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CHAPTER I. ‘fi
9,

Olm- CASMHAINE was, the beauty of her county and her lin
the-handsemest a! all the handsonm women that had graced her race,
when she moved a century and a half ago down the stately staircase
and through the gilded and tapestried halls of Lilliesford. The town
had run mad nfter her, and her face leveled politics, and was cited as
admiringLy by the Whigs or St. James as by the Tories at the Cocoa-
me,“ x the bean: and Mohocks It Gagfmyfl as by the,_nlnmni at the
Greet“, by the wits at Will‘s as by the tops at Olindn’s. ' '

 

Myer she went, whether to the Haymnrket' or the Opera, to the

’Change for a fan or the {mace for a State bell, to'Dmryiflme. 00' the
Pastorai Philips’ dreu'y dilution of Racing-Or to some rm: chief of her

faction for basset and'ombre, she was surrounded. by  best men” of .

her time, and hated by Whig beauties-with vinamtwb‘, for she

was a Tory to the backbone, indeed a. .‘l’aeebite2 at‘heent;  I

Bolingbroke, detested Marlborough and Eugene; believedzm all th0
horrors of the programme said to have been plotted by the Whigs for
the anniversary show of 1711. and was thought to have promoted the

satire on those fair politician. who are disguan as Rosalinda and. ‘

Nigram'lla in the eighty-am paper of the Spectator. ‘

Cecil Cutiemaine Was the greatest beauty of her'd'ay, lovelier stjfl it? '

'four-and-twenty than she had been at seventeen, unwedded, though the

highest coronete in the lend had been offered to her; {archaic the ,
. ccquetteries and minauderies of her friends2 far above finite“ 0‘ “16
aflectetions of “Lady Betty Modley’s shuttle,” or need of W10"

  

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the Fan exercise; haughty, peerless, radiant, unwou—
nay, more—untouched; for the finest entleman on the
town could not flatter himself that he ha ever stirred the
slightest trace of interest in her, nor boast, as he stood in
the inner circle at the Chocolate-house (unless, indeed, he
lied more impudently than Tom Wharton himself), that he
had ever been honored by a glance of encouragement from
the Earl’s daughter. She was too proud to cheapen her-
self with co etry, too fastidious to care for her conquests
over those w o whispered to her through Nicolini’s song,
vied to have the privilege of carrying her fan, drove past
her windows in Soho Square, crowded about her in St.
J amesis Park, paid court even to her little spaniel Indamara,
and to catch but a glim se of her brocaded train as it swept
a ball-room floor, woul leave even their play at the Groom
Porter’s, Mrs. Oldfield in the green room, a night hunt with
Mohun and their brother Mohocks, a circle of wits thered
“ within the steam of the coffee-pot” at Will’s, a dinner at
Halifax’s, a su per at Bolingbrokc’s—whatever, according
to their severai) tastes, made their best entertainment and
was hardest to quit.

The highest suitors of the day sought her smile and sued
for her hand; men left the Court and the Mall to join the
Flanders arm before the lines at Bouchain less for loyal love
of England t an ho eless ’love of Cecil Castlemaine. Her
father vainly urge her not to fling away offers that
all the women at St. James’s envied her. She
was untouched and unwon, and when her friends, the
court beauties, the fine ladies, the coquettes of quality, ral-
lied her on her coldness" (envyin her ,her conquests),
she would smile her slight prou smile and bow her
stately head. “ Perhaps she was cold; she might be ;
they were personnable men? Oh yes! she had nothing
to say a ainst them. His Grace of Belamour ?—a pretty
wit, Wit out doubt. .Lord Millamont ?—Diverting, but
a coxcomb. 'He had beautiful hands; it was a pity he
was always thinking of them 1 Sir Gage Rivers ?—As
obsequjous a lover as the man in the fWay of the World,’
but she had heard he was ver , ul‘and facetious at
wom V. our his chocolate .at Ozmda’s'. The Earl of Argent?
A ga ' .soldier, surely, but whatever he might rotest, no
mistress Would ever rival 1with him the dice at t e Groom
Porter’s. LOrd Philip Bellairs ? A proper gentleman ; no
fault inhim; abel espritand an elegant courtier; pleased
many, no doubt, but he did not please her overmuch. Per-
haps her taste was too fanica o  character too cold, as
they said. She preferred it s on d so.“ When you were
content it were folly to seek a change. For her part, she failed
to comprehend how women could stoop to flutter their fans'and
choose their ribbons,and rack their tirewoman’s brains for new
pulvillios, and lappets,.and devices, and practice their curtsy
and recovery beforevtheir pier-glass, for no better aim or
stake than to draw the glance and win the praise of men
for whom they cared nothing. A woman who had the elo-
quence of beauty and a true pride should be above heed for
such afi'ectations, pleasure in such applause!”

So she would put them all aside and turn the tables on
her friends, and go on her own way, proud, peerless Cecil
Castlemaine, conquering and unconquered ; and Steele
must have had her name in his thoughts, and honored it
heartily and sincerely, when he wrote one Tuesda , on
the 2lst of October, under the domino of his Churc Co-
quette, “ I say I do honor to those who can be coquettes and
are. not such, but I despise all who would be so, and, in
despair of arriving at it themselves, hate and vilify all those
who can.” A definition justly drawn by his keen, quick
graver, though doubtless it only excited the ire of, and was
entirely lost upon, those who read the paper over their dish
of bohea, or over their toilette, while they shifted a atch
for an hour before: (they could determine it, or regretted the
loss of ten guineas at crim .

Cecil Castlemaine was the beauty of the Town: when
she,,sat at Drury Lane on the Tory side of the house, the
devgutest admirer of Oldfield or Mrs. Porter scarcel heard

a word of the Heroic Daughter, or the Amorous Wi ow, and

 

the “beau fullest of his own dear self” forgot his silver-
fringed loves, his medallion snufi' box, his knotted cravat,
his clou ed cane, the slaughter that he planned to do from gaz-
ing at her where she eat as though she were reigning sovereign
at St. J ames’s, the Castlemaine diamonds flashing crescent-
like above her brow. At church and court, at ark and assem-
bly, there were none who could eclipse that aughty gentle-
woman; therefore her fond women friends who hadcaressed her
so warmly and so gracefully, and pulled her to pieces behind
her back, if they could, so eager] over their dainty cups of
tea in an afternoon visit, were g ad, one and all, when on
“ Barnabybright,” Anglice, the 22d (then the 11th) of June,
the great Castlemaine chariot, with its three herons b‘lazoned
on its coroneted panels, its laced liveries and gilded har-
ness, rolled over the heavy, ill-made roads down into the
country in almost princely pomp, the peasants pouring out
from the wayside cottages to stare at my lord’s coach.

It was said in the town that a portly divine, who wore
his scarf as one of the cha lains to the Earl of Castle-
maine, had prattled somew at indiscreetly at Child’s of
his patron’s politics ; that certain cipher letters had

assed the Channel inclosed in chocolate cakes as soon as
‘rench goods were again imported after the peace of
Utrecht; that gentlemen in high places were strongly sus-
pected of mischievous designs against the tranquility of the
country and government; that the Earl had, among others,
received a friendly hint from a relative in power to absent
himself for a while from the court where he was not best
trusted, and the town where an incautious word might be
picked up and lead to Tower Hill, and amuse himself at his
goodly castle of Lilliesford, where the red deer would not
spy upon him, and the dark beechwoods would tell no tales.
And the ladies of quality, her dear friends and sisters, were
glad when they heard it as they unted at basset and flut-
tered their fans complacently. e would have the field
for themselves, for a season, while cil Castlemaine was
immured inher manor of Lilliesford; would be free of her
beauty to eclipse them at the next birthday, be quit of their
most dreaded rival, their most omnipotent leader of fashion ;
and they rejoiced at the whisper of the cipher letter, the
damaginglgossipry of the Whig coffee-houses, the bad repute
into whi_ my 0rd Earl had grown at St. James’s, at the
misfortune of their friend—in a word, as human nature, mas-
culine or feminine, will ever do—to its shame be it spoken—
unless the fomes peccati be more completely wrung out of it
than it ever has been since the an el Gabnel performed that
work of purification on the infant ahomet. .

It was the June of the ear ’15, and the coming disaffec-
tion was seething and balling secretly among the Tories;
the impeachment of Ormond and Bolingbroke had stren th-
ened the distaste to the new-come Hanoverian pack, t eir
attainder had been the blast of air needed to excite the
smolderingwwood to flame, the gentlemen of that party in
the South gan to grow impatient of the intrusion of the

distant German branch, to think lovingly of the old legiti-

mate line, and to feel something of the chafin irritation :of
the gentlemen of the North, who were fretting like stag-
hounds held in leash.

Envoys assed to and fro between St. Germain, and Ja-
cobite nob es, priests of the church who had fallen out of
favor and were typified as the Scarlet Woman by a rival
who, though successful, was still bitter, plotted with ecclesi-
astical relish in the task; letters were conveyed in rolls of
innocent lace, plans were forwarded in frosted confections,
messages were passed in invisible cipher that defied investi-
gation. The times were dan erous; full of plot and coun-
terplot, of risk and danger, ofgfomenting pI'OjeCtS and hidden
disafi'ection—times in which men, living habitually over
mines, learned to like the uncertainty, and to think life fla-
vorless without the chance of losing it any hour; and things
being in this state, the Earl of Castlemaine deemed it pru—
dent to take the counsel of his friend in power, and retire
from London for a while, perhaps for the safety of his own
person, perhaps for the advancement of his cause, either of

 

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CECIL CASTLEMAINES GAGE. 3

 

 

which were easier insured at his seat in the western counties
than amidst the Whigs of the capital.

The castle of Lilliesford was bowered in the thick woods
of the western counties, a giant pile built by Norman ma-
sons. Troo of deer herded under the gold-green beechen
boughs, the sunlight glistened through the aisles of the
trees, and quivered down on to the thick moss, and ferns,
and tangled grass that grew under the park woodlands;
the water-lilies clustered on the river, and the swans “float-
ed double, swan and shadow,” under the leaves that
swept into the water; then, when Cecil Castlemaine came
down to share her father’s retirement, as now, when her
name and titles on the gold plate of a coffin that lies
with others of her race in the mausoleum across the
park, where winter snows and summer sun-ra are alike
to those who sleep within, is all that tells at illiesford of
the loveliest woman of her time who once reigned there as
mistress.

The country was in its glad green midsummer beauty,
and the musk-rosebuds bloomed in profuse luxuriance over
the chill marble of the terraces, and scattered their delicate
odorous tale in fragrant showers on the sward of the
lawns, w on Cecil Castlemaine came down to what she
termed her exile. The morning was fair and cloudless, its
sunbeams piercing through the darkest glades in the wood-
lands, the thickest shroud of the ivy, the deepest-hued pane
of the mullioned windows, as she passed down the great
staircase where lords and gentlewomen of her race azed on
her from the canvas of Ler and Jamesone, Bour in and
Vandyke, crossed the hall with her dainty step, so stately
yet so light, and standing by the window of her own bower-
room, was lured out on to the terrace overlooking the west
side of the park. A

She made such a icture as Vandyke would have liked to
paint, with her gol en glow u on her, and the musk-roses
clusterin about her round 9 pilasters of marble—the
white, chill marble to which Belamour and many other of
her lovers of the court and town had often likened her. Van-
dyke would have lingered loving] on the hand that rested
on her stag-hound’s head, won]; have caught 'her air of
court-like ace and - dignity, would have painted with de-
lighted fi elity'he‘r deep azure eyes, her proud brow, her
delicate lips arched haughtin like a cupid’s bow, would have
icked out every fold of her sweeping train, every play of
ght on her silken skirts, every dainty tracery of her point-
lace. Yet even painted by Sir Anthon , that perfect master
of art and elegance, though more finished, it could have
hardly been more faithful, more instinct with grace, and

_ a life, and dignity, than a sketch drawn of her shortly after
that time by one who loved her well, which is still hanging

in the gallery at Lilliesford, lighted up by the afternoon sun
when it streams in through the western windows.

Cecil Castlemaine stood on the terrace looking over the
lawns and gardens through the opening vistas of meeting
boughs and-interlaced leaves to the woods and hills be ond,
fused in a 80% mist of green and urple with her hand yiug
carelessly .on her hound’s bro head. She was a zealous
Tory, a skilled politician, and her thoughts were busy with
the opes and fears, the chances for and against, of a.cause

, that lay near her heart, but whose plans were yet immature,

whose first blow was yet unatruck, and whose well-wishers
were sanguine of a success they had not yet hazarded,
though they hardly ventured to whisper to each other their
previous designs and desires. Her thoughts were far away,
and she hardly heeded the beauty ronnd her, musing on
schemes and projects dear to her party, that would. imperil

the Castlemaine coronet, but would serve the only royal '

house the Castlemaine line had ever in their hearts acknowl-

ed ed. 7

She had regretted leaving the Town, moreover; a leader
of the-mode, a wit, a woman of the World, she missed her ac-
customed sphere; she was nopastoral Phyllis, no country-
Pofd Mistress Fiddy, to pass her time in provincial pleasures,
in fling cordial waters, in tending her beau-pots, in re-
serving her fillet: rose-leaves, in inspecting the confections

in the still-room; as little was she able, like many fine ladies
when in similar exile, to while it away by scolding her tire-
woman, and sorting a suit of ribbons, in ordering a set of
gilded leather hangings from Chelsea for the state chambers,
and yawning over chocolate in her bed till mid—day. She
regretted leaving the Town, not for Belamour, nor Argent,
nor any of those who vainly hoped, as they glanced at the
little mirror in the lids of their snuff-boxes, that they mi ht
have graven themselves were it ever so faintl , in er
thoughts; but for the wits, the leasures, the chaice clique,
the accustomed circle to which s e was so used, the courtly,
brilliant town-life where she was wont to reign.

So she stood on the terrace the first morning of her exile,
her thoughts far away, with the loyal entlemen of the
North, and the banished court at St. ermain, the lids
drooping proudly over her haughty eyes, and her li half
parted with a faint smile of trium h in the visions 'inned

y ambition and imagination, whi e the wind softly stirred
the rich lace of her bodice, and her fingers lay li htly, yet
firmly, on the head of her stag-hound. She looked up at
last as she heard the tin of a horse’s hoofs, and saw a sorrel,
covered with dust and 0am, spurred up the avenue, which,
rounding past the terrace, swept on to the front entrance;
the sorrel looked wellnigh s ent, and his rider somewhat
worn and languid, as a man might do with justice who had
been in boot and saddle twenty-four hours at the stretch,
scarce sto ping for a stou of wine; but he lifted his hat,
and bOWed) down to his as dle—bow as he passed her.

“ Wasvit the long-looked-for messenger with definite news
from St. Germain ?” wondered Lady Cecil, as her hound
gave out a deep-tongued bay of anger at the stranger. She
went back into her bower-room, and toyed absently with
her flowered handkerchief, broidering a stalk to a violet-
leaf, and wondering what additional ho the horseman
might have brought to strengthen the goo Cause, till her
servants brought word that his Lordship prayed the plea—
sure of her presence in the octagon-room. Whereatv she
rose, and swept through the long corridors, entered the

octagon-room, the sunbeams gathering about her rich dress I

as they passed through the stained-glass oriels, and saluted
the new-comer, when her father presented him to her as their
trust and welcome friend and envoy, Sir Fulke Ravens-
wort , with her careless dignity and queenly grace, that
nameless air which was too highly bred to be condescention,
but markedly and proudly repelled familiarity, and signed a
pale of distance beyond which none must intrude.

The new-comer was a tall and handsome man, of noble
presence, bronaed by foreign suns, pale and jaded just now
with hard riding, while his dark silver-laced suit was
splashed and covered with dust; but as he bowed low to
her, critical Cecil Castlemaine saw that not Belamour him-
self could have better grace, not my Lord Millamont court-
lier mien or whiter hands, and listened with gracious air to
what her father unfolded to her of his mission from St. Ger-
main, whither he had come, at, great personal risk, in many
disguises, and at breathless speed, to place in their hands a

recious letter in cypher rom James Stuart to his well-
beloved and 10yal subject Herbert George, Earl of Castle-
maine. A letter spoken of with closed doors and in 10w
whis rs, loyal as was the household, supreme as the Earl
ruledpzirer his domains of Lilliesford, for these were times
when men mistrusted those of their own blood, and' when
the ve
spy an betray—when they almost feared the silk that tied
a missive should babble of its contents, and the bound that.
sle t beside them should read and tell their thou hts.
0 leave Lilliesford would be danger to the nvoy and
danger to the Cause; to stay as guest was to disarm suspi-
cion. The messe r who had brought such priceless news
must rest within the shelter of. his roof; too much were
risked by returning to the French coast yet a While, or even
by joinin Mar or Derwentwater, so the Earl enforced his Will
upon the nvo ,‘ and the Envoy thanked him and accepted.

Perchance t e beauty, whose eyes he had seen lighten

 

and proud brow flush as she read (the royal greeting Manda,

figures on the tapestry seemed instinct with life to ‘

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CECIL CASTLEMAINE’S GAGE.

 

injunction, made a sojourn near her presence not distaste-
ful; perchance he cared little where he stayed till the
drawing time of action and of risln should arrive, when he
should take the field and fight ti 1 life or death for the
“ White Rose and the long heads of hair.” He was a sol-
dier of fortune, a poor gentleman with no patrimony but his
name, no chance of distinction save by his sword; sworn to
:1 cause whose star was set forever; for many years his life
had been of changing adventure and shifting chances, now
fighting with Berwick at Almanza, now risking his life in
some delicate and dangerous errand for James Stuart that
could not have been trusted so well to any other oflicer about
St. Germain; allant to rashness, yet with much of the ac-
umen of the diplomatist, he was invaluable to his Court and
Cause, but, Stuart-like, men-like, they hastened to employ,
but ever ii) at to reward!

Lad Cecil missed her town-life, and did not over-favor
her exrle in the western counties. To note down on her
Mother’s tablets the drowsy homilies droned out by the
chaplain on a Sabbath noon, to pla at crambo, to talk with
her tirewomen of new washes for t e skin, to pass her hours
away in knotting ?-—-she, whom Steele might have writ of
when he drew his character of Ewdoms'a, could wile her ex-
ile with none of these insanities; neither could she consort
with gentry who seemed to her a little better than the bears
of a country wake, who had never heard of Mr. Spectator
and knew nothing of Mr. Cowley, countrywomen whose
ambition was in their cowslip wines, fox-hunters more ignor-
ant'and uncouth than the dumb brutes they followed.

Who was there for miles around with whom she could
stoop to associate, with whom she cared to exchan e a word ?
Madam from the Vicarage, in her 0 ram, learn in syrups,
slaves, and possets ? Country L untifuls, with gossip
of the village and the ultry-yard ? Provincial Peeresses,
who had never been to ondon since Queen Anne’s corona-
tiOn ? A squirearchy, who knew of no music save the con-
cert of the stop-hounds, no court save the court of the coun-
t assize, no literature unless by miracle ’t were Tarleton’s

eats? None such as these could cross the inlaid oak ar-
uet of Lilliesford, and be ushered into the presence 0 soil

astlemaine. I

So the presence of the Chevalier’s messenger was not alto.
gether unwelcome and distasteful to er. She saw him but lit-
tle, merely conversin at table with im with that distant and
dignified courtesy w ich marked her out from the light, free,
inconsequent manners in voge with other women 0 quality
of her time; the air which had chilled half the softest things
even on Belamour’s lips, and kept the vainest ooxcomb hesi-
tating and abashed.

But by degrees she observed that the Envoy was a man
who had lived in many countries and in many courts, was
well versed in the tongues of France and Italy and Spain—
in' their bellesolettres, too, moreover—and had served his
apprenticeship to good compan in the salons at Versailles,
in the audience-room of the atican, at the receptions of
the Duchess du Maine, and with the banished family at
St. Germain. He spoke with a high and sanguine spirit
of the troublous times approachin and the beloved
Cause whose crisis was at hand, which chimed in with
her humor better than the fli ancies of Belamour, the
airy nothings of Millamont. e was but a soldier of
fortune, a poor gentleman who, named to her in the
town, would have had never a word, and would have been
unnoted amidst the crowding beaux who clustered round
to hold her fan and hear how she had been pleasured
with the drolleries of Weft: la Mode. But down in the
western counties she dei ed to listen to the Prince’s
oflicer, to smile-4i smile eautiful when it came on her
proud-1129, as the play of light on the Opals.of her jeWeled
stomae r—nay, even to be amused when he spoke of the
women of forei courts, to be interested when he told
which was but re uctantly, of his own pen'ls, escapes, and
adventures, to discourse with him, riding home under the
baud: avenues from hawking, or standing on the western
terrace at curfew to watch thesunset,of msuythisgsou

 

which the nobles of the Mall and the gentlemen about 'St'.
J ames’s had never been allowed to share her'opinions. For
Lady Cecil was deeply read (unusually deeply for her day,
since fine ladies of her rank and fashion mostly contented
themselves with skimming a romance of Scuderi’syor an act
of Aurungzebe); but she rarely s oke of those things, save
perchance now and then to Mr. ddison.

Fulke Ravensworth never flattered her, moreover, and
flattery was a honeyed confection of which she had long
been cloyed; he even praised bo dly before her other women
of beauty and grace whom he had. seen at Versailles, at
Sceaux, and at St. Germain; neither did he defer to her per-
petually, but where he differed would combat her sentiments
courteous] but firmly. Thou h a soldier and a man of
action, he ad an admirable skill at the limner’s art~ could
read to her the Divina Commedia, or the comedies o Lope
da’ Vega, and transfer crabbed Latin and abstruse Greek
into elegant English for her pleasures, and though a beggared
gentleman of most precarious fortunes, he would speak of

ife and its chances, of the Cause and its perils, with a daring
which she found preferable to the lisped languor of the men
of the town, who had no better campaigns than laying siege
to a prude, cared for no other weapons than their toilettes
and snuff-boxes, and sought no other excitement than a.
cou d’ eclat with the lion-tumblers. .

the whole, through these long midsummer days, Lady
Cecil found the Envoy from St. Germain a com anion that
did not suit her ill, sought less the solitude of or bower-
room, and listened graciously to him in the long twilight
hours, while the evening dews gathered/in the on s of the
musk-roses, and the star-rays began to quiver on- t 8 water-
lilies floating on the river below, that murmured along, with
endless song, under the beechen-boughs. A certain softness
stole over her, relaxing the cold hauteur of which Belamour had
so often complaincd, giving a nameless charm, supply' a
nameless something, lat-Ling before, in the beauty of 'Fhe
Castlemaine. '

She would stroke, half sadly, the smooth feathers of her
tartaret falcon Gabrielle when Fulke Ravensworth brought
her the bird from the ostreger’s wrist, with its azure velvet
hood, and silver bells and Jesses. She would wonder, as she
glanced through Corneille or Congreve, Phili ' or Petrarca,
what it was, this passion of love, of which all treated,
on which they all turned, no matter how ifl'erent their
strain. And now and then would come over her cheek and
brow a faint fitnt wavering flush, delicate and changing as
the flush from the rose-hued reflections of western clouds on
a statue of Pharos marble, and then she would start and
reuse herself, and wonder what she ailed, and grow once
more haughtg, calm, stately, dazzling, but ch 1 as the
Castlemaine iamonds that she wore.

So the summer-timo passed, and the autumn came, the
corn-lands brown with- harvest, the hazel-copses strewn
with fallen nuts, .the beech-leaves turni into reddened
gold. As the wheat ripened but to meett e sickle, as the
nuts grew but to fall, as the leaves turned to gold but to
wither, so the sanguine hopes, the 10nd ambitions of men,
strengthened and matured only to fade into disappoint-
ment apd destruction! Four months had s by since
the Prince’s messenger had come to Lillies ord—mouths
that had gone swiftly with him as some sweet delicious
dream; and the time had come when he had orders to
ride north, secretly and swiftl , speak with Mr. Fomel‘
and other gentlemen concern in the meditated rising,
and convey despatches and instructions to the Elf-r1 01'
Mar; for Prince James was projecting soon to jam his
loyal adherents in- Scotland, and the critical moment Was
close at hand, the moment When, to Fulko Ravengworthh
high and sanguine courage, victory seemed certain; fail-
are, if no treachery marred, no disseasion weakened, un-
possible; the moment to which he looked for honor. suc-

cess, distinction, that should. give him claim: and title to

man, cool-oldies though he was, he

aspire-whore .9 S I
has fancied nature out from the golden

shrank from dra '

haze of immature ope, lest he should 800 it wither upon

 

«4

 

 

,2}

hereditary, liked-her

 

CECIL CASTLEMAINE‘S GAGE. ' 5

 

 

closer sight. He was but a landless adventurer, with nothing
but his sword and his honor, and kings he knew were slow
topay back benefits, or recollect the hands that hewed them
free passage to their thrones.

Cecil Castlemaiae stood within the window of her ~bower~
room, the red light of the October sun glittering on her
gold-broidered skirt and her corsa e sewn with opals and
emeralds; her hand was pressed li htly on her bosom, as
though some pain were throbbing t ere; it was new this un-
rest, this weariness, this vague weight that hun upon her;
it was the perils of their Cause, she told hersefi'; the risks
her father ran: it was weak, childish, unworthy a Castle-
maine l Still the pain throbbed there.

Her hound, asleep beside her, raised his head with a low
growl as a ste intruded on the sanctity of the bower-room,
then compos hiinself again to slumber, satisfied it was no
foe. His mistress turned slowly; she knew the horses
waited; she had shunned this ceremony of farewell, and
sieve: thought any would be bold enough to venture here
without. permission sought and gained.

“ Lady Cecil, I could not go u t n my way without one
word of parting. Pardon me if have beentoo rash to seek
it here.”

Why was it that his brief frank words ever leased her
better than Belamour’s most honeyed phrases, 'llamont’s
suavest periods ? She scarcely could have told, save that
there were in them an earnestness and truth new and rare
to her ear and to her heart.

She pressed her hand closer on the Opals—the jewels of
calamity—and smiled:

, 1‘ Assuredly I wish you God speed, Sir Fulke, and safe is-
sue from all perils.” »

He bowed low; then raised himself to his fullest height,
and stood beside her, Watching the light play upon the
o ls : '

p?‘ That is all you vouchsafe me ?”

“ All? It is as much as you would claim, sir, is it not 1‘
It is more than I would say to many.” a

_“ Your ardon—it is more than I should claim if prudence
were ever y, if reason always ruled l I have no right to
ask for, seek for, even wish for, more; such . petitions may
only be adressed by men of wealth and of high title; a land-.
less' soldigr should have no pride to sting,no heart to
wound; t ey are the prerogative of ahap‘pier fortune.”

4 Her  , . white.» but she answers haughtily; the,
crimson , H _ main her jewels, heirlooms priceless and.
,eutyandhsr ride: I ,- I
“ This is strange. language, sir I fail to apprehend
on.” - . ..
y “ You have nevervthonght that I ran a danger deadlier
than that which I have everlislted on any field? ’ You have

: Epic}, sensed. that I have  the madness, the presump-
 e' crime—it may be in year eyes—to love on.”

e‘color flushed to her face, crimsoning .ev'en er brow,
and. then fled back. Her first instinct was insulted pride—a
hggfied entleman, a landless soldier, spoke to her of love !
-.—-9 .ve ——which Belamour had barely had .courage , to
whisper of ; which none had dared to sue of her in return.

, He ventured to feel this for her! he hadjventpred to

speak of thistpher! _ . , p
The Enyqy saw the r'ming resentment, the 'de spoken
.in ever has of her delicate face, and stop her as, she

Would ave spoken. V
“, Wait 1 know all you would reply, You think it
 daring, presumption that merits highest re-

60 ”.

Pr“ Since you divined so justly, it were pity you subjected
yourself. and me to this most useless, most unexpected inter-
View.  .

.“ Why? ~ Because, perchanqe. in this life you will see my
face no more, and you Will think gently, mercifully of my
afiens'e (if ofi'ense it be to love you more than life, and only

‘ than honor),an you know that I have fallen for the

 

whomsoever proffered; Elizabeth Stuart saw no shame to
her in the devotion of William Craven!”

Cecil Castlemaine stood in the crimson glo of the au-
tumn sunset, her head erect, her pride unsha en, but her
heart stirred strangely and unwoutedly. It smote the one
with bitter pain, to think a penniless exile should thus dare
to speak of what princes and dukes had almost fearedto
whis er; what had she done—what had she said, to give
him icense for such liberty? It stirred the other with a
tremulous warmth, a vague, sweet pleasure, that were never
visitants there before; but that she scouted instantly as
Weakness,- folly, debasement, in the Last of the Castle-
maines. '

He saw well encugh what assed within her, what made
her eyes so troubled, yet her row and lips so proudly set,
and he bent nearer toward her, the great love that was in
him trembling in his voice: 

“ Lady Cecil, hear me 1 If in the coming struggle I win
distinction, honor, rank—if victory come to us, and the
King we serve remember me in his prosperit as he does
now in his adversit —-if I can meet youhere r with tid-
ings of triumph an success, my name made one which Eng-
land breathes with praise and pride, honors gained such as
even you will deem worthy of your line—then—then—will
you let me speak of what you refuse to hearken to now——
then may I come to you, and seek a gentler answer ‘1’” ,

She looked for a moment upon his face, as it bent toward
her in the radiance of the sunset light, the hope that hopes
all things listening in his eyes, the high-souled daring of a
gallant and sanguine s irit flushing his forehead, the loud
throbs of his heart audible in the stillness around; and her
proud eyes grew softer, her lips quivered for an instant. .

Then she turned toward him with queenly grace:

(S  I”

It was s ken with statel digni' 't , thou h scarce above
her breath?but the hue cht waveged in hgr cheek was but
the lovelier, for the pride that would not let her es droo
nor her tears rise, would not let her utter one so er we; .
That one word cost her much. That single utterance was
much from Cecil Castlemaine. -

Her handkerchief lay at her feet, a delicate, costlytoy, of
lace, embroidered with her shield and. chifire;he stooped
and raised it, and thrust it in his breast to treasure it there.

“ If I fail,-I..send this back in token that I renounce all
hope; if I can come to on with honor and with fame, this
shallbe my age; that may speak, that you will listen 3’?

,She bowef her noble hea , ever heldhaucghtily, as the h
every'crOWn of Europe had a right to cir e it; his hot _ps
lingered for a moment on her hand; then Cecil ‘Castlemaine
stood alone in the window of her bower-room, her

ressed again upon the Opals under which her heart was

eating With a dull, weary sin, looking out over the land-
scape, where._the golden ves were falling ii‘a‘st, and he
river, tossing sadly dead branches on its waves, was -
meaning in laintive language the summer days gone by..

Two mou s came an went, the beech bong black and
sear, creaked in the bleak December winds at sighed
through frozen ferns and over the couches of chivering eer,
the snow drifted up on the marble terrace, and icedrcps
clung where the warm rosy petals of the musk rosebuds had
nestled. .Across the country came terrible whis rs that
struck ,the hearts of men of lo a1 faith to the W'Kiete 
with a bolt of ice—cold terror an despair. Messengers. rid-
in inth haste, open-mouthed peasants gossi {113 by the
vi age forge, horsemen who tamed for a brth ess rest at
alehonsexdpors, Whig divines who returned thanks for God’s
most FYECIODS mercy in vouchsafing . victory to the strong,
all  d the tale, all spread the news of the drawn battle of
Sheriff-Muir, of the surrender under Preston walls, of I 0
flight of Prince James. The tidings came one by oneto il-
liesford, where my Lord Earl was holding himself , in 
ness to co-operate with the ntlemen of the North to set
up the royal standard, broi ered by his dau hter’s hands,
in the western counties, and proclaim James “ sovere‘ n

 

, with year name in my heart. held .onlyethe dearer be-
cause nevean my lips! Sincere love- can no insult .to

lord and king of the realms of Great Britau, and Irelan .”

a. ..  hr“ .- .4 “wuhird We , _.,

. .Vv . a". 4. ,m. , ._
_ -..-. “.4... w.-..-..,‘ v. . -

 

  

o CECIL CASTLEMAINE’S GAGE.

 

 

 

The tidings came to Lilliesford, and Cecil Castlemaine
clenched her white jeweled hands in passionate anguish
that a Stuart should have fled before the traitor of Arg 11,
instead of dying with his face toward the rebel crew; that
men had lived who could choose surrender instead of heroic
death; that she had not been there, at Preston, to shame
them with a woman’s reading of coura e and of loyalty,
and show them how to fall with a. doome city rather than
yield captive to a foe !

Perhaps amidst her 'ef for her Prince and for his cause
min led—as the dead iest thought of all—a memory of a
brig t roud face, that had bent toward her with tender
love an touching grace a month before, and that might
now be lying pale and cold, turned upward to the winter
stars, on t e old of Sheriff-Muir.

A year rolled by. Twelve months had fled since the gild-
ed carriage of the Castlemaines, with the lordly blazonment
upon its panels, its princely retinue and stately pomp, had
come down into the western counties. The bones were
crumbling white in the coflins in the TOWer, and the skulls
over Temple Bar had bleached white in winter snows and
springtide suns; Kenmuir had gone to a sleep that knew no
wakening, and Derwentwater ad laid his fair young head
down for a thankless cause ; the heather bloomed over the
mounds of dead on the plains of Sheriff-Muir, and the yel-
low gorse blossomed under the cit walls of Preston.

Another summer had dawned, right and Ian hing, over
England; none the less fair for human lives lai down, for
human hopes crushed out; daisies powdering the turf sodden
with human blood, birds carolling their son over graves of
hea u dead. The musk-roses tossed their delicate heads
again amidst the marble pilasters, and the hawthorn boughs
shook their fragrant buds into the river at Lilliesford, the
purple hills lay wrap d in sunny mist, and hyacinth bells
mingled with the tan ed grass and fern under the woodland
shades, where the re deer nestled happily. Herons plumed
their silvery wings down by the water side, swallows circled
in sultry air above the great bell tower, and wood pigeons
oooed with soft love notes among the leafy branches. Yet
the Countess of Castlemaine, last of her race, sole owner of
the lands that spread around her, stood on the rose terrace,
finding no {py in the sunlight about her, no melody in the
song of the irds.

S e was the last of her name; her father, broken-hearted
at the news from Dumblain and Preston, had died the
very day after his lodgment in the Tower. There was
no heir male of his line, and the title had assed to his
dau hter; there had been thoughts of con scation and
atta§uder, but others, whom to her, solicited 'what
she scorned to ask for herself, and the greed of the hungry
“HanOVerian pack” spared the lands and the revenues of
Lilliesford. In hauohty pride in lonely mourning, the fair-
est beauty of the Caourt and Town withdrew again to the
solitude of her western counties, and tarried there, dwelling

. amidst her women and her almost regal household, in the

sacred solitude of grief, wherein none might intrude.
Proud Cecil Castlemaine was yet prouder than of ore;
alone, sorrowing for her ruined Cause and exiled H
she would hold converse with none of those who had had a
hand in drawing down the disastrous fate she mourned,
and only her staghound could have seen the weariness
upon her face when she bent down to him, or Gabrielle
the falcon felt "her hand tremble when it stroked her
folded wings. She stood on the terrace, looding over her
spreadin ands, not the water-lime on the nver below
whiter t an her lips, pressed painfully together. Perhaps
she repented of certain words, spoken to one whom now she
would never again behold—perhaps she thought of that
delicate toy that was to have been brought back in victor
and hope, that now might lie stained and stifl'ened wit
blood next a lifeless heart, for never a Word in the twelve
months gone by bad there come to Lilliesford as tidings of
Fulke Ravensworth.

Her pride was dear to her, dearer than an ht else; she

had spoken as was her right to speak, she had one what be-

ing, q

 

came a Castlemaine; it would have been weakness to have
acted otherwise; what was he—a landless soldier—that he
should have dared as he had dared? Yet the sables she
wore were not solely for the dead Earl, not solely for the
lost Stuarts the hot mists that would blind the eyes of Cecil
Castlemaine, as hours swelled to days, and days to months,
and she—the flattered beaut of the Court and Town—
stayed in self-chosen solitude m her halls of Lilliesford, still
unwedded and unwon.

The noon-hours chimed from the bell-tOWer, and the
sunny beauty of the morning but weighed with heavier sad-
ness on her heart; the song of the birds, the bus hum of
the gnats, the joyous ring of the silver bell roun her pet
fawn s neck, as it darted from her side under the dr00ping
boughs—none touched an answering chord of gladness in
her. She stood lookin over her stretching woodlands in
deep thought, so deep t at she heard no step over the lawn
beneath, nor saw the frightened rush of the deer, as a boy,
crouching among the tangled ferns, spran up from his hid-
ingplace under the beechen branches, an stood on the ter-
race before her, craving her pardon in childish, yet fearless
tones. She turned, bending on him that lance which had
made the oVer-bold glance of princes fall a ashed. The boy
was but a little tatterdemahon to have ventured thus ab-
ruptly into the presence of the Countess of Castlemaine;
sti I it was with some touch of a page’s grace that he bowed
before her.

“Lady, I crave your pardon, but my master bade me
watch for you, though I watched till midnight.”

“ Your master ‘3”

A flush, warm as that on the leaves of the musk-roses,
rose to her face for an instant, then faded as suddenly. The
boy did not notice her words, but went on in an eager whis-
per, lancing anxiously round, as a hare would glance fear-
lng t e hunters. ,

“And told me when I saw you not to s his name,
but only to give you this as his gage, that t on h all else is
lost he has not forgot his honor nor your wilf”

Cecil Castlemaine spoke no word, but she stretched out
her hand and took it——her own costly toy of cambric and
lace, with her broidered shield and coronet.

“Your master! Then—he lives?”

“Lady, he bade me as no more. You have his mes—
sage; I must tell no furt er.” '

She laid her hand upon his shoulder, a light, snow-
white hand, yet one that held him now in a else of steel.

“Child! answer me at-your peril 1 Tell me of im whom
you call your master. Tell me all—quick—quick !”

“ You are his friend ?” v _ _

“ His friend ‘P My Heaven! Speak on I” .

“ He bade me tell no more on peril of his heaviest anger;
but if you are his fi'iend, I sure may s eh What'you should
know without me. It is a or frien , lady, who has used
to ask whether another be ead or living!”

The scarlet blood flamed in the Countess’ blanched fare,
she signed him on with im tuous command; she was un-
usedkto disobedience, and t e child’s words out her to' the
me '

“ Sir Fulke sails for the Fr0noh coast to-morrow ni ,”
the boy went on, in tremulous haste. “ He was 1 .for
dead—our men ran one way, and Argyll’s men the other—
on the field of Sherif-Muir ; and sure if he d not
been strong indeed, he would have died that awful night,
untended, on the bleak moor, with the winds rearing round
him, and his life ebbing away. He was not one of those
who fled; you know that of him if you know an ht. ‘We
got him away before dawn, Donald and I, and hi him in a
shieling; he was In the fever then, and knew nothing that
was done to him, only he ke t that bit of lace in his hand for _
weeks and weeks, and woul not let us stir it from his grasp.
What magic there was in it we Wondered often, but t’was' a
magic, mayhap, that got him well at last; it was an even
chance but that he’d died, God bless him! though we did
what best we could. We’ve been wanderin in the Hi -
lands all the year, hiding‘here and tarrying t ere. Sir Fu e

 

 

LITTLE GRAND AND

THE MARCHIONESS. 7

 

We“ no count upon his life. Sure I think be thanks us little fox
- gettin him through the fever of the wounds, but he could
not 6 borne to be pinioned, you know, lady, like a thief,
and hung up by the brutes of Whigs, as a butcher hangs
shee in the shambles! The worst of the danger’s over—-
they ve had their fill of the slau hter; but we sail to-mor-
. .w night for the French coast— ngland’s no place for my
master. ’

Cecil Castlemaine let up her hold upon the boy, and her
hand closed convulsively u n the dainty handkerchief—her

e sent 80 faithfully bac to her!

I e child looked upon her face; perchance, in his master’s
delirium, he had caught some knowledge of the story that
hun that broidered toy.

“ f you are his friend. madame, doubtless you have some
last word to send him ?”

Cecil Castlemaine, whom nothing moved, whom nothing
softened, bowed her head at the simple question, her heart
-wrestling sorely, her lips set to ether in unwerving pride, a

mist before her haughty eyes, t e hroidered shield upon her
handkerchief—the shield of her stately and unyielding race
—-pressed close against her breast. _

“ You have no word for him, lady 1’”

Her lips parted; she signed him awny. Was this child to
see her ielding to such weakness ? Had she, Countess of
Castlemame, no better ride, no better strength, no better
power of resolve, than t is ?

The boy Hufiered.

“ I will tell it Fulke then, lady, that the ruined have no
Meade 1'” .
" Whiter and prouder still grew the delicate beauty of her
face; she raised her state y head, haughtily as she 
used to lance over a glittering Court, where each valce
murmureg praise of her loveliness and reproach of her cold-

. ness; and placed the fragile toy of lace back in the boy’s
hands.‘

“Go, seek your master, and give him this in gage Ithat
their calamity makes friends more dear to us than their suc-
cess. Go, he will know its meaning 1”

' In lace of the noon chimes the curfew was rin ‘
fi-om, th

8mg
e bell-tower, the swallows were gone to roost amidst
e ivy, and the herons slept with their heads under their
 Win among the rushes b the riverside, the ferns
'and wild hyacinths-we're damp with evening dew, and the
summ$ starlight glistened amidst the quivering woodland
leaves. There was the silence of coming night over the vast
forest hides, and no scund broke the lesdtillness, save tfie
son 0 the grassh r stirrin the tan grasses, or t e
awegt low sigh ofoi:J 0 west w nd fannifig the bells of the
sewers Cecil Castlemaine steed once more on the rose-
 shrcuded in the dense twilight shade flung from
above" by the beech-boughs, waiting, listening, catching
'eVer'y rustle of the leaves, every tremor of the heads of the
'roses, yet hearing nothin in the stillness around but the
quick, uncertain throbs 0 her heart beating like the wing
06' a c bird under its costly lace. Pride was forgotten
at is!) , and she onl remembered—fear and love.

'In t e silence and t e solitude came aste that she knew,
came a ’ cc that she felt. She bowed or head u n
her han s ' it was new to her this weakness, this terror, t is
anguish of joy; she sou ht to calm herself to steel herself,
to summon bask her pride, her strength; she scorned herself
for it all !

His hand touched lll‘el'. his voice fell on her ear once more,

r breathle bro en. __
egg.C’ocill Geo?! is this true ? Is my ruin thrice blessed,
or am I mad and dream of heaven ?” .

She lifted her head and looked at him with her 013 proud

glance, her lips trembling with words that all her pride
could not summon into speech; then her eyes filled Wlth
 blinding tears, and softened to new beauty—scarce
louder than the si h of the wind among the flower-bells
 her words to halite Ravensworth’s car, as her royal
head bowed on hisbreast.

 

“Stay, stay ! Or, if
your danger my danger I

The kerchief is a treasured heirloom to her descendants
now, and fair women of her race who inherit hem her her
azure eyes and her queenly race, will recall how the
proudest Countess of their Line oved aruined gentleman so
well that she was wedded to him at even, - in! her rivate
chapel, at the hour of his greatest peril, his lowest ortune,
and went with him across the seas till friendly intercession
in hi h places gained them royal permiwion ‘to dwall again
at Li liesford unmolestcd. And how it was ever noticeable
to those who murmured at her coldness and her' pride, that
Cecil Castlemain‘e, cold and negligent as of orel'toall the
world beside, Would seek her husband’s sm‘ 0', and loveto
meet his eyes, and cherish her beauty for his and be
restless in his absence, even for the short span of a day, with
a- softer and more clin'g‘in tenderness than was found in
many weaker, many humb er women. ' -' ' 2-  -

They are gone now the men and women of that genera-
tion, and their voices came only to us thrtmgh the Saint echo
of their written words. In summer nights the old beech
trees toss their leaves in the silvery light of the stars, and the
river flows on unchanged, with the ceaseless, mournful bur-
den of its mystic song, the same now as in mid-summer of
a century and a half The cobweb handkerchief lies be-
fore me with its broidered shield; the same as long
years since, when it was treasured close in» a soldier’s breast,
and held by him dearer than all save his liquor and'his
word. So things pulseless-and passionless endure, and 'hu-
man life passes away as swiftly as a song dies ofi“_ from the
air—as quickly succeeded, and as quickly forgot I- Roth

you fly, your exile shall be my exile,
” .

refrain is the refrain of our lives :

Le temps s’en vs, le temps s’en va, ma dame?!
Las I le temps, non ; mals n‘ousncus, en allonsl _

r, 

 

LITI‘LE GRAND AND THE- Manonronm; _-
on, '
OUR MALTESE PEERAG I 1

ALL first things are voted the best; first ' kisses, first, we
virilis, first hair of the'first whisker; first s ‘ c es are often

so an ‘or that menbers subside after malt n’ ‘I ,‘em, fea‘ ,
of e ipsing themselves; first money“ well is ‘ , must f ,-
ways he the best, as it is always the dearest”. ' , gm; and
first wives are always so an excellent, that,if aman 
one, he is generally as fe of hazarding theiecondas’a
troutof biting thce. 1‘ ’ , i" " 
But of all first things commend me to one’s first‘unifor'm.

l

. ’ . '1

.No matter that we get sick of harness, and get' into mhtti

as soon as we can now; there is no more quuisite pleasure
than the first sight of one’s self rinwshako and 
How we survey ourselves in the glass, and flu fbr gt
water, that the handsome housem‘llld'ma see us ‘all r
glory, and lounge accidentally’into our slster’s sch lrooni,
that the governess,- who is nice looking and rather fi‘i 'ay,‘ 
go down on the spot before us and our scarlet "an gol
chains and buttons! One’s first uniform! ‘Oh! the exqui-
site sensation locked up for us in that first box from Sagua-
relli, or Bond street l -
I remember my first uniform. I was 'ei teen—as raw
a oung cub as you could want to see. had" not been
lic ed into shape by a public school, whose ten 43'. maybe
rough, but cleans ofl‘ grievances and nonsense . tter than
anything else. I had been in that hotbed of ‘ 'efi‘eininacy,
Church principles and weak tea, a Private Tater’s, where
mamma’s darlings are wrapped up, and htufi'ed with a little
Terence and Horace to show Jgrand at home ;‘ and upon in
life I do believe my sister ulia, aged thirteen, was In: _
wide awake and up to life than I was, when thegvernor, an
old rector, who always put me in mind of e Vicar'cf
I'VJYakefield, got me gazetted to as crack a cerps (really in the
me. ‘ ,. ' ‘
The -—th (familiarly known in the Service as' the “. Dare
Devels,” from old Peninsular deeds) were justth'en at Malta,

 1, .  hu~ -. 'W'm‘m .- , ,

 

 

7;?
5?

E
ii

 i
f l
' E

8 LITTLE GRAND AND

Q

landwith, among other trifles, a chest- :protector from my
father, and a recipe for milk-arroWroot from my Aunt Ma-

,mdp, whalived in aconstant’state of catarrh and 06 cure for

11,119.3ng humbled across thezBay of Biscay, and found my-
self -in Byron’s .counfounded “little military hothouse,”
where most military men, some time or other, have roasted
themselves to death, Ohmbing its, hilly streets, flirting with
its Yakima house, drinking Bass in its hot varandas, yawning
withennui in its palace, cursing its sirocco, and being done
by itsLJew sharpens.

From aprivate- tutor’s to a crack mess at Malta l—from a
couyent to acasino could hardly be a greater change. Just
at first -I..was as much astray as a . oun pup taken into a

stubble-field, and wondering what t e euce he is to do
. there; but as it is a pup’s nature to snifi‘ at birds and start
,- 133919180 is it a boy’s nature to snatch at the chamPagne of
lifeas soon as he catches sight of it, though you may have
bmht him up on water from his cradle. I took to it, at
is 'kaa retriever to water’duck, though I was green enough
tobe ayfirsta‘ate butt for many a day, and the practical jokes
I hadrssed on, me Would have; furnish :d the Times with
.foodx or crushers. on “The Shocking State of the Army ”
for a twelvemonth. My citier friend and ally, tormentor
andiuitiatqr, wasalittle fellow, Cosmo Grandison; in Ours
he was: “~‘v Little Grand ” to everybody, from the Colonel to
the baggage—women. He was seventeen, and had joined
, about a year, What a prett be he Was, too! All the
.fair,ones in Valetta, fromhis oe lency’s wife to our wash-
enwoman,~admired that boy,_,andtspoilt him and .petted him,
and I; do not believe there was "a man of Ours who would
have:th heart to sit in conrtnmat‘tialaon Little Grand if he
had broken every one Of the,Queen’s regulations, and set
every GeneraIIOrder at defiance. I think I see him now—-
he as new-1:0 Malta'asI having just landed with the Dare
Devils, 6?: rouwfrom India to Portsmouth—as he sat one day
on the table in the mess-room as cool as'a cucumber, in spite of
the .btqiiingsulysmokin ‘ and swinging his legs, and settling,
his forage-cap on one si e of his head, as prett -looking,
plucky, 1m udent a young monkey as ever piqued imself on
emg an o d handrand a knowing bird net to be caught by
any cpafi' however ingeniously repared. - » ,-
,-.7,' it‘simppfife an Litt e Gran ‘ ,fmy “ St. John,”.first barba-
:‘  by 1 V  Opegforthe convenience of his dactyles and
goggle ,rs into ,Slpjiil, being further barbarized by this fit
he 1:99 i to} Simon)7——“ Simon do you want to see the finest
WW? '1? this confound“ little pepper-box? YW’re. "0
3199?}. of  whman, though, you. mufl"—.taste been .war ed,
r aps, constant contemplation of” that virgin unt
. 116 Y3?“ atilda, '. it?:all the same.” a v -
 p H your  ” saidJ; ‘Syou’d make one out a fool.”
,“Preoisely, my dear Simon; 'ust what you are!” re-
. .gnddd;,_thtle Grand, pleasan y, ,“. Bless your heart,
. .yr.“heen,;en agled tohaf a, dozenwomen since I joined.
 willful}. or lyihelp it, you see; they’ve such a way
9“, h ,, .1113 you. on, you don’t like to disappoint them,
poor , tle dears,_and so you compromise yourself -out :of
shper ,beneyolence.., There s such arm on a handsome man
’eit’s aggreat. ,bore. Sometimes I think I shall shave m
héady or do something to .diflure myself, as S urina di .
Poor fellow, I feel for him !' ell, ' S'mon, you don’t seem
curious to know who my b y is?” ., f i
 _ $01“: of those Mitchellgi s of the TWenty-first? You
" aimed Withjem allflnight; but they’re too tall for you,

In :7. l ‘ s ‘ ' p ‘
» iifieemimhdl.’ his 1” ejaculated,he, with supreme scorn.
“Great muscles they ro about with the Fusileere like ,a
pair If e lore. on ever .ball-roombattle-field one’s safe to
,B .8}  unting,away,.and as, ever body has a shot at ’em,
.13. eir hearts must be pretty Well riddled into holes by this
time . , Q,,mine’,s_ra‘ther hgher game than that. My moth-
~Qri§..._ fin-law’s aunt’s sister,s cousin’s cousin once re-
.‘Poveduwa? - Y'geowti Twaddle, and .I don’t go anything
Jlower’than the eeragé." ' ‘ '
. w :4“, W11“, ii Somebody ou’ve met at his Excellency’s ?”

 "zWE’mgvsgain, belovedy Simon. It’s .nobody I’ve met at

and, I. 88d Guatamara

 

 

THE MARCHIONESS

 

old-Stars and Garters’, though his lady-wife could ,no, more
do without me than without her sal volatile and flirtatious.
No, she don’t go there; she’s too high for that sort 'of thing
—~—sick of it. After all the European Courts, Malta must be
rather small and slow. I was introduced to her yesterday,
and,” continued Little Grand, more solemnly than 'was his
wont, “I do assure you she’s superb, divine; and I’m not
very easy to please.” ‘ . I

. “ What’s her name ?” I asked, rather im ressed Withthis
view of a lady too high for old Stars and arters, as we ir-
reverently termed her Majesty’s representative in her island
of Malta. . _

.Little Grand took his pipe out of his lips to correct me
with more dignity. _ ' I

“ Her title, In dear Simon, is the Marchioness St. J ulianf”

“ Is that an nglish peerage, Grand?”

“ Hum! What! Oh yes, of 0011er What else should
it be, you owl l”

Not bein in a condition to decide this point, I was
silent, and e went on, growing more impressive at each

hrase: '

“ She is splendid, really 1 And I’m 3 ve  fellow,
you know ; but such hair, such eyes, one oesn’t see ’e'v
day in those sun-dried Mitchells or those little ink Bov'
lien-s. Well, 'esterday, after that confounde Inndi'eon
(how I hate all those complimentary afi'airsl—ono' can’t
enjoy the truffle) for talking to» the ladies, nor enjoy
the ladies for discussing the trufiies), I Went for» nude
with Conran out to Villa Neponte. I left him there, and
Went down to' see the Overland steamers come in.
While I was waiting, I got into talk, somehow or other,
with a very agreeable, gentleman-like fellow, - who-asked

me if I’d only just come to Malta, and all that: sort of

thing—you know the introductory st 10 of actionT—Ztill
we got quite good friends, and he tol me he was it"

outside the wretched little hole at the Casa di E3011, an ,
said—wasn’t it civil of him ?—-—said he should be very
hap y tosde me if I’d call any time. He gave .me his
cartf—Lord Adolphus Fitzhervey~and a man_w1th him
called him ‘Dolph.’ As good luck had it, my weed went
out just while we were talking, and Fitzhervey was man-
strously pleasant, searched. all over,  for .a fuses,
‘coul tfind one, and’asked me to 'v‘e up with him to the
Casa di Fiori and get a ' ht. , course I did, and he
some, sherbet and a smoke-
together, and then he introduced me gto the Marohioness
St. Julian, his sister—by Jove! such a ma nificent
Woman, Simon, you never saw one like her, I’ wager.
She .was uncommonly a reeahle, too, and such a smile ,

boy! ‘ She seemed to 1i e me wonderfully-fin“ rare aha,
though, you’ll say———and asked me .to gq and ,take so so
there tomight after mess, and bri one of any. oh,de m in

me; and as I like to show you 1' a, young one, and your

tastewants im rovin .after Aunt Minerva, you- ma come,
it'- you like. Ifitllol ere’s Conran, Isay, don’t tell him.
I don’t wautany preaching on my manor.” -. v  

«Com-an came m-at that minute ;- he- was then a, Bravet-
Major and Ca tain in Ours, and. one of the older meow o
spoilt Little rand in one way, as much as thewomen id
in. another. He was a fine, powerful fellow With. eyesflilie
anteagle’s, and pluck like a lion’s; he had a grav‘ too

and had been of late more Silent and selfireticent,,than
the other roistering, debonnair, ligivt _,hearted. “Dare
Devils ;” but thOugh, perhaps, tire of the Wild esca-
pades which reputation .had once attributed to him,
was always the most lement to the boy’s monk tricks,
and alwa s the one to whom he went ii” 1-bit ‘larks ad cost;
him too ear, ‘or if he was in- a scrape 'from which he saw
no exit. Conran had recently ceme‘ih. for. a ood V dell
of money, and there were few bright eyes in lta that
wOuld not have smiled kindly on him; but he did not 
much for anyof them. There was some talk of a love-afiir
before he went "toIndia, that was the cause of his hard.
heartedness, thoughI must ‘sa he did not look much, like-a
victim to the grande passion, n my ideas, which were drow-

 

 

LITTLE GRAND AND THE MARCHIONESS.

W ' *‘-= ‘W a.

‘6

 

fiom valentines and odes in the “ Woman, thou fond and fair
deeeiver" style; in love that turned its collars down and let
its hair go uncut and refused to eat, and recovered with a
ra'pidit prgportionate to its ostentation ; and I did not
know, t t ' a man has lost his treasure, he may mourn it so
deeply that he may refuse to run about like Harpagon, cry-
ing for his cassette to an audience that only laughs at his
miseries.

“ Well, young ones,” said Conran, as he came in and
threw down hrs cap and whi , “here you are, spending
your hours in pipes and bad wrne. What a blessing it is
to have a palate that isn’t blase, and that will swallow all
wine just because it is wine! That South African goes
down with better relish, Little Grand, than you’ll find in
Chateau Margaux ten years hence. As soon as one begins
to want touching up with olives, one’s real gusto is gone.”

“ Hang olives, sir! they’re beastly,” said Little Grand;
“ and I don’t care who pretends they’re not. Olives are like
sermons and wives, eve body makes a wry face, and would
rather be excused ’em, ajor; but it’s the custom to call
’em good things, and so men bolt ’em in complaisance, and
while they hate the salt-water flavor, descent on the deli-
cious rose taste !”

“ Quite true, Little Grand ! but one takes olives to en-
hance the wine; and so, perhaps, other men’s sermons make
one enjoy one’s racier novel, and other men’s wives make
one pppreciate one’s liberty still better. Don’t abuse olives;
you’ wantthem figuratively and literally before you’ve
done either drinkin or livin 3”

“Oh! confound rt, Major,’ cried Little Grand,” “I do
hope and trust a s ent ball may have the kindness to
double the up and finish me off before then.” _ .

“You’re not philosophic, my boy.”

“ Thank Heaven, no 1” ejaculated Little Grand, piously.
“ I’ve an uncle, a very great philosopher, beats all the sages
hollow, from Bion to Buckle, and writes in the Metaphysi-
cal Quarterly, but I’ll be shot if he don’t spend so much
time in trying to puzzle out what life is, that all his has
slipped away without his havin lived one bit. When I
was staying with him one Chrrstmas, he began boring me
with a frightful theory on the. non-existence of matter. I
couldn’t stand that so I cut him short, and set him down
to the luncheon-tab e o and while he wés full swing With a
Strasbour pate and Gomet hook, I stopped him and asked

- him if. wit them in his mouth, he believed in matter or not i’
He was shut up, of course; bless your soul, those theorists
alwa s are, if you’re down upon ’em with a little fact i”

“ uch as a Strasbourg ate ?—that is an unanswerable
a ument with most men, believe,” said Co‘rrran, who liked
to ear the be chatter. “ What are you going to do with
yourself to-nig t, Grand?”

“ I am oiu to—ar—hum--to a friend of mine,” said
Little Grand, ess glibly than usual.

“ Ve well; I only asked, because I would have taken
you to. rs. Fortescue’s with me; they’re having some
acting proverbs (horrible exertion in this oven of a place,
with the thermometer at a hundred and twenty degrees);
but if you’ve better rt it’s no matter. , Take care what
friends you make, thou h, Grand; yon’ll find some Maltese
acquaintances ve oosfly.”

“ Thank you. should say I can take care of in self,” re-

ied Little Grand, with immeasurable scorn and dignity.

Conran laughed, struck him across the shoulders with
his whip, stro ed his own mustaches, and went out again
whistling one of Verdi’s airs. .

“I don’t want him bothering, you know,” explained
Little Grand; “she’s such a deuced ma nificent woman 1”

She was a ma nificent woman, this udoxia Adelaida,
Marchioness St. ulian; and Proud enough Little Grand and
.I felt when we had that. soft. jeweled hand held out to us,
{and that bewitching smile beamed upon us, and that joyous
ipresence dazzling in our 0 68, 88 we sat in the'drawlng-room
Ofthat Cass di Fiori. he W88 8b0nt thirty‘five, I should

a (boys always worship those who might have been school-
on of their mothers), tall and stately, and impasing,

with the most beautful pink and white skin, with a fine set
of teeth, raven hair, and eyes tinted most exquisitely. Oh!
she was magnificent, our Marchioness St. J ulran! Into what
unutterable insignificanee, what miserable, washed-out
shadows sank Stars and Garters’ lady, and the Mitchell
girls, and all the belles of La Valetta, whom we hadn’t
thought so very bad-looking before. '

There was a young creature sitting a little out of the
radiance of light, reading; but we had no eyes for anybod
except the Marchioness St. Julian. We were in such high
society, too; there was her brother, Lord Adolphus, and his
bosom Pylades, the Baron Guatamara; and there was a big
fellow, with hooked nose and very curly hair, who was in-
troduced to us as the Prince of Oran ia Magnolia; and a
little wiry fellow, with bits of red and blue ribbon, and a
star or two in his button hole, who was M. 1e Due de Saint-
Jeu. We were quite dazzled with the coruscations of so
much aristocracy, especially when they talked across to each
other—so familiarly, too—of Johnnie (that was Lord Rus-
sell), and Pam and “ old Buck ” (my godfather Buckingham,
Lord Adolphus explained to us), and Montpensier and old
J oinville; and chatted of when they dined at the Tuileries,
and stayed at Com iegne, and hunted at Belvoir, and
spent Christmas at olcombe or Longleat. We were in
such high societyl How contemptible appeared Mrs. Ms.-
berly’s and the Fortescue soirees; how inflnitesimally small
grew Charlie Ruthven, and Harry Villiers, and Grey and
Albany, and all the other young fellows who thought it such
great guns to be an mieua: with little Graziella, or invited
to Sir George Dashaway’s. ' m were a cut above those
things now—rather!

That splendid Marchioness! There was a head for a cor-
onet, if you like! And how benign she was 1 Grand sat on
the couch beside her, and I on an ottoman on her left, and
she leaned back in her magnificent toilette, flirting her fan
like a Castilian, and flashing upon us her superb eyes from»
behind it; not s aking very much, but showing her white
teeth in scores 0 heavenly smiles, till Little Grand, the blaze
man of seventeen, and I the raw Moses of private tutela e,
both felt that we had never come across anything like thrs;
never, in fact, seen a woman worth a glance before.

She listened to us—or rather to him; I was too awe-
struck to advance much beyond monosyllables—and laughed
at him, and smiled encouragineg on my gauchen'e (and
when a boy is gauche, how ready he is to, w‘orshi such a
helping hand 1), and burned upon us both wrth an ulgense
compared with which the radiance of Helen, Galatea,:(Enone,
Messalina, Lais, and all the legendary beauties one reads
about, must have been what the railway night-lamps that
never burn are to the prismatic luminaries of Cremorne.
They were all uncommonly pleasant, all except the girl who
was reading, whom they introduced as' the Signorina da’
Guari, a Tuscan, and daughter to Orangia Magnolia, with
one of those marvelously beautiful faces that one sees in the
most splendid painters’ models of the Campagna, who never
lifted her head scarcely, though Guatamara and Saint-Jen did
their best to make her. But all the others were wonderqu

agreeable, and quite fete’d .Little Grand and me,  whie

they being more than double our age, and seemingly a,
home alike with Belgravia and Newmarket, the Fan ourg
grow at least a foot each in the

and the Pytchley, we felt to
aroma of this Oasa di Fiori.

“ This is rather stupid, Doxie,” began Lord Adolphus,
addressingvhis sister; “ not much entertainment for, our

nests. hat do you say to a game of vi’ngt-et-un, eh, Mr.

randison‘ '3”

Little Grand fixed his blue eyes on the Marchioneu, and
said he should be very happy, but as 1hr entertainment—In
wanted no other.

“No compliments, it amt,” laughed the Marchioness,
with a dainty blow 0 her fan. “ Yes, Dolph, have 

et-un, or music, or anything you like. Sing us something,
Lucrezia.”

 

The Italian girl thus addressed looked up with a 

 

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.0 LITTLE GRAND AND THE MARCHIOI‘ESS.

.—-§.

 

 

ate, haughty flush, and answered, with wonderfully little
courtesy I considered, “ I shall not sing to-night.”

“ Are you unwell, fairest friend ?” asked the Due de Saint-
J on, bendin his little wiry figure over her.

She shran away from him, and drew back, a hot color in
her cheeks.

“ Signore, I did not address you.”

The Marchioness looked angr , if those devine eyes could
look anything so mortal. II’owever, she shrugged her
shoulders. _

“ Well, my dear Lucrezia, we can’t make you sing, of
course, if you won’t. I, for m part, always do any little
thing I can to amuse anybody; it I fail, I fail; I have done
my best, and my friends will appreciate the effort, if not the
result. No, my dear Prince, do not tease her,” said the
Marchioness to Orangia Magnolia, who was arguing, I
thought, somewhat imperativer for sucha well-bred and
courtly man, with Lucrezia; “ we will have vingt-et-un, and
Lucrezia will give us the delight of her voice some other
evenin , I dare say.”

We ad vingt-et-un ; the Marchioness would not pla , but
she sat in her rose velvet arm-chair, just behind Little (wrand,
putting in pretty little speeches, and questions, and bags-
telles, and calling attention to the gambols of her darling
greyhound Cupidon, and tapping Little Grand with her fan,
till,I believe, he neither knew how the game went, nor what
money he lost; and I, gazing at her, and cursing him for his
facile tongue, never noticed my naturels, couldn’t have said
what the maximum was if you had paid me for it, and might,
for anything Iknew to the contrary, have been seein my
life slip away with each card as Balzac’s hero with the eau
de Cha rin. Then we had sherbet, and wine, and cognac for
those w 0 preferred it; and the Marchioness gave us per-
mission to smoke, and took a dainty hookah with an amber
mouth-piece for her own use (divine she did look, too,
with that hookah betWeen her ruby lips l); and the
smoke, and the cognac, and the smiles unloosed our
ton nes, and we spake like very great donkeys, I dare say,
but ’m sure with not a tenth part ofthe wisdom that Balaam’s
ass developed in his brief and pithy conVersution.

However great the bosh we talked, though, we found
very lenient auditors. FitzherVey and Guatamara
laughed at all our wittieisms; the Prince of Orangia
Magnolia joined in with a Per Baccho .’ and a Bravo!
and little Saint-Jen wheezed, .and gave a faint echo of
Man Dim! and Treis bien, tres bien, maiment, and
the Marchioness St. Julian laughed too, and joined in our
nonsense, and, what was much more, bent a willing ear
to our compliments, no matter how florid; and Saint-Jen
told us a story or two, more amusing than comme 2'1 faut,
at which the Marchioness tried to look grave, and did
look shocked, but laughed for all that behind her fan;
and Lucrezia da’ Guari sat in shadow, as still and as
silent as the Parian Euphrosyne on the console, though
her passionate eyes and expressive face looked the very anti-
podes of silence and statuettism, as she flashed half-sh y, half-
scornful, looksupon us. . , ,

If the firstpart of the evenin had been deli htful, this

~hwss something like Paradise! t was such hig society!

and with just dash enough of Mabille and coulisses laisseraller
to dgive it piquancy. How: different was the pleasantry
an freedom of these real arisms, after the bumdrum
dinners and horrid bores of dances that those snobs of
Maberlys, and Fortescues, and Mitchells, made believe to
call Society! , .

‘ What with the . wine, and. the smoke, and. the smiles, I
wasn’t quite clear as to whether I saw twenty horses’ heads
or one when I was fitirl into saddle, and ridin back to

.gthe town, just as the, rst, daWn was risin , phl'uditc-

like, from the far blue waves of the editerranean.
Little Grand was better seasoned, but even he was dizzy
With the pal-tin werds of the Marchioness, which had softly
breathed the de icious passport,“ Come to-morrow.”

‘ " .By Jupiter!” swore Little Grand, obliged to give relief

. feelings-J by Jupiter, Simon l  you ever see such‘

a glorious, enchanting, divine, delicious, adorable creature 1’
Faugh! who could look at those Mitchell irls’asfter her?
Such eyes i such a smile! such a figure ! Tal of a ooronet !
no imperial crown would be half good eno h for her! And
how pleasant those fellows are! I like “first little chafi‘y
chap, the Duke; what a slap-up story that was about the
bal de l’Qpera. And Fitzhervey, too; there’s something
uncommonly thorough-bred about him, ain’t there? And
Guatamara’s an immensely jolly fellow. Ah, my boy ! that’s
something like society; al the ease and freedom of real
rank; no nonsense about them, as there is about snobs.
I say, what wouldn’t the other .fellows give to
be in our luck ? I think even Conran would
warm up about her. But, Simon, she’s deucedly
taken wit me——she is, upon m word ; and she knows how
to show it you, too! By eorge! one could die for a
woman like that—eh ?”

“Die 1” I echoed, while my horse stumbled along up the
hilly road, and I swayed forward, pretty nearly over his
head, while poetry rushed to my lips, and electric sparks
danced before my eyes:

“To die for those we love ! oh, there is wet
In the true heart, and pride, and joy, or this
It is to live without the vanished light
That strength is needed I”

“ But I’ll be shot if it shall be vanished light,” returned
Little Grand; “it don’t look much like it yet. The light’s
only just lit, ’tisn’t likely it’s going out again directly; but
she is a stunner! and—”

“ A stunner!” I shouted; “ she’s much more than that
-—-she’s an angel, and I’ll be much obliged to youto call
her by her right name, sir. She’s a beautiful, noble, loving
woman; the most perfect of all Nature’s master-works She
is divine, sir, and you and I are not worthy merely to kiss
the hem of her garment.” , ’

“ Ain’t we, thou h? I don’t care much about kissing her
dress; it’s silk, ant? I don’t know that I should derive much
pleaiure frpm‘ pressing my lips on its texture; but her
chee ’

“ Her check is like the Catherine pear,
The side that’s next the sun !”

 

I shouted, as my hOrse went down in a rut. She’s like Venus
rising from the seashell; she’s like Aurora, when 'she came
down on the first ray of the dawn to Titonus; she’s like

Briseis ” i '

“ Bother classics! she’s like herself, and beats {em all
hollow. She’s the finest creature eVer seen on earthLand
I should like to see the man who’d dare to say she' wasn’t.
And—I say, Simon—how much did you lose to-night ?”

' From sublimest heights I tumbled strai'ght'lto bathos.
The cold water of Grand’s query quenched‘m poetry, éx-
tinguished my electrict lights, and sobered me ike a douche
bath. , ,

“I don't know,” I answered, with a sense of awe'and
horror stealing over me; “ but I had apony in my waistcOat
pocket that the governor had just sent me; Guatamsra
chan ed it for me, and—I’ve only sixpence left i” * '

“ ld boy,” said Little Grand to me the next morning,
after early parade, “come in my room, and let’s make up
some dispatches to the governors. You see,” he "con—
tinned, five minutes after, “ you see, we’re both of us
pretty well cleared out; I’Ve only got half apony and
yen haven’t a con le of fivers left. Now on know they
evidently play rat ier high at the Casa di F ori; do every-
thing en prince, like nobs who’ve Barcla s at their back;
and one mustn’t hang fire; horrid sha by that would
look. Besides fancy seeming mean before her! So-I’vo.
“been thinking that, though overnors'are 'a screwy lot" n-
erally, if we put it to ’em cIearly the sort of set we’ve got
into, and show ’em that we can’t ' , now that we are1 at
Rome, doing as the Romans do, I"! Ould say th ‘Ob‘hld
hardly help bleeding a little-sch? ‘ Now, listen" qw'rve.
put it. My old boy has a Weakness for titles; he married

 

 

my mother on the relationship to, Visc'ount Twaddled We

 

' LITTLE GRAND AND THE MARCHIONESS.

 

W7

 

doesn’t know of her existence; but who does to talk about
as ‘ our cousin ’), and he’d eat up miles of dirt for a chance
of coming to a strawberry-leaf; so I think this will touch
him up beautifully. Listen ! ain’t I. sublimely respectful? I’m
sure, my dear father, you will be delighted to learn, that by
wonderful luck, or rat er I ought to repay Providence, I have
fallen on my feet in Malta, and got int uced to the very high-
est, (wait 1 let me stick adash under very)—‘ the very highest
society here. They are quite tip-top. To show you what
style, I need only mention Lor A. Fitzhervey, the Baron
Guatamara, and the Marchioness St. Julian, as among my
kindest friends. They have been yachting in the Levant,
and are now staying in Malta; they are all most kind to
me; and I know you will appreciate the intellectual advan-
tages that such contact must afi‘ord me; at the same time
you will understand that I can hardly enter such circles as
a snob, and you 'will wish your son to comport himself as a
gentleman; but gentlemanizing comes uncommon dear, I
can tell you, with all the care in the world; and if you could
let me have another couple of hundred, I should vote you ’—
a what,.Simon.?--‘ an out-and out brick ’ is the sensible style,
but I suppose ‘the best and kindest of parents ’ is the filial
dodge, eh ? There! ‘ With fond love to mamma and Florie,
ever your afi‘ectionate son, Cosmo Gunnisos.’ Bravo ! that’s
prime; that’ll bring the yellows ‘down, I take it. Here,
old fellow, copy it to your glovernor; you couldn’t have
a more stunning effusion—s ort, and to the purpose, as
cabinet councils ought to be, and ain’t. Fire away, my
'u ' ”
J I did fire away: only I, of a more impressionable and po-
etic nature than Little Grand, gave a certain vent to my
feelings in ex atiatino' on the beauty, grace, condescension,
etc, etc., of t e Mai-cinemas to my mother; I did not men-
tion the grivois stories, the brandy, and the hookah; I was
quite sure they were the sign of that delicious case and dis-
re rd ofsnobbish etiquette and convenances peculiar to the
“ gflpper Ten,” but I thought the poor people at home, in vi-
cara e seclusion, would be too out of the world to fully ap-
precnte such revelations of our creme de la creme ; besides,
my ‘ vernor had J ames’s own detestation of the devine
, and considered that men who “ made chimneys of their
mouths ” might just as well have the mark of the Beast at
once.

LittleGraad and I were hard-up for cash. and en attend-
antlthe governors’ replies and remittances, we had recourse
to the tender mercies and leather bags of napoleons, ducats,
florins, doubloons of a certain Spanish Jew, one Balthazar
Miraficres, a shriveled-skinned, weezing old cove, who was
“most ha y to lent anytink to his tear young shentlesmen,
but,‘ (lift! he was as poor as Job, he Was indeed I”
th Job ever lent money out on interest or not, I can’t
say; ps he did, as in the finish he ended with having
quadrupled his cattle and lands, and all his goods—a knac
usurers, in full force to this day; but all I can say
is, that if he was not poorer than Mr. Miraflores, he was not
much to, be ‘pitied, for- he, miserly old shark, h'ved in his
dark, dirt hole, like'a crocodile embedded in Nile mud, and
crushed 0 hence of all unwary adventurers who came
within range of his reat bristling jaws.

Money, howevor, Little Grand and I got out of him in
plenty, only for a little bit of paper in exchange; and at
that time we didn’t know that though the paper tax would
be repealed at last, there would remain, as long as youths
are green and Old birds cunnin , a heavy and a bitter tax
on certain bits of paper to whic one’s hand is put, which
Mr. Gladstone, though he achieve the berculean task of
makin draymen take kindly {9min ordinaz're, and the'pop-
pin 0 champs ne corks a familiar sound by cottageohearths,
wil never be a le to include in his budgets, to come among
the Taxes that are Repealed !

,Well, we had our money from old Balthazar that morning,
and we myed with it again that m ht up at the. Casa i
Flori. this time, by way of c ange. Saint-Jen said
he always thought it ,well to change your game as you
change your love; constancy, whether to cards or wo-

ll
men, was most fatiguing. We liked Saint-Jen very
rmuch, we thought him such a funny fellow. They

said they did not care to play much—of course they
didn’t, when Guatamara had had ecarte with the Grand
Duke of Chafi‘sandlarkstein at half a million a side, and
Lord Dolph had broken the bank at Hombur “just for fun
—-—no fun to old Blane, who farms it, thoug , you know.”
But the Mamhioness, who was doubly gracious that night,
told them they must play, because it amused her cherspetitc
amis. Besides, she said, in her retty, imperious way, she
liked to see it——it amused her. lifter that, of course, there
was no more hesitation; down we sat, and young Heavy-
stone with us.

The evening before we had happened to mention him,
said he was a fellow of no end of tin, though as stupid an
owl as ever spelt his own name wron when he asseda‘
military examination, and the Marchioness, recalling the
name, said she remembered his father, and asked us to
bring him to see her; which we did, fearing no rival in
“old Heavy.”

80 down we three sat, and had the evening before over
again, with the cards, and the smiles, and wiles of our
divinity, and Saint J eu’s stories and Fitzhervey’s cognac and
cigars, with this difference, that we found 100 more exciting
than vignt-ct—un. They played it so fast, too, it was like a
breathless heat for the Goodwood Cu and the Marchioness
watched it, leaning alternatel over rand’s, and Heavy’s,
and my chair, and saying, with such naive delight, “ Oh, do
take miss, Cosmo; I would risk it if I were on, Mr. Heavy—
stone; pray don’t let my naughty brother wm everything,”
that I’d have defied the stiffest o the Stagyrites or the chil-
liest of Calvinists to have kept their head cool with that
syren voice in their car. _

And La Lucrezia sat, as she had sat the night before,
by the o n window, still and silent, the Cape jasmines
and Sout em creepers framing her in a soft moonlight
picture, contrast enough to the brilliantly lighted room,
echoing with laughter at Saint-Jeu’s stories, perfumed
with Cubas and narghiles, and shrining the magnificent,
full-blown, jeweled beauty of our Marchioness St. Julian, ,
with which we were as rapidly, as madly, as unreason-_
ingly, and as sentimentall -in love as any boys of seven-
teen or eighteen ever cou d be. What greater latitude,
you will exclaim, recalling certain buried-awa episodes
of your hobbedehoyism,vwhen you addressed ‘ tin dis-
tichs to that hazel-eyed Hebe who presided over oyster
patties and water ices at the pastrycock’s in Eton; or,

ruined our governor’s young plantations, cutting the
name 0 Adeliza Mary, your cousin, at this day a portl
person in velvet and point, whom ou can now cal, wit

a thanksgiving in the stead of t e olden tremor, Mrs.
Hector M’Cutchin? Yes, we were in love in a con le of
evenings, Little Grand vehemently and unpoeti y, I
shyly and sentimentally, accordin to our temperaments,
and as the fair Emily stirred fe between the two Noble
Kinsmen, so the Marchioness St. Julian began to sow
seeds of jealous and detestaticn between us, sworn allies
as we were. at “(a veritable amant ne commit point
d’ amis” and as soon as we began to grow jealous of each other, _
Little Grand could have kicked me to the devil, and‘I could
have kicked him with the greatest leasure in life.

But I was shy, Little Grand was lessed with all the auda-
city imaginable ; the consequence was, that when our horses
came round, and the Maltese who acted as cherub was oing
to close the gates of Paradise upon us, he managed to 8 ip in-
to the Marchioness’s boudoir to get a tetra-Me farewell, while '
I strode up and down the veranda, not heeding Saint—Jen, who
was telling me a tale, to which, in any other saner moments, I
should have listened greedily, but longing to execute on Lit-
tle Grand some fierce and terrible ven eance, to which the
vendetta should be baby’s play. Saint- eu left me to put his
arm over Harve ’s shoulder and tell him if ever he came to
Paris he should be transported to receive him at the

Hotel de Millefleurs, and resent him at the Tuileries; and

 

I stood swearing to myse f, and breaking ofi‘ sprays of tlx' i

 

   

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12‘

LITTLE GRAND AND THE MARCHIONESS.

 

..——.

veranda creepers, when I heard somebody say, very softly
and low:

“ Signore, come here a moment.”

It was that sweetly pretty mute whom we had barely no-
ticed, absorbed as we were in the worship of our maturer
idol, leaning out of the window, her cheeks flushed, her lips
parted, her eyes sad and anxious. Of course I went to her,
surprised at her waking up so suddenly to any interest in
me. She put her hand on my coat sleeve and drew me
down toward her.

“Listen to me a moment. I hardly know how to warn
you, and yetImust. I cannot sit quietly by and see you
and our young friends being deceived as so many have
been efore you. Do not come here again—do not——”

“ Zia mia! are ou not afraid of the night-air?” said
the Prince of Orangia agnolia, just behind us.

‘ His words were kind, but there was a nasty glitter in
his eyes. Lucrezia answered him in passionate Italian—of
which I had no knowledge—With such fire in her eyes, such
has hty gesticulation, and such a torrent of words, that I
realgy began to think, pretty soft little dear as she looked,
that she must positively be a trifle out of her mind, her si-
lence before, and her queer speech to me, seemed such odd
behavior fora young lady in such hi h society. She was
turnin to me again when Little Gran came out into the ver-
anda, Iookin flushed, proud, and self-complaisant, as such a
winner and s ayer of women would do. M hand clenched on
the jasmine, I thirsted to spring on him as e stood there with
his provoking, self-contented smile, and his confounded cox-
connbical air, and his cursed fair curls—my hair was dust-
colored and as rebellious asporcupine quills—and wash out
in his blood or mine—4A touch of asoit hand thrilled through
my every nerve and fibre; the Marchioness was there,
and signed me to her. Lucrezia, Little Grand, and all
the rest of the universe vanished from my mind at the
lightning of that angel smile and the rustle of that moire-
antique dress. She beckoned me to her into the empty
drawing-room.

.“ Augustus ” (I never thought my name could sound so
sweet before), “tell me what was my niece Lucrezia saying
to on just now ?”

ow I had a sad habit of telling the truth; it was an out-
of-the-wvrld custom taught me, among other old-fashioned
things, at home. though I soon found how inconVenient a
Misc modern society considers it; and I blurted the truth
out here, not distinctl or gracefully, though, as Little Grand
would have done, for was in that state of exaltation ordi-
narily ex re‘ssed as not knowing whether one is standing in
one’s We lingtons or not.

The Marchione’ss sighed. V

“Ah, did she say that ? Poor dear girl !' She dislikes
me so much, it is quite an hallucination, and yet, 0
Augustus, I have been to her like an elder sister, like a
mother. Imagine how it, rieves me,” and the Marchioness
shed some tears—pearls 0 price, thought I, Worthy to 'drOp
from angels eyes—5‘ It is a bitter sorrow to me, but, poor
darling l she'is not respOnsible.”

She touched her vein temple significantly as she spoke,
and I understood, and sit tremendously shocked at it, that
the young,» fair Italian girl was a fierce and cruel maniac,
who had the heart (oh most extraordinary madness did it
seem to me; if, I had lost m senses I could never have
harmed her! to hate, absolutely hate, the noblest, tenderest,
most beauti l of women ?

“ I never alluded to it to any one,” continued the Mar-
chioness. “ Guatamara and Saint-Jen, though such intimate
friends, are ignorant cf it. I would rather have any one
think ever so badly of me, than reveal to them the cruel
misfortune of my sweet Lucrezia——”

How noble she looked as she s oke !

“But you; Augustus, you,” an she smiled upon me till I
grew as dizzy as after my first taste of milk- unch, “ I have
not the courage to let you go off with any ad impression
of me. I have knewn you a very little while, it is true—but
afew hours, indeed-yet there are aflnities of heart and soul

 

 

‘
‘G-

which overstep the bounds of time, and, laughing at the chill
ties of ordinary custom, make strangers carer than old
friends—”

The room revolved round me, the lights danced up and
down, my heart beat like Thor’s hammer, and my pulse
went as fast as a favorite saving the distance. 18]“ 3 wk.
ing so to me! My senses whirled round and roun like
fifty thousand witches on a Walpurgis Night, and down
I went on my knees before my magnificent idol, raving
away I couldn’t tell you what now—the essence of
everything I’d ever read, from Ovid to Alexander Smith.
It must have been something frightful to hear, though
Heaven knows I meant it earnestly enough. Suddenly I
was pulled up with a jerk, as one throws an unbroken colt
back on his haunches in the middle of his first start. I
thought I heard a laugh.

She‘started up too. “Hush! another time! We may
be overheard.” And drawing her dress from my bands,
which grasped it as agonizinglyas a cockneygrasps his
saddle-bow, holding on for dear life over the Burton or
Tedworth country, she stooped kindly over me, and floated
away before I was recovered from the exquisite delirium of
my ecstatic trance.

She loved me! This superb creature loved me! There
was not a doubt of it; and how I got back to the bar~
racks that night in my heavenly state of mind Icould
never have told. All 1 know is, that Grand and I never
spoke a word, by tacit consent, all the way back; that I
felt a fiendish delight when I saw his proud trium ant-
air, and thought how little he essed, poor fellow -——
And that Dream of One Fair oman was as superior in
ra ture to the “ Dream of Fair Women ” as Turks to the
“ 'ne Fruity Port ” that results from damsons an adecoc-
tion of sloes! -

The next day there was a grand affair in Malta to receive
some foreign Prince, whose name I do not remember now,
who called on us on route to England. Of course all the
troops turned out, and there Was an inspection of us, and a
grand luncheon and dinner, and ball, and all that sort of
thin , which a month before I should have considered rime
funfimt which now, as it ke t me out of my pa ise, I
thought the most miserable re that could possibly have
chanced.

" I say,” said Heavy to me as I was getting into harness——
“I say,don’t you wonder Fitzhervey and the Marchioness ain’t.
coming to the palace to-day ? One would have thought Old
Stars and Garters would have been sure to ask them. .'

“ Ask them ? I should say so,” I returned, with im-
measurable disdain. “Of course he asked them; but she

told me she shouldn’t come, last'ni ht. She issotired of

such things.- She came yachting with itzhervey solelytotry
and have a little quiet. She says peo is never give hera mo-
ment’s rest while in Paris or Lon on. She was sorry to
disappoint Stars and Garters, but I don’t think she likes his
wife much: she don’t consider her good ton.” .

On which information Heavy lapsed 'nto a state of pro‘
i‘oundest awe and wonderment, it having been one Of his
articles of faith, for the month that we had been in Malta,
that the palace peo le were exalted demi eds, whom it
was only permissabe to worShip from a istance,'and a
very. respectable distance too. Heavy had lost some twenty
odd pounds the night before~ot course we lost, oung
hands as we were, unaccustomed to the waist that
entertaining gentleman, Pam—and had grunt d not a
little at the loss of. his gold bobs. ‘But now' I could see
that such a contemptibly pecuniary matter Was clean
gone from his memory, and that he would have thought
the world Well lost for the honor of playing cards with

eople who could afi‘ord to disappoint Old Stars and

arters. ' A

The inspection was over at last; and if a other
than Conran had been rm senior ofiicer, I sh have
come of bad] , in all probability, for the abominable man.
ner in which went tin-on h'm evolutions. The da came
to an end somehow or ot r, t ough I began to t it if

 

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LITTLE GRAND AND

THE MARCHIONESS. 1

 

v the green venetians and entere

never would, the luncheon was ended, the bi wigs were
taking their sieste, or otherwise occupied, an I, trusting
to my absence not being noticed, tore off as hard asman
can who has Cupid for his Pegasus. With a boquet as
large as a drumhead, clas (1 round with a bracelet,
about which I had many dou ts as to the pro rieti of
ofi'ering to the possessor of such jewelry as the Elam ion-
ess must have, yet on which I thought I might venture after
the sceneof last night, I was soon on the veranda of the
Casaldi Flori, and my natural shyness being stimulated into

a distant resemblance of Little Grand’s enviable brass, see-

ing the windows of the drfiwincg-room open, I ushed aside

noiselessly. The room did
not look a quarter so inviting as the ni ht before, though it
was left in precisel a similar state. fdo not know how it
was, but those cardys lying about on the floor, those sconces
with the wax run down a drippingover them, those emptied
earafi'es that had diffused an odor not yet dissi ated, those
tables and velvet couches all atom at a tracers, id not look
so very inviting after all, and even to my unsophisticated
senses, scarcely seemed fit for a Peeress.

' There was nobody in the room, and I walked through
it toward the boudoir; from the o n door I saw Fitz~
hervey, Guatamara, and my Marchioness—but oh! what
horror unutterable! doin —que pensez~vous? Drinking
bottled porter l—and driniing bottled porter in apez'gmzr
not of!the oleanliest, and with raven tresses not of the
neatest

Only fancy! she, that divine, spiritueae creature, who
had talked but a few hours before of the affinity of souls, to
have come down, like an ordinary woman, to Guinness’s

I t, and a checked dressing- own and unbrushed locks !

0 find your (prophet without is silver veil, or your Leila
dead drowns in asack, or your Guinevere flown over with
Sir Lancelot toBoulogne, or your long-esteemed Griselda
gone of with your cockaded Jeames, is nothing to the
‘ rture, the unutterable anguish, of seeing your angel, your
ivinity, your bright articular star, your hallowed Arabian
rpse,come,down to— ttled Porter! Donot talk to me
of Dore, sir, or Mr. Martin’s pictures; their horrors dwindle
into insignificance compared with the horror of findin an
iatipiate liaiso' ' n between one’s first love and Bottled I’or-
ter

0

In 111 first dim, unutterable an ish, I should have turned
and fi ; but my s ren’s voice Ella not lost all its power,
despite the stout an dirty dressing own, for she was. very
handsome woman, and could stan such things as well as
anybody. She came towards me, with her sofiest smile,
gracing at the bracelet on the bouquet, apolo izing slightly

her no lige: “ I am so indolent. I only frees for those
I one to -—and I never hoped to see you to-day.” In
short, magnetizing me over again, and smoothin down m
outraged sensibilities, till I ended by becomin a most blind
(guva could not manage) to the checked ro e do chambre
and the unbrushed bandeaux, by offering her my braceleted
bouquet, which was very graciously accepted, and even b
charm the atrocious London porter, “that horrid stufl‘, ’
she .09. led it,“ how I hate it! but it is the only thing Sir
Benjamin Brodie allows me, I am so very delicate, you
know, my sensibilities.» frightfully acute! ”

I had not twent minutes to sta , having to be back at
the barracks, or sk a repriman , which, ha ily, the
checked pugmfr had cooled me sufiiciently to enable me to
recollect. o I took my farewell—one not unlike Medora’s
and Conrad’s, Fltzhervey and Guatamara having kindly
withdrawn as soon as the bottled porter was finished—and
I’went out of the house in a very blissful state, despite
Guinness and the unwelcome demi-toilette, which did not
accord with Eugene Sue’s and the Parlor Library descrip-
tion of the general getting up and stunning ap earance of
heroines and resses, “reclining, in robes o cloud-like

tissue and folds of the richest lace on a cabriole couch of
amber velvet, while the air was filled with the voluptuous

 

perfhme of the flower-children of the south, and music from

‘

‘-

unseen choristers lulled the senses with its divinest harmo~
ny,” &c., &c., dtc.

Bottled porter and a checked dressing-gown ! Say
what you like, s’irs, it takes a very strong passion to over-
come those. I have heard men ascribe the waning of their
afi'ections after the bone moon to the constant sight of their
wives—whom before t ey had only seen making papa’s
coffee with an angelic air and a toilette tires 0; qua-ire epinng
-—everlastingly coming down too late for breakfast in a
dressing-gown; and, upon m soul, if ever I marry, which
Heaven in pitiful mercy fortindl and my wife make her
appearance in one of those confounded pgnm'rs, I will give
t at much-runafter and deeply-to-be-piti public character,
ihe Divorce Judge, some more work to do—I will, upon my

onor. ‘

However, the peignoir had not iced me enough that
time to prevent my tumblin out of the house in as deli-
cious an ecstasy as if I ha been eating some of Monte
Cristo’s “ hatchis.” As I went out, not looking before
me, I came bang against the chest of somebody else, who,
not admirin the rencontre, hit my cap over my eyes, and
exclaimed, m not the most courtly manner, you will ac-
knowledge, “ You cursed owl, take that, then! What are
you doing here, I should like to know?”

“ Confound your impudence l” I retorted, as soon as m
ocular powers were restored, and I saw the blue eyes, fair
curls, and smart figure of my ancient Iolaus, now my bitter.
est foe—~“ confound your impertinence ! what are you 
here ? you mean.”

“ Take care, and don’t ask uestions about what doesn’t
concern you,” returned Little rand, with a laugh—a most
irritating laugh. There are times when such cachinations
sting one’s ears more than avolley of oaths. “Go home
and mind your own business, my chicken. You are a green
bird, and nobody minds you, but still you’ll find it as well
not to come poaching on other men’s manors.” I

“ Other men’s manors ! Mine, if you please,” I shouted, so
mad with him I could have floored him where he stood.

“ Phew !” laughed Little Grand, screwing up his lips
into a contemptuous whistle, “you’ve been drinking too
much Bass, my daisy; ’tisn’t good for young heads—can’t
stand it. Go home, innocent.” . , ‘ 1

The insult, the disdainful tone, froze my blood. M heart
swelled with a sense of outraged dignity and inju man-
hood. Witha conviction of my immeasurable s'u ' riority
of position, as the beloved of that divine creature, {21118001-

ated in self from the certain sort of slavery I was'ge'nerally
in to Little Grand, and spoke as I conceived it to be the
habit of gentlemen whose honor had been wOunded to speak.

“ Mr. Grandison, you will pay for this insult. ‘ I shall
ex ct satisfaction.” ‘ ,

Little Grand laughed again—absolutely ' grinned, the

Y audacious young imp—sand he twelve months younger than

I, ,too !

“Certainly air. If you wish to be'made a tar of, I
shall be deli hted tooblige you. I can’t keep‘ladles wait-
ing. It is agways Place aux damesl with 'me; so, for the
present, oodunorning?” ' ' ‘ ' "  '

And 05‘ went the {pang coxcomb into the Casa‘dl Fiori,
and I, only consoled y‘t a reflection of difl'erent’ tion
he would receive to what mine had been (he had a brace eted
bouquet,too, the young pretentious up y!) startedbf again,
assuao‘ing my lacerated feelings wit the deliciohs word of
Satisfaction. I felt myself immeasurably raised above the
heads of every other man in Malta—a perfect hero of
romance; in fact, fit to figure in m beloved Alexandre’s
most hi hly-wrought yellow-paper roman, with a duel on
my han s, and the love of a m nificent creature like my Eu-
(‘zoxia Adelaida. She had become Eudoxia Adelaide. to me
now, and I had forgiven, if not forgotten, the

dirty dressing-gown : the bottled porter lay, of
course, at Brodie’s door. If he would condemn
spiritual ' forms of life and ii ht to the com-

mon realistic aliments of horrible amiaids and dray-
men, she could not help it, nor I either. If angels come

2 r.  = 
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“P“'f'.t")"«"‘ v- ' 

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..{

J. «a: so.” (an;

down-to earth, and are separated from their natural nour-
ishment of manna and nectar, they must take what they can

at, even thou h it be so coarse and sublunary a thing as
Guinness’s XX , must they not, sir ? Yes, I felt very awake
with my afi‘air of honor and my afiair of the heart, Little
Grand for my foe, and my Marchioness for a love. I never
stopped to remember that I mi ht be smashing with fright-
ful recklessness the Sixth and t 6 Seventh Commandments.
If Little Grand got shot, he must thank himself; he should
nothave insulted me; and if there was a Marquis St. Julian,
why—I pitied, him, poor fellow ! that was all.

Full of these sublime sensations—grown at least three
feet in my varnished boots—I lounged into the ball-room,
feeling supreme pity for the ensigns who were chattering
round the door, admiring those poor, pale garrison girls.
Huey had not a duel and a Marchioness; they did not know
what beauty meant—what life was!

I did not dance—I was above that sort of thing now—
there was not a woman worth the trouble in the room ; and
about the second waltz I saw my would-be rival talking to
Ruthven, a fellow in Ours. Little Grand did not look glum
or dispirited,’as he ought to have done after the interview
he must have had; but probably that was the he ’s brass.
He would never look beaten if on had hit him till he was
black and blue. Presently Rut ven came up to me. He
was not ever-used to his business, for he began the opening
chapter in rather school-boy fashion.

“ Hallo, Gus! so you and Little Grand have been falling
out. , Whydon’t ou settle it with a little mill? A vast
deal better than pistols. Duels always seem to me no fun.
Two men stand up like. fools, and f’

“ Mr. Ruthven, ’ said I, very haughtily, “if your princi-
pal, desires to. apolo ize ” ,

“A olo’gize l ‘ B ess your soul, no ! But—”

“’1‘ en, ' said I, cutting him uncommonly short indeed
“ you can have no necessity to address yourself to me, and I
be to refer you to my friend and second, Mr. Heavystone.”

he'rewit l I boWed, turned on my heel, and left him.

I did not sleep that night, though I tried hard, because I
thou ht it the correct thing for heroes to sleep sweetly till
the 'oIock strikes the hour of their duel, execution, &c., or
whatever it may hap. Egmont slept, Argyle sle t, Phil-
lip. 'alite, scores of them, but I could not. ot that
I f nked it, thank heaven—I never had a touch of that
—-—but because I was in such a delicious state of ex-
citement self - admiration, and heroism, which had not
060 ed, when I found myself walking down to the ap-
poi ted I place ,by the beach bwith poor old Heavy, who
was intensely impressed by being charged with about five
quires of the best cream-laid, to e given to the Marchioness
in I fell.“ Little Grand and Ruthven came on the ground
at a most the" same moment, Little Grand eminently jaunty
and“ most canfoundefly handsome. We took ofl‘ our caps
with, distant ceremony; the Castilian hidalgos were never
more stately; but, then, what Knights of the Round Table
ever Bpliutered spears for such a woman ?

The aces wore measured, the pistols taken out of their
case. e Weregust glaced, and Ruthven, with a handker-
chief in his. han ,. an just enumerated, in awful accents,
“ One! two l”—the “ three l” yet hovered on his lips, when
heheard a l ,—the third lau h that hadchilled my blood
in twenty-four ours. Somebo y’s hand was laid on Little
Grand’s shoulder, and Conran’s voice interrupted the whole
thing. is .

“ Hallo, young ones 1 what farce is this 1'”

“ Farce, sir l’ retorted Little Grand, hotly—“ farce ? It
is no farce. It is an afi'air'ot' honor, and—”

“Denis makerme laugh, my dear boy,” smiled Conran;
“ it is so much, too warm for such an eXertion. Pray, why

 

 

are you and your once sworn friend making popinJays of
each other ?” a , ' ' ‘

“Mr. Grandison has grossly insulted me,” I began, “and
I demand satisfaction.
out it, and—”

I will not stir from the ground with-

. -H .p»..._....~..-_‘. .

LITTLE GRAND AND THE MARCIIIONESS.

 

‘4‘-..“ _‘._-q... _ -A --

V‘-
.a“

“You sha’n’t,” shouted Little Grand. "Do you dare to
pretend I Want to funk, you little contemptible—J’

Though it was too warm, Conran went ofi‘ into a fit of
laughter. .

I dare say our sublimity had a comic touch in it of which
we never dreamt. “ My dear boys, pray don’t; it is too fa-
tiguin . Come, Grand, what is it all about ?”

“I eny your right to uestion me, Major,” retorted
Little Grand, in a fury. “ hat have you to do with it?
I mean to punish that young owl yonder—who didn’t
know how to drink anything but milk-and-water, didn’t
know how to say b0 1 to a goose, till I taught him-—for very
abominable impertinence, and I’ll——-” .

“ My impertinencei I like that l” I shouted. “It is your
unwarrantable, overbearing self-conceit, that makes you the
laughing-stock of all the mess, which ” ' -

“ Silence!” said Conran’s still stern voice, which subdued
us into involuntary respect. “ No ‘more of this nonsensel.
Put u those pistols, Ruthven. You are two hot-headed,
silly oys, who don’t know for what on are quarrelling.
Live afew years longer, and on won’t so eager to get
into hot water, and put cartridges into , our best friends.
No, I shall not hear any more about it. f you do not in-
stantly give me your words of honor not to attemptto re-.
peat this folly, as your senior officer I shall put you under
arrest for six weeks.

0 AleXandre Dumas 1—0 Monte Cristo l—O heroes
of yellow paper and pluck invincible! I ask pardon of
your shades; I must record the fact, lowering and melan-
choly as it is, that before our senior officer our heroine
melted like Vanille ice in the sun, our glories tumbled
to the ground like twelfth-cake ornaments under children’s
fingers, and before the threat of arrest the lions lay down“
like lambs. ' '

Conran sent us back, humbled, sulky and crestfallen, and‘
resumed his solitary patrol upon the beach, where, before:
the sun 'was fairly up, he Was having a shot at curlews. 'But'
if he was a little stern, he was no less kind-hearted; and in

 

the afternoon of that day, while he lay after his siest smok—
ing on his little bed, I unburdened myself tohim. -’ e did

not laugh at me, though I saw a quizz'ieal smile under lib
black must-aches. ‘ - ‘

“What is your divinity’s name ?” he asked, when I had
finished. .

“ Eudoxia Adelaida, Marchioness St; Julian.”

“ The Marchioness St. Julian 1 Oh i” ;

“ D. you know her i” I inquired, somewhat perplexed by
his tone. , . ~

He smiled strai ht out this time. '

“ I don’t know _ , but there are a ood many :Peeressa
in Malta and Gibralter, and along the ineof the Pacific, as
my brother Ned, in the Beliaart'us, will tell you. I could
count two. score such of my acquaintance 08' atthls minute.”

I wondered what he meant. I dare say he ‘ knew all the
Peers s; but that had nothiu to do. with 'me, - and I
thou t it strange that all the uehesses, and Countess‘eq
and - amnesses should quit their country-seats and town-
houses to locate themselves along the line of the Pacific.

“ She’s a fine woman, St. John?”  went on.

“Fine 1” I reiterated, bursti gnto 8 panegyric, with.
which I won’t bore you as I bet lulu.

“ Well, you’re oing there totmght, you say; take me
with you, and we’l see what I thinkof your Marchionessg’

I looked at his fine figure and featur recalled certain
tales of his conquests, remembered that e knew French,
Italian, German and Spanish, but, not being able to refuse,
acquiesced with a reluctance I could not entirely conceal.
Conran, however, did not perceive it, and after mess took
his cap, and went with me to the Casa di Finn.

The rooms were all right a ain, m Marchioness was an...
grands teams, amber silk, blae lace, iamonds and all that.
sort of style. Fitzherve and the other men were in evening,
dress, drinking coffee; t iere was not.a.trace of bottled m:
ter anvwhere, and it was_all very brilliant andvpresenta.
The Marchiouess St. Julian rose With the warmest cfi‘usioa

 

 

 

 

 

g-m- .  7,,7,

.hgr dazzling white teeth showing in the sunniest of smiles,
and both hands outstretched. h ,

.Augustus bden aim, on are rat er—’

, ,“ Late,” fsnppose sh: was going to say, but she stopped
dead short, her teeth remained parted in at' stereotype
smile, a blankness of dismay came over her luminous eyes.
She caught sight of Conran, and I imagined I heard a very
low-breathed “ Curse the fellow l” from courteous Lord
Dolph. Gonran came forward, however, as if he did not
notice it; there was only that ueer smile lurkin under
his mustaches. I introduced him to them and tie Mar-
ohitmes smiled again, and Fitzhervey almost at once re-
sumed his wonted extreme urbanity. But they were some-
how or other wonderfully ill at ease—wonderfully for people
in such high society; and I was ill at ease, too, from being
only able to attribute Eudoxia Adelaide’s evident consterna-
tion at the sight of Conran to his having been some time or
other an old love of hers. “Ah I” thought I, grinding my
teeth, “that comes of loving a woman older than one’s
self.

The Ma'or, however, seemed the only one who enjoyed
himself. ie Marchioness was beaming on him raciously,
thou h her ruffled feathers were not quite smoothed down,
and Inc was sittin by her with an intense amusement in
his eyes, alternate y talking to her about Stars and Gar-
ters, whom, by her answers, she did not seem to know so
very intimately after all, and chatting with Fitzhervey about
hunting, who, for a man that had hunted over every country,
according to his own account, seemed to confuse Tom Edge
with Tom Smith, the Burton with the Tedworth, a bullfinch
with an ox-rail, in queer style, under Conran’s cross-question-
in . We had been in the room about ten minutes, when a
vorce, rich, low, sweet, rang out from some inner room,
singing the glorious “ Inflammatus.” How strange it sounded
in the Casa di Fiori!

Conran started, the dark blood rose OVer the clear bronze
of his cheek. He turned sharply on to the Marchioness.
“ Good Heaven ! whose Voice is that ?”

“ M niece's,” she answered, staring at him, and touching
a ban -b911. “ Iywill ask her to come and sing to us nearer.
She has really a lovely voice.”

Conran grew pale again, and sat watching the door with
the most extraordinary anxiety. Some minutes went by;
then Lucrezia entered, with the same haughty reserve which
her soft young face always wore when with her aunt. It
changed, though, whenher glance fell on Conran,_into the
wildest rapture I',ever..saw on any countenance. He fixed
his eyes on her with the look Little Grand says he's seen him
wear in a battle—a contemptuous smile quivering on his

..¢ Sing us something, Lucrezia dear, began the Marchioness.
“ You shouldn’t be ike the nightingales, and give your
music only to night and solitude. ’

ucrezia seemed not to hear her.
her ey ofi‘Conran, and she went, as dreamily as that dear
little mind in the “Sennambula,” to her seat under the
jefimines iu'the window. For a few minutes Conran, who
didn’t seem to owe two straws what the society in general
thought of him, took his leave, to the relief, apparently, of
Fitzhervey apdGuMamara. _

As" he went across the veranda—that memorable veo
randa "‘1 Sitting in dudgeon near the other window, while
Fitzhervey was prOposing ecarte to Heavy, whom we had
found there on our entrance, and tne Marchioness had van-
ished into her boudoir for a moment, I saw the Roman girl
sprin out after him, and catch hold of his arm:

She had never taken

“ ictorl Victor! W'pity’s sake l—I never thought we .

should meet like this l”

“Nor did I.” o , 

“Huh! “5111 You W1“ kill. me. In mercy, say some
kinder wot ” ‘

,_ _, _. J V. l
, (‘15, can say nothing;thatlli wouldbeccnrteous to you to
 o ldn’t have‘ been as inflenble, whatever her sins

“fit ave been, with her hands clasped on mind he;-

 

LI'I‘TLE GRAND AND THE MARCHIONESS. 15

 

face raised so close to mine. ,Lucrea'a’s voice changed to
a piteous wail: - v

“ You love me no longer, then '1’” , g,

“ Love I” said Conran, fiercely—“ love! How dare you
speakto me of love? I held you to be: fond, innocent, true
as Heaven; as such, you were dearer to me than life—as
dear as honor. I lowd you with as deep a passion as eve;-
a man knew—Heaven help me! I love you now-l Homam
I rewarded ? By finding you the companion of blackgnards,
the associate of swindlers, one of the arch-intriguing. who
lead on youths to ruin with base smiles and devilish arts.
Then you dare talk to me of love!” .

With those passionate words he threw her 03 him. She
fell at his feet with a low moan. He either did not hear, or
did not heed it; and I, bewildered by what I heard, me-
chanicall went and lifted her from the ground. Lucretia
had not ainted, but she looked so wild, that I believed the
Marchioness, and set her down as mad; but then Conran
must be mad as well, which seemed too incredible a thing
for me to swallow—our 0001 Major mad l v

“Where does be live ?” asked Lucresia of me. in B bra“!-
less whisper.

“ He ? Who ?”

“ Victor—your officer—Signor Conran."

“ Why, he lives in Valetta, of course.”

“ Can I find him there ?”

“I dare say, if you want him.” _ .

“ Want him! Oh, Santa Maria! is not his absence death ?
Can I find him?”

“ Oh, yes, I dare say. Any body will show you Conran’s
rooms.”

“ Thank you.”

With that, this mysterious young lady left me, and .I
turned in through the window again. Heavy and the men
Were playing at lansequenet, that most perilous, rapid,
and bewitching of all the resistless card circes. There
was no Marchioness, and having done it once' with impu-
nity I thought I might do it again, and lifted the am-
ber curtain that divided the boudoir from the drawing-
roomj. What did I behold ? Oh! torture unexampledl Ohl
fiendish agony! There was Little Grand-selfooonceited, in.
sulting, impertinent, abominable, unendurable Little Grand
—-—on the amber satin couch, with the Marchioness leaning
her head on his shoulder, and looking up in his thrice-con-
founded face with her most adorable smile, my smile, that
had beamed, and; as I thought, beamed only upon me! .

If Mephistopheles had been by to tempt me, I would have
Sold my Soul to have wreaked ven eance on them both.
Neither saw me, thank Heaven! an I had self-possession
enough not to give them the cruel-triumph of witnessing m
anguish. I withdrew in silence, dropped the curtain,'a‘nd
rushed to bury my wrongs and sorrows in the friendly bosom
of the gentle night. It was my first love, and I had made a
fool of myself. The two are synonymous. ;‘

How I reached the barracks I never knew. All the night
long I sat watching the stars out,raving!to them of Ehdoxia
Adelaida, and cursing in plentiful anathemas my late Oréstes.
How should I hear his im ndent gn’n every mortal night of
my life across the mess-ta le 1' I tore up into shreds about
a ream of paper, inscribed with tender sonnets to mylfaith-
less idol. I trampled into fift thousand shreds ‘a rosetteofi‘
her dress, for which, fool-like, had begged the day before.
I. smashed the looking-glass, which could onlyish'ow methe
image of a pitiful donkey. I called 0!) Heaven; to redress
my wrongs. Oh ! curse it ! never was a fellow at once so
utterl done for and so utter] done brown it v

An in the Vicarage, as learnt afterwards, when hiy
letter was received. at home,- there-was great glorificat/hm
and pleasure. My mother and the girls were- enraptn‘red
at the high society darling Gooey was moving in; 2:““bnt
then, you know, 'mamma, :dear Gussy’s maelsé‘ans so
gentle, so gentleman-like, they are sure to lush whenever
he goes l Whemwith my mother cried anfdried’her‘ u,
and cried ain, over that abominable letter! ' l
Little Gra maddening of vilest wheelies: >- f -

z

 

it
:

.Lgx

‘ few-3" .

. ., ..; ‘r...~.—«

a... -M‘M
LU “ ..‘ .

 I"? 4
‘ _ .

‘1 .
é

  

In LITTLE GRAND AND

 
 

.- ,, N .. ..,. . ~1- ..._.

0

Then entered a rectoress of a neighboring parish, to whom
.ny mother and the girls related with innocent exultation of
my grand friends at Malta; how Lord A. Fitzhervey Was
m 'sworn: ally, and the Marchioness St. Julian had quite
ta on me under her wing. And the rectoress, having a son
of her own, who was not doing anything so grand at Cam-
bridge, but principally setting beer at a Cherryhinton
pubhc, smiled and was wrathful, and said to her lord at
dinner:

9‘ My dear, did you ever hear of a Marchioness St.
Julian 9”

“ No, my love, I believe not—never.”

“ Is there one in the peerage 1’”

“ Can’t say, my dear. Look in Burke.”

So the rectoress ot Burke and closed it after deliberate
inspection, with ma ignant satisfaction.

“I thought not. How ridiculous those St. Johns are
about that ugly boy Augustus. As if Tom were not worth
a. hundred of him?

I was too occupied with my own miseries then to think
:about Conran and Lucrezia, though sometime after I
heard all about it. It seems, that, a ear before, Conran
was on leave in Rome, and at Rome, oiterin about the
Cam agna one day, he made a chance acquaintance with
an talian girl, b getting some flowers for her she had
tried to reach an could not. She was young, enthusi-
astic, intensely interesting, and had onl an old Roman
nurse, deaf as a . est and purblind, with her. The girl
was Lucrezia da uari, and Lucrezia was lovely as one
of her own a le or orange flowers. Somehow or other
Conran went t ere the next day, and the next, and the
next, and so on for a good many days, and always found
Lucrezia. Now, Conran 'had at bottom -a touch of un-
stirred romance, and, moreover, his own idea of what sort
of woman he could love. Somethin in this untrained yet
winning Campagna flower answere to. both. He was old
enough to trust his own discernment, and, after a month or
two’s walks and talks, Conran, one of the proudest men go-
ing, ofered himself and his name to a Roman girl of whom
he knew nothing, except that she seemed to care for him as
he had had afancy to be cared for all his life. It was a
denoedl romantic thing—however, he did it! Lucrezia
had tel him her father was a militar officer, but somehow
or other this father never came to lig t, and when he called
at their houer rather rooms—Conran always found him
out, which he thought queer, but, on the whole, rather
providential, and he set the accident down to a foreigner’s
roaming habits.

The day Conran had really gins the length of offering
to make an unknown Italian '3 wife, he went, for the
first time in the evening, to Da Guari’s house. The servant
showed him in unannounced to a bfightly-h'ghted chamber,
rocking with wine and smoke, where a dozen men were
playing treats at quaranle at an amateur bank, and two or
three others were gathered round what he had believed his
own fair and pure Campagna flower. He understood it all;
he turned away with a curse upon him. He wanted love
and.iunocenee; adventuresses he could have by the score,
and he was sick to death of them. From that hour he
never saw her again till he met her at the Casa di Fiori.
~ The next da I went to Conran while he was breakfast-
ing, and unbu ened my mind to him. He looked ill and
haggard, but he listened to me v kindl , though he spoke
o e peeple at the Casa di Finn in a ard, brief, curious
manner.

“Plenty have been taken in like you, Gus,” he said.
“I was, years ago, in my youth, when I Joined the army.
There are scores of such women, as I tol you, down the
line of the Pacific, and about here; anywhere, in fact, where
the army and navy givethem fresh pigeons to be gulled.
They take titles that sound grand in boys’ ears, and fizcinate
them till they’ve won all their money, and them-send them
to the dogs. Your Marchioness St. Julian’s real name is
: Briggs.” .
gave an involuntary shriek. Sarah Briggs finished

THE MARCHIONESS.

me. It was the death-stroke that could never be got
over. . . ;
“ She was a ballet-girl in London,” continued Conran;
“then, when she was sixteen, married that Fitzhervey,
alias Briggs, alias Smith, alias what you please, and set
up in her present more lucrative employment With her
three or four confederates. Saint-Jen was ex lled from
Paris for keeping a hell in the Chaussee d’ ntin, Fitz-
hervey was a leg at Newmarket, Orangia Magnolia .a
lawyer’s clerk who was had up for forgery, Guatamaravls
—-by another name—a scoundrel of Rome. There 1s the
history of your Maltese Peerage, Gussyz Well, you’ll
be wider awake next time. Wait, there is somebody at my
door. Stay here a moment, I’ll come back to you.”

Accordingly, I stayed in his bedroom, where I had found
him writing, and he went into his sitting room, of which,
from the diminutiveness of his domicile, I commanded a full
view, sit where I would. What was my astonishment to
see Lucrezial I went to his bedroom door; it was locked
from the outside, so I perforce remained where I was, to,
nolens volcns, witness the finish of last night’s interview.

Stern to the last extent and deadly pale, Conran stood,
too surprised to speak, and most probably at a loss for
words. I

Lucrezia came up to him nevertheless with the aband -
ment of youth and southern blood. . r

“ Victor 2 Victor! let me speak to‘you. You shall listen;
yon shall not jud e me unheard.” ;
“Signorina, I ave judged you by onlytoo ample ev1-
dence. ’ "

He had recovered himself now, and was as cool as
needs be. ’ a -

“ I deny it. But you love me still?”

“ Love you? More shame on me? A laugh, a compli-
ment, a carcass, a cashmere, is as much as such women as
you are worth. Love becomes rediculous named in th
same breath with you.” '

She caught hold of his hand and crushed it in both her
own.

“ Kill me if you will. Death would have no sting from
your hand, but never speak such words to me.” .

Her voice trembled. ' I,

“ How can I choose but speak them ? You know that
I believed you in Italy, and how on that belief I offered
you my name—a name never yet stained, never et held un-
worthy. I lost you, to find on in society which stamped
you forever. A lovely fiend: holdin raw boys enchained
that your associates might rifle their purses with marked
cards and cogged dice. hoped to haVe found' a diamond,
without spot or flaw. Idiscovered my error too late; it
was only glass, which all men were free to, pick up and
trample on at their pleasure.” - ~
1 He tried to wrench his hand away, but she Would not
et it go. .

“Hush! hush! listen to me first. If yen once thought
me worthy of a your love, you may, surel , now accord me
pity. I s all not-trouble you long. Ater this, you need
see me no more. I am going back to my old convent.
You and the World will soon forget me, but I 311311“.
merlnker you, and pray for you, as dearer than "my own;
sou . -

Conran’s head was bent down now, and his voice was;
thick, as he answered briefly: v

«4 G0 on.” , I -

This scene half consoled me for Endoxia Adelaida— I
mean, 0 Heavens, Sarah Briggs 1)..“ m 30- ex uidte‘g}.
romantic, and Oonranand Lucrezia wouldn’t have. (hone. at
all badly for Monte Cristo and that dear little Haidee. I was:
fearfull poetic in those days.

“ W  P9? Y0“. ‘11 Rome,” Lucreaia went on, in ohe.
dience to his my unction, “ two yam ago, you remember I
had only left m convent and lived with my father but a
month 0r tWO- told you he was an oficer. I. only said

l

 

what I had been told and I knew'no more than. 't
was the keeper ofa gambling-house.” ~ ' you  F

 

 

 

LITTLE GRAND AND

THE MARCHIONESS. 1?

 

 

She shuddered as she passed, and leaned her forehead o
Conran’s‘liand. He did not repulse her, and she continueti
in her broken, simple English: :

“The eveni‘ you promised me what I should have

needed to have een an angel to be worthy of—your love
and your name—that very evening, when reached home,
my father bade me dress for a soiree he was going to give.
I obeyed him, of course. I knew nothing but what he told
me, and I went down, to find a dozen young nobles and a
few Englishmen drinking and playing on a table covered
with green cloth. Some few of them came up to me, but I
felt'fi' ghtened; their looks, their tones, their florid com li-
pieut's, Were so difi'erent to yours. But mfiather kept is
eye on me, and would not let me leave. ile they were
leaning over my chair, and whispering in my ear, you came
to the door of the salon, and I went toward you, and you
looked cold andiharsh, as I had never seen you before, and
put me aside, and turned away without a word. 0h,Vietor!
why did you not kill me then ? Death would have been kind-
 Your Othello was kinder to Desdemona; he slew her
--he did not leave her. From that hour I never ‘saw you,
and fromthat hour my father persecuted me becauseI would
never join in his schemes, nor enter his vile gaming-rooms.
Yet 1 have lived with him, because I could not get away. I
have been too carefully watched. We Italians are not free,
like your ha py English girls. A few weeks a 0 we were
oompelledto cave Rome, the oung Contino di renze had
been stilettoed leaving my father’s rooms, and he could stay
iniltsly no longer. We came here and joined that hate-
ful'woman, Who calls herself Marchioness St. Julian; and,
because she could not bend me to her will, gives out that I
am’her niece, and mad ! I wonder I am not mad, Victor.
I wish hearts would break as the romancers make them ;
hither long one surfers and lives on ! Oh, m love,m
Ml, my life, only say that on believe me, and look kindly
at. me once again, then I wil never trouble on again, I
mil only pray for you. But believe me, ' 1etor. The
~ Mother  or of my convent will tell on it is the truth that
I speak. h, for the love of Heaven, elieva me l Believe
me or I shall die l” ‘ - _ -
It was not in the nature of man to resist her; there was
truth in thegirl’s Voice and face, if ever truth walked abroad
on earth. AndOonran did believe her, and told'her so in a
few unconnected words, lifting her up in his arms, and vow-
ing, with = most unrighteous oaths, that her father should
never haw power to'pememite her a sin as long as he him-
self.qu to'shelterand-tbke'eare of er. . ‘
‘ I wallet) interesteduin in’yM‘onte Crista and Heidee (it
was so like a chapter out of a book), that I entirel- fbrgot

zy. ddnnoe vile, and my novel and «excessively isgrace-

' thee enforced, occupation»! sp ; and there I,
stayed, ating between ray-interest in them and my
1. ' rat the revelations concerning my Eudoxia Ade -,

aidaui-olr, hang it! I mean Sarah ‘Bri till, after a'
~“most otnfounded long time, Conran saw fit to take Lu-
feresis of, to get‘asylum for her With the Colonel’s wife for a
iayLorm that “these fools might not 'miseOnstrue her.”
By which comprehensive epithet he, I suppose, politely de-
“3%.” u ‘ ,

. hire-t m ways to my own room, and there I found
a scenfid, mauve- ued,’creamy billet doux, in uncommon bad
hahdwritmg, though, from my miserable Eudoxia Adelaida
to the “fiend and lover of her soul.” Confound the woman 1
-' how I swore at that Idaintily perfumed and most vilely-
- ncrawled letter. To think that where that beautith si 3-
ture stretched from one side to the ether—“ Eudoxia de~
'laida St. Julian”—-there ought to have been that'short, vile,
low-bred, hideous, billingsgate cognomen of “ Sarah
3"“. .1”

In the note she. reproaohed me —the wretched hypo-
orite »—- for my departure the previous night, “ without
wane firewall: to your Eudoxia, 0- cruel Augustus !” and-
}!!! me to give her a rendezvous at some vineyards
‘ lying a little way of the Casa di Fiori, on the . road to

not

 

“slits. Now, being a foolish boy, and regarding myself-as

having been loved and. wro ed, whereas I had only been
playing the very common 93% of pigeon,‘I could [not resist
the temptation of going, just to take one last look of 'that
fitir, cruel face, and 11 brand her with being the first to sow
the fatal seeds of life on mistrust and misery in my only
too fond and fatal, &c., ,c., due. .

So, at the appointed hour, just when the sun was set-
tin over the far-away Spanish shore,- and the hush ~of
nig t was sinking over t e little, rocky, peppery, mili-
tary-thick, Mediterranean isle, I found myself en route to
the vineyards; which, till I came to Malta, had been one
of my delusions, Idea pictbrin them in wreaths and
avenues, Reality proving them 0 sticks and parched
earth. I drew near; it was quite k new, the sun had
gone to sleep under the blue waves, and the moon was
et up. Though I knew she was Sarah Briggs, and
an a venturess who ad made game of me, two facts that
one would fancy might chill the assion out of anybody,
so mad was I about that woman, t at, if I. had met her then
and there, I should have let her wheedle me over, and one
back to the Casa di Fiori with her and been fleeeed agam : I
am sure I should, sir, and so would you, if, at eighteem‘new
to life, you had fallen in with Eudox--—pshaw l—with Sarah
Briggs, my Marohioness St. Julian. ' x .

I drew near the vineyards: my heart beat thick, I could
not see, but I certainly heard the rustle of her dress, caught
the rfiune of her‘ hair. All her sins vanished; how
eoul I npbraid her, though she were three times over Sarah
Bri gs ? Yes, she was coming; I felt her near; an electric
thri l rushed‘ through me as soul met soul. I heard a mur-
mured “ Dearest, sweetest! ” I felt the warm clasp of two
arms, but—+8 cold row of undres waistcoat-buttons came
against my face, and a voice I knew too well cried out, as I

y rebounded from him, impelled thereto by a not gentle kick—-

“ The devil? get out ‘1‘ Who the deuce are you ? "« '-

We both‘ stopped for breath. 'At that minute up rose file
silver '- mcon, and in its tell-tale rays we glared . on ‘one
another, I and Little Grand. = -‘

That silence was sublime: the pause between Beethoven's
andante allegro—the second before the Spanish bull rushes
upon the terreador. r ‘  ‘ ' "’ ~

« Youlittle‘ miserable wretoh 2” burst out emasibely
and terribly; “you little mean,'sneaking, spyiiig, on "ka
ble milksop l 1 should like to knowwhat'  media y
brin i ‘ out year 11eg phiz at this hour, when  to
beagranifi of stirrin Out for fear of nurse’s subtitled
todaretooome lur 'mg afterme!” ' . ' -'-“

"f‘Aiter you,.Mr.’Grandison l” I regatediwfih ' ‘  ‘ ;
equenee. _ “Really you put too‘much' ' "o _ 
'own movements. 1' caine b " appointment to m  
*-

bhioness St. Julian, whom, presume, as on“ e” we ‘
finaint‘ed with her, you know in her rea name or ‘ ‘ h
riggs,’and to—-—- ' ' - ‘ ' ' ‘

“Sarah Briggs
Little Grand. ' , _ I . . _

“ Yes, sir; ifyou disbelieve my wordflof hbnbr,'f 
descend to show youm'y invitation.” ' ‘ " ‘ =_

“You little ape l” sworsGrand, comin' back to  
vious wrath; “ it is a lie, 2. most abomin 1e ' unwarra'ritable
lie! I came by appointment, sir; you did no isohi fliihg.
Looktherel” ' r - ' ' 'r

' And he-flauuted before my eyes in the.moonlight,"the..fw-

simile of my letter, verbatim copy, save that in . his Cosine
was at in the stead of Au u'stus. ' ‘ ' T . '

“ k there!” said I, giving him mine.-

Little Grand snatched it, read it over once, twice thrice,
then drooped his head, with aburning color inhis do... 
was silent. ,

The “ knowing hand ” was done i a a V

We were both ofns uncommonly quiet for ten minutes;
neither ofus liked to be the first to give in.  ‘ "

At last Little Grand looked up and held out’lfithand, no
more nonsense abouthifiI nOW- 7 1 ‘

“Simon, you and I have been two great fools; we,» can’t

Hm“ m" by “PPéintméin 1’" seeméiéd

 

   

'
4;.
'I 1'

 

' spirit, hot coura e, and thong

~_——-——‘— 2— 'W“

18 LADY MARABOUT’S TROUBLES.

 

 

 

chsfi‘, one another. She’s a cursed actress, and—let's make
it :3, old boy.”

' e made it up accordin ly—when Little Grand was not
conceited he was a very jo 1y fellow—and then I gave him
my whole he to the mysteries, intricacies and charms of
our Oasa di iori. We could not chafi' one another, but
poor Little Grand was pitiably sore then, and for long after-
wards. He, the “ old bird,” the cool hand, the sharp one of
Dare, to have been done brown, to be the joke of the mess,
the Ian h of all the men, down to the weest drummer-boy!
Poor Little Grand ! He was too done up to swagger, too
thoroughly angry with himself to swear at anybo y else.
He only whispered to me, “Why the dickens could she
want you and me to meet ourselves ?”

“ To give us a finishing hoax, I sup ose,” I suggested.
Little Grand drew his cap over is eyes, an hung his
head down in abject humiliation.

“ I suppose so. What fools we have been, Simon! And,
I say I ve borrowed three hundred of old Miraflores, and
it’s allgone up at that devilish Casa; and how I shall get it
from the governor, Heaven knows, for I don’t.”

‘ I’m in the same pickle, Grand,” I roaned. “ I’ve given
that old rascal notes of hand for two undred pounds. and,
if it don’t drop from the clouds, I shall never pay it. Oh, I

,say, Grand, love comes deucedly expensive.”

“ Ah i” said he, with a sympathetic shiver, “ think what
a pair of hunters we might have had for the money i” With
w ich dismal and remorseful remembrance the old bird, who
had been trapped like a young pigeon, swore mightily, and

withdrew into humbled and disgusted silence.
Next morning we heard, to our comfort—what lots of

people there alw s are to tell us how to lock our stable- '

oor when our. so 'tary mare has been stolen—that, with a
gentle hint from the police, the Marchioness St. Julian,
with her confiem, had taken wing to the Ionian isles
where at Corfu or Cefplialonia, they will re-erect the Casa di
Fion, and glide ent y on again from vingt—et-un to 100,

. and from 100 to asquenet, under eyes as young and blinded

as. our own: They went without Lucrezia. Conran took
her into his own hands. Any other man in the regi-
ment would have been pretty well ridiculed at taking
a bride out of the Cara di Fiori; but the statements made

biz-he hi h-born Abbess of her Roman convert were .so
'0 ,an

. so.tothe girl’s honor, and he had' such a we
of holding his own, of kee ing ofi' liberties from himse
and anythin belon ng to im, and was, moreover, known

. tobe of sec 7 fasti ious honor, that his young with was

received asif she had been 'a Princess in her own ri t.
ith her respected parent Conran had a brief interv ew

.‘pi‘evio‘us to his fiigh from Malta, in which, with a few gen-

tle hints, he showed that worth that it would be wiser to
leave his dauglliter unmolested or the future, and I doubt if
Mr. Oranfia agnolia, alias Pepe Guari, would know his
own chil in the Joyous, graceful, dai‘ntily-dressed m'ltress

.efConran’s handsome Parisian establishment.

Little Grand and I sufl'ered cruelly. We were the butts
of the. mess for many a long month afterwards, when
eveiaeidiot’s tongue asked us on. every side after the health
of Marchioness St. Julian ? when we were going to
teach them lansquenet? how often we heard from the
aristocratic members of the Maltese Peerage ? with like
delightful pleasantries, which the questioners deemed high

‘ wit. We paid fer it, too, to that arch old screw, Baltha-

zar; but I doubt very much if the money were not well
lost, and the experience well gained. It cured me of my
raWness and Little Grand of his self-conceit, the only

' thing that had before spoilt that good-hearted, quick-tem-

pered,.and clever-brained little fellow. Oh, Pater and Ma-
terfamilias, disturb not yourself so unnecessarily about the
crop of wild oats which our young ones are sowin broad-
cast. Those wild cats 0 n spring from a good fiel of hi h

tless generosity, that are t e
and basis 0 nobler virtues to come, and from them very

' 0 rise two goodly plants—Experience and Discernment.

LADY MARABOUT’S TROUBLE; 

on,
m WOBRIEB OF A CHAPERORI

 

 

IN THREE SEASONS.
snAsON THE FIRST.—THR nueinnn.

Om: of the kindest-natured persons that I ever knew on
this earth, where kind people are as rare as black eagles or
red deer, is Helena, Countess of Marabout, nee De Bonomur.
She has foibles, she has weaknesses—who amongst us has
not ?—she will wear her dresses decollctees, though she’s
sixty, if Burke tells us truth; she vill rouge and practice
a thousand other little toilette tricks; but they are surel
innocent, since they deceive nobody; and if you wait
for a woman who has no artifices, I am afraid you shall have
to forswear the sex in toto, my friends, and come growling
back to your Diogenes’ tub in the Albany, with your lantern
still lit every day of your lives. I '

Lady Marabout is a very charming men. As for
her weaknesses, she is all the nicer for t em, tcmy taste.
I like people with weaknesses in self; those Without them
do look so dreadfully scornful y and unsympathilingly
upon one from the altitude of their superiority, de tails
la ham de sa betise, as a Witty Frenchman says. Hu-
manity was born with weaknesses. . If I were a beggar, I
might hope for a coin from a man with some; a man
without any, I know, would shut up his porte-monnaie,
with an intensified click, to make me feel treny envious,
and consign me to_D l5 and his truncheon, on the score
of vagrancy. ' .,
Lad Marabout is a very charming person, despite her
little oibles, and she gives very pleasant little dinners,
both at her house in Lowndes 5%1181‘0 and in her jointure
villa at Twickenham, where the ad odors of Thamss‘are
drowned in the fragrance of the geraniums, piled in great
heaps of red, white, and variegated blossom in the flower-
beds on the lawn. She has been married twice, but has
only one son, by her first union—Canutherl, of the
Guards—a very good fellow, whom his mother thinks
perfection, though if she did know certain scenes in her
adored Philip’s life, the good lady mi ht hesitate before
she endowed her son with all the car 'ual virtues as she
does at the resent moment. She has no daughters, there-
fore ou wil wonder to hear that the prime misery, bur-
den, iscomfort and worry of her life is chaperonage. But
so it is. L - -: .

Lady Marabout is the essence of good nature; she can’t
say No; that unpleasant negative monosyllable was never
heard to issue from her full, smiling, kind-looking lips; she
is in a bi h position, she has an extensive circle, thanks to
her own gamin and those of the baronet and peer she suc-
cessively es sod; and some sister or cousin, or friend, is
incessantly unting her up to bring out their girls, and sell
them well of out of hand, young ladies being goods ex-
tremely likely to hang on hand nowadays.

“ all troubles the troubles of a chaperone are the

reatest,” said Lady Marabout to me at the wedding

ejeuner of one of her proteges. “In the first place, one
looks on at others’ campaigns instead of conducting the!!!
one’s self; secondly, it brings back one’s own bright days
to see the young things’ smiles and blushes, like at gl 8
just now (I do hope she’ll be happy i); and thirdly, one has
all the responsibility, and gets a l the blame ifanythmg goes
wrong. I’ll never chaperone anybody again now I have got
rid of Leila.” '

So does Lady Marabout say twenty times; et has she ii-
variably some young lady under her wing, w as relatives
are defunct, or invalided, or in India, or out of society some-
how; and we all of us call her house The Yard, and her
Slamong ourselves) not Lady Marabout but Lady Tattersall.

he worries she has in her chaperone’s ofiice would fill a

 

folio, s ecially as her heart inclines to the encourage-
ment 0 romance, but her reason to the banishment thereof ,

 

 

 

LADY MARABOUT’S TROUBLES. l9
and while her tenderness sufl'ers if she thwarts her proteges’ it,” laughed Carruthers. “ You’re a dreadful! dangerous
leanings, her conscience gives her neuralgia twin es if person, mother; you have always the best loo ' girl in

she abets them to unwise matches while under her
onn e.

“%hat’s the matter, mother ?” asked‘ Carruthers, one
morning. He’s very fond of his mother, and will never let
any one laugh at her in his hearin .

“ Matter ? Everythin !” re lied Lad Marabout, con-
ciser and comprehensive y, as s e sat on t e sofa in her bou-
doir, with her white-ringed hands and her bien comma look,
and her kindly pleasant eyes, and her rich dress; one could
see what a pretty woman she has been, and that Carruthers
may thank er for his good looks. “ To begin with, Felicie
has been so stupid as to marry—married the green grocer
(whom she will ruin in a week l)—-and has left me to the
mercies of a stupid woman who uts pink with cerise, mauve
with magenta, and sk -blue wit azureline, and has no rec-
ommendation except t at she is as ugly as the Medusa, and
so will not tempt you to—”

“Make love to her, as I did to Marie,” laughed Car-

rag-

ruthers. “ Marie was a pretty little dear; it was very
severe in on to send her away.”
Lady arabout tried hard to look severe and condemna-

toxz, but failed signally, nature had formed the smooth brow
an the kindly eyes in far too soft a mould.

“Don’t jestabout it, Philip; you know it was a
pain, anno ance, and scandal to me, Well! Felicle is
gone, and akes was seen pawnin some of my Mechlin the
other day, so I have been oblige to discharge her; and*
they both of them suited me so well! Then Bijou is ill,
poor little pet—”

“ With repletion of chicken panada 1’”

. “No' BijOu isn’t such a gourmet. You jud e him by
yourself, Ivsup se; men always do! Then Lafiy Hautton
told me last night that you were the wildest man on tOWn,
and at forttyf” -

“You mk' I ought to ranger! So I will, my dear
mother, some da' ; but at present I am—so ve com-
fortable; it woul be a pit to alter! What pains one’s
friends are alwa s at to tel unpalatable things; if they
’w’ould but be on y half so ea er to tell us the pleasant ones!

eat

I shall ex t you to cut La y Hautton if she s eak badly
of me. can’t afl'ord to lose your worship, mot er l”

In flyonhip? flow conceited on are, Phillip l As for
Lady utton, I believe she does dislike you, because on
did'not en ‘ e ourselfto Adelin and were selected aide-
de-ca to e'r ajesty instead ofahautton; still,.I am afraid
she s e too nearl the truth.”

“ erha s Marie as entered her service and told tales.”
Batu“; Mara out wouldn’t laugh, she always looks very
gra ’e about Marie.

f‘ 1 worst trouble ” she began hastily, “is that our
aunt oniton is too ill to come to town; no chance 0 her
being, well enough to come at all this season; and of
course the charge of Valencia has devolved on me. You
know how I hate chaperonm , andol did so hope I should
be free this year; besides, alencxa is a great responsi-
bility, ye great; a girl of so much beauty always is;
there wxll sure to be so many men about her at once, and
your aunt will expect me to marry her so very well. It is
excessively annoyin .”

“ My poor, deal: mother!” cried Carruthers. “ I grant you
are an o ject of pity. You are everlastingly having young
fillies sent yqu t0 bfeak in, and they want such a tight hand
on the ribbons.”

“ And a tight hand as on call it, I never had, and never
shall have,” sighed Lady arabout. “Valencia will be no
trouble to me on that score, however; she has been admira-
bly educated, knows all that is due to her position, and will
never give me a moment’s anxiety by an imprudence or in-
advertenoe. But she is excessively some, and a beauty
is a at responsibility when she first comes out.”

.- “, al. was always a handsome child, if I remember. I
dare say she is a beauty now. When is she coming 11 ‘P be-
cause I 1 tell the men to mark the house and keep cl;

ar of

town with you. Fulke Nugent says if he should ever want
such a thing as a wife when he comes into the title, he shall
take a look at the Marabout Yearlings Sale.”

“ Abominany rude of you and your friends to talk to me
in your turf slang l I wish you would come and bid at the
sale, Phili ; I should like to see you married—well married,
of course.’

“ My beloved mother i” cried Carruthers. “ Leave me in
eace, if you please, and catch the others if you can. There’s
oodey, now; ever chaperone and debutante in LondOn

has set traps for him for the last I don’t know how many
years; wouldn’t he do for Valencia?”

“ Goodwood ? Of course he would; he would do for an
one; the Dukedom is the oldest in the peerage. G -
wood is highly eligible. Thank you for reminding me,
Philip. Since Valencia is coming, I must do my best for
her.” Which phrase meant with Lady Marabout that she
must be very lynx-eyed as to settlements, and a perfect
dragon to all detrimental connections, must frown With Me-
dusa severity on all horrors of younger sons, and advocate
with all the weight oixpersonal experience the advan e
and agremens a go position, in all of which practi '-
ties she genera y broke own, with humiliation unspeaka-
ble, immediately her heart was enlisted and her sym athi‘es
appealed to on the enemy’s side. She sighed, play with
her bracelets thoughtfully, and then, heroically resiguin
herself to her impending fate, brightened up a little, ass
asked her son to go and choose a new pair of carriage-hence
for her.

“ Valencia will give me little trouble, I hope. 80 ad—

mirably brought-up a girl, and so handsome asshe is, will
be sure to marry soon, and marry well,” th ht Lady
Marabout, self-congratulate , as she dressed r dinner

the da of her niece’s arriv in town, runnin over men-
tally t e qualifications and attractions of V encia Valle-
tort, while Felicie’s successor, Mademoiselle Despreaux,
whose crime was then to put pink with cerise, mauve with
magenta, and sk -blue with azureline, gave the finishing
touches to her toi ette—“ Valencia will give me no trouble;
she has all the De Boncmur beaut , with the Valletort dig-
nity. Who would do for her?  me see; eli ible men
are not abundant,'and those that are eligible are e y of be?
ing marked as Phili would say—perhaps from-being hunt.
ed so much, oor t ingsl There is Fulke Nngeng-heir to
a baron , an his father isninet —-very ricb,too—hemuld
do; an Philip’s friend, Ca oc, poor, I know, but their
Earldom’s the oldest peerage patent. There is E re Lee,
too; I don’t much like the man, supercilious andem y-
headed' still he’s an unobjectionable alliance.
there is Goodwood. Every one has tried flit Good-
wood, and failed. I should like Valencia to win
him; he is decidedly the most eligible man in
town. I will invite him to dinner. If- he is not
attracted by Valencia’s beauty, nothing can attract him
—Deepreaua:, comma voue em bate. Omens pancakes,
dc ace.” . ‘ . "‘ - - -
“ alehcia will give. me no trouble; she will marry at
once,” thought Lady Marabout again, looking across the
dinner-table at her niece. h be

Ifan young atrician mig t like] to marry at once,
it was tyhe Hon. IValencia Valletort; shye was, to the most
critical, a beautv; her figure was perfect, her features
were perfect, and if you complained that her large lorious
e es were a trifle too chan eless in expression, t at her
c eek, ex uisitely indepengent of Marrchale powder,
Blane de erle, and liquid mugs; though it was rarely
varied with her thoughts and fee ' g, why you were very
exacting, my good fellow, and s ould remember .that
nothing is quite perfect on the face of the saith—not
even a racer or a woman—and that whether you bid at
the Marabout yearling sales or the Baw ' ,-' if you
wish to be pleased you’d better leave a hypercritical

’

 

spirit behind you, and not expect to get all pomts to your

 

  
 

u .a.
i g .

, preserve “ Not allowed to smoke in the dining room now I”

def-the. season,” said Lad Marabout to Carruthers, eyeing
- her__niece as she dance at her first ball at the Dowager-

~flittle under the weight of her responsibilities.

, some. You must tell her to make play with Goodwood or
- Nassau”:

' drive you to St. George’s nolem molens.’

' ‘eligible men’ have a harder life of it than rabbits in a

- the spring-guns are so dexterousl y covered wit an inviting,

3 fired, and can tell you. I [suffer still, though

.hmlghey are beginning to look on me as an incurable, giv-
-- on, over 2to the ,clubs,. thg coulisses, and the cover-side.
,‘ Thai-9’s a fellow that’s known-still more of the " es‘fortes

:dustioln to Yul. I would bet.”
( : 4 699de was no new“ h
 gift; nor of your lacquered, or ormolu, or 811-
-__ver-gil§ epronets, such, as are least about nowadays. with a
glitters-l: ,..that reminds one of flinging a handful of half-
-..penceg rem a'balconyh. where the nimblest beggar is first
1.1.9. settle prize; but of theme“ and beat sold; and
-i999d‘lfl9d_ ad

tarpon e  across forgthedast dozen years.
1"

 as Despreauxdisrobed her; that night, running
_7 overprissth a l{reattrogressive- glance Valencia Vslletort’s we

say. ‘wil issue. cards fbr another ‘At Home.’ .As for
“making playf-with'him, as Philip terms it, of coursethat
ice ,1 .‘ manls‘qonsense. 'Valenciaswillneed none of those

»_._.be v, , I . «-
‘fghvat’s a decidedly handsome. 'irl, that cousin of ours,
dl' . g . Y
9

_ nigh

_.. -...__ ___. ,_. -Qm-a “tn—nun“ .. .

£0 LADY ,MARABOUTYS TROUBLES.

 

 

 

liking. The best filly will have. something faulty in temper
or breedin , symmetry or pace, for your .friend Jack Mart-
ingale to ave the fun of pointing out to ou when your
money is paid and the filly in your stall 5 an your Wife will
have the same, only Martin ale will pomt her flaws out be-
kind your back, and only lnnt them to you with an all-ex—

“A little bit of a flirt, madame—az’est-ce , Charlie ?”
“Reins kc t rather tight, eh, old fellow?’ or something
equally, am iguous, significant, and unpleasant.

“I must consider, hilip, I have brought out the beauty

Duchess of Amandine’s, and beginning “to brighten up a.

‘.‘I think- you have, mother. Val’s indisputably hand-

Lady Marabout unfurled her fan, and indignantly inter-
rupted. him: -. Y

“My dear Philip! Do you suppose I would teach Valen-
cia, orany girl under my charge, to lay herself out for any
man, whoever or whatever it might be ? I trust your cousin
Would not stoo to such maneuvers, did I even stoo to
counsel them. spend upon it, Philip, it is precisely t ose
women who try to ‘ make play,’ as you call it, with your sex
that fail most to charm them, It is abominable the way in
which you men talk, as if we all hunted you down, and would

9

“So you would, mother,” laughed Carruthers. “ We

'warren, with a dozen beagles afterthem. From the minute
we’re of age .we’re beset with traps for the unwary, and
innocent; coking turf of courtesies and hospita ities that it s
next to amoral impossibility to escape them, let one retire
into one’s self, keep to monosyllables throu b all the courses
of all the dinners and all the turns of the valses, and
avoid everythingwompromising,’ as one ma . I’ve suf-

l believe and

4- than I. oodwood’s, coming to ask or an intro

Bruin, andhe had straWIien'y-

been tried for accordingly by every wo-
e _ @qu is certainly me), with he,” thought Lady

ball, I “ Very much Struck, indeed, I should

t ' eries,‘ I' trust; still, it is one’s‘dut' .to make the best
alli .ppssible for'such a girl,‘and ' ear Adeliza would
. p eased ” '

“is

vement before her Grace of

Phil,” said GoodWOo on the
ace, at the same hour that

Amandine’s, in ~Grosven‘or

I“ think she is counted like me 1’”; said Carruthers. “ Of
conqq;he"s handsome, hasn‘t she De Boncoeur blood in her,
my gopd tellow ? We re all of us, good-looking, always have

bee thank .God! If you’re inclined to sacrifice Good- y

w 'po'w’si'your time, and ,my mother ’11 be delighted.-
She's  out about half. a million of debutantes, I
should say" in her. time, and , all of ’em have. gone

~ra aclty unmeasur’e

 

wrong, somehow; wOuldn’t go ofi‘at all, like damp gun-

powder, or- would go off too quick in the wron direc-
tion, like a volunteer’s rifle charge; married ignomhiionsly,
or married obstinately, or never excited pity in the breast of
any man, but had to retire to single-blessedness in' the
country, console themselves with piety and an harmonium,‘
and spread nets for your young clerical victims. GiVe her a
triumph at last, and let her have glory for once, as a
chaperone, in catching you !” ’ '
Goodwood gave a little shiver, and tried to light aManilla,
which utterly refused to take light, for the twelfth time in
half a minute. "
“Hold your ton us! If the Tem lars’ Order were ex-
tant, wouldn’t Ita e the vows and less them! What an
unspeakable comfort and rotection that white cross Would
be to us, Phil, if We could) stick it on our coats and'know
it would say to every woman that looked at us, ‘No go,
my pretty ittle dears—not to be caught !’ Marriage‘.l-I
can’t remember any time that that word wasn’t my bu -
bear. When I was but a little chicken, some four years ofd,
I distinctly remember, when I was playing with little, Ida
Keane on the" terrace, hearing her mother simper to mine,
‘ Perhaps darling Goodwood may marry my little Ida some
day, who knows ?’ I never would play with Ida afterwards;
instinct preserved me; she’s six or seven-and-thirty now, and
weighs ten stone, I’m ositive. Why won’t they, let’hs
alone ? The way journalists and dowa ers, the fellOWs who
want to write a taking article, an the women who
want to st rid of a taking daughter, all badgerus, in
public am? private, about marriage Just now, is'abominable,
on my life; the afl‘air’s ours, I should say, not theirs, and to
marry isn’t the ultimatum of a man’s existence, nor any-
thin like it.” — , - . ' ..
“ hope not 1 It’s more like the extinguisher. 
old fellow.” And Carruthers drove away in ‘hisgh'ansom,
while Goodwood got into his night-bran ham, thinking
that for the sake of the' title, the evi (nuptial) day
must come, sooner or latter, but dashed of to ‘forget
the disagreeable obligation OVer the supper-table of the
most sparkling em rose of the demi-monde. ’ v  4
Lady Marabout ad her wish; she bron ht out the belle
of the season, and when a little time hads lp ‘ ,‘fiwfien
the Hon. Val had been presented at the fist wing-
room,.and shon’e‘ there despite the, worry, muddle, and
squeeze incidqn’ta’l‘to that ro a1 and fashionable ceremony,
and" she had gathered secon -hand from,'her son what
said in the u. 8, relative to his new specimen of the
tort' beauty, she began to be happier under her duties can
she had ever- been before, and wrote letters to “dentist
Adeliza,“ Vibrimful. of superlative adjectives and genuine
warmth.  i  ’_ “_"‘,.-
“Valencia will do me credit: I shall see hersengaged
before the. .end of June; shewill ,only'havcltoclioosa,”

1

"Lad ' ‘Marabout would say to herself sdme “tent times

in tfepauSes of the morning Concerts,,thefmorning flies,
the bazaar committees, the toilette Millstwnd, 'th'en‘su'di-
ences to, religiousgieggars, whose namfi was Legion and

‘She will do melgreat credit,” the semi-consoled, ciia-
perone would say to herself with 'seliieongratnlatory‘rellef,
and if Lad Marabout thought now and then, “I Wishihe
were a tri —atrifle more—edemo'nstrative,” she instantly
checked such an.ungrateful and hypocritical Wish-undire-
membered that a heart is as highly treacherous and fined-
visable possession for any young lady, and a most ha
omission in her anatom ,tthough Lady Marabout had-,- e
would confess to hersef on occasions withgrsst selfqe-
proach, an unworthy and lingering  f0? that con-
traband article, for" which she scorned'and scolded herself
with the very worst success. - A 4 v L,

“ Goodwood’s attentions are serious,- Phili , my. what
cu, like,” said the Countess to her- son, as ' oaly
as a theologian states his pet points‘With wool lame-ears,
that. he may not hear any-Satan-mspired, rational and
mathematical disproval of . them, with which you may
rashly seek to soil his tympana and smash his arguments--

 

 

 

5»;

 

 

LADY MARABOUT’S TROUBLES. 21

 

 

 

“Goodwin’s attentions are serious, Philip, say what you
like,” said her ladyship, at a morning party at Kew, eating
her Neapolitan ice, complacently glancing at the “most
eligible a liance of the season,” who was throwing the balls
at lawn-billiards, and talking between whiles to the Hon.-
Val with praiseworthy and promising animation.

“ Serious indeed, mother, if they tend matrimony-wards l”
smiled Carruthers. “ It’s a very seriOus time indeed for
unwary s : ows when they lend an earto the call—bird,
and think about hopping on to the lime twigs. I should
think it’s from a sense of compunction for the net you’ve
led us into, that you ail particularize our attentions, when-
ever; ' point near St. Geo e’s, bly that very suggestive
little a jective ‘serious!’ es, am half afraid poor
Goodey is a little touched. He threw over our Derby
sweepstakes up at Hornsey Wood yesterday to go and
stifle himself in Willie’s rooms at your bazaar, and buy
a tunes of Souchong frOm Valencia; and, considering
he's oneio the best shots in England, I don’t think you
could have a more conclusive, if you could have amore
poetic proof of devoted renunciation. I’d fifty times
rather et a spear in my side, a ht Ivanhoe, for a woman,
than give up a Pigeon-match, a Cup—day or a Field-
night 1 ’

“ You’ll never do either!” lau hed Lady Marabout, who
made it one of her chief troub es that her son would not
marry, chiefly, probably, because if he had married she
would have been miserable, and thought no woman good
enough for him, would have been jealous of his wife’s
share ofhih heart, and supremely wretched, I have no doubt
at’his throwing himself away, as she would have thought it,
had his handkerchief lighted on a Princess born, lovely as
Galstea, and blessed‘with Venus’ cestus.

“ NeVer, plaice a Dim ,” responded her songgiousl over,
his ice; “ but if Goodwood’s serious, what’s Ca onne P He
lost his head, if you like, after the Valletort beauty.”

“Major Ca’rdonnell” said Lady Marabout, hastily. “ Oh
no, I don’t think so. I he not—I trust not.”

“ Why so? He’s one o the finest fellows in the service.”

“I dare say; but you see, my dear Philip, he’s not—not—
desirable.” -

Car'ruthers stroked his mustaches and laughed:

“ Fie, fie, mother! if all other Bel' raviennes are Mammon-
worshipers, I thought you'ltept 0 ar of the paganism. I
thought your freedom from It was the onl touch by which
you won’t ‘ purel femimne,’ as the ladyy novelists say of
their t bits of chi l propriety.”

'“ 'orship Mammonl Heaven forbid l” ejaculated Lady
Manhunt. “ But there’s duties, you see, my dear; your
frienth a very delightful man, to be sure; I like him
finessshe’ly, and if Valencia felt any great, preference for

inn-H; -

“ You'd'feel it your duty to counsel her to throw him
0mm Goodwood." ‘ ‘

a 1.1mm. said so, Philip,” interrupted Lady Marabout,
with as near unapproach to asperity as she could achieve,
which approach was less like vinegar than most people’s be“

honey.
:“ ,ut yen implied is; What are ‘ duties ’ else, and why is
r Cardonnel ‘ not desirable ’ ? ” " -
Lady Marabout played a little tattoo with her spoon in

uplexitg'. . _ .

“ y ear Philip, you know as well as I do what I mean,

One might think you were a boy of twenty to hear you l”
“My dear mother, like all disputante, when beaten in

argument and driven into a corner, you resort to vitupera.

tion of your opponent l”‘la hed Carruthers, as 'he left

' her and lounge away to pi up the stick with which
pretty Flora Elmers ad Just knocked the pipe out of

Aunt Sally’s head on to the vplvst lawn of Lady George
Fungi ’s (lower-house, 'leavmg  mother by no means
We his suggestions.

‘5' .' .me i" thou t Lady Marswa uneasily, as she
calm with the anger-Countess of Patchouli on the
We beauties of two new pelargomnm'uodlings, the

 

.- ——~- -—.— ——

Leucadia and the Beatrice, for which 4 her ardner had
won the prize the day before 'at the Regent’s ark Show——
“dear me! why is there invariably this sort of cross-
purposes in everything? -It-'will be so grevious to lose
Goodwood, (and he is decidedly struck with her; when he
bou ht that rosebud yesterday of her at the bazaar, and
put it in the breast of his waistcoat, I heard what he said,
and it was no nonsense, no mere flirting complaisance
either)—-it would be so grievous to lose him; and yet if
Valencia really cared for Cardonnel—and sometimes I
almost fauc she does—I shouldn’t know which way
to advise. thought it would be'odd if aseason could
pass quietly without my having [some WO of this sort l"

Carruthers was quite right. One fellow at least had lost
his head after the beauty of the season, and he was Gan ,
donnel, of tiled—Lancers, as fine a ibllow, as Philip said,"
as any in the Queen’s, but a dreadful detrimental in the"
eyes of all chaperones, because he was but the fourth son-'2
of one of the poorest ers in the United Kin , 'a filer"
which gave him an aegis from all assaults matrimonial; 
a freedom from all smiles and wiles, tra and gins, which '.
Goodwood was accustomed to tell him he bitterly envied
him, and on' which Oardonnel -had-' ferveutl co ' tulated
himself, till he came under the fire of the on. ’ al’s lhrgov’
luminous eyes one night, when he was hveling his glam.
from his stall at Lady Mambout’s box, to take a leek at the ‘
new belle, as adv‘isedto do by that most' fastidious female
critic, Vane Steinberg. Valencia Valletort’s luminous eyes” I
had gleamed that night under their lashes, «and pierced
through the lenses of his lorgnon. He saw her, and saw
nothin but her afterwards, as men looking on the sun is
it on t eir retina to the damage and exclusion of all other
objects. '

Goodwood’s attentions were Very marked,ltoo, «on to
eyes less willing to construe themso than Lady Marabout’s.
Goodwood himself, if chafi‘ed on the subject, vouchsafed
nothing; laughed, stroked his moustaches, or pufl'ed his
cigar, if he happened to have that blessed resource in all dif-
ficulties, and comforter under all embarrassments, between
his lips at the moment; but decidedly he sought Valencia

r Valletort more, or, to speak more correctly, be shunned he’r

less than he’d ever done any other oung l , and one. or
two Sunday mornin irabile {cm—he Was ti'tel'y"
seen at St. Paul’s, nightbridg‘e, in the seat behind 7 Lady
Marabout’s sittings. A fhct which, combining as it did a-
brace of miracles at once, of early rising and unusual pies ,
set every Belgravienne in that fashionable sanctuary wet '
ing over the top of her illuminated prayer book, to the utter
destruction of her hopes and interruption ’of her orisons.
Dowagers- began to tremble behind their fans, young~
ladies to quake'over their bouquets; the topic was eagerly -
discussed by every woman from Clarges street to London '
S uare; their Graces of Doncaster smiled well pleased on _-
alencia—she was unquestionable blood, and theyiso 
dear Goodwood to settle! There was whispered an hm! '
whisper to the whole female world; whispered over mamb-
nal chocolate, and luncheon Strasbourg pates, ball-supper r
Meets, and demi-monde-supper Sillerl, orer Vane Stein-
berg’s cigar and Eulalie Rosiere’s cigarette, ever the  '
ingl’ost in the clubs, and Le I/bllet in the boudoir, that“— i
the Pet Eligible would—marry! That the Pet P::pheey of
universal smash was going to be fulfilled could‘h, ' ly'hsvs' ‘
occasioned greater consternation. -  2.9.2: ;- . —
The soul of Lady Marabout had been I ‘ ‘ ieted ever
since her son’s sug estions at Lady ’ ‘ ' ane’s.
morning party, an she began to Worry: flu-herself, for
Valencia, for Goodwood, for Osrdonnel, for 'her respcnsl-'
b1hti9s in general, and for her “ dearest Adeliza’s”"alter-
118130 .Opiljlon‘s of her duenna qualifications in 'artlctflar.f.
Things were. nicely in train. Goodwood was?» ' sing}
to bite at that 'v handsome fly the Hon. Val, as?“
186d to' be hook and landed without much
before long, and placed, hopelessly for him, will
for her, in" the? hue-beats:- of matrimony;

w '
” is

we
beautiftu in  Lady “Mmflidw-

  

22 LADY MARABOUT’S TROUBLES.

 

 

toting herself she should float pleasantly through an un-
ruflled and successful season, when Carruthers poured the
one drop of amars' a1:ng into her champs e-cpyp by) his
suggestion of Garden s doom. And then y ara out
be an to worry. .
he-who could not endure to see a fly hurt or a flower
pulled needlessly, had nothing for it but to worry for Car-
donnel’s destiny, and puzzle over the divided duties which
Oarruthers had hinted to her. To reject the one man be-
cause he was not well ofi did seem to her conscience, un-
comfortably awakened by Phil’s innuendoes, something
more mercenary than she quite liked to look at; yet to
throw over the other, future Duke of Doncaster, the eligi-
ble, the darling, the yearned-for of all May Fair and Bel-
giavia, seemed nothing short of madness to moulcate to
alencia; a positive treason to that poor absent, trusting,
“dearest Adeliza,” who, after the visions epistolarily 3 read
out before her, would utterly refuse to be comforted if ood-
wood any way failed to become her son-in-law, and, more-
over, the heaviest blow to Lady Marabout herself that the
merciless axe or that brutal headsman Contretemps could
deal her. . .

“‘1 do not know really what to do or what to advise,”
would Lady Marabout say to herself over and over again
(so disturbed b her onerous burden of responsibilities
that she would t Despraux arrange the most outrageous
coifl‘ures, and, never noticing them, go out to dinner with
emeralds on blue velvet, or something as shocking to
femimne nerves in her tem orary aberration), for etting
one very great point, whic , remembered, woul have
saved her all trouble, that nobody asked her to do any-
thin , and not a soul requested her advice. “But Good-
woo is decidedly won, and Goodwood must not be lost;
in our position we owe something to society,” she would
invariably conclude these mental debates; which last phase,
being of a vagueness and obscure application that might
have matched it with any Queen’s speech or electional ad-
dress upon record, was a mysterious balm to Lady Mara-
boat’s soul, and spoke volumes to her, if a trifle hazy to you
and to me. -

-“ Arthur Cardonnel is excessively handsome 1 Such very
ood st lel Isn’t it a pity they’re all so oorl His
ather pzsyed away everything—literally everyt ing. The
sons have no more to marry upon, any one of them, than
if they were three cross-sweepers,” said her lady-
ship,oarelessly, driving home from St. Paul’s one Sunday
morning. '

“ She does like him 1” sighed Lady Marabout over that
Sabbath-’s luncheon wines. “ It’s always in fate-—
always; and Goodwood, never won before, will be thrown
—actuall thrown—awe , as if he were the younger son
of a Nobody l ” which liorrible- waste was so terrible to
her fixation that Lady Marabout could ositively
have tears at the bare pros ct, and might ave .shed
them, too, if the Hon. Val, the utler, two footmen, and a
page hadlnot inconveniently happened to be in the room at
the tim so that she was driven to restrain her feelings
and drin some Amontillado instead. Lad Marabout
is not the first person by a good many who as had to
smile aver sherry with a breakm heart. Ah! Lips have
quivered as they laughed over hambertin, and trembled
as they touched the bowl of a champagne-glass. Wine
has assisted at many a joyful festa enough, but some that
has been drunk in yety has caught gleams, in the

eyes of the drinkers, of salt water brighter than its

brightest sparkles; water that no other e es can see.
Because we may drink Badminton laughing y when the

game of Society the Non-Sympathetic 15 on us, do you
think we must never have tasted any more bitter dregs?
Vet’s», ss. Where have you lived? Nero does not
always 6 while Romeis burning from utter heartless-
ness, believe me, but rather—sometimes, perhaps—because
his ' ! p a A ‘
to-night. I fancy, he is so Very
Marabout, sitting with her, sister

1-“. Goodwood wi
Will's” “1098]” .

 

chaperones on the cos causeuses of a mansion in Carlton
Terrace, at one of the ast balls of the de rtin season. “ I
never saw dear Valencia look better, an certain] her waltz-
ing is—Ah l good evening, Major Cardonnell cry warm
to-night, is it not? I shall be so glad when I am down
again at Fernditton. Town, in the first week of July, is
really not habitable.”

And she furled her fan, and smiled on him with her
pleasant eyes, and couldn’t help wishing he hadn’t been
on the Marchioness Rondeletia’s visiting list, he was such a
detrjimental, and he was ten times handsomer than Good-
woo l

“ Will Miss Valletort leave you soon?” asked Cardonnel,
sittin down by her. .

“ , monsz'eur nous ates la I” thought Lady Marabout, a
she answered, like a guarded, diplomatist as she was, that it
was not all settled at present w at her niece’s post-season
destiny would be, whether Devon or Fernditton, or, the
Spas, with her mother, Lady Honiton; and then unfurled
her fan again and chatted about Baden and her own indeci-
sion as to whether she should go there this September.

“ May I ask you a uestion, and will you pardon me for
its plainness ‘1’” asked ardonnel, when she’d exhausted Ba-
den’s desirable and non-desirable points. ‘ ~ -

Lady Marabout shuddered as she bent her head,and thought,
“The creature is never gein to confide in me! He will
win me over if he do, he 100 so like his mother! And
what shall I say to Adeliza l’”

“ Is your niece en aged to (9:00de or not ?” .

If ever a little fi .was tempting to any lady, from Eve
dOanard, it was tempting to Lady Marabout now! A
falsehood would settle ever thing, send Cardonnel ofl’ the
field, and clear all ossibi 'ty of losing the “best match
of the season.” esides, if not engaged to Goodwood
actually to-night, Val would be, if she liked, to-morrow, or
the next day, or before the week was over at the fur-
therest—would it be such a falsehood afterall? She colored,
she fidgeted her fan, she longed for the little fibl—how
terribly tempting it looked 1 But Lady Marabout is a bad
hand at prevarication, and she hatesa lie, and she ans-
wered bravely, with a regretful twinge, “ Engaged ?
No; not ” ‘ ' .

“ Not etl Thank God 1” ' I ‘ -a

Lady arabout stared at him and at the words muttered
under his mustaches:

“ Really, Major Cardonnel, I do not see why you 1”

“ Should thank Heaven for it? Yet I do—it is a re-
prieve. Lady Marabout, you and my mother were close
friends; will on listen to me for a second, while we are
not overhear '1’ That I have loved your niece—had the
madness to love her, if you will——~you cannot but have seen;
that she has given me some reasonable encouragement it is
no coxcombry to say, thou h I have known fi'om the first

 

 

what a powerful rival I ha against me ;- but that Valencia.

loves me and does not love him, I believe—nay, I know. --I
have said nothing decided to her 1 when all han s on a single
die we shrink from hazarding the throw. ButI
my fate tonight. If she come to you—as girls will, I be-
lieve sometimes—for countenance and counsel, will you
stan my friend ?—will you, for the sake of my friendship

with your son, your friendshi with my mother, sup rt my '
cause, and uphold what I believe Valencia’s heart w' :‘say in g

my favor?”

Lady Marabout was silent; no Andalusian' ever wor-
ried her fan more ceaselessly in c uetry than she did in
perplexit . Her heart was appealeodl to, and when that was
enlisted, Indy Marabout was lost! . -

“ But—but—my dear Ma'or Cardonnel, you are aware—”
she began, and stopped.
awkward to tell a man to his face he re “ not desirable l”_

“I am aware that I cannot match with Goodwood? I
am; but I know, also, that Goedwood’s love cannot latch
with mine, and that your niece’s aflection is not his. That
he maywin her I know women too well not to test, there-
fore I ask you to be my friend. If she refuse-me, will you

must know.

should suppose it may be a little.

 

 

 

 

 

 

LADY MARABOUT’S TROUBLES.

 

plead for me ?——if she ask for counsel, will you give such as
your own heart dictates ‘1 ask no other —and, Will you re-
member that on Valencia 5 answer wi rest the fate of a
man’s lifetime ?”

He rose and left her, but the sound of his voice rang in
Lady Marabout’s ears, and the tears welled into her eyes.
“Dear, dear! how like he looked to his poor dead mother !
But what a position to place me in! Am I never to have
an peace?’

{lot at this ball, at any rate. Of all the worried chape-
renes and distracted duennas who hid their anxieties
under pleasant smiles or afi'able lethargy, none were a
quarter so miserable as Helena, Lady Marabout. Her
heart and her head were enlisted on opposite sides; her
wishes pulled one way, her sympathies another; her sense
of justice to ,Cardonnel urged her to one side, her sense
of dut to “ dearest Adeliza” urged her to the other;
her pride longed for one alliance, her heart yearned for
the other.: ardonnel had confided in her and appealed
to her;-seqm‘twr, Lady Marabout’s honor would not allow
her to go against him ; yet it was nothing short of grossest
treachery to poor Adeliza, down there in Devon, ex-
pecting every day to congratulate her daughter on a
prospective duchy won, to counsel Valencia to take one
of these beggared Cardonnels, and, besides—to lose all her
own laurels, to lose the ca ture of Goodwood !

N o Guelphs and Ghibelins, no Royalists and Imperialists,
ever fought so hard as Lady Marabout’s divided duties.

-“ Valencia, Major Cardonnel spoke to me to-night,” began
that best-hearted and most badgered of ladies, as she .sat
before her dressing-room fire that night, alone with her
niece.

Valencia smiled slightly, and a faint idea crossed Lady
Marabout’s mind that Valencia’s smile was hardly a pleas-
ant one, a trifle too much like the play of moonbeams on ice.

“ He spoke to me about you.”

.“ Indeed!”

“ Perhaps you can guess, my dear, what he said?” .

.“I am no clairvoyant, aunt '” and Miss Val yawned a
little, and held out one of her long slender feet to admire it.

“Every woman, my love, becomes half a clairvoyant
when she is in love,” said Lady Marabout, a little bit impa-
tiently; she hadn’t been brought up on the best systems
herself, and though she admired the refrigeration (on prin-
cipleg, it irritated her just a little new and then. “ Did he
—di he say anything to you to-night ?”

.“ Oh, es 1 ”

.“ And what did you answer him, my love ?”

.“ What would you advise me ?”

Lady Marabout sighed, coughed, pla ed nervously with
the. til-sols of her peignoir, crumpled ijou’s ears with a
recklm ' rd to that priceless pet’s feelings, and
wished hersel at the bottom of the Serpentine, Car-
donnel had trusted her, she couldn’t desert him; oor
dear Adeliza had trusted her, she couldn’t betray er;
What was right to one would be Wrong to the other, and
to reconcile her divided duties was a Danaid’s labor.
For months she had worried her life out .lest her advice
should be asked, and now the climax was come, and asked
it was.

“ What a horrible ition i” thought Lady Marabout.

She waited and hesitated till the pendule had ticked ofi‘
sixty seconds; then she summoned her courage and spoke:

,“ My dear, adVice in such-matters is often very harmful,
and always very useless; plenty of people have. asked my
counsel, but I never knew any of them take it unless it
chanced to chime in With their fancy. A woman’s best ad-
viser is her own heart, Spegially on such a subject as this.
But before I give my Oplnlon, may I ask if you have ac-
ce ted him ‘1’”

Lady Marabout’s heart throbbed quick and fast as she put
the momentous question, Wlth an agitation-for which she
Would. have blushed before her admirably nonohalante
mece; but the tug of war was coming, and if Goodwood
she be lostl .

 

«—

 

“ You have accepted him ?” she asked again.

“ No! I—refused him.”

The delicate rose went out of the Hon. Val’s cheeks for
once, and she breathed quickly and shortly.

Goodwood was not lost then !

Was she so ——was she glad? Lady Maiabout hardly
knew; like Wellington, she felt the next saddest thing after
a defeat is a victo .

“ But you love him, Valencia ?” she asked, half ashamed of
suggesting such weakness, to this glorious beauty.

e Hon. Val unclasped her necklet as if it were a chain,
choking her, and her face
will feel on occasion, and a
winch at the the touch. »

“Perhaps; but such folly is best put aside at once. ' Cer-
tainly I prefer him to others, but to accept him would have
been madness, absurdity. I told him so . ’ A - ~

“You told him so! If you had the heart to do so,~
Valencia, he has not lost much in losing you 2” burst in
Lady Marabout, her indignation getting the better of her
judgment, and her heart, as usual, giving the do
grace to her reason. “ I am shocked at on! we
tender-hearted woman feels regret for ection she is
obliged to repulse, even when she does not return it; and
you, who love this man—” -

“ Would you have had me accept him, aunt ?” .

“ Yes,” cried Lady Marabout, firmly, f0 tting every
vestige of “ duty,” and every possibility of ' ear Adeliza’s
vengeance, “if you love him, would, decidedly. When
I married my dear Philip’s father, he was what Cardonnel
is, a cavalry man, as far off his family title then as Cardonnel
is off his now.”

“The more reason I should not imitate your impru-
dence, my dear aunt; death might not carry off the in-
termediate heirs quite so courteously in this case! No, -I
refused Major Cardonnel, and I did rightly; I should have
repented it b now had I accepted him. There is noth-
ing more sil y than to be led away by romance. You
De Boncceurs are romantic, you know; we Valletorts are
happily free from the weakness. I am very tired, aunt, so
good night.” —

The Hon. Val went, the waxlight she carried shedding
a paler shade on her handsome face, whiter and more
set than usual, but held more proudly, as if it had already
were the Doncaster coronet; and Lady Marabout sighed as
she rang for her maid.

“Of course she acted wisely, and I ought to be very
pleased; but that poor, dear fellow l—his eyes are so like

is mother’s l”

“ I congratulate you, mother, on a clear field. You’ve
sent poor Arthur off very nicel ,” said Carruthers, .the
next morning, paying his enera visit in her boudoir be-
fore the day began, which is much the same time in town
as in Greenland, and commences, whatever almanacs ma
say, about two or half-past P. M. ‘f Cardonnel left this mom-
ing for Heaven knows where, and is going to exchange,
Shellelo tells me, into the —fli, which is ordered to Bengal,
so he won’t trouble you much more. When shall I be al-
lowed to congratulate my cousin as the future Countess of
Doncaster ?” -

“ Please don’t tease me, Philip. I’ve been vexed encugh
about your. friend. ,When he came to me this. morning,
and asked me if there was no hope, and I was obliged to
tell him there was none, I felt wretched,” said Lady Mar-
about, as nearly pettishly as she ever said anythin ; “but,
I am really not res nsible, not in the least. esides,-
even you must. admit that Goodwood is a much more
desirable alliance, and if Valencia had accepted Garden-v
nel, pray what would all Belgravia have said? Why,
that, disappointed of Goodwood, she took the other ,outof
pure pique! We owe something to society, Philip, and
somethin to ourselves.” . »

Carrut ers laughed. ,

“ Ah, my dear mother, you women will never be worth all
you ought to be till you leave off kowtow-ing to ‘ what will

grew white and set—the coldest
l have some tender place that can

 

  

. -m-..____... r, W,__,.,_____.

‘— ....»._--__.- ..

LADY MARABOUT’S TROUBLES.

 

 

be said,’ and sleame defy that terrible oligarch'y'
Qu’en dira-t-on ?” . - -

“lHe' mustlspeak definitely to-morrow,” thought Lady
Marabout. But the larvae of toomorrOW burst into the but-
terfly of to-day and to-day passed into the chrysalis of yes-
terday, and Goddwood was always very nearly» caught, and
neverquz'te. - .

“ Come up-stairs, Philip; I want to show youa little Paul
Potter'l bought the other day,” said Lady Marabout one
morning, returning from a shopping expedition to Regent
street; imeeting her son at her own door just descending
from his tilbury. “Lord Goodwood calling, did you say,
Soamesl, Oh,‘ very well.”

And Lady Marabout floated up the staircase, but signed
to-her footman to open the door, not of the drawing-room,
but of her own boudoir.

“ The Potter is in my own room, Philip; ou must
come in here if you wish to see it,” said that admit lad , for
the benefit of Soames. But when the door was shut, ady
Marabout lowered her voice confidentially: “ The Potter
isn’t here, dear; I had it hung in the little cabinet through
the drawing-rooms, but I don’t wish to go up there for a
few moments- you understand.”

0 here threw himself zinza' chair, and laughed till the
dogs ijou, Bonbon, and Pandora all barked in a furious
concert. ‘ _ ' ' -‘

“Innder'standl So Goody’s positively coming to the
point up there, is he ?” .

'“No doubt he is,” said Lady Marabout, reprovingly.
“Why elsevshould he come'in when I was not at home l’
There is'nothing extraordinary in it. The only thing I have
wondered at is his having delayed so lon .” ’

“If aTmsn jhsd to hang himself, wou d you wonder he
put of? pulling the bolt ?” - -

“I don’t-see any 'point in your jests at all i” returned
Lady‘Maraboutp “ here is nothing ridiculous in winning
such a girl as Valencia.” .

“No; «but the Iaiihestion here- is not of winning her, but
of buying: hen ' - 0 price is a' little high—a ducal cor-
onet and splendid. settlements, a Wedding-ring and bond-
age for life; but he will buy her, nevertheless. Cardonnel
couldn’t pa the- first half of the . price, and so he‘ was
sweptiout o the auction-room. You are shocked, mother?
Ah, truth. is shocking sometimes, and always maladroz't.
one o htn’t to bring it into ladies’ boudoirs.”

“ :Id our tongue, Philip! I twill not have you so
satirical. ' here do you take it from ? Not from me I am
sure! Hark! there is Geodwood'goin lThat is his step on
the stairs, I think 1 Dear me, Philip, wish yous pathiZed
with me a little more, ibr I- do feel happy, 'and can’t help
it; dear Adelina 'will be so gratified.” '- I

“ My dear 'mother, I’ll o my best to be sympathetic,
I’ll go and congratulate Goodwood as he gets in his cab,
if on face I ought; but, you see, if I were in Dahomey
b olding be head of my best friend coming OR; I couldn’t
uite get the amount of sympathy in t eir pleasure at
t e refreshlhg sight the Dahomites might expect from me,
and so--” ‘

But Lady Marabout missed the comparison of herself
to a Dahomite, for she had opened the door and was
crossing to the drawing rooms, her eyes bri ht, her step
elastic, her heart exultant at the triumph 0 her maneu-
vers. The Hon. Val was playing with some ferns in an
eta rest the bottom of the farthest ‘room, and responded
to the kiss her aunt bestowed on her about as much asif she
had been one of the statuettes on the consoles.

“Well, love, what did he say ?” asked Lady Marabout,
breathleSsly, with eager delight and confident anticipation.

Like drops of ice on 'warm rose-loaves fell each word
0 the intensely chill and slightly sulky response on Lady

subcut’s heart. ' ' -

“He said that he goes to Cowes to-morrow for the Royal
Yacht uadron dinner, and then on in the AW
to the Sp tzbergen ' coast for walruses. He left a . P. 0.
card for you.” » ’

)of the

‘-‘ Walruses l” shrieked Lady Mai-about '-‘ -
“ Walruses,” respdnded the Han. Val.‘ ' .  - -- a  I
.“And said no more than that ‘P” . - -  v ' " ‘
“No more than that l” ‘ ' ' ~  '
The Pet Eligible «had flown - off uncaught-iafier all!
Lady Marabout needed no further explanatibné-thmfict dit.
They were both silent and paralyzed. Do you suppose
Pompeyand Cornelia had much need of words'wh'en they
met at Lesbos after the horrible deroute of Pharsialia l" ' 3
“I’m in your mother’s blackest books for ever, Phil,”
said Goodwood .to Carruthers in the express to Southampton
for the..R. Y. C. Squadron Regatta of that year, “but
I can’t help it. It’s no good to badger us. into marriage;
it only makes us double, and run to earth; I maneu-
compromising myself with your cousin, I grant, but the
thing that chilled me was, she’s too studied. It’b all'got
up beforehand, and goes upon clockwork, and ,it don’t*
interest one accordingly; the mechanism’s perfect, but‘m
know when it will raise its hand, and move its eyes, and
bow its head, and when we’ve looked at its beauty once
we get tired of it. That’s the fault in Valencia, and! in
scores of them, and as long as they won’t ‘be natural, why,
the&ean’t‘have much chance with us 1-”; ‘ - a  .
ihcch piece of‘ advice Carrutliers,.when he next ~ saw his '
mother, repeated to her, for the edification of all future Job; 7
utantes, adding a small sermon of hisiown: - . fl :
“My'dear mother,I ask you, is it to be expected that
we can marry just to' oblige women and please the news-
papers? Would you have me marched off to Hanover
Square because it Would be a kindness to take one-of Lady
Elmers’ marriagea‘ble daughters, or because ia‘. leading
journal fills up an empty column with farcical lamenta-
tion on our dislike to‘ the' bandage it? Of coarse' ou
wouldn’t; yet, for .no better reasons, you’d have'chained'
poor Goodwood if. you could have caught him. Whether
a man likes to marry or not iscertainly his own private
business, though just now it’s made a opular‘publicfdis-
cussion. ' Do you wonder that 'we shirk the maniacs?
If we havejnOt fortune, marriage cramps our energies; our
resources, our ambitions, oads us with  «cares,
and trebles »our anxieties. To one whozrisesf'with such
a burden on: his shoulders, how many sick «leave in 0b
scurity, who,'but for the leaden weight of pecuniary dim-
culties with which marriage has laden! theirvfeegi might,
haveclimbed the highest round in the'social ladder? . On
the other side, if we‘ have fortune,.if.wehave the unhap
happiness to be eligible, is it wonderful that we 9,111 ,3,
flattered by the 'worship, of young ladies who love u's’fol-
what we shall give them, that we don’t feel exactly hon.
cred byfbeing  ’for what We are worth, andifthat.
we’re ' not over-willing to give. up our liberty to oblige
those who look: onus only asgood speculations? -What
thinkyou,eh?” ~' -- ~ ‘i' 1 - - -
“ My dear Philip, you are: right. 'i I’- see it-j—~I don’t div
puts it; but when a‘ thing'becomes Iperso‘nal,‘ you know
‘philoso her becomes dificult._ I have such letters from

i-

oor ear Adelizawsuch letters! ' Of course she thinks.
it is all m fault, and I believe she will break entirely
with me. 1; is so very shocking. - You see all Belgravia

cou led their names, and the ver day that, he went of
to owes in that heartless, abominable manner, if an, au-
nouneement of the alliance as arran ed did not positively
a pear in the Court Uimular. It did indeed ! I am sureAnne»

autton was at the bottom of it; it would be jug, like m,
Perhaps poor Valencia cannot be pitied after her treatment
of Cardonnel, but it is yery hard on me.”

Lady Marabout is right; when a thing becomes personal
philosophy becomes diflicult. When your gun misses
and a fine cock bird whirrs n from the covert and takes
wing unharmed,vnever to swell t e number of your triumphs. .v
and the size of your game—bag, could you by an chance
find  in your soul to sympathise with the b' ’s ti-
fication at your mortification and its own good In ' I
I919 not ' ’ . -' .
15 The Black Lad
16 Charlotte Temp 0.

f

 

J. 8. Le M
Rogyson

ol Dunn.
By Mrs.