Entered ‘at the Post Office at New York, N. Y.,at Second Class Mail Rates.

AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 Wnuitam Street, New Yor:

BEADLE
No.

Vol Vil. eae

Copyrighted 1881, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. March 17, 188i.

Vo. 86

Complete in this Number,

LANCE URQUHART'S LOVES.

 

BY ANNIE THOMAS,

Author of ‘“‘‘ He Oometh Not,’ She Said,” “The Two Widows,” “Playing For High Stakes,” ete., ete,

 

CHAPTER I.

OF O00 DT Hs) FT R SPL?

““THE new man’s doing things well! .The whole field
asked to lunch, and. there is to. be no end of champagne
flowing !’’

‘‘Pretentious. snob! Your, sisters will want an escort
back, Rowley... You'll come. to, Oakleigh Towers, I sup-
pose ?””

«‘ Rather!’ the first speaker, a well-built, black-browed,
sanguine-complexioned young man, replied with a laugh.
‘“¢ Ag for my sisters, [ never presume to answer for what the
Misses Vincent will do... Here comes Ieu, she’ll, speak for
herself.”

Asthe.said it, a girl in a riding habit, came down. the
flight of steps leading from the house to the grand driye,
on,which the two speakers, together with two or three
other men, horses, and grooms, were standing,

She came along, holding her habit up,easily in one hand
to precisely the proper altitude in that. marvellous manner
in which only a woman accustomed to the wear can adjust it.

As she advanced, she was slashing her whip, ‘in the. air
impatiently, and several of the horses, at the sound of the
‘‘ swish,” started back to the arms’ length of their respec-
tive holders.

“‘Good-morning, Mr. Gresham.
chance of Dina being ready for the next hour.
without her.” ;

Rowley Vincent took no notice, of his sistér’s request.
The man she had addressed as Gresham did, however.

‘*Give your sister an equally fair start with yourself, Miss
Vincent,” he said sarcastically.

‘« My sister shall thank you for your advocacy,” the girl
replied, carelessly walking on as she spoke to the side of a
long bay mare ag beauty was marred in the judgment
of most women by the fact of its tail being barren of hair.

But Ida Vincent knew the worth of her nearly true-bred
Hecate, and disregarded utterly the rat-like appendage.

She critically suryeyed rein and saddle, and slackened
the curb a little, gave a testing tug at the third crutch, and
then turned to her brother,

‘« Will you put me up, Rowley?”

“Wait for on won’t you?” Rowley replied, dubiously.

But he came up to her as he spoke, and evidently pre-
pared to obey her request.

Mr. Gresham ran up the steps into the house, whistling.

Ida stood with her hand on the pommel, ready to rise,
but she didnot lift her foot.

“‘Wait for Dina, and lose half the run! I really wonder
at Gresham and you having any patience with her! She’s
had the same time to dress I have had, and I don’t fancy
the effect will be anything very superior to mine.”

In truth it would have been a difficult matter for any
woman to have achieved a better effect than Miss Ida had

Rowley, there is no
Let us start

 

done. She was a slight, exquisitely moulded girl of about
five feet two ifheight, and twenty years of age.’ Her face
was fair, full; transparent. Her eyes luminous, of no 'par-
ticular color, but very large and very expressive. Her ‘hair
areddish brown, drawn tightly back’ above het ears, and
put ina big, loose knot behind, where it served as a support
to tip her hat well forward; and’ the Wellington boots and
gauntlet gloves) showed: off the symmetrical shape of: her
hands:and feet: to: perfection.

Miss Ida Vincent was noted for a: certain unfeminine and
incomprehensible preference’ for the: becoming over) the
merely fashionable in matters of, costume., She had. never
worn @ mushroom ‘hat. or.a.spoon-brimmed bonnet... She
had never distended her drapery till its breadth bore no re-
lation to her height. ..,Men. said, she; dressed. artistically,
and liked her, for it among, other things;. women vowed she
dressed.to be-observed; and disliked:her for, it among other
things. She’seemed to care as little for the..one’, opinion
as the other,, but at.any rate, she never, altered her plan.

On the occasion of, herintroduction tothe reader, she was
arrayed in one color; habit and gloves of the same .grayish
blue.tint....Each, fitted her. without crease or fold..., Appar-
ently, it was a far more unpretending toilette than.the
bright. blue-habits, and. vividly white. gloves ,in: which her
compeers, rode... But there was something in Ida’s dress
this day. that, would ;surely win, her hatred from;many, an-
other fair equestrienne.

When she expressed her doubt as to Dina having employ-
ed the.longer time.to better purpose than she (Ida) had, em-
ployed the lesser period, her brother looked at her .as;crit-
ically as she had inspected the accouterment of her, horse.

‘You outshine yourself to-day, Ida! What is it?”

‘‘T ask you, that.. Can anything be plainer?—see!” and
she held out her arm. ‘‘Notasuperfluous button, or a bit
of braid; and no veil to my hat, even!”

‘‘ Just’ what it ought to be; your things always are,” her
brother, replied admiringly., ‘‘Here come Gresham. and
Dina!’

‘What has put Gresham out so to-day?” Ida asked, in
a low tone,,.as she put; her, foot into Rowley’s hand, and
rose to the saddle,

The pair had approached too. closely for Rowley to an-
swer her; so she drew Hecate aside, while her sister’s horse,
a slight brown gelding, was led forward. Ida sat with her
whip hand against her side, watching the last actor who had
come on the scene,,,. And this was what she saw:

A lady a year younger, and a head taller, at least, than
herself, writh a figure that would have been beautiful, had
not a certain flatness about the waist, and a look of stiffnéss
about the shoulders, suggested the idea of artificial com-
pression; a lady witha face that was glowing with the
beauty of a brilliant complexion and flashing blue eyes—a
face that was shaded by thick niasses of golden hair, in
deeply indented waves that were never put there by na

 
   

2 ;

ture—a face that was rarely in repose, not from any intense

intellectual inner excitement, but because its owner was,

alive to the need the world had of seeing it constantly in a

fresh light; ‘a lady with a tread so light and springy, that

her lovers declared it ‘‘ to be the poetry of elasticity, and
her brother, “‘to be worthy of the most parched of peas;”

a lady with ‘a@ wealth of good looks and conceit; in fact,

none otherthan Miss Geraldine Vincent—‘‘the Dina” who

had kept them waiting, . »  . ae '

_ Dina was not addicted tothe artistic ‘one color.” Her
habit was.as. bright..a_blue_as dye and the contrast. of
black-braided seams could make it, and her stiff gauntlets
were pipe-clayed till their whiteness made you blink. ‘She
won.far more general admiration than, her sister from
grooms and others of that ilk, . But Ida did not enter her-
self for the applause of the masses.

As soon as Dina was re adjusted, she drew round
to her sister’s side, and then,t
wards the aventie gates together, whileRowley, Mr. Gres-
ham, and the. one or two loose.men who had been about,
sprang on to their horses, and followed.

All this time Ida had never so much as. glanced. at her
sister’s face; but when they came to the gate, and the
pouiber girl paused to give Miss Vincent precedence; the
uminous eyes levelled themselves at the fair lagger. and
Ida spoke.

» What has put Mr. Gresham out to-day; do you know?”
‘*T’m generally more in his secrets than you, am I not?”
The, bay mare plunged.. ‘‘Steady!’ her rider cried,

savagely. Then she went on, “I only asked you, as
you saw him alone, and I have not done so, As to being

‘in his secrets,’ that’s absurd; however, it doesn’t much

matter. Let us take the turf, and get on.”

They went off at an easy gallop; and, as they kept well
abreast, the conversation proceeded on at an easy gallop too.

“«Tt’s just this—your impatience to ‘get on’ to-day that
has put Philip Gresham out, Ida.”

“‘He doesn’t generally give himself airs about what is
no concern at all of his. I suppose he felt aggrieved at my
proposing to start without you.’ ,

“* Don’t try to hand him over to me.”

‘« He was never mine to ‘hand over’ to anyone.”

*<Tda, you haven’t behaved well to him—if you mean to
drop him now.”

«“‘Fairest of mentors, don’t be alarmed! Mr, Gresham
will never oe any woman the chance of ‘dropping him!’
Moreover, his attentions have been so impartially distributed
between us, that, whatever occurs, we can’t reproach each
other.”

As Ida said this, her brother Rowley and Mr. Gresham
came up to them, and the four increased their speed, for
Rowley told them it wanted only ten minutes to twelve, at
which hour the hounds met at Hensley Wood, which place
was still two miles distant.

While they are riding towards it, the reader shall be told
who they are, and also who the “‘new man”—the inviter of
the field to lunch at Oakleigh Towers—is.

Rowley Vincent was the only son of his late father, a
wealthy manufacturer, who had come down twenty years
before thé opening of this story to live upon the estate,
which he had bought out of the proceeds of peculiarly well-
shaped stockings. Soon after taking possession, old Vincent
had died, consequently his son and heir had hada long
minority, in the which his property, under judicious man-
agement, had ‘all but doubled itself. i

‘His mother died just after Geraldine’s birth, so the
brothers and sisters, being alone in the world, had always
been very much to’each other; and’on young Vincent at-
taining his majority, he had insisted on removing Ida and
Geraldine, who’'were respectively three and four years
—o than himself, from the care of their guardian, and

aving them’ home with him at Hunton Lodge, as the
square, handsome, modern-built mansion was called. There
they had lived for two years, carrying on the war merrily

LANGE URQUHART?S LOVES.

ertwo: girls rode, down to=)

 

enough—three of the best-looking,” light-hearted, most

‘eagerly-sought young people in the county.

t was useless for the more rigorous among their acquaint-
ances*to shake reprobating heads, and vow that things
were both too easy and too fast in the Vincent establish-
ment. Nothing shook their popularity—the girls were so

‘pretty, and the brother was such a desirable match, _ What

if they were very liberal with their presence at any scene of
festivity that came within their reach? It was a charming
presence. Men rode more boldly, and*bowled more swiftly,
and aimed more unernnaas in the field, at the exickdp
match, or review, under the influence of the Miss Vincents’
blandishments. , Besides, they gave capital balls, and cro-

uet parties without end in the summer; therefore, in self-
detén ce, women kept in with those’ desperate flirts, the
Vincents.

For the last six months, Mr. Gresham, the owner of a
fair estate in the vicinity of, Hunton Lodge, had been hover-
ing round the Vincent shrine. The neighborhood could
not decide which of the two would be the winner, but it
was quite ready with the assertion that éither of the girls
would be peculiarly ill-suited to him. He was a man of
about thirty-five, and/he‘had stood repeated shocks, always
coming up again unhurt, under the conyiction that the
current assailant had not the requisite mixture of fairness
and discretion.

“It would be a judgment on him,” some of the unsuc-
cessful said, ‘‘if, after all, he married a Vincent!”

Not that the Vincents had ever done. anything worse
than their censors, but they were accredited with enormous
capabilities of daring and indiscretion. i

At the present juncture, a great convulsion threatened
to upset everything. The grandest place in that country
side was an old Norman castellated building, called Oak-
leigh Towers. It stood frowningly secluded in the midst
of its own broad lands, surrounded by dense woods, pro-
tected from too familiar approach by a moat (to be sure,
the drawbridge was abolished, and a light, handsome new
structure, over which the carriage-drive ran, had supplanted
it). And this grand place had just fallen, by an extraordi-
nary freak, into new and utterly unexpected hands.

‘he late owner (who was but four months deceased) had
been an old maiden lady, the last of her race. For fifty
years she had lived a life of solemn solitariness in the home
of her ancestors—driving out occasionally in a sombre, ill-
built old coach, drawn by four black horses, but never
visited and never entertaining. It was stated vaguely, that
in early life, when she was fresh and loving, young and
pretty, she had been wooed and won, and—left. This
rumor was verified when, at her death, fifty years after the
blight had fallen on her, it was found that she had left the
whole of her property—to which none others had a nearer
claim—to the son, if the son lived—to the grandson, if the
son were dead—of her never-forgotten dearest friend Lance-
lot Urquhart. . . : : ae

The son was dead, but the grandson lived—a ‘captain in
a cavalry regiment. He was in India, with his corps, when
the tidings of his change of fortune reached him. He came
home at. once, threw up his commission, took possession of
Oakleigh Towers, and on this day of the meet, at Hensley
Wood, was about to show himself to the county, for’ the
first time, on an extensive scale. Very little’ of him had
been seen as yet by anyone—but much was known already.
He was young, rich, unmarried, andwell inclined to su
scribe to all the sports and pastimes of the county into which
he had come go unexpectedly. | Further; he bore the same
name as his erandsire had borne—Lancelot Urquhart. Could
anything be prettier? 1 begat

When Rowley Vincent, his two sisters, and Mr., Gresham
reached the cover-side, they found, as:they expected, a very
full field assembled. . Slightly to the left of the famed wood
there was a wide piece of common, andon this there were
several pony-chaises and open carriages drawn up. Con-
spicuous among these latter was a graceful landau, in which
a tall, fair, slight woman, with penetrating blue eyes, a

  

 

 

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LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES. 8

 

 

great expression of boxhomie, and no other particular béat-

ty, lounged. ‘She was a stranger ‘to the whole field, and’

was Immediately, and rightly, put down as'a lady-guest at
Oakleigh Towers.

By the side of the carriage in which she reclined stood
the ‘‘new man,” the hero of the day—tall, erect, of mili-
tary stamp, with one of those aristocratic, aquiline noses,
that looks so well when the helmet is on. He had been
fair-skinned originally, but he had seen a good’ deal of
foreign service, and had become bronzed and darkened con-
siderably. Still his complexion harmonized well with the
burnt, golden tinge of his hair and mustache—he wore
neither whiskers nor beard—and with his well-defined
features. ©

<A handsome fellow, isn’t he?” Rowley asked of his sis-
ters, as they pulled up at a little distance from the open
landau. At which question Dina undulated in her saddle
in order to express the indifference she did not feel, and
Ida replied, ‘‘ Quite passable’ enough for a man’ possessed
of a good property, at any rate!”

The master of the fox-hounds, Lord Oxburgh, rode up
to the side of the landau, and those near heard Mr. Urqu-

hart introduce a soldier-like looking man and the loungin

lady to his lordship as ‘‘Captain and Mrs. Cavendish.”
Then the lady sat up and leant forward a little, and palpa-
bly began to question ah those assembled.

‘<Tadies first! Who are the last two arrivals?’ and she
indicated the sisters.

‘“The Misses Vincent—two of our greatest beauties; the
shortest is one of our best riders too,” Lord Oxburgh re-
plied, raising his hat as he spoke to the elder Miss Vincent,
who was sitting quietly on her motionless mare facing him,

Mrs. Cavendish put up her glass, glanced at Ida, and
then laid it down again. Ida had given a steady stare at
the glass until Mrs. Cavendish did not like her.

«And that lady on the great black horse? Is she an-
other of your celebrated beauties and amazons? I mean the
one who is laughing and talking’ so loudly with all those
men.”

“She isa Miss Gifford!” -

Toes she ride well? She seems to me to be loose in her
saddle!” i

“¢You would have shown them the way if youhad brought
your habit down, wouldn’t you, Clare?” Captain Cavendish
asked, _ a ey

In reply, his wife gave him a blank stare. ''The allusion
to her riding was ill-timed when she was finding fault with
another woman. ;

“T will leave Mr. Brantholme to instruct’ you, Mrs.
Cavendish. The hounds are gone into ‘the: wood, and I
must follow them,” Lord Oxburgh said, as a clergyman in
a shooting-coat and a felt hat came strolling up. ;

Mr. Brantholme was Lord Oxburgh’s chaplain, and the
rector of the parish in which Oxburgh Hall stood.

Mr. Brantholme was a clergyman, and is to be found in
the pages of a new novel. Nevertheless, he was neither @
muscular Christian nor a pet parson. He was not agile and
strong enough to be the former, or clever and ‘devout
enough to be the latter. He was simply a fast man, who
had gone into the Church on compulsion, stayed in it’ for
convenience, and contributed very largely during his minis-
tration, to its discredit. a
_ The lady in ‘the’ landau sat more ‘erect, and drew
almost nervously towards the other side,’ when this
man, on Lord Oxburgh’s introduction, came and lounged
on the side, of the carriage. He fastened on her a look
of insolent familiarity that many a country maiden would
have mistaken for irrepressible admiration; but ‘the
woman of the world knew it tobe neither more nor less than
what it has been called. Her own immediate cavaliers—
her husband and her brother Lancelot’ Urquhart—deserted
her,. however, just at this junction, for the hounds had
found, and the whole field Was away, with Ida Vincent in
the foremost ranks, close to Lord Oxburgh and the’ master

of Oakleigh Towers. That was all Mrs. Cavendish ‘saw—

 

that was’ all Mrs. Cavendish was thinking about as Mr, ©
‘Brantholme said to her, ‘‘ I shall not beable to fulfil” Lord
Oxburgh’s commands, and instruct you as to our? notorie~
ties, unless you permit me to get in.” ;

“Certainly,” she replied out of the wealth of her woman-
ly good-nature. : =

Not that she wanted his escortshe would rather ‘have
been without him; but she-did wish to‘hear’the local habita-
tions and the names of those amongst whom her brother’s:
lot was to be cast. As they drove along the high-road,
from whence the best view of the run was to be caught, he
said, ‘‘ You’ were asking about Miss Gifford when I came
up. | We call her the ‘ hero’ of a thousand fights; and the
best of it is, she never knows when she’s beaten. She'll
stoop any distance to conquer. I see she’s sporting a new —
horse to-day for Mr. Urquhart’s benefit.” igh

“Indeed!” Mrs. Cavendish replied, somewhat coldly.

The man’s tone was extremely offensive to her;' but’ she
wanted to hear more. His manner of speaking of Miss
Gifford would have been more objectionable to her still had
she known what most people knew—namely, that Miss
Gifford had indignantly repulsed his ecclesiastical atten-
tions on more than one occasion.

‘And who is the pretty dark woman in that pony
chaise?” YT

Mrs. Cavendish bowed: her head as ‘she spoke towards a
shell-like little carriage, drawn by a-clipped bay, whose
stepping would have done no discredit to the Drive in July,
which was driven by’a pale, pretty, dark-haired woman
sleepy-looking, with straight, refined features. et

«‘That—oh, that’s my wife!” Mr. Brantholme replied,
carelessly. ‘‘ If she were not out of the betting, Mrs, Cayen-
dish, it wouldn’t be difficult to decide who’d wing the bird.”

“‘ Do the what?” she interrupted.

“Wing the bird—bring Mr. Urquhart down. See, here
come a couple more aspirants—the Gascoigne girls.”

As he spoke, a pair of fine, showy, lively girls dashed’ by
the landau, followed by a groom out of livery.  Rapidly’as
they passed, Mrs. Cavendish could see: that’ they were of
the not at all unusual brown-haired, dark-eyed, fair-com-
plexioned type which is the offspring of the union between
Norman and Saxon. & in

“More of your beauties! They’re something alike, are
they not?” she asked; and he -was answering, ‘* Yes; look
handsomer together than apart, you know,” when the whole
field—the fox had headed round—-came sweeping back to-
wards the road.’ a i yey

The next instant a long bay mare was lifted over the hed
to the right immediately in the wake of the hounds, and Ida :
Vincent, as she swept past Mrs. Cavendish’s carriage, looked
back at the men following’ her, and repeated, almost
mockingly, Mrs. Cavendish’s own words, “Ladies first.’ —

CHAPTER II.

THE EVE OF A’ HUNTING-DAY.
© Tpa VIncENT in at the death again!” »
«They hung the brush to her pommel.

her brother allows her to goon so!” E ono)
«© 7 wonder her own taste—if she has any—permits her
to make herself so conspicuous!” 110. 97 30
““Did you see she managed, with her usual admirable
artlessness, to get: Mr.. Urquhart ‘introduced to her, and to
keep him close the rest of the time?” ‘> i , ONS
** And then—the’ affected ‘thing!—wouldn’t. goin to
luncheon at a Towers, after all, making him wish
for her ever so much more; ‘at least that’s what she hoped he
would do, but it didn’t. He got on very well without her.”
These, and sundry other kind things, were being utter
ed relative to Ida Vincent by a lot of ladies ‘assembledsin
Mrs. Brantholme’s ‘drawing-room on the evening of that
day on ‘which my'story opens. Mrs. Brantholme. had va
great habit’ of taking a lot of her friends home after’a‘pub-"
lic gathering to an impromptu dinners’ Amongst the guests
to-night were the Gascoignes, Miss Gifford, and Mr. Gres-
ham, but this latter had left’ the dining-room when the free

7

 

Tam ‘surprised »

 
   

&

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

utterances recorded above were, made, about.Miss Vincent,
In, answer , to, the assertion | that, Mr. Urquhart had << got

on yery well without Ida,” which was made by Grace Gas-.

coigne, Mrs. Brantholme said, quietly, ‘‘A friend of, his
youth near to console him, wasn’t there?”

“Yes,” Miss Gascoigne replied; ‘‘a fast military woman,
who. calls, him ‘ Lanee,’.and talks about.‘ our regiment!”

husband was, with her for some time, acting the
part of guide in this strange land to, her, under Lord Ox-
burgh’s orders.. He came home charmed.” co

‘« How extraordinary!” Miss Gifford almost sneered,

And then the wife; who knew to the full as much of the.
rebuff her husband, had, received from that quarter. as did
the rest of the. world, replied, carelessly, ‘‘I wonder at your
being surprised; Mr. Brantholme is so easily pleased... Ah,
delightful! here comes: Belle!’” .. add sctvahod

As the, hostess said this, she rose:from the conch on which
shej-had,| been: sitting, and went. forward, with extended
hands, to meet a,girl who,entered at the, moment; a; girl
whose actual, beauty, was far inferior.to that of either Ida
or Geraldine Vincent, but who; reigned a.belle superior even
to.them by, right.of a certain. winning charm, for;which na-
ture had granted her the sole, patent, ge

Belle Baavitie was young, and pretty, with, nut-brown
hair, the chief beauty of which was that it was luxuriant
and all her, own; delicate, womanly, aquiline features; and
a yery graceful figure, that still.could not compete; with
Tda’s; ‘yet, notwithstanding these average charms, she rank-
ed_as,a much-favored even with those acknowledge beauties;
“* Vincent’s girls;”,and though she. thus, attacted she was
neither conceited, nor spiteful. ‘A

An, only daughter, she was, petted and indulged, but all
concessions and indulgences were kept well within bounds.
She was made by parental decree, to be far more chary of
her, presence than were the young ladies who first appeared
in these pages. She was rare at. the public county balls;
she/was rarer in, the hunting-field, though she rode as well
as Miss Vincent; and) she was, rarest. of all at her friend
Mys. Brantholme’s little evenings. Her father, the incum-
bent,of, an adjoining, parish, disapproved of ; his. clerical
brother; butt ough he disapproved, he had not the heart
to check entirely the hearty liking which subsisted between,
Mrs. Brantholme and. his daughter... Wwe

Once—a long time ago—Mr. Denyille had put in a coun-
teracting influence,..and: on that,occasion, Mrs. Brantholme
had driven over tothe Hunton Rectory (Mr. Denville was the
Vincents’ pastor), and spoken to him very earnestly:

‘Don’t cut,me off from Belle,” she had said. ‘‘ [.know
all you think,and oh 70m fear, and you’re partly right, but
you may trust.me with, Belle.” .

The woman—the pretty woman, who» of late. years had
sought»so recklessly for extraneous balm for her worthless
husband’s neglect—sought it so defiantly—sought it so in-
discreetly—had spoken the words’ in a way that made him
feel that they came-from her heart... He had believed her,
and he relied upon her... So it came: to pass that Belle was
a frequent visitor to! Mrs. Brantholme’s when the latter was
alone, and Mrs. Brantholme showed her appreciation: of
Mr. Denyille’s concession and trust by never asking Belle
to make one of her notoriously. fast litle dinner and evening
parties...

‘This being the well-established and understood rule,
everyone felt more or less surprised to, see Belle walk in
this evening, for it was’ also a settled and invariable rule
that whenever the hounds met anywhere near Dallas (the
Brantholme’s parish) that a considerable. number of the
weary should assemble themselves afterwards at Bran-
tholme’s hospitable board, and lounge away their fatigue in
its mistress’s luxurious little drawing-room.

** Belle, what brings you here? You good girl; I’m so
glad!” Mrs. Brantholme whispered to her guest when the
rest had welcomed the new arrival. ‘‘ Papa relenting?”
she continued, laughing. ,

Belle blushed, Any allusion to her father’s Ene TPH

antagonism to their friendship was the one thing that

I have not seen him. yet. 4 v
dish, , I anticipate finding an old schoolfellow in her.” -

 

made, Belle, Denville. blush during the term of her inter.
course with daring, dangerous, piquant Mrs. Brantholme.’
It. always made her feel sorry for her parent. and his pre-
judices. wes
, ‘Why, I have seen Ida. Vincent, and she has made
casual mention of a Mrs. Cayendish who came to the meet.
with Mr. Urquhart. Can you tell me what she is like. Ida,

retends not to have noticed her appearance, and I want to
ace it, for an old friend and schoolfellow of mine, called
Clare Urquhart, married a Captain Cavendish.”

“My husband will be able to tell you all about her. | You ~

didn’t even come to see the hounds throw off to-day, Belle!”

‘No; I forget what intervened, but something did.”

““Was Miss Vincent equally unobservant of “Mr. Urqu-
hart?” Grace Gascoigne asked.

' “She said he was yery much like most other young gentle-
men,” Belle replied.

_ ‘They all come under the, category of things to be con-

uered with Ida Vincent. How she tried’ to shuffle Mr.

resham off to-day, to be sure, and for the last six months
she has been working so hard to get him on!”

“She told me just now that she thought Philip Gresham
liked Dina, and: she was quite vexed with him for havin
insisted.on, going on with Moles and the rest to Oakleigh
Towers. _Shecame home.” pee ee eis

** Just like her slyness!”, Miss Gifford exclaimed, getting
red in;the face. .‘‘She came home! Yes, in order that
Mr. Urquhart might think her more difficult of access than.
she is, and that she still may keep in with Mr. Gresham if
Mr, Urquhart fails her! She’s the most. calculating, heart-
less, prudent, dexterous flirt I ever met!” pare

“What a climax! Who’s the offender?” Mr. Gresham
asked, coming into the room with Mr. Brantholme at the
moment,

- “*T won’t tell you; ’m not-fond of scandal!” Miss Gifford
replied.
ea Mr. Brantholme, when, he had shaken hands with
Belle, said, ‘‘ 1 believe the delinquent to-day is the popular
pet, and I’m ready to back my opinion.” oe aad

“Don’t let us bet about a lady,’? Gresham. said in a low

tone: .; ;

| He knew that it was of Ida they were speaking, and
whether those were right, or not who ayerred, that she had
striven very hard to, please him, he did not care to hear her
censured by those of her sister women then assembled. .
_ ‘* Belle has:come over to: hear what you can tell her about
Mrs. Cavendish, Arthur,” Mrs. Brantholme said, aloud, for
diversion. . sak ae

‘*Miss Denville, you interested in the Urquhart. stakes?”

“Not a bit. And yet why, not?” she answered, good-
temperedly. ‘‘ The only thing against my being so is, that
But. tell. me about Mrs. Caven-

“Give adescription of her, Mr. Brantholme. Make it.

as true and graphic as your sermons are,” Miss Gifford

cried. l a
_ ‘< Paint her as she is, please, Arthur; not as you saw her,
if she was civil to you,” his wife put. in, |

“* Well, she’s fair, leasing, and pale—— Does that
answer to the old schoolfellow?”

‘« Perfectly. Go on.” ;

“She has ate three years in India; has ‘ knocked about”
(her own words) with the regiment a good deal; thinks her
husband one of the finest fellows in the service; and is the
sister of Lance Urquhart, than whom she is two years
younger.”

‘*Oh, it must be Clare!” Belle exclaimed, looking round
at each of them, as if they could have aided her in coming
to a decision, epee

‘«That’s conclusive! She is herself!’ Mr. Brantholme
went on. ‘I heard her husband call her Clare.”

“Then I’ll go to Oakleigh Towers to see her to-morrow,”
Belle cried, enthusiastically, at which declaration the Gas-
bones and Miss Gifford gazed at.each other and glanced
at 6. R

 

©

 
LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES. 5

 

They had no excuse for going to Oakleigh Towers to-
morrow. Naturally they eould but’ think hard things
of Belle for having one, and so marking ahead of them,
ag it were, at once. ; Ne TBLS

Meanwhile Rowley Vincent and his sisters'were ‘sitting
in the comfortable library of Hunton Lodge, cracking wal-
nuts and discussing the’ events of the day. ..They had had
oe hard riding, and, the girls were more than slightly
tired.

“Gresham, dinés. with Brantholme to-night,” Rowley
said, between his sips of claret. 10.

“T expected to find him with you, Ida, when we came
home. Didn't you, Rowley ?” Geraldine asked. :

‘‘What wonderful things you expect, to be sure, Dina!”
Miss Vincent.replied, laughing.

‘‘Did you find out what was the matter with him as you
rode home ?” the younger sister asked.

“Ta: forgotton that there was anything. Besides I
shouldn’t, have teased.a tired man with, questions, even if I
had remembered, He’s always kind.’ He found that I
wanted to come home, and that Rowley and you wished to
stay, so he returned with me.”

‘*As it’s much. the samesort of kindness that he has been
displaying towards you for the last six months, it couldn’t

have been really a surprise,” Dina said, delicately peeling a

nut, and handing it to her sister.

“Thank yon
ceded to me, I find,” Ida said, smiling.

Rowley was half asleep by this time.

“Yes,” Dina replied. ‘I took a lesson in generosit
from you this morning. I don’t want Mr. Greeti: 1
never haye courted him. What made you so anxious to
hand him over to me this morning? ‘Take care, Ida. A
bird in the hand, ef cetera, you know. Oakleigh Towers is
@ very nice place; but don’t you think there are a good
many against you?” sbi:
What are you thinking about—Oakleigh Towers?”
Rowley asked, THERE himself. ‘‘ By the way, Ida, I for-

ot to tell you I’ve asked Mr. Urquhart and his friends’ to
fcr here, to-morrow, at two. Next weeek we'll make
a dinner-party for them: Mrs. Cavendish was regretting
she hadn’t been introduced to you. . She admired you im-

“She looked as if she did,” Ida replied, laughing.
“ That’s what I esteem in my own sex. ey veil their ad-
miration s0,much. better than. men! Did you see that
wretch, Brantholme, flirting with her—leaving that pretty
wife of his to her own devices?” sei 8

. “Mr, Gresham has gone to. co
remarked, maliciously.

.T wish he could, or might.. If Mr.’ Brantholme died,
there is no one I should.so well like to sée her marry as Mr.

jole hey. to-night,” Dina

Gresham, Don’t be angry, Dina.”
«« Angry!” Dina retorted, tossing her head. ‘“What he

does is more to you than it is to me. How anxious you are
to disavow him now; isn’t she, Rowley?” Us

.. * My dear girls, fight it out between you,” he ‘said,’ ris-
ing, as he spoke, and lounging over to aside-table, on which
ie dedicom candle-sticks were placed. - “@ood-night to
rou, bot
* And, Tda, don’t forget Urquhart to-morrow?”

“* Rowley needn’t fear that, you'll be a lax ‘hostess,’ ‘to-
morrow, need , he, dear?”

‘No, Dina; certainly not.. I think we had better go to
bed now. You’lllike to be up early, to have several hotirs’
hard labor at yourself before Mr. Urquhart comes, Do
you know your habit rucked in the back,’ to-day, ‘very
much? Everyone noticed it!” ’

In a little a ep room, in one of the towers from which
the house of Oa )
the Cayendishes were getting rid of the evening hours very
pleasantly. , It was as delicious an interior as the ‘art of

an, or the imagination of a painter, could conceive,

. On one side of the broad fireplace, Mrs. Cavendish sat on

a little couch, with a book in her hand, anda small table,

 

ina. The nuts that you don’t want are’

be two or three an

To which Ida ingenuously replied. '

dears!” he continued, when he had ‘lighted it.”
' tHer, Lance.

eigh took its name, Lance Urquhart and’

 

with a candle and her wine-glass) upon it, by her side.” ‘Seen
without her bonnet, and in evening dress, she was.a, pret-

‘tier woman than she had seemed m the open air by. day-

light.’ “She had ‘the feminine ‘English beauty) of extreme
whiteness of skin; of its’ order, her coloring was perfect.
There were no: contrasts—it . was perfect harmony.» Yet,
for all this, she was far from having an uninteresting ap-
pearance.

Her husband sat atthe other:end of the couch, ofi!which
she reclined; and opposite them, on another: little sofa,
Lance Urquhart lounged at full length. spt soned

At the moment I select for joining them, Mrs. Cavendish
put her book down on the small table, and spoke. >‘

“There are a few superhuman beautiés im! this “book;
but, really, they ‘don’t’ come near some:of the women’ we
saw to-day, do they?” :

“T haven’t read the book yet,” Urquhart replied. |

“That girl who led the*field, for instance.” 9* + sl

“Precious plain} wasn’t:she?” Captain Cavendish /asked.

‘No, Georgé, no; not if she was like: this: MissoVincent,
as she must have been, I’m sure. Her eyes are marvelous;
they seem to gradually increase in luster as you look at
them, till you feel she has'a‘lamp.'in ther soul which be-
comes more luminous each instant.” cAI

‘° Her'sister'is’ a fine girl,” Urquhart remarked, with’ a

‘stifled yawn:

«The one who prances, and tosses her head» round,over

Vher shoulder, as if she were trying to: look» at’ the small:of
her back!” ct

“That's right, Clare. I never heard Lahee admire any-
one yet that you didn’t immediately come down upon her.”

«*'He should admire those upon’ whom I couldn’t descant
then.” sl oF

_** Where are they? where are they?’’' Lance trolled outs

‘“Oh they ave somewhere; not too thickly scattered over
the’ world,’ of course. 'There:is one’ git] ‘I know, ‘that if
Lance only admired her-——” oft feo Sttemtd bi

“<The irrepressible Belle, who learnt lessons with you! I
feel sure it’s Belle!” Lance interrupted.

““Yes, it is, ete Couldn’t we get a Clergy List, and
find out where! her father is? Yow see, I thought more of
you than of her at the time ‘we parted; and then: I went to
India, and we lost sight of each other. Dear me! she must:
twenty now. It’s: five years since |
saw her.”

“Since she’s not attainable, let us*revert to those who
are. What did you think of the MissesGascoigne?”

*« Their foreheads’ are tall-in the middle—always an
odious thing in women, I think! They would have been
wiser not to have taken off their hats when they came in.’’.

““ Woman, gentle woman, I give wp their foreheads} but
they have fine yes oront horhaet bed ovitestq mods
Yes; and don’t ‘they send’ them round witha flash?
They talked such platitudes to’ me; pretended ‘to’ be inter-
ested in my children, and ‘would see the poor little:chicks!
Now, I naturally adore my own; but I don’t: believe in
young ladiés who go into childolatry at first sight! They
think Ihave influence over ‘you, and they want» to» please
me—that’s it!” § wf 1 1 redonoatt

“©Give up the Gascoignes, as well as theit foreheads, to

You'll have to do it sooner or later.” Gu)
‘“That Mrs. Brantholme is’an interesting-looking womun.
A dark, Madonna face. I always think: it so: pretty:in«re-
ose; and it does light up so. She’s a woman who wouldn’t
ore me.’ But what a fright» her husband is! Indidn’t
oe ‘either’ of you for! going: off, and leaving ‘me with
Raney tO ett TE epi sted aii ‘1944 bed oi

** Some of the people about here rather avoid Mrs. Bran-
tholme,” Lance said, carelessly. Tt {Bi

“Did Lord Oxburgh tell you that?’ Mrs. Cavendish
asked, quickly. ) 2201 406

“No; he spoke of her as‘a ‘charming woman,’ in away
that, if she’d been my sister or wife, I would’ have knocked
him a his’ horse for speaking!” Captain: Cavendish said,
quietly. NBNeEN 3 ‘191 :

 
 

6 LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

Curs may yelp about me behind
a back, for all you know! . How censorious. we all are—
mean the world in general—to be sure! That, antidote to
professing Christianity... Mr. Brantholme told me that all
those good-looking girls’ had assembled to-day for the pur-
ose of catching you, Lance. Yes; and that was one thing
i did like in him! He said ‘not one of them would stand
a chance if his wife were not out of the betting! ”
‘“They’ll have their trouble for nothing, Clare. What a
way to talk of ladies of whom I know nothing, though!’
Lance Urquhart said, inan annoyed tone. ‘Fancy think-
ing that’a lot of young gentlewomen were ready to marry
me before they knew hot I was a fool or a blackguard!
It’s ridiculous!”
' “You don’t so much wonder at, their weakness now they
haye seen you, do you, Lance?” the lady asked, laughingly.
‘*T formed an ideal of a wife when I was a mere stripling;
T haven’t found it yet,” he replied.
\o Ah! but you’ve wavered from it, my dear, to my cer-
tain knowledge,” she replied, quickly ; ‘‘and may again !”

CHAPTER ITI.
MRS. OAVENDISH.

Lance Urquuart knew very well it was true. that he
had‘‘ wavered from his ideal;” and. he winced under the
knowledge that he had done so. It was quite, bad enough
to féel that he had wavered \in.the past, but it was worse to
hear Mrs. Cavendish. give voice to, her belief. in: the possi-
bility of his again vacillating in the future. | He had
dreamt; in early life, of' finding some girl fair enough, to be

«Nonsense, George!

 

loyed for her loveliness alone, who should abound in quali- |

ties that; would throw even. that loyeliness, into the shade.
He had dreamt of one who should be pliant without
being weak; firm, but. not obstinate; of a woman capable
of thinking deeply, and having strong convictions, . but
who sigue not be bigoted; of a girl with, an open, gener-
ous, trustful disposition, who’ should, not be: rash, extrava-
gant, or foolishly confiding; of one ‘well, versed in. the
‘feminine arts and accomplishments’ that allure, who
yet would not: use one for the) purpose of alluring; of a
wife with the courage and discretion to reprove him, when

he was in the wrong, and, the strength of will to stand by’

him no matter how things looked... He had dreamt, in
short, of a woman who would not be wafted about by every
wind of doctrine—of a wife who should be a crown of glory
to him; and he had not found her yet at regimental balls
or in garrison towns. ‘But he had fonnd | others, and—he
felt: shame in confessing it—he had wavered from his ideal,
He had gone down once or, twice before those who had no-
- toriously gone down before some of his predecessors. He
had- been caught in coarse webs.of flirtation. by women
whom practice had rendered more imperfect than nature
had made them. He had knelt at gaudy shrines, an
thought them golden, and he had proved them brazen and.
barren, ‘and «all that his life-shrine.could mot be. . In fact,
he had. run the gauntlet, through the ranks of those who
held that one man is as good, as another for ‘‘ settling”
“purposes, and had come out from the ordeal considerably
Qieneeaatad, with his faith in women shaken, and. his
knowledge of what is highest, and best in them much seantier
than when he entered on the field of life. Nevertheless,
though his. faith in women was shaken, there was still
salyation for him in’ his: full. and complete knowledge of
one; and that. one was his .sister—Cavendish’s. wife.
From'thé bottom of his soul-he believed that no ‘noblest
thought excelled.” Clare; and. he,did but, do her justice.
He had seen her in hardship, in danger, and in doubt, such
as tarely falls to the portion of wives,who are not. taken to
India, and whose lots are not. cast with admiring regiments.
-But he had névér seen her fail or wayer—he had never seen
her less devoted to her husband, less calmly reliant on her
husband’s perfect trust, in her integrity, than on the day
-»she bécame’ George Cavendish’s idolized bride... He had seen
‘her flattered, fawned upon, flirted at, but he had meyer seen
cher swerve from her bright, loving pursuance of the, path

him—‘‘she will be found in, time,
contented with a substitute ; you needn’t put up with

 

of duty, or; deem that duty hard. The most completely
complimentary lines that have eyer been addressed by man
to, woman might have been applied to her without anyone
charging the author with holding an exaggerated estimate
of Mrs,.Cavendish’s worth and charm:

“T know a thing that’s most uncommon
(Envy, be silent, and attend):

I know a reasonable woman—
Handsome and witty—yet a friend!

‘“Not: warped by passion, awed by rumor,

Not grave through pride, or gay through folly:
An equal mixture of good humor ©

And sensible, soft melancholy.” :

Handsome!’ "Yes; she was handsome, or better than
handsome when you came to know her, and be under the
influence of a manner at once as unaffected and as charm-
ing as accomplishments and education have ever combined
to bestow upon a woman.

To Lance Urquhart she had been a glorious friend—a
friend such as only a married woman and sister can be to a
man, _ Not that she had ever forced his confidence, ‘but
that she led him to repose it in her husband; and Captain
Cayendish was a man who took counsel of his noble-minded
wife, and ‘never found her advice faulty or ‘narrow.

The friendship between George Cavendish and Lance
Urquhart was no new thing. They had been boys together—
they had been at Addiscombe together—and they had been
in the same regiment from the date of their entering the
army on the same day, until Lance Urquhart quitted the
service to take possession of Oakleigh Towers...

During, this time, neither of them had ever seen cause
or felt desire to slacken in his friendship for the other : and

/strangely enough the bond between the two men had been

strengthened, instead of weakened by, the marriage of the.
elder one with the other’s sister.

On one point, hissister Clare had improved Mr. Lancelot.
Urquhart considerably, . When he met her again after the
first long inevitable separation which takes place between
every brother and sister when the boy has to make his way
in the world, he had chosen to beliéve that she was excep-
tionally honorable, honest, pious, pure, and undesigning
among women, and this belief she had combated unceas-
ingly and earnestly. Not that she had, or professed to have
any feeble reliance on the universal goodness of her own
sex; but she did give credence to the goodness ofthe
many.

s YH kind enough to approve of me—well, such as I
am, there are thousands like me, and as many who are bet-
ter,” she would say to him ; and so profound was her own
consciousness of this fact, that after a time he accepted it
and had faith in it too. dts ee

Moreover, she carried the conviction to him in another

d|way. He saw that she was very clear-sighted in discernin

feminine faults and frailties, sins and shortcomings ; an
that she drew the line between right and wrong with a firm
hand. She was very far from being catholic m her liking
and regard for women. Though she, avowed her belief ‘in
thousands coming up to it, her standard for her own Bex
was a high one. It was this, perhaps, more than anythin
else, which induced Lance Urquhart to rely upon her esti-
mate of women—this, that she was not easily pleased, ‘not.
readily satisfied, i+ Be ee ok

“The fitting wife will be found by you in time, Lance,”
she would say to him when he was on the brink of tender-
ness for one whom they both felt to be not quite worthy of
Meanwhile, don’t be

mediocrity. It’s preposterous to profess to think that you'll
never find anything but,it, and in this case it will be mere
perverseness if you get singed, for, if you were really smit-
ten. with her, you wouldn’t feel that she was mediocre!”
So she had ‘argued on more than one occasion, and so
Lance had suffered her to convince him. Consequently,
though he had been singed twice or thrice, he had never
suffered very, severely; and at. the time of his introduction.

 

ve
 

 

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES. @

 

 

‘to the reader, he was most happily heart-whole. But now

the world would be fuller than before of pitfalls for him.

Mrs. Cavendish acknowledged to herself and to her hus-
band that her heart would be very sore if Lance made one
of the fair Amazons who hid ridden for hours that day his
wife, or rather if he suffered one of them to make him her
husband.

“The Misses Gascoigne are over-bold, and Miss Vincent
is too subtle,” she said, to Captain Cavendish; and when
he asked her what she had to say against Miss Gifford and
Miss Geraldine Vincent, she replied, ‘‘ That youngest Miss
Vincent is a mere conceited beauty—so vain and affected
that the first impression she makes is to show she’s under-
bred. Fancy feeling that about Lance’s wife, George. As
for Miss Gifford, she will not be dangerous to him. ‘You
know what'a beauty-worshipper he 1s. I don’t believe he
could fall in love with anyone with that peculiarly unpleas-

: ant bit of boiled lobster in her cheek.”

“Tt’s my belief they’ll all fail.”

“1 heartily hope they will, for he’d be miserable in a
month if he married one of them.”

The followin sein Teh immediately after breakfast, Mr.

Urquhart and Captain avendish went away for a’ ride,
leaving Mrs. Cavendish with her children.
- She had three—a boy of four, whose specialty it was to
be always in imminent peril; and two girls, incapable,
through fat and youth, of walking into mischief yet.’ Clare
had promised herself to her boy for the whole morning
till one o’clock, when her husband and Lance were coming
back to drive her over to Hunton Lodge, to that luncheon
to which Rowley Vincent had asked them the day before.

She was walking along a sheltered path in the old ngh-
walled garden at the back of the house, with her son riding
on her shoulders and her daughters laughing, weeping,
fighting, and crowing in’ a perambulator by her ‘side,
when one of her own servants came from the house to tell
her a young lady had just ridden up to the hall door, an
‘was inquiring for her,
A very pretty young lady; not one of those who came
in yesterday, ma’am,” the servant continued; and Mrs.
Cavendish went in, feeling sure it was Miss Vincent.

The first glance at the face and figure of the girl who
stood up as she came into the room undeceived her,’ She
Hote uttering an'exclamation of surprise and doubt,
and she slightly colored as the visitor looked at her intently.
The next moment Belle had advanced and held out her

hand, saying, ‘‘ You’ve not forgotten me—Belle Denville—

T hope ?- How very little you’ye altered, Mrs: Cavendish !”
“Tt’s like a fairy tale! “I was wishing for you so much
last night, and lo! you’re here,” Mrs. Cavendish replied, as
she put her hands on her old schoolfellow’s shoulders, and
bent down to kiss her. ‘* Belle Denville ! is it possible that
ov’re Belle Denville still ? Stop ! Don’t fancy, please, that
’m about to utter the ordinary vulgarities about it. Yet'l
am so delighted I can hardly realize the fact.”

Then they sat down, and Belle told Mrs. Cavendish how
and from whom she had heard the name of the lady-guest
at Oakleigh Towers; and Mrs. Cavendish was a discreet
friend, and forebore to praise her brother Lance too much
tothe woman with whom she did ardently desire he should
stand well.’ When she mentioned him it was quite casually.

“You must stay and be introduced to my husband, Belle;
and to-morrow George and I will go over and be presented
to your father. We'd go to-day, but we are engaged to take
lunch ‘at the Vincents’ with Lance.” y

“Then [ll take off my hat and make mysélf comfort-
able,” said Belle, suiting’ the action to the word. «M
father will be charmed to know you, Olare,” she continued,
lapsing into the old school-girl familiarity.

“«And have you lived at Hunton ever since you left
school?” 1

“Yes—ever since.’ I’m my father’s housekeeper and
sole companion”—she paused for'a moment, and then’ re-

“sumed, her brow knitted with brief perplexity as she spoke

—‘‘his chief companion. But he cares very little for com-

 

panionship.. He’s very fond of me, but.he: never ‘seems: to
need me.”

** All the better, since you must leave him some time or
other,” Mrs. Cavendish ‘said, lightly:

“But not all the better while Pm with him, the déar old
father! The fault is in myself—-I know that very well,” the
girl replied: ‘‘He had got into the habit of being self-ab-
sorbed before I came home, and-I have not had the tact to
break through that habit.” f

** He’s a very studious man, I suppose? ”

“Very. He loves learning for its own sake—not for the
sake of making his name known, or making money by it, or
making the masses even a little wiser by the cheap diffusion
of it; he really loves it. He would shrink from sharing his
love with the herd.”

“* How' that shrinking is to be respected in» these days of
‘Penny Cyclopedias!’ ” Mrs. Cavendish said, aloud; while
she thought, ‘‘ Poor Belle! I wonder a protracted residence
with an aged savant hasn’t worn off her brightness; but it
has not.” Then she continued, ‘‘ Do you find the Vincents
very agreeable neighbors?”

““Yes-—yery,” Belle replied.

““T suppose my term was a happy one—they are just that,
are they not—‘agreeable neighbors,’ and little more? ”

“Oh, I don’t know. We're not very intimate—through
no lack of will on either side, but because it happens so.” / _

“‘[’m not prepossessed with them.” Mrs. Cavendish :said,
almost sharply. ; bas.

“Then I think you’re wrong,” Belle rejoined. «“* You
can have seen so little of them yet. Ida’s very clever and
very refined er

“And very subtle and very designing,” Mrs. Cavendish
interrupted. ‘But Dll tell you some one with whom, Iam
prepossessed—Mrs. Brantholme.” d 7bé

“T should think so, Clare—everyone must be,” Belle said,
with a ‘proud joyousness in her friend’s irresistible charm
ee very engaging. /‘‘She’s a darling! She’s my great
ally. vis 19

Bat T hate her husband!”

“So do. I—so does everyone—everyone, at least, but poor
Bessie herself; she loved him once, and the feeling -hasn’t
all died out, though he has:-been—oh, I can’t tell you what
he has-been!” the girl.said, blushing brilliantly, 9.0.)

“© Not the best husband in the world, I should say,” Mrs.
Cavendish remarked, sympathetically. Then they began to
praise Mrs. Brantholme again, little knowing what, cause
they would have to hate her inthefuture. Before they had
exhausted the interesting topic, Mr. Urquhart and: Captain
Cavendish came in, and were introduced to Olare’s. old
friend, Belle Denville: ds

 

CHAPTER IV.
WHERE HAVE I SEEN HER? | Gr

““THERE’S ae about her that’s very nice, but: her
mouth is awfully wide!” was Lance’s mental comment on
Miss Denville’s personal appearance when he first: looked
upon her. z ieg0o lato

That something ‘ nice” but hidden he presently. decided
to be her smile. It was a sunburst, that smile of hers, en-
tirely unrestrained, and utterly different to the next little
artificial relaxation of the muscles which most women permit
themselves to indulge in on a first meeting. gf

‘* There’s something very —— about her; but where
have I seen her before?” He found himself staring at her
as he thought this—peering at her in a way that was unusual
in such a well-bred. ee his glance in a man-
ner that made her cease abruptly in the midst of a sentence
of civility to Captain Cavendish, and stare at him (Lance)
in return. As she looked at him fully he was satisfied he
had met her before—yes, and conversed with her, too; but
where?—that was the question. bodes

There was no recognition in the amazed glances the young
lady was bestowing upon him. If they had ever met, be-
fore, she was-palpably bent upon ignoring any previous
VDLANCH URQUHART’ S, LOVES.

 

  

knowledge of him. » Almostiashhe thought.this, Mrs. Cayen-
dish spoke.

<¢Tance, would you have recognized Miss Denville from
that wretched old photograph I haye of hers)?”

“«To be sure—that’s it—I mean yes!” he answered. heart-
ily. .This was the solution of the undefined remembrance
he-seemed to have of her. The photograph had often come
under his observation in turning over Mrs. Cavendish’s. al-
bum. It was of the photograph he had been reminded. na-
turally. No, it was not. The photograph neyer, smiled
with the animation and archness shown by Belle, as she

said, ‘I thought you looked as if you knew me... It’s not
gratifying to my vanity at all, though. I. recollect the
miserable distortion in question. It gives meadouble.chin,
and a swollen cheek, and——”

‘But it doesn’t give your voice, and that I have heard
somewhere,” Lance. interrupted, laughing. ‘‘ We must
have met before. Will you ‘help me to Becide when and
where, or are you determined to cut me?”

«It must have been‘in dreamland, or I may be of a, very
common type.”

‘Neither solution is satisfactory.
and you’re:not of-a common type.”

“Tm unequalled at word painting,” Mrs. Cavendish put
invoi ft The fact is, ’ve déseribed you vividly, Belle, and so
Mr. Urquhart seizes the opportunity of paying a,compliment
to:my descriptive powers, by playing a little genteel comedy
by himself, and affecting to think he has seen you before.”

Pm not affecting anything of the sort,” Lance, replied,
‘‘T’m sure of it,” he added to himself; as Miss Denville got
up and put on her hat preparatory to starting. . ‘‘ We've
met before! Confusion on my treacherous memory for
playing me: false as to time! and) place, and the, young

ady has her own reasons for burying ‘the fact!”, ;
| «* Now, L must go,” Belle said, rising, ‘‘ or I shallimake
‘you late for the Vincents’ luncheon. Ruodsbra, Mr. Urqu-

art. We-shall be happy to see you with Captain and Mrs.
Cavendish to-morrow.”

She walked. out, after taking leave of her old) schoolfel-
‘low, followed by Captain Cavendish, and Lance, the latter
admiring her, and wondering about her, and. only disgusted
‘with himself for being unable to fix her position in his past.
She had that sort: of fair countenance, with which it, is
-almost morally impossible to. associate the idea of anything
like concealment or deception; and yet, when had he met
her, and known: her face and: voice so well, and why should
‘she detiy his having done so? lwoy
cisHe thought quite seriously about it.as he put her,up on
‘her:horsé) oShe saw that there was the absent, earnest look
about him, as in one whose thoughts! are sent) back.on’a
journey of discovery; and-when she had gathered up her
reins she bent forward, gaye him her hand in farewell, and
said, ‘‘ You’re still puzzling abont me, I see. How is if
likely that I should have forgotten: yow entirely if I ha

“ever seen your?) -" f due , at ill
«o He recalled his wandering faculties when; she.asked that.
'**T really beg your pardon,’ he began, hurriedly... ‘* 1 was
only considering——”
ho) That Pye ancimpossibly bad memory in that case, or
-that I am most stupidly mysterious. , Don’t think me either,
please, Mr. Urquhart; and) will, you be good enough to
‘slacken the curb?”

Lance slackened the curb,.as requested; and then,,Miss
Denville said ‘‘ Good-bye” again, and rode off. ,,He stood
looking after her as she went over the iron bridge, thinking,
as she: apna back, over her shoulder to nod.and laugh,
that Belle Deriville! was far from being the perfect creature
she had béen represented to him by, Mrs. Cayendish.

There was not much said. about Belle as they drove over
to Hunton Lodge! |.

*«That:Miss Denville is an only child, isn’t she ?” Lance
asked ; and Mrs. Cavendish replied:
** Yes—no,: though, she’s not.
least, I believe she /has.”’ Ene tints
soo Oh Yu Accountry curate, Iosuppose ?”. Lance said, care-

It was in the flesh,

She has = brother—at

endish knew and dreaded..

| within his ken.

 

lessly;:to which Mrs. Cavendish, who felt unaccountably
irritated, by Lance’s whole manner about Belle, answered:

‘Really [don’t know; and even if he is, that can scarcely
be considered a fault on her part—can it ?”

To'this releyant rejoinder Lance made no reply in words,
He only whistled gently, and looked at Captain Cayendish.
and. laughed.

Clare Cavendish was conscious of feeling a. trifle disap-
pointed. She knew that she was foolish to the last degree
in being so;. but then women often are conscious, of feeling
foolish, to the last degree about men, and at the same time
are quite content to continne;in; their folly.. She, hada
warm, strong affection for Lancelot. She knew, and loved,
and valued much that was loyable and valuable in her true-
hearted, impetuous, bright-minded young brother; but, on
the other hand; she knew; the worst. of him, also. , She was
fully aware, of the pitfalls his temperament, and habits of

education set for him, and she was. sadly fearful of his fall-

ing into them and away from, his better self.

‘With that ardent nature of his,\if he loves the wrong
woman, he will drift to:destruction,”’ she would say to her
husband, when ,he .would, be recounting some of Lance’s
temporary lapses fromthe path.of, perfect. propriety to her.
“Tf he ever falls .in love, with .& girl who is, less-pure and
true than he feels. his, wife ought, to be, nothing will save
him, George,’ Clare would say, passionately; and her hus-
band would agree with her, for, they both knew, well that
the.rocks on which Lance, Urquhart was most likely to split
were women and wine.. |, fatis :

Not that anyone thought or spoke.of him as ofa man who
drank.) Under excitement, he took, frequent:;and heavy
arangabe and. all the men in his regiment knew that he did
so.
the practice as yet.
heavy or obtuse.
more brilliant. and. vivacious than he was. when in fullest
possession of his senses. ,But, after these, flights of fancy,
there came hours of black depression; and, these Mrs. Cay-
The frequent recurrence of
them augured,better,for his heart,than, his health. _,

It has been said that. he.had gone down once or twice
during his career, before. very shady shrines... And it may

The, wine he;took never, rendered him

be added here that he had descended as, low, as a man, pos-

sessed of the innate feelingsof a gentleman could go, In
his. very young, manhood, for the sake of. certain. syren
smiles that were not,well authenticated, he had thrown
sundry social, obseryances,to, the winds, » And so, mothers
of fair daughters had, been, wont to look, black upon, him
while he had nothing but. his; pay.;, But now he had. ten
thousand pounds a year, and,the memory of; his peceadillos
had paled.in the minds,of women, even though he had, not

for any great length of time. turned. over a new, leaf... He
always urged his intention of doing this when M
fdish or; :

on, Ww rs, Oayen-
her husband; remonstrated , with, him ever so
mildly. $4 Scail™ cigs T aia aaeiiotk Lams
‘* Pl). just. have. this fling, out, and then I’ll turn over a
new leaf—really, 1, will, Clare,” he, would, say,,in. reply. to
Mrs. Bet ent entreaties. that. he would: not: sport too
conspicuously and compromisingly in the shade with some
big-brothered, garrison town Amaryllis,or try too persistent-
ly, the effect on, the constitution.of brandy and_soda at
élevenja..m... “Just this fing out, and then. reformation,
sobriety, moderation; evem total, abstinence, should such. a
decided step, prove to be necessary,” sath
The promise was such, a, pretty one, that gay, handsome,
care-for-naught. Lance, Urquhart was never backward at
makingit... The worst of, 1t was, that he did not shrink
from, breaking it. either. ound ghee ad
He had a ‘wonderful, charm, for both men and women,
this fortunate soldier, who had been a mere soldier of for-
tune before Miss Oakleigh died, and made him wealthy. by
her .will,, He had kindly words for, all. men,, and gentle
ones for all women; even for the lowest who had.eyer come
He was generous to lavishness and, braye
to recklessness... 7 hea sito aint?

ut, none had ever seen, him debased or degraded, by —

It seemed, on, the contrary, to make him °

 

 
 

LANCH URQUHART’S LOVES. 9

 

i

There had.neyer been a man in the regiment more warm-
ly regarded by his brother officers, or better liked by the
rivates, than Lance Urquhart; for, without being a popu-
arity seeker, he had the great art of attaching his inferiors
without for an instant descending to their level: As he was
never stern in the wrong place, or lenient inne gleualy; the
men knew what to expect from him on all occasions, and
never demurred at that which they, received.
This, at least, had been the rule—the exception: to. it
had been the! case of a man ofthe name of David Smith,

_ who had-been raised: from the ranks, where he had served

in a surprisingly spotless. manner for some years, to be the
regimental riding-master.. On his promotion, this man had
exchanged, into Lance’s regiment, and. had. found. no one
more willing than Captain Urquhart to accord all consid-
eration/to the man whose’ merit had been so rewarded. d

But the: meritorious discipline and good conduct which
had marked the bearing of the common soldier broke down
when he passed through the grades, and) was promoted.
The private had been remarkable for his sobriety, morality,
and rigorous attention |to his duties, The, non-commis-
sioned officer disgraced himself, and dragged his own name
and the name:of his corps through the dirt, and hence, Ur-
quhart was the means of bringing the punishment of dis-
missal from the service upon the unwarily elated David
Smith. .

Shortly after this bitter disgrace had befallen him, the
man had sought an interview with Lance Urquhart, and
had'then cursed him with all the bitter eloquence of a hate
that feared it might never have an apportunity of taking
its revenge. The curse David Smith uttered need not be
written down at length here. It is sufficient:to say that. it
was as blood-thrilling a one ‘as either that bestowed on the
Knight of. Gwynn, the jackdaw of Rheims, or Leah’s in-
firm of purpose lover. It being the sole disagreeable :in-
cident connected with Lancelot Urquhart’s military.career,
and its haying an influence on his after life, must be -ac-
cepted as the excuse for its having been mentioned at such
length.

As Mr. Urquhart droye,up the broad, straight avenue to
the doors of Hunton Lodge, a, little pony carriage: swept
past them in the opposite, direction. .Lance’s whole atten-

tion was given to the cleverly stepping clipped.bay pony;|

Mrs:: Cavetidish’s was ‘riveted upon the driver, in whom she
recognized the beautiful Mrs.. Brantholme.

The sont scarcely glanced. at'them, it seemed, as she went
by. She leaned back so indolently, as it. appeared... She
looked so regardless of all things, save her y’s dainty
stepping. Butin the one glance ‘which she did manage to

ive them from-under, her long black Jashes she marked
them well, determining as a result of the scrutiny he would
‘*be a very fitting mate for my pet Belle,” and supercilious-
ly noted that there was a look of, watchfulness on his com-
panion’s features. The difficulty of avoiding the influences
of our own experiences while forming a judgment.of others
is colossal. Mrs. Brantholme could not conquer it.

‘Tf he’s tied to a married woman’s a ron-string, even
Belle will stand no chance!’ she thought, bringing her
whip down with a straight, coachman-like cut on the bay’s
near shoulder. ‘I should like to see her well settled—
away from that dreary home and that desperately dull
papa! Well settled! Oakleigh Towers and ten thousand
pounds a year would be splendid!”

So, at starting, Belle Denville and Lance Urquhart were
designed for each other by the ruling powers of this work.
The two married women—the good and the evil influences
of my hero’s life—were unconsciously agreed in the matter.

Propinquity, opportunity, age, and the wishes of their
friends, were all in favor of the two young people, whose
story is to be told, coming together. Nothing short of a
division of opinion between. the two most powerful
diplomatists can injure the cause in which each, without
the .other’s knowledge, had already invested a large share
‘of most earnest interest.

Up to the present juncture the woman who did not

/know him yet was as thoroughly bent as the ‘woman ‘who

‘ull the ease and womanliness of her figure, and admired it

 

 
 
  
    
   
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
    
 
 
 
 
 
  
    
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  

had his real good at heart on
catch, marrying Belle Denyille.

CHAPTER Yo *0msiemmotin doval
THE TERMAGANT. t SAIORES

ONE of the many things of which Ida Vincent” never
lost sight during the whole of her career, was the’ degira-
bility of constantly creating effects of contrast.

It was a great meritjin this ial member of a slightly
monotonous order of society that there was no sameness
about her. ‘eo ; A Gab a

She was not one of whom it could be said'that ‘as she
was, she is, and ever will be.” Lau8 #

She was suprisingly variable... Variable im hér moodé,
her manners, ,her mind, her dress, her dislikes, her -
theories—yariable, even, in her designs, In this variableness
lay her chief charm and her principal power.’ y

It was not only: that people felt they did not know. whéit
to have her, but that they had not the faintest’ idéa when
she was going to have them., .-

She carried the saintliest curates in the ‘neighborhood
as surely and swiftly as she did the stray military and.the.
keen sportsmen. In - fact, she thoroug ily obeyed the in-
junction, and “‘ was all things to all. men.” ,* , AO

On this occasion of presiding at her brother's. table, and
doing. the honors of the luncheon to his chosen gnests;
she, remembering that Mr. Urquhart and the keen-sighted.
lady. who was palpably possessed of much influence over
him, had only, seen. her in her’ capacity of -Amazon
previously, displayed herself as the gentlest and —dain-
tiest of ladies. AIl soft, neutral-tinted silk and cloudy
lace—mourning lace—Valenciennes,, be , it. understood.
Quite the correct thing. She was very. quiet, too—ver.
low and, silvery-yoiced when she did speak ; very much
given to silence and smiles; while her attention was at
times directed not to Lance Urquhart, but,to the flowers
in. the center of the table,

The young lord of Oakleigh Towers, remembering the
way in which she had come down in her saddle and Tittea
her mare over that stiff hedge the day before, found him-
self regarding her curiously, ,

He had thought her the perfection of symmetry when he
saw her in the, saddle, lithe, undulating, firmly erect;’ but
now, in the but half-restraint of, the loose, soft silk, he saw

nce Urquhart, the. great

 

still more-—admired -it; far beyond the brighter, bolder,
more blooming, beauty of her blue-eyed cister—far Beyond
‘“anything that he had seen in the country yet,” he told
himself. papa nat

It must. be confesssed that the Cayendishes found this
first specimen: of the hospitality of the land . very : dull
work. Rowley Vincent was a good-looking, good-tempered,
hearty fellow, agreeable enough in his way; but ‘then’ his
way was not the way of the men to.whom. Mrs. Cavendish
had been accustomed. , 4 eal

The wealthy Squire of Hunton talked gubly to girls who -
hoped he was going to throw the handkerchief; but his
sphere. of observation had been a narrow one, and Mrs.

ayendish found it out, and estimated him accordingly;
and he discovered that she had done so, and waxed uncom-
fortable.

To the woman who for years had held her conversational
own in an eminently cosmopolitan circle, this man was as.
barren as an acre of the wilderness. He could not take up
her allusions, and throw them back to her enriched; so,
after the manner of women, finding him wanting in what
were essentials to her, she put him down as deficient in all,
and became bored. A

Nor did things look much lighter to Captain Cavendish.
The youngest Miah Vincent was a type of girl that he had
studied with tolerable success during his bachelor days at
Woolrich, Southsea, Chatham, and other haunts of the
genus, It would have only been opening up the old story again
to try and talk to her, and by this means evoke the well-
 

0

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

known. giggle, and blush, and pert speech unredeemed by a
solitary,ray of sense. Besides, he was a married man now,
and éxperiénce had taught him that Geraldine Vincents are
rather apt to turn deaf ears and utter curt replies under
such circumstances. So he abstained altogether from the
bounding effervescent ‘sister, and was successfully warned
off. the premises by the indifferent, unamazed quiet of the
elder one.

 

CHAPTER VI.
“A BARGAIN.

AT last, by a. happy. chance, Rowley Vincent opened
up a subject of conversation that seeméd to have a common
interest for all.

““You met Mrs. Brantholme as you drove up, didn’t
ou?” he asked. . ‘* We wanted her to stay here to see you;
ut she was too much disappointed about the Termagant to

do it.”

“‘Who’s the Termagant?” Mrs. Cavendish asked.

**A mare of mine that I shall be most happy to introduce
to your notice,” Rowley replied.
“ Have her out on the lawn.
ley,” Ida said, softly.

“Very well; so I will,” he said, going out of the room as
he spoke. And then Mrs. Cavendish asked how the T'erma-
gant had disappointed Mrs. Brantholme.

“*She’s such an inconsiderate woman. My brother men-
tioned to her that he was going to sell the Termagant, she
being too light for him, and she directly made up her mind
that her husband should buy the mare. He won’t do it; so
Mrs. Brantholme chooses to be disappointed.”

* Do you ride her?” Mrs. Cavendish asked.

“‘T am faithful to the filly you saw me on yesterday,”
Miss Vincent replied.

“And you couldn’t have a better mount, I should say,”
Lance Urquhart struck in.

“No,” Geraldine answered for her sister. ‘Hecate is
gentleness itself. One is always safe on her. She never at-
tempts more than she can do easily, and that’s everything in
a lady’s hunter.”

‘She attempted no trifle in that fence. There’s an awful
dip into the road,” Mr. Urquhart said. And, when he'said
it, Ida smiled very softly at him, as though she accepted
his vindication of her daring; but, at the same time, depre-
cated any wrath he might feel at her sister’s depreciation of
it.

‘© Does the Termagant carry a lady? Oh, there’s Mr.
Vincent beckoning us through the window to go out!”

They went out, and as they did so, Ida, wrapped ina big
velvet mantle, with a little ermine-lined hood shading her
head, told them that the mare had never yet been ridden by
a lady, which was a drawback to Rowley’s getting the
price he wanted for her, as she was too slightly built to
carry a heavy weight.

‘What price is that?” Lance Urquhart asked.

«* Highty.guineas; and she’s fully worth it,” Tda replied.

There could be little doubt of that. She was fully worth
if. She’ came along at a springy walk—that walk which
surely betokens length of pastern—with nothing on her head
but a snaffle rein, and nothing on her back but Jerks, a
small, wiry boy, capable of sitting and handling anything
ever foaled.

There could not be two opinions about the Termagant’s
beauty. She was black, or, rather, that dark brown’ which
passes for black, and her coat shone like gatin, with the fine
creasy sleekness of a.cat’s skin. She'was so elegantly shaped,
that she looked slender enough 'to please a woman. At the
same time that her deep chest, her massive shoulders, and
the grand-sweep of her flanks, attested that, at any rate, her
power was fully in proportion to her size. Her legs, broad
and strong,at the top, tapered away to the fine delicacy of
alady’s wrist; and her.fine; small, sensitive head was poised,
as though the soul of an empress animated it.

Altogether, she was in appearance as perfect a specimen of

Make Jerks ride her, Row-

'Tt’s in his blood.

 

a lady’s horse as can be imagined; and every voice was raised
in her praise as she came stepping’across the lawn with the
grace and coquetry that-is only to be seen in thoroughbred

animals.
“*T was in hopes she would have done something+-gone

over those hurdles, for instance,” Mrs. “Cavendish said;

ea ae to an arrangement of furze-bush and timberin the
istance:

“So she shall!” the “1Lermagant’s owner replied:
Jerks!”

**Can that small boy keep on ‘a bare-backed horse?”

“Jerks can keep on anything, wnder any ‘circumstances:
His grandfather was a jockey; his father
is a trainer. “It would be as easy for Jerks to drop: his
head ‘as to part ‘from his horse when once ‘he has got’ his
legs across ‘one.’ This lady wants to'see you take the mare
over the ‘hurdles, Jerks,” Rowley Vincent continued to the
boy, who had ridden up close to them’ while his master was
speaking.

Jerks put a finger to his cap, and then leant forward,
touching the mare on the neck with a wonderfully subtle,
tender touch for such a horny hand to give.

«© Where’s the whip, Jerks?” Mrs. Cavendish asked:

The boy laughed, and Rowley answered for him:

“He manages his horses more by love than the lash, I
fancy. Now off, my lad; but don’t hurry her!”

The Termagant went off at an easy, showy canter. .

*‘She’s not going more than four miles an hour now. Did
you ever see such action?” Lance cried, admiringly.

And even as he said it the mare caught sight of the hur-
dles, quickened her pace, and, the next: moment, winged
her flight, graceful, swift, and cutting as that of a swallow
through the air.

She scarcely seemed to have landed before the boy turneé

her, and she took a standing jump—rising her own height
to do it—and then cantered ‘up the lines toward them, do-
cile as'a dove.
, *She’s perfection |” sas chorussed by ‘the group; and
‘George, do buy her for me!” was said in a very entreating
tone by Mrs. Cavendish. ‘‘She’s no Termagant at all; she’s
gentleness itself! -No whip, no spur, no curb required. I
never heard such @ misnomer as her name!”

“* She’s' a rare ’un when she ‘is put-out!’ Jerks said, with
a knowing shake of his head.

“«Tt’s against my own interests, but I must confess thar the
soul of a demon enters her if she isn’t handled according to
her liking.’ She’s tried to buck me off several/times; it’s
only my weight saves me!” Rowley said, patting the capric
ious beauty’s head. r 02 hadool

“©All things considered, I don’t think I shall grant your
request, Clare.’ You have one horse; dear.” ddd

“©All things considered, ‘since you decline the purchase,
George, I think I can’t do ‘better than take her at your
price, Mr. Vincent,” Lance Urquhart’ said, excitedly ‘61
only ride eleven stone; she’s up to that, I’m sure!” © ;

“Done!—sheo’s yours!” Rowley Vincent replied; and in
the natural and inevitable agitation which attends the trans-
fer of a horse from one man to another; no one moticed that
the littlé stable-helper, the horny=handed boy, looked. sad
and sorry. He was very fond of ‘the mare, ‘and the mare
had an affection forhim. But these common people, who
are ‘kicked by the strong necessity of living: from» Dan. to
Beersheba, have no busmess to form attachments by. the
way. 9
“The bonny black mare, the’ graceful beauty; the Terma-
gant, who could be conquered by kmdness—she could not
tell how poor Jerks fondled and ‘hissed through his own
sobs while grooming her after that hour of display... She
could not’ tell, and no’one cared to inquire about it. Little
stable- boys are soum of the earth—part of the stud machin-
ery, thut is ‘all. rd oF BEY

Nevertheless; Mrs. Cavendish jis! not. to be ,
cause she was the one’ to say that evening, when they were
back at Oakleigh Towers, “Ah, Lance; Ithought of it.com-
ing home. That plucky little child.seems very fond of the

“Hi,

 
LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES.

11

 

 

Termagant., Speak to Mr. Vincent, and take the boy into
your stables,”

“‘So I will,” he replied; and so he did; and poor mouse
ofa Jerks knew the lioness that had befriended him, , and
never ee it either, which is something in this world of
ingratitude.

 

CHAPTER VII.
BELLE AT HOME.

Ir promised to be a great break in the monotony of her
life, this sudden advent upon the scene of her friend and
her friend’s brother. The girl could hardly tone down. to
her formal quietude that day after her return from her visit
to, Oakleigh Towers. Belle Denville had that restlessness

upon her which the great majority have had, or will have}.

some time or other, when something unexpected has oc-
curred.. She wanted to talk to some one about Clare, and
of how little Clare had altered, and how amusing she had
been in the old school days, and was still, She wanted to
discuss Mrs. Cavendish’s present appearance and manners,
and Mrs, Cavendish’s husband, and her brother Lancelot
Urquhart, with some one who would sympathetically respond
in the right place, and never in the wrong one, And the
want could not be gratified, for Mr. Denville was busily en-
gaged in: studying a work on comparative philology. He
was sporting the oak, and his daughter knew, from experi-
ence, that she must not intrude upon him when such was
the case. So all through those hours while they were eating

‘luncheon and looking at the Termagant at Hunton Lodge,
Belle Denville roamed about the rooms at home, and wished
that the Vincents had asked her too. Not adignified wish,
since they had not snare fit to do so, but a very natural
one, surely... Belle liked bright talk and sunny faces, and
there were neither in the Hunton Rectory. God help the
women who are bored out of all appreciation for that which
is, by the members of their own household, for if He does
not they are likely to be in desperate danger,

For four or five years Belle Rae had lived in check,
as it were. She had never suffered herself to think of what
might be were her father more amenable to the observances
of social life. She, had seen the day in and the day out
without change for so long, that she had come to believe
that variety was in the lot of the few, not of the many, to
whicn latter class she belonged. She had, in fact, accepted
her life as custom, and her papa laid it out for her without
demur or question. But she had not found if full and
satisfactory, as such a nature as hers craved.

To rise up in the morning and put just the proper amount
of cream into the rector of Hunton’s coffee; to go at noon
and practice the chants for the following Sunday with the
creaky-voiced free-school children ; to visit the bedridden of
Hunton of an afternoon, and carry them broth and read the
Bible to them; to order what there should be for dinner every
day, and what voluntary should be played each ensuing
Sunday; this was her round of duties, and it was not large
enough to occupy her heart, her mind, or her time.

‘She was an’ unclaimed oasis in the desert, as yet; and
neither she nor her father guessed how frail was the hedge
that separated her from the marauders of the wilds. Those
often cited oases must have a weary time of it in the long
interims of nobody passing by to admire!

Being | oondentitud) through force of circumstances and
her father’s devotion to comparative: philology, to silence,
Miss Denville ‘thought’ all the more about her old friend
Clare, and the wide difference of their lots in life.

««There she is+-fresh and fair, and. girlish as ever,” she
said ; ‘and over it all there’s thrown the subtle charm of
experience. The school-girl I parted with five years ago
has faced dangers and delights that I’ve only read about;
she has»passed unscathed, through a dozen phases of life,
and a broiling tropical sun ; and while she has been made
free of life in» another quarter of the, globe,.I. am where I
was when we parted.” Dini

» Unconsciously sitting there alone, the girl began, not. to

felt unjustly treated and oyerloo

 

quarrel with, but to feel dissatisfied about her destiny. She
id not word the feeling, but she had it that if she had been
forewarned, she would not have accepted existence (life it
could not be called) on these terms,

Papa was very good to her, she thought, and very dear,
of course. But there was more to be got out of life than
the best and dearest of papas could give, if only she knew
how to set about the getting it. This is a phase of. feeling

jthrough which the majority of girls who have hearts and

imaginations worth mentioning, pass inevitably when the
tenor of their lives is monotonous.

And it must be said for the credit of our kind that they
pass through it scatheless as a rule, and are none the worse
for the vague discontents which are the special portion of
creatures with souls.
Contemporaneously with the Termagant’s exploits across
the lawn and over the hurdles of Hunton Lodge the clouds
lowered, and. the afternoon grew bleak, chilly, and depress-
ing, as only a November afternoon can be.

‘There is so little to do,” Belle observed, impatiently,
as she sat gazing into the fire. ‘‘I haven’t the wool and
bead-word, mind; and, even if I had, I couldn’t bear the
detestable vulgarities made up and strewed over the draw-
ing-room; and I’ye nothing to read. The Vincents might
as well have asked me!”

The usually bright-faced, light-minded girl was feeling
very dull and looked exceedingly downcast. She was almost
inclined to regret the days, not so very long gone by, when
the Vincents were constantly asking her to their house, and
making affectionate raids upon her in her own house, after
the manner of sisters who smile upon a brother’s suit.
Rowley Vincent had gone through all the spurious but sharp
pangs of calf love for his rector’s daughter.

He had made votive offerings at what he mistakenly sup-
posed to be her shrine, in the hope of inclining her heart
towards himself eventually. He had given the site for a
school-house once, when Belle had thrown all her young
energies into its erection. He had vigorously hated all her
father’s curates, who, in common with himself, worshipped
her from afar. He had for three seasons supplied the rec-
tor’s table to overflowing with game. He had contributed
munificently towards the purchase of a harmonium for the
church, and then had the satisfaction of hearing that Miss
Denyille was not by any means obliged to him, as the task
of playing it hebdomadally devolved upon her, But of late
he gah seemed to accept and act upon the philosophy of the
old song, which derides the notion of wasting in despair
because a woman’s fair.

““Tf she scorns me when I woo,

_ I will pass, and let: her go,” ,
was palpably Rowley Vincent’s intention at the juncture
treated of. ;

But this day, generous as Belle was in reality, she almost
wished that, the illusion was still in. full force with Rowley
Vincent, in order that he might have secured her presence
at that, gathering, which she imagined to be ever so much
more festive than it was. pair ahh

She would have liked to have had the day out with that
trio with whom she had spent a port of the morning. She

ed, and she knew that the
feeling was the offspring of solitude and that dreary Novem-
ber afternoon. ‘

Had anyone told Mr, Denville that. if he only studied, his
child half as earnestly and constantly as he did comparative
philology and sundry vexed Biblical questions which nobody
asked him, that he would be a more sensible man, and per-
haps no worse a Christian, he would have been, mildly in-
credulous. try ‘ fe ame oe

‘Tow can Belle be dull when she has me?” he would
have asked, forgetting that young womanhood is carnal
enough sometimes to crave for something more than erudite
and cultivated parents. ; 7) oe oa

However, no. one told Mr. Denville this truth, and he
never suspected it. ‘Therefore, he continued to, sit in his
study, and muse upon many things, in ponderous lauguage

 
 

4
i
4)

 

of it was less fair.

to an extraordinary

   

rg LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

on sermon paper, serene in the sublime consciousness that
he had a daughter somewhere in' the house who knew that
she had a scholar for a father. : .

A grave family affliction—a circumstance which had just,
and but just, left the name of Denville untarnished—had
befallen the supine old savant once. But it had not taught
him to be on the alert; it only, indeed, seemed to have the
effect of plunging him more deeply into the companionship
of those exceptional friends who never play one slippery
tricks, and who can be shelved whenever it seemeth good to
one. _What this affliction was cannot be told here. It con-
cerns Belle Denville too intimately to be narrated until the
reader has learnt to regard the girl with a warmth no evil
report can chill.

It was a very long afternoon, but the clock struck six at
last, and then Belle went up stairs to dress for the half-past
six dinner. ve

Mr. Harley, the new curate of Hunton, was going to dine
with them this day.

These small dinners were amongst Miss Denville’s trials.
Her father was always smiling and courteous at starting,
but after a very short time he had a habit of Japsing into
silence, and then the onus of entertaining’ devolved upon
Belle. Now, it is an ungrateful task to amuse’ the un-
umusable, and Mr. Harley belonged to the latter class. He
was neither weak nor ascetic, neither a milksop nor a
pooney On ‘the contrary, he was a man ‘whose good
uatural abilities had been carefully cultivated and judiciously
sharpened at a university and by severe self-trainmg. But,
for all this, he was far from being an agreeable man or de-
sirable companion. He was a combination of cynical Chris-
tian and Christian cynic, and the combination was not
pleasant. oh

He was standing before the drawing-room fire when Miss
Denyille came down again—a slight man, of middle height,
with a pale face, and light, soft-looking straight hair and
whiskers. His long nose ran out ‘prominently in an
undulating line, that was evidently effeminate and imagina-’
tive. But his eyes—of a small size, and sharp, hard ex-

ression—contradicted the impression given by the former
eature.

There was much to be said in the man’s favor. ‘The son
of a hard-working, poverty-stricken old clergyman, com-
pelled to live on a narrow income himself and be at once
the almoner of the Lord and a gentléman, he was the latter
thoroughly in the eyes of all men.

There was no suspicion of self-seeking or time-serving
about him. In all matters of preferment or money, he was
honestly independent in a way that was a caution to every-
one not to presume upon his evident want of both. This
was the golden side of his character-shield. ‘The reverse

As a type of the embodiment of spite which could, on
Bement be’ cutting and cruel to the last degree, Mr.
Tarley was perfect.

You saw it—the characteristic—in his pitiless glance,
while his thin lips spoke of some weakness, or affectation,
or fault in others.

You saw it in the sardonic smile which crept over his
features like a wintry sunbeam, when some one fell short of
of oe he expected of them—not that he ever expected
much. ,

And you heard it in his little remarks. He was not one of
those who had bent the knee before Belle’s shrine, and at
whom Rowley Vincent had jeered in the days of his infatua-
tion.

Mr. Harley thought Miss Denville crude and unformed
degree, even for a woman, and he
rated the feminine intellect and the feminine power of cul-
tivating the same very low indeed.

When Belle came into his presence this evening she chose
to enone his ‘‘ fastidious peculiarities,” as she called them.
““Hasn’t it been a beastly day?” ‘she asked, as she shook

hands with him. ‘‘I’ve been half mad with dullness this

 

afternoon !”

She’ was pretty—yes, he saw that she was very pretty.
But such words disfigured the prettiest mouth, in his
opinion. Be

«You'll never succeed in impressing anyone ‘with the
strength of your thoughts while you clothe them: in such
exaggerated language,” he said, quietly; and his voice: was
very nice, and his smile very harsh and cynical.

“JT didn’t want to impress you withthe strength, or the
truth, or the anything of what I thought; I said it because
I thonght it, that’s all,” the girl replied, hastily. ‘‘ And I
did find it beastly,” she continued, returning vaguely, in
the feminine fashion, to the vague point. 1

“Tt has been a very seasonable day.”

“Then the season 18 beastly.” pape

“Your views on the subject. being neither enlivening nor
original, suppose we speak of something else, Miss Denville?”

“T can’t; I’m ‘ permeated’—one of your pet pordss“by
the day, and I can’t think of anything else to say to you.”

“Am I to understand that you have the rheumatism?”

She laughed, and shook her head.

“°No; why?”

“Tf you’re what you said, you must have it, that’s all.”

“Really, Mr. Harley, I’m almost inclined to be sorry that
I’m tempted to say more than ‘ Yes’ and *No’ to you,” she
said, good-temperedly. ‘‘I always feel that’I have been
guilty of the most awful offences against Syntax, Prosody,
and common sense after a few minutes’ conversation with

ou.”
F He did not say, ‘‘So’you are; you feel the truth,” but he
looked it. ; Ms

“T must do the honors, though, till papa comes. The
weather is tabooed, becatise I cannot moderate the rancor
of my tongue about it. Oh, Mrs. Brantholme tells me she
met you at dinner the other day; but you were: not intro-
duced to her. You must meet her here one day, Mr.
Harley. She won’t offend you by calling things by objection-
able names.” ;

“‘Thank you. Is the introduction designed to give
pleasure to her or to me?” he asked, coolly. —

“To you, of course.” v9 ¥

“Then I fear my ingratitude for the honor you intended
for me will shock you. I have no great desire to know Mrs.
Brantholme.” :

“Her cheek flushed violently. She was very loyal to her
friend. The dark, impassioned face had never been bent
other than kindly upon her. 43 OU

“Tm not ‘shocked.’ You never do like what I do.’ But
why don’t you wish to bé introduced to Mrs. Brantholme?”

“Because, Miss Denville, I entirely disapprove of both
herself and her husband,” he said, seriously. ‘“‘ And, at the
risk of awakening your displeasure towards myself, I will
tell you so.” : CEM

“Thanks; but I don’t——” Her father came into the
room before she could say she ‘didn’t believe it.”

And then the dinner-bell rang, and. Mr, Harley was re-
quested by his chief to ‘take my daughter in.”

“«T’ll never speak to him about her again!” Belle thought,
angrily. ‘‘ He always has something to aay against every-
one, with his damp hands!” By which, Miss | enyille did
not so much mean that Mr. Harley gave utterance to his
sentiments with those members, as that he possessed them
in the state she had so graphically described.

‘« Papa,” she said, presently, ‘‘the Cavendishes and Mr.
Urquhart are coming here to-morrow, remember. I want
you to see Clare so much!”

“Ts that the lady who is staying at Oakleigh Towers?”
Mr. Harley asked.

‘ Yes,’’ Belle replied. ) ;

“‘T was very much amused to see the enthusiasm she)

strove to make manifest yesterday about that wretched: fox,” \
Mr. Harley rejoined, laughing. paps
“She never ‘affected’ aityibing in the course of her life,
Belle said, indignantly.
“Tg she such an wnexceptional person? I thought that

 
LANCE URQUHART’S LOVHS.

1%

 

 

everyone did affect, more or less? It’s all a question of
degree.”

“‘Do you mean that papa, for instance, ‘affects’ the in-
terest he seems to take in his researches, and the excitement
he gets up when he finds out anything that hasn’t been
found out before?”

“Not at all; still, he’s not exempt from the charge. He
is affecting now to take a smiling interest in our conver-
sation, which he has'not followed.’

* Well, I never affect anything.” } 2

‘« Except a belief in superhuman intregrity of manners;
I don’t think you do affect much else.” :

‘How very agreeable you must be to your sisters, Mr.
Harley!” Belle said, ans : :

“‘T have only one sister, and she is rather a singular girl.
She can tell the truth, and stand hearing it.”

“Tam sorry that you should have had such a bad ex-

rience.”

“« As what ?”

. As to make you suppose your sister ‘ singular’ because
#he can tell the truth, and stand hearing it!”

‘‘Not so much a bad as a small experience; I have
known very little of women.”
« © How is that ?”

«They don’t like me, I suppose,” he replied, with a

ood-tempered laugh ; ‘it’s not my fortune to get their
beat given out before me, -You, for instance, Miss Denville,
make yourself more agreeable to other men than you do to
me, for the simple reason that you find others much more
agreeable.”

‘Supposing the effect to: be truly stated (which I don’t
admit, mind, by any means), I am glad to find that you
have such a clear appreciation of the cause.”

‘As Belle’ said tits, Mr. Denville awoke to the present,
and his duties as host. He wanted to get back to his study
with little delay and no fuss, and the object being so
worthy, he had no objection to diplomatize a little to
attain it. :

“The Cavendishes come to-morrow, you say, Belle ?”

“« Yes, papa.” i

“Qh, dear! ’m afraid I shall not have the pleasure of
making their acquaintance this time.”

OS ERD § papal” {reprouchfully uttered. )

“Well, my dear, I ,only say I’m afraid not. Perhaps,

though, if I could get a few hours’ uninterrupted work to-|

night, I should be able ‘to give up to-morrow to your
friends!”

well, papa!” the girl said, in a soft, sad sort of

‘© Ver
tone. ‘She knew to what allthis tended. Mr. Harley was to

be handed over to her for the rest of the evening, and he
certainly ‘did not make himself agreeable to her.. rf

«“ You are fond of music;'are you not, Harley?”

_ 7 like good music,” Harley replied.)

“«My daughter will be deli to play you something—
somethink quiet, my dear Belle... Your piano is so high,
that'when you play those boisterous pieces they distract me,
and—and you'll excuse me, I’m sure.” And with that, Mr.
Denville went off.’

They went back’ to the drawing-room

play, she suffered her hands to droop listlessly into her
he wanted to talk—playing allowed her still to go on
reflecting on the difference of things, and feeling dis-
satisfied. i
Suddenly she asked, ‘‘ Have
por yet, Mr. Harley?”
«J have.”
0 And what do you think of him?”
“Originally he may have been enpecta ninety ae gentle-
manly; but he has debased himself by drinking to such a
ee, that my first call will be my last.”
he wheeled round en her music-stool, and faced him in
SOR fod gouvepediciiy #f' Man! Grgubard? “itkie Sees
‘Are speaking of Mr. Urquhart is impossible
-you dar Be cottons??? , hh

you called on our new neigh-

ih Wer

| her to Miss Denville, Lance.”

it ba y Weethasy and Belle
seated herself at the piano; but) instead o _eeetes to
ap.

“Tam perfectly serious; but I am not speaking of Mr.
Urquhart. Oakleigh Towers is not in. Hunton. parish.
When you spoke of ‘our new neighbor,’ I natural;
thought you meant the man who has, taken the Woodlan:.-
Cottage.”

‘‘L had not heard of him. . Who is he ?”

‘*A Mr. Barker; has been\a merchant, he says.”

““Is he married?’

‘There is a yulgar/ Mrs. Barker,” the young curate.’ -
plied, dubiously. ‘‘ Better not call on, them, Miss De:.-
ville,” Ke continued, earnestly. ‘Waive parochial custc; :
in this instance. They are not people whom it will. be. ci -
sirable for youto know. You were speaking of Mr. Urqu-
hart. No; I’ve not called on him yet.”

‘‘ Have you seen him ?”

** Yes; and I think him a fine-looking fellow.”

‘Now, shall I play you anything ?” Belle:asked affably.
“Tl stand hearing the truth with exquisite temper... If it
will bore you, say so.?”

“Will ‘you. sing an. English ballad 2? Yes? .Thanks !
After that I must go away.” [ 2il

CHAPTER VIL. —
LORD OXBURGH’S MUNIFICENT OFFER.

CAPTAIN CAVENDISH was at home on leave only. Iu
May his time would be up, and he compelled to return to
India, but until that, melancholy May was. upon them, it
was settled that he and. his. wife and children should re-
main at/Oakleigh Towers, as Lance Urquhart’s guests..

‘* Before, that time I hope to get. him cutee art safely
settled, George,” Mrs. Cavendish, would say, speaking of
Lance as though he had been her son,... Considering his two
reap seniority, it was perhaps a wonderful view to take
of him.

Lance Urquhart had not gone with the Cavendishes to
make that call upon the Denyilles which he had promised.
He was too much taken up with his new acquisition, the
Termagant, when the time for'starting came., As Captain
and Mrs, Cavendish drove over the bridge, they saw Lance

 

| cantering towards them on the black mare, with a, horse-

cloth oyer his legs to represent a habit to the Termagant’s
deluded mind. :
‘‘’m trying her for you, Snowdrop,” he explained, when
he cameup. ‘‘She’s the most maligned of her sex... You
might ride her with a/hair.. Just the thing for a woman.”
hen he said that, Mrs. Cavendish did hope fervently
that Belle would be the woman to the Termagant
eventually; ‘‘ for, of course, he’s breaking her in with a view
to giving her to the first: girl he proposes to,” she whispered
to her husband; then she added, aloud, ‘‘ Come, and show
Ask Miss Denville to go for a ride with
see, you.on the mare—a far finer specta-

‘“Jican’t to-day.
us, then she wil
cle !” : te

‘ VL. see about it,” Mrs. Cavendish said; and, then they
drove on to the Denyilles’. %, 4 bof

“It would be very pleasant to have Belle to stay with me,
George. I wonder if Lance would mind it ?” Mrs. Caven-
dish said, with anattempt atan indifferent air, as they went
along. | ed a

ise husband. laughed, and shook his head, disapproy-

ingly, | 14) '
‘Don’t try it, Snowdrop.”
“Try what 2” ;
‘*Matchmaking: I won’t have ‘hat game played for
him.” ear
**I don’t want to play it for him; but you know yourself

‘| that Lance will bea mark now for all sorts of adventurers

toaim at, and. you Anow he won’t be safe till he’s married.
While ’'m here, I’m everything to Lance; but when I go, ~
someone else may succeed me in his estimation.”
“‘Any woman who succeeds. you in his estimation will
never be mischievous to Lance, dear.” Shain
“* Well, I was wrong in saying ‘estimation,’ perhaps; but.

 

you know what I mean, therefore it’s ridiculous: to. quibble:

 
 

44 ANCE °URQUHARLTS LOVES.

 

 

about my choice of-expressions. ‘Now, would you behappy,
when we're in India again, to think of Lance as the toy
and tool of some woman who will either marry him solel

for his money, ot (more likely still) can’t marry him at all,
because of the obstruction in the shape of an acquiescent

husband. I do want him to fall in love with Belle Denville,
I own it. If she should care'for him, Lance would never
go wrong.”

“¢ And how if she never came to care for him ?”

“That is impossible.’ She couldn’t help herself if she
saw much of him.”

“Well, take care, dear. Better let a man manage his
marriage for himself. If you make a mistake about it you’ll
get ill-will from both. parties. Fate, so far, has been favor-
able to your wishes. ‘The other day you ‘only asked that he
might see Belle Denville; and now he has seen her, let fate
do the rest." Don’t you be the one to propose: her.coming
to stay at his house.”

**T’ll not, propose it,” she said; but she regretted having
given the promise when they went in and saw Belle.

Miss Denville asked for no aid from artificial light. . She
could stand the glare of day. Her coloring was due to
nature’s hand alone.. She never looked fluffy and powdery
when you glanced athwart her skin. Her hair was not dead
through dye; hereyes were never bright through  bella-
donna.

This morning she looked particularly pretty, though she
was not arrayed in the delicate daintiness which had dis-
tinguished Ida Vincent the day before. She was in: black
silk, in a dress that was cut without divisions, gathers or
pleats at the waist—a dress that only a graceful woman can
wear with effect, and that is emimently becoming when
worn by such—a dress that is'fatal to the pretensions of
any woman who does not possess the rare gift of entire
ease.

Which gift was unquestionably Belle’s. She was as “‘fine
and faultless a thing,” as far as her movements were con-
cerned, as was that Greek captive’s heart, . which has
broken and burst in every variety of soprano voice, in every
description of dreary room, for any number of years. She
ran out to meet the Cavendishes before they could get into
the room, holding out her pretty hands to them, telling
them she was.so glad'they had come, and asking why Mr.
Urquhart had not come with them, in ringing tones that
were a rare combination of oe and perspicuity.

Mr. Denville came out of his privacy to do honor to his
daughter’s guests; he made himself agreeable to them in an
old-fashioned, courtly, laborious way, that was eminently
fatiguing both to himself and them. He strove to enter-
tain them with matter suited to-what he: supposed to be
their minds, for the sake of pleasing his beautiful Belle, and
his’ strivings were not crowned with success. ‘The’ old
fellow would talk what he supposed to be ‘my shop ? to.
me,” George Cavendish said, afterwards, to Lance; “ and
as he knows nothing about it, we kept on falling flat. Nice
old fellow enough, but one don’t care to see much of
him” % wal

“Now Mr. Denville had ‘made what was an extraordinary
advance for him, to the Cavendishes. He had invited them
to dinner on an early day in the ensuing week, and he had
expressed a hope that as long as Mrs. Cavendish was in the
neighborhood, she would see much of Belle. While he was
giving expression to this wish, Mrs. Brantholme had walked
in, and Mr. Denville had taken advantage of the small ex-
citement caused by her entrance to tender his apologies for
fnty calling him away, and to beat a retreat.

here was a touch more of effusiveness in Belle Den-
ville’s manner of introducing Mrs. Cavendish and Mrs.
Brantholme to one another than was usual with her. | She
wanted these women to like and think well of each other
even as she thought of them. And so, though this desire

did not manifest itself in gush, it did make itself appa-
rent.

“T am delighted that you’ve come just now, Bessie ; it’s
‘the very thing I was wishing, to make Mrs. Cavendish and

 

you known to.each other’; you’ve sheard,_ so,much/about-her
from me, haven’t you?” ’

Bessie Brantholme smiled her sweetest smile. in, assent t
Belle’s. question. { + od By

‘«T am so familiar with you already, through Belle, that
I almost felt as if I ought to have bowed to.you yesterday ;
it seemed absurd to pass you as a stranger,” she said, in her
matchless monotone, to Mrs. Cayendish..

“‘Tt would have seemed. moresabsurd tome if. she had
bowed,” Clare thought ; but she onlysaid, some commoen-
place indicative of her appreciation of ‘Mrs. Brantholme’s
politeness, which common-place did not deceive Mrs. Bran-
tholme for a moment. i

She knew she had made a mistake in. accrediting Mrs,
Cavendish witha belief in other people’s enthusiasm being
as genuine as her own yh

‘*Oficourse I exaggerated,” Mrs. Brantholme thought,
in rather an injured spirit; ‘‘but 1 did it to please, Belle,
and Mrs. Cavendish might have affected to accept it.”

After awhile, the Termagant, Jance’s new, purchase,
Me spoken about, and. Belle was,asked,to join them in #
ride.

‘“Mr. Urquhart is training her. for,me to ride while, I’m
here, if George will let me mount her,’”? Mrs.. Cayendish
said; and when she said it, Bessie Brantholme gave a little
vexed laugh and: shake of the head as she ie ad-boos

‘*Treally envy you, then. , I wanted that mare so, much,
but my husband. would not giye her, to me, and I could
not+—” lt 10 : ;

She stopped abruptly, blushing scarlet as she did go...

She had been on the point of saying, ‘‘and I could not
noel? her from Rowley Vincent. without, making people
talk.’

It occurred to her, fortunately, before the words were:ut-
tered, that it was, on the whole, just as well, not, to, make
them think on the subject, ti tie

Rowley Vincent had taken.the heart disease .with, which
she had infected others, very seriously; but he was nota
man to speak. ; ibneveD acl |

“You couldn’t what, Bessie?” © pay

“Buy her without his,consent,” she replied, quickly, ‘*‘ so
I hoped that she would have gone out of the neighborhood.
Think what I shalk suffer in seeing another woman on: the
horse: I wanted!” she. added, turning ‘merrily towards Mrs.
Cavendish. oo. | atrodd
a Why doesn’t Rowley Vincent: keep her, for, Ida?” Bella
asked, ee

« Because Ida:dare not mount. her,”..Mrs.,Brantholme
replied.» ‘‘Ida Vincent is wise enough. to, know, what she
can do. Hecate’s trained to, perfection, and is to be relied
upon. The Termagant has'certain bad habits, I believe.”

“It?s sheer imbecility, in. my opinion, for a woman to
mount a vicious horse when she knows, him, to be unruly;
but I think the mare’s bad qualities have been a little ex-
aggerated. © Urquhart was trying her this morning, and.she
showed no signs of vice—nor of any remarkable spixit, for

| that matter,’ Captain Cavendish said,, coolly...

‘<Well, I shall ask you to let me join your riding party
when it comes off, Mrs. Cavendish, at any rate.” ,, r
“«It shall come off) directly I get my habit down,” Mrs.
Cavendish replied. tue dita son
“lb not have you showing off upon her, Clare,” her
husband said, laughing. roi 107 Ro
“«But you believe her gentle, Captain Cavendish?” Mra.
Brantholme ‘asked, quietly. »? Evatt
‘TI don’t want my belief shaken through my. wife’s neck
being broken.” pid’
‘Oh, your faith is small, after all, I’m sure. Mrs,,Gaven-
dish, you won’t give up your tide, will you? .|'ye.made. up
my mind to the pang of seeing you on her,” yin
SS } don’t think the pang’ will be, given, you,” Clare.re-
led. ; (Of, mo Dis POON w 1c,
. She was not one of those women who are.always flaunting
the fact of their rendering implicit obedience to their hus-
bands before the world; but she did accord it, nevertheless,

 

 
EANCE URQUHART’S LOVES.

   

15

 

 

in a prompt, bright, unhesitating, flattering manner, that
quiet, tame women are incapable of. ; eo

‘She will be quite a superfluous Iuxury in Mr. Urqu-
hart’s stable, then, unless he marries.”

“‘ Which is not impossible, you know,” Clare replied.

Pretty Mrs. Brantholme glanced inquiringly at the speak-
er, and began to speculate on whether Mrs. Cavendish was
averse to her brother marrying or not.

She had taken the fact of Clare being so entirely for

anted up to this moment; but Mrs. Cavendish spoke as
if his marriage were a very pleasant possibility to her, and
Mrs. Brantholme was puzzled.

“‘She’s either a much better or a much cleverer woman
than I thought her at first,” Bessie said, to herself. »** I
don’t believe she will interfere with Belle. Who could, in
fact?” she thought, fondly looking at the girl.

“There’s a great attraction about your old friend,”
Mrs. Brantholme said to Belle when the Cavendishes went
away.

» © She’s like what I told you, isn’t she, Bessie?”

“‘Yes; she is fascinating, I allow itsand I think I’m
rather noble to do so. I suppose some of the dear people
about here have’ been indoctrinating her with the popular
opinion respecting my unfortunate self. She’s naturally
very genial and most vivacious, and she can’t utterly subdue
her nature ; but she was as little as might be either thing
to me!” Onw

' Bessie Brantholme spoke the latter portion of her sen-
tence bitterly, and Belle felt uncomfortable.

She had wanted them to like one another so very much }
she believed in them both so unfeignedly.

‘I’m sure you’re mistaken, Bessie!” she said, earnestly:

Mrs. Brantholme laughed, and shook her head.

“* Belle, I’m used to it, and I know the manners so well.
She’s quite right, and perfectly justified in doing it. I
should do the same were I in her place!”

te Denville felt: her cheeks flushing as her friend
spoke. i

It was the first:time that Bessie Brantholme had ever al-
luded to the fact, of hernot being precisely in; the odor
of sanctity in the neighborhood. cP :

“<< Don’t I know the manner well?” Mrs. Brantholme re-
sumed, putting her hands up to her temples, and pressing
them as, if. they throbbed, as they doubtless did, at some
recollection—‘‘don’t I know the manner well? I, have
borne it for,ten years! If they only knew. my motives!
That’s the weak cant eryof every sinner, I.know; but I
suffered a good deal before I sought a panacea, which I
have never found!”

_ She spoke with a profound mournfulness; there was none}

of beauty’s boastfulness in her tone.

No one who heard her could doubt but that she had suf-
fered a ‘* good deal;” no one for an instant would haye be-
lieved that she had ‘‘ found a panacea.” wy

“Ts Mr. Brantholme well?” Belle asked, by way of chang-
ing a conversation that could neither be dropped. nor.con-
tinued without awkwardness.

«Yes, thank you. He’s over at Oxburgh to-day, which
is the cause of my calling here. I want you to go back and

spend Che SYeHing with me alone.”
“* Really alone?”
“Really alone. Are you beginning to distrust me?”

“It was only a consideration of dress,” Belle replied,
deprecatingly. ‘‘I’ll come with pleasure. I'll go and tell
apa.” ; ; f: :
ae Has your father heard——” Mrs. Brantholme paused
foramoment, and then went on, hurriedly. ‘‘ At least, he
can’t have heard it. But you may tell him, if you like,
Lord Moy offers my husband a considerable addition to
his stipend if he will go and live at Oxburgh Hall, and be
resident chaplain.”
‘How funny!” Belle said.
Mrs. Brantholme turned

: ; away, and looked out of the
dow.’ t ih \

eeoTalyour tathér) ‘rid ‘retiayl howit suthikeds tisk)” she!

said; Then she went on rapidly: “‘ Yes, come ‘home with
me to-day, Belle. I'll have you while T can!?/"/000 oom

“Won't you receive me at Oxburgh Hall?” ‘Belle ‘asked,
laughing. Wo TL J

“No,” Mrs. Brantholme replied, sharply. ‘‘ The’ da:
Mr. Brantholme takes me to Oxburgh Hall, he cuts'me o
from everyone for whom I care.” ABE

“What do you mean?” E

““Mean? Oh, I mean. that, unless 'I have a house of my
own, I can’t have ‘guésts.’ We'shall be*merély Lord Ox-
burgh’s retainers when we go there.” PY GW WO

“Quite feudal!” : OLABTIB

‘* Extremely so,” Mrs. Brantholme replied. * Yow think
me joking about not asking you, then, Belle; but I’m not,~
T assure you.” 1 AIC

“Oh, you'll get over that feeling. It’s mere nonsensical
pride,” Bella said, carelessly, going out of the room as she
spoke. j | eid ae r

“Tf I do get over it, I shall be as great a tyrant ‘as the
man who drives me to it!’ Bessie Brantholme moaned ‘to
herself as soon'as she was alone. sdasiel tot

Belle obeyed Mrs. Brantholme’s injunction | in: so far-as
she told her father of the promotion which had been offered
to the vicar of Dallas... But she did not stay. to see how Mr.
Denville received. the intelligence. Me wn tin

‘Will you mind my going back to: Dallas with Bessie, to
spend the day, papa? She’s going to be quite alone,” Miss

enville said, opening the study door, and turning her ear,
instead. of her eyes, towards, the aperture. ‘‘ Thank, you,
papa!” she added, when Mr. Denville gaye! a concise assent.
‘She wants me a great deal while they’re at Dallas, for
Lord Oxburgh wishes’ them, to go and hive at the Hall, and
she says she won’t ask anyone when she hasn’t a house of
her,own.??):\) , (

And, as soon as she had uttered, these words, Belle shut
the door, ‘and ran up stairs, thus avoiding the, sight) and
sound of Mr. Denville’s emotion and his words.

The old gentleman tose up trembling, shaking his, head,
and leaning forward with his hands on the table heayily.,

‘«He can’t be such a blackguard,” he muttered, tremu-
lously,... ‘‘ He could never read our beautiful liturgy again
if he contemplated such an iniquity!” Which assertion
would: not have.carried much weight as apiece of special
pleading, had: Mr. Brantholme been aceused of some crime,
and Mr, Denville retained for his defence, eee te ae

Several times during the course of the hours Belle Den-
ville spent with Mrs. Brantholme, the subject of the pro-
jected change of abode was mooted’ by the former and
nipped in, the bud by the latter. i sae eat eno
“What has brought it about?” Belle asked, pertinacious-
ly. ‘I shouldn’t haye suspected Lord Oxburgh of sucha
craving for spiritual succor as the proposition indicates.
What ea brought it about, Bessie?” = aoe
“Tf I were going to be hung, would you expect me to te
you where the hemp was grown, and where the rope-wal
was ‘situated from which my halter sprang?” Mrs. Brant-
holme replied. “‘It has been brought about; that’s suffir
cient.” Then she added, very softly and sorrowfully,
‘« Pietists are always Claiming a wormy origin for our spe-
cies. I suppose they are right. What a wicked, paltry
little planet ours is! Oh, Belle, it’s awful to feel that there
is nothing for me eternally but destruction; and that: ?’m
ede my way to it through awful pain and sorrow

ere! Bit a

 

CHAPTER IX.
LANCE’S RESOLUTION, JP,
Mrs. CavenpisH kept her word, according to her cus-
tom. ‘She had promised her husband that she would not
be the one to propose the introduction of Miss Denville as
a guest to Oakleigh Towers. She had declared her readi-
ness to miake no move, to take no active steps towards’ the

 

| end that’ séenied desirable to her—to let fate, in fact, do its

worst or best, without let or hindrance from her.

 
   

16

LANCH URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

| Still, though she had. kept,.ber, promise to the letter,
Lance ‘became conscious that, his sister would incline kindly
to.a plan that came into, his;head.on the night of that din-
ner at Hunton Rectory, which was foreshadowed in the last
chapter, |

‘< Snowdrop,” he, said to her, as they were going home,
‘shall we assemble: the county, and have a ball at. the
Towers?”

“‘That’s noble, Lance! , Yes—by all means!”

«*Then you shall fix your own time, and have it all your
own way. By the bye, wouldn’t a female coadjutor be de-
sirable?”

“Very, dear Lance. But L willdo the best I can without
one. rs. Rolt isn’t. more offensive than the majority of
bachelors’ housekeepers. I dare say she will suffer me. to
haye an opinion.”

“ Oh, absurd! Why should you be without one? Couldn’t
you ask Miss Denville to come over and stay with you ten
days or a fortnight beforehand?”

o George, wake up!” Mrs. Cavendish cried, prodding
her husband up with her fan... ‘‘ Listen, here’s Lance pro-

ing that I.ask Belle Denville: to come and stay at the

lowers, and I never said.a word—had I, Lance?”

~ “ No*-what about? I’m ready to sacrifice truth on your
altar, Mrs. Cavendish, forthe sake of coming to a decision
about this ball.” Shall it beso?”

« <*Tt shall, Mr. Urquhart,” Clare replied, with much
solemnity. |‘ That shall be, and everything else shall be
that. you like, and that I can help you in, you dear good old
boy!” And she’ kissed her brother rather more rapturously
than the occasion seemed ‘to call for.

“uA rough sketch of the projected ball was soon drawn out.
In addition tothe stringed-instrument band from London,
they counted on the band of the —th Lancers, the regiment
then quartered in their cathedral town.
_ All the officers of the corps had been invited, and, as
they had all- aecepted the invitation, they were certain to
 effer to contribute to the harmony of the entertainment.

On the day that the proposals were sent out, Mrs. Caven-
dish had driven over to Hunton to fetch Belle Denville, and
she had found Belle tear-stained as to the cheeks, and de-
pressed as to the spirits.
~ “'There’s nothing very serious the matter, is there?” Mrs.
Gavendish had asked, anxiously; and she had been answered
shortly by Belle to the effect ‘that “Of course there was
nothing the matter; what should there be?”

,, However, as they were driving back to Oakleigh Towers,
Belle explained.
_..“ Papa and I had something so like a quarrel this ‘morn-
ing, that I’m miserable about it,” she said, abruptly, turn-
ing her face towards the glass, and fidgetting with the
window-strap.

‘What about? Not because you were coming with me,
Thope,” Mrs. Cavendish asked, quickly.

, *No—not at all; good gracious, no! My father has not
taken.’ that .whim into his head yet. It’s about Mrs,
Brantholme.”.

Belle, looked. around at Mrs. Cavendish, and paused for} |

a, reply. Mrs. Cayendish looked at Belle, and made

Presently, the girl went on, with some feeling, ‘‘ For the
five years,that I’ve lived at home she has been unceasingly
kind to me. Sometimes for weeks together she has;been
the only person I have.seen besides my father. My life
would have been wretchedly dull, indeed without her, and
now——” AS ILE

She stopped, restained: by an angry sob, and Mrs.
Cavendish asked, ‘‘ Now what, dear?”

‘* It’s to be all over; our intimacy is to be dropped.”
», But why, Bello?”
. §Why; indeed ?—that’s what.I ask—why ? And I get for
answer, ‘Because it must be so.’ I knew my father could be
stern and unrelenting, when he had been injured, but I
never knew him bitterly unjust before.”

 

‘He must haye good reasons for this interdiction, Belle,
though he won’t give them to you.”

‘« He chooses to be displeased at the Brantholmes leaving
the Dallas vicarage, and going to live at Oxburgh Hall.”

‘* Have they done that, indeed ?”

‘Yes, why not? Lord Oxburgh is patron of the living,
and Mr. Brantholme is his ania If she had Jet her
husband go without her they would have said she was
separated from him): as, it 1s, she’s to be flouted, for
simply doing her duty.”’ ot
b ‘*Tf she does no more, people are very illiberal about

er.” ‘

‘«‘ And my father is as illiberal as the rest ; illiberal is no
word for it. Lord Oxburgh does, admire her, I dare say,
and why shonldn’t he ? I’m sure,the women who abuse her
for haying inspired him have tried hard enough to gain his
approval for, themselves.”

‘For what ?.” '

““Oh, I hardly know what to call it, for fear of making
you think it more than it is—his admiration, or liking, or
attention, or something. .Lord Oxburgh won’t waltz with
anyone else at the assize and hunt balls, and he gaye her
that pony carriage, that’s all; .but people are jealous of
her, and hate;her for it.” ;

‘‘ Your father can’t be jealous of her, Belle,” Mrs.
Cavendish said, decisively. ‘‘I don’t like to be down upon
any woman, least of all on one who is running the, race
weighted by such a husband as she has;, still, it seems tome
that Lord Oxburgh rather oyersteps his privileges as
‘patron,’.even. from your account.” cave Pe (2

“Ah, I saw you didn’t like her,” Belle said, hotly.
“Still, I thought you. would be more generous.” |

‘‘T’m quite willing to allow that it’s more her husband’s
fault than hers.” {off

‘«< And I’m not going to allow that there is any fault in
the matter, as far as she is concerned. I mean to stand by
her through any amount of evil wa oily ro pilot

When Miss Denville said that, Mrs. Cavendish suffered
herself to: be tempted into an injudicious retort. 3

‘You being an unmarried woman, the immolation at
the altar of Mrs. Brantholme’s fame will be generous,
but futile.” one

Then they drew up at the door of Oakleigh Towers,

and Mrs. Cavendish saw, with something like annoyance,
that Belle’s brow was clouded. ‘‘*She has a temper,” Mra.
Cavendish thought. ‘Then she added quickly to herself,
‘After all, what is any woman worth that hasn’t one?”
_ The temporary mistress of the house herself conducted
Belle into the room apportioned to, her. ‘‘There are two
hours and a half before dinner; when you’re dressed, or
tired of being by yourself, come to me if you like. Here
are some books, and tea will be brought to you presently.
It’s no use our boring ourselves to go down stairs yet, because
both George and Lance are out hunting,” Mrs. Cavendish
said, as she was about to leave the room, =

“Thank you,” replied Belle, ‘<I shall be comfortable
enough; but I shall probably come to Ae before long.”

Then they separated, Clare going off to her own dressing-
room, where both Lance and her husband were sure to go
and look for her as soon as they returned. be

She had not been sitting there half an hour before. her
brother came in splashed and tired, apparently. He went
over and seated himself on the couch by her side as she
asked him, ‘‘ What brought him home so soon?” «=

“The whole thing has been made a mess of to-day,” he
answered. ‘‘Oxburgh hunts his hounds badly enough at
all times; but to-day——” ait alse

He did not say what Lord Oxburgh had done to-day; but
from his agitated expression as he leant forward to stir the
fire, and the blaze Heated him, Mrs. Cavendish judged.
that it had been something unpleasant,; —

‘« What did he do to-day, Lance? Why,”—she started up
and leant over him,—‘‘ Lance, you’ve a cut on a cheek!
“Don’t be frightened, dear—it’s nothing. . Yes, I’ve had

 

 
LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES.

  

1?

 

 

a nasty, awkward spill; thanks to Oxburgh’s stupidity in
the first place, and the brutality of a beast of a fellow!”

Then, in answer to Mrs. Cavendish’s rapid current of
questions, Mr. Urquhart told her how Lord Oxburgh had
blundered when the hounds first broke cover, and had
chosen to imagine that the fox had got away in the contrary
direction to that which it had taken.

How his lordship, through a rare combination of natural
inherited stupidity and devotion to Mrs. Brantholme, had
suffered that lady to come to the hunt on a horse that had
no mouth, and had, consequently, carried her along to the
reprehensible point of over-riding the hounds.

And lastly—his tones were bitter—in crossing, or at-
tempting to cross, a hedge that had led on the lawn of the
Woodlands Cottage, the owner of the place had caught at
the bridle of his (Lance Urquhart’s) horse, causing it to
swerve in its leap, land upon its knees, and. pitch its rider
over on to a gravel path,

“When I picked myself up,” Lance continued, ‘‘ the
brute of a fellow had lounged off into the house; and then
he sent out his servant to say he ‘had shouted to us not to
cross his grounds, and that if Mhad broken my neck instead
of only spoiling my beauty, for his part, he’d have been
deucedly glad!’ ”

“ But it wont mark you, Lance ?”

“Never mind if it does, old lady,” replied Lance, taking
a handkerchief from his pocket, and pressing it against his
cheek—a fine, filmy handkerchief, with an embroidered
cipher in the corner.

Mrs. Cavendish’s eyes were upon it in an instant.

“Whose handkerchiet is that, Lance ?” she asked.

“Mrs. Brantholme’s. She came up offering it and her
sympathy to me on the spot.”

“Here, give it to me. I'll get you another,” Mrs.
Cavendish said, holding out her hand for it.

«Thank you—this will do. Shes a lovely woman, and
no mistake ! There’s a suspicion of either foreign extraction
or education about her that’s very taking.”

««There’s a suspicion of something élse about her,” Mrs.
Cavendish said, coldly.

< What?”

“* Well, Lance, does it look well that she, a clergyman’s
wife, should——”

“Oh, there! if you’re going to deliver a moral disquisi-
tion, Pll be off 1” he cried, jumping up.

** Miss Denville is here. Don’t take that handkerchief
with you.” :

Lance hesitated. Mrs. Brantholme’s most bewitching
gaze, its brightness dimmed with sympathy for him and
his possible hurt, was still before him. She had_ bent
towards him ; she had herself, with her own delicate hand,
brushed the grit off his cheek with her filmy handkerchief.

He did not like to deliver up the little tangible proof of.

her tender mercies left to him to his sister,

‘* Come, give it to me, Lance. My maid gets up such
things better than the aborigines. Give it to me.”

He laughed.

“And you are afraid I am going to put it in my cap?”
Ae Fated that you are going to enter discreditable

lists against Lord Oxburgh, aad goodness knows how many
more? What an idea !”

“Take it, and be happy he said, laughing, and throw-
ing it to her as he turned to leave the room. Then Mrs.
Cavendish began to dress herself, and to wish that she had
excluded Mrs. Brantholme from the list of those invited to
the ball.

She desired it more fervently still when her husband re-
turned, and rendered up a fuller account of the details of
the day to her. ‘

When she learnt Lance’s accident had happened at an
early stage of the proceedings, and that after it, until he

”
!

turned his horse’s head homewards, he had never left Mrs.

Brantholme’s side, Clare felt that he was in danger. |
«“And if he takes it into his excessively chivalric head

that she’s aspersed, it will be all over with him,

George, !

 

hate that woman already;” and then Mrs. Cavendish went
on to tell her husband what Belle Denville had suffered and
said about the beautiful ecclesiastical rock on which his
sister feared Lance might split.

“« But if they’re both agreed about her, it seems to me that
matters will be smoother.”

““Now, do you think if Belle falls in love with Lance,
that she’s likely to tolerate any sentimental nonsense, even
with her bosom*friend ? Of course not! I know I wouldn’t!
I can forgive Mrs. Brantholme for. bemg tired of the man
she has married, but I won’t have her interfering with my
brother!”

That evening, when the two ladies left the dining-room,
Mrs. Cavendish narrated the incident of the handkerchief
to Belle Denville.

She told the story skillfully, dwelling a good deal on the
fact of its having been given to Lance, and very slightly on
Lance’s reluctance to give it up.

*“T suppose she thought he would keep it. as a relic, in-
stead of throwing it to his sister to have washed and re-
turned to the fair donor,” Clare said, laughing.

“*T don’t suppose.she thought anything about it,” Belle
replied. . ‘‘ She’d do a kind thing to any man who was in
need of succor despite a jury of matrons. You don’t
know her, and don’t like her. We shall never agree about
Bessie Brantholme.”

It. has been said that the invitations were sent out on the
day of Belle’s advent at Oakleigh Towers. The ball was
fixed for that day three weeks, and Belle was to remain with
Mrs. Cavendish the whole time.

**Tt’s a very dull time of year, but you'll make the best
of things, and try not to is bored with us, won’t you,
Belle?” Mrs. Cayendish said to her guest, when she was
saying good-night to her.

Belle assented affably to this expression of faith in her
powers of endurance, and in a very few days she was re-
wees by finding that they were not by any means severely
taxed, :

Lord Oxburgh hunted his pack three times a week. Mr.
Gresham’s harriers met twice a week; and hitherto, Lance
Urquhart had never failed to appear in the field; but the
second week of Belle Denville’s sojourn in his house, he
grew lax as.to hunting. He kept up appearances by going
to the meet, but he threw them to the winds by very soon
riding home much faster than he went out. The third week
he gave up hunting altogether, and induced Belle to in-
troduce him to the prettiest riding roads in the neighbor-
hood. ‘And on the eve of the ball he told himself that
“this sort of thing could not go on much longer.”

“Pye run up the ladder rather fast, I acknowledge; now
I’m at the top, and there’s nothing for me but to take the
jump,” he said to his sister.

““You can come down the ladder again, if you don’t
want to take this jump,” Mrs. Cayendish replied, quietly.

<‘By Joye! I shouldn’t like coming down, Snowdrop!
What would she think of me?”

“T really don’t know; it depends on how far you’ve gone.
I can only tell you this: Belle Denville would not waste two
thoughts, much less a regret, on a trifler!”

Lance colored. ‘‘That’s all you know about it, Snow-
drop! How the deuce is a girl to know whether a man’s
trifling with her or not? He doesn’t know himself very
often.”

‘Lance, youre incorrigible!
seems to me.”

‘‘And so he does, dear! But it would hardly be the
thing to go and bother her to marry me while she’s my
guest. As soon as she goes home, J’ll show you that I am
not playing fast and loose with Miss Denville.”

Aman ought to know, it

 

CHAPTER X.
THE BURLESQUE GALOP.

Lano# Unquwart had said of himself, in relation to
Relle Denville, that he “had run up to the top of the lad-

 

f

 
   

18

LANCGB URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

der rather fast, and that now nothing remained for him
but to take the jump.” He had unquestionably run up to
the top of the ladder of love-making, even more conspicu-
ously than he himself imagined. There was far too much
caloric about Lance for anything like judicious concealment
of his sentiments. Every servant in the house, every helper
in the stable knew that the young lady who sang ducts with
him all the morning, rode with him till dusk, and learnt
billiards under his auspices till midnight, stood to win the
best match in the county. He was not one of those excep-
tionally exalted creatures who remain frigid until they are
sure they want to propose, and certain a girl wants to ac-
cept them. He had breathed a number of impassioned
words to Miss Denville before he was sure of anything save
that it was uncommonly agreeable to him to be near her. In
short, he was not frigid at all, but quite the reverse, in the
light of day, and before all men. Consequently Belle be-
gan to wish herself at home, or the matter to be settled.

It would be absurd to suppose her indifferent as to the
upshot of it all, She had Aiead him very much from the
moment she came into his house, and saw him as he was
with his sister and. his sister’s children.

He was too full of vitality—of the brilliant effervescence
of health, youth, and success, for anyone to remain indif-
ferent to him. He was too good-natured, too high-spirited
and prolific in plans of passing the time, for any member
of his household not to feel him to be by far the most im-
portant member of it. Additionally, they were both free,
young, thrown very much together; and she was very fair,
and knew that he thought her so. s

The days had rolled along at express speed, it seemed.
Mrs. Cavendish was a good deal taken up with her children
—not pretentiously so, but sufficiently to cast Lance and
Belle very much upon each other for many hours during the
day.

Ritaeitier, the result was unavoidable. Given the same
conditions, and any pair of young people may test the truth
of this extenuating statement. ‘They fell into a habit of in-
timacy, then into a habit of flirting, and finally into a habit
of faneying each moment wasted which they did not spend
together.

eanwhile, the neighborhood reviled Belle, and declared ||

that it was barefaced of her to follow aman up in such a
way, at the same time tempering their denunciations incase
she should win. f

Everyone interested looked forward anxiously to the ball.

It was generally supposed that if “‘he meant anything”’
he would betray his meaning, and set doubt at rest, when
the ball eame off. ‘He can do no less than marry her,
after all this,” was currently said. At the same time,
many of those who said it by no means neglected to put on
their own war-paint towards his conquest.

It was a complete change of custom, of climate, of every-
thing, in fact, for Lance.

He was ardent in all things; he was very much in love
with Belle; he was excited’ at the prospect of receiving all
the magnates of the county; he was very foolish, possibly.

At any rate, it must be confessed that, on the occasion of
the cool and complete possession of his senses being a de-
sirable thing, he lost his head, in a measure. ‘That is to
say, Belle’s manner of accepting a bouquet which he had
had down from London for her so affected him, that he
drank a good deal of wine to re-settle his nerves, and be-
came undecided as to whether or not he had proposed to
Miss Denville, long before the lighting of the first lamps, or
the arrival of the earliest guest.

When Mrs. Cavendish was ready she went round to Belle’s

room and found that young lady still struggling with the}

soft, luxuriant masses of her nut-brown hair. ‘The girl’s
hands had trembled during the whole of the dressing. opera-
tions—so much so, that the maid assigned to her had com-
mented on the trembling, and suggested a remedy in sal
volatile. Whereupon, Belle had banished the too observant

handmaiden on some plausible plea, and had essayed to do
her hair herself, unmarked by other eyes than her own.

 

‘<I suppose you’re ready?” Mrs. Cayendish exclaimed,
hastily coming in. ‘‘ Lance is shouting to me to go and
superintend a fresh arrangement of the plants in the alcoves
on either side of the band. You had better, do it.”

“Clare, I can’t get on,” Belle replied, hurriedly. — ‘‘ Do
what I will, [ look a fright.. Just see the color I am!”

Mrs. Cavendish laughed. ‘* You Jook flushed and ex-
cited, and all the better for it, my dear. Your hair a little
more over your forehead. 'That’s right.”

‘Don’t wait for me,” Belle pleaded. “ll follow you
presently; but if you stay watching me I shall never satisfy
myself.’

‘‘ Very well,” Mrs. Cavendish answered, as she was about
to leave the room.. I rely upon you to see to these
plants.” oe

Then she went out, and Belle Denville was relieved of the
presence of a witness to an agitation of which. she felt pro-
foundly ashamed. At last she was ready, radiant, ravish-
ingly pretty in ells of fleecy white tulle, indirectly subduing
further ells of shining white silk.

There was a difficulty in deciding about where Miss Den-
ville’s drapery ended and the surrounding atmosphere began.
She saw herself, as she gave a long, parting glance, that she
had never looked better than she did this night, and the
conyiction rendered the fact more indisputable.

With Lance’s bouquet in her hand, she went down stairs
at last, and made her way into the ball-room, at the end of
which a couple of alcoves had been made into bowers of
bloom and fragrance. She expected to find aids awaiting
her instructions as to.the redisposition of. the flowers; but
when she came,closer, sho found the alterations effected,
and the bowersempty. No; not empty. Lance Urquhart
came out of one of them to meet her, with a vivid flush on
his, countenance. His gaze fastened eagerly upon. her,
drinking in the rarely set off charms, which had never been
so patent to him before, transfixing her to the spot, making
her heart thump vigorously. Ee

‘Clare sent me here to see about——” she was beginning,
when he stopped her. ie:

““ Altering these flowers. I’ve had it done.
of you to take so much trouble!” Ure oa Niecy

He spoke in a very low tone, getting nearer to her, the
while—almost bending his head to a level with hers, in fact.

His manner, impregnated as.it was_ with. tenderness and
devotion, steeped her in a hazy delirium,.from which she
struggled to escape, remembering that this might be death
to her, and but play to him.

How good

«Then I may as well go back to Clare at once,” she said,

turning away. from his scrutiny. ee:

But before she could take three steps he was by her ‘side,
detaining her by looks that were more patent in their detain-
ing powers than links of iron’ would have been. She was
not quite sure of what he had said, or what she had replied;
but she was morally certain it was quite correct that he had
proposed to her, and she had accepted him. ’ es

When, a minute or two later, those looks fell upon her,
he put his arm ‘round her, and pressed her to his heart—or,
in other words, to his waistcoat.  ..__ en aga

The matter managed itself very quickly., They were en-
gaged, contingent on her father’s consent—of which the
both felt very sure—and were calling each other Belle an
Lance in the space of six or seven mmutés,

“<T oughtn’t to have done it orga but, my darling,
how could I help it?” he whispered to her, whe
finally adjusted; and she could not bring herself to tell him
that she wished he had helped it, feéling sincerely as she
did that it was much better as it was.

“Now, I’m disgusted that there is anyone coming!” he
said, presently. ‘It’s awfully hard that I can’t have you

to myself this evening of all others in, our lives! Besides,”

with a sudden flash of memory, ‘‘ other fellows will be want
ing to spin you about, and I don’t know how I can stand
that.” , pre

Young ladies are apt to be acquiescent in the first mo-
ments of an engagement that promises a brilliant future, at

n it was

 

 
a

LANCH URQUHART’S LOVES. 19

 

 

the same time that it realizes their love’s young dream.
Belle was no exception to the rule.

«* Lance, I won’t waltz at all!”

«With me?”

«* Wouldn’t it be—I mean, wouldn’t people think——”

‘© What? That you are mine, and mine alone? I want
them to know it, and feel it at once, darling! Besides, I
should go frantic if any other fellow put hisarm round your
waist!”

“« Lance, anything—everything you wish!” the girl cried.

And then he drew her head down on his studs, and the
nut-brown hair got dishevelled; and, in fact, there was a
—th millionth representative of the old, old story! He let
her go at last, and she went off to tell Clare, and pinch her-
self by way of testing the reality of the dream of bliss, and he
retired to settle his nerves with draughts of sparkling wine.

By the time both these things were done, a detachment
of visitors arrived; and the first act of the romance of their
lives ended to the sound of the Burlesque Galop, and the
sight of Mr. Urquhart going at a whirling pace around the
room with the beantiful Mrs. Brantholme. Belle witnessed
the spectacle with genuine indifference. It seemed quite in
the order of things to her that Lance should single out her
favorite friend, and do her public honor. But Mrs, Cayen-
dish saw it with an amazement that flushed her fair, honest
brow, and made her angry. ; '

‘‘Did you tell Lance to do that, dear ?” she whispered
to Belle, contriving to get near the Conscientious betrothed,
who had put herself as much out of the reach of temptation
(to dager as she could in a corner.

“To do what?” Belle asked.

*< Dance with that—woman! Of course, he’s bound to do
what you desire him now; but——”

«Tis his own free will leading him to-night!” Belle re-
plied, coldly.

Her heart had never beat more warmly towards the lovely
woman whom the neighborhood maligned, than it did now.

Belle was so happy herself, that she rejoiced in seeing
crumbs from the recently gained staff of her life falling to
the share of the outraged wife and lightly-named woman,
who, whether she sinned or not, undoubtedly suffered.
~ «Then it’s abominable of Lance,” Lance’s sister said, in
a harsh, indignant tone, “‘in the teeth of the people who
don’t even meet her rapturously, to go and single her out,
to the neglect of those whose presence really is an honor.
Pll stop the galop.”

As ws Cavendish said this, Belle’s bright look altered
in expression. ‘The kindly, soft shining light fled from her
half-closed gray eyes, and her black brows levelled them-
selves at the rash invader on the rights and privileges of
Lance Urquhart.

“* It’s impossible that you can mean to do that, Clare,”
she said, coolly. ‘‘What Lance does \now concerns me
more than anyone else, remember; and while that state of
things lasts, no slight shall be offered to Mrs. Brantholme
in this house.”

For a moment, Mrs. Cavendish stared at her friend in
astonishment. Then she laughed, saying, ‘“‘ You’re quite
right, Belle, to take the reins out of my hands. _ I deliver
them up to you gladly. But be warned by my advice, and
don’t drive a willing devotee on to an eager shrine.”

CHAPTER XI.
LOCKED IN.

Lance was not so much to blame in the matter of his
first choice for the evening as his sister imagined him to be,
He had intended to do what was right—to open the ball
with Lady Julia Fane, the eldest daughter of the Earl of
Fife. But as he was recrossing the room, after speaking
to the bandmaster, he met Mrs. Brantholme. She had only
just come in; yet she had seen already that, unless some

owerful male adherents rallied round her at once, she had
etter have remained away. With Mrs. Cavendish, as
hostess, she had exchanged iy bows and icy smiles. Belle
was not visible; and every other woman looked as only

 

 

 

women can look upon one of their own sex who is under a
cloud. The woman with the dark, saintly type of contour,
had beneath her calm the spirit of a lioness; and this spirit
stood her in good stead now. She did not look defiantly at
them. when they were fronting her in this indescribable way.
She did not look triumphant when Lance Urquhart paused
and paid her open homage, remembering that she was the
first friend of his own Belle. She accepted the situation
quietly, but. in her heart she swore that Lance Urquhart
should be caught in none of their toils.

“Lady Fife sha’n’t redeem her diamonds aided by a son-
in-law as accommodating as Lance Urquhart would be!”
she thought, as she saw Lady Fife look aristocratic daggers
towards her. ‘‘I have something to tell you. Make an
opportunity of speaking to me soon,” she added, aloud, as
Lance was about to pass on.

He hesitated. ‘‘The second dance—a quadrille, I be-
lieve ” he was beginning, when she shrugged her should-
ers and stopped him.

“‘T am engaged for that, and the next, and the next.
After which, probably, my husband will take me away.”

«‘Then give me the first,” he said, hurriedly, as the band
commenced; and several other couples starting, they merged
into the circling throng before he remembered that he was
not acting with complete discretion.

But she was Belle’s friend, and an interesting, lovely,
clever creature, worth a dozen of Lady Julia. Marssvet
she danced exquisitely.

Her feet never came off the ground; her breath never
came with gasps; she held herself straight as a dart and firm
as a rock; and, as the crowd increased each moment, she
showed. herself capable of revolving on a space of waxed
board that might haye been covered by a sixpence without
losing the time.

Presently her low, thrilling voice came up over his right
shoulder. ‘‘ Can you hear what I say without my speaking
louder?” she asked.

re Every word of it.”

«That’s well.. No one else must hear me. Do you re-
member the day your horse fell in landing over the hedge
on to the Woodlands lawn?”

“Perfectly.” Then he stopped their revolutions in order
to tell her more impressively that he remembered ‘‘ some-
thing else, too, and that was her kindness.”

She deprecated his acknowledgments with a little half
laugh and shake of the head, and the words, ‘* My kind-
ness! Most people would warn you to shrink from it, Mr.
Urquhart; but Pony dare speak while we dance, and no
one can hear me.”

They were soon at the top of their speed, and then (‘‘ She
certainly manages her breathing wonderfully,” he thought)
she recommenced.

“Do you know the man who baulked your horse, Mr.
Barker?”

‘© No—never saw him.”

“How odd! Iwas close behind you as you rose, and I
saw him start when he noticed the cut. He was disappoint-
ed that you were not more hurt. Of that I’m sure.

Lance did not reply. He could not emulate Mrs, Bran-
tholme’s muffled tone while dancing double time. More-
over, he was trying to telegraph to Belle. She had smiled
at and nodded to him, Sad he egan to wish this galop over.
Mrs. Brantholme resumed, ‘‘ I’m sure of this. ‘ made an
excuse to see him and his wife after that day.”

“*Do let us stand in this corner,” Lance interrupted; and
she agreeing to his parting plea they retired behind a pil-
lar, and she went on with the conversation.

“T spoke of you to this man Barker, and he asked a lot
of questions about you, even whom you were going to
marry.” aoe

Lance looked inquiringly at her, and laughed as she said
this. He was on the brink of telling her about Belle, but
she stopped him by saying: ‘‘ He did not know that I was
amarried woman. Heevidently thought, because I showed
what I felt, I suppose, when you were hurt, that [ was more

 

 
 

   

20

LANCH URQUHARIVS. LOVES.

 

 

deeply interested in you than I—dare to be, and he told me
I was an unhappy woman if I had given my heart to you.
Tell me who is this man.”

She spoke with an energy that made him tremble sympa-
thetically.

“TJ give you my honor, I don’t. know,” he replied gen-
tly. “Take my arm. You.are trembling. Let me get
you some wine.”

““No, no; don’t move. After this, you must keep away
from me, or people will be harder on me than before. I’ve
noticed them eager to give you acaution as to the man’s
animosity; but I will not have you risk anything for me.”

He regarded her communication as nothing but an ex-
aggergted expression of feminine fear. .A bucolic, a coarse,
vulgar fellow, had done a coarse, ruffianly thing; and, after
the manner of women, Mrs. Brantholme, instead of accept-
ing the fact as an, isolated thing, had gone digging and dely-
ing for some hidden cause. But, though he thought this,
he did not like her less for her groundless alarms. They
yan felt for him, and the woman who felt them was so yery
fair.

«“You see, the marks of that affair are nearly worn out,”
he said, pointing to the slight scar which the cut had left
on his cheek.  ‘* Your little handkerchief effected the cure
—or, rather, the hand that held it did.”

“Then Pye done one good thing in the course of my life.
When the roll of my sins and iniquities is read out before
you, you'll bear in mind that I felt a good deal of grief at
your hurt, and a considerable deal of anxiety as to the cause
of it—won’t you?”

“The roll of your sins and iniquities must Be a short
one.”

She shook her head, and gave a little laugh,

“How it may be hereafter, I don’t know; but a great
many sins haye been committed and charged to my account
by fellow creatures, Mr. Urquhart, Well, the galop is over
now, and you must go. If you see Miss Denville, tell her
where I am; at the same time, tell her I know it’s not her
fault we have not met for three weeks.”

*“T’ll do so,” Lance replied; but still he lingered. He
did not go far away, even when Mrs. Brantholme seated
herself and leant back, drawing her cloak around her, which
surely, in the case of a lady who is her own chaperone,
might be taken as a signal for. her cavalier’s departure.

te did not go away—he could not go away and leave her
sitting there alone. Little observant as he, in common
with most men, was of such things, he had noticed that not
a woman in the room had exchanged the usual conventional
greeting with Mrs. Brantholme. It might be—he was
nearly,a stranger to them all yet—that she had never known
many of those who sauntered past and ignored her? But
she must have had, at least, a bowing acquaintance with
others; and none bowed to her now. He Jooked earnestly
at her as he stood leaning against the wall close to her
chair, and longed to tell her, that.if he could enforce honor
and consideration for her, a full meed of both should be
shown. He wanted to make it clear to the mournful-eyed
beauty that all his sympathies were enlisted on her side in
this mute, inglorious warfare that was being waged against
her by her own sex.

But what is the use of being a Bayard against a brick
wall? His partizanship could do her no good. Why did
not Belle, the future mistress of Ashleigh ‘Towers, range
herself up to the side of her old friend? As he asked him-
self this question, he felt almost annoyed with Belle. He
had accredited that young lady with all manner of big-
mindedness in consequence of her having shown a perfect
appreciation of himself, and now he wanted her to come
and display a little of it to Mrs. Brantholme’s benefit. In
reality, he knew that his sister could do much more, tem-
porarily, for the woman whom her sex was snubbing. But
Clare had evidently ranged herself with the oppressors, on
account of that filmy handkerchief. Suddenly, the recol-
lection of the words Mrs. Brantholme had used just now
swept across his mind, She had said that the surly ten-

 

ant of the Woodlands Cottage evidently believed her to be
more deeply interested in Lance than she ‘‘ dared to be,”

There was an ill-concealed dubiousness about the expres-
sion that was delicious to a man with aught but hard feel-
ings. It was not vanity that prompted his next move; it
was simply the irrepressible humanity of the man urging
him to ascertain how he stood in relation to this fair fel-
low-creature of his, whose sympathy had been ungrudgingly
shown on the occasion of his first fall in the county.

“Then I deluded myself,” he exclaimed, putting his
hand on the back of her chair, and dropping his head low
on his chest as he spoke.

“* How?—when?” she asked.

‘¢* How? ’—grossly. ‘When?’—ever since my horse and
I rolled over each Whee on Barker’s lawn, I thought you
were interested in me. What ‘daring’ is required in the
business, I’m at a loss to conceive.”

‘* May you ever remain so,” she replied. ‘‘I should not
be the loser by the exhibition of it—that is all I can tell
you.”

“Who would be then? Tell me!” he asked, eagerly,

“No, no! Go to your duties as host.”

“Not till you tell me what you mean. Mrs. Brantholme,
you spoke of not daring to show an interest in me; but
suffer me to think that you will feel it still.”

She lifted her face and met his eyes, and from. the violet
depths of her own there came a look that made him pity
her for he scarcely knew what.

“And when you hear the lie that I have felt it for others,
what then?” she whispered.

‘“T shall not believe it,” he muttered, earnestly.

She bowed gracefully. ‘Keep your good opinion,” she
said, ‘“‘and go—I insist. upon it. Remember my message
to Miss Denville, if you see her.”

«Very well,” he replied; and then he did manage to get
himself away, recollecting as he went something aes about
Miss Denville besides Mrs. Brantholme’s message to her.

But he was not to gain Miss Denville’s side just yet. The
crowd was increasing every minute, and too many fresh ar-
rivals met him, and were to be welcomed, for him to play
the part of impatient lover with courtesy.. Belle’s claims
were great—were mighty; but even they must stand over,
he acknowledged, until the claims of these new acquaint-
ances, belonging to the order in which he had so recently
been enrolled, were satisfied. Moreover, independent of
this obligation, which his position as host laid upon him,
other difficulties arose and. interrupted his free passage from
Mrs. Brantholme to Miss Denville. Belle had moved from
her corner, The room was very large and very full. Young
ladies in white silk and white tulle surrounded him like
snares and delusions on every side. Previously he had
thought that he could, under any circumstances, have
sworn to a certain graceful turn of the throat.and charming
manner of carrying the head, which were special attributes
of Belle’s; but now a good many throats were gracefully
turned, and he kept on catching bewildering glimpses of
numberless well set-on heads. pe Be

Nearer Abproch proved to him that the turn was,a. trifle
less graceful and the head a touch less bright than Belle’s in
the majority of instances, Still, he lost. time in making
these discoveries, and he found himself close by Mrs, Boe
tholme’s quiet corner again. He looked round the flower-
wreathed pillar, intending just to nod and tell the lovel
occupant of the seat that pillar concealed that his seare
for Miss Denville had been fruitless as yet; but he moved
away hastily, and abstained from making his communica-
tion, on finding the corner no longer quiet, and the lady no
longer alone.

n the one glance he had given he had seen a man stand-
ing by—almost leaning upon—Mrs. Brantholme’s chair, and
had ie, him talking to her with a sort of privileged
audacity that had the effect of stinging Lance Urquhart
almost stranger as he was to the woman who was subjecte
to it. Tis first feeling was one of anger against Lord Ox-
burgh—for it was that nobleman that was sharing Mrs,

 

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LANCH URQUHART’S LOVES. 21

 

 

Brantholme’s solitude—for still further compromising, by
forcing a tete-a-tete upon her, the woman so unfortunately
coy earns already even in the eyes of other than the
rigid.

ee He’s a mean hound to presume on being the patron;
but what the deuce does she allow it for?” asked he of
himself,

The last clause of his sentence was the offspring of the
second feeling he had on the subject, which was of anger
against Mrs. Brantholme. It served women right, he told
himself, as he walked away, if they did lose caste—more
than that, reputation, even—when they conducted them-
selves in such a manner. Semi-isolation in, sequestered
nooks with miscellaneous men! It was the worst social
error a woman could commit. Her brief and apparently
friendly confidential conversation with himself in the same
secluded spot had been a very different thing. That was
all right, of course; but this, with a fellow like Oxburgh—
aman who would lounge against her chair and drawl out
his fulsome compliments in such offensively close proximity
to her pink ear! Mr. Urquhart, at that moment, was dis-
gusted with her. .

-/Meantime the band was clanging out, and the ball going
on brilliantly enough. Mrs. Cavendish had the bright art
of mixing fast and freely with her guests, and of leaving
them so to mingle with each other. Moreover, she was
one who never lacked energetic assistants. Aides-de-camp
capable of carrying out the fair strategist’s views—young
men who, at a look of command, or rather of request, would
dance and devote themselves to those be-doomed ones who
would otherwise have remained rooted to the rout-seats by
the force of their unprepossessing appearance—abounded.

Mrs. Cavendish was quite aware that there is still a
knighthood of courtesy extant in the world, though the
extreme rashness of Sir Gawain remains unparalleled. She
also knew how to appeal to it, and the result of this com-
bined knowledge was that, despite her brother’s sins of
omission, the ball was a success. Even Belle felt it to be
a success, for she had her own fair thoughts of her fair
future to glorify it to her vision. The girl was very happy,
watching tase when he was wandering about the room—
she never mistook the back of his head or the line of his
figure—and exchanging greetings with old friends, whom
she saw but seldom, when Lance disappeared.

- Liking dancing and amusements very heartily, it still
did not seem hard for her to stand aloo » upon a pedestal
of which the luckless herd knew nothing as yeé, from it to-
night,

othing that he had requested her to do would have
seemed hard to her from that moment when Lance Urqu-
hart had held her in his arms, and kissed her, calling her
“his own Belle.” '

The ball was truly a great success to her; it went on to
the musice of the memory of those words.. His own Belle!
Lance Urquhart recollected, with a passionate pang of pleas-
ure, that she was this, as he walked away, reviling Lord
Oxburgh and Mrs. Brantholme in his heart.

The vividly distinct remembrance cannot be said to have
slept from that moment, before the flowery alcove; still, it

awoke with fresh vigor now that another woman. had an-

noyed him. There was most complete and perfect satisfac-
tion in thinking of Belle Denville. She was such a very
jot ce pet, yet no man called her a flirt, or no woman
either, for that matter, which was more extraordinary still.
That sort of haze had arisen in the room which will arise
whenever a mob takes violent exercise, no matter how aris-
tocratic that mob may be. Vapors, the component parts of
which were exhalations from perfumes whose name was
legion, pants of exhaustion, and more people. to breathe it
than air for them to breathe, were clouding over.and ob-
scuring things a little to Lance’s vision. He thought that
he would just go away for a few minutes into the library,
and sit and cool himself, and reflect on what he had done.
- As he passed out of the ball-room, he saw the girl whom
he was going to make his wife at some little distance talk-

 

ing to a group of heated ones, and offering a very sweet
contrast to them.

Most of her notable sister women in the room were, it
must be acknowledged, spotty or shining from over exer-
tion at this juncture. Powder had gone to paste on man
a fair cheek: hair had gone out of crimp and out of curl;
gloves were shady about the finger-tips—altogether, the
bloom was off the rye in the majority of cases.

But Belle had her reward for the total Terpischorean ab-
stinence she had practiced in a Blooming, unrufiled ex-
terior, and her lover’s perfect appreciation of the same.

Coming into the library from the glare of the brightly
lighted ball-room was like taking an ice on a broiling
August day. It was cooling, refreshing, purifying almost,
to look at things by the light of one discreetly turned down
moderator lamp alone. He wished he had got Belle to come
there with him. As it was, he would secure a few minutes’
quiet by locking the door, and thus protecting himself
aguinst invasion from any of those inevitables who are ad-
dicted to straying in couples into any retirement that offers
on occasions of festivity.

The master of the house flung himself down on a couch,
and: laid there quietly for a minute or two, wishing that he
had’ been able to signal to Belle to come with him, and
suddenly, with a startled feeling, wondering when and
where he had seen her before that morning, in his own
house, when she had ridden over to see his sister. The
fresh, fair young face had been a mystically familiar one to
him from the first.

Yet he had no very tender associations with that obscur-
ed memory of which he was so indistinctly reminded. It
was but the ghost of a memory, and it should be laid by
Belle telling him when and how herlife had been passed,
telling him honestly and clearly; ‘‘the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth,” would be easily learnt from the
lips of such-a woman.

As he arrived at this decision, a deep, sobbing sigh float-
ed out of the shade at the extreme end of the room, and fell
upon his ear.

He rose with an impatient exclamation; it was annoying
to find that he had been subjected to supervision—feminine
supervision, too, judging from the sound of the sigh—and
turned up the lamp.

Then the darkness fled, and Mrs. Brantholme’s figure
stood out in good relief against the dark-colored velvet of
the sofa.on which she was crouching.

He knew at once that it was Mrs. Brantholme, though
her profile was concealed from him, being prsecett with
passionate force on the hard, ungenial arm of the couch.
There was no mistaking that slender waist and swelling
bust; he had no doubt as to the owner of that full white
arm, now hanging limply by herside; and no other woman’s
head was poised on her shoulders in a manner at once so
shapely and so regular as the head that was, for some unas-
signed cause, brought so low this night before him.

In a moment he forgot Lord PaPRiite his chagrin of
a few minutes ago, and the rumors which had reached
him asto Mrs. Brantholme’s fatal facility for causing men
to break the delicate line between pity and that to which it
is akin.

He forgot the locked door; the apparent laxity of the
situation; the awful weight of trifles light as air when a
woman’s reputation is in the scale.

He was oblivious to everything save that the woman
before him had been agreeably sympathetic to him, and
was now in some deep distress, into which he might not
inquire, but which surely he could strive to soothe.

o he moved to her side without hesitation, and tried
to raise the beautiful bowed head with a few kind words.

“You are not well, Mrs. Brantholme. May I send
someone to you? Miss Denville shall come!”

“For goodness’ sake, no! I thought you’d have gone
out again without seeing me,” she replied, bringing her
head up from the couch, but still keeping it covered with
her hands,

 
   

22

LANCH URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

‘Then VIl get’ you some sherry; let me do something
for you!”

“Go away, Mr. Urquhart; thatis all you can do for me!
I’m not fit to see Belle Denville, and I would die sooner
than be found in this state by another woman ; for my
tears to be thought tricks, and my sorrow to be sneered at
as a snare!”

Then she dropped her hands, and looked up at him, and
tried a laugh, as she added: ‘I’m not even accredited with
the grace to suffer, you know.”

, Don’t speak in that way about yourself!” he said, de-
precatingly. ‘<I dare not presume to question as to the
cause, but the effect is genuine enough; and I’m so sorry,
for it, do believe me! You do believe me?”

He spoke earnestly, but’ so deferentially, that a far less
shrewd observer even than Bessie’ Brantholme would have
understood the feelings which actuated him, and known
them to be above suspicion.

“‘T do believe it, and I’m grateful! Now I will go—-good-
bye! Don’t come out of this room with me!”

She gave him one quick clasp of the hand in farewell, and
was at the door before he could answer her.

‘* Stop! Let’ me open it; it’s locked!” he exclaimed; but
she was already turning the key the wrong way.

She made way for him as he came up, and he struggled
with the lock for a few moments; then he paused, and gave
a vexed laugh as he looked at her.

“T hardly know what to do. We’ve hampered the lock
between us,” he said.

As he spoke, there came the sound of a merry tumult
in the hall outside the door.

A round dance was just over, and it had been proposed
by Mrs. Cavendish that she, together with a select circle
ot her own, should retire to the library to cool themselves.

“The door’s fastened inside!” the luckless pair in the
room heard Mrs. Cavendish say, as she apparently tried the
handle; and then Lance did the best that was to be done
under the circumstances, and called out: ‘ve hampered
the. lock, Clare; make haste, and have the door broken
open!”

“Under cover of the langh which followed his speech,
Mrs. Brantholme whispered: ‘‘Can’t I get out of the win-
dows?” :

“You'll fall into an old holly tree, if you do.”

“¢For your sake, I would give my life that this hadn’t hap-
pened!” she answered. ‘The holly tree’s nothing; I’ll
risk it”:

‘You shall not!”

She threw off his detaining clasp ; the merriment out-
side increased as the first shock was applied to the door.

She reached the shutters—the door one to give way—
the first window bar was thrown down, the second was in
her hand; in another moment the window hasp was un-
done, the sash thrown up, and—the door gave way !

The laughing crowd burst into the room, and Mrs.
Brantholme’s flight was arrested.

 

CHAPTER, XII.
A GOOD BIT OF ACTING.

A woman foiled is never a very pleasing spectacle. She
is apt to either whimper, and go down under the defeat
supinely, or to fall into fury in a futile way, more especially
when she is thwarted in an attempt to saye another, at the
cost of some pain, trouble, or annoyance to herself.

The womat who turned her head over her shoulder, and
faced that section of the festive throng who fell simul-
taneously into the room when the door was burst open,

ossessed, as has been said, the spirit of a lioness. In all
er life—and her career had been a chequered one—there
had never been such a call made on her courage as at
this moment. She was caught in the act of what appeared

{

to be a shameful flight, from a shameful situation. She
was found guilty irrevocably, she knew inthe mind of each
one present. &

16 was crushed socially, Through every

 

fibre of her frame the truth vibrated thrillingly, that not
one grain of pity, not one atom ‘of faith, was felt for and
in her; that they each and all believed the worst that
could be believed in all sincerity, and that it was as impos-
sible as if she had been the guiltiest of guilty creatures,
for her to explain away appearances and vindicate herself.
But though each one of these stings was sharp, there was
yet another that went home to her heart with a more un-
erring force, and that was the feeling that her weak effort
to evade, her disregard of his entreaty that she would
remain quict, had been the means of putting one who had
been generous and gentle to her in a false position, and of
doing for herself.

She stood poised on the window-sill, her arms raised
above ‘her head in the act (suspended now) of opening the
window; and the line of her cheek and chin, as she looked
round on her invaders (giving them a three-quarters view
of her face) was very fair to see. In an instant she calceu-
lated all the fors and againsts of the case. | She reflected,
and rejoiced in the reflection, that a burning, brilliant blush,
of fright and mortification had burned out all ‘traces of
those disfiguring tears. Her heart beat more freely as she
saw that her hunters paused, in doubt or fear, before at~
tacking, though she was at bay. At any rate, she had
nothing more to lose by any move she might make, and a
bold front shown might perchance impress them all with
the truth that for once she had not been to blame. | So—
they still gaping at her in open-mouthed, moral astq@nish-
ment—she released her hold of the window-sash, ‘brushed
the dust off her slender, firm little fingers, and held her
hand out for the man nearest to her—who happened to be
Lord Fife—to help her down on to the floor.

““T’m not fond of asking conundrums, so I won’t ask you
to guess how I came here, Mrs. Cavendish. I’m much
cleverer at solving mysteries; anyone, therefore, who re-
gards this situation as one, can come to me for an explan-
ation.”

“Thank you; we won’t tax your—ingenuity!” Mrs.
Cavendish replied, passing on quickly to her brother’s side.
“Lance,” she continued, rather excitedly, ‘‘do come back
with me and explain! No—perhaps you’d better not do
that; but dry to set things gomg!”

“All right,” Lance replied, in alow tone. ‘I will, if
you'll behave properly to Mrs. Brantholme. It’s rather too
much that, because ve blundered, she’s to be in a bad
place!”

 

He whispered these last words almost angrily, turning

away from his sister, as soon as he had uttered them,.with
a sert of contemptuous displeasure that was infinitely an-
noying to Mrs. Cavendish. Her quick, high temper rose
at once; and she was about to follow her brother and pro+
test against both his offence and the cause of it, with more
warmth than discretion, when she saw Miss Denville come
hastily into the room and go at once to Mrs. Brantholme’s
side. In the young lady’s wake there came Lord Oxburgh
and his chaplain; and on tlre entrance of this trio, people
began to glance hopefully at each other, in anticipation—
not of a scene, of course—that cannot take place insociety
—but ofa little sensation. For the report of Lance Urqu-
hart’s marriage had already been noised about by Lance
Urquhart’s affectionately premature sister.

«That girl will never be so foolish as to make a fuss
about it, I should think,” one dowager whispered: to: her
daughter. i tous

Or to put wp with it, 7 should think!” that fair’ girl
replied. “* But I dare say she will forgive, and see things
in a oe, light.”

** For my part, ’'dinever take a man’s hand without his
heart!” Lady Julia Fane muttered to a young cousin who
was the recipient of her old dresses and current grievances,
and who in return for these bounties smiled with her cheeks
at the gentle Julia’s snarls. hiss

«© But then you re different!” the meek heiress replied.

And she was right. Belle Denville was very different to
the daughter of a hundred earls. Lady Julia had abund-

a

 

 

 
ae

>
ineeceneaeane

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES. -

a
Qs.

 

 

ance of bone and muscle, but few other signs of breeding
about her. It was improbable that she would ever be led
into temptation by the offer of Lance Urquhart’s hand on
any terms.

“Tt will be disgusting,” Lady Julia resumed, ‘‘if Miss
Denville gives herself airs. But she may; one is never safe
with ill-bred people.”

“Never!” the cousin echoed, feelingly, wondering the
while whether the reflection was induced by conscience or
not. The noble young lady who had just spoken had a
habit of dispensing snubs and rebuffs to the full as freel
as. she did her bounties. ‘‘ Was it only ill-bred people wit
whom one is never safe?” the cousin caught herself asking
her own soul. ,

Meanwhile, Belle, perfectly unconscious that they were
reviling her for what she was doing, or gen be doing, or
going to do, or to leave undone, was talking eagerly to

rs. Brantholme. Her hands were on that lady’s arms,
clasping them firmly, and energetically enforcing some
argument by means of little shakes,

“You're not angry, Belle ?” Lance had whispered, as
she came up ; and the look of surprise she gave him in
return had been the most satisfactory reply she could have

iven. With Belle on their side, they could tide Mrs.
rantholme safely over this social swell, he felt persuaded.

*<Poor Bessie! To think of jumping out of the window
because ‘they might talk!’ [’'d be locked into a room for
a fortnight with a man before I would prick myself all over
in a holly-bush. Zet them talk! Stop a moment,
though !” the girl continued, looking round at the com-
pany. ‘Tve thought of a capital proof—a regular ordeal,
that will convince everybody, and be as good as a Christmas
game ! Mr. Urquhart, fai tell Clara how you happened to
be so awkward about the door, and Mrs. Brantholme shall
tell’me, and T’ll write it down and read it out when Clara
has given out your report—shall we ?”

“By all means!” the whole
the meed of faith amongst them was not great, Mrs.
Brantholme’s discomfiture (to say nothing of Mr. Urqu-
hart’s and Belle’s) was regarded as a very safe thing.

‘Even Clara whispered, ‘‘ Better not, Belle—better let it
pass as a joke, dear.”

But Belle had no fear of a flaw being found in the
loyalty of either her lover or her friend, and she would not
let it pass.

“*T did not know we were to have private theatricals, Mr.
Urquhart,” one of his guests said, somewhat grimly.

“«< By Jove, Snowdrop, let us vow it’s a charade on a new
plan—the unpremeditated,” Lance whispered to his sister.

‘People are not such fools as you fancy them, Lance.
Belle’s is the finest idea. Now, give me your explana-
tion.”

“TI can only say I came in here, and made a fool of my-
self.”

“¢ That’s sketchy; how did you do it?”

_ First, I locked the door; then I tried to make a wo-

‘man. leave off crying. For goodness sake, let me go, Clare;
y ? 8 >

they’re playing that waltz! Pll swear to anything Mrs.
Brantholme says! Lady Julia, may I have the pleasure?’

** This waltz? Ishall be very happy,” she replied, with
her sex’s aptitude for taking the goods the gods give. Then,
as there had been no official announcement of Lance’s pro-
posal to Belle made as yet, Lady Julia felt that it would be
quite according to the dictates of Christianity and good
breeding to let fly a bolt at that young lady. ty

‘* Miss Denville’s plan was romantic, wasn’t it?”

«Yes, Which step do you do?”

<«*T don’t care. fe romantic and school-girlish. Now,
Mr. Urquhart, it is very unfair of you to laugh at a piece
of silliness that was designed to touch you!”

Vm not ——- nee replied, earnestly. And, to
do him justice, he was not laughing. On the contrary, he
was scowling rather pre atthe tone of derision adopted
by this gaunt girl about Belle.

arty chorussed. And, as

 

«<The rush to the arms of the bosom friend, and then
the very practical plan proposed—wasn’t it all pretty?”

““T quite agree with you; the plan was practical, and it
was all a very pretty bit of acting! You didn’t know that
it wasa charade? It was, I assure you; and the first part
went off so splendidly, and created such a marvellous effect,
that I’m annoyed we can’t have the other two acts!”

“Really?” Lady Julia looked at him dubiously as she
asked. it. She had a great notion that she was being mocked.
But he spoke very seriously.

“* Really, yes!” he answered recklessly, feeling that, once
fully confided to his present partner, the statement would
grow. ‘‘ It’s the way we get. up charades” (he paused for a
moment to consider what place she was likely to know least
of) ‘‘in Timbuctoo. They’re not announced, and they’re,
apparently, unpremeditated; and so, when a good bit of
dramatic effect is produced, the pleasure to those not in the
secret is increased by their fancying ‘that something’s
wrong,’—as you all did to-night, by the way,” he continzfed,
carelessly.

_ “No, indeed, Mr. Urquhart.
your wnapremeditated charade?”

“<Tt’s only apparently that, as I told you. To do them
thoroughly, as we did the first part to-night,” he said, with
a laugh, ‘‘they take an immense amount of forethought
and discretion.” j

“« Hspecially the latter, I can believe,” she said, drily.-

«< Especially the latter,” he replied in an. off-hand. way
that began to puzzle her. ‘‘A fellow was. coming down
from town to-night with properties and some capital words
by one of our best comic writers for the second and third
acts; but he has disappointed me, so the whole thing falls
to the ground.” 1]

‘* Perhaps he is still in Timbuctoo,” she said, gravely, as
she seated herself beside her mother. \

And Lance said, “‘ Very likely.”

It was not at all an heroic measure to take. In plain
words, Lancelot Urquhart was reduced to the dire necessity
of telling stories that did not gain complete credence. But
the cause was a good one, he said to himself and his unwill-
ing coadjutors, Mrs. Cavendish and Belle, who, after the
manner of their sex, inclined rather to laborious explana-
tions, involving many words. However, they were com-
pelled to follow in his lead, and he led with a lightness and
ease that was rather startling to the girl ‘to whom he had
so recently plighted his faith. ‘Nevertheless, the charade
illusion was favored by Miss Denville, who gained little by
her attention to the dictates of expediency, save sneers from
those of her fellow-creatures who had gathered themselves
together for a coup that night.

ut, for the present, the garbled statement of the case,
which rapidly winged its way through the ranks of ‘the
oe was received in just so far that it was not openly re-
uted. Lance Urquhart knew very well that there would
be a to-morrow for him, when it would shrivel up and be
worthless. The husband of the unlucky lady, who cir-
cumstances had so sorely compromised this night, had the
reputation of turning all things adroitly to his own service.
Lance’s brow grew damp as he remembered the expression
on the faces of Lord Oxburgh and his chaplain when the two
men came tog2ther into the library with Belle Denville.

‘* We'll have a word about this pleasing occurrence when
you’re at liberty,’? Mr. Brantholme had muttered to him.

“Supposing, after all, that it should be impossible to
avert a scandal, what reparation could hemake to—Belle?”
he was going to say, when he stopped, reflecting that repa-
ration would be due to another than Belle in this case.
** And she was so plucky through it all,” he said to himself,
admiringly; and still ‘‘she” to whom he referred, was not
Belle Denville.

But why don’t you. finish

 

CHAPTER XIII.
AFTER THE BALL. ction bes
THE excitement was over; the last guests gone; the lights
were very low; and so was Lance. ere had been somes

 
   

24

LANOB URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

thing ominous, he ‘thought, in the refusal he had heard Mr.
Brantholme give to‘acecompany his wife home im her little
brougham. lg Ong
«Pm going with Lord Oxburgh, if I go at. all,” the vicar
of Dallas had said, with a sort of sad sternness that had
been most touching to such of the bystanders as did not)
know him.
: By way of reply, Mrs. Brantholme had shrugged her
shoulders, and aa ** Perhaps it would be better to do so,”
in careless tones. Evidently the lady was not disposed to
go down and deprecate marital wrath—which didn’t exist.
But Lanee had not liked such signs of a split being given.

He could not go and implore the lady not to be belligerent,

for her own sake and his. He alone knew how innocent she
was, and she alone knew how guileless he was in the matter.
While she chose to take her stand on such knowledge, and
scorn all diplomacy, he could not urge her to take up a less
defiant position.

Nevertheless, he was greatly disgusted with her, for not
doing so. Their domestic relations were not clearly under-
stood by Lance Urquhart. He thought that afew words, bear-
ing, as they would, the impress of truth, would range the
husband with, instead of against them. It appeared to him
to be the most idiotic exhibition of feminine pride he had
ever witnessed, which kept her from saying those words.

Consequently, when all were gone, and things fell flat,
as they do during those few minutes between the entertained
leaving and the entertainers getting away to their well-
deserved rest, Mr. Urquhart was much disposed ‘to resent
everything that anyone suggested. He asserted that ‘* Mrs.
Brantholme was a little fool for trying to get ottt of the
window;” and when Clare agreed with him, he said that
‘it was just like women’s spite to say so. And if you hadn’t
all. talked at once, as. you did, I could have put things
straight in a minute without making an ass of myself,
Snowdrop; but with a lot of women out-screaming one: an-
other, what is a man todo?”

“You didn’t do badly, Lance,” Belle said, good-temper-
edly; ‘‘ you told stories to the rest, but the truth to me, so
I itescites you. After all, it was nothing.”

“‘Oh, is it nothing? I hope it may prove so,” Lance re-
plied, with a short laugh. ‘I’m much mistaken if that
fellow lets it drop.”

** Pooh!” Mrs. Cavendish said, contemptuously. ** Why,
he'd be obliged to let anything drop!”

“<< Now you’re speaking of things you don’t understand,
Snowdrop,” her husband interposed, quietly.‘ Lanee and
I will ride ‘over to Oxburgh Hall to-morrow, and offer an
apology to Mr. Brantholme for the awkwardness having
happened here, and through Lance’s agency.”

“«Tance will do nothing of the kind,” that gentleman re-
plied, emphatically; ‘it’s a mere trifle, and it had: better
be let drop.”

“And we had better go to bed,” Mrs, Cavendish said,
holding out her hand to him.  ‘f Come, Lance, ’// go over
to-morrow, and call upon Mrs. Brantholme after I have
taken Belle home.”

““Why on earth must Belle go home to-morrow?” he
asked, taking both her hands in his.

«* Because it is the custom of the country,” the girl an-
swered, laughing. ‘‘ Don’t look cross, Lance; it’s so close,
you can come over half a dozen times a day, #f you like.”
With which pleasant prospect of a profitable investment of
his time, they parted.

Mrs. Cavendish’s last words to Belle that night were :
“¢ Now, I shall be obliged, for the sake of stifling report, to
be very civil to that odious woman for atime. She isan
- odious woman, Belle—don’t contradict me. It was all wn-

designed on poor Lance’s part; but she’s not the sort of per-
son to be caught in a trap against her will.” . ‘

‘“She has never deceived me yet.”

‘« Has a man ever come between you before? Oh, you child,
if that woman cared for Lance, she’d crush you without
hésitation.. Don’t help to throw dust in his eyes; but let
him see her as she is,” yh

 

A capital suggestion, if only it could have been carried
out. «Like many another equally good one, its value was
decreased by the utterimpracticability of acting wponit. To
see Mrs. Brantholme “as she was” had not been given to a
single son of man as yet; there was invariably something
behind that which she showed to them of which their
‘* philosophy had never dreamt.”

The suite of rooms in Oxburgh Hall which was devoted
tothe use of the Brantholmes: were at the extreme end of
the mansion from the ones occupied: by Lord Oxburgh him-
self. Mrs.: Brantholme, so far as outward appearances
went, had small cause to complain of the ‘* feudal system’
which lodged her in such a ‘way... They were splendid
rooms, and they were sumptuously furnished. But they
were ag sacred to herself as if she paid rent and taxes for
them—as sacred as if she had been the nominal mistress of
the mansion in which they were situated—as entirely sacred
as if the then occupant had been a woman’ Lord Oxburgh
respected—which she was not; she was only a woman. of
whom Lord Oxburgh was rather afraid, and with whom he
was more than rather in love. :

She waited for her husband’s arrival, this night after, her
return from the ball at Oakleigh Towers, in, perhaps, the
most perfectly pleasant room of all—her own dregsing-
room. '
Lord Oxburgh had loosed the check-string both of his
purse and his taste as regarded the getting-up of this femi-
nine holiest of holies. There was almost a touch of genius
in its composition, He had not gone to work in a common-
place, extravagant manner. The room might have been
the sanctum of Titian’s mistress, rich as it was in mirrors,
the frames of which were supported by ruby-colored dra-
gons, and in a toilet service of spiral-lined glass.

She had sent her maid away after taking off her dress
and wreath, and now she sat before the fire in a violet vel-
vet chair, the back of which rose shield-shape above her
head—sat and listened for the sound of the wheels that
should signal the return of her husband.

As she sat there she thought of the signs that had been
shown to-night of the estimation in which she was held. It
had been growing for some time, but to-night it had cul-
minated. ~ She had been passed with those cool, hard
stares, which the law of self-preservation teaches women to
give—she had been let down clearly and unmistakably from
het position among the safe and secure—she had been
black-balled by the club that can crush any woman socially,
the ladies of her own locality; and she knew that this result
had been brought about by the man whom she had loved
and married ten ‘years ago. ee

She turned each incident of the evening over in her mind
ag she sat there waiting, and was alternately counsel for the
prosecution and the defence. Of course, they had cast
their stones at her. It was only wise and well in them'‘to
do 86; for; had they not, others might have looked for their
sin, and found it possibly. The law of self-preservation’
influenced them righteously enough. ‘The quick, clever
woman, who smarted under it, had no iret, aggrieved
feeling about the manner in which it-had urged them to
act. ‘They were right; but she was’ not so wrong as’ they
imagined. If she only got help from the quarter whence
she had a right to expect it, her future might even yet
erase the hate that hung over her past.

She was so deeply plunged in thought, that she did not
hear the wheels when they rolled up the avenue at last,
and her husband’s knock at her door took her by surprise.

‘* Are you not gone to bed, Bessie?” he asked, impatient-
ly; when she answered, ‘‘ Come in.”

“Gone to bed? No, of course not! I want to speak to
you,”*she said, as he came into the room. ‘“‘ Arthur,” she

jadded, putting her hand over her shoulder, and touching
his arm gently as he leant on her chair, “I’ve suffered
a good deal to-night. I couldn’t rest without a few kind
words from you!” ae rte!

' “Tt is altogether. unfortunate and annoying,” he an-)
“T know all) about. it, of course; but

swered, testily,

ea aaa eroea

 

 

 
 

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES. 25

 

 

Oxburgh is as ill-tempered as the father of evil. Go to bed
now, old girl. I’m going to try and bring him round by
losing a few games to him.”

She moved the hand she ‘had placed on his arm away,
and clasped it with her other over her knees.

<¢ Arthur, how can you bear it—how can you bear to tell
me of it?”

«How can I bear what?” : :

‘‘ His being ill-tempered to you about me—his daring to
question my actions,”

Mr. Brantholme gave an impatient exclamation. ‘‘It’s
late in the day to take that tone, Bessie. He thinks you’re
flirting with that fellow, Urquhart, and he’s furious.”

She wrung her hands, and flung her head back against the
chair, breathing in an eager, short way, that proved her
earnestness. ‘‘ How can you bear it, Arthur? Don’t, don’t!
Give it all up, and take me away! Do, for Heayen’s sake,
and I belive my love for you will come back! Do show me
that I was not a mad fool, ten years ago, when I staked my
happiness on you! I’ve hoped for something to rouse you!
Arthur, if you’re in your senses, this must!” :

“‘T tell you it’s too late in the deri he replied, moodily.

«*T tell you it is not; and no one knows that it is not bet-
ter than you do! No one knows it better—save, perhaps,
the idiot who has overshot his mark in daring. to claim me
more as his than yours to-night! How can you bear it,
knowing that what I say is true, and that, weak as I have
been in obeying you against my own heart and judgment,
Pm not worthless?”

She had risen while speaking, and now she clasped her
arms over his shoulders, and forced him to look at her. But
his eyes wavered and fell before her gaze.

*‘You don’t care for me still, do you, Bessie?” he said, at;
last.

“Care for you? Not in the way I did when you married
me, and I believed in you as thoroughly as ever a woman be-
lieved in a man; but r care enough for you to be willing
to do anything that may encourage you to turn against the
man who is trying to crush the manhood out of you. How
oan you eat his bread? How can you——”

ee ee you'll let me speak?” he interposed.

_ “No; hear me first, for both our sakes; you might say
something that would cut me so that I couldn’t answer it;
and I’m pleading for more than our lives. Now, Arthur,

leave this man’s roof! Leave the Church! You are ham-

pered and, degraded by public professions up to which you
do not even aye to act! We haye enough to live upon.
We can’t renow the old illusions. It is safer that we
shouldn’t try; but let us live so that we can look each other
in the face.” ;

A knock at the door interrupted her in her appeal. It

-was a servant with ‘‘ Lord Oxburgh’s compliments to Mr.
Brantholme, and he was waiting for him in the billiard-
room.”
“ “Don’t go, Arthur!” she pleaded, vehemently. “Do
not go! If you leave me now, and sneak down to that man,
what can I think and feel about you?, If you ever loved
me, help me, and help yourself. tM be the most devoted
wife, the trustiest comrade to you, if only you'll show that
you are not indifferent as to whether I go to perdition or
BO 1h.f

She clung about him affectionately; for the first time for
yoars she pressed her lips against his, and he, warmed back
to something resembling the old love, returned her caress.
But still he said, ‘‘ It’s too late, old girl, to talk of giving
up, and leaving this man’s roof, and other high-flown
pone IT owe him more money than I can ever repay

im.

_ **There’s your private income; make it over to him.
Arthur, sacrifice anything, everything, but me!”
_ That’s gone already, over and over again! Now, be
sensible, Bessie. You’re upset to-night, or you’d never
have broken out in this way. You did deserve a better
fellow for a husband, but you must make the best of me

¥
“now. If I took you from here it would probably go harder

 

with you than if you'stay. At any rate you must smooth
Oxburgh over for the time, and—and—let me go now.”

Hey hanids dropped from his shoulders, and hung clenched
by her sides.

‘‘ Have you lest every particle of human feeling? Do
you really think of paying your debts with your wife?”

“‘You’re excited. Go to bed now.”

<‘Excited? Not that; but mad, I think. Arthur, am I
mad or are you? Have you forgotten how I used to love
you? Do you remember how I used to kiss your hands,
and tell you ’d do anything you wished? And now you
wish this!”

““Can’t you go on humbugging him?”

All the blood ebbed away from her features as he spoke,
leaving them of achalky whiteness that was worse than
death, inasmuch as they were so defaced by passion.

“*T wish you had died before you had said that. You’re

leaving me nothing—refusing me all help, when I wanted
to do better than I shall!”

 

CHAPTER: XIV.
WEAVING THE SPELL

Lorp OxpureH had had some experience of recalci-
trant wives. He was a man of fifty now, and some thirty
years before the opening of this story he had laid himself
and his baronial honors at the feet of his tutor’s daughter.
In accordance with the rules of the everlasting game of
cross-purposes, she had already exchanged hideous carica-
tures, vows of affection, and locks of well-oiled hair with
another pupil of her father’s; but he was prospectless and
penniless, and she was a discreet damsel, wise in her gen-
eration, with the wisdom of one who has lived for long
upon little. So she retracted the vow and returned.the
oily lock, and left her lover lamenting, when Lord Ox-
burgh proposed to her; and directly that gentleman at-
tained his majority she took him in holy matrimony with
a promptitude worthy of her ten years’ seniority.

He was but a boy then, and not a bad boy upon the
whole; and he was cut to the heart when he discovered
how she had subtracted from her age, and’ added to her
charms by purchase, for his subjugation. In the days of
his infatuation he had admired the desperate determina-
tion with which she maintained her maiden dignity. ‘Vain-
ly had he sought to imprint a salute on her rounded cheek
—never had he been permitted to toy with the tresses of
her luxuriant hair. He learnt the reason why, with fell
precipitancy, when she had made him her own. For
then, without fear, she took out the plumpers and romoy-
ed the tresses, and suffered him to see her as she was, a
toothless, wizened, half-bald woman, who had studied boy-
nature for any number of years, for the purpose of gaining
this end—towards which he was but’a humble instru-
ment. ; By

Lady Oxburgh had led him a terrible life while she last-
ed; but, fortunately, she had not lasted very long. She
was raspingly jealous, which little failing prevented her
getting on well,with such of the women of her husband’s
order as showed themselves willing to accept her as one of
themselves. She was nervously anxious that he should
never exceed his income, which quality, in the wife ofa
man who did invariably exceed’ it, was intensely oe
able, to say the least of it. As time went on, and told on
her, she took up the graceful habit of hurling the never to
be sufficently bepraised merits and sufferings of the lover
she had left, at the husband she had taken. She sighed
almost without intermission for a son—and a son was not

iven unto her. At last, Lord Oxburgh’s daily prayer’ to
e delivered from this special evil was granted, and she
died. He put her into a fine mausoleum, and so the ro-
mance of his boyhood ended not unpleasantly after all.

But he recalled a bit of it—some of his disregarded re-.

uests, and the open disobedience to most of his commands,
the yr after the ball, when Mr. Brantholme came to him
and told him, reluctantly, that Bessie had goné out for a

 
  

26

 

LANCH URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

drive, instead of waiting into see his lordship, as he (Mr.
Brantholme) had suggested her to do. ‘‘ It isn’t. my fault
—1] told her to wait!” Mr.. Brantholme added, almost mo-
rosely, and Lord Oxburgh graciously permitted it to ap-
pear that he believed it was not Mr. Brantholme’s fault,
but entirely due to the lady.

“Tired as she must be, she needn’t have gone out to
avoid me; she had no occasion to be afraid that I should
force m sone ny her presence,” he said, peevishly.

And Mr. rantholme’s face flushed alittle as he replied,
“«) don’t think she is afraid of that yet; but she’s complete-
ly knocked up—didn’t get any rest last night, I fancy!”

“Did she wait up for you?” Lord Oxburgh asked eagerly.
He hated to hear of any such mark of attention being shown
to‘his friend by his friend’s wife. Yet he could not help ques-
tioning on the subject with a sort of snarling sarcasm, ‘‘ Did
she wait up to assure the lord and master, the stern spouse,
that it really was nothing, that little scene at Urquhart’s
last night?” f

‘There was a scene of which you know nothing, last
night, that I’d give a good deal to forget.”

“Take some brandy,” Lord Oxburgh said, contemptu-
ously rising and sauntering to the door of the room in which

. they had‘been sitting. ‘‘I’m going for a ride—perhaps I
may be happy enough to meet, Mrs. Brantholme. By the
way, if you should chance to see her first, old fellow, don’t
tell her Mrs. Cavendish has called! Blow all the women—
we'll take the initiative, and cut them.”

“<Very well!” Mr. Brantholme replied, ‘‘ sooner or later,
it’s all the same.” ;

‘‘ Exactly—with a difference: it’s better to drop than to be
dropped. . Your ill luck last night is affecting your temper
still, Brantholme; you’d better take some brandy.” And

Mr. Brantholme took his host’s advice, and so gradually

forgot everything, saye that he had eyery element of bodily
comfort around him, which state of things would last while
he—— But it was better not to attempt to define too clearly
the conditions of their lasting. It should last; that was
enough,

Meantime, Mrs. Brantholme had driven out many miles
from home, urged on by the same sensations which beset
the psalmist when he wished that he had wings like a dove.
She was feeling utterly worn out, both in body and mind,
for she had not gone to bed at all the. previous night, but
had gat up before the burnt-out fire in the dressing-room
till her maid came to call her in the morning; forming little
plans one minute, and feeling forcibly the futility of them
the next; suffering in rapid succession paroxysms of rage,
shame, remorse and revenge; coming to. no decision; and,
finally, when the .morning, broke, rising up with. that
weariest, most hopeless of all plaints on her lips, ‘‘ And now
we're tired—my heart.and myself!”

For years and years the wretched woman had avoided
coming to an explanation with the man she had married.
She had lived on, feeling miserable enough at times, reck-
less enough at others, but. never entirely despairing, She
had: borne much wrong with a proud, uncomplaining pa-
tience, nursing tenderly the hope she had, that av encaty
something would sting him back to a sense of his duty
towards her, eyen if he never loved her again. Apparently,
she had gone her own way as indifferently as he had gone
his. What other course was open when, since she was not
made of the materials to lie down and die, or sit and weep
and whine—what course was open to the neglected wife of
the avowedly careless husband?

She had risked destruction more than once, for the sake

of distraction; she had poised herself on the brink of a good
many precipices ready to go hack and repent herself of the
foolhardiness at 2 word from him: and she had so gone back
_ and repented, thongh the word had never been spoken.

She had gone on loving him for'such a long, heartrending
time, after he had not only left off loving her, but even left

off affecting to do so. He had shown his worst side to her,

let her into the secret of his mean motives and low designs
very freely, never caring for the loathing they created in

 

her; and she had -stood it all, believing that. it was_his re-_

liance on her that made him rash, and hoping that, when
the time came for her to appeal to him, that he would: re-
spond to that appeal, and seem to care tosaye her,

CHAPTER XV.

Mrs. BrantHormeE felt her endeavor vain. She appealed,
and her husband turned aside, leaving her in less doubt as
to his motives, and more helpless than ever. She had asked
him if he were going to pay his debts with his wife, and he
had not said ‘‘No.” It was all over now. From the scorn
of the world she had turned to her spouse, through whom
the scorn had grown, asking only that he would give her

 

a helping hand, and seem to care whether or not she were

lost or saved; and he had refused the help, and the slight
seeming which shé had craved, and had rudely shown her
that all his coarse care was for himself. She hated him
now; she despised herself for having clasped his cowardly
hand, and pressed his false lips the night before. In her
eyes, he. was the meanest of moral assassins; and if she could
have crushed him out of his life without losing her own, shé

‘would have done it.

Over and oyer again, as she sat before the burnt-out fire,
during those long, miserable hours, she had thought of
whether there was a possibility of going away from ‘him,
and escaping the awful ST of the situation he
had forced her to accept before it. became more irrevocabl
degrading still. But reason told her that every plan whic
suggested itself to her fevered mind was impracticable.
She had no friends, no, relations to whom she could apply
for money, and. money was an essential. She knew that
he would not agree to a judicial separation—that he had
it in-his power to thwart her if she strove to procure one. °

She was helpless and powerless on this ghastly quick-
sand, She groaned.in spirit as the inevitable conviction
smote her that she was not strong enough to struggle out
of it; that she must go down, and. be submerged in the
waters of shame and sin. OES

She was fearful to look upon in her haggard beauty
when the light broke; and the dread of being caught by
her maid roused her to stand up and look at herself in the
glass—in the mirror with its gold and ruby-colored frame of
rare Venetian workmanship; such as'might have gluddened
the eyes of 'Titian’s mistress. eee ae

She was strung up to such a pitch, that it seemed as if
one turn more of the screw and the strained chords would
snap, and the beating, oppressed heart would break, and
she die, and get out of it. ; AR Eee ae

But the turn was not given, and so she lived on.’

She had insisted in driving out alone this day, and her
husband had not dared to contradict her in the matter. ~

‘I must. be alone in the open dir, or I shall lose what
sense I haye left!” she said, m reply to his entreaty that
she would let either James, her boy, or himself ‘aecompany
her. ‘‘I don’t want, you! Why on earth should I’ want
Vou, AtinOE pee 6%, on 93-4 TOM

“You must please yourself,” he had replied. — D

And so she had ‘‘ pleased herself,” in the minor matter,
and had driven ont alone—out away miles into the thinly-
peopled country, through the bright wintry air, =”

radually, as this air asserted its influence over her, she
began-to feel that. there were one or two things left in life,
though her husband was a blackguard, and his patron but
a duplicate of himself. Of course, if she lost her head,
and strove to revenge herself upon. herself, as it were, she
would drift into outer darkness; but if she were only true
to herself asa human being with a will of her own and
a soul to be saved, the evil must end when she willed ‘it
should end. The worst foe she had to struggle against,
after all, was her own defiant recklessness—that feeling of,
since she had. gone down so far, its being of small account
whether she went down yet farther or not, If she could
only battle successfully against that insidious enemy!

If she could only battle successfully ; but how fearfully
small the chances were in favor of her doing so! Public

W

 

 
LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES.

   

ar

 

 

opinion held that she had been: already worsted in a not
very hardly-fought encounter, and she believed that she
could never set public opinion straight. Her husband had
blunted all her matronly weapons of defence against malice,
slander, and lying. Earth showed her a stern front, heaven
seemed shut to her—what hell could be worse than’ the
cold present and the closed future ?

These poor little realms of thought were traversed over
and over again by her as she drovealong. She always came
back to the desperate point from which she started—the
belief, namely, that she could not help herself since no one
else would help her. No matter how loud the call she
made on her own courage and endeavors, she could not
answer it satisfactorily. She, the woman who had been
declared to have the spirit of a lioness, did what the weak-
est of her sex can do—gaye up utterly, and avowed
herself incapable.

Lance Urquhart’s evil genius willed it that he should
meet this woman as she was driving home, declaring her-
self, for the fiftieth time that day, to be hopeless and for-
saken. He wasriding the Termagant, and he pulled up by
the side of the pony-carriage with the intention of telling
Mrs. Brantholme that his sister had been calling at the
Hali, and was disappointed at not finding her (Mrs. Bran-
tholme) at home, But Mrs. Brantholme defeated this in-
tention innocently enough by trying to pat the nose of his
mare, and causing the irascible animal to rear.

“Tt’s the first time she has misconducted herself since
T’ye had her,” he explained, when he got the mare quiet
again, ‘‘Havye you quite recovered the fatigues of last
night?”

As soon as he had asked it, he remembered the peculiar
nature of her fatigues of last night, and he saw that she
blushed painfully, remembering them too.

Quite, thank you! Why should I tell falsehoods to
you, though?” she said, looking up at him, as they went
along at afoot pace. ‘‘I was feeling more weary of my life
when you rode up than ever a woman felt and lived be-
fore.”

Don’t speak in that way, Mrs. Brantholme!”

‘He bent forward to meet her eyes with a deep, honest,
pitying affection in his own that touched her. Fora few mo-
ments she strove to put down the irrepressible wish which

ossessed. her to take this man’s liking, if he would give it.
She knew nothing of his engagement to Belle Denville;
there were no saving considerations connected with the man
whose name she bore to restrain her. _ She was a coquette—
she had been one from her cradle;, and to her natural co-
quetry was now superadded an intense longing for love and
sympathy. Better to be wrecked with one whom she could
love than for one whom she should always loathe. If he
—the former—would only wreck himself with her, she
would go forward on her dishonorable path unflinchingly.

“Do you care for what I think, and say, and feel?” she
asked, sinking her voice so that he had to bend still lower
to hear it. ‘Shall I let you into some of my secrets at the
risk of awakening your contempt—or, what may be more
fatal still to me, your loving pity ?”,

_ He bent forward even more, as her caressing accents fell
upon
ye on the lips of Venus herself, was more rash than this
man, who felt the fullfforce of the forthcoming danger, and
could not string himself up to flee from it.

' “You asked me last night,” she went on, curbing her
pony up sharply. as she spoke, ‘‘why I used a certain ex-
pression about you. Do you remember it?”

_Didhe remember it? He would have given much to
haye forgotten it, and its full, subtle, accursed meaning.
He could only reiterate her last words.

“Remember it?”

“JT see you do. I shrank from explaining it to. you
then, for my own sake and for yours—oh! more for yours,
believe me, even now, when I shrink no longer, because
my unhappiness has mastered me, and I cannot be cau-

tious!” - :

his ear. Not Tannhauser, venturing forth to taste|

 

‘am proud to:have inspired such friendship—such. in-
terest—— ” he was beginning, when:she checked: him.

“* Friendship! interest! It’s more) than that!’ Drown-
ing wretches don’t feel friendship and interest merely for
the last’ plank to. which they cling! That’ plank isiall. or
nothing to the drowning person, Mr. Urquhart!?

Oh, Circe, cruel and fair! He knew very well that he
could not be ‘‘all,” but he could not force his tongue to
declare that he-would be nothing to her. Gazing icles
speechless with mixed feelings, into a face that was never
made for the good of her soul, he felt that if Hades had
yawned before him he must still have gazed on. So must
those luckless knights have felt of old who at the Loreley’s
beck and call flung their German phlegm to the winds and
themselves into the Rhine. | 4

Lance Urquhart was not at all phlegmatic, and ‘she was
fair as any Loreley. He knew that it would have been
better for him to put the Termagant at the stiffest hedge,
and break her neck or his own in the endeavor to get away,
than to continue along his present path. But he could
not turn from it; the doing so required an effort which he
believed himself powerless to make. So he rode along by .
Circe’s side for more than an hour. :

 

CHAPTER XVI.
BELLE’S DECISION. ~ sd
Lance Urquuart had gone through the orthodox meet-
ing between sire and suitor very satisfactorily before he
went out for the ride during which he fell into Circe’s
claws. Belle had been taken home, according to the de-
sign of the night before, by Mrs. Cavendish, with much
pomp and ceremony. rain
““Twon’t disturb Mr. Denville now,” the last-named lady
had said, when Belle asked. her tocomein. ‘‘T’ll just go
on and call on Mrs. Brantholme, as I rashly promised to
do last night; and then I’ll come back here, to find all the
preliminaries settled, I hope, dear.” doy Bi
With that she left, and Miss Denville went in, to makea
portion of the matter manifest to her father.
“* We was very glad to see her back,” he said, in an absen
sort of way, ‘‘and he hoped she wouldn’t find it dull.” °
**No; I don’t think I shall, papa,” she replied. © © [09
She had not taken off her hat and jacket yet; and now
she stood with her hands in the pockets of the latter, look-
ing down into his face, with a happy, blushing smile‘on her
own, the like of which he had never seen before. df {lod
It occurred to him, suddenly, she was a lovely, loving
woman, this girl of his, whom he had had about him so
long that he had never indulged in a surmise as to her
TeEGTG, POT 3108 bitde
“What is it, Belle, my child?” i OY
She was half pa on the table now, disarranging ‘his
papers sadly; but he did not notice the fact in the agitation
of this new interest which had dawned upon ‘him.: ) =)
“lm going to marry Lance Urquhart, papa,” she an-
swered, without the shadow of ‘hesitation. ‘‘ He’s coming
over presently to tell you, and I believe I’m the happiest
girl in the world.” aK 0! VOM **
She took her hands out of her pockets as she spoke, and
laced them round her father’s neck, pressing her round,
air cheek against his, and asking, softly, “Are you glad,
my father?” He riod
He was very glad in her gladness, and happy in the pros-
pect of her happiness, and he strove’ to tell her so; but his
tones grew tremulous, and the words would not’ come in
ood order. When he was calm enough to gently remove
er from the table, and smooth out his’ papers, Belle went
on: ‘ ; LOL
“* Papa, I have not said a word to Lance yet about——”
she paused for an instant, turned her head away, and
added, in a very low tone, ‘‘the sorrow of my life and
yours; but it’s only fair thatyhe should know it.” ide
Mr. Denville covered his eyes with one of his hands for a
few minutes, during which period Belle heard her heart

thumping in unison with the loud tic tie of the clock on the

 
 

28 LANCH URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

mantelpiece: The combined sounds through the otherwise
intense silence. made her impatient.

“« My father! did you hear me?” she asked abruptly.

‘‘He must never know it,’ Mr. Denville answered, em-

phatically. .‘‘ Why publish your dishonor and mine to
eat who asks) you to be his wife?”
““Not to every man who asks me to be his wife; but
merely to one man whose wife I mean to be. If it’s such
dishonor, it’s better far he should know it while hecan help
himself, than after our marriage, when he must hear it,
whether: he likes it or not.”
‘You're taking avery flippant tone about a very sad
matter,” Mr. Denville said, angrily. ‘‘If he knows it,
there will be no marriage.”
“‘Very well,” Belle said, reddening painfully. .‘‘I can
bear that, but I can’t marry under false pretences. If Iam
dishonored through what was no fault of mine, father,
the man I marry must know it before he espouses me.”
There had been a piteous, plaintive cadence, almost, , in
her voice as she said, ‘‘If [am dishonored through what
was no fault of mine;’” but she rang out the last words, her
decision, firmly enough.
“He shall never—no man shall ever know it—with my
consent. I have buried the memory of that painful time.
And oh, how I have prayed it might remain undisturbed! I
have forgiven——”
“No, no, you have not!” the girl interrupted, passion-
ately... ‘‘ You have shut your ears to his name; you have
sealed my lips; but I loved him once, and have not hated
and forgotten him, as you ordered me. I loved him once,
and. Lance Urquhart shall know that I did beforé I marry
him! How can you beso hard? You won’t be so hard?”
‘* Ts it not more for your sake than my own, my child? . If
the story were raked up here, where no breath of it ‘has
ever been heard, would the old father, who has nearly
done with life, or the daughter, the best part of whose life
is yet to come, suffer most, do you think? Love him! Idid
not think that you had so much of the spaniel in your na-
ture as to love him still. What reply did he make to your
tender letters? What notice did he take——’
“‘None—I know it. We loved each other once, and no
coldness from him, no taunts from you, can kill that love,
and plant hate in its place. . Forgive me—I know how you
have suffered, father—but you had better know. the. truth
at once. I’ll never marry Lance Urquhart till you let me
tell him all that it isfit my husband should know about my
early life.” | |
o> Then you’ll never marry him at all?’ Mr. Denville re-
plied, firmly. ‘‘ You’re'a child still, Belle—a, headstrong
child; headstrong as on that day when you turned against
your father, and clung to a blackguard.”
| Forgive me,” she said, almost humbly. ‘‘ Dear father,
let'us say no more about it; you had better give Mr. Urqu-
hart some reason for our engagement, being broken off—I
can’t.” 1] } tes
. “There is no occasion for that; you will take a different
view of things—my view—-probably in a few days.”
“ Never!” she said, shaking her head; ‘‘but let it be as
‘you will, papa.” It occurred to her that Mr. Denville
“might take a different. view—her. view—of, things,” in
time. And so-she had not the heart to declare herself de-
termined on Lance’s dismissal.
. But this unforeseen objection which her father had raised
to her reposing that confidence in. Lance Urquhart. which

her sense of honor, taught her was due to him—this paternal
rock, this unexpected hindrance, would necessitate a com-
promising course which was foreign to her taste and judg-
ment. ‘‘It won’t do to let people talk of it as an ‘ engage-
‘ment,’ since.it may come to nothing after all,” she thought,
rather saywiedlys ** and there is a chance of it’s coming to
nothing, for I'll never give in, and papa may be more ob-
stinate than I hope he is. At any rate, I wil hint to Lance
that there had better be no noise about it yet.”

Then her cheeks burnt as she recalled that already—even
already—it had been spoken about with the loquacity of

 

{??

 

affeetionate sympathy by Mrs. Cavendish to a select few at
the ball; and the fear rose that more would be said about it
to Bessie Brantholme to-day, which was like offering thistle-
down. to the winds of heaven. The girl saw the rumor of
her; 5; engegemen? to the great catch, Mr. Urquhart,”
spreading almost tangibly as she stood at the window of her
room watching for Lance to come. ‘‘ And it may all be
smashed. even now,” she thought, almost sobbing with vex-
ation; ‘‘and then a nice idiot I shall look, and all because
of papa’s abominable obstinacy.”

However, she could take no active steps. It has been re-
marked before by diyers chroniclers, that a woman’s part in
life is so far easier than a man’s, that it is, in the majority
of cases, her bounden duty to remain passive, whereas it is
his to ‘‘ take steps” almost invariably, whether he fears to
fall or not. In this case, there was nothing to be done.

Belle had a slight feeling of satisfaction in not. being
called upon to do anything more than be tolerably discreet.
In the fullness of time she might gain her father over to
her yiew of the matter. Until that desirable consumma-
tion was brought about, she was prepared to bear the bur-
den of an engagement without being supported by any of
its attendant glories. That isto say, she was resolved upon
pledging her faith to Lance, and at the same time absoly-
ing him from making any of those outward and visible
signs of subjection to her. sway which are usually exacted
from the declared lover.

She saw Lance arrive, and heard him come into the
house, and then she ran down to say a few words to him be-
fore he said the few far more important ones to her father.

**Tt does look so awfully business-like,” she began, half
laughing,—‘‘ indecent haste I should term it if it were any-
one else’s case !”” .

“‘T was thinking, as I rode over, that there was a touch
of savagery about it that was highly suggestive. The
blushing betrothed. started off to the wigwam of her

eople——” - ;

‘Till it’s fully understood how many scalps you can
offer—or is it skins they buy with, and = they adorn
themselves with ? It’s all the same—you know what I
mean., Well, you'll find my people very acquiescent,
Lance ; but——”

She stammered, and broke down. It was very hard to
hint at an obstacle to what they both believed would be
most perfect felicity—very, very hard te evade his sharp,
ardent questioning as to the peculiar nature of that o
stacle.

“Tf you'll only tell me what you mean! I have no doubt
it is some imbecile trifle that could be easily swept out of
the way in an instant.

“So I think, Lance.”

«Then tell me.”

**T can’t, dear !”

“Why not ? Why make a mountain of a mole-hill ?”

“Why, indeed ?”” the girl sighed. ie bas

“Be reasonable, Belle, my darling. It’s your own doing,
yet you profess to see the folly of it!”

““T dosee the folly, and it isn’t my own doing.”

“Then don’t let the humbug, whatever it may be, weigh
on your mind. Iam not at all afraid of any obstacle aris-
ing.. Your father hasn’t taken up any notion about my not
being sufficiently religious, has he ?—it isn’t anything of
that sort, eh ?” ;

“Oh, dear, no! you’re not in his parish, you see. Papa
isn’t at all disa, éesble in that way.”

‘* Don’t do the mysterious business, Belle,” Lance Urqu-
hart said, putting his hands on her shoulders as he was
about to leave her. Then, as she glanced up at him, the
dim feeling of having seen her face before, of haying been
familiar with it, of a some painful associations con-
nected with it, came over him afresh. And he said earn-
estly : ‘‘Don’t. be mysterious, my darling ; don’t try to
make me fancy that there is anything to be found out ehont
you, , There can’t be, I know ; but don’t try to puzzle me.”

Then he left her, and Belle sat down, feeling saddened

 

assy

,

Whine, wg 1 sayy ogni

et

 

 
oh

oa

of

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES. 29

 

 

and startled by his strange impressiveness, Saddened and
startled, and more than ever resolved upon leaving him
nothing to find out about her after they were married—if
it ever came to a marriage at all.

The interview between Mr. Denville and Lance was short
and satisfactory. The latter declared himself in such un-
mistakable terms, that the former’s task was made very
easy. In fact, it was a royal road to matrimony which Mr.
Urquhart proposed. He was magnificent as to settlement,
and properly impatient as to time. ‘‘ That Bn you must
settle with my daughter,” Mr. Denville said,
remarked that, as there was really nothing to wait for, why

couldn’t they be married in six weeks—or six days, for the

matter of that—‘ that point you must settle with my daugh-
ter; but I may as well tell you that I’m entirely of your
opinion—entirely.” ‘Then Mr. Denville looked as if he
thought further conversation would be a waste of material,
and Lance interpreted his looks aright, and was glad to act
on the hint they gave, and get himself away to Belle. But
Belle receiyed his proposition as to an early date being fixed
upon at once for the marriage very badly and ungratefully,
he ee not help thinking. ‘Six weeks!—dearest Lance.
eli———

** Well what? You are not going tosay anything against
it, my darling?”

“¢ No—only this: there 7s just one thing against it, Lance,
and that is, that I had quite decided before you came it
should be for six months. Tl never cross you in anything
else, but [ must have my way in this, dear Lance.”

‘* A long engagement is such a hideous institution,” Lance
said discontentedly.

““Not if there’s nothing said about it, and you know the
one you’re engaged to is devoted to you.”

«But I can’t be here perpetually without something
being said about it.”

“There is reason in that, certainly,” she said, medita-
tively. ‘Oh, dear! I hardly know what to do.”

“* Marry me at once.”

“ Not for six months, dear Lance; I can’t earlier. Well;
then, I won’t, if you say that is what I mean.” -

When she said that, Lance felt himself ill-used and lightly
esteemed; and without further parley, he went away for that
ride during which he met with Mrs. Brantholme.

CHAPTER XVII.
BREAKERS AHEAD.
- “Bonnzstry, I don’t like the position.”

*‘T knew you would not.”

<*How should I like it? It’s bad for you, and bad for
Lance—very bad for Lance.” :

«<«That I can’t see, Clare.
air.”

“* Yes; and where will his airy freedom waft him? Belle,
owre a booby! Lance is a dear boy—the very dearest
oy in the world ; but the only chance a woman ‘has of

managing him is to deal openly with him in all things.”

“‘T don’t want to manage him. The man I marry must
manage me.”

“You won’t let him manag you. He may not have
said much to you on the matter ; but I know himso well
that I feel as if I were standing on the shore and seeing
Lance drifting to destruction on the ocean of passion.”

Mrs. Cavendish enunciated her metaphor soemphatical-
ly that her audience (consisting of Belle) was sensible of a
small shock passing through its midst.

“Six months—six fiddlesticks!” Mrs. Cavendish went
on. ‘‘In six moriths I shall be on my way back to India.
Why on earth,” the lady continued, with a certain frank
authoritativeness that was very characteristic of her—
«why on earth can’t you marry now that ‘Barkis is
willin’ ?’ Pretty little airs of caprice won’t suit my brother,
I can tell you.”

Belle Denville was very fond of her bright, clever, frank

friend ; but her bright, clever, frank friend’s manner was
not the most soothing thing that could have been applied

 

I
Lance is left as free as the

 

when Lance

 

to the wound under which she was fretting at this present
juncture. da-y

‘‘ Your brother has the alternative in his own hands. He
knows very well that I sha’n’t hold him against his will,”
she said, quickly.

‘ Belle, I was arguing on the supposition that you loved
Lance.”

“So I do. Would you have me grovel about it? Of
course I love Lance. I shouldn’t have told him I did if I
didn’t.”

‘* Having told him so, I think you’re bound to behave as
if you have told him the truth. I know, if I were a man,
I would stand no half measures. You should trust me not.
at all, or all in all; and I believe you would be just. the
same if you'were tried. How would. you like ce. to
cook up a little mystery, and carefully keep it from you ?”

“‘T’m not blessed, or cursed, with the inquisitive mind.
As a proof pos: I am not, I will. now state Bessie
Brantholme told me last night that she would rather not
see me just at present. I have accepted her decision.; What
do you think of that?” i

“Simply that you don’t care to see Bessie Brantholme.”

“‘Well, there you are mistaken, severest of Snowdro
I do care to see her ; but, at the same time, I’m reasonable
enough to recognize the possibility of a motive for our not
meeting existing, which she does not see fit to confide to me.
Why can’t Lance and you have at least as much reliance on
my judgment as I have on Bessie Brantholme’s ?”

“The fates help us if we hadn’t better cause for relying
on you than you have for relying on her!” Mrs, Caven-
dish said, almost petulantly, rising up to go away as she
spoke.

sat the whole, it was eens, just as well that she did go
away then ; for though Belle could calmly contemplate com-
lete isolation for an indefinite period from her old friend
essie Brantholme, she could not calmly listen to. censures
of, or cavil at, any of that old friend’s manners and ~
customs. aes

Mrs. Cavendish, on the other hand, was entirely justified,
from her point of view, in distrusting the woman who
seemed to set snares for all men on every side. The con-
versation which has just been recorded, took place between.
Belle Denville and Lance’s sister on tho latter’s return
from that call’ on the cause of confusion the previous
night, which had been mentioned by Lord Oxburgh to his
chaplain. At Oxburgh Hall, Mrs. Cavendish heard that
Mrs. Brantholme was not at home, and the visitor chose
to imagine that Mrs. Brantholme was merely conven-
tionally not at home—that she was, in fact, sorrowing in
seclusion.

On this view of the case Lance’s sister felt almost s
thetic. The lady had been silly, doubtless, the uae.
fore—and on how many other occasions?—but she was suf-
fering for it now; the stricken deer was weeping now she
had got to cover, for all the bold front she showed to the
herd. Mrs. Cavendish was only a woman. She could not
repress a certain coincidence of feeling with the Nemesis of
Mrs. Brantholme’s conscience. She did not say or think,
“This thing should be—it serves her right;” but she had a

entle feeling of satisfaction in fancying Mrs. Brantholme
elt that it should be, and that she was rightly served.

But facts fly as fast in the pure-minded country air as in
the most enn populated sesiniin! ogee ee aunts of
men. Rowley Vincent and his sister Ida had essayed to

shake off the effects of the ball and its attendant delight by
a good gallop the pases mena Chance had led them
to take the same road that Mrs. Brantholme had driven
along in solitude; and they had just been pausing, uncertain
whether to go on or turn back, on the brow of an undula-
tion that was scarcely a hill, when they caught sight of the
well-known clipped bay pony, and the dark-brown velvet
driving dress trimmed with grebe, of its mistress.
However, and before Rowley Vincent could word his de-
sire to goon and meet her, they saw Lance Urquhart pull up
abreast of the little equipage, and at the sight Rowley Vin-

 
  

 

30°

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES,

 

 

cent turned his horse’s: head’ sharply, while Ida said, laugh-
ingly, as she followed his example, ‘‘ More devoted: than
discreet on the part of Mr. Urquhart. — He’ll find the Ter-
magant quite accustomed to step with that pony, won’t he,
Rowley? I wonder if she will render unto Cesar the things
that are Cesar’s, and tell him who taught: the mare to ac-
commodate herself to that companionship?”

-*Tt’s seldom enough she has condescended to pull up for
me,” the young man replied, in an affectedly careless tone,
which was belied by the red blood mounting to his fore-
head, and by the gathering together of his strongly-marked
black brows. His-sister knew the signs of rising temper
well. “Rowley was a storm when roused,” she was in the
habit of saying, but she knew how to ride it.

~All the better for you; there’s more ridicule than any-
thing élse attaching to the position of Mrs. Brantholme’s
current Cavaliers, since she went to Oxburgh Hall. I am
glad that you have broken her chains, Rowley!”

“Rowley gave some unintelligible, ill-tempered-sounding
rejoinder. ~~

“She will be tying up Mr. Urquhart’s horses with blue
ribbon if he doesn’t take care of himself, or Belle Denville
neglects to closely guard him. What fun it will be to see
those two in opposition!”

Belle Denville would never run such a race,” he said,
uickly. ‘‘Mind you, Ida, I’m not allowing that Mrs.
ryanholme would, either; but Belle would withdraw at

the first sound of such a thing.”
- Miss Vincent glanced at her brother, and laughed.

Dove and Oakleigh Towers would both be sacrificed,
ou think, at the shrine of feminine dignity and Mrs.
rantholme. Not a bit of it, Rowley. Belle Denville will

hold him to his compact, if he has made one with: her,
though half a hundred married women intervene.”

“Tet us get on; and, for goodness sake, don’t say any
more about it!” Rowley Vincent replied. He was fond of
his sisters—especially fond of Ida—and he was not given
to thinking very seriously about the entire want of anythin,
approaching to an elevated aim in the lives they were al
leading. But, ‘still, at times it came across him, like a
damp chill, that Ida had little or no belief in disinterested-
ness, or aught resembling nobility of aoe or action,
She was always casting about for the unworthy or paltry
motive which had influenced ayy course of conduct that
fell under her observation.

It was her misfortune ‘usually to find it, which success
strengthened the habit. of doubting, and undermined the
already weak faith she had in the goodness and exaltedness

of humankind.’ In short, ‘she was amply endowed! with
_ keen-sightedness, and she had not put the talent away, in a
napkin, fi
Generally, Rowley admired, and almost believed that he
liked, this quality in his sister. ' It imparted a certain piq-
tan¢y to her conversation.’ The faults :and frailties, the
follies and falsenesses of their numerous acquaintances, ac-
quired a’ fine flavor under Miss Ida’s treatment:
word or two, and a little laugh; she had the art of shatter-
ing her brother’s faith in some ingenuous creature who
might otherwise have superseded her at Hunton Lodge. | -

enerally, as has ‘been’ said, Rowley admired, and almost
liked, this quality in Ida; but there were times when it

struck him painfully—when he would have had her kinder’

and’ ‘more trusting’ at the cost of some of her cleverness—

less ‘discriminating, and decidedly more delicate, in attri-

buting littleness to others.

“He always experienced qualms of regret for having, by}.

‘his fraternal flattery, aided in the development of this dis-
agreeable faculty, when Ida took it upon herself to hint, at
the existence of something beneath the surface in Miss
PenVitlen? tgu8s.vodt gone Vid y oi
It has been said that the young Squire of Hunton had
See first fruits of his grown up affections to his  ree-
n’s daughter, and that his’ rector’s daughter had not re-
sponded: But though she had been cold, and he had been
éured,’ le never could be brought either to lightly esteem

With a

che gone on in. the old) grooves,
| Denville.

 

her himself, or to. listen calmly to another’s light mention
of her, Hotter, passions had.burnt. in his heart since the
days of that organ beatingyat the sight of her; but he was
generous enough to go on liking the girl. he had loved,
though his love had faded. now; and Ida’s lack of amiability
was neyer so patent to him. as-when she accredited Belle
with proficiency in some.of the less worthy arts and sciences
of her sex. ;
‘He. knew very well that he should never. marry Belle
Denville now. Moreover, he was, conscious that he had no
longer the faintest desire to marry her. But this left-off
love of his was felt. by himself to have been too good a thin

for him to bear to hear the object of. it lightly mentioned.

now that it was worn out. Had the Fates been propitious,
and Belle fanned. the flame of his first fancy, he be-
lieved that he had it in him to haye risen to something su-
perior in the intellectual scale to a. mere country gentle-
man. an
With such a girl for a wife, the feeling he had of there
being. something better to be got out of: existence than
‘“‘three days.a week with the hounds, and the off-days with
the harriers,” would have deepened, expanded—possibly,
even, have bloomed—into some not altogether ignoble results.
He did not know at all what, he might have striven to do,
but he was very certain that the seeds of ambition, now
dead in his, soul, would have sprung and borne fruit, bad
Belle only cared to see them do so.
But she had not so cared. She had been yery flatter-
ingly friendly..with him—friendly with that sort of freedom
which msensibly animates the manner of a woman. who
knows a man loves her, and who likes him in return with a
liking that only just—but does just—stop short of love.
The openness of the way in which she would put her hand
on his arm at those out-door country gatherings. in which
the three last summers had been prolific, had misled others
far more than it had Mr. Vincent. He had understood
exactly how far that flattering friendliness went. He knew
that it meant she liked him better, and felt herself to be
privileged to. be more intimate with him, than with any
other man then present, principally on account of the re-
gard which she knew he had for her, It was a very natural
trespass on her. part, and her frank manner of making it
brought them, nearer to each other than they would other-
wise have been. And so when, at last, Rowley Vincent
grew dazzled by the: dark. /beauty of, the woman whose
witchery consisted, partly in her reputation for it, Belle
Denville had felt herself, and shown: herself, aggrieved .by
his defection. Sea and
Ityhad really been a sharp pang to the girl to meet him
for the first time’ after that defection became public, and
his old love for her spoken of as a thing entirely of the
past. int
‘«By-the way,, wasn’t, Vincent smitten with Miss. Den-
ville. once ?” . ** Why; Belle !. what, has become of. Rowley
Vineent.? He used, to be-your shadow !” was_said of her,
and‘to her, by those abominable. social evils—the barome-
ters,who, mark every change in the amatory, weather of a
neighborhood. It had been a sharp pang to Belle to meet
him after these. jsayings. Naturally, she had tried to be
particularly friendly and unembarrassed, and she had oyer-
shot her mark. Se pe
She was more than friendly when she was notfrigid, and
both the friendliness and Sieitiny proved to him that, had
1e might have had Belle

Buti Mrs. Brantholme had bewildered him effectually. for
atime ; and when, at length, he recovered his head, Belle
had recoyered her mortification. $0 it wastoo late. It had
been a regular case of ‘‘If she will not when. she may,
when'she will she shall haye nay.” Hach had been, ready
at the wrong time ; but. the knowledge. of that readiness
having existed at all, though it had not been fortuna
enough to, dovetail, inclined them kindly towards each
other, and, made Rowley very sorry to see, the old love fall
under. the lash. of; every woman’s: tongne., TE

app

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LANCE, URQUHART’S LOVES.

   

31

 

 

His meditations on her and her rival: friend, the beauti-
ful Bessie Brantholme, were cut short this day by Ida ex-
claiming, ‘‘ Here’s the Oakleigh Towers carriage; oh and
Mrs. Cavendish in it!” The next moment, his: sister. had

pulled up, and was speaking to their hostess of the previous,

night through the window.

“We saw your brother just now, but we couldn’t inter-
ig him, considerately, to inquire for you,’’ Miss Vincent
said.

**Why not ?”

“He was consoling Mrs. Brantholme for last, night’s mis-
adventure,” the young lady replied. ‘A. fine. bit of. ro-
mance, with nothing but ploughed fields on either side.
Miss Denville will be pleased to find him so well inclined
towards her great ally, won’t she? Good-bye, Mrs. Caven-
dish. |My love to Belle !”

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PRETTY TOBACOCONIST.

Six or seven years ago, a tobacconist’s shop stood at the
corner of a street that runs up from the pier of one of the
principal towns on the banks of the Thames. It was an
unpretentious little place; outwardly, it gave no signs of the
highly successful trade that was carried on within its walls.
A few boxesof Havanas and some stands of pipes, ranging
from the simple clay tothe most elaborate designs in meer-
schaums, were the sole ornaments of the window. But the
open doorway in the summer frequently framed the rarest
ornament and the real attraction of the establishment.

Need it be said that this was a woman—a tall, fair young
woman, who carried herself with a wonderful amount of
stateliness and graceful dignity, considering she was only a
tobacconist’s wife. If she wasthe lure that led custom to
that shop, she deported herself in such a way to the lured,
that they were far from being certain about it themselves.
She would stand mgt long, sunny summer afternoons
in that open doorway, dressed in the crispest and clearest of
muslins, or in sweeping silks, watching passers-by with an
air of indifference that sometimes relaxed into amusement,
but never softened into sympathy.

It was the same when they addressed her. Her beauty,
and the public position which she was fond of taking up,
misled many into the idea that a cigar and a smile were to
be had in exchange for some small coin. . But they were
mistaken. She would turn her well-poised head over her
shoulder, and give the order to some one in the shop, in a

uick, clear tone; and when the men who rode over from
the adjoining barracks bent low to receive the purchase, as
they hoped, from her handsome’ hands, it was put into
theirs by a small, deformed, sickly man, who would then
smile kindly at her, and retire into the darkness of the shop
again.

“Sometimes they would try to storm the calm of the wide-
ly renowned ‘‘ pretty tobacconist ” by broad compliments
backed by large orders, lounging on their horses lazily the
while, and puffing the odors of her own bad cigars around
her. She always passed the orders on promptly and prop-
erly; but the compliments fell unheeded; or, if she did
notice them, it was with such a sudden, sharp “What!”
that the utterers trembled.

She was beautiful with the beauty of length of limb,
depth of chest, perfection of proportion, and a naturally
graceful management of these things. Moreover, she had
a handsome little head, a head that appeared remarkably

 

small, springing as it did from such a splendidly developed '

bust and shoulders, and crowned as it was with such closely
arranged bright, golden-brown hair. ' Beneath this hair
there was a brief expanse of smooth brow, then apair of
well-fringed, deep blue eyes, which blinded observers to the
fault of her face, the short, broad, turned-up nose; a nose
which was nothing between the eyes, and coarse and thick
at. the nostril, required to be counterbalanced, which it: was

fully, by her delicately-eut: small’ red: mouth, and the per- |

fect womanly beauty of her rounded, dimpled chin.
The woman was an enigma, even to the many, who spoke

 

of her to new importations into..their respective regiments
as their ‘‘ pretty friend, the little tobacconist.” The caress-
ing diminutive was applied) to her by gushing boys in the
Marines, who. wasted their substance upon and made them-
selyes sick with her cigars, and upon whose young heads
she looked down from her stately height in.a way that. they
did not describe when narrating their imaginary experiences
with her. She was a complete enigma to them. All that
they knew about her might have been summed up in Praed’s
graceful line to the portrait of an unknown—‘‘I only know
yow’re very pretty.”

Yes, thus much was known about her. She was the wife
of the deformed, sickly-looking man, who stood away in the
dim back-ground of the shop, and received her orders is-
sued from. the snug;doorway. But whether she was wise
or witty, steady, sedate, designing, dangerous, or simpl
stupid, no one could tell, She never replied to their badi-
nage; but though she never replied, she never looked angry
at it. She was always well dressed, and was unquestionably
beautiful, with a beauty that betokened race. But whether
she was other than she seemed, or all that she seemed,
or worth the speculations that were rife about her, none
could tell.

For a few years, the pretty tobacconist appeared to be ‘an
established fact at the corner of the Pier Street. The
before-mentioned routine seemed to go on without any
shadow of a probability of alteration. As at first, she stood
through summer days at the doors; as of old, her deformed
husband kept back in the dark, and did her bidding; as of
old, new-comers to the garrison made faint efforts at flir-
tation with her—efforts which she neither repelled nor ac-
cepted, but, just suffered to fall flat feebly, while she gazed
up and down the street with her beautiful, quiet, unmter-
ested eyes.

But though no shadow of it had fallen, a change came at
last. One morning, the neighbors saw, with surprise, that
Clifford’s shop was not opened at the usual time. The: day

wore on; the customary crop of military customers sprang
up; and, after waiting patiently for a time, knocked im-

patiently at the doors; but no notice was taken of the knock-
ming, and the day wore away, bringing no solution of the
mystery.

The next morning, an eager little crowd gathered round
the threshold where the little woman with the golden-
brown hair and the wild-rose-leaf complexion used to stand
so constantly, and still no signs of life were heard from the
interior. At. last, an ugly whisper arose, and was stifled,
and broke out again in hoarser tones, and was again put
down, and at last would make itself heard distinetly; and
the whisper was of ‘‘ Murder!” and then the arm of the
law, assisted by a goodly number of the real British roughs,
came and broke in the door, and the former searched. the
house, and found nothing.

Literally nothing. The shop was empty ; the two rooms
at the back of it. were empty. The Cliffords had ‘‘ been
close people, never asking a friend or. neighbor to take a
bit or a sup with them,” was now elucidated. How they
had succeeded in spiriting themselves, and such goods and
chattels as they must have had, away, never became known.
They were gone; all trace of them was lost; and the shop
at the corner was no longer the point to which all the young
blood of the neighborhood converged on sultry summer
days.

ait she had bolted without him,” there. would have
been but +half the amount of wonderment. aroused which
was aroused by her having disappeared with her husband,
But all conjecture was at fault... The Cliffords, husband
and wife, seemed to have dropped out of existence—to haye
blotted themselves out of the roll of humanity—so com-
pletely and entirely had they succeeded in leaving off bein
apparent to the many. who had watched and Pee
about them while they kept the shop at the corner, _

Amongst the many had: been Lancelot Urquhart. In

his hours of idleness, while staying in barracks once with
a friend,.awaiting orders to rejoin his regiment at Malta,
 

 

32 LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES. ‘

 

he had often ridden over from Woolwich to the adjacent
town for the sake of getting a word and a cigar from the
pretty tobacconist. Hither he had managed more deftly
than his fellows, or the woman was not so imperious as she
was reputed. At any rate, he contrived to make her speak
to and look at him: She would saunter forward a step or
two when he pulled up at the door, one hand shading her
eyes, and the back of the other pressed against her waist-
band behind, and exchange a few sentences with him
previous to turning her head over her shoulders, and
transmitting his order to her husband in the dim distance.
She would hand him his cigar; she would even get him a
fusee. On one occasion, she was observed to touch his
horse’s neck,

“<She’s best as you fellows see her,” Lance had said, when
he was chaffed about the honor at mess that night. ‘‘ There’s
salvation in silence for a pretty woman who asks if your
horse will bite if she was to touch him. The pretty tobac-
conist should bring the bridge of her nose out with putty,
since nature hasn’t been good enough to do'it for her. She
is pretty, though—devilish pretty!”

So Lance had spoken of Mrs. Clifford just before he sail-
ed for Malta, when that letter reached him which recalled
him to England to take possession of Ashleigh Towers. She
had gone from his memory entirely by the time he came
back to his native shore, as may be supposed. For all he
knew or cared to the contrary, she might still be indirectly
advertising her wares at thedoor of her husband’s shop at
the corner of Pier Street. ‘Those hours. of idleness, and
some of the means of getting rid of them which he had em-
ployed, were brought back to his mind startlingly as he
rode past the Woodlands Cottage on his way home from that
‘‘bit of romance between ploughed fields,” of which Ida
Vincent had spoken,

The high road ran past the cottage grounds, and as he,
ata walking pace, was. passing, and idly glancing at that

art of pia where his horse had been baulked by Mr.
Farle, two figures stepped up on to the bank inside, and
looked over the hedge at him.

The man was the owner of the place, of course—a_black-
browed, black-haired, black-mustached man, with a look
in his eyes (were S black, or fierce dark blue?) that re-
minded him of—of—he could mot remember what he was
reminded of, but of something that was either unpleasant
or important, he could not determine which; while the
woman was—he almost pulled upand exclaimed in astonish-
ment as he realized it—was the reticent beauty, the fair,
back-room enigma, the pretty tobacconist, Mrs. Clifford.

‘‘What the deuce has she done with the poor little
hunchbacked devil she used to send back for the cigars?”
Lance Urquhart thought, as he rode on—‘‘and how does
she come here, with this fellow?”

Then he recollected what Mrs. Brantholme had told him
about the animus which she insisted that she had discovered
in Mr. Barker’s manner, when his (Lance’s) horse fell; and
he told himself that here was the cause—in a woman, as
usual!

“‘She may remember me,” he thought; ‘‘and, for some
reason or other, that fellow may not want to have her recog-
nized or remembered by anyone who knew her before she
was Mrs, Barker. They needn’t be afraid—I won’t raise
curiosity about the defunct or disappeared Clifford. Oddly
things turn up, to be sure! She didn’t say a word about
the beauty when she mentioned having seen the wife. Poor
devil! it can’t be agreeable to be in a position that makes a
man prefer seeing a fellow-creature’s neck broken to having
that fellow-creature recognize his wife; but if Mr. Barker
keeps his own counsel, the cigar-smoke that hangs about
the Woodlands shall never be sniffed through me. I sup-
pose they want to soar socially on the proceeds of the com-
pressed cabbages we used oke for the sake of her smiles
—which we never got, by Jove! Well, Belle shall not have
anything to do with her; but the pretty tobacconist may
become Two friend to every immaculate matron within

   
 

 

 

twenty miles, without let or hindrance from me. I'll be
d—d if I agree to his joining the hunt, though, till he’s
apologized for having given me that fall.”

Then Lance’s thoughts went. off to the cut and. the cure
which had marked that occasion, and..he forgot..all about.
the inhabitants of Woodlands Cottage.

He was reminded of them again in the evening, yy his
sister saying, ‘‘ Oh, Lance—such a curious thing! » Here’s;
an invitation—I saw it was that, so I opened it—come for,
you, and any friends who may be staying with you, to dine
with a Mr. and Mrs. Barker, of the Wapttoinds: Who and
what are these people?” rv be

“T don’t know,” he replied, taking the note from her;
hand and reading it. purl

Tt was well enough expressed and well enough written,
too, in a careless, scratchy, feminine hand. The invitation,
was explained—almost apologized for—on the grounds of
both the inviter and the invited being strangers in the
place, and it being therefore a matter of indifference as to
which gdve the invitation. i

**'That’s cool of the promoted tobacconist,” Lance thought;
and Mrs. Cavendish said, somewhat contemptuously, ‘* The:
unknown unauthenticated occupant of the Woodlands put-
ting himself on a par with Urquhart of Ashleigh Towers ie
rather too good. {shall not go!” rot

«Perhaps you had better not, Snowdrop. George and I
will go, and tell you what it’s like. You know I stand’for
this division of the county in the Liberal’ interest at ‘the
next election; so I may as well commence making myself
popular. Haye you seen Belle since I left her?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Cavendish replied; and then they had a
long talk about the little cloud which seemed likely to ob-
secure the brightness of the sun of their love.

“<I expect it’s something about her mother,” Mrs. Caven-
dish said sagaciously.. ‘‘I hear that Mr, Denville only
came to Hunton six years ago, and that, a year after, Belle
came from school and joined him, No one here has ever »
heard of a Mrs. Denville; but-I’d bear that, or bear a mys-
tery about it, rather than lose Belle!”

‘* Supposing it shouldn’t be about her mother?” Lance!
suggested, uneasily. ;

“* Well, L. almost feel sure that it is,” Mrs. Cavendish re-
plied, decisively. ° nie

The reader who has gone through the interview between
Mr. Denville and. his. daughter will understand that Mrs,
Cavendish ‘felt sure” of what might not be the case by
any means. But it was as good and comforting a con-
jecture as could be formed under the circumstances; sa
Lance 'was fain to accept it in default ofa better.  ¢

‘© And, Lance, dear,” she whispered to him when her hus-
band had gone up to bed, leaving the brother and sister to
that unfettered short talk which was so pleasant to them
both, ‘don’t get impatient, and take to passing away the
time by getting up a flirtation with anyone!”

“© You don’t known how grossly that woman is wronged,
Snowdrop!” he answered, hurriedly, though his sister had
mentioned no name.

‘‘ Wrong, or wronged, she’s equally dangerous, dear.
You can’t help her, now, can you? And if you try to do it,
yowll burn your fingers!”

‘©T will be careful, if you will promise not to show her
the cold shoulder ? ”

“‘That I will promise. Have I ever refused to do any-
thing you have asked me, Lance? You know I never
have failed you, and I never will; but don’t make it
unpleasant for me and wretched for poor Belle !”

Then she told him about meeting Ida Vincent, and
repeated Ida Vincent’s remark.

‘*She’s a nice scandalous young lady! The tip of her
tongue ought to be sore for fibbing so !”’

‘©Were you not with Mrs. Brantholme ?”

“Yes ; ans there was not a single bit of romance going
on between the ploughed fields. It was far too cold for that.
Good-night, pe don’t be afraid !”

Re
|

ann

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

_chinchil

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES... 33

 

 

CHAPTER XIX.

: SELEF-DISTRUST.

THeERE had been little or no intercourse between Belle
Denyille and Mr. Harley since that night when he had
counselled. her ‘‘to waive parochial custom, and: not call
on the new-comers, the Barkers.”

Once or twice they had met, and nodded to each other,
when she was riding through the village with Lance
Urquhart; and on the night of the ball, Belle had
laborious] ee through ‘‘ The Lancers ” with him. But
there had been no conversation between them from the
night of his uttering his caution about the Barkers until
the day of. the Barkers’ dinner party.

On the morning of that day he came in to speak to Belle,
after having settled parish matters with his rector, and she
began at once as she was shaking hands with him, ‘Do
you know those’ new people at. the Woodlands have been
civil enough to ask us to dine there, though we have never
been civil enough to call? The Vincents are going.” ”

“ Let them go by all means! You’re not going, i hope?”

Why not, Mr. Harley? Papa says,’ ‘Please yourself,
Belle;’ and it pleases me to go. Are you asked?”

“cc I am.” > i

*“ Are you going?”

= Yas this ones” : :

Belle laughed. “‘ Well, ’'m going this. once, and if I
don’t like it I neédn’t go again. I hear Mrs. Barker is very

retty.”

Very protty. Is Mrs. Cavendish going to take you?”
“JT haven’t seen her for a few days,” Belle replied. “<I
should hardly think they have asked the Oakleigh Towers
people, though.” =

‘But they have done so. I seem to be very much in
their confidence, do I not? But the fact is, Mr. Urquhart
has just told me.” ;

«“Did you meet him coming here?” Belle asked, hesi-
tatingly.. She had not seen Lance’ since that morning when
she had refused his request to be married immediately, and
he, in consequence, had ridden off in a rage.

_ “JT met him. in the village,” Mr. Harley replied; and,
being a man, he, did not add the sting that it was by
Mrs. Brantholme’s side that Lance Urquhart had been
walking. ree
.,,, The meeting had come, about in this wise: Divers causes
“had combined to make Mrs. Brantholme desirous of walk-
ing out this special morning. The ground was covered
with snow; not sloppy, penetrating, dingy snow, but with
the hard-frozen, bright, crystalized material over which it
is so pleasant to walk and listen to its crispy crackling under
the feet. Notwithstanding the sharp frost, there was a
lear sky and a bright sun overhead. “She had nothing to
read. _ Her husband and Lord Oxburgh wanted her to play
billiards with them, and she did not feel inclined to gratify
them. All these were good and, sufficient reasons for going
out for a long, healthful, and Srp cup Papen denne walk,
But the conclusive one was the following: =
_ The night before there had come down from her London
millinex’s a walking costume, the effect of which she longed
to try on herself, and on any stray lover of the beautiful
who might chance to be about. It was a very complete
costume ; the like of it had not yet been seen in that
country-side. From the sole of the daintily-finished Hun-
garian boots, tasselled at the top, tothe crown of the little
well-fitting Hungarian hat, it was simply perfect in every
detail. Of course it was perfect. ere would be no
spon ingennity required to go wrong with black velvet and
. a, and it was of these materials that the costume—
which was cut in a mysterious manner that caused it to be
tight-fitting in the body, and of voluminous proportions as
to the skirt—was composed. It was a wonderful dress. It
fell in mighty folds about her—folds in which there’ was
‘evidence of the absence. of steel bars”—men told her
esppbamvcomplimenting her on that, among other things. Not
‘that she had abjured crinoline—not by any means bat she
wore it in such a way that it never appeared aggressive—it

 

never made sharp points when she sat down in arm-chairs—
it never bulged and elevated itself in an unseemly manner
when she danced—it never protruded its iron. ribs into’'the
sides of suffering manhood at crowded dining-tables.
Above all, it never wobbled and conducted itself after the
manner of surging waves when she walked.

Perhaps it was owing to the fact of her knowing how to
walk. She never scuffled, or shuffled, or strutted, or stum-
bled. Nor did she trip along after the: manner of those
who affect elasticity, or prance ina vain effort after ban-
ished juvenility. She walked firmly and beautifully, and
the long Hungarian boots called attention to the fact of her
doing so in a very becoming way. {

The clear, frosty air, the exercise, the excitement of keep-
ing a couple of vivacious, unwieldy dogs in order, and, per-
haps, the conviction that she had rarely appeared to .great-
er advantage, had brought more fire into the. long violet
eyes, and more color into the usually pensive, colorless,

dark face than Lance had ever seen before.

When she took her-hand out of the little chinchilla muff,
and gave it to Lance, he held it firmly untilhe had asked
and obtained her permission to turn back and accompany
her.

‘« By Jove! I wish Belle would get herself up like this!”
he thought, as he took in the whole, after the manner of
men, disregarding the fact of each detail costing rather
more than Miss Denville was in the habit of spending upon
her ‘wardrobe for the whole winter season. |‘ eis
earth doesn’tshe wear this sort of thing, instead. of those
rough dresses that set a fellow’s teeth.on edge when he
touches them?” nea

He retained Mrs, Brantholme’s hand in his long enough
to see that the. gloves matched the boots. They were laced
up the back, and tasselled at the top, in a way that left
unbroken the delicate lines from the little finger to the
sweep of the full, roundarm. He retained it long enough

to see and express his approbation of this fact—long engnee
he

also to feel her pulses beating quickly against his own as
pressed the soft, warm palm to his own. .

_ “Tf this would only last, we might have somesleighing,”
Lance said, presently. ‘‘ But before I could get a sleigh
down from town, a thaw. is sure to set in.” aM OMB

“Lord Oxburgh has a very nice one,” she was begin-
ning, when, Lance put in, in an injured tone: [ POET
; «Then you will be able to benefit by the snow while it
asts.”” . ul

‘‘T shall not go out with him in it—I mean unless we can
get up some two or three more, and make a rej ular sleigh-
ing party of it. Don’t give up the idea, Mr. Urquhart; it
will last. See how hard it is, though there’is such a sun;
and let us all go somewhere, and come home by moonlight
over the snow.” eee HOO) BOW

‘«With four horses and bells?” yon T

“Yes, do!” She seized the idea quite eagerly. Anything
was welcome that helped to pass the time away; anything
was welcome that gave Lance Urquhart and herself an ex-
cuse for being eee 1 DOT Hye fie

‘*T will go to the station and telegraph up to London for
one to come down to-night; shall I?” - wf od izes

“Do, do! Will your sister join us, do you think—and—
and Belle?” ; -5. OM OVE 10 Hitt

“‘My sister will, undoubtedly; she likes anything of the
sort. Let’s see; I can telegraph from Dallas just as well as
from Hunton. Will yow come in and ‘help to word this
telegram?” f

She agreed to going in and helping him. She expressed
an intense interest in his sleigh. He took her opinion asito
the color of it; as to what fur rugs should be sent with it;
as'to the silver-mounted harness for the four horses he in-
tended to drive in it. © ,

Then the wires flashed up the fullest directions, and a
mandate to the effect that ‘‘immediate attention to these
was ‘desired; the sledge and fittings to be sent down by the
night train,” —- 3 t foy | 40) zp ti
«Twill be here to-morrow. You'll allow me the honor
   

34

/

LANCE URQUHAREL LOVES.

 

 

of driving ‘you if there’s still snow enough to go comfortably, |
won't you?” heasked, eagerly.

And she said, ‘‘ Yes, if my husband does not. raise, any
great objections; or if you will promise to disregard them
when raised.”

““T shall disregard anything and everthing that might
stand in the way of such apleasure,” he said, in a low voice.

_ « Eyen if it were a dangerous one?”

“Do you distrust my powers of driving?”

‘No; I only distrust myself.”

- She was walking along steadily by his side as she said. it;
but, though her steps never faltered, her voice did. There
must haye been more of romance that day, when they saun-
tered along between the brown, ploughed fields, than Lance
had been willing to alloweither to his sister or (more sus-
picious still) to bimsslt,

There may not be much in the words as they look written
down on paper, “I only distrust myself;” they may have
a dozen harmless meanings. In the present case, for ex-
ample, Mrs. Brantholme might have meant that she only

home alone, and feel that. he had been making an ‘‘ass of
himself.”

‘*A precious position it is for an engaged man, who does
not incline towards the discreditable, and a married woman
to be in!” he thought, as he strode rapidly along. ‘‘What
a woman she is, though, and’ how awfully fond she is of
me, poor thing !”

He tried to get right with his own conscience by going
to call upon Miss Denyille. He found her wrapped up in
a big shepherd’s plaid shawl, walking up and down the
road walk in front of the Rectory windows.

‘< Papa has sent me out here to walk upand down twenty
times to make out a mile,” she said, putting her hand in
Lance’s armas he came up to her. ‘‘ Now you’ll help me
get over the distance, won’t you, Lance ?”

‘“‘T think it’s pleasanter. in the house,” Lance replied.
He wanted to be tender to her, and there was a difficulty
about that in aplace that was commanded by the village
street.

‘‘ You lazy boy! you don’t like walking!”

distrusted her nerves behind four horses, or that she was}, “I have already walked a good distance,”—and he had

afraid of catching cold, or anything else that was harmless,
and proper. There was nothing in the words—nothing, at
least, that there ought not to have been; but there was so
much in the intonation, it carried her meaning—the fullest,
rhost dangerous meaning of those subtly sweet words—
through every fiber of his being with full velocity. He
fancied, when she said that, that she liked him, and was
afraid of where her liking might lead her; and he, seeing
her beauty, feeling her charm, wincing under her witchery,
and remembering Belle, was afraid too. t

“It would be better to run away, and let her think what

she will of me, than to go on till it ends Heaven only knows
how,” he thought.
- But even as he thought it, he said, pleadingly, ‘* Only
once—only this once! After that, I-won’t ask you if you
tell me not. I'll obey you in everything, even if you order
me to keep away from you! At least, you shall find me
devoted.” .

‘Tt will be for your sake only if I order you to keep
away,” she muttered, ‘if I can be so cruel to myself——”

She paused, and he thought of Belle’s hardness, and con-
trasted it with the sweet softness of this woman who seemed
unable to struggle against the wayward fate which had led
her on to like him. ‘The silence grew oppressive... Each
felt that, after those last words of hers, any speech that
might be made would either have too much or too little
meaning. Prudence made him shrink from splitting on
the former rock; the dread of appearing foolish kept her
back from the latter; the fear of being rash or ridiculous
was their salvation for the present. ;

They were nearing the park gates rapidly all the while,
and Lance knew that, when they reached them, he would
be compelled to take his leaye of the lady. He must speak
before saying ‘‘ Good-morning,”.or she would think him
an awkward, conceited boy. It was safest to go back to the
sledge and the common-place.. The dulcet tone of danger
could be more easily resumed. at some future time, than
dropped if he ventured to. continue it for) yet another
moment or two now.

‘Then my sister shall correspond with you on the. sub-
ject. of sleighing to-morrow ;and you'll wear this same

 

it in his heart to tell her when and with whom he had
been walking. But his will’ wavered, and the words were
not spoken. es

“*So you have.
he met, you.” :

Lance felt his cheek. reddening. Mr, Harley had met
some slight advances which My. Urquhart had seen fit to
make to him in a-reserved manner, .that was neither com-
plimentary nor encouraging. Now he was turning himeelf
into a detective, Lance thought, angrily; for he never
doubted that Mrs. Brantholme’s name had been men-
tioned. ene

‘I hope youll not be getting too intimate with that fel-
low, Belle,” he said, after a moment or two. $t0e

The girl ask quickly, ‘‘'Too what?” a ee a

‘Intimate with him, I said. ‘There’s a good deal of
nasty ill-nature about the fellow, quiet and tame as he
looks.”

“You needn’t. be afraid of my getting too familiar with
any man, Lance,” Belle said, compressing her lips slightly.
‘Ag for Mr. Harley, I shall see him whenever he comes,
and talk to him when he talks to me, just the same as I
have always done!” Then she added what she need not
have added, considering that Lance was already vexed:
‘His ill-nature is so witty, that I for one aorenty gS ia:

«And I can forgive snythns, in aman but mild spite!’
Lance said, coldly. ‘‘ However, he’s not worth the argument,
Where do you think Iam going to-night?’ — nO GE

“T know. _ Mr. Harley told me that, too. You’re going
to dine at the Barkers’, and soam I, Lance.” itt

‘“‘By Jove no!” he’ exclaimed, standing still suddenly,
and speaking in a quick, vexed tone. “‘I can’t have that!
You mustn’t go, Belle,” nies mee

“ But Pve said I'll go! No, Lancé—I won’t go if you
would rather that I did not. Don’t think me obstinate.”

Think her obstinate, when she let him win the battle
without striking a blow! Dissatisfied as he was with him-
self, it would have been hard to have turned the dissatisfac-
tion into another channel, and lavish any of it on’ the girl
whose will was evidently of such malleable gold. ~ "

‘«* You would be wretched there, my darling, - They’re a
shady set, I’m afraid. I won’t have Clare go near them,

I had forgotten. Mr. ‘Harley told me

dress, won’t you, when you permit me the honor of driving. either.” - ;

ou ?”

He took off his hat, and held out his hand as he spoke,
and once more she placed hers in his palm.

‘Por your own sake,” she began, smiling very sadly,
while the blood ‘mounted to her brow, ‘‘ don’t make
opportunities of seeing me. If you do, I shall embrace
them, and you had better not—much better, not !”

** Your warning comes too late,” he replied, sadly,

And she almost sobbed, ‘Oh, Lance, God help you. if
it does ; for I cannot send you from me!”

4

- [hen she went on to the» Hall, leaving him to walk.’

‘Then the Vincents will be the only ladies besides the
hostess?” Belle said, interrogatively. aerate

‘Are they going? They are everywhere! <A pleasant
time Mrs. Barker will have of it to-night; if Miss Tda.
thinks her worth analyzing!” Lance said, laughing.

“J hear she’s lovely; perhaps’she may stand analyzing,
Lance!” : fd 63

‘‘She’s a cool hand. Ida Vincent: will meet her match,
I fancy,” he went on, meditatively.. Seer ak Para
_ How do you know that she will be a match for Tda,
Lance?” St eee ee

 

a

 

 
 

¥

_ keep the pretty tobacconist’s ‘secret.

lighted by minute, Gothic windows, h

LANCH URQUHART) S LOVES. 3m

 

 

Belle asked it with so much interest, that’ Mr. Urquhart

at once remembered the pledge he had given to himself to
Before. he could say
anything, Miss Denville continued:

“You don’t know her yet, do you?”

““ Know whom—Ida Vincent?”

“No; Mrs. Barker.”

“‘Mrs. Barker? No, certainly not,” he replied, de-
cidedly.
sd Then how do you know she is a ‘cool hand?” ”

‘<T judge her to be one from the stare she gave me over
the hedge the other day, after rising up so abruptly that she
made the Termagant skew all over the road.”

«Her husband is rather good at staring, too!” the girl
said, laughing. ‘‘We don’t ‘know’ each other yet, you
know, but he looks me through when he meets me in the
village.”

_ **Curse his impudence!”

**He doesn’t do it impudently at all, Lance,” she said,
in a tone of earnest apology for the stranger. ‘‘ His man-
ner is not at all offensive, really.”

‘* My dear Belle, you are rather too lenient. It’s all very
well to be good-natured, but it doesn’t do to be good-natured
to vulgar brutes. What the devil does he mean by staring
at you, I should like to know?”

r. Urquhart raised his voice and lowered his brows, and
gave other signs of ownership; and Belle—it was all so new
to her—felt it pleasant to be cared for and cavilled at by
the man she loved.

In the end—he was so authoritative and she was so acqui-
escent—she promised to send an apology to Mrs. Barker,
and keep away from the dinner. i

Just about the time she sent her apology, Mrs. Brant-
holme forwarded a late acceptance to the mistress of the
Woodlands, who took the notes one with another, and with-
out the slightest interest, or the shadow of the show of ‘it,
handed them to her husband. i;

CHAPTER XX.
““MY WIFE, GENTLEMEN |”
THE Woodlands Cottage was one of the prettiest houses
in the county; when it was looked upon as a hunting-lodge
—for which purpose it had been built—it was wont to give

 

satisfaction to the most critical eye; but as a mansion, to|’
be resided in all the year round, it was a mistake.

So, at least, it was declared to be by people who distrust

everything that is not iia and substantial im the way of

architecture, and who hold it to be more than.a folly, if
less than a crime, to give dinners in a house the passages
of which are narrow enough to compel: couples to go tan-

dem from the drawing to the dining-room.

_ The one most capable of adapting him or herself to ‘un-.
expected angles could but lament the taste which had plant-
ed an aggressively protuberant hat stand in a corner or
shallow, that the spikes of the stand ran into and sorely
marred the effect of the entrance of the unwary. >
The least artistic could but suffer at the side of a mon-
strous combination of side-board and cheffonier, surmount-
ed by a papier-mache tea-tray, stuck upon end, which faced
the entrance door. f
Nor did matters mend when the long, narrow passage,
wa been passed, and
the. eon essentially the woman’s - territory, was
gained, 00d |
ae shape of that room was enough to make the heart

Long, with a French window, leading out on to a stone
balcony, with steps down into the garden (both his Swiss
and Gothic proclivities had been smothered by the builder
when he reached this room); with another window, a bay,
at theside; with the fire-place at the extreme end, opposite
to the balcony; and with the ceiling slightly vbaleon
room was one that it was very hard to spoil.
_ Mrs. Barker stood in her drawing-room on the day of her

‘dinner-party, dressed ready for the reception of her guests, '|

 

—this
‘{checked himself mid-way on hearing the visitor's bell.

 

perfectly satisfied with her surroundings, thoroughly and
entirely at her ease. Her beauty—for she was the same
woman who used to stand at the door of the shop at the
corner—-has been already described... That description may
stand, for the beauty was unaltered. The golden-brown
hair. was bright; the handsome little head was proudly
poised, the wild-rose tint as blooming and fresh as of old.
As she stood before the fire listening to Mr. Barker’s nervous
cautions and contradictory counsels, receiving all his remarks
in silence, unflurried, unembarrassed, cool, composed, and
capitally dressed, she might have been one of the best bred
women in. England. :

She was faultless in appearance as she stood there, for
her head was down at a slight angle, and her nose thrown
into shade.

Her silver-gray moire antique harmonized with the deli-
cate hue of her complexion, It was cut with a train, and
a low body and short sleeves.

But the train seemed a proper accompaniment to this
tall, queen-like woman; and the full-dress effect was nulli-
fied, by the.cape and puffed Venetian sleeves of white tulle
which she wore. oe ee ee

Her appearance was faultless, and the man who was
watching her felt her to be so. apparently, for presently he
said, “‘ You'll lick the lot of them, Madge, by Jove! Mrs.
Barker, you’ll astonish some of them to-night! - What’s
that nice dress to. cost me, eh, old girl?” ee

“Less than it would if I wasn’t able to make my own,”
she replied, gravely... i

He went over and. stood on the hearth-rug by her side,
indicating by his. manner that. he desired to embrace her,
she was so rarely. pretty. oer

She, quickly checked the desire, however, by saying,
““Don’t.tug my sleeves, Mr. Barker. . The puffs crack 80
easily, and then look so bad.” eee =

Just then, two notes were brought in and given to the
lady; who handed them at once to her husband.

When he had read them, he exclaimed, excitedly, ‘‘ Con-
found it! Miss Denville won’t come! What’s stopped that,
I wonder? I do believe, Madge, it was your poking your
nose over the hedge to see that fellow the other day! He
may have recognized. you—haye you ever seen him?—and
stopped Belle from coming!” Es or ee aes
“Ts that Miss Denville’s name?” she asked, calmly,
walhaye replying. to his question. respecting Lance Urqu-

art. \ : 3 ee
_ ‘ What’s Miss Denville’s name to you?” he retorted,
rudely." pee : ek eee Meee
«Nothin —neither is her coming or staying away 1”
she answered, turning, and commencing to look over one of
the ‘ Books of Beauty.” e poe eee

_ He stood for a few seconds, pulling out the tips of his
black mustache. ce ee a

Then he wheeled round, and scowled at the beauty he
wanted to: embrace just now, as he said, slowly, ‘‘I tell
you what it is, Mrs. Barker! that game. of ‘not caring’
won’t do here! It answered much with your little mad
hunchback ; he Shoat you as quiet as you seem ; but I
have the advantage of knowing you better, ma’am ! You'll
pleara:te qard t,o yornear to

He raised his voice—he almost shouted out his inter-
rogation. The bullying tone was one which it palpably
gave him much pleasure to adopt. __ oe

‘Do you hear ?” he roared, undulating about from one
foot to the other, and wafting his coat-tails towards the
fire the while. ; ge ae

ae deep, uninterested, quiet blue eyes lifted themselves
to his face. Coe a ae Sas ee ee

“TL hear,” she replied ; ‘f but my not. caring won’t keep
Belle away any more than it will make her come.”

“Don’t let me hear you use her name again!” he

growled, with an oath, going towards her quickly; but he

Thenext minute, the, first guests, were shown into the
room, and Mr. Barker was introducing the quiet: beauty to :

 
 

 

36 LANCE URQUHART’S, LOVES.

 

 

Mr. Urquhart and Captain Oayendish as “‘ My wife, gentle-
men ! ”

 

CHAPTER XXI.
\ IN THE DRAWING-ROOM.

AmonG the many things which a turn of phraseology has
caused to be considerably over-rated, the habit of uttering
home truths takes a high place. Outspoken people gain a
reputation for candor and honesty on easy terms.

To the natural man, unfettered by fear and unsubdued
by cultivation, few things can come ‘more readily than
insolence.. To be rude and disagreeable does not require
any great strain on the imagination.

At the same time, it is a cheap and easy way of asserting
a certain superiority over the one to whom rude ‘and: dis-
agreeable things are said.

- That the unpleasant gift has béen possessed, together
with great mental powers and brilliant literary attainments,
is a fact of which there can be no doubt.

_. The most illiterate boor could not be more heavily offen-
sive than the great lexicographer—whose designation is
invaluable to the oppressed for copy.

The most foolish and under-bred woman would have to
pat the palm for impertinence to Lady Mary Wortley

ontague. ,

But then the majority of those who say heavily offensive
things are boors only; and impertinence generally does
emanate from foolish and tahideh Brod women alone.

Yet, with all thoir folly, they evince a certain power of
discrimination in their selection of objects on which to ex-
ercise their talent for uttering home truths. "

For example, a rector’s wife will suffer that to pass bare-
backed in a bishop which she will sharply condemn in her
husband’s curate, though pure reason should teach her ‘to
be more lenient to the latter on the score of his youth.

Again, the same lady will say things that are hard to
bear, to the wives of those who pay tithes, which she will
not say to the wife of the lord of the manor, especially if
he be titled.

Now, if candor were lord of all in her soul she would not
be a respecter of persons in this way. i

- But, as a rule, the entirely insolent is also'an entirely dis-
creet woman.

She is never outspoken to one who dares to retaliate. She
never utters a snubbing truism to one whe will snub her/in
return,

_ These restrictions which outspoken people are apt to ob-
serve surely lay them open to the charge of bullying and
- vulgar cowardice ; and why these qualities should be ex-
tolled in the abstract is one of the enigmas which’ remain
unsolved. Bs fs
Uttering home truths is a euphemism for kicking when
one dares—and Miss Geraldine Vincent wasa proficient in

the practice. a

The Hunton Lodge trio, Philip Gresham, Mr. and Mrs.

‘Brantholme, Mr. Harley, Captain Cavendish, and Lance

Urquhart, made up the party at the Woodlands this night.
the two last-named gentlemen were, as has’ been seen,
the first to arrive, and to be introduced by the master of
the house to the lady, who looked so well in repose, and
-whose aap Ine was the least likely thing in the world to be
disturbed. oS me ON

_ With good, honest, chivalrous feeling, Lance Urquhart
_ Was anxious to give her some apparently unintentional as-

surance of his resolution to accept her as she was now, and
never to give a backward glance.

Accordingly, he spoke aloud of the ‘first time he had
the-pleasure of seeing her ;” adding, with the neatest care-
lessness that ‘‘it was on the occasion of the ‘Termagant
having the bad taste to shy at her sudden appearance over
the hedge,” eR EM trot

Mrs.
itself, and disclose her small pearly teeth, by way of reply
to this. It was the civil smile of a perfect stranger. »

as Lance was for the expression of gratitude,

‘called upon to take Geraldine in to dinner.

arker just suffered her short, rosy upper lip to lift.

 

confusion, or relief, he could not delude himself into the. be-
lief that a shadow of,,gither feeling rippled the quiet surface
of the lovely, fair face for an instant. oes

Mrs. Barker listened to what he said, and then her arch-
ed lip curved itself. © That, was all.

He almost began to doubt. the possibility of this being the
same woman who had been so fond of basking in the sun at
the doorway of the cigar shop.

Her listless gaze fell upon him in exactly the same way
as it had done in the old days, when his, vanity had been
stung by it, and he forthwith set about making her speak.
He could have sworn to those indifferent, deep blue eyes,
and the way they had of traveling slowly up and down any
human object that came before them.

He could have sworn to those eyes; yet he asked himself
was it possible they could be the same, and be so listless in
their gaze, so indifferent to him now? Some

He ceased to speculate about or look at her in a few mo-
ments, for the Brantholmes were the next to arrive; and in
his astonishment at seeing Mrs, Brantholme there, he for-
got to mark the manner of the meeting between the two
women. :

Then, before. he ,had. been able to. say more than ‘‘ Why
didn’t you tell me you were coming this morning?” and to
hear her low reply, ‘‘I didn’t know it myself till an hour
ago,” the Vincents and. Greshams came In, and Lance was

As may be supposed, there had been an explanation of-
fered and accepted about that awkward fall which Mr.
Barker had been the means (the innocent means, he declar-
ed) of giving Lance before that. gentleman dined at the
Woodlands. ‘ Sed

The owner of Oakleigh Towers and the master of the
Woodlands, were, to allseeming, on a very fair footing now.
As-host, Mr. Barker wascalled upon to bestow. the boon, of
his:attention on all alike.

But he had taken care to plant Mr. Urquhart next to
Mrs. Brantholme—an arrangement which Lance found
eminently satisfactory whenever Geraldine Vincent let him
alone. aS
‘* Our hostess, doesn’t play a very prominent, part in the
entertainment, as far as 1t has gone yet, does she 2”? Dina

| whispered, once to Lance, under cover of a burst of loud

talking at the other end of the table. pce
«She contributes her Deets !” he replied, as he spoke at
the lady in question, who, with one hand resting upon the

table, the wrist of it serying as a support for the fingers of

the other, was watching her husband intently with her
quiet blue eyes. | ea ae
‘<It strikes me that she has ‘contributed ’ more than her
beauty to other, dinner-tables,” Dina muttered, wriggling
about in a springy way, that brought her, shoulders into
close’ proximity to Lance’s, and caused her bright, puffed
hair a to/touch his ear. se Fe

‘* What ?” he asked ; but he spoke it hesitatingly, feel-
ing convinced that something ill-natured was coming,
which ‘he might not be able to repel. aT

¢* Her -services,. probably, Ida decides that she has
developed into this, from a barmaid or a ballot girl. I
say either a——”

*< Perhaps it will be as well.for you not to say it here,” he
replied, coldly, and Dina made up her mind to pay Mrs.
Barker, out for this partizanship when they should be
together in that social crucible, the drawing-room, before
the men came in. ; vat

It was a drawing-room, as has been seen, that of neces-
sity threw the woman very much upon themselves. There
was not a single thing in it to divert their attention from
each other. The,mistress of the mansion must have been
a brave woman to walk unconcernedly as she did into that
room, in the wake of her guests, if she had the remotest
notion of what was to follow.

“I won’t leave you alone with the women long, Madge,
her husband had said to her, at the end of a lot of direc-
tions for her safe conduct, which he had enunciated, that

»”

mae anata
i

‘ like it. Sing it till the men’ come in.

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES. 87

 

 

morning. ‘‘Be the finelady if they question too closely,
and tell them you were never interested in it, and so forget
entirely where my business house was |”

In. reply to this, she nodded, and said, ‘‘ Very, well,”
and he had: been fain to content himself with that proof
of her appreciation of the difficulties of the position, and
the means he had suggested to her of getting over it.

When the fair quartette—and what. a fair one it was !—
got well into the room, Mrs. Barker, for the first time
within, the hearing of any one of them, volunteered a re-

“mark, ‘‘ I’m very subject to rheumatism in the face,” she
said, looking at Mrs. Brantholme, ‘‘and talking makes it
worse ; so perhaps you'll excuse me, and amuse yourselves
—there are some books and the piano.”

She offered these sugaveuons hesitatingly, but not hum-
bly, or eyen shyly. She offered them as one who was unac-
customed to the task, but not at all as one who was afraid
of it.

Whether these women who had devolyed upon her were
dull, or delighted in her society, seemed a matter of indif-
ference to the self-possessed, silent mistress of the mansion.

For afew minutes the guests stood about the round table,
and tried the books recommended, and were hopeful of
coffee.. But the books palled upon them, and the coffee
did not come ; and the hostess sat steadily looking into the
fire.

“Couldn’t you sing ?” Miss Vincent asked, ‘softly, of
Mrs. Brantholme at. last.

“Tf you like,” Mrs. Brantholme replied.

Then Miss Vincent sank down on the little couch, and
Mrs. Brantholme opened the piano, and began to sing Clari-
bel’s sweet melody, ‘‘I Cannot Sing the Old Songs.”

Her soft, rich, sympathetic voice rose and sank with a
strangely thrilling swell on those notes which are wedded
to the words that give the song its title. tO

Eyen Mrs. Barker appeared to feel the influence of the
low, tremulous contralto, for she withdrew her gaze from
the fire, and fixed it on the pretty woman who was: breath-
ing forth reminiscences, apparently. —

‘iiss Vincent marked the movement, and partly out of a
certain indifferent good nature, which frequently prompted
her to give pleasure when it came easier to her than any-
thing else, she said, aloud, ‘Over again, please. We all

Then she got up,
and whispered laughingly to Mrs. Brantholme, ‘Mr.
Urquhart will take it as a lyrical compliment, delicately
veiled, to his wandering propensities!”

‘Mrs. Brantholme’s violet eyes glanced up at the laughing

oung lady with a power of interrogation im them that Miss

Vinceat was unable to resist.

«Well, he might take it as such, shall I say? I saw him
promenading very properly before papa and the parlor win-
dows for an hour at least; and the last time’I saw him
before this, you know, was with you.”

“‘How am I to know anything about the last time you
saw him, Ida?” ae

‘She went on playing as she asked this; and, under cover
of the music, Ida ee carelessly, ‘‘ You’re not going to
disown your friendship, are you? We have all been think-
ing it such a charming, unworldly sort of arrangement—a
convenient one, too.”

‘Do you mean our proposed sledging party? That’s the
only arrangement I know anything about. Really, Mr.
Urquhart will be very much obli to you when he hears
what an interest his humble schemes have for you.”

*«J do not pretend to be magnanimous enough to feel the
slightest interest in Mr. Urquhart any longer. While he
reigned alone at Ashleigh Towers, he was worth thinking
about; but he will soon, I fancy, be not so much the master
of Ashleigh Towers as the husband of —”

The door opened. Mr. Brantholme, Mr. Vincent, and
ae Gresham came into the room, and Ida checked her
speech, and sauntered a step or two forward to say a few
words to her brother, and to give a smile of promise to Mr.
Gresham, which experience had taught her was all-sufficient

} Miss Geraldine continued.

 

to keep him close. to her till some one else intervened. ‘The
some one had been Lance Urquhart of late; but Ida judged,’
and meget him rightly, that that unfinished sentence of
hers would give Mr. Urquhart ample occupation when he
joined them. __

Meanwhile, Geraldine had been giving utterance to a few
of those mixtures of idle curiosity and utter impertinences,
for which, under the more euphonious name of home truths,
she was famous. So

Before this evening, the sisters had seen very little of
their hostess. They had called once, urged to the move by
their brother’s enthusiastic mention of the love-lines of the
wife of the new man at the Woodlands, and their call had
been unsatisfactory.

Mrs. Barker had received them with a composed face,
and a terrier puppy in her arms, and she had confined the
conversation entirely to the latter, with a skill that’ con-
cealed itself, and seemed the purest accident, until they
were away from her, and had time to think about it.

But, to-night, Miss Geraldine Vincent was determined to
make the woman, whose beauty and quietude combined ‘to
make her so exceptional a being, speak and say somé-
thing which should enable them to decide what she was by
what. she had been. :

There was no fault to find with her self-possessed, almost
stately bearing. There was not the shadow of vulgarity
about her face, form, expression, or dress.

It depended entireiy on what could be eliminated from
herself about herself whether she should be pronounced
grande dame or grossly. depraved. : (

Whichever the designation, there were those in abundance
ready to declare that they had known it all along from her
manner. me

‘How do you like the country, after London?” Dina’
commenced, standing with one foot on the fender, looking
not at the woman she was about to put onthe rack, but at
her own radiant, blooming, golden-framed face in the glass.

“Very much,” was the concise reply. ;

“Perhaps, though, Mr. Barker lived out of town? Where
did I understand his busines house was?”

“T really don’t know where you understood his house of
business was,” the quiet beauty answered, with an absence
of all hurry or hesitation.

Dina changed her foot, moved her chair upto geta new
view of her face, and resumed: ? uo

“Then where was it; or was he ‘sleeping partner,’ don’t
you call it?”

Mrs.. Barker, shook her head.

«J never called it anything of the sort.”

Ah, Isee; you disown the City, and all interest in it.

Mrs. Barker did not refute the accusation, for a simple
reason—she did not quite understand it.

“« The part of town I should like to live in is Park Lane,” -
“‘That’s a charming situation,
isn’t it? Were you living near the Park?”

“ Close to it,” Mrs. Barker replied, truthfully enough.

The park, to her, for some years, had been that one which
opens upon the suburban villa and donkey-ridden tract,
which was once ‘‘ wild Blackheath,” and the shop at the
corner had been very near to it.

‘Have you forgotten the name of the place you lived in,
too?” Geraldine asked. ee

The wild rose tint deepened on the face of the questioned
as.she answered, ‘‘ No, I have not forgotten it.”

“But you don’t wish to tell me?”

“Why should I wish to tell you?” Mrs. Barker asked,
innocently; and then Geraldine had to acknowledge her-
self baffled, for Mr. Barker came into the room alone, and
his wife rose, rather eagerly, and went to meet him.

At the sound of the opening door, Mrs. Brantholme had
also got up from her seat at the piano, But as soonas she
had planted herself on the little couch that only held two,
she discovered that she had only made her move for
nothing. 'There was no chance of a ¢ete-a-tete with Lance
Urquhart—no possibility of an explanation from him of the

 
  

/

Bo

 

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

meaning of that, unfinished sentence of Miss Vincent’s:
“For Mr. Urquhart had gone home, not feeling very well,”
the hostess was saying aloud, as she looked up.

For a short time the men stood about, trying to look as
if they found the entertainment of a passably amusing
nature; .and the ladies furtively watched the minute
hand of the clock creeping around to that hour at which
they Could leave with credit. A change had come over the
master of the house—a change that each ene noticed. He
was flushed and constrained, nervous and irritable ; and,
when his guests made a moye to go, he was evidently
neartily glad to get rid of them. As soon as he was alone
with his wife, he exclaimed, ‘‘ That fellow spotted me
through an expression I used at dinner, it seems.”

«<Did he tell the others ?” she asked, curiously.

“No!” he growled. ‘‘If he had, I’d. have wrung his
neck! He waited till they came in here, and then he rose
up, and called me a social swindler, and swore that, unless
I cleared out of the neighborhood, or showed myself to it
in. my, true colors in a week, that he would save me the
trouble by doing the latter himself. In a week he had
better look to himself. Meanwhile——”

He ground out the last words in a way that caused a
slight shiver to pass over the frame of the woman who had
heard him. “ Don’t hurt him! You won’t hurt him!”
she said, quickly.

He-went and leant over the chair in which his wife was
seated, placing his hands on her shoulders, and grasping
them heavily.

“Madge, you don’t care about him, too? ‘Then, by
Heayen, Pll crush him, if I can!” he said pressing her
down almost cruelly, as he spoke, to give emphasis to his
words, ‘‘Speak you, woman! Why don’t you say ‘some-
thing ?”

“Don’t hurt him !” she repeated, piteously.. ** He tried
to make me easy-directly he came in to-night. Don’t you
hurt him! Let us get away from this; and—do you let
him alone |” aor

“‘Let him alone to. trample me down as low as he likes,
and to marry her, as they say he will? No, no, Madge;
that’s not my way !” :

He moved his hands from her shoulders as he brought
his sentence to a conclusion, and went over to the fireplace.
Then he leant his arms on the mantelpiece, and bent his
big, black, bullet head down upon them ; and, presently,
the quiet woman sitting there was startled out of her pen-
siveness by a sob. ea

“‘Tt’s not worth that,” she said, with hardly suppressed
tenderness, getting up and going over to him. ‘Don’t
hurt him! Think of me, and let him have her if he likes!
But it’s not worth that!”

a CHAPTER XXII,

, CONFIRMATION STRONG.

THERE is considerable excitement in the first waltz for
the season, after a lengthened period of total abstinence
from. its giddy delights,. more especially if ate nea of in
company with the waltzerof your heart. There is some-
thing fsa agitating in the first flush of your knowl-
edge that your name is figuring in fair-sized type, in con-
nection aR some laudatory and apposite remarks relative
to some successful offspring of your imagination. ‘There
is intensé gratification in finding yourself still on the back
of a horse, of which you had not felt quite ‘sure, the mo-
ment, after he had .taken a hedge, of which you had pre-!
vious doubts! There is mental intoxication in the dawn of
the discovery that you are capable of such sensations. There
is intense satisfaction, of an emotional order, in the reali-
zation of Loye’s young dream. © There is profound pleasure
in: the feeling that you are drawing near to the mark at which
you aimed on. starting in life; but it may be questioned if
one of these feelings can compare with the exhilaration
which besets one when sliding rapidly, noiseléssly over the

 

 

snow, behinda.team of well-handled horses.
Lance Urquhart’s sledge had come down by the night-

*%

train as hehad projected; and the snow had ‘subscribed: to
his wishes, and remained half-frozen' on’ the ground. A
handsome, plain, serviceable, roomy sledge, in the which
neither four horses nor six people would look out of, place.
A waggonette sledge, in fact, far too domestic in appear-
ance to please ‘Mr. Lance Urquhart at first sight.

“It’s suggestive of a wife and half a dozen children,” he
said, grumblingly, to his sister, as they stood together look-
ing at it, while the horses were being put to. A groom had
already been over to Mrs. Brantholme with a statement ‘as
to the sledge haying arrived, and a request that she would
fix her own hour for availing herself of it; and he had just
returned the bearer of a message that did not bode procras-
tination on her part, even to the impatient Lance.

“What sort of a sledge did you want, Lance?” Mrs.
Cayendish asked. ‘‘If you had. a wife, you might drive her
about in a graceful shell, with a groom suspended airily
behind; but as we’re all goin ee

“‘ Whom do you mean by all?” he interrupted.

“‘ Mrs, Brantholme, Belle, and myself, of course.”

“‘Don’t. you see that this is Mrs. Brantholme’s party,
Snowdrop?” he said, quickly, and there was a mighty in-
crease of color on his brow as he said it.,

“‘T don’t see it exactly,” she said; ‘‘but even if it is,
what then?” ;

Heturned and walked toward the house, without answer-
ing her.

“it was on the morning after that dinner party at the
Barkers’, from which Lance had so abruptly departed, that
this. conversation took place.

““What can have gone wrong with Lance?” his sister
thought, as she followed him quickly; ‘“‘he has not been
like himself this morning.” ae

When she came up to him as they were entering the
house, she said, brightly, ‘‘I have not seen Belle for many
days, dear. Am I wrong in pressing the mention of her
upon you? ‘This is no love of interference, Lance. I love
her dearly—so well, that if you do not care to speak of her,
I cannot care to make you.’

<‘T have yet to find out whether I can ever care to. speak
of her or to her again,” he said.  ‘‘ I.can’t go into details,
they’d drive me mad; but I will tell you this much, Snow-
drop: I recognized last night in this man who calls himself
Barker, as, unmitigated a scoundrel as ever breathed, I had
recognized his wife before as someone too dubious for you
to know, but I passed that over. As far as other people
were concerned, those Barkers would have been free to live
their swindle, But Icould not blink this fellow’s identity
when I knew who he was ve +

‘Who. is he?” Clara interrupted...

‘* I ean’t go, into details, I, tell you,
nected, with my regimental, experience. I was the cause
of this fellow’s disgrace and dismissal from the service. He
thinks I was the cause of his being flogged. Last night I
warned him that if he did not go away from this neigh-
borhood, I would expose him; and, in return, he threatened
me——’ : oa ad

Lance stopped, choked bya passion, of agitation; and his
sister, whohad drawn him into a quiet corner in the library,
bent over him, kissing his brow, as she asked, ‘* With what,
dearest Lance—my own. dear, dear brother? No threat.can
haye any effect on, you!” | :
| Lance liftedyhis head, and answered with.a sort of bitter
resignation and intensity that was a new thingin him: |

“He stabbed. me where I was most vulnerable,” he said.
‘He dragged in her name—the name of@the woman I
wanted to marry!” { rots 04

** But, Lance, this is madness!, You.can never be so un-
just—to say nothing of being so ungenerous——as to visit the
sins.of a scamp, who, dares to name ‘her, upon. dear Belle!”

“¢ He called: her that! Lance: almost shouted. ) ‘‘ He
showed me letters, in her handwriting, signed his ‘ Always
loving Belle? There; it’s out now! She has known and
loved this scoundrel whom gentlemen cannot know!”

 

 

The story is con-

>

 

»

 

 
 

LANCE URQUHART’S LOVES. 3a

 

 

«And you are. going to pide her unheard!” Clare said,
in her ringing yoice. ‘‘ You are going to let this man’s
assertion (believing him to be a scoundrel) weigh down your
knowledge of her truth and purity! Lance, im ashamed.
and disappointed!”

“ But she has told me there is a bar between us that may
never be broken down!” he muttered. ‘‘No, Snowdrop,
there is something in it! What it is, Heaven knows! Per-
haps, it would be kinder to her not to attempt to find
out. 5

‘And so throw away your happiness without making an
effort to retain it!” she exclaimed. ‘* Lance, you must not
do it—you shall not do it!”

*‘T cannot help myself,” he said. “‘ Come, Snowdrop;
the sledge is round. It’s no use talking about her any more
now, as I have promised to drive Mrs. Brantholme out to-
day. We must start.”

“Not to-day—no, Lance!” pleaded his sister. r

“What nonsense! Come along, Snowdrop. It’s better
T should go out than stay in, brooding over it, and conjur-
ing op all manner of horrible visions and possibilities.”

“Tt is not better that’ you should: go out with Mrs.
Brantholme to-day,” she said, energetically. <‘* You ought
to see Belle, and tell her your fears and doubts, and beg
her to clear them up at once.”

He shook his head in decided negation to the proposition.

“Then I will not go with you, for you are very, verv
wrong, Lance!” she said, passionately.

So Lance Urquhart went out, with Mrs. Brantholme by
his side, and a couple of grooms behind, and ‘all the neigh-
borhood ” knew about and canvassed the indiscretion before
nightfall.

efore nightfall too, Clare Cavendish was ina kind of
despair. Assoon as Lance left her that morning she had
sought her husband, and told him as much as she could
remember of that which Lance had told to her.

«There is some bad mystery, but Lance ought to get to
the bottom of it before he gives her up,” Captain Cavendish
said, when his wife shad finished; and. Clare replied,
“‘There is some fell mystery, and I will get to the bottom
of it myself, since Lance is so wickedly obstinate that he
won't try. Oh, George! I did think all my anxieties about
my brother wer? well over; they are setting in worse than
ever. If this comes to nothing with Belle, where will he
drift? ;

“*I see, you take it for granted that she is perfectly
blameless,” Captain Cavendish said, laughing; ‘‘ that’s like

ou, Clare. Lance may not be able to help himself, you
now. I confess the whole thing looks like a plant on that
fellow Barker’s part; but still, it’s dark.”

«J will try to lighten it,” Clare said.
Belle at once.”

.*£ You can’t drive over this ground.”

‘Then I will walk,” she said. ‘‘ No, George, it’s no use
your saying don’t, because I will. I shall get ready this
instant, and go before those abominable Vincents spread
the report of that foolish boy driving the woman ont.”

Accordingly, in pursuance of her plan, Mrs. Cavendish
did walk over, and demand an interview with Belle. In
reply to her demand, she learned that Miss Denyille was
out, and that it was very uncertain when she would return;
and that Mr, Denville was very busy, and had given orders
not to be disturbed that morning.

It, was very hard—very, very hard ; for Mrs. Cavendish
had walked fast, and was nearly worn out with the unac-
customed fatigue, and with conflicting emotions. However,
as it was, there was nothing. for her to do but to leave an
urgent note, making an appointment with Belle, and then
to return to Oakleigh Towers, to take further thought as to
what she had better say when she should compass the much
desired interview with Miss Denyille.

*T will go and see

The high road to Oakleigh Towers from Hunton was

straight, and a straight road is ever a dreary’ one to travel.
pienly Clare Cavendish remembered that:there was.a by-
lane that skirted some plantations, and led to the back

 

premises of Oakleigh Towers. It was. rather longer, but
a very much pleasanter way. Accordingly, when she came
to the turn into the lane, Mrs. Cavendish took it. It was a
pretty winding path between high hedges for about half a
mile ; then the hedges disappeared, and the road became a
walk through a little avenue of beeches in a plantation.

“Tt seems so far from human habitation, that I should
not care towalk here when the trees are in leaf. It must
be a little too secluded then,” Mrs.\Cavendish thought ; and
she quickened her steps, and began to wish that she had
not quitted the high road.

Presently she wished it with tenfold force. In the still,
rarified air of this frosty winter day, sound: traveled a great
distance, and for a minute or two she fancied she heard
distant voices and footsteps. They seemed to be in advance
of her on her right, so she looked down every opening
amongst the trees, and at last she saw ab some considerable
distance two people standing, and apparently conversing
eagerly. In another moment, their profiles - stood out
sharply. Mrs. Cavendish recognized Bell Denville and the
master of the Woodlands Cottage ; saw that Belle was cry-
ing, and that he, that strange man, was trying to soothe
her, and knew that she could do nothing now but let Lance
judge for himself.

She had only seemed to pause for an instant or two ; but
so much,had taken place. The man had his hat in his hand
when she first caught sight of him, and his hair had shone
with a yellow gleam in the sun. But, while she stood look-
ing on, he had put on a mass of bushy, dark hair, and
stooped and kissed Belle on the forehead, and Bella had
permitted the caress—and Clare could look no longer.
She could only rush home in wild, miserable haste, and
tell these things to her husband, and sob over this wretched
awakening from the dream of happiness and security
which she had dreamt for Lance. She determined to have
no concealments from her brother. What she had to tell,
Lance had to hear on his return from that inauguration of
the sledge which had promised to be so pleasant when it
was first proposed. He heard it in a moody silence, that
wrung his sister’s heart; but she dared not shrink from
her hard task.

**T shall go off to town to-morrow,” he said, when Clare
had finished ; and as, in spite of her endeavors to alter
this resolve, he would adhere to it, Clare entreated her
husband ‘‘to take her up too—not to leave Lance alone
while he was wild.”

So they went away from Oakleigh Towers the followin
day, and all the neighborhood hinted at ‘‘a scandal,” an
Miss Denville was more pitied, and Mrs. Brantholme more
distrusted, than ever. But before they left Clare had
written to Belle—written a passionate, loving, incoherent,
earnest letter to her, telling the girl what Lance had heard,
and what she herself had seen, and imploring Belle to tell
them what it meant. And Belle had kissed the letter,
and cried over it, and had then burnt it. Rang the bell.
When the. servant came in answer to her summons, Miss
Denville had said, ‘Tell the messenger from Oakleigh
Towers that there is no answer.” :

A few days after this the neighborhood had something
else to talk about. All the shutters were closed in the
Woodlands Cottage, and a big black board was hung up
just inside that hedge above which Mrs. Barker had risen
and startled Lance’s horse, which announced, by means of
large white letters, that ‘‘ This house was to let, furnished.”
The Barkers were gone as suddenly and mysteriously as
they came. But the neighborhood had a still greater ‘sur-
prise in store for it. Oakleigh Towers had been deserted
about three weeks, when the Vincents came to callion Miss
Denville. Idahad come to communicate two important
facts. . The one was her own engagement to Mr. Gresham;
the other was the disappearance of Mrs. Brantholme. “ She’s
run away, and it’s not with Lord Oxburgh,” Ida said.
“There are all sorts of reports.” ss

‘Are there?” said Belle, ¢oldly. ‘Ido not intend to
listen to one of them.” OD HOY

 
 

LANOE URQUHART’S LOVES.

 

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
PH R BOR Y RAR 8: A FT BRI

One. day, when these events which I haye narrated had
fallen into the background, and showed themselves in softer
colors through a yista.of years, there came a great change
in Belle. Denville’s sad life. The work on comparative
philology on which Mr..Denyille had been engaged for
years was nearly ready for the press, when death stepped in
and. arrested, his labors, and, Belle was left alone in the
world. In. all these years she had heard nothing of either
Lance Urquhart or Mrs: Brantholme. They had both of
them,gone away, and made no sign. Mr. Brantholme, in
his character of bereaved and outraged husband, had put
detectives on the track of his wife, but they had been given
a falsestart, and all. their inquiries failed to illicit more than
this fact—that Lance Urquhart had sailed for India with his
sister and her husband. Of Mrs. Brantholme they could
hear nothing.

During al these years, too, Belle Denville had never been
known to make a sign that.could haye been taken as indi-
cative of a desire to renew the old relations with Lance, or
even of a wish to hear; anything, about him.
jilted her so cruelly,” people said, ‘‘ that it had stultified
her.” But they never said, this to her. She had taken her
stand on silenee,|and none could; move her from it. Mr.
Gresham! and. Ida were married long ago, so entirely had
Miss Vincent given up the hope of the lord of Oakleigh
Towers coming back while her bloom was left to her, Now
that she had a good establishment,of her own, Mrs. Gresham
was mightily indifferent, about,who might reign over her
brother’s, and. often roused Dina’s.ire by expressing a wish
that. ‘‘ Rowley! would fall; in. loye with Belle Denville oyer
again, and save her from being an old maid.” But Rowley
either feared his fate too much, ordid. not think Belle Den-
ville would brighten it now... At any rate, he never asked
her, to share it with him,.and people said that Belle Denville
had overstood her market... When Mr. Denville died, the
patron of the living, whom everybocy declared to be ‘‘ very
odd,” did the oddest; thing he had eyer done in life, and
gave it to a man who really deserved it—Mi. Harley. Belle
did not see| him for, some weeks after, her father’s death,
but when she heard that; he had got the liying, she wrote
to tell him she was glad it,.was he rather than any other,

and to,ask him to come to give ,her,some advice in.a great
difficulty that was oppressing her. When he came, accord-
ing to her command, there was. that,in the dignified .com-
posure and resignation of this fair young girl, who,had been
so-cruelly loved and left, that touched him to the heart.
It struck, him forcibly again, as it had often struck him
before, that if she could but bury her dead, and. love him
well enough
indeed. This thought was filling his mind when she said
to him, ‘‘I,want. you to help me to find Lance Urquhart,
Mr. Harley.” ;

‘“1'o find him?—for what?” he asked.

«That I may tell him I am, not unworthy of his love,
if he can give it to me still after these three years of dis-
trust,” she said; and then she went on to tell him why
Lance and herself had parted, what Lance had heard from
Mr. Barker, and what Clare Cavendish had seen in, the
wood.

When she had finished, she. asked, ‘‘ And was it not
enough to drive any man from me?” __

He could not speak, so she answered. herself.

“Tt was—it was, I tell you! I could. not answer Clare’s
letter, for I had made a vow to my father never to tell my
secret while he lived, and I would not ask him to release
me from it. .Why, you, are doubting me—you, who care
nothing for me ; ca Lance loved me so, that it was no
wonder it nearly maddened him. The bare facts, as Lance
heard them, were enough to drive any man from any woman!
I know that. Now I will solve the mystery for you, and
you will make it clear to Lance Urquhart for me—won’t
you, dear old friend ?”

**He had’

to marry him, that his.cup of joy would be full’

 

Belle, blind to what he was feeling, went’ on: 7 7°"

“This is the whole of it, and it’s little enough, ‘though
it has made much sorrow. My mother was a widow when
my father married her. She was such a beauty! I’m like!
a bad photograph of her, and papa simply adored her. He
was so.proud-of her, that it nearly amounted to idolatry.
She had one, son. by her former. marriage (David his
name was), and he was brought up like papa’s son and my ‘
brother; and though he has been the cause of all the
trouble of my life, I love him now! He was always wild’ ”
and reckless, and long before we came to Hunton he had.
done something so bad that he wasn’t safe from the law.
That killed poor mamma, and papa. could not forgive her’
death... Then he enlisted as a common soldier in the same
regiment, with Lance Urquhart, and Lance was the cause of
his being punished and dismissed the service. :

“Can you guess that it was he who came here more, than.
three: years ago, and took. the Woodlands ? Papa never
knew it; butLance recognized him, and, I believe, threat-
ened him; and David got mad, and said things of me that.
made! Lance think David bad been my lover, not my broth-
er; and I was tongue-tied, vow-bound! Oh, Mr. Harley,.
Thave suffered; so much, that, now I may speak, I can’t
keep silence any longer !”

«There isno need for it.any longer !” he said.

And then he thought, of Mrs, Brantholme, and shrank
from the thought of Belle throwing herself,on the mercy
of a man who might be already bound. era

“Write to. Mrs... Cavendish,” he, said.‘ What she
knows, her brother will soon know ; and it will be better, I
think, if you really want.my advice.” Wettios.

So the next Indian mail took out ian explanatory letter
to Clare, who would have’ been frantic with, delight if she.
had ‘not ‘been sobered by the reflection that. she did not
know exactly-where ‘to find her brother. Lance had, left
India two years: before, and had. been wandering up, and .
down the face of the earth ever since’ in # way that seemed,
Jangerously erratic to his sister. fay Big

But Clara Cavendish was a practical woman’;:and instead
of weakly endeavoring to make Lance conscious that he.
was wanted through the medium of advertisements, she
wrote to his banker—‘‘ For’ Lance is’ sure to want money,
often,’ she argued. P41 &

There is very little more to be told. The note of prepar-'
ation for the reception of its: master was, after atime,
sottnded at Oakleigh Towers, and he'came back, and. for-|
gave, and was forgiven. ( YGutt mel). 150%
| The Barkers, as they called themselves, made no attempt’
to. mar Belle’s: happiness. On that day when Clare’ Caven-
dish had seen him in the wood with his ‘half-sister, he had.
taken his leave of Belle for ever, and had half-broken
poor Belle’s heart. by praying her forgiven?ss of that love
for her, and longing to see her, which had brought him .
down to her destruction, nearly. Where he and his wife
had gone was not know. The pretty tobacconist was a
mistress of the art of mystery. ier

Shortly before Lance Urquhart and Belle were married,
Mr. Brantholme died; and soon after they came home from
their wedding-tour, Mrs, Brantholme wrote to her old
friend Belle.

She was going to resume her name, and no longer hide
from the world, she told them; but she judged it best not
to see any old friends of the Oxburgh Hall neighborhood
again.

“Lance glowed a little when his wife read this ae
to him, and Belle went on hastily to read that Mes: rant-
holme had been living during these three years as compan-
ion to an old lady “who had known her in her girlhood,
before her most unhappy marriage had nearly made her a
worse woman than nature intended her to be.”

So ends the story of Lance Urquhart’s Loves.

87 Safely Mlarried. By the author of “Carte.” -
88. Florette, Child of the Street, By Colonel Prentiss Ingraham.

He promised her that he would do as she wished him, and