built upon the foundation of facts known only to
ew persons, and occurring in a foreign country, was
nystery that Edward Annesley and his friends vainly
empted to solve.

“He must have some deadly enemy,” Sibyl had
d once, whereupon Gervase advised her not to repeat
it observation.

“If you wish to ruin a person’s reputation,” he
ded, “the best way is to lay some charge against him
tt admits no disproof and get it well talked about.”

“True,” replied Mr. Rickman, who was present, “a
tm of fact infinitesimal in magnitude, accompanied by
certain bias, when passed through the minds and
uths of numerous narrators, develops to enormous
d unexpected proportions. Each narrator adds from
defective or careless memory; hearsays are reported
witnessed facts; imagination supplies gaps and en-
ices details, because the innate artistic feeling of
nkind demands a properly proportioned story. A
age performs some isolated feat of endurance, he
elops into a hero; the deeds of several such heroes,

38 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

are in the course of time attributed to one, whose acto:
gradually become miraculous, until in the course of agé
the brave savage is a god. Such are myths, suds
the legendary dawn of history.”

These words Alice remembered now, acknowledgug
their justice, and bitterly regretting and censuring tht
concealment, which she thought the cause of the while
imbroglio.

Better, far better for Edward, she thought, it woud
have been, had he given himself up to the Canton
authorities as having been the accidental cause of lis
cousin’s death, if, as she supposed, that death had
occurred in the course of a quarrel or struggle in whid
both had forgotten the dangerous nature of the grow
on which they stood. If, as she had often hoped
Edward had merely witnessed the accident, why did le
not report what he saw? why was there any concealment!
was he afraid of attaching suspicion or blame to him
self? Was he, in short, a coward?

“After all,” said Sibyl, at the end of their conference
in Alice’s chamber that night, “what do these calummies
matter? They naturally pain him. But he will. soo
live them down.” Which was but an echo of Edward's
words in the garden that night, Alice reflected, as the
door closed upon Sibyl, and left her to the unwelcome
companionship of her own thoughts.

CONFLICT. 39

CHAPTER IV.

CONFLICT.

SIBYL’s reasoning could not quiet the fever in Alice’s
breast. The words Edward Annesley had used on the
fatal afternoon when he implored Gervase’s silence, rang
in her ears and would ring for ever, and the Edelweiss
She had seen in his hat was always bearing witness
against him. How could the cousins have exchanged
hats? and why did Edward remove the Edelweiss as
soon as he perceived it? The only solution was that
he had had some part in the accident, involving the
temporary loss of his own hat as well as of Paul’s, and
had taken Paul’s by mistake. It was still possible that
Edward’s part in the accident was innocent, or, at least
unintentional; Paul might have been the aggressor; but
if Edward’s part was innocent, why did he conceal it?
Ah! why? was the weary burden of the perpetual strife
Within her.

Few things were more hateful to Alice in the proud
Punty of her own transparent truthfulness than anything
approaching to deceit. It was painful to her to have
to withhold the most innocent truth. She could not
Conceive, in the noble simplicity of her nature, that an

40 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

honourable man could be ashamed to publish any |
cident in his life. She could not respect a man with
any such concealment. Yet she loved him; she would
willingly have yielded up her life if she could but se
the veil lifted, and Edward’s honour and integrity shit
ing clear and unsullied behind it.

There was no rest for her that night; she knew that
a worse conflict than any she had yet endured must be
struggled through before dawn. She said her usd
prayers mechanically, she could not drive the one sub°
ject from her thoughts, and then she sent up tha
inarticulate cry for help, which the soul utters in it,
extremity, and which is more eloquent, or at least more
earnest, than any syllabled prayer.

The moon had risen and the night was warm and
still. Alice wanted air, the anguish within her bid fair
to stifle her. She extinguished her lights and sat by
the open lattice, gazing out into the vast calm night,
wrestling inwardly, half in prayer, half in thought. Sibyl
came back on some trivial errand and saw her sitting
there, pale and statuesque, shrouded from head to fod
in a luminous veil of moon-beams, her head resting on
her hand, her gaze directed to the pale pure sky, which
was studded with celestial watch-fires made faint by
the white moonlight. The girls knew each other's
moods, and Sibyl withdrew, aware that it was useless
to say anything. Her heart ached for Alice; she car
ried the picture of the still and suffering figure traced
upon the night’s faint darkness, and etherealized by the

am

|

CONFLICT. 4!

web of white rays woven about her, into the per-
>d wonderland of her own fantastic dreams.

Iver and over again did Alice argue the case for
rosecution and that for the defence, with varying
always unsatisfactory verdict. What steeled her
. most against Edward was the fact of his enjoying
s inheritance. If some angry or accidental violence
is part had caused his cousin’s death, surely he
t renounce the fruits of that death, he might make
the property to his next brother, at least. But
1e enjoyed the land without apparent remorse, and
he wished to take the lady as well. If he came
2x, penitent and unhappy, she would gladly throw
2r lot with his, loyally sharing the burden and the
ness, and helping him retrieve the past.

sven now there were moments when her heart so
1ed over him that she felt that love must be para-
it to everything—she must close her eyes on what
vas not supposed to know, and make the best of
remained of his stained life, trusting him with the
generous trust he had asked of her, and evoking
yetter soul in the man who, as she knew, loved her
ly. As his wife he would perhaps confide in her,
she would help him make such atonement as was
ble, loyally sharing his reproach. But then the
yw of this secret rushed upon her soul, and she felt
to marry one to whom she imputed things so dark,
d be to share in his sin: such a union could never
essed of Heaven or bring any happiness to either

42 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

of them. She thought of children who would inher
curse, and to whom she would fear to speak of t
father’s life. She saw darkness standing for ever
tween them, an impassable barrier; she saw the y
passing on and making the confession harder and ha
She thought of Paul’s desolate mother, childless in
lonely old age, bereft of the one son she had s0
sionately loved, and in him of all the joy of her wid
life. It would be treason to her to link her lot
Edward’s. She had been much with Mrs. Annesl
late, and the desolate woman had grown very de
Alice’s filial heart. She never repeated her first ac
tion of her nephew to Alice, but her silence with r
to him was terribly eloquent. She clung to Alict
to no one else, and besought her not to leave her
was the only comfort left her, she told her agail
again.

After all, Edward had enough without her; h
youth, health, and friends, and the wealth and p
that would in time attract more; for no doubt,
said, he would live these slanders down. He ms
deed have such pangs of conscience as woulc
the lustre out of the very sunlight. Yet when hi
rose before her in all the reproach of its earnest
love, as she had seen it in the garden that nigh
could not attribute any wrong to him. Then re
the old monotonous burden, why, why did he «
anything? Surely if he sought her as his wife, hi
it to her to keep back nothing of his past; to d

CONFLICT. 43

generous trust was an insult. No; with that
could not love her truly and trustfully. The
rdict was nothing if she could but strangle
t of doubt which gnawed so incessantly upon

oked down into the quiet garden, where they
‘d in the evening dews, when he told her
e that every woman loves to hear and yearns
. to; she thought of his coming on that early
'when she sat among her flowers and looked
ved him, and felt that he loved her, before
time to reflect; she knew that she must love
er and ever, and that without him she could
ing of the joy and beauty of hfe. She could
um up, she was too weak; it seemed as if
elng must be rent asunder in the struggle.

: thought, over and over again, praying for
while the hours went on.

tly she saw the pencil of rays which streamed
ase’s chamber window, showing he was busy
nish, and she knew that all the house was
| silent as death. The tall eight-day clock
ily in its oaken case in the hall, like a living
amily hfe; it chimed hour after hour in its
miliar voice; she remembered how she had
it in the silence of the first forlorn night she
friendless child, beneath the roof which had
ered her so warmly. She thought of all their
and the little she had ever been able to do

44 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

for them in return. She remembered Gervase’s love,
which he had so generously conquered; why could she
not have loved him? She had taken Sibyl’s lover from
her, she had blighted Paul’s life, she had brought she
knew not what between the cousins, probably had been
the cause of Paul’s death; why had she been made the
unwilling instrument of so much trouble? She would
at least try to do well. She took counsel of the quiet
night, the deep serene silence sank like’ balm into her
soul; the pale pure stars spoke peace to her troubled
breast. The shrouding moonshine slanted and glided
gradually away from her window, leaving her in the
soft shadows.

The flowers slept in the garden beneath; friendly
Hubert slept his watchful dog-sleep at her door; the
horses were quiet in their stalls, the rattle of a halter
or the stamp of a hoof was too far off to be heard even
through that throbbing silence; the cocks and hens were
all still on their perches; the sheep and cattle grazed
so quietly in the distant meadows, they scarcely seemed
to move; a wind, which woke and sighed through the
balmy foliage of the new-leaved trees, died away; the
nightingale’s song had ceased suddenly long ago; only
the weird occasional creaking of furniture, the rustle of
some night-creature through the grass, and the strange
rhythmic long-drawn breathing which vibrates through
solitary nights, like sleep’s self made audible, emphasized
the deep silence, while the scent of the dewy earth and
drenched grass, the sweetness of the tall lilies, white

CONFLICT. AS

summer darkness, and all the fragrance of green
owing things filled it with balm.
rs set, the moon had glided ghost-hke away be-
1e down, a cock crew, a fresh breeze awoke, a
eyness stole into the eastern sky and chilled the
nd still Alice sat statue-like at the open lattice,
2 to wrestle once for all to the very death with
estion which so tortured her; resolute also to
once for all whether she ought to accept or
the only chance of happiness hfe offered her,
r it was her duty to give life-long pain or
e to one whose happiness was dearer to her
e.
r face grew sharp and pinched in the grey pallor
early dawn; for the inward struggle grew fiercer
hours went on; the sweet deep silence which
helpful to her would soon be broken by all the
of the woods and fields; the sun would soon
ipon the earth and dissipate the friendly veil of
ss and lay her trouble bare; she must decide
Doubt is the most dreadful torture the soul
dure, especially doubt of those we love; there
1oments in that night of bitter conflict when it
have been comparative happiness to Alice to have
rst fears for Edward confirmed. In that case she
rself in imagination at his side, in some vague
Iping and healing him; a seductive vision. Had
ie to her, suffering, needing her, she must have
1m,

46 . THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Her mother’s face floated before her. Scenes from
childhood came back, casting strong lights and shadows
on her father’s unworthiness and her mother’s misery.
Her resolve was made; she would give Edward up.

Then the conviction of his integrity darted arrow-like:

into her soul, and the struggle began once more. For
if he were indeed guiltless she would be doing hima
terrible injustice in refusing him. She had long ceased
to think of the consequences to herself, she considered
only what she owed to Heaven and the man who had
placed his happiness in her hands.

Again the cock crew; the brooding greyness of the
approaching dawn grew more intense; a bird stirred; a
sort of grim ghastliness fell upon everything; the tall
lilies shook on their stems, and were lost in the blurred
shadow; a perceptible shudder passed over the earth,
and many stars vanished from the sky.

Something cold touched the hand Alice laid on the
window-ledge; it was the key of the vestry which was
lent her that she might pass in and out of the church
to play the organ. She took it up, and throwing a
shawl over her head and shoulders, glided softly down
the stairs, and, noiselessly sliding back the bolts of the
garden-door, stole out into the grey garden. A lark
shot up unseen into the dim sky, and broke the
Shadowy stillness with a thin strain of song; other birds
woke, and filled the air with faint half-forlorn pipings
and chirpings; there was a sort of trouble in the arr
and in their voices; they had not yet courage for full

_—-

_——_—

CONFLICT. 47

—they hoped for the cheerful sun-rising, but were
oO means sure that it would truly come.
ivery object was now distinct in the grey blankness
h seemed but a mockery of life and light—distinct,
yet quite different to what it was in the familiar,
fortable light of day. The house looked ghostly
its blinded windows, it was so still and lifeless;
y cottage had a deserted, death-lhke aspect; every
iney was smokeless; it was hard to believe that
hing human was near, and yet the thought of well-
wn faces blind with sleep beneath those thatched
‘s intensified the solitude.
She passed through the garden and meadow by the
-yard, gathering her skirts about her to avoid the
iching dew, along behind the quiet cottages and the
with its row of sycamores, till she reached another
ge, scarcely more silent than that beneath the
ched roofs below—the village of the dead, whose
‘ow homes clustered even more closely than the
‘rs about the hallowed walls of the ancient church.
these the sun would rise in vain, bringing no joy,
any trouble or temptation, perplexity or strife.
A golden warmth stole into the grey world as she
xed on, and when she passed through the church-
1 wicket there was a great change. The square
er, with its wide buttresses, lost its hue of solemn
7, and all the hoary walls glowed rosy red; the sky
one rose, glowing most deeply on the horizon, and
ng at the zenith; the last star faded in the universal

48 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

blush; the grass of the churchyard, the fields and
the stern grey ridge of down, the village with iss
less chimneys, were all bathed in crimson radiance;
heart of nature was deeply stirred; the very |
thrilled in the roselight, and the birds burst into
song.

She entered the silent, shadowy church; her
steps sent echoes rustling among the heavy arches
dark roof; by contrast with the external rosiness,
night within; the pillars gleamed ghostly in the silly
the marble Annesleys praying silently on their tol
were pale shadows in hearts of darkness.

The empty church always had a deep imprest
charm for Alice; she had often been there before
pray and meditate. ‘The solemn beauty of the an
building, its sacred associations, the thought that
centuries those hoary walls and massive arches |
heard nothing but holy music and words of prayer’
praise, the solemn vows of life’s most sacred momt
words of hope for the dead, and exhortation and ¢
fort for the living; all these things lifted up herh
dissipated the lower elements of life, and height
the spiritual. Such light as there was in the cd
was gathered in the chancel beneath the east wil
in which apostles and angels were beginning t
beneath the warm touches of the dawn. Here
knelt and poured out her soul in supplication, s
it seemed as if in comparison she had never f
before.

CONFLICT. 49

Here she had knelt with Sibyl in their dawning
womanhood at confirmation, and felt the majesty and
Meaning of a life linked with the divine. Here the
heavenly symbols had been dealt to her and her adopted
Parents time after time; here the very air seemed to
thrill with high resolve and holy aspiration, and the
faces of the pictured angels, growing more distinct with
the growing light over the altar, were full of encourage-
Ment and consolation.

Those untiring choristers, the swallows, made their
Sun-lit matins audible in the still, echoing aisles, bring-
img sweet associations of peaceful summer Sundays.
All the angels and apostles in the east window were
how distinct, their rich-hued raiment and aureoles
giowed jewel-like in the sunshine, which sent long
shafts of colour upwards into the chancel-roof and
wihwart the stone arches, touching one of the silent,
praying Annesleys till his marble mail burned with warm
radiance.

A vision of a marriage rose before her. The usual
worshippers filled the empty church, the priest stood
‘white-robed in the chancel, and uttered the solemn
words, “I charge you both as ye shall answer at the
great and dreadful day of judgment,”—the Annesleys
were there, and the Rickmans, with the unseen witnesses
of the spirit world, and listening, while she and Edward
stood mute. The vision faded, the dead arose and
thronged the air with spirit life; Paul Annesley, pale

The Reproach of Annesley. II. 4

50 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

and troubled from his last agony, gazed upon her and
the secrets of all hearts were revealed. |

When an hour had passed, she rose and left thej
church, her resolution strengthened by a vow, unheat
by any human ears save her own, which tingled at tt

the silent church.
The sun had risen upon the earth when she cam#é!
out into the fresh purity of the dewy morning; the faith
ful Hubert rose from his recumbent watch across tf
vestry threshold, and dropped quietly behind her wi
a look of unobtrusive sympathy which went to her he
the village was still sleeping in the pure ;
though here and there labourers were faring forty
heavy-footed, to their work; the dew lay deep on ti
herbage, every blade of grass was so weighted aad:
studded with jewels it seemed a marvel that it did nd:
break; the wine-like air was filled with stimulating
flower-scents. Alice passed swiftly on, lifted up im heat,
touched by the beauty and purity of the sunny moming
and comforted by the clear singing of the birds. Si
paused by Ellen Gale’s grave and removed some fade
flowers her own hands had laid there, and thought @!
the day when she sat by her bedside, and Edward’
cheerful song came through the open lattice and stine
her so strangely. Was she wronging him, after all?
Though, once for all, she had decided not to act
his offered love, and with that decision peace had com
she felt that the terrible doubt would never be solve,

CONFLICT. 51

ut would gnaw her heart continually, until the day
hen the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed. She
smembered his words in the garden the night before,
ad realized that nothing would move him from his
=solve to keep his secret, whether guilty or guiltless.

All was silent in Raysh Squire’s cottage by the
hurchyard gate; no one had as yet stirred in the
solden Horse beneath, where the sunbeams were
sitangled in the tops of the sycamores; but in the
meadow, where the sheep were lying down in expecta-
ton of a fair day, Daniel Pink was abroad tending his
lock. The sight of the shepherd always brought spirit-
lal strength to Alice; she knew more of his inward
fe than any other human being did, and reverenced
te simple swain as she reverenced no other man. A
ttle surprised to see her abroad so early, he looked
2 in answer to her greeting with something of the
tme feeling for her that she had for him. Alice’s face
as pale and transparent, and her eyes were full of
rearthly fire, the shawl she had thrown about her
as white; it seemed to the shepherd as if some pure
diritual presence were passing before him in the quiet
torning.

She reached the garden-door unseen, though the
arters were already busy with the horses, and John
lobbs was standing sturdy in the yard, with loud voice
etting the men on to work, and stole unperceived
hrough the still sleeping house and was soon in bed
nd asleep.

4*

52 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

When she woke, it was to feel a kiss on her
and to see Sibyl standing dressed by her side wi
news that breakfast was over.

“Gervase sent these with his love,” she :
pressing a bunch of freshly blown tea-roses t
burning cheek; “he was sorry to have to go t
ness without wishing you ‘Good-morning.’”

A VERDICT. 53

CHAPTER V.

A VERDICT.

Tue thick-moted sunbeams of a June mid-day fell
adly through the windows of Whewell and Rick-
Vs offices, scorning the flimsy screen of the dingy
te blinds, rejoicing the companies of flies buzzing
wsily in complex evolutions through the thick air,
. making those clerks swear whose desks were not
he shadow; they poured in a broad stream of light
» Gervase Rickman’s private room, where he sat at
writing-table out of their range, and commanded a
v of the busy street beneath.
Sheets of paper covered with figures lay before
1; he had been at work for an hour and more solv-
complex arthmetical problems, deduced from
ious documents scattered here and there; the final
ult of his calculations was eminently satisfactory,
ugh he looked pale and exhausted as well as re-
red, like one just delivered from great peril.
“Of one thing I am quite resolved,” he said to
aself, lifting his face from the papers and leaning
*& in his chair, “never again will I speculate with
er people’s money—at least not in large sums—it is
risky.”

54 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Only two days before he had been appalled by
receipt of a telegram from a trusty hand in the
to the effect that the hitherto rapidly rising
Chin-Luns in which he had largely invested were
to fall heavily, and an expression unintelligible to
but himself at the end of the despatch told hum
would soon be worthless. He instantly telegraphed
his broker to sell the whole of his Chinese stock; @
day he received a telegram to say that the sae
effected at a high though lowered price. The
breathed freely, satisfied at having doubled his af
in spite of all. And now the morning papers anno
a fall in Chin-Luns heavy enough to have abst
half his invested money; to-morrow’s quotations
knew would be lower; he had only been just in i

The Chin-Luns were not the only perilous §
in which he had speculated; they serve as a sped
of the terribly exciting game Gervase Rickman
playing, a game as dependent on chance as any P!
over green cloth, and yet, like those, subject to ¢
laws, and capable of occasionally yielding sats
results to a player of iron nerve, and cool ands
brain. By constantly and closely watching comm
and political affairs; by dint of information whi
managed to obtain from all sorts of unsus|
channels and which he never hesitated to act up

a keen insight into men and affairs- which amour
genius, together with a great capacity for calc
and combining, and educing order from chaos,

A VERDICT. 55

Ourage that nothing could daunt, this hard-headed
Oung man, resolutely following the noble maxim of
‘uying in the cheapest market and selling in the
learest, had, in spite of many a hair-breadth escape
tom ruin, doubled and quadrupled his capital in the
imef course of a few years. His face wore a tnumphant
xpression as he sat at his writing-table and looked at
he final result of the complicated network of invest-
rents which he was carrying on, suspected by few,
nd fully known to nobody.

A newspaper lay on the table; his eye caught the
2ading points of a criminal trial recorded in the upper-
10st columns, and he smiled an indulgent, half-pitying
mile, such a smile as a skilful artist may accord to
he failure of a beginner. “What a number of fools
here are in the world,” he thought, “unconscious fools,
tho blunder themselves into the grip of the law, think-
ag themselves capable!” He hastily glanced through
he case, that of a lawyer who had speculated with
rust-money and lost it, then he tossed the paper aside,
ind began pondering the question of re-investments for
he Chin-Lun funds.

It really went to his heart to have to give such low
nterest to Alice Lingard after having doubled her
noney; but he could not give more than the interest
egal for trust-money, and after all it would come to
he same in the end; was it not. all for her? He
hought of others whose money had been the golden
eed for his rich harvest, widows and orphans among

56 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

them; and quieted certain faint qualms of what
remained of his conscience by reflecting that all
strictest justice required of him was to retum
their capital with fair interest. It is no doubt a fa
thing, he considered, for lawyers to manage the aft
of incapables, and take care of their money for
but then lawyers must live. He was a |
clever young man, and, as he frequently thought, #
was really a great pity that talents so brilliant aw#
courage so magnificent were not employed in the ditt
tion of large national, even European affairs; a
office was too narrow a cell for capabilities like i
they could not expand and develop as they ought to

“Soon,” he reflected, “if I do not break—and
will not—I shall have enough.”

This saying alone proved him to be a remarkab
man. How often does one meet with a human bet
who knows a limit to his desire for wealth, espec
one who has tasted the fierce rapture of gamblin
But Gervase Rickman was no money worshipper;
desired wealth only as a stepping-stone to power; !
was he a slave to the passion of gambling, had he bt
so, he would never have kept the cool brain necess
to a winner.

“T do wonder, Rickman,” said his new partner,
Daish, one day, “that with your capacity for pu
life you are not more ambitious.”

“Do you?” returned Rickman sweetly. “Well, :
no doubt a fine thing to be Mayor of Medington, b

A VERDICT. 57.

Mink Davis will make a better Mayor than I should.”
© Dr. Davis was elected to the municipal vacancy Mr.
Yaish wished his partner to fill, and Gervase Rickman
&w him march to the parish church in a black silk
wn trimmed with blue velvet behind the Mayor in
Carlet and fur, and thought how funny Mr. Daish’s
Stions of ambition were, Mr. Daish, who knew what
11 immense practice Whewell and Rickman’s was, so
Mmense that, in spite of the addition of one partner
> the firm, they were about to give up the affairs of
4e Gledesworth estate. Yet the financial crisis, or
Ather crises, through which Gervase Rickman had just
assed, coming as it did so shortly before that day of
“ckoning, Alice Lingard’s twenty-first birthday, shook
Ven his iron nerves, so that he rose to leave his office
Yr luncheon at an unusually early hour, feeling an un-
‘onted lassitude and distaste for work, and _ strolled
uietly along the shady side of the streets till he came
wite suddenly upon a rustic lane with a mill and
vidge, under which a clear deep stream flowed
ranquilly, shadowed by the green gloom of over-arch-
1g trees.

Here he rested, leaning on a rail and letting his
houghts wander at will with the quiet flow of the
rater, as thoughts will wander, borne peacefully upon
passing stream. The water made the sole barrier
etween the road and an orchard which sloped from a
entle rise down to the verge, grassy, cool and fresh,
ill of the quiet lights which fall at mid-day through

58 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

summer trees, and rest upon brown trunks and prt
grass.

But he could not find the mental repose he soig
by the water-side; something which had passed betwed
himself and Alice Lingard a day or two before @
and troubled him, satisfactory as on the whole he @
sidered it.

It was the day after Edward Annesley’s visit wot
Manor, and Gervase had ridden over in the eves
to look, he said, to the marking of the shom s#
but really to see how Alice, whom he had missed
the morning, was faring.

Of late Alice had drawn closer to him, comp?
set at rest by the perfect way in which he cloa
the true nature of his feelings towards her, and
ring to him in every little doubt and difficulty 4
did to no one else. Much as she loved her a0
father and mother, she relied little upon thet)
nature was stronger than theirs, and she uncons
regarded herself as a stay to them, and did nd
to them for support. Sibyl was her compamid
beloved sister, but a sister, however dear, 1s!
brother, which Gervase was and proved himself
thousand unobtrusive ways.

He told Sibyl that he wanted to be alont
Alice’ that evening, and Sibyl, accustomed to
privately with him herself, thought this perfectly 1
she therefore soon found an excuse for leaving
to the quiet stroll Gervase proposed, and he and

A VERDICT. 59

; Walked on tranquilly alone together in the cool hush
Of the evening.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, when their desultory

,, talk had come to an end, and they were resting half-
Way up the down against a gate.

Alice did not answer for a few minutes, but gazed
©n silently at the house and church lying beneath them
in the last rays of evening.

“Wouldn’t it be a relief to speak?” he continued,
after a little. “You are pale and worn, you look
as if you had had no sleep; something is worrying
you.”

“Yes,” she replied, “you read one too well, Gervase;
I am worned, but—no matter. It will pass.”

He considered her thoughtfully for a little while,

_ Grawing his inferences. “A girl of your age,” he con-
‘* tinued, “ought to have no worries. Perhaps, after all,
' it is something that two words would set right.”

“No,” she replied, “nothing will ever set this night.”
Slow tears rose to her eyes, and fell on the rough wood
of the gate on which her arms rested, and the tears
went to his heart.

“Come, my dear child,” he said, almost roughly,

“this won’t do. This is not like you, Alice.”

“Oh, Gervase!” she cred, “you were always a
good brother to me,” and she turned to him and bent
her head till her forehead touched his shoulder and
rested there.

He summoned all his strength to resist the feelings

60 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

stirred by that light touch; to yield now to one impulse
would be fatal, the impulse to fold the graceful burdea
stayed thus lightly upon him to his heart, and though
he trembled slightly he did not move a muscle. i
was but a moment that Alice leant against the strong
arm, feeling an indescribable accession of moral suppott
from the momentary contact, then she lifted her heat,
and the wild throbbing within him, of which she wa
sO unconscious, quieted down, and Gervase’s invinable
will resumed its undisputed sway.

She looked up in his face with childlike confidenct,
and asked herself why she should bear a crushing
burden alone, when she had so true and strong a frien
to share it with her; Gervase answered he appealin
look with a reassuring smile.

“J have no brother of my own,” she continue
“and neither father nor mother to consult, and I ha
had to make a decision—and—I am not quite sure
I have done nght.”

She had done it, then; a weight was lifted off |
heart, and he smiled more paternally than before.

“My dear child,” he returned, “I have no dot
that you have acted wisely and well, but the wisest
us need a little friendly counsel at times.”

“And besides the confidence I have in you,”
added, “there is no one so fitted by circumstance:
advise me upon this subject.”

“No? That is a good thing.”

“Gervase,” she said, in the low tones of int

A VERDICT. 61

Eeeling, “I was under the trees by the river that after-
moon—I had been asleep. I overheard what you and
edward Annesley said.”

Gervase was startled for a moment from his self-
control; all the blood rushed to his heart and he gazed
half-terrified upon her, wondering what she could have
heard, and trying to recall the exact circumstances of
their meeting, and the words of the conversation.

“TI heard your promise,” she continued, “and I will
not ask you to break it, but I will ask you this. Be-
cause of what occurred that day, and for no other reason,
I refused to-day to marry Edward Annesley. Was I
Tight?”

He did not answer for awhile, all the sunny peace-
-ful fields whirled before his eyes, his head throbbed.
Had he known that she would put this terribly direct
Question to him he would never have risked being
alone with her. He looked at her earnest face, worn
by inward suffering and noble with pure and loyal feel-
ing, and felt that never before had she been so dear to
him as now, while she was thus guilelessly confiding to
his ears her love for another man. In a dim way he
realized the depth and beauty of that love, such a love
as he could never hope to win. He knew that he held
Alice’s happiness in his hands, that the whole of her
future life depended upon the next words he should
say, and his heart was rent asunder with conflicting
feelings. It would be sweet to make her happy, to see
her face lighten and brighten and break into perfect

62 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

joy at hws words: that would be better than any ma
selfish satisfaction that might come from making kt
his own.

“Oh, Alice!” he faltered, lifted above himself for 4
moment by the purifying passion of his love, oblivial
of self, desiring nothing but the good of the guileled
being whose moral beauty had so conquered ha
“Alice!”

Yet he paused, true to his cautious character,
fore yielding to his higher nature and_ irrevocll
changing the course of their lives, and the paus,!
such pauses are, was fatal. All his life, with its alt
ambitions and strong purposes, flashed before him a
moment of time—for the Tempter exercises 4 9
necromancy over those who palter with their better J
pulses, and crushes a life-time of thought and fed
into a moment—he thought of the long years du!
which his heart had been wasting in patient love
Alice with a deep self-pity, and he shuddered to th
how black and unbearable the future would be wi!
her. Then the second strong feeling of his heat,
love for Sibyl, appealed to him along with more se
passions; all her life, so closely bound up in his!
came before him from her babyhood till now, and
subtle something within us which twists everythi0
selfish ends and justifies our evil wishes, persti
him that Sibyl’s interests, rather than his own, we
stake. He recalled his sorrow when she lay as a
at the point of death, and they told him, she must

A VERDICT. 63

nembered how he prayed, as he had never prayed
» or since—prayer was a long disused. habit with
—how he nursed her, feeling as if his strong affec-
had wrested her from the jaws of death. He
ht with tender pride of her beauty and talents,
he thought of her face the evening before, when
ooked upon Edward in his trouble; Sibyl must be
y at any cost. So he resolved.
lice interpreted his apparent agitation with a sink-
Cart, she scarcely now needed words to confirm
Orst fears. “Was I nght?” she repeated.
ere was a singing in his ears, his lips were so
tat he could scarcely speak; he paused again, and
t said in a voice that sounded strange and harsh
‘h of them, “Quite right.”
lice made no reply, but the look in her face was
te never could forget, and the tones of his own
rang hauntingly in the ears of his memory long
lowly as they were spoken. “Quite nght,” echoed
arsh voice of the corncrake in the evening stillness.
te nght,” cawed the long string of rooks, proceed-
olemnly homewards, dark specks against the pure
“Quite nght,” tingled the bells of the browsing
on the down above. “Quite nght,”’ murmured
hythmic beat of his own heart, till the words,
2 and few as they were, became meaningless by
tion, and yet more dreadful. To Alice, resting on
ite, with bowed head and averted face, they were
yal knell of all that made life dear.

64 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

After some minutes of painful silence, Alice h
her head, and the rose-light of the setting sun s
full upon the marble calm of her face, enhancing
still further spiritualizing its already spiritual beauty. :

“Dear Gervase,” she said, with the indescn
smile which comes from the depths of suffering, “
will never again refer to this.”

“Never again,” he murmured.

“Shall we go just to the crest of the hill?” she
added; and they strolled tranquilly on, occasionally
talking upon homely trivial subjects. |

As this scene recurred to Gervase in the noonday:
shadows by the cool stream, with Alice’s sorrow-strickea
face seeming to gaze from the water’s green depths
and his own words, “Quite right,” ringing through the
chambers of his memory, he felt that it had shaken
him even more than the anxiety of the last few days,
severe as that had been. Had he not escaped that
danger, he would have had an agreeable birthday pre-
sent to give Alice in the shape of a blank cheque r-
presenting the whole of her fortune, together with the
appearance of his own name in the gazette; but he was
too well used to narrow escapes and too sane of mind
to dwell upon a past danger. The thought of the suffer-
ing he had inflicted upon her was another thing; it
haunted him and refused to set him free; it came
between him and his work; it spoilt his splendid nerve
and daunted his magnificent audacity.

When the vision of Alice’s sorrowful face became

A VERDICT. 65

stent, he summoned another, that of Sibyl in the
, gazing upon Edward’s gloom. If he remembered
enly the light pressure of Alice’s brow on his
=r when she sought counsel and comfort of him,
alled the evening, more than a year ago, of
Id Annesley’s funeral, and pictured the sweet
’ Sibyl wet with tears, when he asked what ailed
nowing only too well, and she replied that his
was too mournful. Dear little Sibyl! How was
ible to see her and not love her?
ere was little comfort to be got out of the
coolness by the mill-stream that day, and after a
yause there, he turned, and retracing his steps
h the lane, emerged into the broad sunshine and
rative bustle of the High Street, down the shadiest
f which he passed slowly till he came to Mrs.
ley’s house, shrouded in its cool green veil of
la creeper, and presenting a refreshing contrast
baked red bricks and glaring stucco of the
on either side of it.
re he crossed over into the sunshine, just as the
pened, and the well-known figure of the Vicar of
gton issued from it and paused at the foot of the

ire you going in, Mr. Rickman?” the doctor asked,
the servant waited, holding the door open. “You
id dear Mrs. Annesley brave and patient as usual.
a truly religious woman! When one thinks what
gone through, one can but wonder and admire.”
‘eproach of Annesley. Il, 5

66 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Yes,” returned Gervase, “she has gone
good deal, poor woman!”

“She forgets her own trouble in the sorrows
others,” continued the doctor. “I did but mention
case of that poor Jones who was killed by the brealt
of a crane on the quay last week, leaving a widow
seven children—these poor fellows invariably leave
children, in obedience, I suppose, to some occult
and she immediately gave me a cheque for
pounds, and bid me get up a subscription to mat
fund for them; so I suppose I must,” he added, #
an ingenuous sigh; “but I should not, I confess,
done it without her generous example. Warm, is itna?

“Stay, doctor,” replied Gervase, detaining him vil
he fished a sovereign from his waistcoat pocket, “hs
me add my mite. I am a poor man, though | ha
not as yet emulated poor Jones in giving seven host
to fortune, or it should be more. I hope you will!
the firm add further to your list.”

“Charming young man,” reflected the doctor, g0
off with his booty. “What a pity his politics ar
pronounced!”

“Hang the old fellow!” muttered Gervase, going
the steps. “That was a cunning way of begging. TI
parsons are up to every dodge under the sun to ge
one’s pockets.”

He turned as he entered the house, and nodde
a shabby old countryman, half-farmer, half-labourer,
was slouching by on the other side of the street,

a

A VERDICT. 67

yhat a narrow escape that old man had just
ending his days in the workhouse, since his
ould have vanished along with Alice Lingard’s

e, had the cnsis he had just successfully
oved fatal.

5*

68 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER VI.

PREDICTIONS.

Mrs. ANNESLEY, more majestic than ever in be
heavy crape draperies in the cool gloom of her sobtay
room, received her guest with mournful benignity.

“How good of you to come to a poor lonely
woman!” she said. “You know how it cheers me whe
you drop in to share my solitary meal.”

“A miserable bachelor is only too glad to get”—lt
was just going to say “a first-rate luncheon,” but happily
pulled himself up in time to substitute “congenial society,
above all ladies’ society, with his meals.”

“Oh, you have no lack of ladies’ society!” she sa
with a pleased smile. “When were you last at Ardea
and how did you find them all?”

“Perfectly well, thank you, and the roses comm
well into bloom. ‘They talked of sending you some!
a day or two. I can spare less and less time for hor
now.”

“So busy?” You were mght about a cert
document, Gervase. I have had it drawn up and dt

signed and witnessed, and there it is for your perusa
And she took out a paper that he knew to be her w

PREDICTIONS. 69

‘Thank you,” he replied, smiling. “I need not see
If it was drawn up by Pergament, as I advised, it
ire to be in order.”

‘You don’t care, then, to know what a lonely old
ian designs for you after her death?” she returned,
oachfully.

‘I can’t endure to think of such a contingency,” he
_ earnestly. “Poor as I am, I shall regret the much-
led money that comes to me from that source.”
‘Gervase,’ said Mrs. Annesley, with apparent
evance, “what is this I hear of Edward Annesley’s
‘edit with his brother officers? Is it true that in
equence of certain scandals he will have to leave
service?”

‘It is true that he has been advised to do so, but
has not been officially recommended to resign,”
ed Gervase.

Mrs. Annesley looked disappointed, and knitted her
. brows in silent thought.

‘I cannot imagine,” pursued Gervase, “how these
urs get about.” And he looked searchingly from
rt his downcast eyelids at the severe face, which
e into a celestial smile before his furtive gaze.
‘No,” she returned sweetly, “nor can I. But I be-
in a just Heaven, Gervase; and I know that re-
tion, sooner or later, always overtakes the guilty.”
‘Ah!” he murmured, with dubious meaning. He
thinking of the letter his quick eye had perceived
1e writing-table when he came in, It was a thick

70 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

letter, addressed to Mrs. Markham. Mrs. Markham,

knew, was not only an old and intimate friend of Ms

Annesley’s, but she was also the mother-in-law of Cob

nel Disney, Edward Annesley’s commanding office

That accounted for a good deal. Gervase Ricki

posessed some imagination; he readily pictured Ms:
Annesley detailing the circumstances of her son's deall

and her own conjectures respecting it in long and ct

fidential recitals to Mrs. Markham, whose sympathy wil
her bereaved friend would no doubt be profound, ai’
concluding every confidence with the strictest injuse
tions to secrecy. He imagined Mrs. Markham burdened
with the weight of so delightfully scandalous a sectt,
recounting it in a moment of expansion, under vows of
strictest secrecy, and by no means to the diminution d
the scandal, to her daughter, Mrs. Disney. He could
see the two ladies gloating over the narrative; the shake
heads, the exclamations, the up-lifted hands, the t
peated injunction, “My dear, above all, never breath
a syllable to your husband,” sequent upon which I
junction he of course saw Mrs. Disney burning for
moment of conjugal confidence, when she would transt
the whole of the recital to the bosom of the Colon
with the same solemn injunctions to secrecy. Then
his mind’s eye he saw this officer looking askance
Edward, and unconsciously treating him with less c
diality than usual. One day, perhaps, Colonel Dist
would say to some one, “Wasn’t there something rat
queer about Paul Annesley’s death? Does anyb

PREDICTIONS. 71

smber the newspaper reports?” That officer would
to another, “There was something very fishy about
_ Annesley’s death. It happened abroad, and was
. out of the English papers, you know—hushed up.
ras unlucky for our Annesley that he was on the
»’ he might add.
“It was precious lucky for Annesley that his cousin
himself pushed over the precipice,” perhaps his
ence would say on a subsequent occasion.
“And what had Ned Annesley to do with it?” an-
r hearer might say; “it is to be hoped he didn’t
| him overboard. It must be awfully tempting to a
’s next heir to find himself just behind him at the
: of a crevasse. An accidental push, and down the
w goes, and you get the estate. Shocking accident,
‘TS Say; young man of immense property; all goes
distant cousin.”
‘It wasn’t a crevasse, Smith,” another man would
ct, “it was on a cliff by some river in France. Per-
the Annesleys were larking and one pushed the
r over. It was unlucky for our man that the rich
went overboard. He doesn’ t look like a fellow, with
‘thing on his conscience.’
‘He does look like a fellow with a guilty secret.”
‘And how did they get it hushed up?”
‘Easy enough on the Continent. Bribe the officials.”
‘There was an account of it in the Zimes, if you
‘mber, last autumn. Struck me at the time as a
ous queer story. I must say that Annesley has

72 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

never been the same man since. He wasn’t a bad
before.”

“Oh! it is only because he is nich.”

“My dear fellow, money never spoils a man’s tem
or makes him look as if he had baked his grandfathe
It’s the want of it makes a fellow swear and cit
rough. It’s a bad conscience with Annesley, that's
he looks so glum.”

“It’s the family ghost. They say every Anneskf
who comes into the property is haunted, and eithe:
goes mad or hangs himself.”

“You’ve got hold of the wrong end of the story. I
isn’t a ghost, it’s a curse; every Annesley who gs
Gledesworth comes to grief. Reginald Annesley of ti
Hussars was killed elephant-hunting —or pig-sticking
wasn’t it? his father went mad and died. Paul Anne
ley took this unlucky step over the cliff, and goodms
knows what will happen to Ned Annesley; anyway, he!
in for a bad thing.”

All this Gervase Rickman imagined, and much matt
hitting, with the instinct of creative genius, the core (
the ljteral truth. He saw files of last autumn’s pape
consulted and discussed, and guessed the position h
Own name would occupy in the general gossip, wht
disinterred from the brief narrative. He understoo
further, much that had hitherto been dark to him!
specting the spread of rumour in that part of the wor
fitting little bits of information together, and supplyi
the gap with clever inductions till he had a fair chi

PREDICTIONS. 73

vidence. He remembered an observation of the

’s to the effect that Mrs. Annesley was a deeply

ged woman and knew how to forgive, and this

rvation was suggestive.

‘I conclude,” continued Mrs. Annesley, ignorant of
was passing through the mind of the thoughtful
clever young man before her, “that Edward

2sley has sent in his papers.”

‘Not at all,” returned Rickman, with a subtle in-
on of triumph in his accent; “he means to live it

1, he says.”

‘It is the first time, Mr. Rickman,” she replied,
an angry glitter in her eye, “that an Annesley has

2rred his convenience to his honour. There are

le who are beneath scorn. Pardon me, I forgot

I was speaking of your /rzend.”’

‘Of my father’s friend, and landlord, and my em-

er,’ he returned tranquilly.

‘And Alice Lingard’s lover,” she added, with a

ce of disdainful anger.

‘Her rejected suitor,” he corrected, with a curious

‘Rejected? Are you certain?” she asked eagerly.

‘Perfectly. We need fear no more from that

ter. He was sent off for good and all, three
ago.”

‘Heaven is just,” observed Mrs. Annesley with

5 fervour.

‘Exactly,’ replied Gervase absently. He was think-

74 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

ing what a clever woman Mrs. Annesley was; it
almost a pity she had not come into the world tli
years later, such a woman would indeed be a
mate for him. He was not sure that she had not
a little too clever for him; he had not intended
Annesley scandal to go so far, and his fertile
was not yet prepared with a scheme for checking it

“You probably have not fully considered the 5
you run in being associated with that man,” she
tinued.

“And what if I had?” he replied; “a poor
with bread to earn cannot be so over-nice. Besiéd
as you know, we give up the stewardship on qual
day.”

“And still receive him at your house.”

“Pardon me. My father still receives him at!
house,” he corrected, sighing a little, for he feltt
he had a difficult and delicate part to play, in prs
ing friendly relations with both this stern and resd
woman and the man she hated so bitterly. He thou
too with some apprehension of the extreme diffe
of managing with such dexterity as to separate Edu
from Alice, and at the same time throw him intoS!
society; he was beginning to fear, besides, that Edw
reputation was almost too seriously damaged for Si
marriage with him to be a success. He looked @
rigid lips of the hard woman sitting opposite him,
suspected that his iron will and subtle brain had
matched, if not over-matched, and mentally end

PREDICTIONS. 75

ruth of Raysh Squire’s verdict upon Mrs. Annesley,
L can’t nohow get upzides with she.” But it was
mtant that he should “get upsides with” Mrs.
-sley, and he determined to do so, not knowing
=xtent to which she was turning him inside out.
~uncheon was announced while his mind was oc-
=d with these reflections, and the conversation was
Tupted—not disagreeably to this unfortunate and
bly perplexed child of genius—for he was fagged
hungry, and always knew how to appreciate an
silent meal, daintily set off with rich and tasteful
ointments; nor did he fail to appreciate the state
- Annesley affected since her son’s death. This
nt had given her an income quite out of proportion
he house in the street of a country town, which she
se to occupy, nevertheless, since it was her own,
| since her position, spite of its woful diminution
' that she was no longer the mother of the un-
Ned Annesley of Gledesworth, was still good enough
nable her to live on in Medington without loss of
ideration. Gervase had always felt that he was
| for a more brilliant sphere than that he occupied;
Annesley’s complicated cookery, with Frenchified
@s, was only a suitable tribute to a man so evidently
aded by nature for a lofty destiny, and he listened
Irs. Annesley’s long grace with the inward reflection
the meal justified it, and complacently refreshed
inner man to the accompaniment of his hostess’s

76 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

elegant small talk, glad to be excused the more di
topics the servant’s presence had put aside.

He was sorry when they were alone again,
Mrs. Annesley returned to the charge.

“I could never understand,” she said, “how
could bring yourself to act with or under that
after what you saw in the Jura. You have assured
so many times that what you then actually witn
insufficient evidence to base a trial upon.”

“Dear Mrs. Annesley, need I assure you
Why revive a topic that must be so especially pa
to your”

“My young friend, do you suppose that tope
ever absent from my mind?” she returned in a @
voice, with a keen cold glance.

“I suppose,” reflected the unfortunate young 8
“that you are an awful old woman, and that I}
better, after all, have had nothing to do with yt
But, aloud, he said something about a mother’s bere
ment being perpetual, at which Mrs. Annesley app
her handkerchief daintily to each side of her nose,
murmured that his sympathy was one of the few sd

left to a forlorn widow.

“You told him,” she added, replacing the }
kerchief in her pocket with a prompt return to
business-like manner, “that your business had be
too large and important to make it worth your’
to conduct his affairs?”

PREDICTIONS. 77

Wes, and it was true; we can do very well without
xledesworth affairs. I had thought of giving it to
t, but he has enough to do without. Daish is a
fair man of business; wholesomely dense in a way,
tunderstands when directed; the very man to be
© a master.”
My dear Gervase, you take a new partner, and
e important business, and have branch offices in
a-dozen towns; that all hangs excellently together,
Edward Annesley might believe you, if he were
of a fool than he is. But what does not fit is the
that you are constantly bewailing your poverty.”
Gervase explained that poverty is a relative term,
depends upon the relation of a man’s needs to his
essions. ‘The fact is,” he said in conclusion, “I
t money—a great deal of money. No one suspects
t my aims really are, but your fmendship, dear
. Annesley, has always been so perfect, and you
2 so much sympathy with whatever soars above the
mon, that I feel moved to confide in you, the
€ so as your influence is great, and may materially
me.”
He spoke with a hesitating, almost timid air, like a
who longs to make a confidence but needs some
uragement to bring him to the point. Mrs. Annes-
piercing gaze was directed upon his down-cast
lectual face; she was wondering to what extent he
lying, as indeed she usually did while conferring
him.

78 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“My influence,” she echoed, with a mel
accent, “what influence can a forlorn and ch
widow such as I am have? Do not mock my affiidi
dear Gervase. J am not the mother of Annesley {
Gledesworth,” and the handkerchief once mor
peared, and was again daintily pressed to each side
Mrs. Annesley’s finely formed nose.

“Nevertheless,” returned Gervase, who knew ¢
what she wanted him to say, “you have far more
fluence than the lady who occupies that position }
fluence depends more than is commonly supposed @#
force of character. I don’t think you quite know
extent to which Mrs. Annesley of Medington is looked!
to, and the great sympathy which her sorrows |

She knew that he was fibbing and _ yet she like
flattery is so essential to some natures that they:
almost indifferent to its truth or falsehood so lou
incense of some kind is offered them. She ther
replied that, though conscious of her own imp0lt
she was most willing to further her dear friend's ¥
as far as she could, and begged him, if it woul
the slightest solace to him, to confide his aims t

motherly breast. And Gervase, knowing that her §
for intrigue gave her an influence more potent
furtherance of his purposes than that of rank or ¥
and being unusually expansive on account of the
he had taken to quiet his troubled mind, replied,

“I am ambitious. I do not intend to remal
attorney in a country town long.”

PREDICTIONS. — 79

‘Your talents are wasted in such a sphere,” she
ed; “there is no doubt of that. But to what do
mean to rise?”

His ambition had always inspired her with admira-
and the thought that she might bring a bnihiant
1g man into public notice was most pleasing to her,
essing the instinct of patronage to such an unusual
ree as she did.
“I intend,” he replied, gazing with a pre-occupied
Straight before him, “to rule England, if not
ope.”
The quiet matter-of-fact air with which he uttered
large resolve startled Mrs. Annesley, and her eyes
ted with unfeigned admiration. .
“You aim high,” she replied almost breathlessly.
“Why not?” he returned coolly; “with a resolute
‘ose, a high aim is as easily achieved as a low
Mrs. Annesley was too startled to be amused at
idea of a young country lawyer purposing to govern
country, if not the world at large, in this off-hand
iner; she saw no bathos in his observations, perhaps
er momentary bewilderment she had a vague notion
Gervase might send her straightway to the Tower
1e incurred his displeasure; she could only ask him,
| unusual meekness, how he meant to begin.
“First, I must get money,” he replied; “then I must
a seat in Parliament. The rest,” he added, smiling

80 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

with a sudden consciousness of the ridiculous side d
his pretensions, “will follow.”

Yet though he had too wholesome a sens ri |
humour not to be amused at his large assertion, bt
fully meant it, and Mrs. Annesley, looking silently and
thoughtfully upon his resolute countenance, which Wa
now more than usually alight with intellect, and por
dering upon the oratorical gifts he was known to pis
sess, upon his strength of will, his industry, his learning

his genius for affairs, and his knowledge of human cha"

racter, realized all at once that a born statesman was
sitting at her table, and that, though, friendless and
unknown as he was, he might never rule England,
much less Europe, to do which, he would have, as he
afterwards informed her, to transform England to 4
great extent, he would probably rise to a creditable
position in public life. Ruling England might be but
a vaunt, yet not wholly an idle one; it was like the
marshal’s baton in the knapsack of the republican
soldier, or the avoolsack in the future of the young
barrister, a symbol and aim of the ambition without
which men never rise above mediocrity.

She knew him to be unscrupulous, and this in her
eyes was a further guarantee of his success. She did
not believe with Alice Lingard, that honour and honesty
are the only permanent bases of political as of personal
greatness, and that, though an ambitious and ur
scrupulous genius may achieve the highest eminence,
such a one is almost certain to fall.

PREDICTIONS. St

me into the garden,” she said when she had
>d from her surprise, “and tell me all about it.”
ey went out and strolled in the shade of the
es for a sunny half-hour, while Gervase unfolded
ails of his immediate plans and spoke of the
lity of the borough of Medington falling vacant
istant date, and of the desirability of his finances
1 a condition for him to contest it. Then Mrs,
y promised him definite financial as well as per-
d, and he knew that neither was to be despised.
hough he did not impart his ambitious plans as
any one else, he knew that the same occult
which had affixed a stigma to Edward Annesley,
ssociate his name with a predicted success which
ulfil itself. He was also aware that Mrs. Annesley
terly renewed her acquaintance with her aristo-
‘onnections, some of whom were distinguished
the world of society and in that of politics.
returned to his office in high spints; he knew
s. Annesley was far too dangerous as a possible
t to be made a certain friend, and in confiding
ind throwing himself upon her, he had secured
his side for life; he would now be in some sort
1 creation, so he had persuaded her.

: very danger of the crisis through which he had
ssed increased his confidence in that vague
ng which he named his destiny. All men are
, especially those who make a point of being
and following nothing but the light of reason,
broach of Annesley. Ll, 6

82 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

and who think to conquer circumstance by t
unaided will. Gervase, therefore, who regardec
as the malady of undeveloped minds, and pro
be able to mould his own fate and that of |
the sole power of his purpose, was a firm b
his lucky destiny, and was constantly tormentin
with fears lest that capricious divinity should
veer round and persecute him, as it had
favoured him.

Having seated himself at his desk that <
and being much occupied with thoughts of his «
good luck, he determined to consult an oracle
he believed as fervently as any girl believes in
she calls upon by the wayside cross. He
penknife with a long fine blade, and poised it
in his hand with the point directed to the wal
him. While doing this, his confidential cler}
at the door; but he did not answer, he continu
with an intent anxious gaze upon a spot of
the pattern of the wall-paper. The clerk t
the preconcerted signal denoting urgency in ;
taps on the door; still no reply, Gervase’s hanc
slightly and his face was pale; he shot the |
like at the spot on the wall, and instantly g
followed it, and smiled with relief when he
blade quivering in the very centre of the pat

Three times the rite was performed, each
Increasing trepidation; while the clerk, who
footsteps, coughed an impatient cough anc

PREDICTIONS. 83

€ signal of urgency. When the blade quivered the
td time in the same spot, the tension of the young
ns features relaxed, he took the knife and shut it
h a tranquil air, saying inwardly that he was now
‘e of success, and resuming his seat, he bid the clerk
ter in his usual manner. It was a favourite axiom
his that all men are fools in some respects.

6*

84 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER VIL

THE SQUIRE OF GLEDESWORTH.

WueN Edward Annesley reached home at the eal
of his moonlight ride after the discouraging receptita
his suit by Alice, he went to bed and to sleep 1
most unromantic fashion, and rose refreshed next
ing to eat a hearty breakfast.

After breakfast, he took a cigar and went round
stables, and listened to an account of the symptoms d
his sister’s riding-horse, and, having attentively exami
the creature, prescribed for it; then he carefully felt
legs of a carriage-horse, and decided that there ™.
nothing the matter but swelling from insufficient ex
cise, and considered other important stable mails
smoking with apparent enjoyment all the time.

Then he passed an hour in his mother’s siting
room, discussing matters of business, looking over &
accounts of one of his brothers, who was not yet abl
to stand on his own foundation, but making no allusid
to what had occurred at Arden the day before, beyoo
saying that he had passed the evening at the Manor.

After this he strolled through the park down to
little cove, surrounded by tall forest trees, growl

THE SQUIRE OF GLEDESWORTH. 85

lown to the water’s edge, where there was a tiny
ad bathing-stage and a boat-house, and, stepping
little boat, sculled out seawards. Then his face
e thoughtful, and he began to reflect on what had
| in the garden the evening before.
ice was fnendly towards him, and more than
1s became her nature; but she did not love him,
> did not think he could ever win her love. Paul’s
‘ly fate had surrounded him with a halo of ten-
s; there was a pathos in his sudden death which,
d decided, would make Alice cling to his memory
hat of a canonized saint.
t the fact that Alice besought him to tell the
of his part in that death, showed that she enter-
at least some thought of accepting his proposals,
_ the fact that she did not trust him indicated
sively that she did not, and probably never would
im. A love without trust could not be based
the reverent perception of moral beauty, which
.e foundation of his own love. And it was not
y unreasonable that she should wish him to ex-
the history of that afternoon; he saw clearly
hether she would finally grow to love him or not,
suld most certainly never accept his addresses
re mystery was cleared up. That would be the
2p.
he sculled swiftly over the calm waters, the blue
above him and the blue sea beneath, Alice’s
ise before him, and the tones of her voice grew

86 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

upon his ear, and hé felt how ‘deeply he loved her ul
how impossible it was to be happy without her I®
could not win her, he would make no unmanly ™
but the glory of his life would be gone. Afi
keenness of the disappointment had worn off, he mig
even find some good, loveable woman to wh ™
would be a good husband, and who would be 4°
tented wife; but he would never be really happy ®
would have missed the best things in life; hee
doubted if he could so far conquer his feelings 4"
marry. As he thought this, seeing Alice’s fe ®
imagination and recalling the charm of her pres
tears rose to his eyes, and dimmed the blue ws@4
sea and sky before him, and it came into his mund®
it would be worth doing anything to win her. 5
he yield to her wishes and tell her all, taking the ™
of what might follow?

So he pondered for a long time, sculling mor al
more rapidly in the stress of this suggestion, oblim®
of the hot sunshine, until the perspiration streamed ft
his face, while the green shore lessened in the disa™
and he was near being run down by a yacht steal
along at high speed.

After all, he had a right to win her; there wa
justice in frustrating the happiness of his life becal
Paul Annesley could have no more earthly enjoym
and was it not a happier fate for Alice to love a lv
man than a dead one? He called up a vision of A
wooed and won, living a tranquil and useful life by

THE SQUIRE OF GLEDESWORTH. 87

He thought how happy he would make her, sur-
ding her with tenderest love, and protecting her
every trouble; honour and peace would wait upon
steps in the home he would give her, and a thou-
sweet domestic joys would spring up and blossom
er path. But all this only if she loved him; yet
should she note The picture was so sweet that he
t upon it long, so long that at last it was beginning
onfuse his sense of nght. He imagined himself
ig her the whole story, and tried to think how she
d bear it. He thought he saw horror coming into
2yes as she listened, and anguish clouding her face,
id would that be all? No; if he judged her rightly,
‘thing more would come between them—anger and
1. She would never forgive him, as he could never
ve himself.
Chen the current of his thoughts turned; he saw a
ng tenderness stealing into her face, and found
elf forgiven for his love’s sake, and perhaps, when
anguish had spent itself, loved at last. At this
zht the temptation to tell all became urgent. It
so hard to let her go without further efforts to win
But she did not trust him; could she ever love
What strange infatuation his had been, when first
saw and loved her and thought — preposterous
zht—that his love was returned. It must have
pure imagination, because after he knew of Paul’s
is she had seemed so different and so distant;
tless she had never been anything but distant, only

88 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

his wishes had made him fancy that she inclined ©
him. Those few bright days at Arden were but dm
stolen from a fool’s paradise, the only paradise,
thought with unwonted bitterness, men ever enjoy i
this perverted and perverse earth.

It was pleasant, nevertheless, to remember the bed
fool’s paradise, which seemed so long and so fil ¢
events. He recalled their discussions and argumets
upon every conceivable topic, and all the hints d
character brought out by trivial events. Once th
were talking of “Vanity Fair,” and especially of tht
matchless creature, Becky Sharp, and Alice said tit’
had she been Amelia, she could have forgiven Bedy
everything but that one crowning injury of revealitg:
George Osborne’s infidelity. “It was like killing *
soul,” she said, “for she destroyed the ideal of a lit '
time.”

The air seemed still to vibrate with the tones
her voice; he remembered the flutter of a nbbon #@
her dress when she spoke.

No more fool’s paradises for Edward Annesley,
only the stern facts of life and stout wrestling wid
circumstances remained for him, as perhaps was ft
ting for a tough fellow able to take his full share d
hard knocks.

“T will never tell her,” he said aloud, though
one heard but the waves and the sea-birds skimmmy
above them, and the light breeze which sprang up ai
invited him to step his tiny mast and hoist his sail, an

THE SQUIRE OF GLEDESWORTH. 89

=r the waters in emulation of the gulls. While
*@ before the wind, pursuing these reflections, he
1t that the best thing in most lives might after all
lappy memory of an untarnished ideal.
re sun had turned, and was already far down the
‘n slope, when the woods and meadows ‘around
Sworth came in sight again, and he sculled into
Ove, put the little boat’s head straight for the
g-place, and sprang out the moment the keel
d the shingle. The serene calm which follows on
ptation resisted filled his heart, though he was
tle given to introspection to know why he was at
As he turned to haul the boat up the shore, an
struck him, and he saw the exact spot where the
defences should be strengthened, the weak spot
he enemy would not fail to detect and take ad-
ze of; but it seemed so strange that neither he
hose who planned the fortifications should have
it before.
‘using of guns, ships, and forts, he strolled along
unny turf, seeing his chimneys and gables rise
the green domes of woodland encircling them,
s the downs stretching away beyond the park,
he passed into the golden green shadows of a
_ grove and came out in the full blaze of the after-
sunshine upon the open park-land in front of the
, which stood on a rising ground. It was a fine
acobean building in grey stone, built on to an
wing, which extended far back, and was scarcely

go THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

seen from this approach, and behind which was
beautifully timbered Gothic hall, in good preservat
It was a noble specimen of a stately English home;
park was full of magnificent trees, the growth of
all along by the sea, beneath the down-ridge and be
it for miles, spread well-cultivated fields, inters
with farms and woods; a goodly inheritance.

Edward Annesley looked at it and wondered if
One could be a whit the better for possessing it, as
did; the bare-armed and brown-faced gardener, pushi
his mowing-machine with a pleasant sound over &
smooth deep sward, had as good a harvest for bi
eyes. The tops of the oaks caught the full sunshine!
their russet and green leafage against the lucid x
and moved as pleasantly in the breeze for the gardent
as for his master: the blue haze veiled the distance!
Sweetly and the sunlight lay as warmly for him ¢
the weathered stone of the broad and _picturesq
house-front.

Edward had been much happier in the old dj
when he was but a subaltern officer of artillery with
mOderate income and few responsibilities, with no p!
tensions, but with endless possibilities before him int
Profession he loved, if not exactly with a field-marsha
baton in his pocket, before his meeting with Al
Lingard had created an imperious need in his he:
All he wanted then was a fair chance in the serv
the variety and possible travel and peril of a militi
life, his books and instruments, and leisure to use the

THE SQUIRE OF GLEDESWORTH. gi

| the companionship of men of similar tastes. Truly,
‘eflected, “man wants but little,” but by some strange
fersity of fate that little is usually the unattainable;
pho’s apple reddening out of reach on the orchard’s
nost bough. Even Paul, who so well appreciated
Ith and the consideration which accompanies it,
found it worthless without Alice to share his pos-
ons and give the crowning grace to his beautiful
e.
Mrs. Edward Annesley was sitting at a table beneath
‘reading plane-tree in front of the house, and at
= distance from it, with some needlework in her
1. She saw her son issue from the beechen grove
come towards her in the sunshine. Some echo of
musings was in her mind at the moment; she too
beginning to realize the vanity of the good fortune
th had so unexpectedly befallen them, though per-
; she would not have done so but for the blighting
icions which gathered round her son and deprived
whole family in some measure of the social standing
‘ inheritance should have given them. The great
‘ie seemed to her, as to Edward, unhomelike, and
him, she thought regretfully of the plain, unpreten-
; red-brick house mantled with ivy, in which her
and had died, and her latter years had been spent
eace and pleasantness.
The reproach weighed on her, but not as it weighed
1 Annesley himself. As her son drew nearer, her
t went out to him. It seemed as if Time had

Q? THE REPROACH OF ANNESLTY.

rolied backwards in its course. and not her sm int
hushand, as she knew him im the fulness of its
was coming to her side again.

“Dear child!” she murmured within herself.
her kind eyes clouded, “I never thought him so tkelt
father till of late.”

What was the change that every one noticed!
him? she wondered, as she watched the well-knit figat
carelessly clad in a light morning suit, moving wi
firm even tread over the grass. Perhaps his step
too measured, and lacked its former lightness; certasly
the dark eyes, shadowed by the straw hat, had let
their youthful joyousness, and looked out upon &
World sternly, almost defiantly; and that made him lt:
Ws father, who had had many a fall in his rounds wi
Vottune. ‘There was the stamp of ineffaceable trouble
wn his face; what could it be? Children, she reflected,
WMunt always be changing through all the stages d
thildhood to youth, and then from youth to manhood
and what manhood passes unscathed by trouble ant
euic? Annesley of Gledesworth—she was proud of t#
tule in her fond way, and thought he became it wd
he looked like a man to sit in high places, and t
clothed with power and responsibility.

“All alone, mother?” he asked, taking a seat ne
her, and losing half-a-dozen years from his face as!
Spoke. “Has any one been or anything happened?

Mea
mn nt to have been in for luncheon, but the wind ¥
ur for a sail.

THE SQUIRE OF GLEDESWORTH. 93

you have been rowing, I see, by your blistered
low brown your hands have become! No,
as happened, and nobody has driven or ndden

ve just thought of selling Gledesworth,” said
ibruptly.
dear child, selling a property that has been
uly since King John’s time!”
selling it, curse and all. I don’t care for the
your” He looked up and laughed. “It gives
eeps, and makes me fool enough to believe in
tion. Upon my word, I wonder nobody ever
f selling the curse before.”
e might be a difficulty in finding a purchaser,
1, my dear,” she added, more seriously, “if
but clear yourself of these suspicions! That
sons the place for you—that is our curse.”
ih I could, for your sake,” he replied; “but
take it too much to heart. What is a little
gossip after all? Words are but air.”
that woman!” she exclaimed. “She was the
our life long before you were born or thought
trifled with your dear father till she nearly
out, and no sooner were we engaged than she
e could to make mischief between us. Not
eve he ever really cared for her,” she added,
ity, “but most men can be made fools of by
unscrupulous women.”
lear mother,’ he replied, with some amuse-

94 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

ment, “that is an old story to rake up. And you
admit that Aunt Eleanor got the worst of it in mani
my Uncle Walter instead of my father.”

“There is comfort in that, Ned,” she admitted.
she would but let you alone! It is she who 3
you, and no other. I could tell you stores of
vindictiveness of those Mowbrays that would make
hair stand on end.”

“Poor soul!” he said, “think of her trouble
firmly believe it has turned her brain. She is no ©
sponsible for what she does. I said so at the
first, if you remember.”

“If she is mad, her temper has made her 50,
she ought to be shut up,” replied Mrs. Annesley,
curious logic but firm determination. “My dear,” #
added, with apparent irrelevance, “I quite believe #
you, but it would make me happier if you would #
me the whole story of that miserable business.”

“My dear mother,” he replied, his face hardea!
as he spoke until he seemed no longer her son Edwa
“you promised me not to re-open that question '
have discussed it too much already.”

She looked him in the face, her heart beat, a0(
dreadful doubt sickened her. She had known thist
from his cradle; he had told her all his thoughts:
confessed all his errors and follies from the first st
mer of infancy till now; could she doubt him?
had never to her knowledge led since he was
enough to know the meaning of truth, he had evel

THE SQUIRE OF GLEDESWORTH. 95

let days, told her many of his scrapes. She had
10t to spoil him and turn him into the flabby
or saint a widow’s eldest son so often proves;
ought that she had never suffered him to rule
id certainly had not let him play the tyrant to
unger children; she had had very little trouble
im, but she knew that mothers and wives seldom
1e whole history of sons and husbands.
tis hard not to know. I am your mother!” she
ned.
t is hard not to be trusted, and I am your son,”
ied more gently; and then a servant appeared
ea-cups, and they could not pursue the subject.
t Annesley’s singing came faintly from an open
Vy

“Ach Gott, mein Lieb ist todt,

Ist bei dem lieben Gott,”
ade him think of Alice and Paul.
broke off abruptly, and Harriet appeared at the
’ the steps, down which she floated with a child-
race, and joined her elder sister, Eleanor, who
iow a fine young woman, and the two came to
ane-tree and scolded their brother for going off
y without telling any one.
1en Eleanor poured out tea, and they were all
merry in a homely way. Edward thought how
and charming they were, and what a pity it was
ve doors of society should be shut upon them just
‘ golden promise of their lives; and while he was

96 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

thinking this and affectionately teasing them, he
aware of a sturdy little figure, with a dogged yet
ing face, striding with long heavy steps, straight
the turf towards him.

“Be you Squire Annesley?” asked the boy, stopp
just in front of him, the sun blazing full on his
face, white smock, and dusty boots.

“Yes, boy. What do you want?”

“Then this here’s for you,” he replied, produay
letter, “and she said there wasn’t no answer.”
that he turned, and was striding heavily back
without more ado.

“Stop, boy!” cred Edward, who had felt a theil
at first sight of his face, which he recognized vag
as belonging to Arden; for all the faces there seemed
to bear one family stamp. He gave the messenger:
bright half-crown, and bid the servant take him na
give him food, but still did not appear in a huny!
read his letter.

_ “How very romantic!” observed Eleanor; “who
the ‘she,’ the fair, the chaste, the unexpressive she?”

“Er war mit Herz und Seele mein,” sang Har
her mind still burdened with her melancholy ditty.

Then he broke the cover and read, his face cha
ing from white to red and back to white again, till
folded the letter very exactly, and put it in his po
with a thoughtful air. Presently he turned his §
from the sunshiny trees and turf to his mother
sister, who were occupied with some trifling discus:

THE SQUIRE OF GLEDESWORTH. 97

‘How would you like to spend the winter in Rome?”
asked. “You might go to Switzerland in August or
tember, and gradually creep on to Rome by Novem-

We could shut up this house for a year. I
ht get a long leave and joim you. What do you
2”

There was a long and animated discussion, and
sently the two girls moved off, full of the new
eme, and left the others alone.

“It is all over,” Edward then said to his mother.
Qe has refused me. Of course I shall think no more
it.”

Then he rose and joined his sisters.

The letter was brief and formal. The writer hoped
€ Mr. Annesley would waste no more time upon
unprofitable subject upon which they could never
le to any agreement. What occurred on the after-
tm of the roth of September last year made it im-
Sible for her ever to entertain any thought of mar-
e. She hoped that in case of their meeting again,

might rely upon his bearing himself towards her as
end, but nothing more.

This last sentence, which poor Alice would probably
er have written but for her painful experience of
ul’s tenacious courtship, was unfortunate in its effect
m Edward. It stung him into a fierce resentment,
| made him seize his pen that evening and indite a
ighty missive to the effect that Miss Lingard need

be in the least afraid of his troubling her with un-
ke Reproach of Annesley. I. 7

98 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

welcome attentions, a letter that wounded her 10!
heart’s core.

The long golden beams of the evening suis
through the closed blinds and fell on his paper
wrote; such long beams were then falling upon Get
and Alice on the down above Arden, when the {a
was uttering the simple words which echoed 9
through the memories of both, “Quite right.”

PART V.

7*

CHAPTER I.

AN ENGLISH TRIUMPH.

Art the eight bells in the church steeple were
ing down in joyous tumult through the sun-gilt
<e canopy which was spread above the slate roofs
[edington one mild November afternoon; the streets
hat quiet little town were filled with an unwonted
and stir, thickest and most turbulent in the vicinity
he town-hall, the open space in front of which was
k with human beings. It is curious that crowds,
matter of what they may be composed, always are
k; it is curious, too, that human faces in the mass
always of one tint, a very pale bronze without the
test shade of pink; probably no one ever saw a
vd blush or turn pale, yet these truly awful phe-
lena must sometimes occur.

The windows surrounding the space before the
1-hall were black with humanity, so was the balcony
th served as hustings. When the eye became ac-
omed to the mass and began singling out its com-
-nt parts, it detected many points of colour; a large

102 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

proportion of the men in the street wore the fusta g
garb of the artisan; the few female forms discemnble
at the windows or in carriages contributed less lugubnow
tints, and on many a coat, whether of cloth or fustia,@
there fluttered gay bunches of ribbon, dark blue and
crimson on some, light blue and yellow on others
Those who wore the pale colours were radiantly and
triumphantly aggressive, those who wore the dark
sullenly and defiantly so. All were demeaning them
selves like Bedlamites; a few sad and anxious police
men jostled about among them were ‘trying not to observe
anything, one of these in his efforts to preserve a
indifferent and easy demeanour, seemed quite absorbed
in a close and searching examination of the pale blue
sky above, across which some pigeons were flying, thei
clanging wings unheard in the tumult; the fact that 4
band of musicians bearing the dark colours were flying
precipitately down a side street, pursued by various
missiles, kicks and thumps, with their hats now and
then crushed over their noses, and their instruments
vibrating to unmusicianly strokes, did not pierce through
his apparent abstraction.

It was a scene to kindle wonder in the breast of
an observant Chinaman or Bedouin Arab, if such had
chanced to be strolling through Medington High Street
just then. A gentleman on the balcony was gesticulating
and shouting unheard in the tumult made by the bells,
and the cheering, yelling, groaning and whistling of the
crowd. Yet people appeared to be listening to this

AN ENGLISH TRIUMPH. 103

: person through the uproar, and punctuated his
rse by hootings, hissings, cries of hear-hear and
ng of hands; also by more personal favours, such
xs of flour, which for the most part fell short of
id burst with uncalculated effect upon unsuspecting
s below to the loud merriment of citizens not so
ed. He was succeeded by another orator, and
iother. Now and again somebody, usually some
‘own boy, would utter a hoarse, half-despairing,
ofiant shout of “Stuart for ever!” whereupon the
‘s with light ribbons would fall upon him pell-mell,
ustle and thump him with most Christian vigour,
elves hustled and thumped in turn by a posse of
solours, who would rush to the rescue of their side.
he intelligent foreigners asked the reason of these
n displays of fraternal feeling, the belligerents

probably have been puzzled how to answer

’ great and overpowering was the joy in the breasts
light colours, that one of them would occasionally
the hat over the nose of a brother light colour,
‘ pure gladness of heart and excess of brotherly
Shopkeepers had hastily put up their shutters at
‘st crash of the bells, and prudent people, and
who preferred quiet enjoyments to the turbulent
ts of laying about them with their fists, had
isly transferred the dark colours, if so unfortunate
wear them, from their coats to their pockets, a
' which little profited one unlucky citizen, who

104 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

effected the transfer more quickly than dexterously, and
was betrayed by the ends of the streamers peeping from.
his coat-tail pockets; he was finally seen fleeing cod-
less down a back street, after having furnished infinite
sport to the Philistine crowd.

The balcony was now cleared, the crowd centred
itself closely about a carriage waiting at the principal
door of the town-hall, and removed the astonished
horses decked with light blue favours from the traces;
this was the moment for another carriage, bearing dark
favours and standing at a door in a side street, to take
up a gentleman whose smile was rather forced, and
bear him swiftly away. A great deep cheer, such a
sound as comes only from broad-chested Englishmen,
now rose with gathering intensity like the rising thunder
of a league-long breaker and almost silenced the clashing |
bells, which were firing their sonorous salutes; the
windows became white with the flutter of ladies’ hand-
kerchiefs; the crowd exhibited severer signs of dementia,
and then a slight figure issued hat in hand from the
hall and took his seat in the carriage, followed by three
taller and broader men, all wearing the triumphant
light favours. Then the carriage moved slowly on,
pulled and pushed by strong-armed, loud-voiced citizens,
few of whom had any direct influence on thé election;
bouquets fell into it from ladies’ hands; a citizen,
unduly influenced by beer, staggered forwards and
shook a devious fist in the faces of the gentlemen mn
the carriage, thickly shouting, “Stuart for ever!” and

AN ENGLISH TRIUMPH. 05

fell into the arms of a policeman, where he wept
told the policeman he loved him like a brother,
amid shouts of “Rickman for ever!” declarations
e tnumphant majority and exultant cheers, the
ge, followed by the light-favoured band, wedged
ay through the square and moved up the principal

‘he Chinaman and the Arab would have been
ied by the sight of one sane and calm person in
nidst of this strange madness, namely the central
: of all the tumult, who sat serenely observing
thing, with the declining sun firing his fair hair,
a very slight expression of disdain upon his
thtful and resolute face, which was pale with the
ie of the last few weeks, but the habitual look of
r and purpose on which was undisturbed by any
of excitement or triumph.

‘It is the first step,” he thought to himself; yet he
constrained to confess, that although it was a fine
‘for a young provincial attorney of no particular
y or local influence to be returned a Liberal member
at fine old Conservative borough, the first Liberal
ber within the memory of man, it was a very long
rom ruling England and perhaps the world, which
would need some slight alterations before being
by England. But “the rest will follow,’ Gervase
tht, knowing that almost anything is possible to a born
with a fixed purpose and resolute will. Mrs. Walter
sley, leaning from her open window to throw him

106 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

a bouquet bound with his colours and receive bs.
deferential salute, felt a thrill of pride when she loom
upon the pale intellectual face, so self-contained mm
calm amid the mad tumult; and when she contrast
the expression of his countenance with that of his 9
porters in the carriage, two of whom were well-nmy
public men, and all of whom were flushed with exctema™
at this unexpected accession to their party, she ¢
Gervase’s thought, “the rest will follow.” She lm
too that these men, with whom Gervase had bef
actively working for some time before he stood for ™
borough, expected a great deal to follow from ta
such as his. Gervase was in some sort her own creatitj
she had given him substantial aid; and it was she we
had introduced him to the Liberal ex-Cabinet Minit
who would not fail to see that powers so exc

as his should be put to good use. Through Germ%
life had acquired a fresh interest for Mrs. Annes
his career would feed the pride which had bea®,
cruelly crushed by her son’s untimely death.

At this moment Gervase smiled, for his 0

eye caught a glimpse of Dr. Davis, that worthy aie
man and ex-mayor, that staid and important mem
gentleman and acknowledged leading practitioner, b™
hustled and bonneted, and laying about him

in defence of his dark favours, which the triumphs
Radicals were trying to snatch. A little farther 0M, ts
discreet and learned limb of the law, Mr. Pergas
was ignominiously bolting down a side street #

AN ENGLISH TRIUMPH. 107

1g into the darkness of a friendly passage, the
f which opened for him, and Mr. Daish, Rick-
own partner, arm-in-arm with Mr. Dates, the
was marching along in triumph, colours flying,
tering spasmodic cries of “Rickman for ever!
12?

‘vase wondered if any other influence save that
ag drink would have power thus to move these
ions of civilization from their wonted decorum,
ised deeply on the eccentricities of the national
ament, so ponderously and immovably solemn,
t on occasion so absurdly boyish and capable of
ig fun. Here was a quiet little town, full of
2d shopkeepers and stolid working-men, going
nad because somebody was about to represent
f them—a very small proportion—in Parliament.
sed him excessively to think that he was sup-
to represent the cumulative political mind of
set of simpletons. He thought what humbug
ntative government was, even if pushed to the
fulness of universal suffrage. The great thing
ing the masses, he reflected, is to have a cry, a
ord, the more dubious in meaning the better.
| seen two little girls slap each other’s faces be-
one was for Rickman and the other for Stuart.
owd surging about him and dragging his carnage
nd cared little more than those little maids for
aning of the cry, most of them had no votes, the
ithusiastic were the street boys. Some voices, it

108 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

is true, shouted “the ballot” and “extension of
frage,” but even these were catchwords for the
part, caught up from constant iteration in
speeches and newspapers. So it was and so it wil
The cries of Guelf and Ghibelline rent the Italian cm
munities of the Middle Ages asunder, and one of
factions formed by these cries was itself cut intoB
and Whites in Florence in the days of Dante,
life was soured for a word’s sake. There were cit
words in the olden days of
‘“‘The glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.”

There are catchwords in the youngest colonies d
to-day, and he, thought the new member for Medi
ton, who knows how to fashion and wield catchworts
knows how to rule mankind.

After all, what are catchwords but imperfect and
attenuated symbols, and what are symbols but bods
to the souls of thoughts? Perhaps even worn-out sit
vacated symbols are better than absolute vacancy.

Mr. Rickman, half-incredulous of his senses, sat wil
Sibyl at a window looking towards the town-hall a
heard the final state of the poll declared; Sibyl hea
it with less surprise but with a gladness which mt
her eyes brighter than ever; she smiled inwardly at
sight of her brother’s triumph, the comic side of whit
did not fail to appeal to her.

Alice had refused to be present, and Gervase ba

AN ENGLISH TRIUMPH. 109

is a good sign. Mrs. Rickman had declined

the ground that her son’s possible defeat
too serious a thing to learn in public, in which
ed with her; they stayed at home to console

se days, before the ballot and compulsory
and all such fine recipes for the regeneration
id, news did not fly quite so fast as now;
re not on such familiar terms with their freshly
mon, electricity, and country roads were not
1 with telegraph wires. I think nobody had
ught of extending and multiplying the plague
babble and other noises by means of wires
S.
people in Arden were ignorant of the result
at political battle raging within a few mules of
‘re was no cannon-thunder to come booming
nd to the listening ears of the villagers; the
pproach to the noise of fight was the faint
swirl of the Medington bells, when the eddy-
rushed up the valley and over the downs with
way, and that far-off sound merely told them
yattle was lost and won, as most battles are;
say who was the victor in the bloodless fray.
2ss, Raysh Squire, with a large dark blue and
ivour, pinned with ostentatious profusion upon
., descended early in the afternoon into the
r news and naturally took his way to the
forse, which, besides, was the first house in

110 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

the street, as the proper magazine for that
But the Golden Horse offered absolutely no atir
that afternoon, beyond the gross and obvious chaagm
of potent liquor; even the landlord was absent, and Gy
landlady was not in the mood for social intercour. :

Just opposite the Golden Horse, on the same Sj
of the high-road and forming the other corner hous
the by-road which led past the parsonage and on
churchyard, stood a solid stone cottage, so old tht.
had sunk a couple of feet beneath the level of ®
high-road, which, perhaps, when new it dominated; ®
the leaders of thought, who in their golden prime Sa
above mankind, but, as Time rushes on, depostigs
thick sediment of fresh ideas, sink gradually nto ™
groove of old-fashioned thinkers.

This sunken condition, though inconvenient it 64
rains, added, in Raysh’s opinion, to the charm of te
cheery little home, because it enabled one, wilt
stirring from the cosy ingle-nook, to see over the {ove
in the window the lower parts of everything that
thus enabling a person of imagination to dive ®
whole, and preventing small things from being
looked, and here he was wont to spend many a lest
quarter of an hour at the hearth of his daughter,
was married to Joshua Baker, the vicar’s gardenet, #
had more than once conferred the dignity of grandfal"
upon him.

It looked specially inviting in the mild Novel
day; the pear-tree spread over the blank gabled ¥

AN ENGLISH TRIUMPH. IIl

the inn, though leafless, was yet suggestive of
fruitage, and the few flowers in the tiny channel
n the bricked-up road and the windows, though
oom were still cheerful; the geraniums inside the
ided lattices were glowing with scarlet blossoms,
le sun-beams brought out warm tints in the stone
atch, and rosy-faced Ruth stood in the doorway,
baby in her arms and an infant playing on the
ad in front of her, to take the air and see the

Tho’s in?” she asked, moving aside, while Raysh
ded the two steps and bowed his head to enter
y doorway, which admitted at once to the dwell-
m, a cosy little nest, pervaded by the vague
peculiar to country cottages and mellowed rather
arkened by the smoke of years.

hat’s just what I was agwine to ask,” returned
dropping into the wooden arm-chair fronting the
vy and tapping the bowl of his pipe on the hearth,
ch burnt a fire of wood and furze, making warm
ons in the walnut dresser with its shining plates
ups, and on the tall oak-cased eight-day clock
ticked with a familiar home-like sound against
1ioke-browned wall. “Aint Josh home?”

lo; Josh likes to see what’s going on. You may
und he won’t start home till he knows who’s
en Raysh informed his daughter that a person
Medington passing through Arden at midday had

112 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

declared the state of the poll to show a majonty§
Rickman. “’Twas a Liberal lie,” he commented, 1
intending any double meaning. “They thinks if m
they lies hard enough, ’twill hearten up ’tothers to W
on the winning side.”

“TI wish Josh wouldn’t bide in Medington,” retum
Ruth, whose politics were of a purely personal a
“I can’t abide these lections; they’re nothing but dm
and broken heads, so fur as I can make out, and faut
men are better out of them.”

“It takes a powerful mind to see into politics,’d
served Raysh; “politics is beyond women. For wy
A ooman’s mind is made to hold in-door things; ‘a
big enough for out-door.”

Ruth reflected on this remark in silence, while §
laid her baby in the cradle and called the elder
in by the fire, where it babbled happily to itself

“What has politics to do with Mr. Gervase gett
in?” she asked at length. “Many’s the time I’ve at
Josh what politics is, and all he can say is ‘it's #
the women can’t understand.’ There must be 2p
of politics in the world, for there’s a many things 1 ¢
understand.”

“Understanding,” continued Raysh, “aint expé
of women. They talks over much aready without
derstanding, and the Lard only knows where |
tongues would be if they’d a got summat to talk al
There’s mercy in the way a ooman’s made afte!
Ruth. Politics now is a mazing subject; it make

AN ENGLISH TRIUMPH. 113

talk pretty nigh so fast as the women. I’ve a
d em say these yer members ’Il talk two hours at
2tch in Parlyment; some on em ’ll goo on vur dree
yur hours when they be wound up. They does
og but talk, so vur as I can zee—a talky tradde
utics, a talky tradde.”
I haven’t anything agen the talk,” replied Ruth,
the drink and the broken heads I can’t abide.
2! it’s gone four and the bit of dinner done to
| aready. One side is as bad as the other, so fur
can see.”
You caint see fur, Ruth; you aint made to, and
ned war’nt whenever a ooman tries to look furder
Providence meant her to, there’s mischief. Taint
"man can zee into politics, let alone a female
n. Politics has two zides. One zide’s vur keep-
vhat we've a-got, ’tother’s for drowing of it all
A mis’able mazing subjick is politics—mis’able
ig, to be sure.”
('m sure I wish they’d keep their politics up in
nent and not bring em down this country-side,
ing temptation in the way of steady family men
their living to get,” said Ruth, going to the door
mce more looking vainly down the road for the
» husband, whose dinner was spoilt now beyond
ly.
Ay, that’s the way with the women,” continued her
' reflectively; “there aint hroom inside of em vur
yor speculations. Their minds is made vur to
Reproach of Annesley, //. 8

114 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

hold vittles and clothes, and children and claning al
sickness. I ‘lows there aint hroom enough inside o the.
vur mazing subjecks like politics. But there aint »
call vor ee to hrun out agen what you caint understand
Ruth. Providence have a-made politics vur men-volls
zo as they med hae zummat to talk about and brat
in the newspapers when they’ve a done work. Po
vidence have a-made politics vur gentlevolks zo as iy.
med hae zummat to do when they baint a huntm @
a shooting. Whatever would gentlevolks do if thy
hadn’t a got no politics? I "lows they’d pretty mg
fret the skin off their botns, they’d be that dull a
drug. You haint no call to hrun out agen Provident
Ruth.” Raysh sighed with a pious air, and shook li
head over his daughter’s errors, the latter hearing ba
with the tolerant reflection that men-folk would bat
their say, and it mattered little what they said.

The western sky was all a-fire with crimson, mt
ing into a violet zenith; delicate opal-tinted cloudls
were breaking apart over the pale blue on the sf
horizon, and still Joshua had not returned. The iitle
room was aglow now with firelight, and sent wall
gleams across the road through the diamond lattice al
the open door; further on the Golden Horse’s bar-wind™
cast ruddy beams upon the sycamore boles outside; #
distant glow down the village revealed the forge, wht
the clink, clink, of the blacksmith’s hammer made cheth
melody to the burring accompaniment of bellows 2
flame; a faint blue mist lay over the fields, and 4

AN ENGLISH TRIUMPH. 115

of wind sent the dry aromatic leaves hurrying
the road as if driven by a sudden panic, like
souls which Dante saw driven confusedly to the
vaves of Acheron, where the grim ferryman’s oar
ied the loiterers; then the eddy turned, and the
stricken rush of the leaves changed to a light
dance, joyous and graceful, till the dancers
2d in the dust as if with sudden weariness. The
of the tall clock in the cottage pointed to near
1en Mrs. Rickman was returning with Alice Lingard
lubert, the latter very magnificent in the Liberal
s, from a walk; lingering every now and then to
» a cottager, though her mind was far too pre-
ed with the one subject of Gervase’s election for
scourse to be very connected.

oshua not home yet?” she asked, pausing at
door. “Well, Raysh, what a mild evening! No;
ve heard nothing yet. Miss Lingard took me out
way on purpose. We don’t in the least expect
n to be returned, but I shall be sorry all the
and bad news, you know, will keep.”

is Mrs. Rickman had repeated in various different
fifty times that afternoon to Alice, who took a
sanguine view of the question, though she, too,
arvous. Mrs. Rickman’s final remark had been,
ever we do, Alice, we must not condole with
We must look upon the defeat as a matter of

3)
s

S*

116 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

But they had not been seated many minute
Ruth’s hearth, when a heavy step was heard upo
road, and Joshua himself, unconscious of wi
stamped noisily down the steps and on to the s
floor crying, “Hooray! Rickman’s in!”

BY THE HEARTH. 117

CHAPTER II.

BY THE HEARTH.

‘A BAKER received as guerdon for his news an
2d five shillings from Mrs. Rickman and an
scolding from Ruth, for he had not only
ours in Medington, but had evidently been in
h, of which he bore the proof in rent gar-

tever call had ye for to go fighting when you
Ar. Rickman was in?” his wife asked.

or dree was laying about them,” he ex-
‘and I thought I med so well jine in,” an ex-
that did not satisfy Ruth, whose feminine
. not room in it to admit the obvious fact that
le man can keep still when there is good fight-
had for nothing. But these confidences took
'r the visitors had left the cottage, which they
<ly did, walking over the dry dead leaves lying
their path, with hearts ready to dance with
ess of the dancing leaves.
ppose it is true, Alice,” said Mrs. Rickman,
ith a shock of misgiving beneath the sycamores
ng dubiously towards Medington at the crimson

rr3 THE REPROACH OF A‘NNESLEY.

western sky. which dowel trough the dak Sa
iviicure ‘eatless branches and tall trunks of whid
Tacs Siackiy against che warm colours. Alice
ngiy ze-assured ter. and they hastened up the lat
whe Minor. just as one or two liquid stars ap
above ts Caummevs m the pale green sky. :

“It 's surprising.” Mrs Rickman continued, ‘ti
vour ‘incie and [ should have two such clever chide
To 3e sire we had only two.”

“Quaiiry is better than quantity,” replied Ald
woncerny if Mrs. Rickman thought that Gervas 3
Sibvi -cherited the concentrated power of a bat
dozen of children.

“[ believe that Sibyl is writing a book, Alice,’ M
Rckmun said with a mysterious air, as they
che dight of steps leading into the porch, througt'
hulz-open door of which a warm light streamed. ‘I
tither says that she is capable of anything after '
last articie of hers on compulsory education; thou
daresay Gervase gave her all the ideas, if he did
wnte half of it. And now I should like to se
mamed to a really nice girl to whom I could |
mother.” 7

“So should I,” returned Alice tranquilly; “
Should be jealous of the nice girl, Aunt Jenny; tl
if you were too fond of her.”
serve Sooner had they entered the hall than a

S came crowding into it, with John Nobb:

t ge . .
ailiff, and his wife, all eager to proclaim the

BY THE HEARTH. 119

idings; and scarcely had the congratulations and com-
®€nts subsided, when a carriage drove up to the door,
Md Mr. Rickman and Sibyl, the latter radiant with ex-
‘Cement, sprang out, and the congratulations began over
Sain; wine was brought, and the new member’s health
&s enthusiastically drunk.

Alice stood a little apart, with Hubert lying at her
"€t, as if studying the scene with interest, and looked
te at the animated group with deeply stirred feelings,
&\ which warm affection for her adopted parents and
Ubyl predominated. Her lip trembled, and tears, which
tre could not explain, dimmed the figures standing in
fee blaze of the hearth-fire, dimmed the oak-panelled
walls, full of mysterious shadows, the swinging lamp
bverhead, the glitter of glasses, and the decanter from
which Sibyl was pouring the sparkling wine with a face
nfinitely more sparkling; and the thought came to her
‘hat in the happiness of these people, who were so dear
‘© her, she too might find a little gladness. Yet she
reproached herself because she was not glad enough
ind did not overflow with high spirits like Sibyl, for-
vetting the difference in their temperaments, and calling
1erself selfish. But how long would this happiness
ast? she wondered, thinking of Gervase’s insatiable
umbition, and the stormy and uncertain career on which
1e was launched.

She was nearer the door than the others, and the
yricking of Hubert’s ears called her attention to the
cumble of approaching wheels, unheard by the bacchana-

120 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

lian group before the hearth, and so it happened thi
she went to the door and opened it just as Gervase's
carriage drew up, and the first thing he saw was he
figure in the arched doorway traced upon the glowing
light from within, with the watchful Hubert by her sd,
decked with his colours.

It was the sweetest moment in the day to him;

a moment he had cleared the steps, and was standig
with both hands clasped in Alice’s, receiving her cordal
greeting, “Dear Gervase, I am glad! I think we ha
all lost our senses with pleasure.”

She was not surprised that his hands trembled #
she held them, or that they retained their pressure
long after she had relaxed hers, or that he did nt
speak for some moments in answer to the congratult
tions showered upon him. He was tired and excited,
overwrought with the tension of the last few weeks; ™
wonder he was not quite himself.

Leaving him to the tender mercies of his family,
she went herself to the deserted kitchen and _ fetched
the coffee which had been made ready for him, and
administered it before any one else had time to think
of it, with the observation that even heroes are mortal.

“One might think,” observed the hero, after grate
fully taking the coffee, “that nobody ever got into Parlix
ment before. As the Scotch nurse said to the dying wo
man, ‘Hech, hizzie, dinna mak such a stour, ye’re na
the first to dee.’ Why even Hubert condescends to
notice me.”

BY THE HEARTH. 12!

“Since mounting your colours he considers himself
litician,” Alice replied; but she was not sure that
Srt’s glance was of an entirely friendly nature, for
xh he went up to receive the offered pat on the
with his usual stateliness, the white of his eyes
distinctly visible.
\ reaction is inevitable after excitement. The
y party, after dinner a couple of hours later, was
ually quiet. They were all in the white drawing-
1, one window of which was uncurtained and
red the quiet night sky, moonless but throbbing
the pale brilhance of stars, and occasionally
liated by the flashing trail of a meteor. Alice,
2d at the piano, could see through this window, the
window in which she was sitting when Edward
esley, himself a meteor flashing through the peace-
itarlight of her youth, first saw her. She was play-
soft and dreamy music of her own imagining, as
so frequently did when seeking to express her feel-
; She seemed to be drawing the inspiration for her
ic from the tranquil star-worlds towards which her
was turned. Sibyl was reclining in a chair, doing
ing but listen to Alice and stroke the cat upon her
:, to the anger of Hubert, who was observing puss
one eye, as he lay at his mistress’s feet with his
zie on his fore-paws. Mr. Rickman slept audibly
is chair on one side of the hearth with a news-
r folded on his knee; Mrs. Rickman slumbered
efully in her chair on the other side of the hearth;

122 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

the future ruler of England, if not the world, appe
to be following his parents’ example in the come
sofa, but, though his eyes seemed to be closed,
were in reality as watchful as Hubert’s, and were 4
of every slight movement of Alice, as she swayed
her instrument making music and looking wil
earnest gaze at the starry sky. Every curve i
graceful form traced against the comparative dat
of window and sky, every change in her thoughtful
and every note that answered the touch of her si
skilful fingers, stirred the depths of his heart w
intensity that was akin to pain. She was noth
that was too evident: and yet it was long sinc
evening on the down when he uttered those two
ful words, “Quite right;” summer had fade
bloomed and faded again till the fourth winter
that summer was upon them. Yet in all that 0
had seen no change in the sadness which then
upon her, nor found anything to warrant any indt
of his hopes, and during that lapse of time Ali
scarcely seen Edward Annesley.

When the Annesleys chanced to be at Gled
it happened that Alice was not at Arden; she w:
often away from home than in former days.
gone so hard with her? Gervase wondered,
really care so much for that “good-looking fo
was this sadness only the vague unrest of a
the promise of whose youth is unfulfilled? Si
not that look of deep inward sorrow.

BY THE HEARTH. 123

While he was thus observing her with a yearning
> she turned her head from the window and looked
-xxds the hearth, meeting his eye, and smiled a
e of perfect confidence and affection, which trans-
~ed her face and stirred him with a vague trouble.
He left his place and drew a chair to the piano, on
th she continued to play. “I thought I had caught
napping for once, Gervase,” she said.

“You will never do that,” Sibyl said, looking up
m the cat she was petting and teasing, “he is the
verbial weasel. I mean to hide in his room some
ht to see if he ever really sleeps.”

“The world,’ he replied, “belongs to the man who
_wake longest. ‘Before her gate (¢.e. Honour’s) high
1 did sweat ordain And wakeful watches ever to
de.” Am I quoting rightly, Sibyl?”

There arose a dispute about the quotation, the
sic died away, and Sibyl was so provokingly con-
‘nt that the lines occurred in a sonnet, while Alice
: as firmly convinced that they belonged to the
rie Queene, that Alice left the room for the pur-
e of fetching Spenser from his bookshelf in proof.
“People ought never to be in earnest after dinner,
ecially when everybody is tired,” said Sibyl, petu-
ly, upsetting the cat, and taking Alice’s place at the
10; “earnestness is Alice’s besetting sin, and I be-
e it is ruining her digestion.”

Sibyl played in her spasmodic fashion snatches
n different composers, for she had not Alice’s grace-

124 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

ful gift of transmuting her own fancies into music
they arose; her parents slept on, and Gervase gradually
after a fashion of his own, got himself from a phow
graph book, to a picture on the wall, and thence to’
piece of bric-a-brac, until he reached the doorway
through which he silently disappeared. Thus whea
Alice, having verified the quotation, issued from the
bookroom to the hall with her heavy volume, she found
Gervase standing before the hearth, gazing thoughttully
into the fire, which was getting low.

When she appeared, he kicked a log into plac
thus stirring the decaying embers, and making some
fresh wood kindle.

“Come,” he said, pointing to a carved oak settle;
“it Is nice here, quite gemitthlich and we can taka
our ease.”

Alice wondered that a man who had had such 4
surfeit of talk during the last few weeks did not take
the opportunity of enjoying a little silence, but took her
place on the settle, laying the great book on the table,
and told him about the Spenserian quotation, while be |
knelt on one knee before the hearth and plied the bel
lows, with the air of a man whose fate depended upoa
rousing a crackling flame from the logs.

At last he made a noble fire, the brightness of
which leapt up into the dark beams of the ceiling,
danced airily over the black panels, playing at hide
and seek with the lurking shadows in them, and quite
“overpowering the light of the swinging lamp. Then he

BY THE HEARTH. 125

and stood leaning against the carved chimney
', looking down into Alice’s face, which was
iated by the brilliant blaze, saying nothing.
She spoke of the times when their favourite winter
- was making the hall fire burn, and of their rival-
and quarrels over the bellows.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I think the pleasantest
x in life is to remember what one did as a child.
none of us could make such a fire as you could,
a pity,’ she concluded, “a really first-rate career
. stoker has been marred for the sake of——” ;
“An indifferent one in politics,” he added. “But
Alice, it will not be indifferent, it will and must be
iant, and I shall owe it to you if it is.”
“To me? Are you dreaming, Gervase?”
“No; I am speaking sober truth. No one has
ed my ambition and cherished and developed my
gies as you have, Alice. You always believed in
you have been my inspiration; but for you I should
> dared little and done less. You would never
im what you are to me, dearest.”
His voice quivered a little and lost its usual energetic
; it touched her heart and made her hesitate to
y. “It is kind of you to say that,” she faltered
ast, “I have always hoped to be a good sister to
, next to Sibyl. You have been more than brother
1e.”
“I am more than brother,” he replied, in his fuller
s; then he paused a moment. “Alice,” he con-

126 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

tinued, “this has been a fortunate day for me, markag
my first step in public life; I have, as you know, a iti
superstition about lucky days, and I hope this mm
prove fortunate in another sense. Public life, powy
success, all these do not fill a man’s life. Theres
deeper things that touch him nearer home, that are &
foundation upon which he builds the superstructur¢
active life. A happy domestic centre is a necessity
one who is to do good work in the world. Nothixg#
any good to a man whose heart is hollowed out by®
satisfied yearnings and vain hopes.”

Her face grew graver as she listened to the decptt
ing vibrations in the mellow voice, which was nt 3
variably mellow, but sometimes harsh; and her
ached. She knew what was coming; the old trou
which she thought for ever at rest, was starting alt
into life. He was very dear to her, dearer than #
thought, and the prospect of having to wound him®
an hour so happy, and casting such a cloud over bi
first triumph, was inexpressibly painful. She cow
not meet his gaze; she averted her head and watch}
the firelight playing over a panel and making the s#
of armour in front of it stand out grim and ful @
hostile suggestion. Hubert sat up with his head -#
above her knee, and a look of sympathy in his eyes
“The dog at least is faithful and true,” shot across be
mind with no apparent relevance; for whom did s#
suspect of falsehood ?

“Oh, Gervase!” she exclaimed, “I did so trust #

BY THE HEARTH. 127

yrotherhood! I thought you had kept your
did keep it till now—and. at such a cost! Can
nk what it must be to live in perpetual warfare
1eself? To crush the best and dearest feelings?
lice! have I not tried all these years? Have I
od by in silence and seen others preferred? Did
ee your trouble, and yet was silent? Did I ever
‘d or look betray what I could not conquer? I
ften said that will can conquer everything, and
rue. But something has conquered me, it is
‘ry than even my strong will. And unless you
ve me some hope, Alice, nothing will ever be
od to me.”

‘I had but foreseen this,” she replied, “I would
one away; I would never have stayed near you
surage false hopes.”

lot false; they must realize themselves, being so
and invincible,” he returned in a tone that made
‘mble; for it recalled his passionate assertion on
wns so long ago that he would win her in spite
self. And all things seemed to conspire that he
win her. A remorseless fate seemed to be slowly
g her in and driving her to bay; her life was
and desolate, her will in comparison with that
vase was as silk to iron. He had a secret mastery
er which sometimes repelled her when she felt
enderly towards him, for she was not one of those
rly constituted women who like, or profess to

128 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

like, to have a master; her pride and self-respect
volted at the notion of subjection. Whenever she

conscious of this mastery, her heart turned from kt
and she feared him and dreaded her own weakness.

Instantly he was aware of the change his wo
produced in her, and knew he had made a false s
on which he hastened to return; he saw the p
blood flash to her cheek as she hardened her gaz
meet his.

“It is so hard to have no hope,” he added, m
tone that at once disarmed her. “Life is new to
Alice, fresh interests might still arise for you—in al
course of time. I can wait.”

She said nothing; but her tears fell. Then he ol
her how he had tried, and tried in vain to conquer bs
feelings through all these years, and spoke of the &
quisite pain of being so near to her and yet so far of
of the difficulty of the part he had had to play, 4
seeing her suffer and being impotent to help her. He
spoke of their years of affectionate intercourse, of bi
parents’ wishes and of the sorrow they would feel !
they had to part with her. He hinted that it was
possible during the hey-day of youth to live always!
the past, that it was well sometimes to turn dowl :
leaf for ever in the book of life, and begin afresh wil
new aims and hopes. Life was full of duty and t
sponsibility, and to make a fellow-creature happy Ww!
no mean aim.

She believed every word he said, and her hea

BY THE HEARTH, 129

i for him. He believed most of it himself; for when
ple are in the habit of manipulating statements of
-$ to suit their own purposes, the distinction between

actual and the desirable is apt to grow very sha-
vy, and to deliver a round unvarnished tale becomes
lerculean labour of the first magnitude.

But she could only tell him, as gently as possible,
‘t his hopes were vain; and then they were inter-
>ted.

Gervase was not sorry for the interruption. He
‘ught enough had been said for the time, and was as
Sfied as it is possible for a man who is very much
Ove to be on receiving a direct refusal. This refusal

very different from the first; all the circumstances
Allice’s life were now different and more in his favour.
En they went upstairs, he sat very comfortably be-
> the blaze of the drawing-room fire, feeling that
‘gs were advancing, however slowly. Chance had
un set Alice against the background of the star-lit
~ He looked at her pale and troubled face, and
” a falling star shoot across the heavens behind her
the very moment when his heart was uttering the
Ssionate wish of his life. The star made him almost
“tain of success; he asked Sibyl if she had seen it
d remembered to wish, and set Mr. Rickman off upon
e of his interminable monologues on shooting-stars
d the various superstitions and fancies connected with
2m, thus giving himself leisure to be silent and think

he Reproach of Annesley. I, 9

130 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

in peace, and Alice space to recover from her perturt
tion unobserved.

Alice sat long by her fire that night, instead of go!
to bed; she was too much stirred to sleep, and wa:
prey to a ceaseless whirl of thoughts over which p
dominated the foreboding that she would ultimat
marry Gervase in spite of herself. She thought of '
years she had spent under that roof, of the deep
eradicable feelings which were twined about the fami
trees, gables and garden plots of Arden. The very figu
in the carved oak were old and dear friends; no pl
could ever wear the same homelike face for her. !
had always admired Gervase’s talents, done homage
the energy of his character, and felt the charm of
society. But in the last year or two he had gradu.
come to fill a larger space in her life. A vague
spoken something had arisen between herself and Si
since the day when each read the other’s secret,
complete confidence of their early friendship was brol
by the reticence that discovery created on each 3
though their affection was not diminished. At the sa
time the bitter sorrow through which Alice had pas:
created a stronger need for the healing of affection
intimacy, and she unconsciously threw herself more a
more on Gervase’s friendship.

When a man tells a woman of his struggles a
difficulties, it 1s not only a sign that he has a very de
regard for her, but it is the surest way of winning |
heart. This Gervase knew.. He believed that Othe

BY THE HEARTH. 131

would have sighed in vain, but for the happy instinct
which made him relate the perilous adventures which
so stirred Desdemona’s fancy and touched her heart;
in which case she might have escaped suffocation and
lived to a green old age; while but for similar narra-
tives on the part of A‘neas, Dido of Carthage would
never have mounted the famous pyre. Therefore he
fell into the habit of confiding his ambitions, aims and
struggles to Alice—with a certain reserve, of course;
for it is not to be supposed that Desdemona was in a
position to compile a complete biography of Othello
while Dido was very far from knowing the whole history
of Afneas; it is even possible that both these warriors,
like Goethe, may have mingled a little Dichtung with
the Wahrhezt out of their lives, it is certain that Gervase
was far too clever not to do so. Thus Gervase had
gradually become dearer to Alice; he made her life
sufferable in the heavy sorrow which had desolated it.

The pale resolute face, alive with intellect and
energy, and spintualized by the worthiest passion he
had known; the slight but strong figure, imposing though
small, haunted her, and his voice, mellowed and
deepened by feeling, rang in her ears. Most great men
have been small, she remembered, and only men with
voices of a certain power can directly influence demo-
cratic communities. Ought she to mar the splendid
career before him for the sake of her own feelings?
What had she to live for but the welfare of that
family?

9%

132 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEV.

Then there came a sudden warmth about her heatt
and she seemed to see the face of Edward Annesley,
aglow with the “sweet and sudden passion of youth,’
as she had first seen it with a kind of passionate sur
prise, when she looked up from her spring flowers and
felt the spring-time of life stirred within her.

She could never forget that; even the crime which
set their lives asunder could not quench the love which
was kindled in the days of innocence. It would be 4
sin to marry one man when she felt this for another.

SIBYL. oe 133°

CHAPTER III. .

SIBYL.

NExT morning the new member for Medington, who

y allowed himself the solace of one night at Arden
recompense for the lapours of the few weeks pre-
Ing his election, left ‘early and did not see Alice -
im for some time, except occasionally in the presence
>thers.
Although Parliament was prorogued until February,
trad a great deal of political business on hand that
ter; his fluent and flashy rhetoric being in great
Luest at one or two bye-elections and club-meetings,
ther he went at the instance of the ex-Minister and
ty chief to whom Mrs. Walter Annesley had intro-
ed him, and who wished to make all the possible
' of so keen and delicate an instrument as that he
i lighted upon in Gervase Rickman.

But Gervase wrote frequently to Alice; charming
ters, full of pungent reflections on the scenes and
‘n which passed before him, full of personal con-
ences and kindly jests, and not too affectionate. He
ew better than to reopen the question of marriage, -

133 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

and only occasionally alluded to hopes which lay it
the future, and feelings which might never be gratified.
He had made the important step of prevailing on her to
entertain the idea of marrying him, he wisely left that
idea to germinate silently within her mind. Impulsive,
warm-hearted Sibyl had often been laughed at as 4
child for digging up her flower-seeds to see how they
were growing; but Gervase’s seeds had always been
left undisturbed beneath the dark mould to fulfil ther
inevitable destiny, and at the same time had enjoyed
more systematic watering and weeding than Sibyl’s.
Mrs. Rickman now spoke to Alice of her wishes,
which, of course were moulded on her son’s, and even
Mr. Rickman withdrew his mind for a brief space from
the contemplation of scientific facts and the formulating of
all sorts of theories, to tell Alice how happy she would
make the evening of his life if she would marry his —
Only son. Alice assured them that she would certainly
marry no one else, and would not leave them unless
they drove her forth on the advent of a more suitable
daughter-in-law. Even Mrs. Walter Annesley arrayed
herself on Gervase’s side, and went so far as to hint
to Alice that moral suttee could scarcely be expected
even of a young woman who might have marred her
son, especially when there was a chance of sharing and
stimulating a career so brilliant as that of Gervase pro-
mised to be. A sort of paralysis of the will crept upon
Alice under all this; she felt the iron power of a
destiny which seemed to be closing her in on every

SIBYL. 135

nd all she could do was to pray for strength to
at would work for the happiness of others.

en something occurred which powerfully stimulated
Iting purpose.

e Annesleys did not return to Gledesworth after
nter abroad which Edward had proposed as a
‘ary change. Their experience of living at
ry in acountry-house was too grey when contrasted
1e vivid glow of Continental travel (not then so
m as now); the girls acquired the habits of
1 Bedouins, and were seized by the strange
tion of a wealthy nomadic existence in those
countries which not only teem with historic as-
yn, but are the homes of art. Therefore they
turned to England for an occasional visit to
n.

t Edward Annesley made it a duty to visit Gledes-
from time to time and see personally into the
of the property, though he was not recognized
‘ landed gentry, or either asked or permitted to
n any of those genial public duties which belong
: class. The cloud upon his name grew darker
me, but he continued to maintain that time would
dissipate it. His manner changed totally during
eniod; he became reserved, cold, taciturn and
r. All this did not tend to soften his painful
n among his brother-officers, who did not re-
2 his existence more than they were obliged by
inwritten code of etiquette. His next brother,

136 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

Wilfrid, also a military man, a Royal Engineer, implored
him to leave the servace for his own sake, but in val
He replied that the army was his chosen profess;
and that he intended to stick to his colours, and serve
his country while he could; he was not to be dnva
away by the clatter of a few venomous tongues, whor
venom he would justify by yielding. Then he invented
a gun, and was not without hope that it would one éy
be adopted by the authorities. At this time he looted
as grim and aggressive as his own gun.

Yet there was one in whose presence his {at
brightened and his tongue was unloosed, and that om
was Sibyl Rickman. She sometimes visited the Anne
leys in their foreign haunts, and Edward usually mate
his visits coincide with hers. When he paid his bre
visits to Gledesworth he always went to the Manor, au |
whether by chance or purpose, it often befell that Sibyl
was at home and Alice absent at these times. One dy
Gervase suddenly told him that he could not have bs
sister’s affections trifled with any longer, and that
fact if he had no intentions he must be off at onc
Edward was indignant at the supposition that Sibyl’
affections had been touched, much less trifled with; bw
Gervase pointed out to him that the world’s opimo
was on his side, and that Paul Annesley was not the
only person to suppose him to be smitten with Sibyl 4
his first visit to the Manor; that he had been taken 12
himself, and so undoubtedly had Sibyl. Gervase had
always supposed, he said, that having thoughtlessly used

SIBYL, 137

as a blind before Paul’s death, Edward’s subse-
; attentions had been deliberate, else he would
for a moment have tolerated them.
rom hot indignation Edward passed to cool reflec-
and from hoping that Sibyl had never thought
isly of him, he proceeded to the notion that to
uch a heart as hers would make life liveable once
Gervase, with his accustomed discretion, had
him to digest these unwelcome observations the
ent he had delivered himself of them, nightly
ing that he had cast his handful of seed in a
soil.
dward had from the first recognized Sibyl’s charm
ippreciated her guileless character and bright wit,
he more he thought of her the better he liked her,
the more he pondered, by the light of memory,
ervase’s hints as to her probable view of the rela-
between them, the more plausible did they appear
m. It was but just to Wilfrid to marry before
atter had built any decided expectations on his
Icy.
Il good men like the idea of marriage in the ab-
, It is only bad fellows who look with a cynical
ncredulous eye upon wedded bliss (for which they
bviously unfit); Edward Annesley was no exception
s rule, knowing from his observation of mankind
the human male is vastly improved by being
‘ht into proper subjection and tamed to the female

138 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Therefore with renewed hope he once more
forth in search of a wife.

It was on a cold Christmas Eve, the ponds weg dy
frozen and unspoilt by snow; Sibyl, who skated wa
had met him more than once on the ice, and his hope
had been stimulated during the courses they had maqam
together hand-in-hand, to the admiration of all beholday
for Sibyl looked so happy and so pretty while skal
that it was enough to make an old man and even &
old woman young to look at her. ;

Alice and Sibyl were busy decorating the cau
that winter afternoon when Edward Annesley armvg
at Arden. He soon made his way to the church mf
looked into the hoary interior, where the gloom
intensified by the dim ray of a candle or two, @
where the air was aromatic with fir and bay, and sf
the two girls, with some more young people, intent OU
hammering up wreaths. He soon joined them and
hammers and handed wreaths about; till Sibyl left hegy
to go to the belfry, where the despotic Raysh lag
compelled them to keep their material, in search @m:
fresh wreaths. Presently he followed her, unobservel hi
except by Raysh. Alice, at whose bidding Sibyl ba J
gone, growing tired of waiting, after a time went ®
remonstrate at having to work single-handed.
Raysh, seeing her approach, waved her back from Beggr
belfry-door, which stood ajar, with a mysterious al.

“TI ’lows there baint hroom for me and you in there)
he said; “coorten,” he added, confidentially.

SIBYL. 139°

Then the situation became clear to her; she could
the two figures in the light beyond the crack of
Zoor, talking earnestly and apparently oblivious of
ything around them. The evergreens were piled
Lmconveniently round them in obedience to the
am of Raysh; “I caint hae my church messed up
his yer nonsense,” he had grumbled, lamenting the
- when he alone adorned the church, and made it
“cheerfuller and more Christmas-hke” by sticking
Lxge bough of holly in every pew, till it looked
Birnam wood marching up for devotion instead of
i bution. -
She had seen Edward and Sibyl skating together
day before, when she drove to the ice to fetch
"l home, and had heard people’s comments on them
- an incredulous ear, but now she was fully en-
ned.
She quickly silenced Raysh, and then turned back
‘ath the dim, cold arches with a singing in her
and a fierce, hot surge of passion which surely could
be that dark and dismal thing, jealousy, in her
t, and applied herself with fierce diligence to nailing
the red-berried holly, taking a perverse pleasure
ricking her hands till they bled, and driving in the
$ with an energy that made Raysh use strong
‘uage when he took them out again. Never had
’ strange and bitter feelings possessed her before,
did not know herself, surely her guardian angel
Id not have known her that day. Does it need

14O THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

but some momentary touch like this, she wondered,
change the current of a character and tur light!
darkness? But a few years ago in that very
she had met the summer dawn with such high
and feelings so different.

Her companions spoke to her, and she
them like one who wanders in sleep; the dim
darkening church seemed unreal as the architectur
dreams; its trooping shadows and flickering sp
light oppressed her and added to the confusion wi
throbbed within and nearly stifled her. Her life
to depend on the energy with which she moved
worked; did she but pause an instant to think,
would be undone. And was it truly Sibyl who awake
such anger and scorn in the heart which loved bal
And was it true that Alice once actually loved
shallow man, who was filling the measure of his fai
by proving a trifler, a light of love, and a traitor?

It was only when she had exhausted her exert
and torn her hands in finishing her task that better #
more rational feelings came. After all, she muse
might this not be the best thing for both? Siby] belett
in him; who could tell what a purifying and ennobli
influence her perfect trust and innocent love might ha
upon him? Sibyl might still be happy with him, be
blind. So she brought herself to think after pail
wrestling.

“Sibyl,” Edward began without hesitation, W
they were alone in the belfry, “we have been {ne

SIBYL. 141

long time, and you are more dear to me every
nd I think—I hope—you care for me——” here
ised, expecting a reply, which naturally was not
ming. “Will you marry me?” he added, in his
itforward fashion.
byl had looked up with her usual frank smile,
he entered, and went on unsuspiciously twining her
ives, but when he spoke, her heart gave a great
all the blood flushed up into her face, and the
seemed to spin round and shake the great bells
her head. Something rose in her throat and
1 her; she grew cold all of a sudden and looked
vistful inquiry into his face, which was earnest
‘loquent with warm feeling. Then she looked
and he waited in vain for her answer, thinking
ne of the sweetest faces that was ever seen, and
on to his downright question, to which she im-
tely answered “No.”
Yo,” he echoed, somewhat taken aback by this
' and plain negative, “and I thought once—that
zemed to care for me.”
byl smiled, and he seemed to see Viola again,
“I am all the daughters of my father’s house,
And yet—I know not.”

Ince,” she said, “I was in love with you. When
a little, naughty girl. You were such a pretty
nd always hit everything you threw stones at.
rou didn’t mind being teased like poor Paul. You
1 have asked me then,”

1j2 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“But I had not sense enough then. I know #
you believe in me, you told me so once.”

“And I will tell you so again if you like wh
it,’ she replied, in her bright impetuous way.

“Thank you. You are the very sweetest little a
on the face of this perverse earth! But won't youk
me? Somehow it strikes me that we should gt
well together and make a pleasant-going sort of cg
You scold so charmingly.” Then it was that Eds
took her hands and looked down, too confidently!
the sweet face, which was tender, sad and playid
at once.

“It strikes me that we shall do nothing of the ki
she replied, withdrawing her hands with some indi
tion. ‘You don’t love me,” she added with a, set
ness touched with reproach.

“Indeed I do.”

“No, indeed you don’t. You love somebody!
You have loved her for years and will love he
ever. And you ough to, for she is the dearest a
in the world.”

“But she won’t have me.”

“Won’t she? Try again. Wait. She is wor

“No, Sibyl, that chapter is closed. It is quit!
that I shall never feel again as I did for her,
But past is past. One can’t live backwards. 0
to goon. You and I have always been such f
let us be more. You might make me happy,
would try to be good to you.”

SIBYL. 143

He had taken her hand and led her forth from the

<ening chamber beneath the bells, into the warm

son glow of the frosty sunset, and now they slowly

ed the hard footpath among the graves, until they

shed the meadow above and beyond the churchyard,

=re the leafless elms made a fine black tracery on
deep orange sky above them.

“Oh! what tiresome, clumsy, stupid things these
are!” exclaimed Sibyl; “you don’t even profess to
© for me, you see. Why in the world should you
t to marry me, then? You say we are good friends,
as dide friends then. <A good friend is better than
td husband, which you would certainly be.”
“*There is nothing in the world so irritating as a
xan,” returned Edward, trying hard not to kiss her,

restrained by innate awe of the womanhood in
ch this guileless spint was enshrined. “Just think
he comfortable quarrels we might have. As mere
nds, the sphere is limited; conventionalities must be
erved.”

“Is this a theme for jesting?” asked Sibyl, severely.
h, I should hate you if I thought you had ceased
love that dear sweet creature! For pity’s sake be
onal.”

“But you began the jesting,” he remonstrated, aghast
‘his charge.

“Well! and I began leaving it off. Good-night.
se iS pricking her sweet fingers with no one to
> her,”

144 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“Stop, Sibyl, just one word.”

Sibyl stopped with an air of resignation ‘I
busy, and it’s cold,” she said plaintively.

“Of course I shall always love her,” he said e
“as one loves what is too high and too far-off to
But, dearest Sibyl——”’

“Then don’t tease me any more. Who cae
hear other people made love to?”

“But Sibyl——”

“It should always be done first-hand, and
talked about,” she added rebukingly.

“But, Sibyl——”

“My name is Rickman. I shall never chat
I am married to my pen——”

“But I wish you could marry me, too.”

“You would unwish it in a week. Now ls®
said Sibyl, stopping on the crisp grass with %
gravity. “I like you—far too well to marry you. Y
fancy you care enough for me to make a passable
band, but it is only friendship. In a week’s tue
will see that I am right. Be true to yourself, thea
will be true to others.” 7

The warm glow of the sunset had burnt away?
pale memory, a mist was floating ghost-like from
level meads beneath them, the Christmas mooi
just risen and was filling the earth with a tender
radiance. Sibyl’s face in the pale blended lights
a new and unexpected beauty; her rich tints were
dued and the lustre of her dark eyes intensified,

SIBYL. 145

was the secret charm which so irresistibly
| to her? It was very different from the deep
and inextinguishable feelings which bound
Alice. Something told him that Sibyl knew
‘r than he knew himself, her deep liquid eyes
0 be gazing into the depths of his soul and
ig recesses closed even to him. What was the
her power? Was it genius? His brain was
ric snatches from the little volume of poems
d just appeared in Sibyl’s name, and they had
o his not exigent judgment to have the ring
mg, they had further suggested revelations of
wn heart. Her earnest glance spoke a thou-
yeakable things, it revealed the guileless soul
le Viola, yet with all its tenderness it scarcely
. the swift lightnings of a spirit full of mirth.
gazed, his own spirit began to clear and he
she was right. He saw that his feeling for
gh in that moment she had acquired a dear-
she never had before, was not one to justify
or forbode a happy union. He saw, too, that
_he had pressed his love for Alice down into
st hold in his heart, he could not stifle it;
the disappointment, chagrin and resentment,
al and want of faith had caused him, and
more tender and gracious feelings, he had
ig sense of oneness with her, which is only
and cannot end. He knew now that the
arvase had called into existence was vain, and
ach of Annesley. IT, 10

146 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

that the double life with all its cares and joys af
perturbations was not for him, since Alice was beam
reach.
“Dear Sibyl,” he said, after a pause, “I thmk ys
are one of the sweetest creatures God ever mae! }
will be true to you, at least. And I think we shal &
friends all our hives long.”

“T think we shall,” replied Sibyl, with a little tent,
smile. Then they clasped hands and parted.

She went slowly back through the chill slvr é
the aérial moonbeams, her breath visible in the i
air, and the frozen grass rebounding stiffly from best
her light steps, and met Alice and the Mertons com
out of the dark church, the deep blackness of wis
was still emphasized by a few dim lights. The dam
evening sky into which pale stars were slowly steal
the grey church with its steep red roof and mast
tower, the village with its red lighted windows, the bat
trees all sleeping in the moonshine, the faces loki
unearthly in the bluish light, the associations of Chnt
mas Eve which threw a hallowed glory over all, ett
thing seemed sweet and full of unspeakable cham®
Sibyl. The hour she had just passed was the flor
of all her life, and she was content; her heart was lit
a sleeping babe, perfect in its deep sweet repose.

She scarcely heard the “good-nights” of the Me
tons when they turned in at their gate, but with l¢
hand in Alice’s arm walked silently home, her !06
communing with the serene clear heavens. Alice

SIBYL. 147

but it was with a different quietness. They
the kitchen to see the mummers acting their
play from house to house; but Sibyl did not
the homely jests as usual; it was as if she
er spirit pass away with the mystic glones of
ht and only her body remained. They listened
‘ol-singing, and sat round the hall-fire till mid-
_ Sibyl said nothing to any one of her twilight
Alice wondered at her silence, and was vaguely
id disappointed, and when Gervase in bidding
l-night” pressed her hand lingeringly, she re-
e pressure, and was glad to think there was
me on whom she could absolutely rely, and
e for her nothing could abate.

10*

148 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER IV.

SPIRITS.

ALTHOUGH the one dream which promised bi
to his clouded life had just been dissipated,
Annesley drove back to Gledesworth in no des,
frame of mind. The evening sky shone with .
lustre than usual; his horse seemed to fly like sc
borne immortal charger, instead of prosaically |
over the hard roads. It was as if he had attem,
enter a room full of music and mirth, and had
himself instead in the dim cool spaces of some
cathedral, listening to solemn prayer cadences an
organ thunders.

When he reached home he found a card
half-forgotten name upon it, “Major Mcllvray,” a
told that the Major, hearing he would retur
evening, had promised to call again on the ch:
finding him, which he did.

Major Mcllvray’s regiment had been sent on
service a few months after the death of Paul An
with whom he had become well acquainted af
first introduction to him at the meet at the Tra
Rest. He had recently returned to England, a

SPIRITS. 149

®ioned at a large garrison town, within two hours of
“=desworth, whence he had come that day intending
~weturn before night. At one time Edward Annesley
<1 been in the habit of meeting Major Mcllvray con-
tntly, and had been on sufficiently intimate terms
&h him to find fault with him and turn his foibles
to good-humoured ridicule; but he had now become
ch a solitary, that he scarcely remembered how to
elcome friends, and received the Major with a grim
adness that would have discomfited most people,
woking at him as much as to say, “What on earth do
yu want?”

Major Mcllvray was not easily rebuffed; he did not
ypear to notice the coldness of his reception, and sat
y the fire with his usual composure, making common-
ace observations in the spasmodic drawl which he
fected, and secretly studying Edward’s face, and com-
aring him with his former self.

When he heard that he was passing the night at
ie village inn, Edward asked him to transfer his
uarters to Gledesworth, which he at once con-
snted to do, to the surprise of Annesley, who only
sked him as a matter of form, a form he had
Imost forgotten to use, so much of a recluse had
e become.

“My mother,” said Major MclIlvray, “remembers
ieeting you at some dance at her house. You came up
om Aldershot with me. Glad if you would call when
, town.”

150 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

“She is very good. I don't—visit much,” he replied
“Find it a bore? So do I. But do as Romans do.”

The blood rushed darkly to Edward’s face. Mcllvray
had not been long in England, he remembered; it was
probable that he had heard nothing of the imputation
which rested upon him. Yet Lady Mcllvray was in the
way of hearing it. He relapsed again into the grimness
which Mcllvray’s friendliness had for a moment dissipated,
and began to wonder to what he was indebted for this
unexpected visit. Presently his guest observed that
there were a great many liars in the world. But Edward
remembered that David had made a more sweeping
observation to the same purpose, and he had himself
discovered the fact so early in life as to think it too
obvious for comment.

During dinner Major Mcllvray said that he had

heard so much scandal since his return that he was —

sick of it. Edward turned hot again and looked fiercely
across the table so as to meet the other’s eyes. But
that other went on tranquilly enjoying his dinner, and
spoke of Colonel Disney and other artillery officers
whom he had been meeting recently, and of the changes
and promotions which had occurred among them.

“Never believe a word I hear,” he added with ap
parent inconsequence, “especially when I know it to
be hes.”

Annesley asked him point-blank if he had heard
any rumours respecting him.

SPIRITS. 151

‘‘Heard them all,” he replied tranquilly. “Widiculous
Losh. Disney an old woman.”

This was comforting. Once he had despised
Mcllvray as a shallow coxcomb full of affectations, re-
Geemed by some good points. Yet he had such solid
Stuff in him as refused to be turned from belief in a
friend.

“‘Wanted you to leave the service,” the Highlander
continued. “Wespect you for not giving in.”

Yet Annesley’s mind misgave him; MclIlvray might
‘not have heard all, he too might come to disbelieve in
him. He frankly told MclIlvray that he was the only
man who fully discredited the imputations that were
cast upon him, and something in the unexpected loyalty
of this undemonstrative nz/ admivari spirit touched him
to such an extent, that he let something escape of the
bitterness which,weighed upon him.

“Soon live it down. Nothing like pluck,” Mcllvray
commented; and after that the evening passed swiftly
and pleasantly, such an evening of frank companionship
as Annesley had not enjoyed for years.

Whether it was the influence of the genial season,
or of that potent national beverage which expands the
hearts and stimulates the wits of North Britons, is un-
certain, but something effected a transformation in Major
Mcllvray that Christmas Eve. The enthusiastic Celt
emerged from beneath the thin veneer of what for want
of a better name may be called the languid swell. In
those days the masher was not; the beau, the dandy,

152 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

the blood, the buck, and the exquisite had lon,
passed into shadowy memories; but the swell, the
swell, diffused a gracious fragrance upon the air (
cadilly, and entranced the beholder by the gr
sweep of his whiskers, the calculated curl of hist
tache, the slimness of his umbrella, the scantune
his vocabulary, the immovable gravity of his demeat
and his impenetrable indifference to all things terres
and celestial. He alone among the sons of mea
tempted to practise the doctrines preached by the g
rulous sage of Chelsea on the ineffable beauty '
silence, reducing such speech as necessity forced fis
him to an elegant minimum, and diminishing the na*
sary occasions of speech still further, by the sim
process of not thinking.

Major McIlvray was one of this brotherhood,
lineal descendent of Alcibiades and Agag, a swel d
the first water. Though apparently incapable of i
rough and virile consonant 7, to which his tongue i
parted the feminine softness of a liquid w, this evetilf
the whiskey, or some more ethereal spirit, brought o#
a fine manly Highland burr in his speech with a fit
manly interest in things in general, together with ti
indescribable imaginative exaltation which is insepara
from the men of the kilt and tartan. His eyes becall
dreamy, they seemed to gaze at far-off things; &
breath of the moor and the loch seemed to sigh throu
his strongly aspirated speech; he spoke of eerie legest
of haunted corries and pools, of wraiths and apparitio

. SPIRITS. 153

i "Was Q of the strange gift of second-sight. But this point
Only reached when they were smoking a final cigar
Papas midnight and listening for the carol-singers.
€ less imaginative mind of his host, whose Saxon
lidity was dissipated by no more whiskey than good
©Howship demanded, was nevertheless sympathetic to
ese weird themes to an extent that still further stimu-
Jang MclIlvray, until a listener might have been beguiled
to seeing spectral forms in mist-wreathed tartans, and
Blying upon shadowy bagpipes, floating by the windows
Uk the silent night, and people of weak nerves would
hesitated to leave that solitary firelit chamber
for the lonely, echoing corridors of the great empty
se, in which only two or three rooms were now ever
“¢ccupied. An Annesley in the iron armour of Com-
Whonwealth days looked down upon the two men by the
“Wire from his frame on the wall with a sardonic grin,
‘which might have been imagination or the flicker of the
Meaping fire-light, but which was distinctly perceptible
to Mclivray, who asked the history of the grim warrior,
and entered with zest into the story of the Gledesworth
curse, and was amazed at the present Annesley’s pro-
position of selling it. “I don’t suppose it would fetch
much,” the latter added, “but I should like to get rid
of it at any price.”

Major MclIlvray gazed horror-struck upon him and
took some more whiskey; the Cromwellian Annesley
seemed to frown darkly, while his hand apparently
moved towards the hilt of his great sword.

SPIRITS. _ 155

making the western sunbeams touched him alone, and
Rurned and saw—a face. The dark blue eyes burn-

with inward fire, the black crisp hair, the scar on
cheek were unmistakable, and had not changed ap-
ently since the day he last saw them, the day of
ul Annesley’s death.

For it was truly the face of Paul, though clean-
Lven, and the head of Paul, though tonsured and
ng from the dress of a monk; the long white robe
‘Wing incandescent in the sun’s rich light, the passion-
8 features wearing an unearthly calm were those of
QOnk, yet how should a monk have the dark, blazing,
© eyes and scarred face of Paul Annesley?

Edward Annesley’s heart stood still and his mouth
w parched as he gazed, but an instant truly,—for

phantom figure passed swiftly and silently without
Se,— yet an instant in which his thoughts were so
ay and so disquieting that it seemed an eternity.
= white figure, after the one brief burning gaze in
Sing, vanished behind the rocky broken ground; but
soon as Annesley could shake off the mightmare-
ness which paralysed his limbs, he too disappeared

uind the broken mass and saw or thought he saw a
wst-like figure, sinking rapidly down the declivity of

httle ravine beneath him, from which the sun had
eady disappeared. Down the declivity Edward
ihed, but the figure was nowhere to be seen, a far-off
ite streak proved on closer inspection to be a water-

. A black fir-wood lay in the direction the phantom

156 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

had taken; into this Annesley plunged, his blood w3
up now and he was determined to know the caus é
this temporary cheating of the senses. The wo
climbed a slope facing the east; it was nearly mgt
there in the thick and heavy shadows. The phantom
monk was nowhere to be seen; Edward had now maé
a long and hot pursuit and the distant Jodeln of bs
brother warned him that there was no time to lose 2
rejoining his party, whose way lay in the opposite dire
tion and who already bid fair to be belated.

So he was obliged to return, pale and breathles
and unable to give a rational account of his suddea
flight; for, upon asking the others if they had seen a
white monk go by, they laughed and told him he had
been dreaming and rallied him unmercifully upon his
distraught appearance. He therefore said no more, bat
descended the hill-side full of disquieting thoughts, and
from that moment had never opened his lips upon the
subject till now.

“Why should my cousin’s spirit appear to me?” he
asked Major Mcllvray at the close of his narrative. “In
all your stories, there was purpose in the apparition—a
warning of some kind.”

“It was not Paul Annesley’s spirit,” returned Mcllvray
with decision.

“Then what was it?” asked Annesley, whose nerves
were still quivering from the memories he had just
evoked, and who was surprised at the scepticism dis
played by so ardent a ghost-seer as Major Mcllvray.

SPIRITS. , 157

“That was very strange that he should come as a
ik,” replied Mcllvray, who, in spite of his scepticism,
excited by the story, “very strange. He was not
-atholic even, why would he appear as a monk?
Annesley, it was not a spirit, that passing figure.
’as_ a living monk that was passing, and his eyes
' dark blue and some mark was on his face, and in
moment he was very like Paul Annesley. I have
a man who was very like me. He was in the
‘ars; it was sometimes unpleasant, such mistakes
made. Or, I will tell you; you had been think-
Of that poor fellow, your cousin, and a bird was
f past making a shadow, and you turned quickly;
Sunshine was dazzling and your imagination painted
face of Paul Annesley on the air. You had been
og these white Carthusians in France, and you were
king, it may be, of spirits and white garments, and
you embodied all in one figure of your cousin in a
ik’s garb. Yes; that is how it would be,” he added
1 an air of conviction as he relighted the cigar,
ch in his excitement had been suffered to go out,
at is how it would all happen.”
The explanation though logical was inconsistent in
1an who believed in second-sight and apparitions,
it did not convince the more practical and literal
d of Annesley.
“It was the face of Paul Annesley,” he repeated.
S was no common face, and it is beyond possibility
another face should be marked with that peculiar

158 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

scar. I am as certain that he looked me face to
that night as I am certain that I am the owner of
house.”

Mclivray smiled and looked thoughtfully ito
fire for a moment before he spoke. “That is, md
being certain,” he then said, “I will dispute nom
But it is strange that no one believes like an unbelit
For you said to-night, that you did not believe »
paritions.”

“Or in the curse of Gledesworth,” Edward ref
with a faint smile. “It is true, Mcllvray, that nol
is SO consistent as inconsistency.”

“Well! I will tell you one thing,” continued Main
“If I were in your place I would never speak of!
thing again.”

“T never shall,” he replied, frozen back to his®
reserve by this unexpected incredulity. The last d
final cigars was by this time smoked. The might
wearing on into Christmas morning and they well
bed.

THE VACANT CHAIR. 159

CHAPTER V.

THE VACANT CHAIR.

\LICE soon heard what had taken place in the
tht of Christmas Eve. The fact that Mrs. Rickman
been told of Edward Annesley’s intentions towards
laughter, and that Sibyl had been obliged to confess
2x mother that she could not entertain his proposals,
sufficient to ensure Alice’s knowledge of the whole
ry. Mrs. Rickman’s nature was transparent and
yathetic; all her innocent thoughts and guileless
‘s and fears were shared with those about her, and
2, upon whom she depended most, enjoyed the
; ample share of her confidences. Until Mrs. Rick-
had “talked things over” with some sympathetic
ner, she was unable to get any firm mental grasp
icts.
“T cannot understand Sibyl,” her mother commented
lice, “she was evidently struck with him from the
Every one noticed it, and we all thought his
s were for her. Your uncle was thunderstruck
n he asked for you, and I have always thought, my
, and so has Gervase, that some little jealousy or
e occasioned that proposal, especially as you had

160 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

never given him the slightest encouragement.
are many things against the match, it is true; but 5%
is not so young as she was, and she really is very 0m
poor dear! Her father and I sadly fear that she ™
be an old maid. And I cannot help thinking tha #
cares for him.” |

“If she did, it would be her secret, not ours,” a fx
said. “Let us not discuss it; it is not fair. PeCimgay die
it may take place after all,” she added, inconsequayag & ;
“especially if not talked about.” oe Wise

Gervase’s anger was too deep for words whe i Ny
‘learnt that Sibyl had deliberately thrown awa Sag Yj;
chance of happiness that he had so carefully POR» |
and arranged for her. He was still firmly convaoRgy 4,
that no other marriage would be possible to het,
this conviction was confirmed by a carefully gua
conversation he had with her, a conversation in WO4
as far as words went, she proved more than 4 ™
for him. But when people know each other as va #
this brother knew his sister, words are but ad
symbols of thought, especially when associated with
a tell-tale face as Sibyl’s, a face upon which the sh
emotion raised a corresponding change of colour §
outline. He was angry with Sibyl for thus unexpectll
crossing his purpose, but, of course, he was far wi
angry with Annesley, and attributed the failure of #
suit to some clumsiness on his part.

“These good-looking fools do at least know how
make love commonly,” he thought. He even bist

_- + - aa - S EB H&E &

THE VACANT CHAIR. 161

want of dexterity vaguely to Alice, who quickly
e him see that the subject was not one to which
would permit any reference.
With February came the opening of Parliament, and
Fluttering interest of seeing Gervase’s name in the
-tes, all of which Mr. Rickman now read regularly
-he first time in his life. Politics now ran high at
=n Manor, although a singular unanimity of party feel-
‘prevailed: no meal was taken without the spice of
© magic names, Disraeli, Gladstone and Bmght.
sn Alice went for a few weeks to stay with Mrs.
ter Annesley, and accompany her on a short visit
London, the same political enthusiasm, centring
ut the same individual, prevailed at her table, and
two ladies one night went to the Ladies’ Gallery
were eye-witnesses to the spectacle of Gervase in
act of serving his country. Alice subsequently nar-
d the details of this moving scene to the hero’s
ants; told how he sat at ease with folded arms on
of the comfortable benches, and listened to a long
ate, sometimes making notes, and sometimes yawn-
till the tears came into his eyes, and how, when a
sion occurred, he solemnly went on his own side
did his duty like a man. And somehow the more
vase was deified by those dear old people, the more
mly did Alice feel towards him, and the more
1usiastic Sibyl waxed upon the political topics which
2 especially her brother’s, the dearer both brother
sister became to her. .
e Reproach of Annesley. I, if

THE VACANT CHAIR. 163

er of course accepted his mother’s affection, which
mes had even bored him, and when the final scene
‘red, he gave little outward token of grief, beyond
brief cry which seemed torn from him of, “Now
will never know.” He made all necessary arrange-
s with perfect calm, and supported his broken,
Stupefied father through the most trying scenes
»ut once losing his own self-control. Now all was
that could be done, life was about to resume its
vday aspect, he was to leave them the next morning,
there the bereaved family sat, silent with sorrow,
the slow minutes dragged heavily on. Alice tried
rst to get them to talk, and started several common-
© topics; but Mr. Rickman seemed too dazed by
trouble, Sibyl too exhausted, and Gervase too full
10ught to listen to her, so she desisted, and con-
‘d herself with the comfort she knew Mr. Rickman
Sibyl derived from the silent touch of her hands.
own grief was perhaps as deep as Sibyl’s, though
silent, and it pained her a little that the being
dear to the dead, Gervase, was the least affected
er loss. His sphinx-like face, on which she almost
d to gaze at this time, gave no clue to what was
ng within, yet she thought that perhaps more
w than people suspected was concealed by it, and
lered at the savage suppression men put upon their
igs, whenever they are in the least degree credit-
to them.
Vhile she was thus musing, Gervase in his stony
11*

164 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

silence had been realizing what his mother was to hat
and how irretrievable was his loss. Old memones
events of his boyhood had been rising before hm,
had almost forgotten the silent companions of his g
when suddenly, stirred by some unusually poignat t
collection, he began to sob with vehemence.

This thrilled through the hearts of the others ™
pain, not unmixed with a comforting warmth. The
man, whose grief was beyond tears, stirred, sighed, a
shook his head; Sibyl sprang up and threw her
round her brother; Alice felt a stronger movemett
the heart towards Gervase in his sudden abandon
to his grief than she had ever felt before; she felt, %
that that moment made her his.

He quickly mastered himself and recovered his us
self-control. Sibyl did the same, and Alice feared
give him the token of sympathy that her heart deste
lest he should again give way. So they sat on in silent
as before; yet not quite as before, for each felt a free
bond in that spasm of common anguish, and presettl
Gervase left the room in silence, and returned no mot
that night. The next morning he bid the three goot
bye, and though he said nothing, and sought no priva
interview, he knew by the look in Alice’s face th
his heart’s desire was obtained at last, and went awa
comforted.

Alice devoted herself to Sibyl and Mr. Rickma
who was too crushed for a long time to take any!
terest in his scientific pursuits, and only went into!

THE VACANT CHAIR. 165

sit idly brooding in his chair. She brought
tles, plants, and strange stones to no effect,
last she contrived to purchase a very rare old
him.

roused him, his eyes kindled at the sight of
sure, which he eagerly took and carefully ex-
and Alice was amply rewarded for the pains
taken to hunt out and buy the coin by hearing —
t off in his old familiar fashion on a long and
lecture on the coin, and the days in which it
ck. The next thing was to get some one to.
ts genuineness, and this with some diplomacy
d Sibyl contrived between them; a hot dis-
aged, letters were written in antiquarian journals,
ly a long pamphlet was begun.

| it was that Mr. Rickman began to talk of his
sure sign that the worst sting of it was past;
day he told Alice that he should not live long,
his one hope was to see his son happily mar-
his grandchild born before he died.

ig days were growing bright, Gervase had wnit-
1y he should be at the Manor next day, and
ly realized that she must now definitely and
ly bind herself.

e last few years she had deeply pondered the
of life, and the ends and aims of human
', pondered them as the young never do and
n, save under the discipline of heavy sorrow
‘acting doubt. Ever since the fateful day of

166 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Paul Annesley’s death she had ceased to take eveh
for granted, and to expect sunshine and mirth st

the few realities which lie hidden under the multtom
masks and phantasms which surround eager youh'
every side. To earthly happiness she had been ciel
to bid a sorrowful farewell, and having rid heseié
that expectation of joy which makes life so compet
she had been free to consider in those silent and dat
depths that, after all, life has but one problem to #
how to do one’s duty.

This how had caused her much conflict, conflict oF:
tinually settled by the urgency of some near and Wt
ous duty, which circumstance presented to her and wid
she devoutly welcomed. But now that circumstat
seemed to offer her one supreme sacrifice, now thats
life rich in possibilities needed hers and the deast
moment had arrived, the sacrifice seemed too hard,
secret inmost self revolted against it. |

She went into the dim silence of the shadowy churd;
she looked at the tablet to Paul Annesley’s memoy;
she recalled her vigil in that church, which ended?
the rosy summer dawn; she visited her adopted mt
ther’s fresh grave. Then she went to the belfry ail
conjured back the vision of Edward and Sibyl amoig
the Christmas hollies, when Edward had asked Sibyl ®
be his wife.

This was in the afternoon, and when she returned

THE VACANT CHAIR. 167

fom her solitary pilgrimage, Gervase was just arriving.
t evening there was joy once more beneath the be-
ved roof; Gervase and Alice were formally engaged.
. Rickman sat by the fire with a satisfied air, con-
templating the figure of Alice at the piano accompany-
ing Gervase, who stood near her, on his violin.

Sibyl sat near with clasped hands, and eyes full of
tears. She refused to interrupt their music with her
own singing; they were playing so exquisitely, she said.
And Alice’s soul was at peace.

They could not be married for some months, and it
was agreed to say nothing of the engagement for the
present. They were to live at Arden when not in Lon-
don, Mr. Rickman and Sibyl remaining with them in
separate apartments, which the size of the house per-
mitted, though of course great changes and re-fittings
would have to be made. Gervase had virtually retired
from legal practice, though his name remained in the
firm, and he was bound to see those clients who could
not dispense with him. After all, there was not much
wrong with human affairs, he reflected. His purposes
were in the main being effected. He had his heart’s
desire; he could bid his soul be merry and take its
ease, because much goods were laid up for it, and he
heard no deep low voice murmuring in the ear of con-
science, “Thou fool!”

168 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER VI.

BENEDICTION.

EpWARD ANNESLEY paid one or two visits to Arde
Manor in the course of the spring. Those visits dé
not materially strengthen the hope Sibyl’s words hal
kindled in him at Christmas; yet the hope survived.

One day when he was calling in the summer, he &
pressed some surprise at the crowd of workmen he s3¥, '
and the complete upsetting of the house that was takig
place. “I wonder that you stay on in all this turmdl,’
he said; “why don’t you take your father away wil
the work is finished, Sibyl?”

“We like to see to the new arrangements ourselves’
Sibyl replied, not knowing that he had not yet heard of
the engagement which all the country side had fall
discussed during the last few weeks; for the approacr
ing marriage could no longer be kept secret in the fac
of these preparations.

“I don’t like new arrangements, myself,” he added,
quite innocently; “I hate a freshly decorated house.’

Alice changed colour and rose with an air of vex
tion to gather a flower; for they were all sitting out
doors to avoid the inconveniences within.

BENEDICTION. | 169

. Rickman hereupon began a long disgression
he passing of one generation and coming of an-
made some observations upon marriage customs
ous times and places, and said that he thought
tion, while tending to diminish special wedding
mies, increased the actual amount of family dis-
ce involved by a marriage. By this time a hazy
that somebody was going to be married had
ited to Edward’s brain, but he was not pre-
for the shock of Mr. Rickman’s final words,
ise and Alice are to have the main body of the
Sibyl and I will be content with the west wing
”?
ward looked Alice full in the face with a gaze
irred her new-born peace to the depths and
d her long after. All the blood went from his
saving it grey and rigid for a moment. Then he
down at the grass at his feet, speechless; the
ere at a loss what to do or say, until he looked
in with a little sarcastic laugh and apologized for
ving offered his congratulations before, observing
e intelligence was quite new to him.
one enjoyed that scene, and everybody was glad
ve rose and took his leave.
ervase!” he said to himself, as he walked rapidly
the lane beneath the green elms, “Gervase!”’
time he uttered that clever young lawyer’s name
und his teeth and struck viciously at the innocent
rsley on the banks with his nding-whip, and he

BENEDICTION. 171

=hh, but all the same he could not admire her
Keeling betrayed and deserted, relieving his mind
kecalling all the severe and sarcastic sentences he

read or heard of the frailty and fickleness of
Caen, and blaming even Sibyl in his haste for the
© hopes she had rekindled in him, he put his horse
» a canter and then got him on the short down-turf,
L let him have his head until the downs were passed
the horse completely blown.

Then when the horse walked listlessly with hanging
ad through the park, he reflected that Alice’s mar-
ge was the only remedy, bitter though it was, for the
te into which he had fallen; now finally he should
cured once for all of his unfortunate attachment.

That day he left Gledesworth, and, a few weeks later,
gland, to join his family on a tour through the north
France.

“T really think Edward gets grimmer and grimmer,”

sister Eleanor observed one day, during this tour;
wish he would remember that other people want to
happy if he doesn’t.”

“Poor fellow! he has had more trouble than you
nk, Nellie, don’t be hard upon him,” her mother
ylied, “and he does everything he can to give us
‘asure.”’

“That is just what I complain of,” replied his sister,
e never indulges in an orginal wish. It is always
ist where you like, Nell,’ with a sort of martyred

172 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

resignation, or ‘Well then, we will go to Rouen, I have
no choice,’ and one may change one’s mind eight
times in a minute without making him lose his temper.
I could box his ears sometimes. How I should hate
to be married to a man of such maddening got
temper!”

“Major Mcllvray is certainly very different,” said
Harriet, in her guileless way. “Do you remember how
he persisted in going to St. Peter’s last Easter Day, and
would have gone without us if we had not given in.”

“Oh, yes! Major Mcllvray,” replied Eleanor, blush-
ing in spite of her disdainful air, “his head was quite
turned on the subject of monks. He never saw one
during the whole of his stay in Rome without turning
to look at him. The functions he went to for the sake
of studying his beloved monks! He was quite rude on
one occasion.”

“Mcllvray rude, Nell?” asked Edward, coming into
the room; “you must have snubbed him very severely.
A worm will turn sometimes.”

“Well! he was rude. He left us in a shop one day
when a procession was going by. He rushed out, say-
ing something about a monk with a scar on his face,
and did not return until we had finished our shopping
and gone home alone.”

“And what did he say about this monk?” asked
Edward.

~ “Oh, nothing. We had made a mistake, or some

BENEDICTION. 173

ish. Come, Ted, do propose something for this
moon.”

Well!” he replied, with a pre-occupied air, “would
like to go to church?”

“To that sweet old church we passed yesterday?
‘ not? Is there any service?”

“Yes, the landlady tells me there will be vespers
Our and a sermon. She cannot say what kind of
her, because the cur¢ is ill and a stranger is
Ag his place. The choir, she tells me, is heavenly.
Son Armand sings in it, which no doubt accounts
ts excellence.”

‘You are becoming almost cynical, Ned; it is quite
Shing. Who is for church then? We three? I am
7.”

‘So am J,” said the younger sister, and they started
strolled ‘along the village street in the hot August
moon, keeping well under the shade of the houses
trees.

When they reached the little old church, Edward
that if his sisters did not mind he would wait for
1 outside, he did not feel in the night frame of
id for a sermon. Sometimes a very little thing in-
2s one with a strong and unreasonable repugnance;
1 a repugnance he felt at entering the dark, cool
: church, into which the more devout villagers were
ing by twos and threes. Was he growing whimsical in
gloom, he wondered; what difference could an hour
it in a church make one way or the other to him?

174 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

So his sisters went in alone, and, leaving the churc>
yard, he strolled up the hillside on which the churd
was built and found a shady seat under a pear-tret,
whence he could see the low-lying village with is
pointed red roofs, and the old church with its red-tiled
spire above it. Below this rising ground was a broad
level country with long lines of poplars marking the
high road, and a tranquil river winding placidly through
the unfenced fields, where the corn stood yellowing for
the sickle, and cattle pastured, and the strong oxen
rested from their toil. Music came faintly from a hor
day-boat on the river and the voices of loungers in
Sunday dress were heard now and then in a snatch of
song or burst of laughter from below, otherwise the
silence of August brooded over the wide sunny land—
even the church-bell was still.

The level country through which the blue nver |
flowed so peacefully, stretched away and away into it
finite distance, till its vague blueness melted into the
deep azure of the cloudless sky. The dreamy fascina-
tion of the broad unvaried levels is something like the
stronger charm of the wide sea, and the silence of the
plains awes the listener, though in a different manner,
as the unceasing music of the waves does; both con-
duce to reverie, and suggest far-off thoughts. Half an
hour quickly passed away in the charmed silence, which
was scarcely interrupted by the organ-music and
chanting of vespers rising, hushed by distance, from the
church, and many thoughts passed through Edward’

BENEDICTION. 175

d as he sat alone in the leafy shade. If Alice had
nied Paul he could have borne it, for she loved him;
the idea of the marriage with Gervase was insup-
able; her face, as he had last seen it that summer
at Arden, haunted him; it was not that of a happy
e. Why had she accepted “that fellow?” There
some mystery which he could never hope to fathom.
ything was going wrong, he thought.
Wherever he had come in contact with other lives
aad brought trouble; he had deprived Alice of the
© of her youth, and she had drifted into this love-
marriage which promised no joy. In moments of
2ondence, the thought of Paul’s fate was wont to
5 him with a keen reproach. The outward reproach
more painful to one of his frank, open-hearted
te than any one suspected, but that which con-
iy recurred within, the feeling of having caused
death of one bound to him by so many ties, was
7eorse. He did not yield to it; he was not one to
= strength over what could not be altered, but there
times when the sense of being overshadowed by
= malign influence against which nothing availed
‘essed him, and almost made him believe in the
lesworth curse. At such times he saw the face of
aunt, her cold eyes alight with anger, when she
rounced the double curse upon him, and only with
t striving could he shake off this waking nightmare.
day was such a time of weakness, of painful me-
les and despondent forecasts. If only the dead

176 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

could return, if he could but see Paul Annesley ait
once more, he thought with a desperate yearning, fr
the futility of which he scorned himself.

But brooding over the irrevocable was as useles
as it was weak, so he rose and went back to the church,
where, as he supposed, some good man was trying
show people the way to walk through this dark and
devious world. But the sermon was over, and the must:
told him that Benediction had begun. :

It was refreshing to dip the finger into the holy
water stoup, and to change the broad blaze of sunshine
without for the cool shadows within, where the sof
mellow music rose and floated through the incens
laden air. He stole noiselessly in, and took up his
station near the entrance by a massive pillar cool to
the touch, and listened to the subdued singing of the
“Salutaris Hostia.” When he raised his head and
glanced over the church, all was at first dark to his
sun-dazzled eyes, as religion is to people blinded by
the fierce glare of worldliness. Gradually he made out
the forms of women in great white caps, children, a
man in blouse and sabots, a bourgeoise or two, the slim
figures of his sisters, fair-haired and conspicuous
fresh white dresses. Some stray sunbeams here and
there shot a long thick-moted shaft across nave and
chancel, on the high altar the golden vessel containing
the Host glittered unveiled. How like and how unlike
it was to a village church at home! How like and
how unlike were the rustic worshippers, people who

BENEDICTION. 177

“toiled much and had many sorrows and fears and more
~happiness than they knew, to whom creeds were little,
and true religion much, people who were there from
habit and in deference to public opinion, or who sought
in the quiet and consecrated place balm for bitter
sorrow and guidance in dire perplexities! Thus far
the English villagers and the French were alike, they
only differed outwardly and in their way of expressing
these things. And the priest? He could not see this
priest’s face in the gloom; he would differ from the
English country parson more widely than the rural
parishioners of both nations differed from each other.
A second motet began, and fell with a healing
charm upon Edward’s soothed ears; good thoughts
came into his mind, vague aspirations after a better
hfe. Stern Protestant though he was, he acknowledged
that this sacred singing of hymns in an unknown tongue
might lift up the heart, and be better than nothing.
Then came the final hymn, incense floated, the priest,
mounting a ladder and taking the Sacrament in his
hands, faced the people in the act of benediction; the
solemn moment had arrived and all bowed down.

‘‘The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chants resound between.”

But Edward, while he knelt, looked up full in the
face of the priest; a face calm with the unearthly calm
of the cloister, yet marked with the traces of past
storm; a remarkable face, in which the inextinguishable
fire of the eyes belied the unnatural stillness of the

The Reproach of Annesley, 11, \2

178 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

features; a face in the summer of life, crowned with
dark hair and scarred; a face seldom absent from the
gazer’s memory—the face of Paul Annesley.

The church seemed to swim in a flood of lund
light; the figure of the priest to shudder away as
figures do in dreams; all became vague save the bum-
ing radiance of the deep-blue eyes, and the golden
vessel making the sign of the cross in the trembling
hands. The chanting of the choir sounded faint and
strange, pierced as it was by the silver sound of the
bell; the incense seemed to intoxicate and overwhelm;
everything came to a blank void for a time, and then
all was natural again, and with a clear gaze, though
with a heavily-throbbing heart, Edward saw in the calm
features of the pnest in the act of benediction, the
familiar face he had last seen ablaze with passion, and
hungry for his life.

He was quite sure, soberly certain. Those tremulous
hands now blessing the people with the holy Sacrament
were the same then laid with murderous purpose upon
him. Those eyes, with the startled, pained, intent gaze
into his, were the same which glowed upon him then
with blind fury. He who had been dead was alive
again, standing before him: no phantom, for never
phantom gazed with such human pain, but a living,
breathing, suffering man.

PART VI

CHAPTER I.

ON THE BRINK.

tyrant Time, who wastes and destroys so relent-
i his flight, whose swift onrush no power may
en once past becomes the slave of thought and
lon. The chronicler bids him advance and retire
he waves his magic rod and it is no more the
Benediction in the little French village. Five
Il back, and Paul Annesley, having left his
it the river’s source, is speeding down the hilly
2 one chased by demons.
was in such a tempest of confused passion on
‘that he scarcely knew what he was doing; as
: drunk with excess of wine, so was he drunk
: excess into which unchecked passions always
‘e or less. He had never tried to bridle him-
‘ could not do so now; the evil in him had
o such mastering might. As men drunk with
n give no clear account of their actions when
so it was with him. He never knew afterwards
+ why he left the party of friends at the spring,

182 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEVY.

or what had been his exact purpose in following te
downward path in such hot haste; he could only recall
as one recalls the incidents in a dreadful dream, &
chaos of fierce despair within him, lighted as by a fast
of fire by the cheery sound of a man’s voice singing ®
the careless gaiety of a heart at ease—
‘“‘There we lay, all the day,
In the Bay of Biscay O.”

The blithe singing kindled a dreadful impulse #
his heart and stimulated his mind to unnatural activiy.
It made him remember the nature of the ground lowe
down. Something whispered to him not to overt
the singer, but to dash with silent swiftness into tt
wood and wait hidden beneath the trees, where th
slope of the ground, steeply descending to the pa
on the broken brink of the rocky scarp, gave an a
vantage in a sudden attack. A grim voice told ho
that no one would know, the path was so slippery with
moss and so broken at the verge. They had marked
the spot in their upward course in the morning, a
said how easily an accident might occur—a false step
a fit of abstraction, then a dash on the rocks belo*,
and thence into the deep green river. There could
be no afterwards, as was said of the prisoners in the
Bastille.

He had not long to wait beneath the sighing pines;
the object of his fierce passion drew nearer, tracked by
his snatch of careless song, and suspecting nothing.
The light-hearted singing stung the silent listener 10

ON THE BRINK. 183

keener purpose. The song ceased suddenly, when Paul
Sprang tiger-like from the bank upon his prey, and
‘With the impetus given by the spring added to the
Strong pushing of his arms, tried to hurl him into the
depths below.

But Edward, though caught unawares, was taller
than his cousin and stronger, his bodily powers were
better trained, and he grappled at once with his unex-
Pected adversary, whom he had not time to recognise,
though his breath was hot upon his face; but his words
revealed him—vwords which Paul forgot as soon as
uttered, but Edward never.

The struggle was no light one. The strength of
unbridled fury was pitted against the instinct of self-
preservation; it seemed as if the terrible embrace could
never end but in the death of both cousins. At last in
the dreadful whirl Edward succeeded in flinging his
cousin from him, in what direction he could not tell,
and in the rebound he fell himself backwards, strik-
ing his head against the rocky ground and losing con-
sciousness.

Paul went over the brink, grasping with wild in-
stinct at the air, and blindly catching the birchen
bough which hung over the river, projecting far from
the rocky wall.

The shock of his rapid descent and the immediate
peril which he faced, checked the fierce current of his
fury and restored him to the self-consciousness which
passion of any kind abnegates; and then ensued a mo-

184 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

ment, the keenest and most terrible that can com
mortal man—the moment in which the veil of pas
and prejudice is lifted from the eyes of the soul,
all things stand naked and clear as in the sead
gaze of the Judge of all men.

The bough, quivering beneath his weight, bow
and rebounded like some fearful balance bet
heaven and earth, nay, between heaven and a ya"
hungry hell; every bound threw him wildly in th
loosened the grasp of his clinging hands, and threal
to hurl him into the depths below: but one more t
and he must go; the fate which he had prepare
another had overtaken himself. He knew by the.
with which his strong young life shrank from it
den and violent extinction, how dreadful was the
he had meditated against that other young life ki
to his own.

At supreme moments like these, Eternity ass
self, the shadow, Time, practically ceases, at
thoughts and experiences of a lifetime crowd in
brief moment by the clock. All Paul Annesley
rose before him during one rebound of the slight
which held him suspended above certain deat
flash of wild remorse lighted the deepest rece:
his soul; only to unlive the recent past he woul
given all that went before had that been possib
few minutes before, life had seemed so bitte
death was a coveted boon; but now, in the nea
of death’s grim face, life had an unspeakable

ON THE BRINK. 185

lis vigorous vitality revolted against dissolution,
1 shuddered at a hereafter vague with retribu-
id he, who did not pray before, sent up a wild
Heaven for help. Then it was that his agonized
ught the face of Gervase Rickman looking down
im, and he heard his voice entreating him to
1 a little longer.

no entreaty could stay the slipping of the
through his burning hands; help must come at
he was to be saved. One more vibration of
r-strained spring on which he was poised, sent
vards, and the downward rebound was so strong
2 bough cracked with a shock that jerked his
‘mulous hands from their strained clinging; he

shding of the last twigs through his bleeding
a wild whirl and the shock of water smiting his
; he met it lengthwise, then the end, darkness,
h it calm.
‘ silent darkness could not have lasted long, for
fe returned to him, he found himself drifting
»wards upon the surface towards the French
the current had carried him past the little pro-
r beneath the spot where he fell; stiff, bruised
zed though he was, he struck out instinctively,
he could not swim, and kept himself up till he
ne overhanging sallow branches, grasping at
1e pulled himself out of the rapid current on to
ng shore, which made a little ledge at the foot
yrecipitous cliffs.

186 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

He drew himself up under the sallow bushes 4
sought in his pockets for brandy, which he cared im
the benefit of the excursion party. His handkerds
fell out as he did this, and, a thought striking hm,
threw it into the stream, which carried it farther a
where it was afterwards found, together with a gui
book inscribed with his name.

The brandy revived him, and he presently te
that he was uninjured, though bruised and stra
falling, as he did, into the centre of the stream,
had escaped rocks. He remembered now that Kaw
had fallen in the opposite direction to himself, and ¥
no doubt safe, and then he took the decision ™
which he never afterwards swerved. He had appea
to die before the eyes of Gervase Rickman, he ¥
virtually dead, and it was best so; there was no 00%
sion for him to come to life again.

After resting a while under the bushes, whoa
effectually concealed him from the searchers, he fous
that the little ledge upon which he landed led up ®4
broken cleft in the cliff, scarcely large enough 10%
' called a gorge, but sufficiently marked to form am
ascent, up which he climbed. Having reached 8
summit, he struck across the mountainous county
right angles to the river. In those remote places, ™
thing human was to be seen, save one or two peas
at work or guarding flocks, and these he carel
avoided, like the fugitive he was. So he stole cautioum
along until the thunderstorm broke and the deluge #

ON THE BRINK. 187

vhich descended made his soaked clothes appear
al and the loss of his hat nothing unusual.

he fury of the Alpine storm was as nothing to
ifter the spiritual cataclysm through which he had
d; he walked on bare-headed beneath the awful
dour of the jagged lightnings and the rushes of
now the heavens opened above him and let down
s of blue and purple flame, discoVering vast moun-
prospects and the distant plains of France in their
glare; now the deafening crack and roar of the
Jer, which rolled round him and crashed among
hills till they seemed to rock and split in the
zing shock, reached his ears; then the flood of rain
le ground blazed like molten metal beneath his
and chains and forks of fire flashed before him;
came a crash, which made the solid earth shake
ith him and the mountains shudder above. He
2ly heeded the majesty and terror of the spectacle,
ralked on in a dazed despair, with no aim but the
: one of escaping from the past and cutting him-
ff from the memory of living men. In the apathy
haustion which succeeded overstrained feelings he
sly heeded the tongue of fire which with a hissing
| split a tree a little in advance of him. The tree,
a moment before, was black and charred when
issed beneath it. But afterwards, it seemed little
of a miracle that he had not been struck, as he
have been had he passed it a few minutes earlier.

188 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

When the storm abated he reached a little lonely iz
and there took shelter.
As a storm-driven tourist, his appearance exd
no surprise, and having had his clothes dred
cleansed to some extent, he procured a straw ha
the farmer and set forward again after supper.
“Que Dieu vous accompagne, Monsieur,” sad
farmer, in reply to his farewell, and the pious greti
touched his troubled heart.
Does God accompany murderers? he asked hm
as he dragged his weary limbs aimlessly onwards,
lowed by the demons of remorse and despair.
The farmer had taken him for a Frenchmas,
accent was so pure and his idiom so ready; he thog
it would be well if others did the same, because #4
Frenchman he could more easily conceal himself.
Night was falling by this time, and large lus
stars were looking pensively from the clear sky.
seemed to his shaken spirit to be accusing him 2
way lay across a hilly region, and in his mental pf
occupation the farmer’s clear directions for the bom
at which he meant to pass the night became conlu%
and he took the wrong path, keeping westward nev
theless, by the aid of stars and a pocket compas®
his watch-chain. Y
While trudging wearily and doggedly on, as if f@*
ing from an invisible spirit of justice, he remember t
with a sort of rapture that he had not killed his COU (

{

ee FF eee ee

ye

FT.

ON THE BRINK. 189

all, and his heart rose to Heaven in silent un-
-ble thanksgiving. It was possible to live now that
ands, though not his soul, were clean of the awful
of murder; in the other case neither life nor death
i have been endurable; there would have been no
to fly, as he had realized when poised on that
. balance, “infinite wrath and infinite despair.”
itless a merciful Power ruled the destinies of men,
to him, Paul Annesley, had shown a mercy beyond
mdinary working of natural laws, had miraculously
ied both soul and body from the pit of hell.

Jeep and solemn thoughts moved dove-like upon
roubled waters of his soul and wrought peace and
‘in those chaotic depths. The stars shone in in-
ing multitudes above him; it was long past mid-
. his limbs dragged more heavily, neither town nor
e was within sight. The air was chill, the ground
d; he could not le down in the open. Presently
yund a rude shed within a wood, a shelter for
oal-burners or wood-cutters. Beneath the rough
it was fairly dry and partly littered with bracken.
he lay down and slept a dreamless sleep till the
on morning looked in and touched his eyes.

‘hen he waked, and wondered at the beauty of the
crimson shafts that shivered upon the tree-trunks,
nystic peace which rested on the unstirred leaves,
resh radiance of the dew, the glory and the purity
e hour when the new-born day springs forth in its
al youth. He enjoyed the splendour only for 4

190 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

moment; the sight of the rough boards of hs im
wonted sleeping-chamber called him back to the bit
ness of life.

To wake to a new sorrow is bitter, but to wal
a new sin, worse. Zhey were doubtless sleeping, ®
thought, and when they woke would think of him
one dead, and as such would draw a pitying vel
his frailties. He could now think of Alice as Edwin
wife without pain; his wild passion was swept away
the torrent of spiritual anguish. Ever since the diay
the lake with Alice, he had felt, though not ack
ledged, something more bitter than the fact that
loved Edward—the fact that she must always desi
him, that pity must henceforth be the softest feeling
could expect from her; her presence had become agt
to him, though he clung to it with a strange persi
He did not like to think of the mother he was leaf
childless, but deep down in his inmost heart the memaf
of the home she had made so miserable spoke strogf
against the chance of going back to live with her, and
helped to persuade him, together with his disgust d
life, that it was but a just atonement to Edward to sea
to die that his cousin might have his inheritance.

The morning air was sharp, and called him unrest
from his temporary shelter. He walked on tll!
reached a cottage, and asked his way to a villigs
where he found food and rested till afternoon.

He was very stiff and weary, though scarcely o
scious of bodily sensations in his inward distress; *

ON THE BRINK. IgI

| on, nevertheless, choosing by-ways and unfre-
d districts, avoiding railways and _ high-roads,
ig thus to escape the chance of recognition.

» distinct plan had yet formed itself in his mind;
| only a vague desire to flee away and be at rest,
hope that continual bodily movement would quiet
vard fever. He walked on, therefore, in spite of
ing fatigue and pains, till night, rested in a
inn, and rose unrefreshed next morning to con-
us way.

was Sunday morning; the September sun was
‘ warmly on the ripening grapes in the vineyards
sunny slopes of that hilly region in the Vosges;
jate tinkle of church bells was heard in the still-
now a troop of pretty maidens and prematurely
natrons were going to some village church; now
sure-party, in an odd clumsy vehicle, half cart,
riage, was jogging along the dusty causeway to
nbouring farm or hamlet; every creature, human
2rwise, seemed gay and innocent, only he was out
2, an anomaly in a bright world.

: reached a pretty hamlet among the vineyards
old of the hills; it was now very hot, a heavy
r was creeping over him, and, seeing the church
pen as if to invite him, he went in. The music
xt beautiful, but it soothed him, together with the
and coolness; he scarcely noticed that the choir
hrough their noses, nor did the rest of the con-
on,

192 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Religion was a subject to which Paul Annesley
given little attention. He did not hke the very
nounced specimen his mother affected; it appeared
act as a stimulant upon all the least agreeable el
in her character; it had struck him very early m
that she was always most religious when most
tempered, that she contemplated with evident eq
ment the future reprobation of all those who d
from her. His French school was conducted by
Protestant, and French Protestantism is not a seductt
religion, especially to the young. Paul often th
that there might after all have been some excuse
St. Bartholomew’s Eve, if the Huguenots of those
resembled the Calvinists of his.

But his religious instincts were all awake and qu
ing with painful vitality to-day, and when the pnet
began his simple sermon, he was listening with hungy
eagerness for some clue to the maze of misery in whid
his life was involved. Though he scarcely heard what
the old priest said in his pure and simple French to his
“children,” something in his way of saying it and some
thing in his face convinced him that here was one wh
had found a clue to the mystery of life. A simple
kindly life such as this priest’s would be a sweet and
restful thing, he thought.

But when the office was ended, and he found hit
self again in the open air, sitting on the low wall of!
vineyard a stone’s throw from the church, idly watchin:
the bright-eyed lizards darting over the stones in th

ON THE BRINK. : i93

» something the gentle old priest had said seemed
Lluminate his past life. “Lose thyself and find Me,”
=ntence from an old book Paul had never read, an
© from a still older book he had read, quoted by
preacher, kept repeating itself in his brain.

The pendulum of his mind, thus strongly touched,
mng to the other extreme, and with all the intensity
his nature he yearned to sacrifice himself as un-
ervedly as he had once striven to please himself.

While he was thus musing, the cur¢ approached him,
-all, bent, white-haired figure in black cassock and
vad hat, and stopped on his leisurely way to the
*sbytery, not unwilling to have a little chat with a
ager, a pleasure seldom enjoyed in that remote
niet. He had seen the troubled, passion-worn face
Ing the well-known faces of his little flock, and
tething in the strained wide gaze had touched him.
“e, he thought, was a man acquainted with sorrow,
- strange birthnght of humanity.

Paul, replying to his salutation, raised his eyes from
lizards and looked into a venerable and kindly face,
:d with years and care, but peaceful and sweet, and

a growing confidence in him.

Monsieur was tired, the priest surmised, after a few
rds had been exchanged; the day was hot; would
come into the presbytery and rest awhile in the
al?

Monsieur was glad to do so, and soon found him-
f strolling slowly by the side of his new acquaintance
he Reproach of Annesley. 11, 13

194 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

through the narrow lane between the vineyards towa
the presbytery, a white house with green venet
shutters, and shaded in front by a great walnut-tree.

CHAPTER II.
BURIED ALIVE,

THE interior of the presbytery was very cool a
clean and bare; Paul was glad to sink into a wood
elbow-chair by the window, on the sill of which ¥
coiled the one spoiled and pampered Sybarite of t
establishment, a great white Angora cat, equally idoliz
by the cure and his housekeeper, Mile. Francoise, ¥
was clattering about the bare brick floor laying the ck
for dinner.

She was extremely glad to see Monsieur, she $
in her high shrill voice, it was pleasant for M. le C
to see a new face sometimes. It was a most fortun
thing that he was not dining at the chateau to
and still more fortunate that she had killed a f
that was doubtless the inspiration of some saint.

Monsieur Paul was duly grateful for her hospit
intentions, and acknowledged the skilful cooking of
omelette added to the festal Sunday dinner expre
for him; yet he so troubled his host by the injustice
did to the good fare set before him, that he was obli
to apologize for his want of appetite, Saying that

BURIED ALIVE. 195

unwell. Nevertheless, good manners, with the aid
& potent home-made cordial which Father André ad-
-astered to him, enabled him to rouse himself to an
>3esting conversation, in the course of which Paul
=overed that, besides speaking a purer French than
St rustic clergy, his host had evidently seen some-
“ag of the world, and was both well-read and well-
-d. His bright dark eyes looked into the world with
xensive cheerfulness, his features were finely cut, and
= long white hair flowing beneath his skull-cap finished
Sleasing and venerable aspect.

Paul’s black beard, at that time an unusual orna-
‘Nt on an English face, his crisp curly hair, his dark-
© eyes and his fluent Parisian French were all com-
ible with his host’s supposition that he was a
Mmchman; though his conversation occasionally sug-
ted points of view distinctly foreign. The fact of
being on a walking tour further pointed to a foreign
action or education.

After dinner, they adjourned to the garden, where
mngoise had placed wine and fruit on a table beneath

great walnut-tree, and whence they could see the
mlet dotted about the hill-slope amid vineyards and
hhards. “They are so good,” Father André said,
aning his parishioners, “poor children, their troubles:
> great. Next week we have a wedding; a good
ave girl in that cottage yonder by the plane-tree, who,
pported her widowed mother for years, is to marry a
‘e lad from a farm a few miles above in the moun-

13*

196 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

tains. I shall miss the dear child; yes, I shall mis
her.”

“You will still have a large family,” Paul commented,
a little moved by this, to him, novel way of disposing
of domestic feelings.

“Ves, yes, but I shall regret Madeleine,” he replied,
and then he rose and apologized for leaving his guet
while he went to see one of the “children,” who was
sick.

He did not return until after vespers, when he found
Paul, who had been dozing heavily since his departure,
very ill, too ill to move. He was helped to bed, where ©
he remained for weeks; carefully nursed by the pnest
and his housekeeper, both of whom would have thought
it criminal to send him elsewhere or to trust him to
other hands, while they could tend him.

Next morning, after a night of fierce pain, Paul,
finding that he had rheumatic fever, desired Frangoise
to give him his clothes, from the pockets of which he
took such papers and letters as gave any clue to his
identity, and, tearing them with difficulty, bid the house-
keeper burn them on the hearth before his eyes, Hav-
ing seen this done, he became delirious.

“The good God has indeed sent us a guest,
Francoise,” said her master, on entering the room
shortly after and looking upon this spectacle, “poor
fellow! He is no doubt a good Catholic, though 4
foreigner; I was struck by his devout air yesterday.
And he is in trouble.” |

BURIED ALIVE. | 197

“But his hands, Monsieur le Curé,” returned Francoise,
Minting them out. “And what terrible language is he
peaking?”

“+ Jt was the bloody mark of his torn hand on the
white home-spun coverlet which had set the patient
_aving a few minutes before, and now he was pointing
# it, and crying out about Cain and his ineffaceable
brand in a way which would have chilled his listeners’
Yood had they not been ignorant of English.

“He hurt his hands in climbing; he wore gloves
wer some kind of dressing yesterday,” replied the
were’, bidding Francoise remove the stained sheet and
md up the hands. Then he did what Paul had fore-
een, turned out his pockets in search of his name and
dress that he might communicate with his friends,
md found nothing. but a pocket-book full of gold and
wotes, a well-filled purse and some jewels of price
yhich he put aside in a safe place.

In his lucid intervals Paul knew how severe his ill-
ress was, yet he did not think he should die, much as
xe now wished for death. For since he had twice been
miraculously preserved, there was no doubt some pur-
xose to be fulfilled in his life. Perhaps only the pur-
pose of expiation. God’s mark was upon him as upon
Cain, so that none could slay him; he was doomed to
live.

But as he grew better, he began to form schemes
for turning the life of which he was so weary to some
useful purpose, and when the doctor told him one

198 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

morning that all danger was past and time and god
nursing alone could now help him, he, knowing we
what illness like his leaves in its track, faced the pe
bability of becoming a cripple, a condition which, thre
ing him eventually upon charity for support, might led
to the discovery he feared.

As soon as he could hold a pen he wrote to Captaa
Mcllvray, one of those Highland officers whose exper
sive amusements had so nearly ruined him in the da.
ef his poverty, and pledging him to secrecy, explaind
that civilized life had become insupportable to him, aad
that, wishing to break completely from all past conse
tions, he had taken advantage of an accident to d
appear. Mcllvray had lost money to him on the ew
of his Swiss journey, and not having means of paymett
at hand, had given him his acceptance at a few months
date. Paul therefore desired him to forward this sum
with a hundred pounds more; and, as Mcllvray’s bil
would be found among his effects and presented {a
payment, he gave him papers for the whole amouil
dated before his supposed death, so that Mcllvay
could claim payment of the balance due to him from
the executors.

Captain Mcllvray, being just then under orders 0
go to India, had little time to spend on other peoples
affairs, and he did not feel called upon to prevent Paul
Annesley’s virtual suicide. The money therefore safely
reached the hands of Father André, together with 2
letter to Paul, in which Mcllvray ventured upon a bnd

BURIED ALIVE. 199

-Onstrance with him. Thus, with Mrs. Annesley’s
Monds and a valuable ring intended for Alice, Paul
in possession of over a thousand pounds, sufficient
teep him from want.
He spent many weeks of acute pain and heavy
Ness in the little clean bare guest-chamber of the pres-
ry, seeing nothing but the sky through the white-
ained window, the crucifix in black and ivory on
white wall, the wood-fire crackling on the hearth,
four figures which changed and melted into one
‘her like figures in a dream; the doctor feeling his
e and talking in a low voice, but not to him;
acoise in her white cap and sabots, and a kind of
mntom Francoise with a different nose and stouter
re, who proved to be Pauline, her married sister;
the cure, clad in a rusty black cassock, with his
y locks beneath his skull-cap.
The latter knelt by his bedside by the hour, praying
id in a low monotonous voice, very soothing
the patient, who looked at him with the long won-
ing gaze with which an infant’s eyes follow its
her’s movements. The women also varied their mini-
tions, especially at night, by telling their beads aloud;
their prayers sounded more business-like than the
rer’s, and it became a sort of occupation to the
ent to speculate upon the slipping of the beads
ugh their fingers in a given time.
When he was able at last to sit up, propped with
1ions at the open window, it was warm, still October

200 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

weather, and the country was full of the cheey
sounds of the vintage. He could see the vintagers
at work on the sunny slopes, men, women and chi
dren all busy and happy, singing and laughing from
morning till night. The cure’, with his cassock tucked
up, was busy in his own little vineyard; Francoise, wit
the ubiquity and ceaseless industry of which only
French women are capable, was out gathering an
carrying great baskets of mpe grapes, the choicest
clusters of which found their way to the sick room.
Paul, in his languor, thought he would like to live ths
peaceful life for ever.

Yet Father André found time to read to his patient
and talk to him, by some mysterious process, aided by
one or two broken hints from the evidently suffering
man, discovered much of what was passing in his mind.
Paul, sundered by the strange mental experiences of
sickness, in which weeks have the effect of years,
from his past life and all its affections, and feeling bom
again into a different world, clung to his gentle host
with the dependent reverent affection of a child; the
priest on his part loved the younger man, as only those
cut off from natural ties can love strangers, and the
two looked at each other often in silent moments,
wondering at the bond which was being formed between
them and at the experiences which had brought each
to that remote village presbytery so far from the original
sphere of either. Thus the curé’s conversation, which
Was more interesting and less tiring to his patient than

BURIED ALIVE. 201

rading, gradually became of a more personal nature
ad full of anecdotes.

“It seems, Monsieur, that you were not bred a priest ?”
aul said one day, after one of these narrations.

“It is true,” he replied, looking quickly up and
yen down again; “would it be tiresome to listen?”

Paul replied that it would interest him above all
ings.

““Because,” observed M. André, taking a pinch of
uff and seating himself on a stone near the patient’s
nair, which was placed in a sunny sheltered nook in
e garden, “I have sometimes permitted myself the
gerty of thinking that a sorrow like mine may have
2fallen you. Pardon me if I am mistaken.”

His name, he continued, was Armand de Fontigny,
name of historic fame, as Paul knew. His education
‘as not austere; though a Catholic, he looked upon
*tigion merely as a thing it was among the family
‘aditions to respect. His youth was as gay as rank,
‘ealth, good looks and good health could make it, in
re gayest city of the world; but, though devoted to
leasure, he was not vicious; he only wished to be
hought so.

He became assiduous in his attentions to the wife
f a friend. He did not love her, he did not think
hat she loved him, but the vanity of each was gratified
y the idea of a conquest over the other.

The husband was unsuspicious, until one day when
ome report reached his ears. That night De Fontigny

202 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

met the lady at a masked ball. It was carnival time
the now suspicious husband was there also, and followed
them about masked, until he had no doubt of ther
identity. Then he shot the lady dead.

This shot, as he learnt during the official enquiy
upon the death, was intended for her supposed lover.

She fell at De Fontigny’s feet, his face and clothing
were splashed with her blood. A second shot followed
—the man had turned his weapon upon himself. De
Fontigny stood among the masqueraders in the brilliance
of the ball-room, his ears ringing with the sounds of the
two shots, motionless with horror, while the dancng
broke up in wild tumult and the blood of his two
victims stained the parquet.

Father André paused, trembled, and with an apology
left his guest. He did not conclude his narrative tl
next day, when he spoke of his misery and remorse,
his disgust with follies which had resulted in such
tragedy, his flight to the cloister, and its calm round of
prayer and toil, which, though it at first soothed hin,
did not suffice him. He longed for activity and use:
fulness, and after having been sent out on one or two
Occasions to take the place of some sick parish pnest,
Was appointed to this little parish of Rémy, where, 4
Paul saw, his life was a course of labour, prayer and
Service to his parishioners, of whom he was truly the
father.

“And have you found happiness?” his listener
asked, at the close of the narrative.

BURIED ALIVE. 203

.: “Not happiness, my dear son; that is not of this
‘porld, but healing and peace.”

* .Paul looked up with moist eyes at the lined and
‘Wnsive face before him, and his decision was taken.

He told his kind friend his whole history from be-
{inning to end, and added his determination to enter
he religious life.

Father André listened with sympathy, and advised
im to pause and consider well before he entered a
fe for which he might have no vocation. He reminded
im that as yet he was not even a Catholic.

But Paul’s resolution was taken with the fiery in-
ensity of his nature. The constant sight of the crucifix
luring his days and nights of agony had consoled and
trengthened him, as that august sight always does; it
wad further wrought with the morbid tendency in-
eparable from combined physical and mental misery,
o produce in him the strange religion which Carlyle
»rofessed, but like the windbag he was, did not practise,
ind named the Worship of Sorrow.

Like Father André, Paul felt that joy was impossible
lo one whose past was so cniminal, nothing was left for
him but pain; he now rushed into the extreme of self-
Mortification. He remained some months at the pres-
bytery, until he was quite recovered, sharing as far as
| layman could, the occupations of his host, liking the
eaceful life, for which he felt himself unworthy, and
astructed and curbed by his spiritual father, who at
ast resigned him to the community with whom his

204 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

noviciate was to be passed, not without regret aud
deep heart-searchings.

The fire which had burnt so fiercely on the altar of
human love, now blazed with stronger fervour at 4
loftier shrine, and for a year or two Brother Sebastial
passed through a strange and exciting phase of spir:
tual experience; his austerities produced their naturd
result;—visions and ecstasies—all the strange tumult of
over-wrought religious feeling, brightened and ennobled
by the golden thread of pure and undefiled religion |
which ran through it all, and which runs through 9
many strange and mysterious human vagaries. So en-
tirely had he broken with his former life, that it seemed
sometimes to the fervid Friar Sebastian as if Paul An
nesley were the phantom of some half-forgotten dream,
and the people he had known and loved, fancies as
insubstantial. Even the mother he had so truly loved,
in spite of the misery she had made in his home,
faded away. A Madonna in the convent-chapel with
a look of Alice attracted him strongly, and sometimes
set him dreaming of those far-off phantoms, and then
he saw Alice married happily to Edward and forgetful
of the trouble he had cast upon her youth, and his
heart ached for the mother who mourned him as dead.
But not for long; such thoughts were driven away, if
not by gentler means, by knotted cords.

Brother Sebastian had only once travelled far from
the Dominican Convent in which he had taken refuge
from the storm of life, before he was sent to serve the

BURIED ALIVE. 205

Shhurch in which Edward Annesley saw him during the
Mporary disability of the curd, and on that first occa-
Bion the brief encounter by the Lake of Geneva oc-
“arred.
Edward looked upon that first meeting as the illu-
Bion of a mind overstrained by the perpetual thought of
= man whose death he had caused. That brief vision
Was made more ghost-like and unreal by the fact that
‘Sebastian had put off his friar’s black cloak and hood,
Sind was wearing only the white tunic and scapular
When he passed Edward; when he saw him, by imme-
Gately putting on the black mantle and hood, he be-
€ame inconspicuous, and thus vanished more effectually
than he could have done, had his dress remained white.

Not until Edward Annesley saw the living Paul
standing at the altar before him with that wide gaze of
mingled pain and dismay, did he realize what his sup- .
posed death had cost him. For reason with himself as
he would, the thought that Paul had actually met his
death at his hands was an abiding grief. Though he
did not grow morbid over this acute memory, it made
him very sensitive, and lent the keenest sting to those
calumnies which made him practically a social outcast.
There were moments of dejection in which he did
indeed attribute to himself part of the guilt which had
apparently resulted in the death of the would-be slayer;
brief moments reasoned away painfully enough by the
reflection that when he flung Paul from him, he did not

206 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

know in which direction either of them would fall; tht
he was not sure whether Paul had flung him or heh

hurled Paul, since when he recovered consciousness, le
could remember nothing but Paul’s sudden attack and
furious words, followed by a wild whirl, in which le
had tried to wrest himself from the hands which were
pushing him over the brink, and had at last fale
senseless. Gervase Rickman alone knew all. He had
seen the attack from a higher and distant point in the
path, where the bend of the river bank projected
beyond the trees which obscured the spot lower dow,
and had arrived in time to see both cousins fall.

If Edward’s lips had not been sealed by loyalty to
the supposed dead man, it would have been a heaven
of relief to him to have published the story on the |
house-tops, and thus disburden himself of a secret it
was pain and grief to keep.

All this heavy burden fell from his heart on that
Sunday afternoon at the sight of the lost Paul, holding
the Sacrament and blessing the kneeling people; such
a deep divine relief came to him after the first shock
had passed that he could scarcely think what to do
next. His sisters, who had not known their cousin 90
intimately, and who were but children at the time of
his loss, did not recognize him: only in coming out one
said to the other, “Of whom did the priest remind you’
He is very like somebody.”

Then their brother joined them and walked only
part of the way back, telling them that he had seen a

BURIED ALIVE. 207

id whom he wished to overtake and should perhaps
iway for an hour or two.
When he returned to the church, he found that the
‘st had already left it, having disrobed with amazing
idity. The sacristan seemed to be a surprisingly
’d rustic; he could not understand Edward’s good
nt French, learnt in the school at which Paul had
1 with him, and his own paéozs was so strong that
ras difficult for Edward to understand him. At
th, however, it came out that the strange priest
stopping at the presbytery, which was situated in
ot to reach which such complicated directions were
‘ssary, that Edward bid the sacristan conduct him
ver personally. But this could not be done at any
e, not even for a gold ten-franc piece, the sacristan’s
es at the church were so urgent. At last some one
found to act as guide, and the presbytery was
itually reached. The convalescent curé received
stranger with great urbanity, and talked so much
it was difficult to get a word in edgeways, and
more difficult to convey any ideas to the cure’s
erstanding after the words had reached his ears.
ly Edward heard that Brother Sebastian (the name
ped out at an unguarded moment) had finished his
es at Vauvieres and was gone, no one knew whither.
truth that Paul was trying to conceal himself was
obvious.
Edward returned to the inn, told his mother
ately what had occurred, and of his intention of

208 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

finding the fugitive friar if possible, and set
on his chase, accompanied by his servant, who
French.

By the aid of this man he found out thi
brother had left the village on foot immediately
Benediction.

It would be tedious to follow in detail the
which ensued. Neither railway nor main high-road
proached that secluded district, and a few enquil
showed that the friar had not gone by the nver.
was therefore best to follow him on foot through by
ways and woods, which Edward did when the died
in which Paul left Vauviéres had been ascertain
Annesley’s professional training here stood him in go
stead; with a fair map and a thorough mastery d
topographical details, together with the aid of his mi
Williams, whom he sent on a parallel route to his om,
and bid enquire diligently along the road, he trac
the friar to a convent in the town of Volny. He thei
applied to the superior of the community for inform
tion, which was politely refused in such a manner 4 |
to leave no doubt on his mind that Paul was in the
house. This he watched with such assiduity that bot
he and his man incurred the suspicions of the author
ties, and were obliged to desist after a few days.

Nevertheless they still hung about the town, frequent
ing churches and making enquiries about preaching
friars to no effect. Though Volny is a large town, t
is as well to save trouble to the learned reader by it

gs SF 8

BURIED ALIVE. 209

Momending him not to look on the map for it, or
re Vauvicres or Bourget, because perhaps he will not
ud them.

Edward was beginning to think the chase hopeless,
mce the only marks of identity in the fugitive were
te name and the scar; for the garb was a concealment
ither than an aid. One evening he strolled out of the
rwn when the dusk was falling, racking his brains for
evices to reach one who had cut himself off from
rery possible means of communication with the outer
orld, and rejecting every scheme that presented itself
1 turn, when he came to a dray laden with wine-casks
ad partially overturned in the road. One of the dray-
ren had been hurt by a cask rolling upon him, the
Sher was tearing his hair and reproaching all the saints
1 heaven for not coming to his aid. <A few peasants,
ttracted by his cries, were extricating the horses and
ghting the dray. Edward took off his coat and helped
1em.

While he was thus occupied he did not see what
as happening to the injured man, who had been laid
side upon some sacks. But when he had done all he
ould, and was standing in his shirt-sleeves wiping his
uce and looking in the now moonlit dusk at the
ghted dray, he saw a figure bending over the injured
1an, and bandaging his head. It was that of a Do-
inican friar.

His heart gave a strong throb, he stepped into the
The Reproach of Annesley. I. 14

210 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

shadow of the way-side trees and watched the fra
ministrations in silence.

a

Presently a light carriole came up, the patient wa
lifted into it and driven slowly away, the friar gave bs
benediction to the departing procession of dray, carrie,
and friendly peasants, and turning, went swiftly on bs
way in the opposite direction, without observing thi
motionless figure in the shadow.

In a few minutes Edward’s quick footsteps weft
close upon him and reached his ears; but he did nt
turn. Edward was side by side with him when k
spoke.

“Paul,” he said—“Paul Annesley.”

Then the friar turned with a suppressed cry. He
recognised Edward’s face in the white moonlight, and
looked swiftly in every direction for some way of escape,
but, seeing none, stood still, with folded hands, head ©
bent and downcast eyes.

“At last!” cried Edward, laying a vigorous hand 00
each of his shoulders. “What a chase you have given
me! Paul, you did a wrong thing and a cruel thing.
All these years we thought you dead. One word from
you would have made all the difference.”

The gaunt frame quivered beneath Edward’s strong
touch; the haggard face, which seemed terribly altered
in that cold white light, became agitated—the calm
mask worn for years was suddenly rent away from the
reality beneath; and the gazer’s heart was pierced to

BURIED ALIVE. 211

Re core by this changed aspect, through which his old
®xmniliar friend was still so visible.

He could not realize that Brother Sebastian was the

ing reality and Paul Annesley the-faded dream. The
“™Manonkish garb seemed to him but a piece of masquerade
_which must be put off, and with it, perhaps, the lines
. ©f suffering in the wan face.

_ The friar’s deep blue eyes gazed spell-bound and
-- ell of unspeakable feelings into the familiar and once
“s$go0 hated face, on which, as well as on his own, the
-wecord of troubled years was now written, but he could

tutter no word, though his lips moved slightly; he could

wearcely think—the sight of Edward’s honest face, graver
and manlier, if so much sadder than in his young days,

.Gtirred him so deeply.

“I thought you dead all this time ” Edward con-
tinued. “You don’t know what it is to think your best
friend died by your own hand.”

The cloistered life faded like a dream from
Sebastian’s mind, those phantom figures from the past,
which he had so long banished, grew real and lived
again at the sound of these wholesome words; his un-
natural restraint gave way at last, natural human tears
sprang to his eyes, but he could not speak—his cousin’s

reproach was so keen and yet so different to what he
had expected.

14*

212 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER IIL

THE WEDDING DRESS.

THE time was drawing near to Alice Lingus
wedding-day; every little detail of her future hfe w
arranged; Rickman’s letters, in spite of the busy life #
was leading, and the important political events in whid
he was concerned, were growing more frequent, mot
tender, and more difficult to answer.

One autumn evening a box arrived at the Mand
Alice’s heart sank when she saw it, for it contained he:
wedding-dress.

Sibyl was slightly pained to see how little Ale
seemed interested in the dress; she had some diffically
in persuading her to try it on, but at last succeeded
after much coaxing on her part, and much persuasiom
from the dressmaker busy at work in the house.

“Tf only Gervase were here!”’ exclaimed Sibyl, whea
the weighty business was achieved and Alice stood be
fore a cheval-glass, tall and statue-like in the long sat
folds, her hair crowned by the white wreath, and the
veil floating mist-like about her in the pale twilight
“Wait, and I will fetch papa. Don’t stir one inch fo
your life.”

THE WEDDING DRESS. 213

“You are cold, miss,” said the dressmaker, for
ce was shivering; “we must hope for a sunny morn-
‘ for the wedding. To be sure, it is chilly to-
r t.”’

“Very chilly,” replied Alice, listening to the fitful
an of the wind and the patter of rain on the glass.
[ow pleased Sibyl is!” she was thinking. For Sibyl
1 not been pleased, but rather shocked, when the
yagement first took place, and only the spectacle of
r brother’s happiness had reconciled her to it by
grees.

It took some minutes to find Mr. Rickman, minutes
ring which Alice stood motionless before the spectral
lection of her tall white self, -forbearing to meve,
rtly because of the pins, which ‘marked some altera-
ns, partly in obedience to Sibyl.

When Mr. Rickman finally arrived, the dusk had
ywn so deep that he asked for candles, the delay in
hting which kept Alice still longer in her constrained
sition, so that at last, when she was properly illumi-
ted, and the old gentleman was scrutinizing her
ough his glasses, with murmurs of profound satis-
tion, she suddenly fell fainting full-length on the
‘pet, rumpling the satin folds, and crushing wreath
d veil indiscriminately together.

“Standing long in one position often produces that
ct,’ Mr. Rickman observed afterwards; “to move
t one limb relaxes the tension of every muscle.”

“It’s the most dreadful luck,” whispered the dress-

214 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

maker to the maids, who had assembled to look ®
“and the veil all crushed, and the dress spotted wif "
the water they threw over her face!” ba

The next day Sibyl and her father drove im
Medington to make some of the innumerable purchas
connected with the wedding, but Alice excused herd
from accompanying them.

“It is odd,” Sibyl said, when starting, “that so mad.
merchandise seems necessary to unite two loving heats.
When I marry I shall run away; then there can be ™
fuss, and money will be saved.”

“Zure enough,” Raysh Squire said, when he s¥
her drive through the village, smiling all over her brigh
face, “anybody med think she was a gwine to bk
married, instead of t’other. I never zeen such &
maid!”

Alice set off for a walk when the carriage bad
started; she passed through the fields above the churdr
yard, and saw Raysh at work, putting the final toud
to three little fresh-turfed graves.

“Prettier made graves than they you never zee,
Miss Alice,” he observed with pride. “A _ power ¢
thought goes into the digging o’ they little uns, and
shepherd he would hae ’em all put in separate, say what |
you would. I hreckon he made no count o’ the ladbour
he giv me.”

The little graves went to Alice’s heart; she knew —
what a bitter blank they made in her friend’s home, |
populous as that little home still was, and she went

THE WEDDING DRESS. 215

on her way, wondering at the mystery and sadness
life, and the silent heroism that bears so many

bart,

Hubert bounded on before or trotted at her side,

‘exed by mysteries, and keenly conscious of the

ure of a ramble over the downs. Some children

vere picking blackberries along the field-hedges, their

"Wares happy and stained with purple juice; they too
' "Were unvexed by moral problems.

. It was a chill gusty autumn day, with wan sun-
“gleams and flying scuds; storm-driven gulls flashed their
“‘sbright plumage against the black curtain of rain-cloud;
‘Delated swallows skimmed the ground, fluttering against
the wind; Nature was not in one of her sweetest moods,
yet she was fascinating rather than sad.

“If only one had not to live,” thought Alice, “if one
might mingle with Nature and be still.”

After some apparently aimless wandering, she caught
sight of what she was seeking, the figure of Daniel
Pink, moving heavily against the wind, which shook his
beard and lifted the cape of the old military great-coat
he wore over his smock-frock. He was driving some
sheep into a wattled fold, and she waited till he had
finished and finally secured his flock by binding a
hurdle to its staple. Then he went under the lee of a
hedge, and, taking off his coat, set to work to point
some ash-spars with his bill-hook. Alice then ap-
proached him with her usual friendly greeting, and the

216 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

lines on his rugged face softened. He folded his ot fie
and placed it on the bank as a seat for her. =

“Tis fine and loo here,” he said, “and you med
set down and hrest.”

So Alice sat down and watched the white chips
fly, with Hubert crouched at her feet, while Rough, the
shepherd’s dog, now partly superannuated and assisted
by a young and inexperienced dog, whose vagaries were
a source of much trouble to him, looked at the deer
hound with a mistrustful glance.

“Raysh has just finished turfing the little graves,
shepherd,” she said: “they look very peaceful.”

He made no reply, but looked away towards the
churchyard, which he could not see, and went on
chopping.

“You said once,” continued Alice, “that you gave
up fretting for them all at once—that you could bear
anything now.”

“Ay,” he replied, stopping in his work to look en-
quiringly at her.

“There is so much trouble in the world,” Alice
continued, “sometimes it seems so difficult to bear.”
The tears sprang to her eyes, and her words died away
in a sigh.

The shepherd sat down silently on a pile of ash
poles, and thought for a few seconds.

“Ay,” he replied at last. “When they dree was
took, I couldn’t zim to bear it nohow. The pretty ways
of ’em, and the little maid that knowing! The. biggest

THE WEDDING DRESS. 217

usn’t only dree year old. They knowd avore I'd a
wned the carner in the lane, they two, and they'd
un to meet me when I come home. ‘Vather, vather!’
ey’d cry out, and dance that pretty; and the littlest,
”d get his mother or his sister to hold en up. Vust
me I come home and they dree lying still and cold
doors, I pretty nigh went dead. After that I couldn’t
vide to come home no more till all was abed. One night,
mbing-time, ‘a month after I’d a buried them, I was
it alone atop of the down. Then I took on thinking,
unking of they dree and their pretty ways I could
aver see no more, and how they was took off avore
e could look hround and all, and I took on that
readful I zimmed to be tore asunder inside, and I
yuldn’t zim to hold up noways. I thought how I was
ever one for drink, and always done my best. There
‘as others done wrong, and their children was spared;
rere, it did zim that hard! Then, when I was like to
ve asunder with that went on inside of me, I zes to
reself, ‘Stand up, Dan’l Pink, and be a man! You’ve
had many mercies, and what be you to cry out agen
me above when trouble is zent?’ Then I zaid over
1e Belief, and it zimmed comforting, and I got up and
one zommat for the ship.”

Daniel Pink did not say all this straight off, but
1th many breaks and pauses, and much apparent cast-
ig about for words, symbols which are hard to come
t when one is not accustomed to handle them and turn
xem over and about at will; sometimes he stopped in

218 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

the middle of a sentence with a catch in his breath,
sometimes he looked at Alice for sympathy, sometimes
away over the windy landscape. But at this point his
manner altered; he turned his face from Alice and seemed
to forget her presence and his own identity and spoke
in a deeper key, more fluently and with less country
accent.

“I sat on the steps o’ the hut there,” he said, pomnt-
ing to a wheeled and movable house; “I was afeard to
goo in and lay down and leave the yowes, and I fell
athinking o’ they dree again, and the littlest that pretty!
Then it came over me agen as though I should nve
asunder, and I shet my teeth and bended my head
down and groaned, and held my arms tight over my
chest to keep it from bursting. "Twas the full o’ the
moon, and the grass white with hrime. I seen all as
plain as daylight, the ship feeding, and the new-dropped
lambs moving about, and the stars above, when I looked
up. Then out of the shade cast by the hill I seen a
man coming tow’rds me.”

The shepherd paused; his face changed, a solemn
rapt expression came over it—he was evidently forget-
ful of all around him. Alice held her breath and left
watching his face as she had been doing, covering her
own with her hand and bending a little forwards, her
arm stayed upon her knee. “A man,” he continued,
“tall, vurry tall and fine-made, and dressed like St. John
in Arden church window, with long curled hair and light
shining round his head. [ came over that still and

' THE WEDDING DRESS. 219

hushed, like when the wind falls at zunzet, and the sea’s
like glass and the barley stands without a shake. I
couldn’t so much as stand up, I was that holden. I
looked and looked, as though I could never leave off
looking. The ship took no notice, and he passed through
them, slow and solemn, with never a sound. I seen
the red marks on the hands and feet; but when he was
quite nigh, I could only look at the faice. °*Twas the
look in the eyes that went through me. [I caint say
what that look was like, it made me that happy and
quiet. The figure passed that close, the blue dress, the
colour of the sky, nigh touched me. I couldn’t turn
when he passed beyond; I was holden. But ’twas no
drame—the ship was moving about and feeding and
the lambs bleating as plain as day. When I could
turn, there was the moon shining bright as day, and the
frost on the grass and the stars above, and nothing
more. Then I zimmed that happy and light and peace-
ful—I knowed there was nothing I couldn’t bear after
that!”

The shepherd ceased speaking, but continued his
rapt gaze straight ahead, thinking thoughts that Alice
dared not interrupt by words.

At last he rose, took up his bill-hook and went on
pointing his spars.

“And nothing seems hard to bear now, shepherd?”
she asked presently.

“No, miss, nothing zims hard now. I med hae a

220 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

power o’ trouble yet, plase God I lives long enough,
but I ’lows I shaint never fret no more,” he replied.

The wind had sobbed itself to rest now, and the
sunset was blazing through great bars of rending cloud
in marvellous splendour. Alice’s feet seemed scarcely
to touch the ground as she sped homewards, deeply
touched and lifted up in heart, thinking thoughts that
no words could express.

Daniel Pink could not even read, he had scarcely
half a language with which to clothe his simple thoughts;
the mighty Past was to him a blank, the garnered treasure
of the thoughts of ages and the beautiful songs of great
poets, the glory of Art, and the refinements and adom-
ments of human life, were all denied to him. Yet
Alice’s heart bowed in reverence before him, he had
that which great prophets and mighty kings had desired
in vain. Could she not emulate his simple resignation?
she wondered. She had now reached the churchyard,
and leant on the low wall to look at the three little
graves.

Daily she had prayed to be a loving wife to Gervase
Rickman, and daily the thought of the marriage, now
the most obvious of duties, had grown more terrible,
until the simple incident of trying on the wedding-dress
had overpowered her. If she could but tear Edward
out of her heart and her heart with him, she would
willingly have done it. But since the unfortunate day
in the summer, when the news of her engagement burst
upon him, her peace had vanished; she could not forget

THE WEDDING DRESS. 221

his face, his silence, and his one swift glance into her
eyes. Yet here on this very spot he had offered him-
self to Sibyl.

It was too late to hesitate—she was as much bound
as if actually married; and her heart was incapable of
treachery, especially to Gervase, and to the old man
who hung upon her with such trustful dependence. To
marry this man, whom she liked but could not love,
was plainly her duty, to swerve from it was cowardice;
marriage was in her eyes a sacrament, love would
doubtless be given with it. Peace had come to Daniel
Pink, would it be denied her in due time? She would
wait patiently and shrink from no duty, however hard.

Alice little thought that at that very hour, a friar,
in the narrow solitude of his cell, was driving her from
his mind with literal scourging of the flesh, as if an
image so wholesome and so suggestive of good, could
in any wise harm. Truly peace and self-conquest come
in various guise, yet only by one way, the way of Faith
and Duty.

No vision shone upon Alice, nor did she use bodily
pain to conquer what seemed invincible; but at last she
walked home through the darkening fields with perfect
peace in her heart, confident that however her soul
might now shrink, she would have strength to be true
at the difficult moment and to the end. When she saw
Sibyl’s sweet face on reaching home, she returned her
smile frankly without inward self-reproach, listened with
due interest to the account she gave of the afternoon’s

222 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

business, and commended her purchases with sufficient
animation. Yet she was glad that Sibyl left her fora
few hours’ study; and when she was gone, she sank
into an arm-chair by the drawing-room fire thankful to
enjoy the luxury of solitude.

Mr. Rickman was busy in his study; the servants
were in another part of the house, which was very stil,
so still that the hall-clock’s ticking was audible and
every little movement in the rose-tree trained by the
window asserted itself. Through all this stillness, she
presently heard a carriage drive up and the door-bel
ring, and started into a listening attitude. “Gervase!”
she murmured, remembering that he had said he might
run down any day for a night or two.

It was not Gervase; for he did not open the door
and walk in, but waited while a servant came from
some remote attic, whence Alice heard her descend
the silence and pass from corridor to corridor, her foot:
steps echoing in Alice’s strained ears, and finally open
the door just as the visitor had raised his hand to mng
again.

Why should Alice’s heart beat so fast? She could
not hear more than a faint murmur of a man’s voice
when the door opened; she did not know what she ex-
pected. But when the maid tripped in and said, “Cap
tain Annesley wishes to see Miss Lingard,” she thought
that she had known who was there from the first, and,
with a presentiment that some crisis was approaching,
bade the maid show him up.

THE WEDDING DRESS. 223

She heard his step on every stair, and was glad of
e growing dusk to hide her face; the day when he
st came six years ago and saw her in that very room

the spring sunshine returned to her mind with all
; overwhelming associations. She could not remain
ill, but rose from her seat; it seemed as if she would
ave herself in better control standing than sitting.

So he came in and found her standing on the rug
ith the firelight upon her, and something in her face
xt easy to describe, though she received him calmly,
tying that she was surprised to see him, having sup-
posed him to be on the Continent.

“TI wished to see you alone ”? he said, with an air
rat impressed her and inspired her with dim fore-
oding. “I have something to tell you that will sur-
rise you.”

“No bad news, I hope?” she asked, faintly.

“You once asked me to tell you all that I knew of
zy cousin’s disappearance,” he continued. “I could
ot do so then. I can now. I believed that you loved
im, Alice, and that is how I interpreted your reason
or refusing me. What happened on that afternoon,
ou said, made it impossible for you ever to marry.”

“But I am going to be married,” she urged in a
aint voice.

“You are engaged to be married,” he corrected,
and perhaps you do not care to know what happened
m that afternoon. But you must know. It is Paul’s

224 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

wish. He is still living. He sends you a message,
and a letter.”

“Paul? Paul? not dead? Oh no!” she cried, past
ing her hand before her eyes as if to clear away the
mist rising before them. “What does this mean?”

“He is not dead. I have found him,” continued
Edward; “he has told me all—a// that passed betweea
you.”

Alice trembled and looked at him appealingly.
Why did he come thus to trouble her peace, and why
did he speak in that hard voice? It seemed as if be
was there to judge her.

“Stay,” she replied, “I know more than you think |
I heard you talking. I was under the trees when you |
passed. You made Gervase promise not to tell what
had occurred, especially not to tell me.”

“Do you know why I wished you not to know?”
he asked, almost fiercely. “I wished to spare you. |
thought you loved that poor fellow. JZ was told so.”

“What I felt then is now of no consequence,” It
turned Alice coldly. “But since I asked you to tell me
what you knew of that unfortunate affair, I must cer
tainly listen.”

“Thank you. In the meantime I will deliver Paul's
letter to you. Perhaps when you have read it you will
think that my story is unnecessary.”

Alice took the letter with a shaking hand, and
though it was now too dark to read it, she made ott
the superscription in the once familiar hand by the fire

THE WEDDING DRESS. 225

ight, and trembled very violently. “It is terrible,” she
faltered, “to read a letter from one you have so long
thought dead.”

“It will be better to read it, nevertheless,” he re-
plied remorselessly. Then, seeing a taper on the
writing-table, he. lighted it, placed it near the trembling,
agitated woman, and withdrew to the other side of the
room, looking out of the window into the gathering
night,—the window in which he had first seen her.

Alice was a long time reading that letter, though it
was not very lengthy, and was wntten and worded
clearly enough. The garden and the down beyond it
sank into deeper and deeper shadow while she read;
the trees lapsed into solid black masses; a stray, wan
star, peeped here and there through rents in the flying
clouds, and then a watery moon rose, and transfused
the black shapes with changing glory.

The silence deepened, the hall clock ticked steadily
through it. Edward continued motionless at the win-
dow, Alice motionless in her chair at the table, some
coals fell together in the grate, a bright flame leapt up
and cast its fitful radiance over the room, and over the
two silent figures; Sibyl’s cat stirred comfortably in her
slumber by the fire, and gave herself a cosy hug. Alice
wished almost that she had never been born.

At last she spoke, and there was some leaven of
contrition, some air of a convicted offender in her
manner.

“Captain Annesley,” she said, in a clear and even

The Raproach of Annesley. Il, VW

226 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

voice, “I once did you a great injustice, an injustice! inn
can never repair. It was not wholly my fault. Iw
—misled.”

Her voice changed and deepened with this if
word. Edward turned and saw her face clearly a
mined by the taper burning before her, and the
in it divided his heart like a sharp sword. But tet
was more than trouble in her face, there was somethilg
he had never pictured upon those gentle features *:
mingling of horror and indignation.

“Oh, Alice!” he cried, advancing towards
“ Alice!”

“Hush!” she replied, waving him back. “Do ye
know what this means? He was to have been my hts
band in a few days. He was my dearest friend.”

He stopped, thunderstruck, not z1mmediately pt
ceiving that she was speaking of Gervase, but smities
through with the keen anguish in her voice.

“What have I done?” he asked. “Oh, Alice! yo
did not love 4zm,’”’ he added, thinking that his comm
had only plunged her into deeper, perhaps irreparabk
sorrow.

“You should have spoken that day in the garden,
she continued, in a low, half-suppressed tone, “I had
right to know then. You should have spoken.”

“How could I speak?” he returned in surpn%
“He was dead. What passed was our secret. Pal
has spoken now—but even——” he stopped, he could
not say that he had come that night only to save he

THE WEDDING DRESS. 227

misery of marrying a man so false as Gervase

had risen in her trouble and stood in the full
the firelight. “This is the only home I have
wn!” she said, looking round the familiar room,
ging her hands together in her desperate pain.
sugh I did not love him, I trusted him. Oh!
isted that false man,” she added.

had not heard the door-bell ring, swift steps
hrough the hall and up the echoing stair, and
she faced the door, she was startled to see it
1 disclose the smiling and confident face of
Rickman.

15*

228 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

CHAPTER IV.

FACE TO FACE.

BRIGHT visions passed before Gervase Ricksiall
mental gaze as he drove from the station in the @
dusk, dreams in which love played a great pat,
ambition a greater.

In winning Alice he had won the desire of ¥
heart, a desire that would never have grown to Sm
mighty proportions but for the difficulties which hedgy
it round. The wedding-day was so near now, &
something of the coolness of certainty pervaded ls.
thoughts of it; he had even got so far as to pity hit
self with a pity tinctured by self-commendation for
sacrifices his approaching marriage involved. He kkt
that he ought to look higher than Alice Lingard 10%
personally she was all that even his wife should &
but, although her family was superior to his, she brougt
him no aristocratic connections, such as he needeb
The marriage might even hinder him from strengther
ing such connections as he had already formed, whit
as for her little fortune, which had once been so des
able an object to him, it would scarcely make any dt
ference to a man whose successful financial operatiom.

FACE TO FACE. 229

y assuming grander, though more perilous pro-
His marriage was indeed a most virtuous act.
not so young as she had been; life had taken
ness from her beauty, such as it was, and
1er features with an indelible record. Yet he
vy that beauty had never been hér greatest
it rather an inward something, which, when it
1en’s hearts, bound them to her with irresistible
certain air about her, a way of moving, smuil-
ing, or being silent, which filled the surround-
sphere with grace, and forged adamantine
jut the souls of her lovers. Virtue, in Rick-
e as in others, would bring its own reward.
), seldom-heard whisper from the very depths
art told him that while he clave to Alice he
uite done with his better nature; if he let her
uld part with the last restraints of conscience,
t must be confessed, which is a ternble in-
ce in a career of political ambition.

ambition, insatiable as it was, nevertheless
fair way of being gratified. Scarcely a year
d since he was returned for Medington, yet
‘fected much, especially during the recent
r the Conservative Reform Bill. In and out
ise he had done yeoman’s service, recognized
xy the leaders of the Opposition. He had
uitous; attending and speaking at meetings
meetings there, adding fuel to the fire of
gitation, which at that time blazed fiercely

230 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

enough, and he had been particularly useful at a}
election in which his party won a seat. Mrs. Wi
Annesley had renewed many of her former aristod
acquaintances in late years, and had given hm
cellent introductions, of which he had made the
use. He was well adapted for climbing the soa
der; he had good manners, tact and observation, {
speech and ready wit, and was absolutely imper
to the impertinence of social superiors, when it s
his purpose, otherwise a person whom it was
whole wise to respect. He was a brilliant speake
voice daily improved, and no amount of labou
hausted him.

Thus, with a long vista of political success op
brightly before him, and the prospect of domestic
piness filling the near distance, Gervase drove |
the door of his father’s house that autumn evening
knowing the family habits by heart, went lightly u
stairs to the drawing-room, where he thought t
Alice alone.

When he opened the door and saw her sti
with that strange look and despairing gesture
mingled lights of the fire and the solitary taper, '
something in her aspect gave him a shock, he su}
her to be alone; it was only when she spoke t
made out the dark figure of Edward Annesle
fronting her in the dimmer light of the further
the room.

“Gervase,” Alice said, gazing full upon hir

FACE TO FACE. 231

ut any salutation or preliminary whatever, “when I
oid you on the down that day that I had refused Ed-
vard Annesley solely because of what you witnessed
m the banks of the Doubs six years ago, why did you
ell me that I was guzte right?”

These two syllables, which had so often echoed
ainfully through his conscience, were uttered with so
keen an incisiveness that they cut into him like knives.
“ven his ready resource and iron nerve failed him for
he moment, and he stood speechless, looking in-
‘oluntarily from her to Annesley, as if for a solution of
he enigma. The latter returned his gaze with a stern
nbending contempt that failed to sting him in the
nzesthesia which paradoxically results from such ex-
essive pain as Alice’s look gave him.

“Why,” continued Alice, with a passionate scorn
rhich told all the more from its contrast with her usual
emeanour, “did you tell me that afternoon on the
cene of Paul’s death, that it would be to Edward
innesley’s discredit to reveal what actually occurred?”

“Discredit,” he returned, recovering his self-com-
nand, and taking refuge in a quibble, “was not the
vord, if I remember nghtly. We are not alone, my
lear Alice; you seem to be a little upset.”

She looked at him with increasing contempt.
‘Why,” she continued, “did you assure me that Ed-
yard Annesley loved your sister and had never more
han a passing fancy for me?”

“My dear child, do consider times and places a

232 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

little. If I told you that, it was doubtless because 1 Bx:
believed it. I was not alone in taking that view of the
situation.”

“Why,” she went on, “did you persuade Edwat
Annesley that I loved his cousin?”

“T was not alone in that opinion, either,” he replied
with a forced smile. “Captain Annesley,” he added,
“perhaps you will do me the favour of going into a
other room. Miss Lingard, as you perceive, is not in4
condition to receive visitors.”

“Quite so,” Edward replied, taking his hat, “I wil
choose another time to finish my interview with Mis
Lingard. My presence,” he added with unwonted
sarcasm, “must be excessively embarrassing.”

“No, Captain Annesley,” said Alice, in the same
incisive tones, “you will not leave this room. While
you are here, that man, false as he is, dares not deny
the truth of what I say.”

Gervase turned very pale, and all the sweetness
seemed to vanish out of his life for ever. It was dif-
ficult to vanquish this resolute spirit, but he had the
gift of knowing when he was beaten. He recognized
the hard fact that nothing, not even his strong im-
perious will, could now win Alice back. He heard the
knell of all his better aspirations in her words.

“Stay, Captain Annesley,” he said quietly, “since
Miss Lingard wishes it; though lovers’ quarrels are not
usually conducted in public. Perhaps, Alice, I may be

FACE TO FACE, 233

ermitted to ask why these reproaches are suddenly
urled at me in the presence of a third person?”

“Because that person has suffered the most from
1e web of falsehood and intrigue you have been weav-
ig all these years,” she replied.

“And he has come to complain to you,” returned
rervase. “Don’t you think, Annesley, it would have
een more manly, to say the least of it, to tax me
penly with whatever you have against me?”

“I have taxed you with nothing,” he replied. “I
ume here with the intention of replying to a question
liss Lingard asked me some years ago, but have not
und it necessary to do so. I have simply handed her
letter which explained all she wished to know.”

9

“You were in the confidence of both cousins,” con-
nued Alice, “and you abused the confidence of both.
ou were in my confidence, and you abused that.”
“By loving you and purposing to make you my
“Which you will never do,” she replied, drawing a
ng from her finger, and giving it to him.

Edward, who, since Gervase’s request to him to
‘ave the room, had been divided between the feeling
iat the request was reasonable and a desire to protect
lice, whose wish that he should stay showed a certain
tar of being alone with a man so treacherous, now
ecided that the only becoming course for him was to
o. He had already reached the door, when Sibyl,

ife

234 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

who had just been informed of her brother's amd,
opened it and came in.

“Captain Annesley!” she exclaimed, expecting ®
see Gervase only. “Qh! Gervase—Why, what is tk
matter, Alice?” she added.

“Dear Sibyl,” replied Alice, suddenly calming 0
more than her wonted gentleness, “we have just hada
severe shock. Paul Annesley is not dead.”

“Not dead!” replied Gervase. “Why, I saw him
die. Alice, you do not know what you are saying.”

“It is quite true,” added Edward; “he was swept
out of sight and washed ashore alive. I have sea
him. He will probably be in England before long. He
has become a Roman Catholic, and entered a religions
order, and a great deal has to be done before he ca
obtain permission to visit his mother, as he wishes 0
do.”

Sibyl listened with eager interest, as if her life de
pended on Edward’s words, and then on a sudden sit
burst into tears. “Oh! Edward,” she sobbed, “tht
truth must come out now and your name wil bk
cleared for ever. I always knew that this hour would
come.”

“You always believed in me, Sibyl,” Edward replied
with a slight quiver in his voice, while taking the hand
she frankly offered; “I think I never had a truer frend.
I only care really for what my frends think of me.”

Sibyl only smiled her gentle smile in reply, though
she did not quickly recover her calm, and Alice looked

FACE TO FACE. 235

at them with a strange expression not devoid of re-
roach.

“This is nonsense,” said Gervase; “if Paul Annesley
didn’t die, why in the world should he disappear?”

“He was tired of his life,” Edward replied.

“He thought,” Alice was explaining, “to make atone-
ment to the friend he had injured——”

“Alice,” interrupted Edward, “that is our secret,
remember, between us two and Mr. Gervase Rickman.”

“It will soon be no secret,” she replied; “that is
why Paul is coming to England, as he tells me in his
letter.”

“The whole story is incredible,” said Gervase im-
patiently. “Do you mean to say that Paul Annesley is
a monk? He will have some difficulty in proving his
identity here. No one who knew him would helieve
anything so preposterous. Paul of all men in the world
to turn monk indeed! Some monk is humbugging you,
Annesley, for the sake of getting the property. Besides,”
he added, “no religious order would receive a man
without a pension.”

“He was not without money,” Edward explained.
“The diamonds we saw at Neufchatel were in his pos-
session. Altogether he had about a thousand pounds,
as well as professional knowledge which would be use-
ful to a fmar.”

Yet Rickman believed the story. A letter from Paul
alone and nothing that Edward could have told her,
accounted for Alice’s strange behaviour to himself. The

236 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

superscription of the letter was shown him, and he ad-
mitted that it was a good imitation of Paul Annesley’s
handwriting.

He then left the room ostensibly to tell the news to
his father, who was happily absorbed in his favounte
studies and ignorant of all that was passing.

Edward had yet to break the intelligence to Mr.
Walter Annesley, for she had refused to admit him
when he called that afternoon. He hoped to get an
interview in the evening, and was hurrying off for the
purpose of making another tmial.

“I broke my news too roughly,” he said in wishing
Alice goodnight, for his hard manner to her vanished
after her stormy reception of Gervase. “It was nota
pleasant duty, and that spoils the temper,” he ex-
plained.

Alice looked down, then she looked up with her
eyes clouded with tears. “I owe it to you,” she faltered,
“to tell you all—how I came to misjudge you. But
not now.”

“Some day,” he replied with increasing gentleness,
“you shall tell me. When you feel inclined.”

“Alice,” Sibyl asked when he was gone, “what led you
to misjudge him? There is some mystery behind this.”

Alice took Sibyl’s bright face in her hands and
kissed it with a tenderness that almost surprised her.

“Never ask, Sibyl,” she replied; “let me as well as
others have the benefit of your loyal trust. You are
the best friend I ever had or ever shall have.”

FACE TO FACE. 237

A few minutes later Alice was in the hall, pacing
*stlessly to and fro, and trying to collect the fragments
f her shattered world, when Gervase issued from his
itther’s study, closing the door behind him, and ap-
roaching her.

“T shall return to town at once,” he said, thus
slieving her from a great embarrassment; “I have told
ry father that I found a telegram awaiting me here.”

“It is plain that we cannot be under the same roof
gain,” she replied.

“You will never forgive me,” he added gloomily.
Jacob was never forgiven for stealing 4zs blessing,
10ugh he got the blessing nevertheless. You asked
1e why I deceived you, Alice,” he added, his voice
eepening and touching her in spite of the loathing
ith which his perfidy inspired her. “It was because
loved you with such a love as men seldom feel. I
annot tell when it began—years before either of the
mnesleys thought of you; it never faltered —never.
‘ou never had and you never will have a more con-
tant and devoted lover——”

“Oh, hush, Gervase!” she sobbed, “do you think I
m made of stone? Were you not my only brother and
est friend? Are you not your mother’s son? Can you
ot think what a bitter thing it is to have to think ill
f you, to know of your cruel falseness?”

“No,” he interrupted quickly, “I cannot; you are
tone in comparison with me. You can never even

238 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Picture such a passion as mine to yourself, cold, hard,
Immaculate woman that you are!”

66 Gervase 1!»

“Listen, Alice,” he said, collecting himself and
curbing the fierce passion in his voice. ‘You have
three lovers, and, woman-like, will probably choose the
worst. Of these three, one attempted murder for the
love of you; one lied for your sake, though not for
your sake alone, for Sibyl’s happiness was at stake;
and one”—here he smiled a sarcastic smile—“he who
Saw and loved you the latest did not think it worth
while so much as to clear himself from a dreadful in-
putation for your sake. Which of these three, thunk
you, loved you the best?”

“He who loved honour and loyalty more,” replied
Alice, proudly and without hesitation. |

“And he proved it when he offered himself to an-
Other woman who had the good sense to reject the
cold-blooded——”

“Hush, Gervase! things are bitter enough already,”
Alice broke in; “do not embitter them more by idle
words. Let us part in peace.”

“Peace!”” echoed Gervase with a scornful laugh.
And he looked at the hearth fire in silence awhile.

When he spoke again his mood was altered.

“Alice,” he said gently, “do not let Sibyl despise me.”
_ “I will tell her nothing that I can avoid to your
discredit, Gervase,” she replied.

“IT have said nothing of breaking off our engage:

FACE TO FACE. 239

ent yet. Put it as you please, but do not break with
em, if you can help it. I hope you will not leave
em; my father ages visibly. We might part with a
utual conviction that we were unsuited to each other,”
: added with a sardonic smile.

So they agreed, and then Rickman’s carriage drove
», and Mr. Rickman and Sibyl came into the hall to
e him off.

‘Good-bye, Alice,” he said in his usual quiet manner,
hen he had parted with his father and sister.

“Good-bye,” she replied in a faint far-off voice.

She stood on the steps and watched the carriage till its
zhts diminished to points, and were finally swallowed
p in the dense dark night; while Gervase looked back at
ne graceful figure standing in the fan-shaped light stream-
ig from the open hall, till the bend of the road swept

from him, and his heart ached with a heavy despair.

Ambition, wealth, success, power—all was now no-

ung without Alice.

CHAPTER V.
RESTORATION.

Ir one could picture the feelings with which a dis-
mbodied soul, reclothed in the frail garment of its
10rtality, would revisit the scenes of its earthly life, one
right form some idea of the sensations which thnilled
he heart of Paul Annesley, when, after setting in

240 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

motion the machinery necessary to permit any imegt
larity in the life of a friar, he found himself in Englasl
clad once more in the long disused and almost forgot
personality which he had put off when, to use his om
expression, he left the world. Brother Sebastian, usy
another language, thinking other thoughts, deprived d
name and fame and liberty, not only of action, bit®
a certain degree of thought, branded as it were wih
the tonsure, and dressed in a garb which further
stamped him as one set apart from common huma
interests, having voluntarily undergone a_punishmett
more severe than any inflicted on the vilest cnmind
prisoner in civilized states; this poor, mortified, &
manned, if you will, and certainly half unhumanizd
Sebastian, who yet enjoyed a peace Paul Annesley had
never known—albeit a peace too deep, too like a
opium-trance to be wholesome and natural—had
come a familiar friend, while that fiery-hearted, unds
ciplined Paul was a stranger, and the once famila
faces which surrounded that Paul and his once familia
habits and thoughts were even more strange (0
Sebastian.

It needed no little courage in one so disaccustomed
to personal freedom and so weaned from the stir and
friction of ordinary life, once more to face the world,
especially in a land of heretics; but Sebastian, after five
minutes’ conversation with his cousin, whom he had
questioned as to his life with an eager rapidity tha
soon laid the whole situation bare to him, was 10

RESTORATION. 24t

immly convinced of the immediate necessity for repair-
tug the wrong he had unintentionally committed to
Aesitate an instant. The duty was equally obvious to
ais Superior fortunately, since the Superior was the
spring that set in motion the cogs and wheels of the
machinery which effected his bref escape to the
world.

In this dear little self-complacent island of ours,
where to see a nun was till late years the rarest occur-
rence, and where the garb of a monk is almost un-
known, we have fallen into a pleasant habit of assuming
that these cloistered lives have passed away with the
sshadows, sorrows, and discomforts of the middle ages.
Some of us have a hazy notion that printing, steam,
electricity, and the latest scientific dogma have put an
end to all that, and that the prophecy of Victor Hugo’s
printer, who looked from his press to Notre Dame and
said, “Ceci tuera cela,” is fulfilled, in spite of the fact
that this grand building, the imperfect symbol of a faith
that cannot die, still stands as it has stood for ages,
though many revolutions have rushed past it in bloody
waves and it has more than once echoed to the clang
of the invader’s arms.

Yet these phases of religious feeling still exist; un-
offending monks and nuns are just as real, though not
such insufferable nuisances, as the frantic Salvationers
who make day and night hideous with profane bawlings
in our streets; monks and nuns are in fact content to
plague only themselves and leave their neighbours in

The Reproach of Annesley. [. 16

242 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

peace. Thus when Medington folk saw a gentleman
in ordinary clerical attire, with shaven face and a skill
cap beneath his hat, and were told that this wasa
veritable friar, the thing seemed to them like a fay
tale, more especially when they were bid to recogux
in this calm clergyman the familiar form and face of
Paul Annesley, that smart and gay young doctor wih
the black-bearded face, the ready speech, and genul
though stately manners they once knew; and maty
were inclined to doubt until they spoke to him. Eva
then it was an eerie thing to hear the voice of a ma
so long reckoned among the dead, and whose st
visible link with his former self appeared to be a sa@
on the face; a man who had so closely followed tk
counsel of Thomas a Kempis as to have literally stamped
out his passions as we stamp out flames,—briefly, 1
have killed his veritable self, leaving little more thana
husk of acquired habit behind.

He remained some time in England, for he had mud
to do; and not only in the little world of Medington,
but also in London and at Chatham, where his cousin
was stationed and where he visited him, the two ap —
peared constantly together, so that the old scandal,
which had embittered almost every relation in Edward's
life for so many years, was publicly put to death
and done away with for ever. It was now clear
that Paul Annesley had not even been killed, much
jess murdered; it was equally clear that he would
not be on terms of such intimacy with a man who had

RESTORATION. 243

Caried to compass his death. The fact of his burying
Eainnself in a cloister gave a motive, however crazy,
“x his disappearance, and disposed people to be-
“ve that his desperate leap into the Doubs was
luntary and probably suicidal in intention. There
@re many theories on the subject, but the most gener-
lly accepted was that a sudden bound from poverty
tea wealth had developed the hereditary tendency
te insanity, a tendency further aggravated by the fatal
‘Woman known to be the cause of all human disaster.
e€ woman’s name varied, but on the whole. was un-
known. It had been said from the first that Rickman
Kknew more than he cared to say upon the matter, there
had even been a doubt as to whether he had not borne
false witness in the court of probate when giving the
evidence of Paul’s disappearance and supposed death,
necessary to obtain probate of his will. Although there
was still a mystery concerning both Edward’s where-
abouts at the moment of his cousin’s disappearance and
his obstinate silence upon the subject, the mystery was
no longer interpreted to his discredit.

Edward Annesley did not accomplish his pious
intention of breaking the news of her son’s restoration
to Mrs. Annesley, since that inflexibly vindictive woman
resolutely continued to shut the door in his face. The
task was therefore transferred to Alice Lingard, who
fulfilled it with the tenderness and tact to be expected
of her,

When the fact that her son lived finally burst upon

16*

244 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Mrs. Annesley, she seemed stunned and sat silent for
a long time.

“If he lives,” she said at last; “why is he not
here ?”

“Tt is a long story,” Alice replied, half-frightened a
the absence of joy, or any other emotion on the mother’s
part. “He was—unhappy——”

‘‘Why was my son unhappy?” asked Mrs. Annesley,
fixing a cold and terrible regard upon Alice.

“His letter will tell you,” replied Alice, trembling
inwardly.

“Give me that letter.”

“It is in Edward Annesley’s pqssession——”

“A forgery of his—I curse the day that young
man entered this house,” she cried, going white with
anger.

Alice tried to soothe her. “A great change has
come over Paul,” she said presently. ‘He is now very
religious.”

“That is indeed a change,” his mother replied with
involuntary sarcasm. “But why did he not return to
me after his accident? Surely he could not have been
imprisoned, kidnapped in a civilized country like
France?”

“No,” replied Alice, “he wished—he—entered 4
religious house.”

“What do you mean, Alice Lingard?” she exclaimed
in horror and agitation, “you cannot, dare not say that
my son is a monk.”

RESTORATION. 245

“Dear Mrs. Annesley. do not think of that; remember
©nly, that your son was dead and is alive again—that
you will soon look upon his face——~

“Never,” she cned, “never will I look upon the face
©f an apostate, an idolator, a shaven. craven fanatic.

€tter, ten thousand times better, he were in his grave
better anything than this. He is no son of mine—a
pist, a monk!”

“Your only son, your only child,’ Alice said re-
Proachfully.

The woman was human after all, and burst into a
Passion of weeping painful to see, but less painful than
the cold anger which went before and made Alice
Shudder to her heart’s core.

Suddenly she stopped and turned upon Alice. “I
See it all now. You did not love my son,” she cried,
“<and that made him hate his life.”

“No,” she replied, “I never pretended to love him,
Save as a friend. I grieved for him when he was lost.
I tried to supply his place to you.”

“You drove him to despair, you robbed me of my
only child,” she cned; “the curse of a childless widow is
upon you, Alice Lingard.”

“Do not say such things; you will be sorry here-
after. The shock has overpowered you, you do not
know what you are saying.” Alice did not know how
to comfort her, when she remembered that Paul was,
after all, dead to the outside world.

246 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Mrs. Annesley was silent, smiling a bitter smile, and
Alice rose and left her for awhile, hoping that sh
would calm down. She herself needed the relief of
solitude after this emotional strain, and going out into
.the garden, she sat beneath the yellowing linden-tree
and gave way to tears.

She accused herself of having driven Paul Annesley

to despair, she did not reflect that his own unbridled
nature had done the mischief. She had spoilt thre
men’s lives, and been the cause of guilt and misery ut
speakable, though through no fault of her own. Sie
could not love more than one—at least at a time; and
she certainly could not marry more than one. Sit
had loyally striven to suppress her own inclinations and
make the most worthy of the three happy, and she had
made them all miserable. She who could not bear to
give pain, even when most necessary and_ salutary,
seemed fated to mar instead of blessing the lives of
the men who loved her. That these three men should
Set their hearts upon her was hard, and surely 00
fault of hers. It was not as if she was so vet
beautiful, she reflected; Sibyl was infinitely prettier
and more pleasing; Sibyl charmed wherever she went
With her grace and sparkle; but Sibyl did not kindle
these deep and terrible passions in men’s hearts.
_ Though she had certainly tried to bring herself to
listen to each of them in turn, until each in turn had
Proved unworthy of a good woman’s regard, she had _
Never ted to attract either; ready as her sensitive cot-

RESTORATION. 247

Science was to accuse herself and excuse others, she
“ould not lay that to her charge, she knew well that
she had none of the graceful and unconscious coquetry
“which was one of Sibyl’s distinguishing charms; in her

smallest actions as well as thoughts she was transparent
and straightforward to a fault. It was true that she had
resigned her heart to Edward too quickly, at least the
world would say too quickly; for Alice knew in her
inmost heart that women have less power than men to
withhold their affections, and not more, as a brutal con-
ventionality assumes; that the deepest and best attach-
ments arise in this sudden and spontaneous way; but she
had never tried to captivate him, had rather held aloof
from him in her proud self-reverence. Why then had
all this fallen upon her, why was she the evil fate in the
three lives which were each in a way so dear to her?

When Alice had reached this point in her meditations,
the sound of Daniel Pink’s words returned to her mind,
“It seemed that hard!” She saw the shepherd’s weather-
beaten face, its ruggedness subdued by a sublime trust;
she thought of his hard life and many sorrows; she saw
him watching his sheep in the frosty moonlight, as he
had related, and the remembrance of what he had told
her quieted the rising murmurs in her heart.

She rose and returned to Mrs. Annesley, bearing in
mind the desolation and disappointments of a life that
was too near the downward verge to have much earthly
hope, and prepared to suffer ingratitude and upbraiding
in silence. _ |

248 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

Mrs. Annesley finally consented to receive her pro-
digal in consequence of a letter Gervase Rickman wrote
her. In this he condoled with her on the unfortunate
turn Paul’s religious feelings had taken, and made some
observations on the zealous proselytism of the Romish
Church, and of the esteem in which English pervert
were held at the Vatican, using the names of Wisema,
Manning and Newman, to point his moral and adan
his tale. Instantly on reading this, Mrs. Annesley
beheld a vision: she saw herself the mother of 4
cardinal, and relented.

Paul, daily besieged with tracts and masses of con-
troversial literature, and bombarded by arguments which
he heard chiefly in respectful and aggravating silence,
passed some time beneath his mother’s roof, scandalizing
the maids by sleeping on the floor and using no linen,
but otherwise conducting himself like an average
Christian, save that he was always going to chapel on
week-days. At his instance, Edward was also received
by his stern aunt. But she did not forgive him; the
true history of his part in her son’s virtual death made
her hate him more bitterly than ever.

When Paul finally left England, his mother felt his
loss even more severely than when she had supposed
him dead; and, being no longer sustained by the pro-
spect of vengeance, she gradually declined in health
and died in the course of a few years.

Sebastian found most sympathy and comprehension
in Edward. Though the latter did not doubt that Paul

—

RESTORATION. 249

tad done wrong in running away from the trouble he
tad brought upon himself, and wrong in renouncing
he duties and responsibilities of his life, he saw that
e could not turn back. Much as he disliked anything
pproaching to asceticism, he was inclined to think that
nature so fiery and so destitute of self-control needed
he iron discipline of monastic rule, as a confirmed
lrunkard needs the restraint of an asylum, and the
abit of total abstinence. Moderation seemed impos-
ible to such a man. But these lenient views of
1onasticism were spasmodic and were held generally
fter conversations in which the friar had spoken with
uurning and eloquent enthusiasm of the joys of self-
enunciation, of his hopes and aspirations, of the pro-
pects held out to him of more active employment, in
vhich his medical knowledge and other talents would
ve devoted to the service of men; and explained to
im that friars differed from monks in combining
he active with the contemplative life, a fact which
vas hard to dnve into his obtuse Protestant under-
tanding.

At those times it was impossible even for a practical
iard-headed Englishman not to see that Fnar Sebastian
vas a nobler being than Paul Annesley; though in
‘ooler moments he thought with pity and regret of his
ost friend, Paul, and was inclined to wish him back
igain, faults and all.

After an interview which Paul had with Alice in
he Manor garden one day, he gave up striving to

250 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

banish her from his thoughts, and suffered her to ret
there till the last hour of his life. He was sump
and glad to find himself quite calm in her pres
and recognized that the terrible yearning which
so distracted him was quite dead, and succeede
a pure and tender regard, so free from selfishnes
so content with absence, that even one vowed to
up all human ties need fear nothing from it. He
her a little crucifix, which she wore ever after
his face at the end of that interview had a
humanly happy look than it had worn for years.
he returned to his community he was so chang
this painful but wholesome contact with the worl
the brethren scarcely knew him. From that ti
austerities not imposed by the rule of his order «
and he regained his former bodily and mental
And if he regretted the vows he had taken, no
being ever knew.

Besides removing the imputation from his «
name, Paul had much to do to put him in po:
of his property. First he had to prove his ident
come to life legally, which was a troublesome bi
then he had to execute a voluntary conveyance
ferring the bulk of his landed property, which,
mentioned before, was not entailed, to Edward Ai
and a deed of gift by which his mother beca
legal owner of such property as had been assigi
by his will; a portion of |his property he reser
himself as an Englishman, and yielded to the fr

RESTORATION. | 251

=as a Dominican friar. Those who received him into

&he community had consented, in consideration of the

WHeculiar circumstances—amongst them his condition that
The could not take the vows if that involved touching
tthe property he had renounced to his cousin—to be
content with the small fortune he was then able to
bring.

All these things, as will readily be imagined, were
not effected without time and patience, and the aid of
learned and expensive lawyers; the last circumstance
is pleasant to reflect upon, because humane people
like to think that somebody—if only a stray lawyer
or so—is benefited by the chances and changes of this
mortal life.

When, after that pleasant interview with Alice,
Brother Sebastian went to the house to make his fare-
wells to Sibyl and Mr. Rickman, Alice remained behind
alone in the garden.

She was not a monk, but a young living woman,
with a warm and tender heart, and what had passed
between her and her former lover and present friend
had stirred that heart to its depths. She wandered
slowly along the garden paths, through the wicket to
the meadow, until she found herself under the dark
roof of the pine-trees, which swayed gently in low and
solemn music above her head.

It was winter, and the quiet grey day was drawing
to a close, the mild air taking a sharp edge as the sun

-52 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

sank. She paced the dry soft carpet of fir-needles,
with her faithful dog by her side, and a growing hap-
piness in her heart. Her youth had been troubled, and
she had borne a heavy yoke in riper years; that yoke
was now falling from her shoulders, and life, which
had been so bewildering and difficult, began to show
a clear and easy path for her weary feet—feet stil
young though so wearied by the stony mazes they had
trodden.

Sibyl and Mr. Rickman had taken the breaking of
her engagement with Gervase more gently than she
could have hoped; Sibyl had even said that she always
regarded the match as a mistake on both sides; Mr.
Rickman had comforted himself with the reflection that
he should not lose her. But he no longer clung to
Alice as he had done; he flung himself more now upon
Sibyl, which, after all, was more natural and desirable.
Sibyl’s affection for Alice was as great as ever, but
from that time Alice observed that a distance arose and
gradually widened between the brother and sister; she
supposed that Sibyl had some intuition of the truth, a
suspicion increased by Sibyl’s silence upon the relations
which had existed between Gervase and herself.

The grey sky overhead broke into pearly fragments,
tinted with gold and rose towards the west, where the
glowing sunset seemed to have consumed the last speck
of cloud; the fir-trunks looked incandescent in the warm
glow; Alice’s face was doubly transfigured with radiance
from within and from without, while she thought of all

RESTORATION. 253

“mat had passed, and how of the three caskets of lead,
€ ‘silver and of gold, the best was hers, and listened to
Eme tranquil country sounds, the hum of the threshing-
\achine in the yard below, the voice of the cowman
= aalling the cows by name and trudging home with the
=ast pails of milk, the evening song of the robin,
=sathetically cheerful, the cheery good-night of a
Labourer going homewards past the farm-yard.

Then she heard another and well-known footstep,
Weating quick even time on the lane which led by the
‘meadow to the back of the house, and a well-known
voice singing. The song stopped, for the singer caught
sight of her figure over the hedge in the evening glow,
and he went into the meadow instead of going to the
house, whither, with the ostensible purpose of announc-
ing the approaching marriage of his sister Eleanor with
Major Mcllvray, he was bound.

Alice turned towards him, the sunset clothing her
in raiment of living light; they had scarcely met since
the stormy evening when he brought Paul’s message,
and thus he had not heard the story she had then
promised to tell him. It seemed but a moment from
Edward’s first sight of her figure in the evening glory
till when he stood by her side beneath the soft mur-
murs of the pine-roof, thrilled through and through with
exquisite happiness.

“Dearest Alice,” he said, after some preliminary
words had passed and he had read her heart in her
face, “I think you are going to take me after all. I

254 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY,

never could believe it possible that we should live apatt,
even when we were most parted. First tell me why
you were so scornful to me. How in the world did
you come to think me such a mean sneaking fellow?
Some of Master Gervase’s work, no doubt.”

Alice looked distressed and turned her face towards
the sunset behind the black hills, till her features were
transfused and etherealized by the lucid glow.

“I wronged you,” she replied, “and owe you some
amends. Otherwise I would not speak of it.”

He did not like this distressed look. “Why,” he
asked, “should you hesitate to expose one of the greatest
scoundrels that ever breathed? Alice, you don’t mean
to say that you ever cared for that—-—”; he was ob
liged to stop for want of a sufficiently powerful epithet
“I know that he schemed and worried you into an
engagement.”

“I cared for him very much, and I promised his
mother on her death-bed, but I never loved him,” she
replied.

“Well, poor fellow! after all it must have been a
great temptation. My dearest Alice, you are quite sure
that you never loved him?” he added with a relapse to
anxiety.

Alice smiled, and Edward’s heart again admitted
€xtenuating circumstances in Gervase’s case. She then
Save him a brief but complete narrative of the manner

In which Gervase had blinded her, had twisted circum-
stances and misrepresented events until she had been

RESTORATION. 255

"Dliced, in spite of an underlying inner conviction to
Ss contrary, to accept Edward’s imputed guilt as truth.
«whenever Edward’s indignation rose to boiling-
Sint, a look in Alice’s face was sufficient to make him
Tard the delinquent with charity. But when, at his
by mnest request, she told him of the steps by which she
Ad gradually been led into the engagement, Gervase
AA Cce more became a villain of the deepest dye.
~~ “But after all,” he commented at the close of the
SScital, “he had more thorough and lasting feeling for
~<a than could be expected of such a scoundrel. And
~ aul cared only too much for you. It was more like
Sw fatuation with them; not that either of them ever
Reoved you as I do and did from the very first. It is
“strange that a woman should have such power,” he
Wreflected after a pause; “it is not as if you were so
Tunusually beautiful.”

“Really!” Alice commented with an amused smile.

““Because,” he added, surveying her with unmoved
gravity,. “you are not.”

Yet the Alice before him to-night was not the worn
and sorrowful woman he saw when he brought the tid-
ings that Paul was alive. The beauty of youth, with
something that youth, with all its graces, cannot have,
had returned to the face upturned to him with a serious
sweetness full of latent laughter. She was touched in
turn by the change which had recently come over his
face—the grim defiant look of late years was gone, the
old genial expression replaced it. Not Ulysses under

256 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

the touch of Athene was more brightened than Edwart
now the burden had fallen from him. This change
look, with many subsequent hints from hin, helped bt
to guess what he had suffered in silence, and made ke
feel that no devotion on her part would be too greatt
atone for what had gone by.

“No,” he continued gravely, “it is not beauty alae
If you do but turn your head, one’s heart must fol
and when you speak, it goes to the very centre of o«®
heart.”

“And yet you wanted to marry Sibyl?”

“Dear Sibyl! That rascal might have let his ss
alone. He persuaded me that her happiness was!
danger, and that she, as well as others, had mist
the nature of my friendship, and I was fool enough ®
believe him. Sibyl is one of the sweetest creatur
ever knew, Alice.”

“It appears, after all, that you would have preferred
Sibyl,” Alice said, smiling.

“Dear Sibyl,” he repeated gravely. “But,”
added, turning to Alice again with a bright smile
“she won’t have me. She told me that I was inl
with you. She advised me to wait. She said you wet
worth waiting for. She ought to know.”

Alice turned her face away and was silent.

“I think no one will ever know what she is worth’
she said at last.

“We shall never have a better friend,” he added)
and Alice echoed his words in her heart,

RESTORATION. 257

The sun sank; all the glory of its setting melted
into a warm violet tinge, filling the western sky, and
making the dark hillside show darker than ever against
the light; every sound was hushed save the tinkle of a
distant sheep-bell; cottage windows glowed warmly in
the village, showing where firesides were cheerful and
suppers spread; white rime-crystals were beginning to
sparkle on the cold grass, the stars had the keen
brilliance of frost; wise people were indoors; yet these
two lingered beneath the pines, unconscious of cold,
until even Hubert’s long-suffering came to an end, and
his displeased whines recalled them from beatified
cloudland to the solid earth.

Love begins in the warm morning of life, but does
not end with it; though the’ music of birds is hushed,
though evening chills come and hair is whitened by
the frost of years, it is still warm and bright in the
hearts of true lovers; there the sun always shines and-
the birds continually sing.

CHAPTER VI.
CONCLUSION.

‘“‘SHART of putten’ of ’em underground, you caint
never be zure on ’em,” Raysh Squire observed con-
cerning the re-appearance of Paul Annesley, against
whom he had secretly borne a grudge ever since the

The Reproach of Annesley, I. VT

258 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

irregular and unceremonious manner in which he left
the world. “Once you’ve a got vour veet of solid -
earth atop of ’em, you med warnt they'll bide quiet;
Buryen of mankind is a ongrateful traiide, but I hreckon.
there aint a surer traide nowhere. Ay, a dead azure -
tradde is buryen,” he added, not intending the grim pun.

These cheerful observations were part of Raysh
Squire’s contributions to the hilarity of the wedding .
party assembled in the great kitchen at Arden Manor-
to celebrate the marrage of Reuben Gale—who, after .
several winters spent in Algeria in the service of young |
Mrs. Reginald Annesley, had outgrown his consumptive
tendency—with one of Daniel Pink’s daughters, a
housemaid at the Manor.

“Right you be, Raysh,” rephed Mam Gale, “taint
often work of yourn has to be ondone. They med be
ever so naisy avore, they bides still enough when you've
adone with ’em.”

“Pretty nigh so sure as marryen, ‘your work is,
Raysh,” John Nobbs struck in with a view to divert
conversation to livelier channels.

“Ay, marryen agen,” continued Raysh, irritated by
the assumption that marrying was not his work, “tain't
nigh so zure as buryen; we’ve a-married many a man
twice over in Arden church. There’s wold Jackson,
you minds he, Master Nobbs? Vive times we married
en in Arden church, vive times over, to vive vine wo-
men buried alongside of en out in lytten. Dree on ’em
was widows.”

CONCLUSION. 259

“T don’t hold with so much marrying,” observed
the bridegroom, to whom these remarks were distaste-
ful. “Once in a lifetime is quite enough for any man,”
he added with a profound sigh and a serious air.

“What! tired of it aready, Hreub?” inquired his

- grandmother; and there was much laughter and rough
- joking at Reuben’s expense.
“Marryen,” observed Raysh, when people had ex-
hausted their mirth and were again amenable to elo-
quence, “is like vrostés and east winds, powerful
- onpleasant it es, but you caint do without it in the long
hrun.”

“Come, Raysh,” interrupted an old bachelor and
noted misogynist of at least thirty, “speak for yourself.”

“Yes, speak for yourself,” echoed Reuben.

“Vou caint do without it,” continued Raysh, scorn-
fully ignoring these interruptions, “if you wants to make
zure of a ooman. A wivveren sect they be. Shart of
gwine to church with ’em and changing of their name,
you caint be sure on ’em. Chop hround at the last
minute they will. Look at Mrs. Annesley, Miss Lingard
that was. John Cave had a-turned a coat hready for
me to marry her to Mr. Gervase, and I’d a-bought a
bran-new neck-cloth, and everything hready, and the
church scoured from top to bottom. That was vour
year ago come next Middlemass. Darned if I ever zeen
Mr. Merten look onluckier than a did that day.
‘Wedden,’ he ses, ‘there aint a-gwine to be no wedden,
Raysh,’ That was the first I yeard of it. Zimmed as

‘ Vi \)

260 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

though he’d a-knocked all the wind out of me whe
zaid that. The ways of the women volk is that wivveren
the best on ’em. A ondeniable sect is womankind, 2
ondeniable sect.”

Here John Nobbs, who was at the head of the table,
working steadily away at a mighty sirloin, observed tht
both parties had done better in the matrimonial lottey
than if that wedding had taken place. “Misself,” he
said, “I never giv my consent to that match. ‘They'll
never goo in double harness,’ I ses to misself, many 4
time when I zeen ’em together.”

“Ah, Master Nobbs, I don’t go with you,” sad
Jacob Gale. “Mr. Gervase have a looked too high
Tis agen nature for a man to look up to his wife. Lady
Sharlett comes of one of the highest vamilies in tt
land, and I warnt she’ll make en mind that.”

“Mis’able proud is Lady Sharlett,” said the gardener. |
“She was out in gairden a good hour one day, and
she took no more count of me than if I’d a ben a mal:
leyshag.” *

Here the discussion of Lady Charlotte’s peculianities
was cut short by the entrance of Mr. Rickman and
Sibyl, accompanied by Edward Annesley and Alice, the
latter carrying the two-year-old heir of Gledesworth,
whose birthday was being celebrated by a visit to Arden
Manor, and a great drinking of healths ensued, accom
panied by speech-making, in which Raysh Squire outdid

* Caterpillar.

E

xz.

CONCLUSION. 261

himself, and the bridegroom endured a purgatory of

; stammers, blushes, and breakdowns.

Yr.
w!

“TI cannot imagine,” Sibyl remarked, when the cere-
mony was over and the family had left the kitchen for
the garden, where they disposed themselves on various
seats beneath the apple-trees, now in bloom, “why men,
however sensible they may be, always look so foolish
when being married.”

“Don’t you think they have cause, Sibyl?” Edward
asked; “that a secret consciousness of their own
folly——”’

“Folly, indeed!” laughed Sibyl. “Now the brides
would do well to look silly or else sad. Yet they never
do. The shyest girl in the humblest class always wears
a subdued air of triumph at her marriage. Human
beings certainly are the oddest creatures.”

Here Mr. Rickman expressed a wish, after a long
dissertation concerning the gradual evolution of marriage
rites from primitive times till now, with some remarks
upon such customs as the bride presenting the bride-
groom with a whip and the throwing of rice, to see this
triumphant look upon Sibyl’s face before long.

“My dear papa, don’t you think I look triumphant
enough as it is?” she replied. “I exult in freedom;
let others hug their chains. Besides, I have you to
tyrannize over, so what do I want with a husband to
plague?”

She looked radiant enough, if not triumphant, as
she stood beneath the crimson apple-blossoms, with the

262 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

dappled sun-lights dancing over her, tossing the laugh-
ing boy above her curly head, her dark eyes sparkling
and the rich tints glowing in her cheeks. ‘Marmiage,
she would sometimes say, in answer to such observa
tions as this of Mr. Rickman’s, “is not one of my foibles.
I hke my brother-men and cannot bring myself to make
any of them miserable. And I like Miss Sibyl Rickman
and her peace of mind, and I like to write what I think,
which I could not do if married. Besides, what in the
world would people do if there were no old maids?”

Edward and Alice knew that they would have been
the poorer for her marriage, though they often wished
it. Both were certain that she had conquered the early
feeling which at one time threatened to make shipwreck
of her happiness, and this certitude made their constant
Intercourse with Sibyl very happy.

Alice had wished not to lve at Gledesworth. She
did not care for the state and circumstance of the great
house, and was oppressed by its traditions. She would
rather have left the property with Paul, to be absorbed
by his community, or passed it on to the next brother,
but Edward soon convinced her that such schemes
Were impracticable, that responsibilities cannot be evaded,
and finally that it was their duty to live, as much as
his military life permitted, at Gledesworth, which had
now become a charming home, the resort of a wide
Circle of friends and kinsfolk.

_ What with the provision for Paul’s mother, and the
@ice taken out for the Dominicans, the Gledesworth

CONCLUSION. 263

estate was so diminished that they were not over-

burdened with riches, and had to use some economy
to meet the charges entailed by the possession of land.
As for the hereditary curse, Annesley laughed that to
scorn, and had many a merry battle of words with
Sibyl upon the subject. The distich,* he argued, proved,
if anything, its own falsity, since Reginald Annesley’s
affliction ought to have broken the spell, which never-
theless continued to work upon two successive heirs
after him. But Sibyl maintained that Paul had broken

_ the spell in the Dominican convent. Very likely

Reginald had been immured in a brick building, she
would affirm with profound gravity.

“Your godson, Sibyl,” Edward said, taking the boy
from her arms, “will die when it pleases God, not be-
fore. And if he does not live to inherit Gledesworth,
it will not be because a widow cursed his ancestors
centuries ago. It may be from his own fault or folly,
indeed, though he is too like his mother to have many
faults. Poor Reuben’s children, I grant you, may in-
herit a curse.” And so he thought, will Gervase’s, but
theirs will be the curse of a crooked nature.

Gervase Rickman was then actually walking along
the grey-green ridge of down which rose behind the
Manor against the pale Apml sky. Business had called
him unexpectedly to Medington, which he represented,
and, leaving his carnage in the high road, with instruc-

* «“Whanne ye lord ys mewed in stonen celle,
Gledesworthe thanne shalle brake hys spelle.”

264 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

tions to wait at the Traveller's Rest, he descended the
slope and walked over the springy turf, looking dow
upon Arden and its familiar fields and trees, and upc
the very garden where Alice and Sibyl were making
cowslip-balls for the baby Annesley. The changeable
April day clouded over as he walked and gazed; the
blush of vivid green died from the trees and copses;
the plain darkened and the shadows in the hill-sides
deepened. The song birds were silent; the melanchoy
wail of a plover drew his attention to a single bis,
fluttering as if wounded before him, and trying in tts
simple pathetic cunning to draw his attention away
from the nest which that very cry betrayed.

On the bleak March day when he waited on that
down outside the Traveller’s Rest for Alice, he had
thought much of the omnipotence of human will, and ©
purposed to mould mankind to his own ends. Then
he was an obscure country lawyer, nursing an wD
suspected ambition in the depths of his heart. Now his
name was in every one’s mouth; he had climbed more than
one step towards the height he intended to scale. The
minister whose patronage had so early been his was
now in office. He had approved himself to his party
as a useful and almost indispensable instrument, part
cularly by the services he had rendered in the last
general election which restored the Liberals to power.
His financial skill was beginning to be recognized, his
name had weight in financial society, which he affected.
Everything he touched turned to gold. By his marniage

CONCLUSION. 265

with Lady Charlotte he was connected with half the
peerage and was son-in-law to a minister. Lady Char-
lotte, it is true, was neither so young as she had been,
nor so beautiful as she might have been, nor was she
well-dowered. She was known to have a tongue and
suspected of having a temper; but she was a woman
who knew the world both of politics and of society,
and was the most useful wife a man in his position
could possibly have. His ambition, great as it was,
was being more rapidly gratified than even he had ex-
pected. He had gained the world, and lost his soul.
But to-day he no longer believed in the omnipo-
tence of will and energy. He looked down upon the
roofs of Arden and thought of the severe check his will
had received there; he thought, too, of the unex-
pectedly favourable conjunction of affairs for him in other
respects, and acknowledged another power, which he
called destiny. What would the first Napoleon have
done, he mused, in peaceful England at this end of the
nineteenth century? If he had missed the Crimea and
the Mutiny, he might have nsen to be a half-pay officer;
had he been in time for those crises, he might have
been reckoned an excellent general, nothing more.
Beyond the unseen sea behind the hills rising before
Rickman’s eyes lay a country occupied by a hostile
army and torn by revolution. Why had not destiny
placed him there, where the hour was come, but not the
man to rule it?’ An eager fancy could almost hear the
far-off thunder of the war fitfully raging beyond that little

266 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

strip of sea, over whose quiet waters he actually heard
the boom of English guns, fired only in peaceful practice,
not at masses of living men. There, in the world’
beautiful pleasure city, an agony beyond all the agonie
of war was slowly wearing itself out through these plez
sant spring months, an agony then hidden within the
walls of Paris beleaguered by her own children, and
never fully to be known. Gervase Rickman gave a passing
thought to that tragedy and foresaw the flames and
discriminate slaughter in which it was before long to
terminate, when the Seine literally ran with French
blood shed by French hands, the tragedy of an unbridled
mob fitfully swayed by one or two fanatics in posses
sion of a great city, and he wondered at the weakness
of those who ought to have ruled.

Though he still believed more in men than in ir
stitutions, and scorned weakness above everything, he
did not believe as he had done that day by the Tra
veller’s Rest; his ambition had now risen from the vague
of golden visions into the clearness of reality, and he
could see how low was the highest summit within his
reach. Yet it was the sole object of his life, he cared
for nothing else. The human side of his character was
paralyzed on the day when he lost Alice. It was not
only that all his better instincts and nobler aspirations
died the moment his life was cut off from all tender
feelings and sundered from the purer influences of
hers, but in losing her he had to a certain extent lost
sibyl, and drifted away from those earlier and stronger

CONCLUSION. | 267

.ties which begin with life itself. Sibyl, the second good
genius of his life, was never again on the old terms
with him. Whenever they met there was an invisible,
impassable barrier between them; perhaps she knew all
_and despised him, as, he knew, Alice despised him.

All his life long, through wealth and power and grati-
fied ambition, he was to bear about the heavy pain of
having lost not Alice only, but her respect, of having
won not her love but her bitter scorn. He looked down
upon the Manor, where she was so frequent a guest
that he never went there himself without a previous in-
timation, lest they should meet, as it was tacitly under-
stood they could not, and he yearned for the old days
to live again, that he might act differently. Since he
was fated not to win her heart, which he saw clearly
now was beyond human volition, he might still have been
able to look in her face and see the old tender friendly
look in her eyes; and yet had he remained true to his
better self, he could never have succeeded as he was
to succeed when freed from scruples and rid of the
importunities of conscience. He would have lost the
world and saved his soul alive.

For some moments the old yearning returned with
such force at the sight of the pleasant paths in which
they had wandered together, that he thought he would
have been content to remain all his life in that quiet
spot, an obscure country lawyer, with Alice by his side,
with his old father to care for and Sibyl to take pride
. in. Not that he did not now take great pride in Sibyl! and

268 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

her increasing literary reputation, but it would have
been different if the dark shadow had not come be
tween them. But Lady Charlotte, who had been hs
wife four months, did not like Arden. Mr. Rickma
bored her, she was afraid of Sibyl and looked dowa
upon them all; he knew that she would put them farther
and farther asunder and himself farther and ever farther
from his nobler nature.

He leant upon the gate by which he was standing
with Alice on that summer evening, when he uttered
those two fatal words, “quite nght,” and reviewed all
that episode in his life, the inclination first springing
from a sordid thought of Alice’s fortune, then fostered
by the charm of her daily society, and strengthened by
the strong purpose with which he pursued every aim,
until 1t became a ruling passion, the frustration of which
tore away one-half of his character. He had played
skilfully and daringly, and he had lost through no folly,
for who could dream that a man would rise from the
dead to frustrate him? Will, skill, and fate were to him
the sole rulers of things human. He did not recognize
that nothing can stand which is not built upon the
eternal foundations of truth and justice.

Nevertheless, as he continued to gaze on the old
paternal fields in which he had passed his boyhood
and youth, a vague regret for what he might have
been, had he been only true to himself, rose and
mingled with the piercing sense of loss and moral humi-
liation, which never wholly left him, and he tumed

CONCLUSION. 3 269

ym Arden and walked on. Now his face was to-
urds Gledesworth which lay unseen behind the down,
d he gave one jealous passionate thought to the life
ice was living there with Edward Annesley, who was
rw no more shunned or shadowed by the reproach of
t unproved accusation, and yet another thought to the
range death in life of Paul Annesley.

And just then the coast guns boomed over the
zaceful waters again, recalling his thoughts to the
agedy beyond the sea. The group in the garden
elow heard the same low thunder, and Sibyl made
me jesting allusion to the Annesley gun, which had
st been triumphantly tested at Shoeburyness; and
dward thought of the deadly earnest with which
rench cannon were being fired on the other side of
iat sunny sea.

They did not know that, just then, under the walls
" Paris, while some men wounded after a repulse were
ping placed in an ambulance, a shot from the fort be-
ind them struck a friar who was in the act of lifting
1e last man, and killed him on the spot.

The wounded man groaned when his living support
ave way, but other hands raised him, and the am-
ulance moved away from the dangerous spot, leaving
xe dead man behind in their haste. He was one of
10se Dominicans, who, from the first outbreak of the
rar, had been in the field with the French armies. In
isengaging the slain friar from the man he was lifting,
rey had turned him so that he lay face upwards, his

270 THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY.

arms outstretched as in the restful slumber of youth,
his white dress stained crimson over the breast, his eyes
closed to the spring sunshine, his scarred face wearing
the sweet and peaceful smile often seen in the solder
killed in battle.

Thus Paul Annesley’s troubled soul passed heroically
to its rest.

Though they could not know what was happenmg
beyond the sea, a vague sadness in keeping with the
sudden overclouding of the spring day filled the hearts
of those to whom the slain man had been dear, a sa¢-
ness which passed like the cloud itself.

Even Gervase Rickman felt the passing gloom, and
shaking off the gentler memories of his life, and walking
quickly over the sunny turf where the scattered sheep
were feeding, he reached the sign- post beneath which
he was standing when Edward Annesley came singing
by years ago. There his carriage was waiting by the
Traveller’s Rest, and he sprang into it and was quickly
whirled out of sight.

The little group at Arden Manor were tranquilly
sitting beneath the apple-trees. Mr. Rickman, forgetful
of coins and antiquities, was patiently weaving daisy-
chains for little Paul, who called him grandfather, and
whom he loved more than the little Rickmans who
came after him; Alice was relating the family news--
the expected visit of her mother-in-law and Harriet to
Gledesworth, the probability that Major Mcllvray and

Eleanor would follow them; Wilfrid’s chances of pro-

CONCLUSION. 27 I

tion and his intention to marry; the appointment of
k, the youngest Annesley, to a ship, and the recent
it they had paid to Mrs. Walter Annesley, who was
ywing weaker day by day; the probability of Edward’s
iring from active service.

The shadows lengthened and the Annesleys went
ck to their pleasant home. Sibyl returned to the
dding party, led the dancing and listened to the sing-
r, and saw the bnde and bridegroom start for their
w home at the falling of the dusk.

When she was sitting by the hearth with her father
it night she mused on the different ways in which
man lives are ordered. As days of brilhant sunshine
1 blue skies are rare in England, so are lives of full
1 unclouded happiness in this world; but there are
ny sweet neutral-tinted days full of peace, in which
mts grow and birds sing, and the clouds break away
o soft glory at sunset. Sibyl’s life was like one of
‘se serene days; it was happy and by no means un-
itful.

THE END.

PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.

January 1892.

Tauchnitz Edition.

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