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Cecil’s Tryst.

BY JAMES PAYN.

CHAPTER L
GATCOMBE.

Ir you know the south country, you must needs
have heard of the Wrays of Gatcombe. They repre-
sented Sandylandshire for three successive Parlia-
ments, and ruined themselves in endeavoring to do
so in the fourth, in the teeth of Fate and the Reform
Bill. It used to be a boast of the
race that none of them had ever ac-
cepted subordinate political office
—and no high one was ever offered
to them, for they had not good
brains—nor a title from a minister.
They would have been peers if they
could—perhaps; but to have been
Sir Frederick Wray, Bart., would
have been to be the last of a third-
rate order; while to be Fred Wray
of Gatcombe was to be the first of
Sandylandshire notables, The head
of the house was always a Fred-
erick, and the name-was abbrevi-
ated by the country-folk for love—
if the affectionate regards of a con-
stituency can be so entitled. When
the Wrays lost their seat and their
** position,” they began to be intel-
lectual. The first who inaugurated
this regime was my father.

His young brother, Thomas, was
also a clever fellow in a very differ-
ent line. He was a soldier of for-
tune; which in those days meant a
soldier who had the art of acquir-
ing other people’s fortunes—mostl
those of the natives of India. He
quitted home, to open the Hindos-
tan oyster with his sword, before
I came into the world, and never
saw the white cliffs of . England
again; so Uncle Tom and I never
met. As a memory, however, he
had more substantiality in my eyes
than many whom I have been ac-
quainted with in the flesh, WhenI
was a boy of ten, his doings had
not died out of mind in the country
vet, and the recital of them inter
ested me amazingly. His feats at
election-time—the election that had
ruined us all—had, in particular,

uite a magical attraction for me,

f pluck and straight hitting from
the shoulder could have won my
father his seat, the partisanship of
Uncle Tom would have secured it
for him; he drove about with the
gold in bags, and sowed it broad-
cast; he spoke in public, such words
against our adversary as (at the
time) invited pistol-shots, and they
were welcome to him; he “ néutra-
lized” five-and-twenty adverse
votes by standing throughout ‘ne
poll-day at the head of the ce.iar
stairs at the Red Lion at Lipton.
with a shutter-bar fn his hand, and
daring the imprisoned “free and
independent ” to “come on.”” When
a “dead lift’? was necessary, our
agent said that there was no man
that could be so thoroughly de-
ended upon as Mr. Tom. ly dmother had
rish bk in her veins, which, it is said, accounted
for it; but notwithstanding this charitable view of
his chg ‘acter—which was, after all, only taken by
our side, the losing one—and the warm affection
that existed between the brothers, I think it was
rather a relief to my father when Tom went to ex-
pend his superfluous energies in India.

It was thro pape that there was some difficulty in
getting him off; not that he didn’t wish to go, but
that he was ‘‘ wanted”’ by the police in respect to
some frivolous and vexatious charge, to answer
which might, nevertheless, have delayed him for

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some years. Indeed, it was to avoid this trouble-
some matter he never came home again,

After our political fiasco, my father retired into
— life, which, indeed, the peed state of his

mances. would have compelled him to do at any
rate; but the fact was, he was by nature inclined
for study and seclusion. He had few sympathies in
common with those of the county families about
him, He was no sportsman; would never even have
preseryed his game, had it mot been for my uncle’s
sake, in whose eyes a pheasant was, what few other
objects were, a sacred thing; and when he did ride
he rode cobs. At the time I speak of there was but
one even of those humble animals in the great

stables at Gatcombe, formerly so well filled with
champing steeds; though afterwards (as Bae ‘shall
hear) we did increase our stud a little. e home
established, generally, was upon a very limited
scale, considering the size of the house itself, which
was wr goa. Under its roof the Wrays had lived
and died for centuries, and my father clung to it in
his fallen fortunes; otherwise I don’t think he cared
very much about being called Fred Wray of Gat-
combe, nor, indeed, for fame at all, though it were
of a much less questionable sort. If he prided him-
self on anything, it was on his philosophy. He was
a scholar of a very rare kind; not in Greek or Latin

Copyrighted 1881, by BEADLE AND ADAMS,

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“BACK, BACK!” CRIED MY FATHER, ‘LEAVE SPACE AROUND THE PIT’s MOUTH."

 

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November 3, 1881.

No. 119

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Price, Ten Cents,

—though he was not ignorant of those languages—
but in old English literature, chiefly of the Eliza-
bethan era, he drama of that period was his
oes delight. He knew all Shakspeare, 1 verily
believe, by heart; but his favorite quotations were
from the contemporaries of our great national poet,
such as Green and. Marlowe, Dekker and Webster,
the application of whose lines to modern circum-
stances sounded in unlearned ears absurdly enough,
and somewhat weirdly also. The first recollections
I have of my father—with his pointed Vandyck
beard, and in the long red dressing-gown which was
his usual wear till midday, sonorously reciting from
the old playwrights—are those of a kindly magician.
No poet ever imagined a kindlier
soul, though it was his humor to
hide his tenderness behind a thin
veil of banter. One practice in
pertcular, he adopted from one of
is favorite authors, namely, the
addressing of those he loved, best
by the most unloving tifles: thus,
I have heard him call Aunt Ben
“Sycorax;”’ and even on one oc-
casion, when he wished to be es-
pecially affectionate, ‘Thou Sty-
gian Witch,” which sounded very
surprisingly to a stranger. Aunt
Ben was my maiden aunt, Miss
Benita Wray, who presided over
the household, and had done so
ever since my mother’s death, which
happened in my infancy. She had
the utmost respect for my father,
and understood him thoroughly,
though withont attempting to enter
into his pursuits, Her literature,
indeed, was confined to the titles
of jam-pots in the preserve cup-
board, with one remarkable excep-
tion. She was so assiduous a stu-
dent of the Bible, and gifted with
so marvelous a memory, that she
could give chapter and verse for
every text. In this accomplish-
ment of Aunt Ben’s my father took
especial pride, and was forever
endeavoring to confound her.
Gatcombe Manor—for the house
still went by its own name, though
the manor had passed into other
hands than ours—was a huge rect-
angular building of no particular
style, the design of which (if its
architect ever had any) seemed to
have been to inclose a space in its
center, called ‘the court,” into
which half the bedroom windows
looked, to the great depression of
their tenants’ spirits. It was paved,
and had a @raw-well in it, which
my infant mind associated with the
wicked doin of little Bobby
Greene. “Did you know por
Greene, papa,” I once inquired,
‘*who drowned the poor catY”’
““T knew him well,” he answered,
“Was it a tortoise-shell,” said I,
pathetically, ‘like ours?”

“‘Tt was buxom, and blithe, and
young, I ween;

Beauteous like a summer's queen;

For her sides were ruddy hued,

As if lilies were imbru

With drops of blood, to make the

white

Please the eye with more de-

light.’”’

Then to stop the tears set flowing by this tender
picture, he ded, still felicitously quoting from
even an older Bobby Greene than mine:

“ «Weep not, my wanton; smile upon my knee;

When thou art old, there’s grief enough for thee.’ ”

And thus from my earliest’ years was I regaled
with tags and snatches of old verse, till they grew
as familiar as nursery rhymes.

My father had a rooted antipathy to all schools de-
rived, I fancy, from some unpleasant personal experi-
ence of them,and educated me himself at home. When
any remonstrance was made with him on this ac.

eee

 
)
, 4

OECIL'S TRYST.

 

count—which was but,seidom, for there were few who [

had the right to interfere in such a matter, and fewer
still who cared.to “tackle’’ him upon any. subject on
which ‘he was known to have a prejudice—he had this
cut-and-dry reply: “If my boy liyes, he will know
more thatis worth knowing than your prize-school prig;

and if he dies, hé will at least have had a happy boy-’

hood.” ‘The latter part of this statement I can honestly
corroborate. I had a pony of my own, plenty of pocket
money, and a leaping-pole, the charms of which last are,

I notice, almost unknown to the boys of to-day. At:

twelve, though’a tall boy, Icould cléar my own height
with ease; while as for breadth, there was scarce a
brook in the country side that I could not fly over like
a bird. The pole, strong, supple, and light, was’ at
least ten feet long; and withits help I could go across
country, taking 9 far straighter line as to fepces than
the best hunter that my ancestors had ever crossed.
Many atime, from the steep bank of some Sandyland-
shire lane, have I cleared a returning team with their
astonished guardian, flocks of sheep, and even on one
occasion a herd of oxen. The buoyant spring, the hurt«
ling through the air, the thud of my young feet upon
the opposite bank, recur to me as I write, and stir the
sluggish blood within me even now. . Independently of
this accomplishment, the country round ‘had its
peculiar charms for a wholesome-minded lad, which,
thanks to my father, I think I was. Behind and above
the house, though it was built on high ground, stretched
an immense tablo-land of wind-swept heath, the soil of
which was finest sand. This was 4 paradise for rabbits.
Moreover, there were a thousand caverns, for the whole
place was honeycombed, for the sake of the scythe-stones
which it yielded. . For: generations it had thus been
undermined, and the work was going on still) oOne re-
sult of this was to form from tho excavations a magni-
ficent terrace, miles and miles in length, the view from
which extended over half’a dozen counties, and even, at
some points, to the ocean. The eyes’ of Columbus
could hardly have feasted on the Land of ‘the West with
greater delight than mine did upon that’ fringe of ‘sea,
to which in those days [ never approached nearer. The
sighing of the fir trees, that grew in great profusion on
the sand cliff, did duty more efficiently than I was
aware of for the unheard murmur of the waves. I can
hear them now, and amell their swéet, pungent breath,
which the wise men’ of to-day aver to be a specific
against consumption. It was not so, however, in my
time, for consumption was the scourge of Gatcombe. Not
that the village was itself unhealtiy, but that almost the
whole population—men, women, and children—worked
in the scythe-stone caverns, and thereby ‘destroyed
themselves. ;

It was impossible to persuade them to do otherwise,
because the gains of that employment were so much
greater than what could be earned in agricultural
labor. All day long, through summer and winter, the
stroke of the spade and@ the click of the hammer mingled
with the murmur of thefirsthat shook their funereal
heads above this scene, as though in sorrowful protest.
Scores of men were at work, each in his own ‘burrow—
the right to dig in which for his private behoof he pur-
chased—like bees in the cells of some huge tomb; and
the women and chiildren’helped, by wheeling away the
sand in barrows, and emptying them on the terrace.
Their husbands and fathers, working in an unyentilated
space, where there was scarcely room to turn, were in
a manner digging their own tombs. At home, it was
the women’s task to shape the stone thus obtainedinto
the form of that with which ‘the mower whets his
scythe ;’’ and they, too, were workiny for the mower
Death, for the thin particles of dust that escped during
the process into the lungs were sooner or later fatal to
them. Thus it happened that there was scarcely an old
man or old woman in all the village,

By a boy, however, such social calamities dre ill un-
derstood, if understood at all,
mind. something attractive in our. people, and which
contrasted very favorably with the looks of‘other vil-
lagers ; and it was long before Icame to know that the
bright eyes and high-colored cheeks about,us meant

Disease, and the absence of old people the King of-

Terrors. Moreover, there was no want at Gatcombe,
tor the work, such as it was, was plentiful and well
paid; while melancholy was a thing unknown (at least
as a public spectacle,), for the motto ofthe toilers was,
“A short life and a merry one,’ and their cares they
drowned in cider.

My father: and Aunt Ben did what they could to
amend this state of,things ; in particular certain masks
were purchased for the women to wear during their
hurtful toil; and if little good was effected (the chil-
dren used to play at highwaymen, I remember, in, the
masks), their endeavors were appreciated, even by those
who declined to take advantage of them. After all, I
have forgotten to mention the chief peril of the’ sand-
cliff, and which invested it in my boyish eyes *with
a ghastly interest. There was scarcely one of these
caves but had its catastrophe. A man could not pay
the sum, small as it was, that was necessary.to buy fir
poles for the support of his. cell-walls ; or (which was
more peprpon) he would dispose of them for drink,
whence
a pickaxe brought down a fall of sand upon his deyotéd
head, or, worse, brought it down behind him, 80 as to
set an impassable barrier between himself and the
world without. ‘It, was then. of small avail, even
though’ another’ were working near him, to give
the alarm, for tons wpon tons of sand were
often brought down, through which the would-be
rescuers had to dig, propping and roofing their way at
every step, lest they should’ also share the fate of the
victim, ‘The disaster was so common, that everything
was done at oncée—though almost always in vain—to
avert the catastrophe, .A messenger was dispatched on
horseback for a surgeon; and in the meantime my father
was summoned, who, with Aunt Ben, would hurry to
the ‘spot with blankets, brandy, and a lancet. | It ‘was
long before I was permitted to bea witness of such @

There was in fact, to my |

it sooner or later happened that some stroke of },

_it; was genérally brought in during

 

Bcene, but I knew a scoré'of places. where the tragedy
had occurred and had its details at my finger-ends. Some-
times a family would still work on in a cave that had ac-
tually been the living tomb of their progenitor, and
even neglect those very precautions, the lack of which

had proved fatal. to him—such contempt can familiarity.

breed of eyen death itself. Not a ghost haunted the
hill, The fate of those who perished there was held sas
natural as that which carried others to the church-yard
by a more tedious route; just as soldiers on service ré-
gard death upon the battle-field ay no more strange than
in the hospital ward. = . :

The wholesome air of high-placed Gatcombe discour-
aged all morbid: ideas; on the hottest July day there
was always a breeze upon the heath, a gentle swaying
of the pine-tops. -The woods themselves, were dowered
with an éternal beauty.’ In winter they did not Tose
their green; in summer the ‘layers of shade .aboye
kept off the heat, while beneath, at each tree-foot,
was spread a carpet of moss, in which one’s ‘limbs
Sank till they were hid.. What bliss to lie on, such,
and watch ‘through the’ #reen” roof - the clouds
sail slowly by, or twixt the straight red stems,
that fair expanse of hill and plain, the apple orelards,
the low white farms, the streams and copses, and, in the
western verge, the tall gray towers of Monkton, the ca-
thedral town! They were too far to make their iron
tongue be heard; the wood-pigeons’ coo overhead alone
broke the summer silence. That happy time went by
unnoted, the hours of which recur with, such sombre
clang to-day—the knell ofthe unburied Past. -O youth,
youth, youth! ifever thou comest back to us again,
then indeed there is a Heaven!

In myearly days, I had no"playmate save the village
boys, and many @ rough game, and rougher combat did
Ihave with them. There was one amusement that was
an especial favorite. The sand-cliff sloped on all sides;
affording the softest falling; and to run and leap outin-
to the air as faras possible, and to fall and fall was.a
glorious pastime. To the stranger such experiments
appeared suicidal—a leap from the Tarpeian Rock ; but
they were free trom danger, unless one disinhumed
one’s Self from one’s sandgrave too tardily, and the
next cleaver of the air fell, Icarus-like, upon one’s head
and shoulders. Before this sport all others paled; it
was sublime—epic.

If T had no boy-companion, Thad a friend of the gent-
ler sex in Eleanor Bourne, the vicar’s daughter. She
was called the Gipsy, from her dark complexion, but
might haye been termed so almost as fitly from the out-
of-door lifé she led. I, too, “‘ loved to hear the lark sing
rather than the mouse squeak,”’ and grudged every mo-
ment of sunshine that found me within walls; but Ihad
any father’s teaching to ‘attend ‘to, whereas Nelly pur-
sued even her studies in the open air. How often have
I tound her—not by accident—sitting ata pine-foot, with
her black hair, through which she would: hevertheless
contrive tospy me coming, falling over the pages of
Telemaque, and with a whole library -of educational
works beside her, which were moved to make room for
me. Like me, she was motherless; but there all, simil-
arity in our circumstances ceased. Her. father was #
conventional parson; had taken moderate honors at the
uniyersity; was grave and dulk; and_ fancied, because
he was pompous, that he was impressive. « It seemed ta.
me that he had somehow missed being a ‘géntleman;
but perhaps that was prejudice on my part: His father,
who was still alive,,and lived. at the vicarage, had
pee neet much of ‘the land with which the Wrays had

ad to part; and the’mind of a boy is prone to resent
what a man’s judgment acquiésces in. Butas for Mr.
Bourne the elder, he had missed being a gentleman by
amile—one of those mishroom men, of whom it has
been so happily said that their being’ ‘self-made’’ re-
lieves the Creator from a very graye responsibility.
How thoroughly would my father, with his deep sense
of humor, haye appreciated that remark; but in those
days American satire had not shot its sharp, beams
across the sea, . .

Nelly and I were fast friénds and constant compan-
ions—lovers, if-you will, though the love was of a.very

innocent sort, and unsuspected even by ourselves., We’

read together; talked and thought,over many.a rich
volume borrowed from my. father’s shelyes; and I sup-
pose, considering our Platonic passion, and the nature
of our studies, we.may have, been set down as ‘blue.”
We knew not of the term, however, except as the color
of the sky, that ever roofed those youthful days.’ Un-
dimmed by-clond, unvexed by storm, it stretched above
us, tintil an event occurred which was tated to bring
me face to face with the world, and to make. the past
appear a page from some Lise in Dreamland. Perhaps
Ihave already dwelt upon it too long, as one who, lean-
ing o’er her harp, dwells on ‘some, tune of which her
hearers tire, but wltich in her ears discourses sweetest.
miélody, bécause it wakes the thought of by-gone days.

—

CHAPTER II. ‘”

__ UNEXPECTED GUESTS. i ag
Tue letters used to arrive at Gatecombe about break-

fast-time; and the ‘* Manor-bag,” as the postman called
the discussion of
that meal, and opened by my. father not quite so prompt-
ly 4s Aunt Ben desired. .Women never tire of receiving
letters ; whereas men, after middle-life, for the most
part abhor them. They do not write for the sake of in-
terchanging gossip, ‘keeping up” old friendship, or
with “ effusion”’yof any kind. Business and bills form
the staple of their correspondence ; and though the
day of bills—and it had been a bitter one—was past in
my father’s case, business always troubled him ; that
is, the mere details of it, though he had plenty of saga-
city, and was practical enough whenenever he gave
himself the trouble to be so. \He had a contempt and
dislike for the management of affairs, which those who

 

}and at last'this had come to hand,

‘| childless, his

 

did not know him might easily have mistaken for af
fectation. ‘A good man of business,’ he would aver,
was & man who was good for nothing else ; and common
sense was éxactly what,the term implied, no more, no less
—the average sagavity, not to possess which was to be be-
neath the ordinary intellectual standard. Conventional”
opinions to the contrary, embodied in such expressions
as, ‘He has every sense but common senge,’’ and ap-
plied to men of genius, irritated him exeeedingly. “ The
meaning these idiots intend to conyey, 1 suppose is,
that men of genius are blind to their own advantage ;
whereasithe fact is that.they do not find their advant-
age where the dolts do, otherwise they would attain
the same objects with far greater ease,’’. Perhaps my
father had been twitted with this supposed deficiency
himself. He.certainly didnot like the manor-bag, and
opened it upon this particular occasion with the usual
tardiness and careless contempt. The expression ot his
face altered, however, as he drew forth an Indian letter.

-and turned it over unopened in-his hand.

“A Jetter from’*Tom !’’ cried my aunt, ‘Well, I’m
sure it's about time he wrote; we have not heard trom
him for years.”’ f .

It’s not from Tom,” said my father, gravely.

“Ttrust nothing has gone wrong with him?’ con-
tinued Aunt Ben, with agitation.

“I trust not,’’ was my father’s answer. There was a
grim solemnity in his tone, which I knew augured the
worst. ‘ Go tothe study, my boy,” said he; laying his
hand affectionately on my head; ‘‘I have a word for
your aunt’s private ear.”

When my father entered his sanctum, half an hour

afierwards, he wore a black coat in place of his red
dressing-gown; from which I gathered at once that my
Uncle Tom was dead ; Which was the Case.
, “You have’ lost an-uncle, my boy; whom you have
never seen ; but I an only brother, who was at one time
all in all to me. True, that was Jong ago; circum-
stances occurred to estrange us, éven before we left
England, and we have, not..met these thirty years,
but ’—

There was a portrait of My uncle in the study, painted
when he wasa very young man; it showed a face of
great beauty and fire, but without. the tenderness
which was the charm of his brother's less handsome
features. *My father’s eye here lit on this; he stopped
midway in his. speech, and, rising, approached the pic-
ture with reverent looks. Dear Tom,” said he, with
inexpressible pathos, ‘good-bye; your last wishes
shall be Obéyed, just as though I;had been beside your
death-bed and heard them.” He sighed, returned. to
his chair, and then addressed me in tones that were
serious, but no longer sad.

“The best tribute one can pay to the memory of the
dead, my dear boy, is to respect their injunctions ;
all the trappings ard suits of woe are not worth a
dtimp. The next best thingis to discard all thoughts
of them that are to their discredit.” (I felt that the
color was rising in my cheeks ; for the news I had just
heard had, I confess, set me thinking of the wild doings
and misdoings of my late relative.) ‘“I don't know,”
resumed my father, after a pause, ‘whether foolish peo-
ple have ever been led to believe that'your Uncle Tom's
death would, materially benefit'us ;but if so, they were
Mistaken. He has left two legitimate children, of about
your own age.”

“Two children !”” exclaimed I, with astonishment too
great for chagrin (and indeed ‘thé idea of being my
uncle’s heir had never taken any hold upon my mind,
though it had certainly been suggested to it by others).
“T did not know that he had ever been married.”

“Nor Iuntil to-day,’* said my father, quietly. “But
the fact is so, nevertheless. You have two cousins—
twin boy and girl—whose acquaintance you will shortly
make, for they are on their road hither already. They
will live here, under this roof, until they come of age.

Upon the whole, I was pleased to hear this news. I
had long been too old for the society of the village boys ;
not pride, but the sense of incongruity, had put an end
to such familiarity. We had nothing in common ; and
the-idea of having a companion of my own age, and
perhaps tastes, was very welcome, The subject, how-
ever, was not pursued by my father, with whom I at
once commenced my studies ‘as usual; but later in the
day I found Aunt Benita much more communicative.
Uncle Tom, it seemed, had married soon after hoe
had reached India, but, for some réason or other, had
concealed. the fact from my father during’ all these
xeats. He had probably, said my aunt, married greatly
beneath him. The wife had long been dead, and yet
neither of her decease nor existence had he written one
line—that is, not by way of letter; but he had always
earried about with him a certain document, addressed
to my father, to be forwarded, in case of h‘s own death ;
Therein. his two
Children were affectionately intrusted to his brother’s
Care until they should attain the age of twenty-one,
when the son (Cecil) was to come into his property, a

very considerable fortune; and the daughter (Jané)

would inherit four thousand pounds. If Cecil died
fortune was to revert to myself
(in order; said the document, that the house of
Wray should be duly represented); but if Jano
should die unmarried before him, her fortune was to
go to her brother, Such, roughly stated, were the
conditions of the will; in the meantime, five hundred
pounds a year was to be paid to my father for the main-
tenance of the orphans. Copies ot the will, of my
uncle’s marriage certificate, and of the registration of
the twin children’s birth, were inclosed, and the Lon-
don lawyer indicated to whose safe-keeping the origi-
nals had been consigned. Tne children—if they could
be called such, for they, were nearly eighteen—were
already on their way, as a letter informed us, written
by: a brother-officer of my uncle’s, and announcing
his decease. They might arrive, as Aunt Ben said,
“amy day;’’and she instantly, set about her arrange-
ments for their reception.

She seemed to be more shocked at my. uncle’s, death

 
CECIL’S TRYS¢.

 

than sorry for it; and I think she was deeply chagrined
on my acceunt to hear of the existence of these un-
dreamed-of relatives. We had all known that Uncle
Tom was rich; every yeara box of magnificent pre-|
sents had arrived from India; shawls for my aunt, not |
one of which she had ever yentured to wear. (where |
could she have worn such shawls except at, church, |
and what chances would the discourses of the Rev.’Mr.
Bourne have had against their attraction, if she had ?) ; |
precious manuscripts tor my. father, exquisitely illus- |
trated, but, of course, wholly wndecipherable; and |
inlaid yataghans, and bows and arrows, for myself. |
These wonderful gifts, typical, in their uselessness |
and splendor, of our empire in the East, were now, it |
seemed, all that we should ever derive in the way of
advantage from Uncle Tom’s prosperity. To do Aunt |
Ben justice, she had no regrets upon her own account;
but I fancy she hal entertained hopes that her eccen- |
tric brother weuld one day return, and make amends |
tor his wayward youth by rebuilding the fallen for-
tunes of our house. ‘At all events,I do think, my
dear, that he might have left your father some special
bequest, in consideration of——But there, how should
you know ?”’

In after-years, I came to the knowledge of certain pe- |
cuniary sacrifices which had been made upon my un-)
cle’s account by his brother, to which I have no doubt
this remark of my aunt had reference. But my. father |
never once alluded to the mat'er, nor, as I believe, ever |
gave ita passing thonght. The memory of his dead’
brother was sacred with him. . shall never forget the |
tone of sublime conviction in which (when, Aunt Ben
hazarded the observation, ‘(I suppose there can be no |
doubt of the genuineness of those documents which are
said to be in that London lawyer's hands ?”’) he repiied: |
“‘ My dear, Uncle Tom has said so.” : \

There was no lack of accommodation. at the manor- |
house, so far as room was concerned, for half a dozen |
pair of twin cousins ; but it was evident that the arrival |
of my new-found relatiyes was to make a change in|
our way of liying. There were many “sympathizing”’ |
callers as soon as. the record of Uncle Tom’s decease
appeared in the papers, and my father made a Reine of
returning each visit in, person. “‘You and I, Fred, |
gentle shepherds as we are, Might shut oursélyes up |
as we pleased,” he would say, smiling: ‘‘butitis only |
right that your cousins should see the world, and it is
RQ y place to introduce them to it.”

Most of the good folks about were pleased at our Bbe-
ing about to haye these visitors; since the fact had
already “ brought my father out,” as they termed it,
as though he had been a debutant ; for though arecluse
in his habits, he made, himself very agreeable when
society was, forced upon him: moreover, the event
gave them something to talk about, which was a desid-
eratum in Sandylandshire, as in one or two other coun-
try neighborhoods with which I afterwards became
acquainted. Mr, Bourne the elder, familiarly entitled
by my father, after Ben Jonson, ‘ the alchemist” (he
had found the philosopher’s stone in the sand-cliff in
the shape of a scythe-stone,) was in particular greatly’
elated by the news. His imagination, which, if not
powerful, did not waste itself in mere luxuriant fan-
cies, but was concentrated on the one idea of money-
making, pictured my cousins as an Indian prince and |
princess, and his heart went forth to welcome them
accordingly. ‘*The idea, sir’? (he used to call me
“Sir” from the age of ten)—“the idea of your ‘uncle
Thomas having made all that money; the last man in
the world, one would have said, to have done it; but‘it
does happen so sometimes—sometimes.”? And then he
shook his hoary head, and pressed his skinny lips, as
though he would have added: “ But not twice in the
same family, sir; mark that—yvow will never make a
shilling.” Perhaps he deemed it possible that my
cousins would wish to buy back the family estates,
sand-cliff and all, and already scented a good stroke of
business; or perhaps it was from mere greedful curi-
osity that the old man once ventured to inquire of my
father whether these young people were so immensely
rich as was ramored: “ They are Peru, sir," was the
reply; ‘Great Solomon’s Ophir.” ‘

‘* Gad! then,’”’ said he; looking round upon the some-
what dim and faded furniture of our ‘room of state,
“you'll be put to itto’entertain' them fitly. I mean,”
added he quickly, made sensible «by a flash from my
father’s eyes that his remark had not been the pink of
courtesy, “ that you will: have to spend a great deal of
money in their reception.”

“You are right, my friend,” answered my
“tis fit we change

father ;

‘All that is metal in’this house to gold ;
And early in the morning will I send
To all the plumbers and the pewterers,
To take their tin and lead up.’

Rich ! you say?

“«'T? Hesperian Garden, Cadmus’ story, °
Jove’s Shower, the Boon of Midas, Argus’s eyes,
Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more,
Are abstract riddles of their wealth.’ ” ;

“Thousands?” exclaimed the oldman, catching at
the only word intelligible to him in this outburst.
“Why, they must have tens of thousands, and jewels
too, I dare say !’’ ‘ i

« Yes, indeed,”’ was my father’s grave response ; *‘ and,
in particular, (he flower of the sun, the peryect ruby,
wach we call Elixir,” : ,

Out of this conversation a rumor went abroad that
my cousins were bringing a sort of Koh-i-noor with
them, to be worn in the hat or the hair; so that the
public curiosity to behold them was excited to the ut-
most, e solid pecuniary advantage old Mr. Bourne
did glean out of the event, for, hearing that my father
had dropped some hint of engaging a private tutor for
Cecil, he hastened down to the manor-house to volun-
teer his son’s services in that capacity. My father, al-

 

though surprised, was by no means displeased at this

officious zeal, The idea of a resident tutor was not
welcome, and, on the other hand, it would not have.en-
tered into his head to ask sucha service of the pom-
pous vicar ; for though the tithes that tell to the share
of that divine were, small, he was, ag the son of the
alchemist, held of course as a most prosperous man.
But old Bourne dispelled this illusion very quickly.
“My son has nothing, sir, but what I, choose to give
him, except the living, and even that I bought for him
—yes, sir, with my own hard-earned. money. What in-
terest have I ever got for the sums I spent upon his
college education? Not a shilling, sir-—not a shilling.
Here is an opportunity tor making it bear a little fruit,
which I shall certainly not permit him to miss. Let
him thole a bit, let him thole a bit, as L have done all
my life.” ;

The idea of thus disposing of the services of a bene-
ficed clergyman, of fifty years of age, justas though he
had been arranging for a lad’s apprenticeship, did not
strike the old gentleman as being in any way unbecom-
ing; and my father had the greatest difficulty—though
he carefully avoided quotations from the Elizabethan
poets—in making him understand that such an offer
must needs emanate from the vicar himself. In the end,
however, it did so, though in a very, different manner
from that in which it had been made by proxy. The
reverend gentleman was all carelessness and condescen-
sion—* He had been given to understand that Mr. Wray
had sounded his father with respect to his (the vicar’s)
undertaking the education of young Mr. Cecil ;. well, it.
was true that he had some classical and mathematical
knowledge—perhaps as much as most people who calk
themselves scholars, but really, teaching was such
drudgery ; and yet, on the other hand, . would do
anything to oblige so respected a friend and neighbor.”
In the end he concluded: the bargain to. so great an ad-
vantage that it would have done credit to the alchemist
himself, and might have suffered of itself. (but for, the
existence of his daughter Eleanor) to have established
the theory of the hereditary transmission of great
qualities. i ; 1 “3

Nelly alone, of all our neighbors, regarded the com-
ing of my.cousins with disfavor. She foresaw in it an
interruption to our common studies and companion-
ship, and augured ill from it in all respects. .‘* You will
be fast friends with Cecil,’ said, she, ‘‘and.care for
nothing but hunting and sporting” (the stud at the
manor had already been increased, and also the armory ;)
“and your consin Jane will be exquisitely beautiful,

-and you will fall in-love with one another, as cousins

always do, and,eare no more for your poor little Nelly.”

I think this.prophecy went far to mar its own fulfill-
ment, at all events, as far as its latter half was concern-
ed, for the despair of the fair sibyl so moved. me, that
then anda there I printed'a kiss upon her cheek for the
first time in my life (though there were‘a good many
impressions taken afterwards,) and swore’ an unalter-
able fidelity. Except Aumt Ben, which could scarcely
‘bé said to count’as an experience of the-operation, [had
never kissed anyone before ; and the effect of that ex-
periment was tremendous: » I had already thought my-
sélf happy, but from henceforth I knew that I had been
mistaken. The golden age of the world may have been
the beginning of it, because a man and woman were
made grown up; but the golden age of life does not

|commence in childhood, The songs of sinfancy are

sweet, but there is no melody among them to be’ com-

pared with that wordless music which the finger of first |

love evokes from the heart-strings. !

Days and weeks passed’ by more swiftly than I had
ever known them'to do so, and when our long-looked-
for guests did come, I had almost forgotten that they
were éxpected. -Theirarrival took place late in a July
evening, just 4s our little household were preparing to
retire to rest. The sound-of the wheels was heard far
off in the avenue'that led from the village.
Ben looking up from her employment, which was darn-
ing stockings—for embroidery and fancy-work of all
sorts, unless knitting can so be termed, she despised—
and listen attentively.  ~ : : 7

“Tt is your cousins,” she whispered, for my father
was deep in Webster (not the dictionary), and did not
like to be interrupted in his reading, But he had also
heard the noise, and quietly read out the passage ;

“T pray thee look thou giv'st the little boy some sir-
up for his cold ; and let the girl say her prayers ere
she steep ;”) then closed the book, and went’to the hall
door to receive the new-comers. Lusit

There were no less than three carriages, for their lug-
gage was extensive, and in the first of course were our
guests. The twins were as like as it is possible for two
human beings to be, and exceedingly plain, though
there was something about them (to be mentioned pre-
sently) far more extraordinary in my eyes than their

lainness. When they had been duly welcomed, Aunt

nm ushered Jane to her apartment, while I did the
like office for Cousin Cecil. He thanked me graciously,
but.in somewhat guttural,tones, which were the very
echo of his sister’s ; and I left him, and returned to the
drawing-room, whither I found Aunt Ben had alread.
repaired, and was dalicing alone with my father, =

“Why, good gracious!” cried I, eloquent with pent-
up wonder, ‘ they are blackamoors'!” | ;

*“ Hush, for shame !”’ exclaimed my aunt, “ They are
pers of the sort; and if they are, it is: not. their

fault.”” ea f
- “But they ave,” said I.
to my father. ' > ;

He nodded gravely. wn
: “* Black as the bird thatin the silent night,

Doth shake contagion from her sable wings,’

The fact is—as perhaps we ought to have warned you,

wT Prenat is just a dash of the tar-brush in your

cousins.” : : evew Sane
I had indeed greatly exaggerated the swarthiness of

their complexions, which was partly owing to their

“ Are they not ?”’ appealing

 

Lsaw Aunt |

 

birth, but also to the effects of the Indian sun. Th
were not black, but black and tan, like terriers au
their color could scarcely have astonished me more’

it been magenta. j : ,

‘

CHAPTER III.

ACROSS THE WAY.

NATURE, a9 I have said, had cast my twin cousins.
with the exception of sex, in the samie mould. Théy
were as like as péas—dried peas, for their swarthiness
had the withered and yellow look which ‘so often be-
longs to the Asiatic. Their voices were so Similar, that
it was impossible for the ear alone to decide who spoke;
and even their hand-writings detied the eye to discern
that of the brother from that of the sister. Their mu+
tual affection was, moreover, such, that they loved one
another as themselves, and this bond united them more
closely than tie natural ligiment that bound together
the Siamese twins. And yet, curiously enough, we
soon discovered that their dispositii ns were as. oppo-
site as the poles. Cecil s nati.re was impulsive, gener-
ous, and candid ; that of his sister secretive, proud,
and unconciliatory. “Even Aunt Ben, with whom
(though she had het prejudices) no human being had
ever yet contrived to quarrel, confessed that she could
not “get on” with Cousin Jané. Kindness had no
power to impress her, and of course only kindness was
tried, At nineteen she resembled one of those cast-
iron spinsters of fifty who regard even children with a
stony stare, and reserve their affections for a cat or a
dog, and, when they die, leave all their money to forward
distant missionary enterprise. It was touching to observe
the efforts made by her brother'to mitigate (for her
own sake, for she was never harsh to /i7n)'the repulsive
harshness of her manner, to bring warmth into her cold
looks, and, when all was to no purpose, te excuse her
failings (as he tenderly imagined them) to others ;' her
health had suffered, hé said, from the change of clim’
ate ; but we never knew her to ail. Cod Ti she-tlotl

Though the faces of my cousins were duplicates, the
expression which their respective * characters bi
evoked in each ‘was very different. ‘Tm Jane’s casey
plainness was so intensified by ill-humor thatshe was
downright ugly; in Cecil’s, plainness was so mitigated
by cheeffulness that he was almost comely, The tn-
telligence of both was very considerable ; but here the
advantage lay on the other side, Jane had weer
opportunity that India had afforded—and’ there “+h
been no stint to Unclé Toni’s provision for them jin the
way of education—to improve her«mind; whereas the
ignorance of ‘Cecil was something stupendons. » It is
quite possible for even a clever boy to emerge from 4
great public school in England, after ‘half a dozep
years’ devotion to its so-called studies, With the merest
smattering of Greek and Latin, and a total absence of
information about any other subject, whether of ‘use or
interest ; but Cecil had gone through his Caleutta cur-
rictlum asa’ wild-duck dives through the water and
comes up again—if not absolutely dry, yet scarcely
damp. Nothing, really nothing, remai: ‘about him
to.eyince that he had beer to school at allj unless I
may except a passion for private theatricals; an amiuse-
ment to whith, if seems, the school-boys of India are
(or were) much devoted. He hada good memory, was
an excellent mimic, and had a passion for whabobdiaven
call “dressing-tip,” that in one of his years’was rather
ridicnlons, ‘ tris attachment to my father, with whom,

as indeed with all of us, he soon became @ great favor-
| ite, led him to look into that Elizabetham treasure:

house in which the former so delighted ; ‘and though,
doubtless, he missed what was. best, he caught much
of its humor, and reproduced jt to admiration. Ishall
never forget Him (all unconscious ‘of plagiarism from
Pistol), attired in full Eastern costume, addressing our
astonished cook in the sonorous words of \Tamberlaine,
and threatening the good soul with instant decapita-
tion, as “a pampered jade of Asia.” Singularly enough,
considering his Oriental extraction, he was far’ trom
slothful ; yery strong and active, and delighting in all
‘out-door exercise. The use of a leaping-pole was,
when he came to us, as'unknown to him as ‘the rest of
the sciences, but, on the other hand, he took to it with
avidity. My own high-flying expeditions had cau
as I have said, some litfle excitement in the neigh
hood; bit that sank into insignificance compared with
the wonder aroused by the feats of Cousin Cecil
Being in his novitiate, he was not, of course, 80 Skill
fula performer. as: myself ; but his pluck was marvel-
ous, and his conceptions, so: to speak—his ideas, of
what-was practicable—sublime. More audacious than
the philosopher who only requirgd a standing-point
in er to move the world, he made light of even that
mechanical difficulty. From ahedge top, from a:
ing bog, from a slippery house-roof, he would hurl
himself through 8) with ambitious.aim,,and the
most supreme indifference to the,result. > r
; It was not to be wrtiniers et thes the aa d vil.
lagers who beheld his flying portent of sw: LO: ABe
sociated him in their minds with the Prince, of the
Powers of the Air, and called him “our Gatcombe
Devil.” Somehow or other his:sister got to hearof this,
and it annoyed her extremely : she expressed’ her.
ior that all’such contumelious persons should be.
up and whipped ; and when we laughed at the idea of
such wholesale punishment, she was offended. As @
matter of fact, Cecil was popular with everybody ; his.
frankness and freedom from pride made their way to all
hearts ; nor, doubtless, were the reckless feats
won him so etful a misname without
charms. Tt was when’ he had)been with us, a few
mionths that a circumstance occurred in connection
with this pastime—apparently so innocent’and unim-
po! —that was fated ito affect his future fortunes,
and those of all of us,'in no small degree: on such
slight branches of the tree of life do great fruits hang.
ir excursion on the day in question had been ex-
tended beyond its usual limits, to Wayford, an outlying,

 
QECIL’S TRYST.

 

 

hamlet of our village, through which the River Way
ran ;.and, indeed, it was the goodly breadth of that
stream which had attracted’ us thither. Beside the
Mississippi, or even the Thames, its proportions would
doubtless have seemed small enough ; but then we pro-
posed to fly over it. The autum was far advanced, and
nature wore that pathetic look of beauty which is pecu-
liar to that epoch—the same quiet grace of farewell that
is sometimes seen in the faces of the dying. The wind,
even on the sand-cliff, did but whisper, and when we
descended into the vale, was hushed, There was no
sound in the moist air except that of the stream, that
seemed to sorrow for the loss of summer, as it swept
the banks no longer pranked with flowers. Its broadest
part ran through an apple-orchard, the scanty leaves of
‘which, like tempted innocence, were blushing betore
their fall. Between this orchard and the sand-cliff was
a small cottage, the tenants of which were. Ruth and
Richard Waller—a sister and brother, who, haying lost
their parents in early youth, had contrived to keep the
same home, and support themselves, though perhaps
the youngest couple that ever adventured housekeep-
ing. They were still young, not even being of age ; but
Richard dug for the scythe-stone, and that deadly toil
had already affected his health. Ruth, too, performed
that share of the work which usually fell to the lot of
Gatcombe women. We could hear across the stream,
as we drew near, that chipping of the stone, which
might have been likened to the graving of her own epi-
taph, so sure was it, if persisted in, in the end to prove
her doom. At present, however, to judge by her looks,
the nature of her toil had in no way injured
her. Hearing our voices, she came to the cottage
door, shading her eyes with her hand against the
sun, andI thought I never beheld a fairercreature. She
was rather over tiie middle height, and of a most grace-
ful figure; her complexion was as fair as though it had
never been exposed to out-door influences; and her fine
brown hair shone in the sunlight like bright threads of
gold. It is curious enough that th age arge eyes are
referred to small ones, there is a certain charm in eyes
f-shut beyond any attraction they possess when
open. True, there is a mechanical necessity in the
former case to smile; but independently of that pleas-
ant accompaniment, the glance shot through half-closed
lids is one of the deadliest weapons.in Beauty’s armory.
In the present instance, it clove a heart to the centre.

“ How you, Rué?” said I, for we had known one
another all our lives, though, from Wayford being so far
trom the manor-house, we seldom met.

“Nicely, thank you, Master Fred. I hope the Squire
and Miss Benita are in good health.”

“ How is your brother Richard ?”

“Well, sir, he is but so-so. He is working in the cliff,
you know,” she added, as if that was explanation enough
of his not being in rude health.

«And you, Rue, you are doing almost as bad,’’ said I,
rebukefully. ‘I wish you'd let me bring you one of
Aunt Benita’s masks; but there—I dure say you would
be too conceited to wear one.”

“Too beautiful, rather—much too beautiful,’ mur-
mured Ceeil’s voice at my elbow; his dark eyes gazing
upon her with undisguised admiration, his dusky
features aglow with delight.

“‘ My cousin Cecil says you are too beautiful,” cried I,
aloud: at which, with a rosy blush, Rue vanished

within doors.
“* Now all’s dark,’”’ quoted Cecil, from one of my

father’s favorites, and with the full meaning of the

author in his deep tones too. He was not angry at my
mischievous repetition of his late remark; I think, on
the contrary, he was pleased that the girl should have
heard what he thought ef her marvelous charms.

“Well, let’s have the light again,” said I, laughing.
“Rue! Rue! do come out and show us where there is
firm footing: we are going to leap the stream.’”

She came out at once, and warned us that the river
was very deep just there.

“Pray, don’t attempt it, Master Fred, or the folks
will say I helped to break your neck. — It is shallower
oat above yonder; and the banks are not so

ut it was the height of the bank at that particular
‘spot which in reality made the project feasible. Be-
tween us and the cottage lay a miniature Alpine ravine,
which I had little doubt of being able to clear, if only
the pole were long enough to reach the bottom of it.
As for Cecil, he would have essayed to leap Niagara,
even if Ruth Waller had not been waiting for him on the
other side of the Falls.

I examined with care the ground, which sloped
down to the brink of the stream ; it was moist and
slippery. “We can’t take any run atit,” said I, doubt-
fully ; “it must be a standing jump.”

“All right,” said Cecil, carelessly, his eyes still rapt
on the beautiful girl, who, on her part, was watching
us with the utmost interest. ‘I’m game.”

“J have no doubt of that,’ said I, laughing; “but
you'll be dead game if you don’t take care what you
are about: there isn’t half a foot of pole to spare, and
if it breaks——Upon my life, Cecil, I don’t like it,”
emer I; “one wants a fir-tree for such a span, as

is.” : ;

i ’t ye, don’t ye try it, Master Fred,” cried Rue,
ee and perceiving my hesitation. ‘ You talk
of the rashness of us poor people ; but we work at our
ill trade for our bread, whereas it’s sinful to run such a
risk as that for pleasure and’’—— f
- “Tf you are afraid, Fred, let me go,’ said Cecil,
pare 4 “Why, after all, it’s only a ducking, at the

Ww . . ;
[knew very well that a ducking might not be the
worst of it, but my cousin’s taunt determined me at
once to make the attempt; moreover, despite her en-
treaties, there was a flush of color in Ruth Waller's
face which showed how deeply she was interested in
the performance of the feat, and I did not pe soe
point the village beauty. The words of the heralds in

the lists of Ashby occurred to me with ludicrous ap- { brother's death for all the filthy dross that was ever
plication to my position: “Love of ladies, death of | picked up in India.” ;

champions, splintering of lances! Stand forth, gallant | How angry | was, and how I hated that yellow girl,
knights; fair eyes look upon your deeds!” If.the | who squatted beside me like a toad!

lance should splinter in the present case, it was not im- “You are shocked and ashamed of me, Cousin Fred,”
possible that the death of the champion might ensue ; said she, penitently; ‘‘ and I deserve it.”

but still I did stand forth, and looked as gallantas 1| ThisI didnot deny, but flicked the pony with the
could under the circumstances. First, then, 1 went | whip, and drove on rapidly through the village. When
through the somewhat unknightly performance of | he had cleared it, and was cantering along the noiseless.
moistening thé palms of my hands ; then I grasped the sand-road that ran round the foot of the cliff, Jane began
top of my pole, the iron-shod end of which was already | to speak again, with great slowness and precision, like
firmly placed in the stream ; swayed ‘backward and la secretary of some mercantile community making hig.
forward once or twice, drew in my breath, and finally | statement in committee assembled.

launched myself into the air. It seemed to me that I “In my terror upon Cecil’s account, Frederick, and
took a long time to get across; the momentum was | in my anger too—tor you know how I have always op-
only just suflicient to throw the pole on the other side; | posed this leaping, that has now turned out so ill—I
and, in the middle, I distinctly felt it “hang ;” the ef- said the first thing that came to my lips. It was never
fect of which, had the retardation been maintained, | harbored in my thoughts at all; upon my word, it was:
would have been to make me circle around the pole, | not.”

like a toy monkey, and then drop in the river, But the “Tthink we had better drop the subject,’ said I,
good pole carried me sate over, and almost into Ruth’s | dryly.

arms, - “As you please, Frederick, “ was the humble reply;

“Eh, but you are a gey fine lipper, Master Fred!” | “but do not imagine that I. have not been punished,”
said she, with enthusiasm, as I stood panting, and per- ; She said this with such obvious mental pain that
haps a little proud, by her side. | really pitied her.

It was now Cecil’s turn to try his luck. I had great | We began to talk of Cecil’s accident, and where I had
doubts—though, of course, I did not express them—of | left him, and the like; and she was all calmness and
his safe arrival at our side of the Way. He was not, as | content. ,

I have already mentioned, so skillful in the manage-; “Iam quite sure you did the best for him, poor fel-
ment of the pole as myself; while I, for my part, had | low, that could be done. Idare say it will turn out
never made a more difficult leap. It was not his habit, | that he has only a few bruises, which will have no
however, to lose much time in preparation, and over he | other effect than to make him more cautious. Even a.
came like a rocket—that is, he came about half-way | broken rib is not very serious. My dear cousin, who is
over. When he gotso far, there was a ee | that horrible man?”
crash, which made my blood curdle, for it told me that This ejaculation was caused by the appearance of’
the pole had given way, which is the great danger of . poor Batty—as Bartholomew Cade, the haceloes idiot.
deep leaping. If heshould come down upon the broken | of the village, was called. He had worked in his child-
piece, it might spit him like a lark, and this was just | hood in the sand-cliff; and a sudden fall ot earth had
what he had done ; and though, happily, he fell aslant | geprived him of his senses, and left him only instincts,
upon it,the shock was so painful and violent that it | one of which was, unhappily, for drink. e had just
forced a sharp ¢ry from hie lips, which the next instant | arrived from the terrace on the road in front of us, by
was stifled in the stream. Quick as a bird Ruth flew | his usual method of descent, which was to curve him-
down the steps that led from the cottage to the river's | gelf into a circle and roll down like a wheel; and there:
brink, and caught him by his clothes as the current | he stood, shaking the sand from his head and limbs by
swirled him by. Except that he was wetted to the skin, | grotesque rotary movement that would have addlea
the ducking had done him no harm, but when he had | the brains of any sane man. As we drew near, he held
struggled to his feet, we saw that his face was pale, and | ont a handful of copper and small silver coins, and.
that he pressed his hand against his side, as though in | jaughed exultingly. i

, Batty ?” inquired.

Pein: i “How did you get all that mon

“You are hurt ?”’ said I, anxiously. I,as I drove slowly by, lest his weied antics and appear-

“No, no; it’s nothing,” said Cecil, who had been | ance should startle the pony.
thanking Ruth in a faint voice. I'm a little bruised, | "™<sgiting props,” cried he—“ props, pro
that’s @l. Ican’t walk very well. I think I should be “TI hope you * didn’t steal them, Batty?” said I.
better if I could sit down a while ;” and he looked to- | gravely. f
wards the cottage. veg i . “No, no; I cut ’em with the bill-hook.”

‘Do, pray, sir, come in,” said Ruth, But you'll} 4s we drove on, I explained to Cousin Jane that this
catch your death in those wet clothes. Perhaps you | poor fellow earned his living by cutting out of the fir-
wouldn't mind wearing Richard’s Sunday suit while I | wood the props for the sand-caves, which were bought
dry them before the fire? of him for small sums by the workmen; and how, on

This offer was gratefully accepted ; and I took Cecil | one occasion, it had unfortunately struck him that his.
at once up to Richard Waller's room, and helped him | jabor might be saved by taking the props out of the
to change his attire. This was accomplished with much | caves and selling tem—an idea which, but for the
difficulty, for my cousin’s breathing seemed much op- | timely discovery of his theft, might have caused great.
pressed ; and when he caught sight of himself in the | catastrophes.
little glass in corduroys and a red waistcoat, and would “T hope he was whipped,” said Cousin Jane, tartly,
fain have burst out laughing, the attempt appeared to | with whom whipping was a panacea for all disorders,
give him great pain. ‘i a ,. | mental, moral and physical,

“«T tell you what, Cecil,” said I, decisively ; “there's | Nay,” said I. ‘Batt ts not responsible for hig
something wrong with your ribs. T’ll leave you here actions; but he has promised not to misbehave himself
under Ruth’s care, and fetch Dr. Cherwell ; and if he’s | in the way of prop-stealing again, and he always keeps
not in, I'll at all events bring the pony-cai e from | his word.” 2
the manor-house, toe it’s clear you can’t walk home. Perhaps the notion of Batty’s getting off so casily

I expected opposition to this plan, for Cecil hated to | outraged Cousin Jane's strict sense of propriety; but,
be made a fuss with—even his sister's demonstrative | at all events, for the rest of our drive she became more.
solicitude about his health and the eongee? of pole- | jike her usual self. When we stopped at the end of the:
leaping vexed him; but, to my great relief, he gave | little lane which led to the cagtage of the Wallers, and
which was not practicable for wheels, she jumped out
and hurried on, leaving me to tie up the pony, When

 

”

none; so off I started on my errand, leaving Ruth in
charge of him. In those days I could run like the deer;
but it was a long way to the doctor's, and when I
reached his house he was away on his professional
round; then there was a mile or two more to the
manor ; and the groom was not at the stables, so I had
to put the pony in the shafts myself, for I did not wish
to alarm the houschold by letting them know why I
wanted the carri: I had accomplished my task with
privacy, and was driving at a canter down the avenue,
when, to my great contusion, I met cousin Jane. She
stopped me at once, and, with a swift suspicious glance,
inquired whither I was going. “I thought you were
out with Cecil,” said she. ‘‘ Where is he ?”

I told her the plain truth. He had met with an ac-
cident; there was nothing serious, but he was bruised,
so that walking gave him pain; andI was taking the
pony-trap to bring him home. ;

«You will bring him home dead,” cried she, yvehem-
ently, the fire glittering in her dark eyes; “and then
you will get his money, and be satisfied.”

“Jane!” cried I, in astomishment that knew no
pounds, ‘What on earth do you mean? You must be
stark mad |” ;

“«J was,” said she, controlling herself by a great effort.
“Forgive me, Cousin Fred. Lam sanenow. I am sure
that you love my brother, and would rather have him
grow up and be happy, than reap any benefit at his ex-

ense. You have no selfish thoughts, as some have.
Pear. forgive me.” :

- She stepped lightly into the carriage, and seating her-
self by my side, laid her hand upon mine, and patted it
as though it were the head of a child. f

“I forgive you, of course, Jane,” said I, withdrawing
from this caress; “‘ but how is it possible to for-
t such words? What selfish thoughts ou refer
0,and who are those that entertain them? If you
mean my father and Aunt Ben—and I know of no one
else to whom you can possibly refer—I can answer for
their never having harbored a base thought, even in

standing at the open door, I was about to ask her why
she did not enter; but she shook her head, and held u

her hand for silence. Her face was livid, her brea

came in thick gasps, and her thin = were parted with
a grin of rage. I looked over her shoulder at the sight
which had evoked these wnpleasant symptoms, In
that apartment of a Gatcombe cottage which is

of our presence, a pair of youthful rustics. The
walls were but of plaster, and defaced rather than
ornamented by some highly colored daubs of the
story of the Prodigal, and of Ruth amidst the corn ; on
the mantel-piece, art was again travestied in the on.
of an Infant Samuel, highly gilt, and with black dots
for eyes ; on the shelves were a few specimens of com-
mon delf; the floor was carpetless ; and from the roof
depended onions ; and yet the human objects in this
frame redeemed its coarseness, and presented a fair
| picture—purest pastoral. Pretty Rue. with head aside,
and eyes that feigned an interest in the burning logs,
was seated by the fire ; and close to her—so close that
their chairs touched—sat Cecil in the Sunday suit, with
his hand to his red waistcoat, like a love-sick
Robin. at he was saying I know not, but he wag
looking encyclopedias of affection.

Jane drew me on one side of the porch, and whispered
hoarsely, ‘‘ Who is that woman ?””

“Only Rue Waller. She pulled him out of the river,
and lent him her brother’s clothes. You see,” added I,
mischievously, “ Cecil is not so very much hurt by his
accident—unless it induces hi -diseasg’”’ Here I gave
a premonitory cough, which was followet by the hasty
scraping of chairs within ; and when we again presented
ourselves at the doorway, the young le were on
opposite sides of the fire-place. e was g like
a peony ; but Cecil’s roe face did not change itg
hue (though it was prone to do so on slight ons),

 

 

their dreams. They would not speculate upon your | nor move amuscle ; in this respect it showed a striking

I followed, she had not entered the house, but wag °

“kitchen and parlor and all,” sat, all unconscious -

 

:
:
1
A
me

CECIL’S SRYST.

 

 

contrast to its duplicate, for Jane, had turned as nearly
white as the nature of things permitted.

“YT came here understanding that you were hurt,
Cecil,” said she, with that distinctness of utterance 80
significant of pent-up rage. ‘ But it seems that you
only wished to get rid of 'rederick.”

“T might have been hurt,” returned Cecil quietly,
“had it not been for kind help and tendance.”

Jane laughed alittle laugh that was the concentra-
tion of contempt and scorn, and surveyed Ruth—to
whom he had pointed, and who stood courtesying
humbly, yet with great grace—from head to foot.
“Well,” resumed she, “you have been tended long
enough, I think. Is it not time to have done with your
faree—to take of those ridiculous clothes, and come
-home?’”’

The duplicate faces became now alike in hue.

“1 see nothing ridiculous in the clothes which have
been so hospitably lent to me,” said Cecil, sharply ;
“but I see something very mean and base in jesting at
honest people because they happen to be poor.”

There was a most. embarrassing pause, during which
the young hostess gazed on the fire, and brother and
sister conironted one another with looks that they had
certainly never interchanged before.

Then, “Ruth,” said Cecil, with a tenderness in his
tone that he seemed to exaggerate rather than to
attempt to conceal, ‘‘I am greatly obliged to you for
your kindness. Your brother's clothes shall be returned
to-night, and please to express to him my thanks for
the use of them.” He held out his hand, which Rue
shyly took, and, as he did so, turned round upon his
sister defiantly.

“Tf you have not your purse with you, Cecil,” said
she, dryly, “I have mine. You should always re-
munerate for their trouble honest people who happen
to be poor.” ~ ;

“Indeed, miss,” said Ruth, hurriedly—for Jane had
already taken out three half-crowns and laid them on
the table—“ my brother would be very vexed to think
that I took money for’”’— The close of her sentence was
lost in a passionate exclamation in Hindoostanee ; and
Cecil snatched up the silver and threw it through the
doorway into the middle of the river, where the broken
pole was still standing. What he said, I know not; but
Iam sure, from the expression which it evoked on his
sister’s face, that the Indian tongué is capable of con-
yeying a strong invective; and after his retort, not a
Syllabie of any language, European or Oriental, did
Cousin Jane utter during our drive home.

 

CHAPTER IV.
FELLOW-LABORERS,

Tue pains which Cousin Jane took to set herself
right, after that unfortunate day’s proceedings, with
both myself and her brother, were great and uninter-
mittent. Directly she had made that speech suggestive
of the advantage that would accrue to us at Gatcombe
if anything were to happen to Cecil, I saw that she
would have given much to have recalled it ; she had
looked, to use a popular and powerful image, as though
she could have bitten her tongue out. Her apology and
retraction had followed, as I-have said, on the instant ;
and yet she seemed painfully aware that they had been
insufficient, If her insult had been directed to myself,
I could perhaps have forgiven her ; but the insinuation
had been uttered, on her own confession, with reference
to my father—the least self-seeking and mercenary of
men—and it had wounded me to the quick. Her keen
intelligence perceived this, and her efforts to re-establish
thorself in my good opinion were made through the very
channél in which she had made shipwreck of herself.
Her manner towards Uncle Fred underwent a complete
changé ; she discarded her sullen ways, and endeavored
all abe could to adopt herself to his genial mood. She
anticipated Aunt Ben in lighting his pipe and cutting
his newspaper for him after breakfast ; and even took a

art in that long-established recreation of the house-
old in which he took such unfeigned pleasure,
namely, our dramatic readings. Hitherto she had icily
declined to join them, and had sat apart, engaged with
pressed lips and knitted brow, over a certain intricate
Chinese puzzle, and surrounded with a faint atmosphere
of sandal-wood (which I smell now), while Bo!
ave lessons in fence, or Mammon in making money.
father Bowdlerized his favorite plays (by no means

@ task of supererogation) to suit the drawing-room; and
Aunt Ben and Eleanor from the rectory, who formed

the female portion of our d/amatis persone, were |.

hardly worked, and greatly needed Jane’s assistance,
thus tataily bestowed. There were no stage jealousies
among us; and indeed Aunt Ben, for her part, would
have gludly thrown up all her engagements in her
niece’s favor, had she been permitted to do so. The
dear old soul once confided to me that whenever her
turn came to declaim or protest, to coquet or plead,
she felt like some unhappy whist-player who has got
the lead and doesn’t want it. She would always have
“been “fourth hand,” that is, as far from the leader as
ible, and never have won a trick if she could have
elped it. Her neighbors on either hand were ever
conscious of a melancholy undertone in which she was
accustomed to recite her part before it came to her,
Just as a school-boy in class occupies himself with his
own spprceching task, without taking: an absorbing
‘interest in the classical renderings of his predecessors.
She had the advantage over him, indeed, of being able
to calculate to a nicety, and of not being liable to cor-
poral punishment in case of a flasco, but she had her
‘ervous anxieties nevertheless; and often and often
would my father’s ive, remonstrant tones, “ Now, |
Benita, Benita!l’”” remind her; like,some stroke of doom,

that her turn was come, and‘awaken her to the horrors |

of her (dramatic) situation. Then would her finger hur-
riedly retrace some fourteen lines or so of heroic verse,
and, damp and palpitating, she would depict the woes
of Aspasla, and mildly reproach Evadne for having

badil | house the immortal Nelson was a promised guest.

robbed her of her Amintor. Happy for her when Mel-
ancholy thus chanced to mark her for her own—when
she got a plaintive part in the lot-drawing—and had to
recite such dirges as: *

ss a a garland on my hearse
» Of the dismal yew ;”

for, indeed, they suited her feelings to anicety. Cousin
Jane herself was not very well adapted for the deliver-
ance of pert and lively sallies, but showed considerable
vigor in yituperation; in particular, she once took my
father’s heart by storm in playing Katharine to’ his
Petruchio; on which occasion, when we wished one
another “ good-night,”’ she whispered in my ear, ‘I am
so glad I pleased your father, Fred.” _

his touched me, and I repeated her remark to Aunt
Ben, who observed, rather dryly, that Jane had seemed
of late desirous to please others besides my father.

“True,” said I; “and much to her credit.”

To which my aunt made no reply.
certainly softened towards Cousin Jane, and had by this
time almost forgiven her monstrous insinuation with
respect to Cecil. As for her brother, he had long been
reconciled to her; though, if he had forgotten that scene
in the Wallers’ cottage, I am quite sure sie had not.
She showed her keen remembrance of it by never so
much as alluding tothe subject of his hurt (of which,
indeed, he soon recovered), and by avoiding all inquiry
into the mode of which he now passed his time. In-
stead, as formerly, of putting him through a cross-ex-
amination (borne with the utmost. good-hunior) on his
return from each day’s ramble, and of inveighing
against the perils of pole-leaping, she merely hoped
that he had enjoyed himself. She would still show her
solicitude about him, indeed, by inquiring of me; but,
as it happened, I could now tell her little of Cecil’s
proceedings. He was applying himself, it seemed, more
assiduously than of yore to his studies with the rector,
and would excuse himself from my company om ‘that
ground. Thus it happened that I fell back upon some-
thing like the old mode of life that I ha@ been accus-
tomed to before my cousin’s arrival. I had renewed
opportunities of enjoying Eleanor’s society, and I took
again “long stretches ” across country by myself.

During these last, I now enjoyed a new pleasure,
namely, the composition of five-act dramas of thrilling
interest. My father’s tastes and talk, and our evening
readings, had at last brought about that condition of
mind which, had such circumstances not have been
taken into account, would have been called a natural
bent for the drama. I wish carefully to avoid the im-
putation of believing myself at any time to have been
a genius: the description of mental food on which T had
been nourished, and the poetical atmosphere of my
father’s study, were probably quite sufficient toaccount
for the existence of such a phenomenon asa playwright
of eighteen, At all events, it did exist in my proper
person ; and once begotten, every incident in my expe-
rience tended to its development. My love for Nelly
suggested passages of tenderest passion, which I would
pour forth to her (very literally) com amore, and con-
cerning which I would solicit her opinion without
much fear of an unfayorable criticism ; the society of
Cecil was conducive to the same end, since, as I }..ve
said, the one cultivated talent he possessed was of a
dramatic kind, while he had the advantage both of hay-
ing seen plays acted, and of having taken part in them
himself. Nothing would please him better, he said,
as a profession in life than to be the Burbage’ to my
Shakspeare ; and I am sure he spoke from his heart,
and had no conception that he was talking nonsense.
Then there was a certain Lady Repton, from whom we
had long been expecting a visit, who quite unconscious-

aly played a considerable part in these shadow-plays of

mine. She had been a great actress—really a great one
in times when actors and actresses were thought of far
more highly than now-a-days; and alord had carried her
off the stage, and married her, to the grief of thousands.
Lord Repton had been a college triend of my father’s,
and had. mised “some day” to come to Gat-
combe, introduce his wife to the only’ man
in England who still appreciated the classical
drama. I looked forward to this vague engagement
with an eager expectation, such as a boy with a wild
wish to be a sailor might have felt at whose father’s
‘ or
did I,in my inmost heart, despair of persuading her
fatyship to re-assume her profession, so far as to'tead
afew of my own favorite declamations, in character, if
not in costume. | abel - :
In my walks upon the ae sand-cliff I apostro-
pine’. universal nature, and sent many arabbit to his
arrow Delpiensing with terror at my fervid words. On
one of these occasions, as, after a long ramble, I was
mehurning, SY the terrace, just above Wayford, the rain
beyan to fall so heavily that, the shelter of the pines
being insufficient, I made for the néarest sand-cave. ~ As
I stood in the entrance of it asin a porch, and watched
the landscape darkening and dwindling in the down-
pour, I heard a noise from the interior—the trundling
of a barrow: the proprietor, whom I knew to be Rich-
ard Waller, was doubtless at his work within, and TI
ste’ out of the narrow passage, and stood aside, in
order to give him oars A barrowful of the ee
scythe-stone in truth it was, but the person who
wheeled it turned out, to my extreme astonishment, to
be cousin Cecil. My surprise, however, was sur-
paste by his confusion. He stood 8, holding
han of the barrow very tigh ee amateurs at
such work do, replying to my wondering looks by an
uneas) eugh. all
“ , what on earth are you about, Cecil?” asked I.
“T thought you were going to be busy with your books
| all the a: oon.” ’ wed
“So I was to have
Bourne was called away to christen a sick child, and I
thought I’d come here and help poor Waller. His

 

breath is getting very short, you know; and I wanted a
little exercise, and—and here I am,”
‘

For 8 part, I was’

on Without speaki

been,” returned he; “ but Mr.

He was certainly there, though it was somewhat diffi
cult torecognize him. » His) hair and clothes were
ered with sand; his face was damp, as I sup; ith
toil, and wore the pinched and anxious look that was to
be observed in those who pursued his present occupa-
tion for a livelihood, j :

“T don’t think your sister would like to hear you
amused yourself in this way, Cecil,” said I, gravely, for
I was really alarmed at his appearance. ‘It’s far worse
than pole-leaping, my good fellow.”

“TI shall amuse myself as I please,” returned Cecil,,
a “without consulting my sister or any body
else.”” oF" ‘ ‘

“Nay, Cecil,” remonstrated I, “ you should know me
better than to suppose me capable of dictation; but
this work, believe me, is very unhealthy; and if you
come here often ’’ (here he dropped his eyes and bit his

-| lips), ‘(it will most certainly injure you in the end. It’s

no use your being angry with me, as I see you are. I
don’t want you to come to harm at Gatcombe, although
Lam your heir-presumptive, cousin.” mY f

I spoke this with some bitterness, instigated by tho
remembrance of his sister’s base suggestion, and the
next instant regretted my irritation. Vipera him to
exhibit great displeasure, whereas he only replied
humbly: “I am sure, Fred, you wish me nothing but
good. Idare say what you have said is very'true. I
roe help Waller in this way any more. het us go

me’? '

“ Nay,” said I, “let us wait till the storm is over.”

I saw that my cousin was very impatient to be gone,
but I was greatly aversé to leave shelter, and be wetted
to the skin, when five minutes’ waiting would prevent
it. Perhaps I was a little piqued, too, at Cecil’s having
preferred Richard Waller's company to mine, when he
found himself freed from his studies (for he knew the
direction my walk had taken,and might have met me if |
he chose), and was consequently disinclined to be con-
ciliatory. . The clouds nn to disperse, and the sun
had already. tinged the distant fields, when suddenly
the sound of some one singing within the cave, and evi-
dently approaching us, delayed my footsteps on the
very point of departure. f wid

““T should have thought Richard Waller had no breath
to spare for singing,” whispered 'I to Ceoil.

“That's not Richard,” said he, and though his tone
was careless, I saw him color deeply; “it’s Rue;” and
at that moment Ruth (or Rue, as the neighbors called
her) appeared at the cave-mouth, having in her apron
anumber of ie seythe-stones, which she dropped
upon the ground on seeing me, without an effort to
reclaim them.

. “Lor, there!” cried she, finding her voice much
more readily than Cecil had done in his first moments
of embarrassment, “you gave me quite a start, Master
Fred! Who ’d ever have ee, of seeing you ? Rich-
ard and I were only saying the other day how long it
was sincé we had seen aught of you at Wayford,’” 8
ran on in a manner quite unusual with her, and never.
once, I noticed, looking towards my cousin, who, under
cover of this sustained volley of words, began to collect
his shattered powers, and presently to his voice to
her's.” As for me, I held my tongue, my ad not sug-
gesting any original remark appropriate to the occa-
ion, nor even Pe one out of the wide range of

my dramatic reading, rich as it was in “ surprises” and
“situations.” If Ruth Waller had dropped from the
clouds, instead of emerging from the earth, I could
scarcely have been more taken aback by her appearanco;
‘not, indeed, that there was anything wonderful in her
being in her brother’s “ pit”’—for so the caves wera
called, though they were horizontal—but only in her
being there in Cecil’s company. a j

“Richard is a good worker, you see, though so
of breath,’ stammered my cousia; ‘and he can uel
more than a barrowful of stones at a time; so Ruth E
I both help to carry them ont.” 3 ane a

“LT understand,” said I, dryly, for indeed so much of
“ Settee tes Fred would like to see Richard,”

e rk wo! © to see
angseaes Ruth to Cecil. — ‘kd
. Her coolness staggered me, but had a gon are Sepob
to that which it was designed to have; the fam: y
of hér address at once 8) ited to me that this coul
not have been the first © by many that my cousin
and she had met since the day’of his accident at Way-
ford. Moreover, her hint of Richard’s. presence in the
pit had a savor of prudery about it, which, under tho
circumstances, did not impress me fayor with the

er. That her brother was actually in the
cave, I had no doubt, since, in the silence that followed
her last remark, I could hear the strokes of his pickaxo
as they grated against the stone, or fell mufiled on the
damp and yielding sand. . ' .

“The rain is over for the present,” said I quietly ;

“we had better be off at once before there’a ‘another
storm, Cecil.” And without waiting for his reply, I
started at my usual pace for home. : 7

My cousin remained behind for * few moments, as I
knew he would, and presently overtook me. We walked
' for some time ; then he laid his
hand upon my shoulder, and we both stood still.

'

J

8 “You are not pleased with me and Ruth, I fear,” said

8. ‘ Trt
““T am not my cousin’s keeper,”’ replied I, coldly ;
“but if you ask me whether ren behavior seems to
a3 judicious, I must honestly tell you I do not think
it is.” God 1G
“Judicious?” reiterated he, with scornful vehemence.
‘What, in Heaven's name, would you have me do,
Fred?’ I love this girl with all my heart and soul ; no-

thing shall part me from her—nothing, nothing !. Iam
only BADpY when I am with her. What other excuse

can I frame for being in her company than that of help-
‘ing her brother in the pit? You who pride yourself on
your ingenuity, tell me that.” ret

 

Disturbed as I was by this confession I could scarcely
help smiling at his asking me to frame an excuse for
;
!
|

' ated—I will not say by you or

   

the very interviews which were the cause of my un-

* My dear Cecil,’ said I, “ the whole affair is bad, be-

lieveme, and will be worse in the end than-at the be-

ginning.” . wine bh t
“What do you mean by that?’ inquired he, almost

with ferocity. ‘‘Do you suppose I mean Ruth harm

Do you take me for a blackguard?’”’ ,
“No, Cecil, I don’t; if I did, Ishould go straight to

my father, and tell him precisely what: has happened.:

If you were otherwise than the noble-hearted, affection-
ate fellow I know ger to be, I should have seen Richard
just now, and told him to his face that he,was helping
to bring his own sister to shame. It is useless to be
angry with me, Cecil; such would, I assert, without
doubt be the result in nine cases out of ten., In yours,
the best that can possibly come of such s courtship is
still disappointment and disgrace.” ‘

“Why disgrece?”’ asked my cousin, sharply.

“Because it would be disgraceful in one of your
position to marry one in hers.” c

It may be objected that for a young gentleman whose
studies were dramatic, my judgment was somewhat too
practical and commonplace. But there were many
reasons that compelled this apparent inconsistency, In
the first place, I foresaw the distress that such an
attachment must needs cause my father, as my cousin’s
host and: guardian; in the second, although Ihad had
small experience of the world, the nature of my read-
ing had developed a perception of the character of
others which was rarely at fault; and my late interview
with Ruth had impressed me with the conviction that
the girl was crafty, if not designing. j

As for the whole tone of the discussion between my
cousin.and myself, I am quite aware that it was some-
thing quite different from what it would have been had
we had the advantage of a public school education. My
father’s teaching had fixed within me a respect for
women, which Beaumont and. Fletcher had not .de-
stroyed. .In this respect he would even have been
deemed Quixotic, for his very definition of Cowardice
was about the same which the man of honor and the
world applies to gallantry. As soon asI was old enough
to understand him, he had taken pains to convince me
that inferiority of station ina woman, considering her
natural tendency to idolize mere rank, ought to be as
much her safeguard with generous hearts as are, in
other matters, the innocence of childhood or the feeble-
ness of age, and I had at least imbibed so much of his
lessons as disinclined me for that ribald talk and
thought of women so common among those who have
acquired, with the rudiments of the ancient classics,
the tone of fashionable schools.

As for Cecil, he,was incapable of a deliberate baseness,
and by nature so frank, that it was impossible he could
be deceiving me as to his real intention. I did not,
therefore, feel for Ruth as I did for him. Her marvel-
ous meee was cause enough for any man’s falling in
love with her; whereas I opined that Rue Waller was
not the girl to Sater the plain features and dusky hue
of my cousin Cecil in her appreciation of the qualities
of his heart, That he did not forget them himself was
evident from his reply to my observation that marriage
with one in Ruth’s position would be disgraceful.

“Position!” echoed he. ‘Do you suppose, then, that
I dont know what is my position as compared with
yours, or, if your kindness mislikes so personal a com-

parison, compared with that of 1a father? I am—/|g@

God help me!—but an ignorant half-caste; only toler-
urs, but by the world
at large—on account of my wealth, Withoutmy riches,
for what should I be valued? I had almost said, cousin,
by whom?” He dropped his voice, and spoke these last
words with a tender pathos tliat went to my heart.
*“ Cecil,” said I, “it pains me to hear you speak in this
manner, and yet what you have said emboldens me to
an argument which otherwise I should have shrink
from. indeed, you be such as you describe (though
our face is comely enough in my eyes, and the blood
at moves in your veins seems that of a brother), and
ifit be your wealth alone that is likely to attract stran-
gers ‘towards you, what. is it, think you, that at-
tracted this young girl, whose poverty must, by con-
‘trast, have made your riches seem ten times as great as
they really are.” i : 4
“You are right,” returned Cecil, quietly. ‘‘ Ruth loves
me not, except for the wealth that I shall bring her.
But I love her for herself; and it is enough-for me that
she does not me.” :

T looked at him with wonder, in which, perhaps, sorhe |.

contempt involuntarily

« Abl you fancy
grave tones, with an affectionate smile ; “ but-you have
never really done so, Fred, or rather, I should say, it is
not possible that your love and mine should be of the
same sort. You and Eleanor have each something to
gre. something to exchange ; but.to the woman whom

would fain persuade to love me I have nothing to
—nothing to barter for her love ; 80 you see, I
must buy tt.” :

ed.

Never shail I forget the air of indescribable wretched-.
those words, .

ness with which ‘he uttered
“I have never deceived myself in this matter,’’ con-
tinued he, “and much less Ruth. To affect to mene

‘brother at his work in yonder pit is, indeed, a

had,

retext of sympathy, which imposes upon neither of us,

ut I can’t give him money, Fred. When she asks me

for it—w perhaps, she will do some day—then it

= ao time enough to give him money, andso to
iy '.

If Cecil's face was plain, it was at least freighted with
an emotion more tender and pitiful than I had ever
seen expressed in human features. And.he was going
to waste all that wealth of love. upon a woman whose

yeni never detect its existence,

_ perceptions would
and who would—to ge SAE. NS his own estimate

—be doubtless to exchange it for a few hun-
dreds of pounds! The thought of a compromise

, at first occurred to me, but no one who

you have loved,” said he, in low,

ve.

and I took it with trembling fin;

 

CECIL’S TRYST.

now beheld Cecil’s face, and heard his tones, could have
entertained it fora moment. Whatever she might have
taken, nothing but,herself I felt sure, would have con-
tented him. . .

“And how is all this to end, Cecil?” asked 1; “ for’
every dream must have some end.’’

He took no notice of the tone of incredulity, which,
I confess, was affected rather than real, for my cousin’s
nature I knew to be full as resolute as it was impulsive.

“The end is, Fred, that I shall marry her.”’

“Nay,” said I, “ that shall be but the beginning of the
end—the first step in a life of wretchedness.”

‘*We cannot foretell the future, cousin,” answered
he, quietly,; “but, unless something happens, I shall
marry Ruth when I come of age.” ra

“Unless what happens?’ inquired I, pleased to hear
that he was in no passionate haste, and in good hope
that some loop-hole of escape for him would present
itself in the intervening years, :

‘Unless your father comes to hear of it,’’ said he,“‘in
which case I shall marry her at once—at all hazards.”

There was nothing to prevent him. Nor was my
father the man, even if he had the power, to adopt any
stringent: measures in suchacase, “It will be a sad
blow for your’ sister Jane,” said I, expressing a reflec-
tion rather than advancing a new argument.

For the first time, ashadow of irresolution seemed

to flit across his face ; but it passed away immediately,

leaving it ealm and determined as before. ‘If my sis-
ter gets to know of it,” said he, “ that. would haye the
same effect of precipitating matters.’ Here he hesi-
tated. “ ButI tell you frankly, Fred, that I wish her
to know, It. would not shake my purpose—nothing can,
nor shall. But might I ask you, being more near to
me as friend than kinsman, not to tell her, not to tell
any one about. Ruth ?”

What could I do but promise? What was the use of
por when the news would hasten on his rash re-
solve to its fulfilment. SoIsaid; “Your secret, Cecil,
is safe with me. I would that I could wish you joy of
ites , :

«You do not wish me ill, I know,” said he, with his
winning smile, '

I shook my head, Indeed, I did not wish him ill, but
Iknew that ill awaited him. I think he knew it too,
but neither he norI could have imagined, nor even have
dreamed, saye in some weird, horrid nightmare, the
shape that ill was doomed to take.

 

CHAPTER V.

A 8PY-GLASS.

Tux secret that Cecil hnd confided to me remained of
course undivulged, nor did we eyen speak of it to one
another. It was useless to discuss a subject whereon
there was not only no possibility of our agreement, but
in which my cousin had allowed that all the sense and
reason were on my side, the infatuation and resolve.
on his. I felt that the plot was thickening, and for
some time awaited the catastrophe, with anxiety and
trepidation : to borrow a metaphor from my favorite
pursuit, I looked every day fora “strong situation,”
“ascene,” in which my father, Jane, and Cecil would
prove the principal characters, and I myself be
stigmatized as an accessory before the fact: but
as weeks and months passed by without a ed I
rew more tranquil; just as one who, on board
a powder-ship, has seen his friends smoking their pipes
for years without an explosion, begins to think there
can be no such very great ger in the practice, after
all, It was true that Cecil, though showing even a
warmer affection for me than heretofore, was more
seldom my companion out of doors than ever, and T
could not but conclude that he was passing his time in
Ruth’s society ; but, engaged myself in an equally
pleasant way with Nelly, Leither gréw insensibly more
tolerant, or shut my eyes to’ consequences in his case,
as I did in my own; for, regarded by unimpassioned
eyes, my courtship of Eleanor was almost as injudicious
as Cecil’s devotion to Ruth. I had no fortune of my
own wiiatever, and even on my father’s death would
only succeed to a very moderate estate; while Nelly
wag entirely dependent on her grandfather, whose
favorite boast—and one which he was wont to brandish
in hia son the rector’s face, to the great irritation of
that lenrnes man—was, that he could leave every
farthing of his money to whom he chose—‘Ay, sir,
though it were to the County Lunatic Asylum.” » —

Sometimes.I fancied, from Jane’s manner, that she
suspected something amiss in her brother’s proceed-
ings; but, much to my satisfaction, she had long since.
ceased to ipapiy concerning them of me. ‘My father
was the very last man to whom an idea of anything of
the sort would suggest. itself, his confidence in the good
conduct of all beneath his roof was supreme. My aunt
concernéd. herself solely with the affairs of the house
and of the silage: and des, as maiden aunts are apt
to do, she considered Cecil and myself as boys; qrors
gentlemen of too tender years to be suspected

serious passion.

Thus’ matters stood, when a letter from the north
apprised us one morning that Lord and Lady Repton
were at last about to pay their promised it. My
father handed A, fe me aoe a ty e. beeen mes-

e for you in it, Fred, from at tragedienne,””
sg ook i wil ombling Angee At wan a ey
and mpous epistle (though the writer evide:
intended e. be cordial), and gave me no high opinion of
his lordship’s talents; but the contents of the postseript
made my heart beat. ‘‘ Lady Repton bids me say that,
in coming to enone . loo oar ee dts
the pleasure of m uaintance of
friend, but of his son, wee Shales .”” 1 was merci-
lesaly roasted about that message; my father called me
“the marvelous. boy;” and Cecil sketched out with
aig humora newspaper paragraph, headed Elopenent

Hiyh Life from wutcoinbe Manor, But I pelieve
they both sympathized with my excitement. Once

of a}.

d/{ plain that she was not going e
hin,

again my cousin repérused with me my little stock of
original dramas, all of which had been indebted to him
for some stroke of fancy, if not for whole speeches; and.
even scenes, in the old days when we had “ Beaumont
and Fletchered” it together ; and out of them we
chose what we judged to be the best to lay betore this.
coming Siddons. I pictured to myself a heroine of im-
posing port, who would talk blank verse, and, when
silent, look unutterable things. I dreamed of her as
the Tragic Muse, investing my brows with a crown of
amaranth. In my walks with Eleanor herself, I grew
taciturn and meditative, and when asked reproachtully
what I was thinking of, would reply with audacious
frankness, “ Of Lady Repton.” ;

At last the morning of the day of her arrival dawned.
Lhad not the courage to go axd meet her on the road
(I say her, because his lordship did not excite within
me a spark of interest ; we hada fair sprinkling of lords
in Sandylandshire, with most of whom I had some ac-
quaintance, and the Wrays of Gatcombe held up their
own heads too high to bow before mere title). I walked
out upon the brow of the moorland, and, with a glass,
swept the road from the railway station, until my eyes
hit upon her approaching carriage. I knew it by its four
post-horses, without which, as my father told me, my
Lord Repton never traveled ; and it was perhaps from
the knowledge of that circumstance, combined with
the labored style of his letter, that I had come to the
conclusion that he was a pompous and pedantic old fel-
low. The road wound beneath me—here a ribbon, there
a thread—for miles; and there was more than an hour
to spare from the moment I first caught sight of them
to that when it would be necessary to turn homeward,
in order to welcome their arrival. In the meanwhile,
Isat down on the moor and watched their approach, or
surveyed the spreading landscape, clad in the ‘pale
green of [spring. While thus engaged, and my gaze
happening to be directed towards Wayford, I noticed a
female figure emerge from the fir-wood, and come rap-
idly towards me across the moor. At first, merely be-
cause I associated her with the locality from which she
seemed to come, I thoughtit was Ruth Waller; but the
figure was taller than Ruth, and, as I soon remarked,
attired far better than that rustic beauty had ever been,
She wore avail, which prevented me for some time from
recognizing her; but at last, to my extreme astonishment,
I discovéred that it was Cousin Jane. I was surprised,
for Jane was a girl who hated walking, not from lazi-
ness, for she was ws no means wanting in energy, but
because it was stich a vulgar thing to do. The com-
monest persons walked, and’ she wished it to be well
understood that she was not a common person. If she
could have been carried in a palanquin by obsequious.
bearers, with a relay of those human beasts of burden.
running behind her,she would,I think, have taken a good
deal of outdoor exercise; but as it was, she restricted.
her walks to the grounds about the house; she neyer

village, except to pay a state visit, once a month or so,
at therectory; and deemed even takinga seatin the
pony-carriage a condescension: yet here she was, miles:
away from home, alone, and on Shanks his mare: On
what errand could she have gone to that fir-wood? in
which lay no other attraction than that which drew
her brother thither, [knew not how often—but it might
be five days out of seven, Was it possible that the
same magnet, though from a very different cause,
had likewise attracted her? I trembled for poor Cecil,
and felt, I confess, not a little uncomfortable upon my
own account, as the accomplice, or at least the con-
fidant of his misdemanors, IfI was correct in my sus+
picions, there would without doubt be a domestic tor-
nado of the first magnitude,

_ She came on at rapid speed, like a thunder-storm (as
I imaged her) against the wind; and so busily she seemed.
engaged with her own thoughts, would have passed me
without notice, had I not sprung up and addressed her
—not that I was anxious to be the first to meet her
wrath, but because, if my fears were well grounded, I
wished to prevent her going straight to my father, and
troubling him with such grieyous news just at the mo-
ment of our guests’ arrival. That something had agi-
tated Jane most deeply, I could see, though she still
kept her vail down, and even held it with her hand, as
though she was aware that her features told.a tale that
she would have concealed; but her voice was quiet and.
composed as she expressed her surprise, at seeing me.
“ Why, I thought, you would have been miles away,
Fred, on the to meet your play-actress !’"

. This remark was injudicious, for lat once concluded
that she fiad counted upon my absence in that direc-
tion to keep her own expedition secret. She doubtless
spoke on the impulse of the moment, for even her con-
‘temptuous mode of referring to Lady Repton showed.
naturalness and lack of design. i ‘

“ Nay,” said I, ‘tit is I that should be astonished. I
had no idea that your dainty limbs could hayo carried
youso far. . ~~ I ask you what was the inducement ?’”

ad a headac!

“Thi he,’” she replied, “ and your aunt Ben.
reco d me to try the moorland sir,”
“Well, I hope it has done you good, cousin ?””

“Yes,” said she, witha curious gravity in her tone;
“it has; it seems to haye cleared my brain.”

« You should have tried the fir-woods,” observed I,
carelessly; ‘‘ Dr. Cherwell says that their pungent
scent is worth all the aromatic salts in the worl:|,’”

“I did try them,” returned she; ‘I went into the pine
copse above Wayford.”” F

“ Perhaps you would not be quite so frank, cousin,”
thought I, “if you had not observed that I carry a tele~
scope.” Ifshe had really discovered anything, it was
‘ disclose it; dif, on
the other hand, she had nothing to disclose, there was
no harm ln my continuing my. Croas oar
“ Did Aunt Ben recommend you to wear avail?” in-
quired I, ‘ Ishould have thought that all the air you

 

could get on such aday as this would not have
oo much,” ae :
a ‘ !

accompanied my aunt in her little expeditions into the §

-

am

 

|
;
:
'
:
j

 

 
 

CFCIL’S TRYST.

7

 

 

“Tam not so, hardy a plant as you, Fred,” she re-
joined; ‘‘ but, as you say, itis warm now. There, does
thatplease you?’’and she threw up her veil with a
forced laugh. ike wih

“Of course it pleases me,’’ said I, gallantly ; though,

as amatter of tact, I had never seen Cousin Jane!

look,so uncomely,, Her face had the same livid look
which Lhad seen on it but.once before (when she had
stood in the porch of Richard Waller's cottage), and her
lower lip was, bitten through and bleeding. As thus
she smiled upon me, and showed her glistening teeth,
the idea of, a terrier; that had been. fighting with rats,
occurred to me involuntarily ; and rather to escape
from sucha spectacle than with any other motiye, I
offered her the use of my telescope. 3

“You have keen eyes, Cousin Jane;,and if you can
really discover the sea from this spot, as my tather
contends, we can, this is the very day. for the experi-
ment.” :

She thanked me, and taking the instrument, turned
it in the desired direction, which was over Waytord
‘Wood. Her hand did not ‘ wobble” with the weight of
the glass, asis the case with‘most women when they
take an observation with the glass, but was as steady as
a rock.

“You don’t; see it, Jane, do you?” said I, after a
little, i

“No; but I should like todo so. I won't give it up
yet.’’

There was something so peculiar, so curt and decisive,
as though I had threatened to take the glass from her
by force, in the tone of her last words, that it drew my
own gaze from the cartiage of our guests, which was
now plainly to beseen nearing the village, and transferr-
edit to herself. Then I noticed that the telescope was
depressed, so as not to command the horizon, and’ was
fixed upon the terrace beneath Wayford Wood. “I
think I see it now,” said she, hoarsely ; “just a thin
blue Tine ’’——

“But you are looking too much inland, Jane—if
you'll allow ne ;” and I offered to take the glass.

In an instant she had dropped it fifty or sixty feet
upon the terrace below, where it, of course, was smash-
ed to atoms, : :

~ “Dear, dear! how very stupid of me, Fréd,” said
she; “it was all my own clumsiness. Oh, I am so
sorry !’’ vo & :
it was certainly through her fault that the thing had
happened ; but Iwas by no means sure that clumsiness
had anything to do with it. Sheseemed to me to Have
dropped it with malice prepense.
“Pray, forgive me, Fred,” continued she. “The first
day I go to Monkton I will get you another, twice as
good; that is ’’—for I suppose my countenance showed
that I rather resented that form of indemnity—if you
wouldn't be offended.” 1
“The ground is soft, and Pohaps there is no
great harm done, after all,” said I; and in two or
three bounds, after the Gatcombé fashion, I had de-
scended the steep cliff and reached .the terrace. I
was not sorry that Jane could not followme. I was
angry with her, not so much for dropping the glass, as
for supposing that mere money could supply a substi-
tute for what she knewI valued as my father’s gitt.
That was so like her. She did not even wait to see
whether it was destroyed ; for when I had picked up
the fragments and looked towards the spot where she
had stood, she was no longer there. She had doubtless
hastened home. At that moment I heard the rumble
of the Reptons’ carriage in the village street, and
turned to follow her example; but, as I did so,
caught sight of Cecil coming along the ‘terrace from
Wayford. I’ knew that black speck in the distance to
be him from the rapidity of its movement ; for, when
alone, my cousin always ran like Man Friday, or as
though he bore the Fiery Cross—it was a vent for the
superfluous energy of his nature. I had not to wait
long before he came up with me, wide-eyed and pant-
ing; his dark cheeks warmed with color, and his whole
face 80 bright and joyous that Thad scarce need to ask ;
“Have you seen Ruth to-day, Cecil?’ It was the first
time I had spoken of her for months; indeed, the only
time since our one serious talk together upon the sub-
ject, andT felt some degree of embarrassment in allud-
ing to her, But, Cecil answered with all possible sim-
plicity, “Yes, Fred ; I have but just parted from her.”
“On the terrace,” said I, “orin the wood?”
{1 It was just at the edge of the fir-wood.” ,
, “So I thought,” replied I, gravely. “To that parting
—a very tender one, no doubt—your sister-was a wit-
ness, It is of no great consequence, however,” added
I, “forI believe her suspicions had no need of ‘such
confirmation, Iam much mistaken if she has not been
watching you all the afternoon.” T.ienI told him how
Thad seen Jane come yeiled out of the fir-grove where
Richard Waller worked ; how angry she had looked be-
‘hind that veil; and how she had dropped the telescope,
to prevent, as I believed, my being a witness, as well as
herself, to his tender adigus. “ That you are discovered,
Cecil,’”’ said I, in conclusfon, “I feel quite convinced.”
_ “No doubt, no doubt,” said he, but in an irresolute

tone, and looking yéarningly towards Wayford, as |

though, since matters had reached this pass, he had
halfa mind to réturn thither, instead of to Gatcombe.
“I think, howéver, Jane will keep the matter ‘secret,
Fred; otherwise, why should she not have disclosed it
to yourself?” rai a 4 i
_ “Perhaps she means to’ appeal to you in private,”
suggested I. /

Cecil shook his head, still wearing the tronbled air.
If he had been capable of fear, which I knew he was not.
Ashould have said he was afraid of his sister; but, at.all
events, it Was evident that the idea of her displeasure
was a source. of the greatest disquietude to him. He
walked home by my side, dejected and silent’: and
despondency seemed to communicate itself to me.

not shake off .a sense of some impending evil, 80

strong and £0 engrossing, that even the long-looked de-

 

light of meeting Lady Repton was already robbed by it
of half its relish, ‘ apy, SSS iit i

CHAPTER VI.
LADY REPION’S RIDDLE.

By_the time we got home our guests had arrived,
and Lady Repton had retired to her room to dress tor
dinner. His lordship, who was conversing with my fa-
ther in the drawing-room, received Cecil and myself
with affability and a couple of stretched-out fingers,
sparkling with rings. His knucklés were 80 swollen
with the gout that it was as great a wonder how the
rings got there as how the apples are found in dump.- |
lings. He would certainly never get them off again in
his life; and I could not help wondering within myself
whether, when he was dead, his executors (or on whom-
soeyer the duty might devolve) would cut off his fin-
gers, or commit all those precious stones to the grave.
(What ‘is generally done, by-the-bye, in such puintul
circ¢umstances ?) His complexion was very beautiful,
and gave him an appearance of youth, which was re-
newed (like the eagle’s) every morning. His hair and
mustaches were black and silky. His teeth were yery
white and fine; and yet one’s first idea upon seeing him
(which was also a permanent one) was, “What a very
old gentleman this is !” "

If you referred to the Peerage, however, you would
find that John Lord Repton was by no means 80 very
old for a peer of the realm—a class which emulates for
longevity that of life-annuitants and incumbents of
college livings. He was a ruin—but comparatively a
a modern one—of the renaissance style. His air and
manner were not only artificial; they did not belong to
real life at all. Congreve or Wycherley might have cre-
ated him. When he patted his snuff-box and took a
pinch, raising his jetty eyebrows, one naturally ex-
pected him to ejaculate: “Stap my vitals!” In place
ofthat appropriate remark, he would cry : “Good gad !”
in a sharp, shrill voice, and*hand the box’ to the nearest
person, though it were Aunt Ben or Jane. He prided
himself on many things: his rank, his wife, his castle
in Yorkshire, and his filhert nails; but, above all, upon
his taste in literature. Upon this point, my father
would as soon have thought of giving in to him, or to
any man, as of kissing the pope’s toe; and very stub-
born arguments they were wont to have together,
which always ended in Lord Re Cs saying : “You may’
be right, sir—you may be; but, gid! I used to have
some little reputation as a critic too.” Indeed, from
the constant use of that éxpression, he had been
well known in London in old days as Reputation
Repton, ‘He took a great fancy to’ Cecil from
the first, and nicknamed him (to his great indig-°
nation) Tippoo, after Tippoo Sahib; the plunder of
whose treasury had, as I afterwards learned, proved the
foundation of the Repton fortunes. His Jordship’s
father had been in high command in India, and one of
his uncles had been among those brave English captives
who, refusing to serve the tyrant’s guns against their
fellow-countrymen, had been decapitated by his order.

To hear the old gentleman narrate the story was a M

great treat ; the chivalrous incidents of the affair were
comparatively SE as but his description. of the
“loot” which ensued after the assault of the British
was very vivid and picturesque. ‘I had it from my
noble father’s own lips, sir. * * * There were no less
than three thousand horses, one hundred» elephants,
and two hundred camels, in that great potentate’s
private stud; and begad! six hundred women;” at
which point in the narration he would wag his wicked
old head so'very appreciatingly, that it was a marvel he
did not wag his wig off. HONS OF Ve

If his lordship was not very good-natured, he was
very courtly, and fell at once to praising the old manor-
house in a way that was most gratetul to my father.
“Now, I like this,” he would say: “there are no gim-
cracks ; everything is solid and serviceable. We have
no such oak panelling as this in Yorkshire ; these thick
walls and deep bay-windows are just to ily taste. The
garish lightness ar, modern houses is my detesta-
tion : all here is shadow and calm, and breathes of an-
cestry : just as the layers of the cedar, with their depths
of shade, betoken the revolving years. Do you sée the
image?—Take a pinch—take a pinch, young: sir,’
which, in my uncaloulating courtesy, I did, an nearly
sneezed my head off.” Pa seg

“That’s a bad sign,” said his lordship, gravely. «A
man of birth should take to snuff as naturally as a
duck to water. If I had not known ‘your gainted
mother, sir, I should entertain suspicious of your not
being a Wray of Gatcombe. ! I remember the
days when your father here took bushels of it.”’ "
_ As I was well aware that my father had never taken a
pineh of snuff in his life, this latter sarcasm, at: least,
fell pointless. Lord Repton’s memory was not so good
as it had been; and since to ie it was impossible,
he had hit upon the ingenious device ot constructing
@ past out of his imagination, and quoting its events as
though they had in reality occurred. My father never
contradicted him on, such points—even when he him-
self was introduced upon stage, asin the present
instance—but contented himself with a snrile of in-
credulity equal to a folio. To do his lordship justice,
this habit, had become so natural with him, that he was
far more persuaded that he was speaking the truth,
than any of his hearers.. I am anticipating, of course,
since these peculiarities, did not evince themselves
ane be characteristic during this our first
interview ; but I had seen enough of his: lordship,
before he retired to his Geena pone: to convince me
that he was something quite different from what I had
im ed. Pompous per he was, but certainly
neither a bore nor stupid. tact, I felt both pleased
and grateful to he had already given me an

outline sketch for one of my dramatis persone in a |.

 

pa, which, as usual, happened at the time to have in

But if my conjectures had proved fallacious as to his
lordship, they had at infinitely more astray with re-
spect to his wife. I had looked tor a Mrs. Siddons ora
Miss O'Neil. I found—well—a lady of -plump propor-
tions indeed, and (as I knew from my father’s mouth)
of mature age, butat least by camdlatighie-s telty. 5
a bright and beautiful being, with eyes that absolutely
danced with vivacity; rounded limbs that never
stirred except with grace; a voice that filled the air
with sweetness ; a carriage like that of Juno, when it
eee her to ve Juno, but more’ often like that of

venus. Her dress was cut exceedingly low, (‘* I
never !’’ was Aunt Ben’s muttered sjackibabons when she
first swam into the room, and certainly J had never.)
Her light brown hair, of which she had an immense:
quantity, fell over her bare shoulders, and shone like
gold, agit well might, for it was powdered with gold-

ust. :

‘How French !”’ said Aunt Ben, D

“How beautitul!’” said I, when .we talked of her
that night. f

“You are both right,”’ was my father's witty rejoinder,
“for she is Paris and Helen in one person.” 7

‘hough. her. ladyship bore her years like a feather,
she would not, doubtless, have looked so young had it.
not been for the contrast she presented to her husband 5
but by the side of that ancient fowl she seemed quite a
spring chicken. He was evidently exceedingly proud
ot her, and crowed feebly over the admiration s: © ex~
cited ; but of that which gave her interest in my eyes
—the fact of her having been an ornament of the British
stage—he was by no means proud. This was made evi-
dent within the first quarter of an hour,

As my father was taking her in to dinner, shestoppea
in the hall, to'a@mire its vast proportions.

“What a capital place it would be, Mr. Wray, for
private theatricals! The stage would have three -
ticable doors—which is most unusual—and the Mey
is alrea\ly there, in your ificent staircase.” ~ ,

She made nothing of stopping the whole procession
behind her, and imperilling the warmth of the soup,
while she utteréd these observations, which, however,
made my heart. leap within me.

“Tam sure,’’ said I, audaciously. “if you were to ask
my father, Lady Repton, he would not refuse to test
the capabilities of the hall as a theater

“Is he so very good-natured?” said’ her ladyship,
looking from him to me with quite an euger air.
aa is nothing in the world I should enjoy so
much,” ; :

“What, what, what?” exclaimed the old lord appro-
hensively, as he toddled up with Aunt Ben. “What
does she want now ?” , :

“Lady Repton has expressed a wish, which, tam sure,
shall be gratified as far us lies in my power,” said my
father, graciously, “to see some private theatricals in
our hall,” :

“Private fiddlesticks!” ejaculated his lordship, has-
tily.  “ Very difficult, very ridiculous! Who is to act,
I should like to know ?”

“Iwill act!’ exclaimed Lady Rap ica, with a sweep
of her rounded arm, and in the tones of the Tragic
aot ‘There will be nothing very ridiculous in that,

ope.”

“My dear Lady Repton,” expostulated the old lord,
“the idea is preposterous. I won’t have Fred Wray’s
hall all pulled to pieces—I won’t indeed. Carpets up,
curtains torn, servants drunk, and house set on firo—
a iy what is meunt by private theatriculs. Pooh,
pooh |” :

‘‘He’s afraid of my going on the orape ain and
being fallen in love with,” aud her ladyshi aay, and
squeezing my father’s arm. ‘It is go Neo on me, to
whom the smell of the footlights is like a breath of

fresh air,’’

" Nothing more was said upon the matter at that time,
though I, for my was well resolved it should not
‘passed had

drop out of mind. But what had caused
the stream of conversation at dinner to turn into a the-
atrical channel, in spite Lord Repton’s endeavor to
dam it, and though he damn it under his breath.
'* Did you ever chance to see me, Miss Wray,” asked
om Lee addressing Aunt Ben, “at the Garden or
he 0 Po of j ) 14 tpoph fren.
Aut Ben opened her round eyes. to their fullest eXx-,
ent, and smiled an embarrassed smile,...If Lady Repton
ad said ‘in the Gurden,” she would have replied: un~
hesitatingly, “*.No;"" but the use of the word “at” in-
formed her that something was intended. beyond what.

eee — ‘i a BA waned
“Lplay emona at both houses,” continued her
ladyship in explanation.

“Of course, Gf GORE exclaimed my aunt; “how.
stupid of me!) Lremember now what a treat you gave
us all, Let. me see; it,was the very year when. Are
here ’—she was just about to say “was born,’’ but for-
tunately stop

herself, as with a. sharpcurb, and sub-
stituted‘ had the measles.” ee

“Then younever saw me, Mr. Frederick ?” said her
ladyship, turning towards.me with a sweet amile.

I felt, beneath the table, Cecil’s foot — mine with
mischievous emphasis.. I knew that I . scarcely, as
the phrase “been born or thought of,’ when
Kitty Conway had retired from the stage, and ex-
changed her tinsled crown for a real coronet; and it
was only by a great effort of self-command that I was
able to reply with gravity: “I have never been invite
+ theater, Lady Repton, nor so much as even tu Lon-

on,” ; i

“How I envy you!” sighed she. “What ‘pleasures
await you rick 6 Lord. Repton, do you hear what
our youre friend says? He has never seen a play.’”

“Hum—ha!” muttered her husband, so grufily, that
the tone — on that he wished he had never
seen one either. . on. your own mutton,
Wray? ‘This haunch iacapital”

§ sat vie cousin ot Bae gcse ss ladyship,
motioning towards Cecil, “ game pastoral
state of innocence as to the drama ?” ;

 
CECIL'S TRYST.

 

“Oh no,” said Cecil; “Iam an old stager?"’
“What an impudent young fellow!” cried she. “I
dare say that’s what he callame. But that shows me he
can act. Itis necessary for an actor to be impudent;
while, on the other hand, all good actresses must be un-
affected, modest; and retiring.” She laughed aloud, yet
very musically, and shook her head till the gold-dust
flew about it like a halo. “Seriously, however, my
dear,” continued she, addressing Jane, who was looking
serious enough, and indeed morose, “I would never
advise any young lady to go upon the stage. If you
feel any strong attraction to that profession ’’——

“T don’t,” said Jane, opening her mouth just wide
enough to omit the words, and then yursing it up
again with a snap.

“That's fortunate,” said her Jadyship, regarding her
with great coolness; “ because it affords great tempta-
tions to, vanity: and I am afraid we women are all yain.
Coryton, who had ‘the Garden’ in my time, once re-
marked of the profession of the stage, that it- would be
-a charming one except for the actors and the actresses.
You remember Coryton, Lord Repton ?”’

“Yes.” It was plain he did, so well that he did not
care to be reminded of him. :

“Qoryton used to play the ‘heavy fathers ’ so admir-
ably,” continued her ladyship, “that when I married I
got him to give me away.”

“He mist have been a very generous fellow, Rep-
ton,” said my father, with 4 good-natured glance at her
ladyship. ‘

“Stuff and nonsense!” muttered the old gentleman
angrily, and without catching the gallantry of the alln-
sion; “not a bit of it. Deuced lavish with other
people’s property; that’s all.”

I thought my father would have choked, His sense,
of courtesy contended nobly with his sense of humor;
but during the struggle his eye caught mino, and then
he fairly roared. Lady Repton laughed as heartily as
he, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, because, as I
now conclude, her complexion was not quite suited to
the passage of tears.

She was certainly a yery good-humored woman, but,
as sometimes happens, not good-natured, or rather
only good-natured as regards men. She was bitter

ainst her own sex, probably because, in her own case,
she had found them to be censorious. Jane and she
had many sharp encounters. together: the one, all
gauze and glitter, reminded me of a dragon-fly with a
sting in its tail; the other so dark and sombre, of
a water-beetle, furnished with a pair of sharp pincers
that had no respect for the peerage. Their contest be-
gan at once. After dinner, her ladyship sat down at the
piamo, and fayored us with some bright French chan-
sons, which she sang with great sprightliness of
manner.

“That woman,” whispered Cousin Jane in,my ear,
“sings like a singing chamber-maid”’; a criticism (I
was compelled to own to myself) as accurate as it was.
severe. Presently, Jane took her place at the instru-
ment to accompany Cecil, who played the flute alittle,
and her ladyship came and sat by me.

“When is it to be, Mr. Fred?”’ inquired she behiad
her fan.

“When is what to be?” returned I, with genuine in-
nocence.

“Oh, come; do you suppose Iam blind? Cousins
are not within the prohibited degrees, we know; and I
suppose she is as rich as Croesus.”

laughed almost aloud, so that the musician looked
round from her playing with a displeased air; the idea
of my marrying Cousin Jane tickled me so excessively.

‘She is not at’ all rich,’’ said I; ‘‘and you are quite
mistaken in your other supposition.” * tha

«Of course that follows, if my premises are wrong,”
said her ladyship, coolly. ‘But is it really true that
you are not engaged 2? Lhaveno right to pry into.your
secrets,” added she, with amazing quickness (whereby I
knew that she had seen.my color rise); “I was of
course only referrin ; to the Begum.”

Ithought this oth rude and cruel, and made no
reply; but she vent on quite unconcernedly.

“Lord Repton and I concluded the affair had ar-
ranged, and tuat she was here on purpose, I am” glad
that we were wrong; at least, if I were you, I should
much prefer to marry your aunt. What makes her—I
mean your cousin—so dull and discontented, and also
so uncivil? She never says thank you to anybody. I
call her La Belle Dame. sans Merci.”

“Do you?” said I, unable to repress a smile. ‘And
I heard you tell Cecil that my father was like dear Don
Quixote. May I ask what you call me ?”

“ Well, I shall call you Fred, if you will let me, and if
others will let me,”’ and here she gave a meaning glance
towards Cousin Jane. “ You have not answered my

uestion yet, you know. Let us suppose it’s a riddle.

hy is Cousin Jane so dull and discontented? Come,
ess.” a

“My dear Lady Repton,” said I, “ you are too severe.
My cousin is an orphan, and among persons who, with
one exception, are comparative strangers to her ”——

“That's a my case,” interrupted her ladyship; “yet
I’m not dull.” :

“ That is evident,” said I, gallantly. ‘ ,

“ Ob, I don't mean as to wits,” continued she; “your
cousin is sharp enough—keen asa razor, I should say,

and perhaps quite as dangerous, But is it possible that
{ you can’t guess my riddle ?”
“ Not I, indeed, I give it up.”

“You are very stupid, Mr. Fred, or else a sad hypo-
crite, which is almost as bad. You know when a door
is not a door, I tae ? Good. You know also when
‘Love is deformed, I dare say ?’”

«Yee chy
/ ery . n, why sin Jane dull and dis-
contented? There, I see you have it at last. The idea

of ayoung fellow—who writes plays, too—not knowing

ceased. “Oh, thank you, Miss Wray; that is most
beautiful, indeed. Do, pray, play us something else.”
But La Belle Dame sans Merci was deaf to her entrea-
ties, and, regardless of the visitors, got out, as usual,
her Chinese puzzle. .

 

CHAPTER VII.
CALL ME“ KITTY.”

Lapy Repton was one .of those women who never
come down to breakfast, or are seen by anybody but |
their waiting-maids, until the day is far advanced; |
many ladies in her position do the like; but had she
never married a peer, and remained Kitty Conway all
her life, she would still have been a late riser. $
habit was now an advantage to her; it gaye her the op- |
portunity of repuiring the ravages of time, and present- |
ing as bold a front as possible—and some of her own sex
averred it was very bold—to the public eye: she ap-
peared at once all smiles and pleasantness, not stiff and |
formal, as even the most charming women sometimes |
will be under the chill influence ot morning—tfor break-
fast time is a most trying epoch—but resumed the |
friendly intercourse of the preceding evening exactly at |
the point where it was broken off. Though it was ob- |
vious, even under these favorable circumstances, that
she was under great obligations to art, this was only so
far as her personal attractions were concerned. She |
thoroughly understood that naturalness of manner— |
providing one is not by nature a fool nor a brute—is
the greatest of social charms: that, courtesy and po-
liteness being understood, there is indeed nothing so |
attractive; and accordingly, out of the abundance of |
her heart did her pretty mouth speak. Thereby Kitty
Conway had doubtless “ shocked” a latge section of so- |
ciety during her somewhat checkered career, but she |
had endeared herself to that portion of it which it was |
most worth her while (and avery lady’s while) to please. |
Even Aunt Ben, who had at first been certainly among |
the “shocked,” was brought to confess of Lady Sept |
that she didn’t believe that there“ was much real harm |
in her,” though she always stuck to it that there was |
some.

Almost the first words Lady Repton spoke to me that |
day were: “ And now, Mr. Fred, where are these great,
plays of yours ?”’, For which I ceuld have kissed her, |
and I don’t think she would have been much offended |
if I had. .

“Let us go somewhere where we can be quite alone,” |
said she, ‘and read them.”

_ Itook her to Aumt Bon’s boudoir—which, ndtwith- |
standing ita mame, was rarely used except by her)
‘favorite cat, who sat there whenever ao fire was)
lighted—and produced my chosen manuscripts with a |
beating heart. Of course they wore crude productions,
and had yery little eriginality; but I had at least coplec
from the best medels, and:the result astonished and de-
lighted her. ’
“ Why, my dear Mr. Fred,” cried she, whom she had
read out # passage or two, which I had ‘specially select-
ed for her, “ you are quite a genius !’’

I blushed and bowed.

“And do you really think there would be any chance
of my getting them acted?’ r )
“These ?—as they are?’ said her ladyship, laying her
taper fingers upon th» precious pile. ‘Certaimly not,
unless there isa theater at. Hamwell or Bedlam. N,
sane man would think of putting on his stage a play in
which there are no carpenter's scenes.’ ‘ ’

“ Carpenter’s scenes,” repeated I, my mind at once
reverting to the wood-yard; ‘‘ why carpemter’s ?”

. Howmerrily she laughed! +Dhelaughter of no child
was ever blither or more musical than hers; and yet,
for fear itshould have displeased me, she became at
once supernaturally grave, and entered into explana-
tion. : }
“You don’t give your hero and heroine time, to dress,
Mr. Fred, nor scarcely to breathe; while as for the
necessities of the scenery, you have ignored that al-
together. You would have done very well in the old
days, when a man came on, and said: ‘ This is a wood,’
or, ‘ Please to imagine a room in the king’s palace;’ but
nowadays, when woods and palaces are actually set up,
you must give time for their erection by means of
carpenter's scenes. In a literary point of yiew, my
dear boy’’—and here she patted me on the head—
“ these plays, considering your youth, are prodigies of
excellence; but as dramatic works, they are—well, ahem
—unadapted for representation. In the first place, you
have teo many good characters; LT don’t mean virtuous
ones, for that would indeed be fatal, but individual per-
sonifications. To play these would require actors and
actresses of which no company possesses more than one
or two. Don’t youjsee !”

_ I didn’t see at all. “Surely,” said I, ‘in Shake-
speare’s plays, for instance, there are not one or two
characters only, and the rest dummies.”

“That was the ‘great mistake of Shakespeare,” re-
plied her ladyship, coolly. ‘“ He was too great aman to
write plays for representation, and that is why they are
so much read, and so seldom acted. When I played
Desdemona, which I did both at the Garden and the
Lane” (this piece of information may for the future
be taken as spoken, though J heard it about a hund-
red times), ‘there was a pretty good Othello, ex-
cept that he only came up to my shoulder, and
I could have smothered him with ease; but our
Iago was afool. Shakespeare’s men, upon the whole, are
wiser than his women, and that is another practical
mistake of his, for very few wise men ever take to the
stage as a fession. The true reason why what are
‘now called Sensation Plays are so popular is, use
they rely upon the scene-painters, who are excellent,
and upon strong ‘situations,’ which suit everybody
who can strike an attitude, fall without hurting him-

 

 

 

when a girl is in love with him!’’ Here the music

self, or die in convulsions. It is from’the same cause,

at least so far as the managers are concerned, that leg-
pieces are so popular.” aii.

» “Dear me!” said I, not wishing further to. expose my
ignorance by inquiring into the nature of “ leg-pieces.”

“All this,” continued her ladyship, “I dare say do-
stroys your illusions respecting the British stage ; and
yet I do assure you, that if anything were to happen to
Lord Repton—which Heayen forbid !—I would go back
to it to-morrow.”” ~ . 4

“TI wish you would,” said I, mechanically, forgetting

the domestic calamity that must needs precede her do-
ing 80, in my desire to have a friend so potent behind
the scenes. ‘How I should like to see you act in~in
anything!”
_ “You selfish boy!’ cried her ladyship, shaking her
jeweled finger in rebuke ; “you were going to say ‘in
one of my plays.’ Well, why shouldn’t you do so?
We were talking of private theatricals last night; let
us get some up. Here is your adaptation of Ivanhoe,
which is the very thing—not too long, and not too
serious. I'll play Rowena.” 7

“My dear Lady Repton,” cried I, inan ecstacy. “ You
are too good !””

“I hope not,” answered she, comically: “I had al-
most rather be ‘no better than I should be.’ Yap,
Rowena will do very well. I will let my back-hair
down, which I heard your Cousin Jane say was not my
own. She must do Rebecca, I suppose ; though where
shall we ever find a Brian de Bois-Guilbert venture-
some enough to carry her off? Do you know where to
lay your hand upon a Brian ?’” ’

At the moment I could think of nobody but “the
Alchemist,”’ as we called him—old Mr. Bourne. If he
always kept his visor down, he might possibly pass for
the bold Templar, although he had little of that fiery
character in his composition, He would do anything
to oblige Cecil, as I had only too good reasons tor know-
ing. (It was not for my Bake that his granddaughter
was permitted to come to the manor-house so often,
though she did come, bless her! for my sake.) Lady
Repton, who knew nothing of Mr. Bourne, could, of
course, make no présent objection to the cast; and in
the meantime I resolved to look about and try and find a
better man. There was one Frank Clese, a clergyman’s
son, in our neighborhood, who had broken a leaping-
pole once or twice in my company, and might break a
lance, or at least bear one, as Bois-Guilbert. Cecil, wo
arranged, should be Ivanhoe—to whom,as to Rowena
a mueh more important part was assigmed in my drama-
tic version of the story than in the original; and I,
myself was to be Wamba, the son of Witless,

\“ We'll put it Wamba only in the bill,” said hor lady-
ship gravely, ‘for tear your fataer shouldn’t lik

I laughed, and told her how much she was mis-
taken in supposing my father capable of receiving
| annoyaace from such a source ; and’ she. laughed toe,
| but shook her head, in sign that we must agree to dif
| fer on that point. :
| - « Your father is charming I allow ; but héis a man,
| and mam ig vain.’’ No argument could push her from
| that.canon. ‘ Whatever man is vain about, in that he
|can be moro easily wounded than any woman: his
‘amour propreis more sonsitive, and he is less for-
| giving.” .. : a
| . Although somewhat indignant, upon my father’s ac-
count, at this sweeping condemaation of mankind, I did

f

9 | not care just then to combat Lady Repton’s views; indeed

so far as myself was concerned, I am afraid T confirmed
them. For the idea of getting my Rowena’ played,
though only at Gatcombe, by such an actress as Lady
Repton, made me feel as vain asa peacock. Her ladyship
was also greatly pleased at this notion of reappearing in
public even on our humble stage. Our united wits
were concentrated upon the realization of it. I felt ee
sure that the gallantry ofmy father would cause him
to consent to any scheme of amusement which his
guest might propose ; and on this point my companion
was ready to believe me, hone she protested that if
the thing were done it would be for my sake, and not
for hers,

“You can get your father to do anything, you spoiled
boy ; I see that ; and, upon my word I don’t wonder at
it, for really, Fred, you are yery nice.”

“It is very nice of you to say so,” said I with an in-

enuous blush. ‘You don’t know how I have been
feats to see you, Lady Repton ; and”——

Call me Kitty,” interrupted her ladyship. _  Whem
we are at our plays, at all events, I will be Kitty, and
youshall be Fred. You longed to see me, did you? and
yet, when I came—you were going to say—I turned out
to be so different to what you Sara ss eee

“Well, yes,” I stammered ; I “ was going to say that,
| or something like it.” : r 4

“T knew you were,” said she, smiling. ‘I dare say
you pictured to yourself an awful personage, with the
airs of a tragedy queen, ‘J called for water voy ; you
bring me beer /’ andsoon. I am afraid Imust have
disappointed you sadly, Fred.” .

The pathos she threw into these last words so melted
my heart that I know not of what passionate compli-
ment I might not have been guilty. “ Indeed Kitty’ —
T had smil ngly begup, when the door was opened, and
in walked Lord Repton. Iprotest that I had no more
idea of making love to his lordship’s wife than of steal-
ing his wig, aud yet his sudden appearance gave mo
quite a qualm, nay, a spasm of conscience, the severity
of which was by no means mitigated by his first words,
delivered with stately disapprobation. ==

_ “Tam sorry to interrupt your tele-d-tete, Lady Rep-
ton, but I thought I heard rey say ‘Kitty.’ ”

“And so you did,” said her ladyship, with her
musical laugh, and pointing to the hearth-rug, where
the cat, aroused by the g of the door, was r
ing its legs and ae ts back. “Puss and I as it
happens, are both Kitties.”

“Hum—ha!”’ said his lordsh: the animal

tty waa a

 

ip,
with a grave air., “I had no iiea that
name of common gender, or was ever applied to a Tom-
cat.” ‘

This idea so tickled him, that’ he at once discarded
the suspicion which had apparently suggested it, and
was put in high good-humor.

“ And.do you really mean to say, young sir,” said he,
ina baeiering tone, pointing to the piles of manuscript
upon the table, ‘that you have spoiled all that paper
with fine writing?”

“Indeed, my lord,’’ said her ladyship, with some
warmth, kindled, not so much on my account, I fancy,
as because she had had a little fright upon her own. “Mr.
Frederick has not only written fine things ; some of
them are very good.”

“T dare say, I dare say,”’ replied her husband with
lofty condescension. I remember when I was a lad of
the same age, I was always writing too. ‘The things
may have been nothing of themselves, but I had no
cause to be ashamed of them; they showed culture.
In after-years, though you may not have a chance _to
hear of it, young gentleman, I had some little reputa-
tion as a dramatic critic.”

“Indeed, I have heard my father say so many times,
my lord,” said I submissiyely. “If I could venture to
ask your opinion now upon these humble efforts”,

I had fished for perch in a shower, but I had never
seen a bait swallowed so greedily as was this adroit sug-
gestion of mine by my noble friend. He had sat him-,

self down, and fastened his gold spectacles upon his |

aristocratic nose before Icould finish the sentence.

Nothing would please him better, he said, than to
place his poor services as a critic at the disposal of a
son of his valued friend.

My heart so smote me for my hypocrisy that I could
only murmur some disjointed words of thanks, and
pushed the manuscripts towards him. We should,
without doubt, have been in for a lecture on the
Unities, had not woman’s wit come to the rescue,.and
shaped the threatened infliction into a, weapon where-
with to win the very thing on which our hearts were
set. / ova

“Why don't: you ask Lord Repton’s opinion, upon
the matter we were discussing,?” said her ladyship, as
she kneeled, on the hearth-rug, smoothing the cat.

* Let him decide whether your E//rida or your Ivanhoe.

is most suitable for our dramatic representation.”

“What, what, what?” said the old lord, in a fretful
tone. i ' ‘
“Why, you must know that we are going to, have
some private theatricals at Gatcombe,” continued she ;
‘Mr. Wray has set his heart upon giving his neighbors
a little treat in that way, and I haye promised to help
him.”

“‘Not to act, Lady Repton, I do, hope ?””

“Well, that is as you please, my lord, of course. I
had hoped you would have consented to my doing my-
self the great pleasure of stabbing Mr. Frederick in the
back as fe sat upon his pony—we could easily get. the
pony into the hall—on the point of his departure from
Corfe Castle.”

“I shall certainly forbid your doing anything so
supremely absurd, and—and—unbecoming, Lady a
ton.” wos
“There! didn’t I tell you so?’ said her ladyship,
appealing despon tingly to me. ‘* And it’s such a pity !
because I know I eculd make something out of a part
like EL-rida’s ; whereas, in the other play, the character
of Rowena is merely a sketch, hardly worth the trouble
of letting one’s back hair down for in order to look the

rt.” :

“T object to your acting at uu, Lady Repton,” said
her husband, taking at the same time, however, into
his ea hand the Jvanhoe which I respectfully
tendered. *

“IT knew it, my lord, and 1 said so,” returned her
ladyship, plaintively. ‘I did not even venture to
promise myself that innocent pleasure. But I am sure
you wHl not put a stop to our projected amusement
altogether, by refusing me permission to aid the young
folks here by saying half a dozen words in what is, after
all, but a child's play. You are to6good-natured to do
that, I’m sure.”’ ae

“But why the deuce can’t they play the thing with-
out you, madam ?” inquired the old lord, still testily,
but not without signs of yielding in his tone. .

“Because, my dear Lord ton,’’ said her ladyship,
taking his unwilling hand and folding it in her abun-
dant tresses, “there is nobody here who looks like a
Saxon princess except me. Miss Wray is rather a bru-
nette, you see ;. whereas Rowena was a blonde, as I am.
There will not be the least occasion for any theatrical
costume, I shall wear the diamond tiara you were so
good as to give me, with att white silk ; leave my chair
for the mimic stage, which will be no stage at all, to
say the few words that have been assigned to me, and
then return to your side. Indeed, we should never
have troubled you about the matter, only we wished to
have your opinion upon some,dramatic points; ‘for
whatever is worth doing at all, as I was telling Mr.
Frederick, is worth doing well.” Page

Here a pebble struck the window; and upon my
rising to answer a signal commonly employed by my
father when he wisued to attract my attention from
without, I saw him stan ing in the garden.

“T insist upon your not boring both my guests, Fred,
or at least not beth at one time,” said he, “ with your

ic compositions. The me you have got
Lord Repton up there as well as her ladyship, ‘and I
must insist upon your releasing him without ransom,
Tell ee want a good Yorkshire opinion upon my
new cob. , ; 4 '
.“ Yes, yes,” said the old lord, appearing at. the n
window ; I'll come, I'll come. I've ome litte pie
tion as a judge of horse-flesh, and I believe it is merited.
—Tll look over your play in the evening, Mr. Freder-
ick ;” and off he wen
“We must take care that he does not do that,’’ said

CECIL’S TRYST.

her ladyship, comically—*“ Kit, Kit, Kittie ;” and she
began to laugh immoderately. “My dear Mr, Fred,
what a scrape we were very nearly in!” *

But notwithstanding Lady Repton’s. modest resolve
to wear only her white silk as the Saxon Rowena, she
was very solicitous that the rest of the dra:natis per-
sone should be suitably attired ; and it was arranged
before we left the boudoir that an embassy should be
sent to Monkton to hire the’ necessary dresses at the
theatre. We took my father’s consent to our dramatic
entertainment for granted though, in due time, Lady
Repton did not fail to thank him for it. He was con-
siderably astonished, but much too polite to offer any
objection beyond shaking his fist at me. .

“You must goand break this news, sir, to Aunt Ben,”
said he, “It is she who is Lord Chamberlain, and from
whom your license mustissue.”’ But he went with us,
for all that to back our humble petition. i

“Tam sure I will do all I can,” said my aunt, look-
ing at him doubtfully ; “ bnt—I don’t pretend to know
anything of play-acting—but won't they hurt the
hall Pr >

“ They will probably burn down the house, my dear,”
was my father's encouraging reply. Then he looked at
me, and quoted from his favorite Marlowe ; ’

‘The northern borderers, seeing their houses burned,

Their wives and children slain, run up and down,

Cursing the name of thee and Lady Repton.”

Her ladyship clapped her hands, delighted.

“Perhaps Mr. Wray would act himself?” suggested
she in a stage whisper.

“T trust he will not dream of acting anybody else,”
exclaimed Aunt Ben, hastily.

“Don’t you think we could persuade him to play
Bois-Guilbert in place of Mr. Bourne ?”: observed her
ladyship insinuatingly, and without noticing my aunt’s
indignant protest. <

“What Mr. Bourne?” inquired my father. “You
don’t mean tosay, Fred, that you have proposed to put
the rector into chain-armor ?” ‘i :

“No, sir,’ said I, modestly. ‘I meant Mr. Bourne
the elder.” ‘ ‘

“Worse and worse !’’ cried he. ‘“ Why, he’s nearly
eighty ; though I dare say,’ added my. father under
his breath, “he’d be happy to come for a shilling a
night and his supper.’

“Eighty !’’ exclaimed Lady Repton in her turn:
“what Rebecea in the world. will stand being made love |
toby aman of eighty! How dare you, Mr. Fred !’”

Then I had to explain that I had merely suggested Mr.
Bourne in order not to throw any difficulties in the way
of our scheme at starting; but that I felt sure n
Close would play the part—as indeed he eventually did.,
Lady Repton did not fail, however, to reproach me, the
next time we were alone toyether, for this audacious
duplicity. + te

“You will say ere to gain your ends, it seems,
you wicked boy. have altered my good opinion of
you altogether. How doI know that we have even se-
cured a Rebecca? Are you quite sure that your cousin
Jane will act?” tiie

“Tam quite sure that she will not,”’ said I, laughing.

“Well, that’s pleasant hearing, I must say; but I hope
you see your way out of the difficulty.” ¢

“Yes,” said I. ‘ There’s a young neighbor of ours—
you'll see her to-night at dinner—Miss Eleanor Bourne;
Tam sure she will oblige us in the matter, and she will
look the part to perfection.”

“Then she must be very beautiful,” observed her
ladyship, sharply.

“She is thought to be good-looking,” returned I,
coolly, “and she is very dark.” And thus we settled it.

Now all was bustle and preparation; and Aunt Ben
busied herself in writing the invitations, for there was
no time to lose, since the Reptons’ stay with us was to
be very short. It was decided that a dress rehearsal
should take place, for the amusement of our himbler
friends in the village, on the day betore the grand en-
tertainment, and in the mean while there was much to
do. Cecil copied out the parts; Lady Repton suggested
the arrangements for the stage; and my father loosened
his purse-strings cheerfully. I don’t think I was ever
before so happy, though I felt a little disconcerted that
same evening when welcoming Eleanor in Lady Rep-
ton’s presence,

“So wnat is the, young neighbor of yours, is it, Master
Fred,”’ said she, slyly, “ whois ‘ thought to be good-
looking?’ I shall find an opportunity of telling her
after dinner what yon said of her—‘ Very dark.’ Yes;
and I think you have kept her very dark from me.” ‘

“I forgot that yon knew nothing about her,” said I,
with rather an awkward laugh; ‘Eleanor is a very old
friend of ours.” NA k

‘‘So it seems,” said her ladyship, dryly. “I observe
that yon ueeze hands,” ;

Old Mr. Bourne was certainly right in the remark he
expressed that night (if not in the pronunciation of it),
that Lady Repton had “ the heye ot an ’awk.” 3

but though Ido verily believe that she was displeased
for the moment to discover that Nelly and I were lovers,
she took to her very kindly, and they soon got to be ex-
cellent friends. : de he

DRAMATIC PREPARATIONS. se

Waar a revolution can one person of wit and will
effect in a whole household, however prone to peace and
le ‘gy! The silent manor-house now resounded to
the blows of the carpenter, as though it had been one
of her m y’s dock-yards, while provisions arrived |
(for the contemplated supper) in store as if to furnish
forth an Arctic expedition. Aunt Ben, ordi BO
phiegmatic, positively simmered with excitement and
sense of responsibility; and even Cousin Jane bestirred
herself to the extent of volunteering to hear our parts.
In the case of Lady Repton herself no such tutoring

 

_| Monkton to hire the dresses.
wardrobe in the cathed

 

was supposed to be necessary, and indeed she had

 

‘boasted to’ me that she was a most excellent “ study;

but disuse, I fancy,, had somewhat affected her powers

in this way, forshe was never without her sc: of
aper, and in the middle of a conversation would sud-

denly reply to one in the medisval style, and give thi

cue with immense significance. At church, too, in the y :

Wray Pew (as it was called)—a little curtained snuggery
in the gallery, which might well have excused the i.|-
propriety, as paar gS her ot a stage-box—she was
wont to mix up with the responses certain tags and
phrases which were sometimes longer than the sen-

tences for which they, were substituted, and overlapped

them, so to speak, in a most extraordinary and indecorous
manner. Nothing was saidabout it, though my father
raised his eyebrows a little, and Aunt Ben li‘ted her
hands in horror, It was generally understood that her

ladyship did not “ mean any thing wrong.” et r

that was my view of her conduct, and still is, though
had a much greater experience of her eccentricitics than
the rest of the household, At.this distanice of time, it
will be thought neither a breach of confidence nor an
act of vanity to confess that her ladyship made down-
right love to me. But she was perfectly well aware,
that it was an absurd thing to do, and occasio
burst out laughing in the middle of it. “One may not
marry, one’s | other, Fred, nor even fallin love.
with her,” s uld say, as if tomeasure me, when
matters see! to be going a little far; or,. “ What sad
lines time has ruledin my old face,” when she had been
putting it unnecessarily close to mine, ‘That there was
no reality in her little endearments, L think I could al
most have convinced Nelly herself. I don’t believe she
was even “keeping her hand in” for that time whic!
she vaguely spoke of as ‘‘ when any thing should

to dear Lord Repton;” but she was a born ac
devoted to love-making on the stage, and was content
to play Helena even to so cruel a Demetrius as m: f
No flower-juice on earth could have ever made me blind
to Nellys or to look on ‘ Kity” with any other eyes than
those of the most modest, tho: Vs

  
  

me, and es: y. when
matters, which generally fcteal Sick of our talk
Her wit, therefore, must haye b reat indead, sin
she did not hesitate to damp my ho; of ook eae
as @ playwright, and even of my get’ “acted ”’ at

“ IfShakspeare himself hiad not had asharein the Globe —
Theatre, my dear, he would not have been the ;
success he was, for the simple reason that he euch )
have had the op; ortynities. The stage-door isnot more
‘closed against the general public than is the
ear to the voice of the unknown writer of dramas. He
won't be bothered with him, not even so far as to give
him a hearing. He will answer no notes, however
ee 3 he will return no manuscript however val.
uable.” c

“Then a manager must be a brute in human form [’*
cried I, indignantly, r

“Undoub: i he is, my dear boy,” was her grave re-
ply ; “ifat least he is so fortunate to possess the human
torm, for I Vevdniee eine ae ae without even
that: being intensely selfish, they trouble of all”
kinds ; and they havean insurmountable ol to.
spend money. These two pecu
accept French ters,
place of good original dramas, that they would tol i
tothe pains of selecting from a heap of | r rub-

t hb onate, ‘ds
Her conversation, however, at os Stick delight. a”
e © of dramatiic

since

bish, and for which, perhaps, they might have topaya —

reasonable sum.” m
“But how, then, is an unknown dramatic author to

get his chance atall?”. tevy
“By writing his play expressly to suit the ae

ities of a particular actor or actress, and getting

her to bring it out for him—just as I: am bringing

your Jvanhoe fof you upon the Gatcombe stage.

ull the ooo Tt my

tured, I assure you.

quaintance once wrotea very charming

an express understanding with X, acertain eminent’

actor, that he should bring out the piece ; the i

pal part was ooey suited to his talents, and he had

even allowed that the play was sure to take. But still

it remainedunacted. At.last the author lost

ne ite e exp) es << have been kept

shilly-shallying long enough, 6 (just as

be, my dear Fred), ‘and really begin to think gaat this

Only

il

nee nae

pares not coming out at all.’ I would rather ‘give »
undred pounds than be eee in this way.’ My
dear friend,’ returned X, in his frien: way, ‘why on

earth did you not say so before? That the very

0 — siscacyr® trste pounds—for which mo-

tives of delicacy Ve so patiently been waiting.” ~

_ “ What a villain!” ejuctinted x x8 mre

_ “Perhaps,” said her ed coolly ; “ but a very

smiling and agreeable villain, I do assnre you.” .
While the general conditions of the British sta

wi

thus being expounded to my astonished ome. ot’; oo
were spared to insure the success of that eta
ornament of it—my medieval, (drama—or, _ to
el sos chely, to make. PE ‘go... We
alre more than one coer: and

Th of which becam: .

» Cecil and I s'

4 certain Thursday, the -date
wards of very great im S|
They could not.be pro-
cured before, for the simple! that the Th
city was-limited, and that th
actors were using tlem; but the compan:
banded, and the manager was ‘
honest pound or two by us ama: ot :
It was went aaa of my cousin to with me, ata
time when all studies, save our ones, were sus-
ded; and he would as I well knew, have gladly spent
is holiday elsewhere; but, of course, not. a word was
said of that. The subject, as I have said, was a tabor
one, ena indged it did not at that time even suggest it-
se us. pos ” PRS on ha ae tat
‘The behavior of Cousin Jane had of late been go ¢
ciliatory, that it had in a great measure femqved tay

‘
e

 

glad enought fo tara ab

or
out

:
aos id niece ieee nie aa alien

woos

saeco

Ser as

ag

  

 

 
 

 

 

10

CEOIL'S TRYST:

 

 

Suspicions of her having discovered her brother's) se-
eret, and besides, my mind was full of the play. M,
astonishment, therefore, was considerable when sud-
denly, a3 we drove along, Cecil observed, apropos to. no-
thing : “What a charming Rowena my Rue wouldmake,
Fred,”’

His quiet use of the possessive prondun alarmed me
more than the most passionate eulogy on her beanty
could have done, His Rue, indeed! Why, I couldn’t
have said more if I had been speaking of my own
Eleanor! “ Well,’' returned I, smiling, for I thought it
best to treat the matter as lightly as I could, “I don’t
suppose Ruth Waller would play the part so well as
Lady Repton.” i

“Tam not sure,”’ answered he, gravely; ‘she would
look the Saxon princess every inch, and she has far more
dramatic talent than you imagine.”

“But [never imagined her to have any, my dear Ce-
cil,” returned I, in astonishment. ‘How should she
have? What could have evoked it?”

Cecil laughed—not scornfully, but with the good-
hhatured confidence of a man whose position is beyond
ridicule. ‘“ Well, Fred, I might reply,” said he, “if I
hada mind to be uncivil: How came you with your
knack of writing plays? And, who evoked that?”

“ZT should answer, Cecil, that my re g of plays be-
gat writing them; partly that, an rtly, Isup-

Eapust have had some natural ben t way at
Brat, which, it is likely enough, might never have
shown itself but for my father’s encouragement, Why,

at seven y old, I used to sit on his knee and, draw-
ing a paper-knife, speak Macbéth’s speech: ‘Is this a
dagger that I see be-ore me ?’”” ‘

“Well,” said Cecil, “ and I have taught Rue.”’

“Not sitting on your knee,” laughed I,’ “I hope!
Pardon me, my dear cousin,’ I added, hastily, for it- was
plain to see that I had offended him. “Indeed I meant
no harm. Ruth Waller is 4 good girl, I know; but it
does seem to me so very strange that she should be cap-
able of acting in a stage-play.” ¢

“Why not?” returned he, coldly. ‘Talents are not
eu to us in proportion to our riches, else I should

cleverer than my sister Jane; and as tobirth, does”

not your father’s favorite Bianca say :

‘ Mean folks are as worthy
To be well spoken of, if er deserve well,
As some whose only fame lies in their blood!”
or hear Ben Jonson : : f
‘ We stand too much on our gentility, ; -
: Which is an airy and mere borrowed thing ~~ ,
dead men’s dust and bones, and none of ours,
‘Except we make or hold it.’ ”
My cousin’s tone hada certain scornful fire I had
never before noticed in it; and for which, though I re-
tted the source that kindled it, I admired him none
he less. It was doubtless very foolish of him to have
taken up with this beautiful beggar-maid; but others,
thought I, besides. King Cophetua, had been similarly
infatuated; forit must be remembered that,though [had
played the mentor in this matter with much becoming
gravity, 1 was then but eighteen myself. 4
“Of course,’ said I, “my dear Cecil, I agree with
every word of that; there, is notling so despicably
Brummagem as the rubbish that is talked about birth;
but just asthe associations that belong to your noble
swell from his earliest years are disadvantageous, just
as he is liable to be spoiled by flattery andthe habit of
haying his own way—and is spoiled—for he generally
grows up to be a fool—so is your poor lad, and more

_ especially your poor girl, begirt from the first by asso-

t

ciations of an opposite kind, but at. least equally disad-
vantageous to them. It isnot Ruth Waller's fault, for
instance, that she is familiar with certain scenes that
—to say the least of them—must tend to vulgarizea
woman’s nature.” | alee at

“Ruth’s nature is not vulgar,” observed Cecil,

oh hn ugged my shoulders, and flicked the pony with
whip. _ y
“It is useless to argue. the matter, Cecil,” said I,
esently;)‘‘you might as well contend, on the other
d, that the. born swells are wise; when’ they are so
they are miracles, that’s all. Perhaps Ruth Waller is
amiracle; for your, sake I hope she is—— How fine
the cathedral tower begins tolook!” .,

. “Never mind the cathedral, Fred, Listen to me;

you are. only friend I have in the world. What

are the ‘ certain scenes’ with which you say Ruth has
jar ef necessity familiar, and that must needs have
one her harm?”

« Well” said I, “ scenes of drunkenness, for instance.
It is impossible it can be otherwise. I have myself
seen Richard Waller as drunk as a pig within these
few lays.”

““ Yes,” replied Cecil, ;

She does what she-can to keep him sober, but it is hope-

less. He is diligent enough, but the half of what he
cheorfal arty, like one-Who has weighed All the die
¢) ' , like one who has weig! be
Sayatahes Fo be encountered in a design, and still is
fixed), “of that wretchedness at least—I mean their
poverty—there will be no more when Rue is mine.”

“Jtis asad look-out,” said I, “nevertheless, to have

a drunkard for a brother-in-law.”

_ “True,” returned Cecil; ‘but you do not value the
compensation as I do. Youdo not know Ruth. Her
beauty is her least recommendation.” ‘

_ “She is certainly most beautiful,”’ said I.

“ Ah, yes; there is no one like her—none.” —~

In his mind’s eye, it was evident, the boy beheld her;
‘Ris face grew Tediant, his tone became bright’ and

‘ous; and by the'time wereached Monkton he was
‘higher its than I had ever known him. He

“seemed resolved to forget all his trouble in the mission
on which we were bent; while as for me, it, of course gave
me an intense pleasure. I shall never forget the amuse-
ment our viet, to that little dusty, musty theater af-

sorrowfully, “it is terrible.

Well” (here he. spoke with

forded us—the)first edifice. of the sort.into which,I had
ever set foot—so different from everything [had ever
heard or pictured to myself of the Temple of Thespis;
the stage with the gilt off, with a vengeance! The
little. ‘‘Ebrew Jew,’ its proprietor, did away with
my illusions.more completely, howeVer, than eyen the
establishment itself. He was humility and insignifi-
cance personified, and seemed as incapable of rejecting
a drama from anybody as, accepting one; and yet he
was @ real, live manager—when there was anything to
manage, Which did not always happen, dramatic affairs
at- Monkton being very intermittent. His great ob-
ject appeared to be to persuade us to hire certain. wigs
which he exhibited, one by.one, with excessive pride.
; They were not so attractive in themselves as to induce
}us to wear them for our private use, ~vhile for a me-
| diswval drama they were clearly inappropriate. He had
| evidently, however, never even so much as heard of
an anchronism, and combated that objection with great
vigor. In private theatricals he contended that the,
most important thing of all was to conceal your per-
sonal identity; and there was nothing so certain to
effect this object as wigs. Eventually, to, please him,
we did hire a magnificent wig and beard for Isaac, Re-
| becca’s father, who was not represented in the drama
atall We got avery tolerable suit of armor for Bois-
Guilbert. not: much above two sizes larger than Frank
Close, who was to wear it; and a palmer’s cloak—which
I suspect was used at funerals in the town—for Ivan-
hoe. As for myself, I secured a most marvellous jester’s
suit in which to appear as Wamba, It was of a light
salmon color, and formed of some elastic woollen ma-
| teri in one piece. When I had crept into it, it was
fastened behind.-by two buttons, and there I was, de-
pendent for subsequent deliverance upon the charity
of my friends. If I could only be half so funny in
speech as I was to look at, the success of. the comic
business of the drama was undoubtedly secured.
' Laden with these garments, and much other tinselled
Spoil besides, we returned to Gatcombe, to exhibit
them to the admiring household. Even Lord Repton
expressed his satisfaction, upon the whole; although,
had he gone with us, the result would have been, doubt-
less, even still more successful. ‘* He had some reputa-
tion,” it seemed, as a judge of mediwval costume, which
could not have failed to have been useful to us.

Cousin Jane alone absented herself from the display
of our borrowed plumes. ‘She had complained of head-
ache, if was said, and had shut herself up in her room
all day, where she had requested that she might not be
disturbed. ¢ ;

For the rést of us, it was an eveningof great excite-

_| ment, for the dress rehearsal, to which the-farmers and

‘principal village folk had been invited, was to come off
on the ensuing afternoon. How little we guessed that.
in place of our modest little drama there was to be per-
formed—a Tragedy |

rs p CHAPTER IX.

A TRAGEDY AFTER A FARCE.

Ar breakfast the next morning, not only was, Lady
Repton, as usual, absent, but Jane kept her room, as she
done throughout the precedin anys still troubled
with her headache. Lam afraid this did not interfere
with the merriment of our party, reinforced as .it was
by the ce of Eleanor, whom we had bespoken for
the entire day. Nothing, of course, was..talked about
but the afternoon’s rehearsal, and quotations from the
play were frequent, which, interspersed with ordinary
talk, had a comie effect enough. .To my father, how-
ever, must be adjudged the palm of electrifying the
company, and especially Aunt Ben, by his application to
my own unhappy condition as playwright of these lines
trom Marlowe's Faustus, uttered suddenly in sad and
sonorons tones : at

ailieals

: ¢itany eg | O, Frederick !
Now hast thou but six bare hours to live
And then thou wilt be damned perpetually. "

| Though spoken in jest, these words did not tend to re-

 

| move the nervoltisness which’ had taken: possession of,
| me, and it was with a ghastly grin that I acknowledged

| the sally. Mere jibes and jokes, so long as they did not
| take this Cassandra shape, I’ did not mind; which was
_ fortunate, for no one spared me. Ceécil boldly addressed
| the most affectionate speeches to Eleanor before my face,
; under the borrowed shield of Bois-Guilbert ; and Lady
| Repton lavished upon Cecil all the tenderness (and
| something more) with which I had endowed Rowena.

nen she would turn to me, and ejaculate: “Poor
faithful fool!” with such contemptuous pity that
Aunt Ben got + Sag indignant upon my account.
When Frank Close arrived, and we put ‘on
our costumes, the fun became positively uproarous,
His head-gear was so much too large for him that his
eyes, which should have “flashed fire through his
visor bars,’’ were lost somewhere between that spot
and his mouth-piece, so that he could see nothing, and
hadto be led about. As for mein my-salmon suit, I
was thoroughly ashamed of myself, and looked very
much of the same coloras my apparel. Frank Close,
too, whose humor was of a practical turn, did not mend
matters—and, indeed, he precisely the reverse: for
he’ made a/hole im my inexpressibles—by perpetually
prodding my unprotected limbs wiih his sword. The
male characters of the drama, indeed, were faint and
sore with laughter before they .emergad from the
**green-room”’ and presented themselves to the public
eye. Our two actresses excited nothing but admiraton,
while their costumes were perfection. Lady Re’
Tous light oc, superb, notwithstanding that the remorse-
less light of day.fell full upon her; and the beauty of
Rebecca en Rowena herself confessed) such as to
have exc any indiscretion on the part of the

 

Templar.

, Ah me! what a bright, joyous time it was! How
full of jest and gayety, a day wherein Youth, Love, and
‘Friendship made holiday together, and asked Wit to
join them ! ’ dont Y

And yet we could scarce have been more merry or
better pleased among ourselves than were those who
came to’ gaze upon our ‘show—the farmers of the
parish, with their wives, Stout Fiveacres, “whose
family had held the ‘self-safe farm for centuries, and
yet who was, I verily believe, the very first’ of them
who ever saw aplay; young Bargate irom the Glebe
House, with his bride ot three days 014, whom this un-
precedented attraction had withdrawn thus eatly from
her modest seclusion; and old Braintree, from whom
all his race had dropped away, except the little blue-
eyed grand-child whom he had asked special leave to
bring : “She would take up no room,” he said, “as she
always sat upon his knee.”’

Not until the company had all assembled did Cousin
Jane appear and take her seatin the front row beside
my father, She looked ill and pale, and also nervous,
as T had never seen her before.

“Your cousin appears anxious,” remarked Lady
Repton.

‘* Yes,” said I; ‘‘she is afraid of Cecil’s coming to
grief in his part, which I am sure she need not be.”’

“Nay, I think she is afraid of the piece itself not
going off as it should do,” answered her ladyship,
slyly, . 7
mt sure that is not it,” said I, “for she was op-
posed to our having the play from the beginning.”

“Yes ; for two reasons : first, because yon take the
jester’s part, which she considers inconsistent with
your dignity; and secondly, because Eleanor plays
with you. What a terrible young fellow you are to
have thus involved three innocent young creatures--
for you know how J dote upon you—in your wicked
meshes !’” o7
. «Her lively ladyship retained her own opinion on this
point, as was usual with her; but although she had
been the first to open my eyes to Cousin Jane’s pen-
chant for myself, I felt convinced she was wrong in
this particular instance. Jane’s present anxiety was
certainly upon Cecil’s account,not mine. Her eyes
followed his every movement; her ears seemed to
await his words alone, throughout the play ; and so far
from my being chagrined at her want ofinterest in the
drama itself, [felt more favorably toward her im conse-
quence. Whatever might be urged against Cousin Jane
it was certain that she really loved “Old Cecil’’ (as I
affectionately termed him), and was demonstrative
enough in all that concerned him, tes

At what precise part of the representation it hap-
pened I cannot tell, for the shock of subsequent oceur-
rences destroyed all recollection of such details, but it
was at a point when all the dramatis persone were on
the stage together, that a strange sensation seemed to
affect the servants on the staircase, which, as I haye
said, served the purpose ofa gallery. At first there was
only whispering and crowding together ; but presently
one of them—it was Anne, the parlor-maid—stood up,
and looked towards my father nervously... All eyes in
the body of the hall, including his own, were, however
fixed upon ourselves,

‘*Master—sir!’”’ said Anne. - i ) f

My father looked up, in common with’ every one
else, at this unexpected, interruption, except Cousin
Jane, who still kept her eyes fixed upon her brother,
at that moment on his knees before Rowena, and eyen
when he looked round, she never turned her head.

“What is the matter ?”’’ asked my father, gravely,

‘The house is on firé ; I knew it would be, Fred,”
cried Aunt Ben, reproachfully.

(Considering that our entertainment was an afternoon
performance, and, of course, without footlights, it was
rather unreasonable in her to attribute such a misfor-
tune to my poor drama). ; .

“No, sir,’’ said Anne ; it’s not fire.. But a terrible
accident has happened at the sand-cliff; and I thought
I ought to tell you.” “na :

“To whom?” cried Cecil. — eile

Even in. that moment of increased excitement, it
seemed to strike ‘the company as strange that Cecil
should have put the question instead of my father ;
perhaps it was the feverish anxiety of his voice, so dif-
ferent from the tones of tender passfon in which he had
been just addressing Rowena, but, at all events, Anne
turned to him, as though she had known he was the
person chiefly interested. \ oe
é as the Wallers’ pit, Mr. Cecil, over against Way-

‘ord. ”’——. ta es 3 ;

The next instant there was anaek clang of the door,
‘and Cecil was gone. The whole audience rose at once,
almost all of them to hurry to the scene of the catas-
tropbe, My father and Aunt. Ben remained only to col-
‘lect the few articles which their experience had shown
to be useful in such emergencies, and the dramatis
persone to disencumber themselves of their stage
clothes, Even in that moment of distress and alarm,
it was not without % sense of humorous absurdity
that I found myself a prisoner in the salmon-colored
suit. I could
buttons behind, and in that hateful apparel it was
utterly impossible that I could present ie lf on the
cliff terrace ‘at such a time. It would have been a
hundred times worse than going to a funéral in hunting
costume. At last I procured a knife and cut it open
down the front (just as the Japanese disembowel them-
selves), and so got out. Then at full I followed,
“and soon passed the rest of the ‘hurrying th: . In
the avenue lay Ivanhoe’s long palmer’s éloak, which
poor Cecil had cast offas he ran. I could his white
shirt-sleeves, as he sped along the terrace like a deer,

pton | atleast half a mile ahead of me. In front of the place

Where Richard and Ruth Waller usually worked, I
couldalso see a dark knot of men and women—a funo-
real group which seemed already to of death. As

 

I drew nearer I found these standing around the pit.
mouth in a semicircle, within which, just as I arrived,

obtain nobody’s aid to undo the two

 

|
|
|
|

 
 

ia

CECIL’S TRYST.

 

nm

 

 

aman came out from the pit with a barrowful of earth,
which he emptied very hastily and then returnéd, The
faces of all expressed an intense anxiety and griet—not
the mere curiosity which is too often the feeling chiefly
recognizable to the on-lookers at tragic scenes: not one
of those present but had had caase to bewail a similar
catastrophe on their own account, or on‘ that of their
kinsfolk.

“On whom has the pit fallen?” inquired I of one
who had already stripped his coat off, in readiness: to
take his turn at the work within, though he was an old
man too.

“On Richard Waller and his sister, sir.’’ :

“Good God!” eried I. “What! on Ruth?” I
looked round nervously for Cecil, but he had dis-
appeared.

“ Yes, indeed, sir; though we trust the lass is not so
far in but that she can be reached in time. ‘That little
lad there” (pointing to a pale-faced: child, who was
crying bitterly) ‘was helping a bit with the barrow,
when he heard the fall, and ran out to tell us. It was
lucky—if anything can be'‘called lucky in such an
affair—that he was there to hear it, or we should not
have known what had‘happened until-it was too late.”

‘Then you think,” asked I, eagerly, “that it is not
too late now?”

‘* Not for the lass, sir—no; though I feel poor Richard
is done for. From what the lass says, I reckon Ruth
was only just beyond the props when the sand came
down.” R

“* Beyond the props!” cried I, in’ amazement.
could that be?’

“ Heaven only knows, sir; though Ido feel that the
drink which has led poor Richard to spend his ‘sub-
stance has at last cost him his life.”

“ You don’t mean to say that Richard Waller sold his
props for drink, when he knew that his sister was to
share his risk?’ cried I, indignantly.

“ [know notbing certain, sir, except that drink will
mike a man sell anything, including, as‘Parson Bourne
says, his own soul; and, at all events, the props are
gone, or héw could it have happened ?”

Here the barrow-man came out, looking white and
exhausted, and was immediately. relieved by another
hand; anda few minutes afterwards a second: man
emerged from the pit, for whom another was similarly
substituted on the instant. Not asingle second was
lost. There was a total silence now, the slight,com-
motion caused by the coming up of the party from the
manor-house having ceased. My father was standing
in’ the inner ring of spectators, with a little pile: of
blankets beside him, and @ bottle of brandy; one finger
was in his waistcoat-pocket, where, as: I well knew, a
lancet lay. Aunt Ben stood beside. him with a roll of
bandages, not crying, as many of the women were, but
weuring such an expression of divine pity as made her
homely features almost beautiful, ‘Eleanor, who had
silently made her way to my side, wore also a calm
tace, but trembled: excessively. Suddenly’ the ‘man
with whom I had already spoken observed coolly :
“Your cousin Cecil digs well, sir; don’t he ? He's been
longerin than dny of ’em, and the barrow still comes
out as quick as ever.”

“Is Cecil in the pit?” asked I in wonder, not»un-
mixed with alarm.

“Yes, surely. He came up just as the third turn
was called, and dashed in with the spade like a good un.
He’s used to the work, it seems; but he must be nearly
spent by this time.”

‘What a noble fellow !’’ ejaculated a sweet, low voice
behind me. I turned and saw Lady Repton » the ten-
derness of her woman’s heart made her fair face woe-
ful, and showed its lines, but I liked it better so than I
had ever done before. i

“ Fred would dig too, if he knew how,” said Eleanor,
taking, I suppose, her ladyship’s observation as a-reflec-
tion upon my own inactivity,,which Iam sure it was
not intended to be.

“Yes,” said I, “I would do so willingly, but I
should be a hindrance rather than a help;) whereas
Cecil” —

Here I stopped abruptly.. To tell how Cecil had
learned to use the spade, would have been at once to
disclose, at least to one of those two, the motive that
was now giving such nnwonted vigor to hisarm As T
thought of that, I looked round for Jane, but she ‘was
nowhere to be seen. I felt glad of this, on all ac:
counts, but in the first place, because she would
naturally haye been much alarmed at her brother’s
perilous position; for there was very’ considérable
peril in it. The spadesman in ‘such’ casés ‘was, of
course, the most advanced of the workers; for
though, as_he dug, it was the duty of the prop-
per to make all safe behind him, he’ was by no
means unlikely to be caught by a new fall of sand; and
especially this would be the case if his anxiety to effect
arescue should make him incautious ; and was Cecil
likely to be prudént, digging as he was for something
that, in his ¢yes, was dearer far than buried treasure in
those of a miser? Every breath that was now lent to
him might eke out the scanty stock of it in his beloved
Ruth; for the theory of the poor girl’s position, based
on the firm ground of experience, was tiis, that if alive
at all, if not hopelessly crushed and smothered, she
must be in some confined spot, the air of which must
needs be speedily exhausted. ‘She “had certainly not
been killed outright by the first fall—I say first, because
there were generally more than one in such’ ‘¢ases—
since the little boy had heard a muffled . of ‘“Help!”
from her after the pit, had cayedin. Perhaps, even
now, that cry was’ringing in poor Cecil’s ears within
there! It could not do so much longer, that was .cér-
tain. Isaw old Mr. Bourné take out his at silver
watch, ask some question of his son—doubtless’as to
the time the accident had happened—and then shake
his head Ses ; this was followed by a sorrdw-
ful murmur from the crowd, as though that expression
of the old man’s opinion had found an audible echo.

“How

 

Suddenly 4 voice was heard within the pit, and every
eye began to twinkle with anxiety, every head to crane
forward.

“Back, back!” -eried my father in authoritative
tones; “leave plenty of space round the pit’s mouth.”
As the crowd mechanically obeyed him, the barrow-man
came running out without his customary load. “They
are coming !’" he exclaimed, then took his place in the
mass of on-lookers. .

No one asked who were coming; but a party in the
background, who had been engaged in forming a couple
of litters, or it might be biers, out of fir-poles, now
came forward with them; while the blankets were
spread out ready for instant use. It was an awful mo-
ment; dear Eleanor stole her trembling arm in mine,
as if for support; and Lady Repton placed her little
hand upon a pitman’s shoulder. Ifa thunderbolt had
fallen on the terrace, it would scarcely, T verily believe,
have at that moment drawn away our gaze from the
cave-mouth, on which all eyes were riveted, Who prop-
man had already made his appearance; and now came
Cecil, tottering under the weight of a burden scarce

more ghastly than himself—the corpse, as it seemed, of |

beautiful Ruth Waller. Her face, like his, was white
and damp; her long black hair trailed over her should-
ers and mixed with his, and both were clotted’ with
sand. But while his limbs shook beneath him, hers
hung down limp and lifeless; and while his labored
breathing could be heard by the most distant spectator,
Rue did not seem.to breathe at all.

“Next turn!” oried old Mr. Botirne, and instantly
the work within th4cave commenced again; but for my
part I had neither\eyes nor ears except for Cecil and
Ruth. The thought that Richard Waller had brought
this misery on his innocent sister steeled my heart
against him, even in that bitter hour—for which T had
afterwards cause for shame.

Ruth was set down on the blankets; andmy father
knelt down on one side of her, and Aunt Ben on the
other, while Cecil, knécling at her feet, gazed at hér
sheet-white face with unspeakable tenderness “and
agony.

“Hush !” ‘Yow could hear the wood-pigeon’s murmur
in the distant firs, and the flow of the far-off river; as
my father leaned down his ear and listened for her
breathing. .

“Sho lives !’” ‘said he; looking up to‘us with’ tender
gravity. c ‘

“Thank God!’ ejaculated the rector, solemnly.

Iam sure that most.of us did thank Him. It would
have indeed been hard if cruel Death had snatched so
fair.a form, and laid it.in the grave.for.a bridal bed.

But though not dead, Ruth was quite insengsible, or,
rather, she knew nothing of what was happening about
her, for suddenly she ¢ried out, “A spadel.a spade |’
doubtless ,filled with, some vague. sense of the fate she
had so narrowly escaped. , It was, af course, not to. be
thought of that she should be taken to her own cottage,
that would presently receive for its only other inmate
the -_ad body of her brother (for although the pitmen
in no wey relaxed their efforts to save him, wo all felt
that his case was hopeless); and I saw Aunt Ben, whis-
per, to) my father. who threw a troubled look towards
Cecil, She had doubtless proposed that the poor girl
should. be taken to the manor-house.

“The veetory is nearer,’ suggested Nelly, boldly,
yet without venturing to glance in the direction.of her
grandfather, whose countenance at this proposition be-
gan to, evince stronger feeling than it had yet shown
throughout the whole .affair., He was understood to
murmur something about the spare bed not, being
aired,

“She shall have my bed,” said Nelly; and With that,
poor Ruth, who had already Ween laid upon the litter,
was about to be borne away.

“Stop I’ cried Cecil, speaking for the first. time, and
laying his hand’ on the shoulder of the nearest bearer,
“That is my place, if you'please,’”” and the man gave
way, and he took his place accordingly:

I can see the whole scene now, as though it wera be«
fore my very eyes. Cecil’s grave quickness, and the
bearer’s stolid wonder; my father’s pained surprise, and
the amaze and-interest/of all the rest, so great, that, in
spite of the tragedy that was simultaneously taking
place, if expressed itself in murmurs; then the little
procession stowly moving off with even paco along the
noiseless sand, and Eleanor walking by Ruth Waller’s
side with her cold hand in hers.

 

CHAPTER X. \
THE RESCUER,

Nor till an hour had elapsed after Ruth’s reséue was
her unhappy brother brought forth from the pit that
had been his grave. It was evident, from the a ypear-
ance of the body, that he had long been a'dead man,
and we all hoped that the fall which had overwhelmed
him had slain him on-the spot. This, however, as it
turned out, had not been the case, In a day or two
Ruth was sufficiently recovered to narrate the circum-
stances of the catastrophe, and they were such as
amazed and ‘shocked our little community even more
than the event itself. i

When her brother and herself went to work as usual
on that morning, they had found)that, except from afew
yards of passage at the entrance, the whole ofthe props
supporting the roof had been removed. The idea that
Richard himself had made away with them, for the
purpose of supplying himself with ‘the means «f pur-
chasing drink, was one that had not even occurred’ to
his sister, Nor was it afterwards ever suggested to her,
since the fact itself seemed abundantly disproved by
her evidence, corroborated as it was by that of thé lit-
tle boy, her assistant. Richard Waller’ had expressed
himself with too much vehemence and indignation
against the author of the heartless theft to be sus-
pected of being himself the culprit ; his nature was

 

or ee but hypocritical; it was, on the contrary
rash and impulsive, as was fatally evidenced by his
conduct on the occasion in question; which at the same,
time convinced us that we had done him wrong in at-
tributing to him a selfish disregard of his sister’s safety.
“Prop or no prop,” he had passionately exclaimed, ‘I
do my work ‘to-day as usual; and if anything happens
to me, my blood be on the villain’s head that has fone
this thing! But as for thee, lass,” he had added, “keep
thou within the props, with the boy.”

In vain Ruth had endeavored to combat this rash re-
solve. Early as it was, the unhappy man had already
partaken of strong liquor, and. was in no condition ta
be argued with, while the theft of the props had ex-
cited him beyond control. Alb that’: his poor sister
could do was to keep as near to him ag possible, in
order to give him warning of impending peril, though
her doing so angered him exceedingly; and more than
once he had driven her back with words :that she now
trembled to recall, “If Mr, Cecil had only been with
me, d3,sudl,” the poor half-conscious girl had pititul-
ly complained to Nelly (and by that phrase had told her
all), ‘he would have compellel Richard to take heed.’
She had taken great care, however, to keep the child
well within the coyered gallery, and given him instruc-
tions as to what to do in case of any mischance; which
he afterwards most fortunately carried out with promp-
titude. . When the accident occurred, she -had her
back towards her brother, and was carrying away a
basket of sand—poor Rue. never used fhe bar-
row, because the handling of} it spoiled her hands-«for
the boy to take without and empty; and the sudden.
extinction of her brother's: candle was the first indica-
tion she received of what: had happened. Immediately
afterwards, a dull “ thud,”as she expressed it, rang in
her ears, and she was herself. knocked down by the de-
scent of the sand. In neither case, as.it seeme , had the
sides given way (as is. most. usual in such calamities),
but, a portion of the roof.itself had fallen in block; the
mass that had buried Ruth was partly supported by the
basket of sand, beside which she lay ; and to its scanty
protection she doubtless ,owed -her preservation.
Though much bruised by the blow; and greatly oppres-
sed by the superincumbent w ht, she did not. lose
consciousness, and could distinct y hear hor brother's
pitiful moans, The sand had fallen on him ina wedge-
shaped mass, and thereby protracted his.sufferings for
a brief interval, by allowing him space wherein to
breathe. She was.so near to fim, notwithstanding the
dense barrier between them, that she could even over-
hear him call to her in muffled tones, and utter the frag-
ments of a prayer. Prone.on the damp earth, in total
darkness, and with the expectation of instant death, the
sound of his voice, she, said, shot to her.a ray ot com-
fort. She had endeavored to reply to him, but the sand
choked her, while the effort to speak gave her intense
pain. “IT am a’murdered man,” she heard him say ;
and then there was’ a-second and greater fall'of earth,
‘tas though the whole ¢liff had come down upon him,”
Then all ‘was'silent/as thé grave.

Atter what seemed. an eternity of time; she heard the
strokes of the pick and Spade, but these, though in
reality approaching her, appeared to grow duller.and
duller, and, presently altogether ;ceased,...She had, in
fact, became unconscious, and was probably,on the very
threshold of death, when Cecil's pickaxe let in the air
and revived her, She did not know even now. that it
was he who had rescued her, nor did she speak. of. him
at all, with thé single exception I have mentioned. Her
whole thoughts seemed to be fixed on her dead brother,
Upon the cause of whose sad fate she was incessantl
speculating. .He-had not had an enemy $n the world,
so far as she knew, and yet she did not need bis dyin,
words to be convinced that the theft of the props had
been committed of nialice prepense; that whoever had.
stolen’ them counted on. his well-known, im rudence,
inducing him to work on as usual, and had thereby
compussed his death. What confirmed this view of the
case with us all (in spite of our unwillingness to adopt
so harsh’a theory), was, that the stolen props themselves
were discovered in an open space of the wood above the
cave, so that they had certainly not been taken for the
sake of the few shillings they would have fetched. in the
“pit ’ market.

This important question greatly occupied all minds,
especially those of the local thagistracy, of which old
Mr. Bourne and my father were both members. The
latter, as I well know (though he kept silence on the
subjéct), was also full of + ought concerning Cecil,
whose. conduct since the catastro he was 6yen more
significant with respect to Ruth: than’ it had been on.
the occasion of her rescue. Ho called at the rectory
twice a day, to inquire how she was progressing; and
scoured the country round, in the character of an
amateur detective, in Hopes to gain some. clue that
might lead’ to'the discovery of the culprit. Curiously
enough, not a word of remonstrance passed his sister's
lips, though she could not but haye been aware of his
proceedings. Perhaps she was rather more reserved
and morose in manner than before, but that might have
arisen from physical causes, since her indisposition still
continued, though not so severely as to confine her to
her‘own room. * No one liked to Speak of recent events
in her presence, becausé of the share her brother had
had‘in them, and yet we could think Of little else. Our
theatricils had-been put'an end to because of them, fcr
Cecil had declined to act; and the gayety of our little
party was utterly quenched. Lord and Lady Repton
took their departure 'on the very day that was to have
been witness tothe entertainment of the county at the
Theatre’ Royal, Gatcombe: and her ladyship, I verily
believe, was more peep ees at the withdrawal of the
pieee than was its’ author himself, For my part, my
apprehensions upon Cecil’s account iwatlowed up all
minor causes of melancholy ; the present distress was,
I félt only too well convinced, but the prelude to some
grave occurrences which ‘was likely to throw no tem-
porary shadow on our home-life. The preparations for

 
   

12

CECIL’S TRYST.

 

 

the inquest at present gave my father an excuse for
silence; he was probably averse to speak to Cecil while
the latter was so full of excitement (for Ruth herself
was still in a somewhat critical condition), but it was
impossible that the eclaircissement could be long de-
ferred, What the end of it all would be it was difficult
to guess, but the affair looked gloomy trom every point
of view for all of us; while as for me, I was only too
sensible that my knowledge of Cecil’s headstrong at-
tachment was taken for granted, and that for the first
time in my life I had grievously displeased my father,

The coroner's inquest took place at Holksham, asmall
town half way to Monkton, where the magistrates’
meeting was wont to be held once a fortnight; and the
finding was one which, if not isgally justified by the
fact, was still only what might have been expected from
the heated state of the public inind, greatly aggravated
as it has been by the excitedsestimony of Ruth herself.
The jury adopted her unfortunate brother's last words,
and returned a verdict of “ Wilful murder against some
person, or persons, wiknown.” My father was not
present, but Cecil and I had attended through-
out the proceedings, and the former evinced great
satisfaction at the result of the inquiry. ‘If ever
there was a man who deserved hanging,”’ observed he,
in the drawing-room that evening, with a vehemence
that was quite unusual with him, “it was the man who
brought the cliff down upon poor Richard Waller.”
My father quietly combatted this opinion ; he allowed,
of course, that ifthere had been any intention to do
him hurt, the crime was of the deepest dye; but if the
props had been merely stolen to make money of them,
and ¢onsidering that nine men outof ten would have
desisted from work upon discovery of their loss, he
thought the offense could not be stretched so far. We
all listened to this controversy in embarras<ed silence ;
for we knew what underlay the feelings of both dis-
putants, and had an uneasy apprehension that Ruth's
name might presently be mentioned by one of them.
Cecil was greatly excited, and indeed, if that had not
been the case, he wottld not have contended with my
father at all, whom he always treated with a respect ap-
oe reverence. Aunt Ben's fingers trembled so
excessively that she laid down her knitting, and took
up a certain History of the Drama which had been
given toher by Lady Repton. She had religiously
tried to get through it during her ladyship’s stay, but
Cecil had mischievously put back her book-marker
daily, so that she always began at the fiftieth page or
80, and unconsciously went over the same ground ; but
on this occasion she did not progress even so much as
usual, for she held the volume upside down, Cousin
Jane was.apparently devoted to her Chinese puzzle ;
but Inoticed that the same piece was retained in her
hand and never put down, with such rapt attention
was she listening to what was being said.

“Tf Richard Waller had notan enemy in. the world,
my dear Cecil,’ continued my father, ‘the malice pre-
pense which constitutes ‘murder’ could have existed.
The verdict, therefore, is evidently incorrect and
strained.””

“ But he might have had an enemy without knowing
it,” argued Cecil; “there have been cases of this kind
before now.”

“ That is true,” sail my father, gravely ; “some men
have their worst enemies in those that seem to be
dearest to them.”

At this Aunt Ben’s book dropped out of her hand.
(She afterwards told me it made her so “allof a pug,”
that, if she had had her knitting-needles, they would
certainly have rusted.) Most happily, however, as it
appeared to us all, Cecil did not reply. The discussion
seemed over for that evening. My father took up Ben
Jonson, and Cecil went tothe piano and“ picked out”’
atune. He was not so good a performer on that in-
strument as on the flute, but he played fairly, and with
feeling ; after alittle, he struck into his favorite melo-
dy, And ye Shatl Walk in Silk Attire. Iwas curious
that heshould have chosenit on that occasion, since
the moral of the piece in questionis certainly opposed
to unequal marriages ; but perhaps it recommended it-
self to him on that very account, just as aman who is
quite certain of his own logical position is not averse
to quote the arguments of his opponents.

In the middle of it my father laid down his book, and
suddenly exclaimed, ‘Cecil, I want to speak to you.”

My cousin stopped his tune at once, but remained
sitting on the music-stool ; while my father stood up,
with his back tothe mantel-piece. We all knew what
was coming.

“Thad intended, my dear boy, to have our talk out
to-night in private, in my study; but, upon second
thought, I think it betterto address you in the pres-
ence of those you love, that they may add their en-
treaties—if entreaties should be necessary—to mine,
Ineed hardly waste time in asking you, Cecil, what has
unhappily been made of lateso abundantly manifest,
whether it is true that you have formed a serious at-
tachment to Ruth Waller ; and yet I will not take it for
granted. Isit true?”

“Ttis quite true, sir,’ returned Cecil, firmly, and
looking fixedly in my father’s face.

“* May I ask how long this has been the case? for it
has been kept from me altogether until within these
few days ’’—here my father turned a reproachful glance
on me—*‘a want of confidence which I should not have
expected.”

“I beseech you, sir, do not be angry with Fred,”
pleaded Cecil, earnestly ; ‘he has only been silent for
your sake. He would have told you all months ago,
but for my threat that, if he did so, I would marry
Ruth at once, a8 I most surely would have done. It is
T alone who am to blame; not he, nor Ruth.’ Here
he looked towards his sister half defiantly ; and I fully
expected to hear her make some contemptuous reply,
but she kept silence, her devotion to her puzzle becom-
ing more assiduous than ever.

 

“Do I understand you to mean, Cecil,” continued
my father, very gravely, ‘‘ thatit.is your final resolve to
marry this girl 7—One moment before you answer. Let
me premise that I have no authority over you whatso-
ever, by your father's will, the use of which could pre-
vent your putting such a scheme into practice ; I have
no menace to employ ofany sort. You are your own
master, except as regards money matters ; and eyen in
that respect I shall exerciseno power to your disad-
vantage.”

Isaw Aunt Ben give a glance of remonstrance at my
father ; and Jane’s forhead darken, as she bent lower
oyer her little table ; while, on the other hand, Cecil’s
resolute expression softened—it was still decisive, but
the decision was mingled with tenderness.

“You are far too sensible,’”’.continued my father,
“and I will say,also, notwithstanding what you now
propose, far too unselfish, not to hayeset before your-
self some of the consequences that. must ensue to
others in case of your committing this act_of—well—
imprudence. But I think some.have escaped your at-
tention. It has been the endeavor of your aunt and
myself to make you feel this house to be your
home”——

“ It has—it has, indeed, sir,” interrupted Cecil, gent-
ly. _‘‘ Ihave feit it deeply.” ‘

“I am sure you have, my dear lad; but it has not
struck you that it can never be the home of Ruth
Waller. It has never occurred to,you that in marrying
her you will not only give up yonr own position in go0-
ciety—not a sacrifice, you will say, perhaps: well, you
will not think so ten years hence; bait it.is not worth
while to arguo that matter—butalso’that of your sister.
Lsay aetna of the pain and digtress that such an
alliance must needs to cause to my own little household,
Iam nota man to attach undue importance to birth and
station, but I confess—” He stopped, and pointed sig-
nificantly to poor Aunt Bea, who was dissolved in
tears, ‘‘ Weshall get over it in time, you think, and
perhaps we shall: at all events, we are old, and it is only
natural, perhaps, that what concerns your whole future
life should haye more weight with you than considera-
tions for what may seem to you our temporary con-
yenience. But Jane, remember, is no older.than your-
self, and let me tell you that you will be putting her in
a most disadvantageous position, as reapects her pros-
pects, by allying yourself to this girl. Do not imagine,
my dear lad, that Iam underrating your temptation.
It has been well said that

‘The treasures of the deep are not so precious = =*

As aré the concealed comforts of a man

‘Locked up in woman’s love.’ f {
I use no arguments about ‘thoughtless passion and
love's quick satiety, because you will only smile at
them. It seems to you, I know, that Beauty will keep
her lustrous eyes, and Young Love pine after thern for-
ever; butI appeal. to the very heart trom which that
love (if it be worth anything) upsprings. Do not sacrifice
your sister’s prospects for the gratificatlon—I do not
say of your own happiness, for you will not be happy,
my poor lad—but of your present pleasure.”

“* How do I sacrifice my sister’s prospects, uncle?”
inquired Cecil, quietly.

“In this way, my boy. All young women naturally
look forward to the time when they shall have a home
of their own—in other words, to marriage. Jane is not
an heiress independent of circumstances, and the fact
of your having made an ignoble alliance would most
certainly greatly prejudice her future.”

“see,” replied Cecil, softly. ‘* Heaven forbid that
any act of mine should harm you, Jane?” and here he
glanced towards his sister lovingly. ‘‘ As regards for-
tune, since our dear uncle has alluded toit, I may tell
you that it both was and is my intention to do away,
so far as I have power to do so, with the inequality be-
tween us in that respect.” He stopped a moment; and
for the first time Cousin Jane looked up, and, with a
faint smile, seemed to acknowledge his generosity: then
shot a glance towards me,to the meahing of which,
thanks to Lady Repton, I could not be blind: “ I shall
be rich, you hear,” it seemed to say.

a ro pee that knows you, Cecil, ’’struck in my fa-
ther with tenderness (and indeed it is impossible. that,
his manner throughout could have been more carefully
framed to conciliate, and not to wound), ‘“ will a
you with generous impulses ; but, in the first place, it
will not be so easy to do for your sister as you propése,
effectually ; and secondly, there will still remain the
fact that you,her brother, have married a laborer’s
daughter, a laborer’s sister, a girl with low connec-
tions’’—

“Pardon me, uncle,” interrupted Cecil ; “Ruth has
no relative, that can be called such,now. A few days
ago, I allow, your argument would have had more
force. I was not unconscious, as Fred will tell you—
indeed, I felt most acutely—that Richard Waller—was a
—a grievous obstacle, in short, to my own selfish views;
though, Heaven knows, I wished him no harm; he is
dead, poor fellow ! and that obstacle has been removed.”’
He stopped again, and in the silence we heard the front
door | bell a violently. “As for Ruth herself,
sir, you do not know her; she is not the dull village
girl that you imagine her to be. Perhaps a day will
come when you will not only confess as much, but
even not be ashamed to receive her, as others will, I am
persuaded as my wife, and as a true lady, though not
80 by birth. Lady Repton, as I have heard, sir, was
not a born lady.”’

“‘My dear lad,” said my father, “these are dreams.’’

“ Still, Llivein them, and cannot live without them,”
answered Cecil, softly, and yet with a certain dignity
that to me at least seemed very touching. “I.am most
grieved to oppose myself to you, whom I respect and
honor, and whom Iwould lay down my life to serve ;
but Ruth is dearer to me than my life.’

His fingers, which still rested on the keys, seemed
mechanically to produce the last verse of the song he
had been playing :

like a Belmour or a Lothario.

 

“ And ere I’m found to break my faith,
T’ll lay me down and dee.”’

My father looked very grave, and was about again to’
speak, when the door opened, and the parlor-maid en-
tered hurriedly.

“Oh, sir, please,” said she nervously, ‘there's some-
body wants to see you.”

“Ican see nobody just now,” was my father’s stern
rejoinder ; indeed, I had never heard him speak so
harshly, his manner to all his servants being always
gentle in the extreme.

‘But, please, sir, it’s most particular,” urged the:
girl, frightened by her master’s manner, but still more
frightened, as it seemed, by the intelligence she had to:
communicate.

**Let him come to-morrow morning ; or if you: know
his business, state it.”

“Well, sir—— Oh dear! oh dear !—it’s the parish
constable, and he’s been and found the murderer !’’

We jumped up from our seats—all, that is, save one
of us—Cousin Jane fell back in her’s with a sharp sbril}
ery, and fainted away.

 

CHAPTER XI.
THE MAGISTRATES’ MEETING.

Ir is one of the disadvantages of being studiously re-
ticent and undemonstrative, that when the feelings do
get the better of such persons, they are apt to exhibit:
themselves in some abnormal condition far more un-
pleasant and astonishing than are the usual tokens of
surprise or woe. Aman who neyer shares a grief be-
comes dyspeptic, and goes mad; a woman who never
sheds atear has fits; and thus it happened to Cousin
Jane, though it wasonly.a fainting-fit. Nota word had
she spoken throughout that discussion between my
father and Cecil, notwithstanding that she herself had
partly formed the subject of it, and had even been in-
directly appealed to. Not a sign had she given of in-
terest in the man whose terrible fate had precipitated.
the discovery of Cecil's ‘love affair.” She had hidden
every trace of feeling, save that, in place of working as.
usual at the Chinese puzzle, she had stuck in the mid-
dle of it, like an automaton chess-player out of repair;
and thus, when the news that Martha brought, “ He’s:
been and found the murderer,” fell suddenly on her
ear, her nerves, unnaturally braced, had fairly given
way, and total prostration followed. I saw her face as:
Cecil leaped to her aid, and anything more ghastly it
was impossible to imagine. Ifthe parlor-maid had open-
ed the door with “ Please, sir, the murderer,” and intro-
duced some gentleman dripping with gore, the sensa-
tion; so far as Cousin Jane was concerned, could not
have been more complete or stupendous. She was car-
ried up, unconscious, to her room, and the shock, acting,
doubtless, on asystem enfeebled by recent indisposi-
tion, affected her very seriously. ‘e did not see her
again for days.

Aunt Ben, on the other hand, impressionable and sym-
pathetic by nature with respect to all ‘‘ her own belong-
ings,” as she called them, and by no means philosophic
even as respected human affairs in general, bore Mar-
tha’s piece of news with reasonable composure, though.
she admitted that the communication of it had “ given
heraturn.’” It was, however, the ciréumstances under
which the news had arrived, perhaps—late at night,
and when our minds were curiously enough engaged.
on a subject so closely connected with it—rather than
the news itself that was startling, or even strange.
That tho man who had removed the prope from the
sand-pit should, sooner or later, be found out, was only
what might have been expected; and now that he was.
found, he had not even the ordinary attraction of a de-
tected villain, for it was only poor, half-witted “ Batty,’”
after all.

As the village idiot had already been convicted of a.
similar offense, it might naturally have been supposed.
that all eyes would at onee have turned upon him with
suspicion in the present instance; but this had not
been the case.. That some had charged him with the
crime was true, but he had denied the fact with a char-
acteristic irritation that seemed to have the force of
truth, and his simple, inoffensive nature had been too.
well understood for him to become the object of gen-
eral suspicion. If the props had been taken for gain,
it would have been another matter; but poor Batty
was certainly not the man to have removed the props
for mere mischief, even though he might not have real-
ized to himself the peril of such a proceeding. There
was another redson, too, why he should have escaped,
at all events, the scrutiny of the coroner's inquest, in
the absence of any positive proof of his guilt; it was
commonly believed that he was a natural son of old Mr,
Bourne. The Alchemist’s reputation was by no means
unsullied as a man of gallantry, though he did not look
Though so eminently
sagacious (after his fashion), he was, in fact, eredited
with a weakness for the fair séx up to rathet an advanced.
period of life; with being very “human,” if not “hu-
mane;” and I fear that village scandal did not in this
matter do him wrong. At all events, since this great.
man had chosen, in his wisdom, to utterly neglect
Batty from the cradle (or whatever had been his cheap
substitute for that commodity), it was obviously not
for his dependents, the village folk, to bring the poor
fellow into prominence on the present occasion. After
his denial, therefore, of the offense in question, which
had besides been never laid seriously to his charge,
Batty had been left unmolested, and, perhaps, would
not have been further troubled about it but for his.
own act, When the verdict of “ Wilful Murder,”’ how-
ever, was being discussed in the village ale-house in
his presence, a sense of the importance which would
accrué to the culprit seemed to strike him very forci-
bly, and he had made frank and full confession.

“J took the props away,’ said the poor eer;

“and now I shall be taken to London town

 

 
 

CECIL'’S IRYST.

 

 

hanged;” an idea that evidently gave him the greatest
satisfaction. He would see the metropolis (as he erro-
neously imagined), at all events, and would probably
become a great public character, which (locally) he un-
doubtedly did. The village constable had, on his part,
taken him up with as deep a conviction of the great-
ness of his charge as ‘the official who conveyed the
seven bishops to the Tower could possibly have exper-
fenced, and had then come down to the manor-house,
as I have said, to report his exploit—to mention him-
self, as it were, conspicuously in his own dispatches.

Except upou Mr. Bourne’s account, it was clearly a
matter of congratulation that the offense was thus
brought home to one to whom it could certainly not
‘be imputed as a crime; and my father, who was a man
who shut his ears to all scandals, had, at first, not even
that alloy to his satistaction. But on that very night,
late as it was, the Alchemist made his appearance, and
-was closeted with him in the study for more than an
hour, a fact which raised many eyebrows: and loosened
many tongues.

It was remembered that on the last occasion of Bat-

ty’s getting into trouble, it was Mr. Bourne, trom his |

place on the magistrate’s bench, who had pooh-poohed
the inquiry ; and though generally a harsh adminis-
trator of justice, had caused. the prisoner to be dis-
missed with a light reprimand; and the purpose of
his present untimely visit was unhesitatingly set down
to his wish to induce my father to “burke” inquiry
into the present business. It was even reported that
he had offered to restore the manor lands tothe house
of Wray, if he-would cause the matter to be hushed up:
a proposition most unlikely to be made by such a man,
andone which, if made, would undoubtedly have re-
sulted in his being instantly turned out of the house.
He would, indeed, I am persuaded, as soon have dared
to ask Aunt Ben’s virgin hand in marriage. Certain it
is, however, that what he did say turned my father’s
contempt for the old man into disgust. His age had
hitherto protected. him from his satire, which subse-
quently it failed to do; and never shall I for; et, when,
some time afterwards, the old fellow was chuckling over
his acquisition of some gain in stock or share like a

* male witch, the form which my father’s congratulation

took: ‘You are fortunate still,” said he ; ‘inthe words
of Middleton ;
“*The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder,
And woos you like a pigeon, ’”

The result of the interview, was,in the end, not with-
out its bearing upon my own fortunes, when it came to
Mr. Bourne's turn to influence them, but for the pres-
ent, it ended in the complete discomfiture of that
worthy.

The ougtieig day happened to be that appointed for
the fortnightly magistrates’ meetings at Holksham,
and at it Batty was arraigned accordingly before a bench
of three. Both Cecil and myself accompanied my
‘father, and were “accommodated with seats” on that
imaginary eleyation—for, as a matter of fact, each jus-
tice had a wooden chair—while the littie court-house
4vas crammed to the utmost by all Gatcombe. On ac-
count of the locality wherein the offerise had been com-
mitted, my father was not, as usual, elected chairman
(a most fortunate circumstance, as it afterwards turned
out); and the same reason disqualifying Mr. Bourne,
the dignity was conferred on Mr. Close, Frank’s father ;
an excellent divine, but not one altogether adapted by
nature for the performance of magisterial functions.
He was very deaf, and very fussy; and if the degrees
of human intelligence should be’ expressed by the ten
digits, progressively, that of the Rev, F. Close, J. P.,
‘would have been represented by the figure 2, at high-
est. Poor Batty’s however, stood only at’ or’so, and
he quailed before that important and awe-inspiring
man as 4 mouse before an owl. Weeping and wringing
his hands, he pitifully expresed his contrition for his
offense even before it had been formally laid to’ his
tharge; while, dividing the public attention with
him old Mr. Bourne, on the seat remotest from one
little party, drooped is shaggy eyebrows and bit his
nails. It may be imagined, therefore, that-the whole

-#cene contained elements of dramatic interest, and for

my part I could not help reflecting how excellently:it
‘might be adapted for the stage.

“Hum, ha!” said the chairman, regarding Batty
with a solemn shake of his white head. ‘ What is the
prisoner’s name, policeman?”

» Now, this question, simple as it seemed, was not an
easy one for anybody to answer, and totally beyond
the power of the person interrogated.

« Well, your worship, it’s just ‘Batty,’”’ returned the
‘constable, in hesitating accents; and indeed the. poor
fellow had never been known, save in the parish negis-
ter, where, I suppose, he had been entered under, his
matronymic, by any other name. Everybody looked at
old Mr. Bourne, and one or two (far back in the crowd)
even began to snicker. :

“Hum, ha!” reiterated the chairman, his face and
bald head becoming red as a new-born infant with the
sudden recollection of the scandalum magnatum
against his brother magistrate. ‘ Very. good ; proceed
with the charge.”” Whereupon Batty having - pleaded
“Not guilty,” the village constable had his innings,
and detailed the circumstances of the’prisoner’s cap-
ture and confession with painstaking cir¢umlocution,

‘@hd reiterated expression of hope that his evidence

might give pleasure to their worships.
“Are you sure now, policeman,” inquired the ¢chair-

man, sternly, ‘that this acknowledgment of the |

prisoner’s guilt that you have detailed to us was made |

of his own free will, and after: due warning had been
given to him that whatever he said might subse-
quently be used against him ?”

“Lor bless your worship,” replied the constable,
looking toward Batty with a pitying smile, “he
couldn’t have understood nothin’ o’ that—not he.”

“1 don’t ask you whether the’ prisoner would have
understood you, sir,” exclaimed the chairman, irrasci-

 

bly; “Iask you whether you gave him due legal ad-

monishment ?” :
Mr. Bourne nodded approval in reply to the sweeping

glance of triumph at his own. sagacity that here eman-

ated from the chair, anda murmur of applause arose | it

trom the spectators.

«“ Justice Close knows how to tackle.a: fellow, mind
ye, when he comes ‘to law," was an opinion uttered in
my hearing, and recéived with marks of general ad-
hesion. The constable’s air, of late so impressively
suggestive of having done his country a good turn, now
became quite chop-fallen.

“Well, no, your worship ; Ivcan’t say as I did.’’

“ Did what, sir ?’’ inquired the inexorable chairman.
“ Let us hear the whole truth.”

“ Well, I didn’t give him no due—whatever your
worship pleased to call it—my old woman and me, we
only gave him his supper.”

A roar of laughter followed this announcement, in
which poor Batty joined tumultuously. He thought
that everything was now good-humoredly arranged,
and made an attempt to get out of his box, which had
to be frustrated by physical force. .

“It seems to me, Mr. Chairman,’ obseryed Mr.
Bourne, in a husky voice, “that the evidence we have
just heard, having been illegally extracted by the con-
stable, on his own confession, is quite worthless, and
cannot be used against the prisoner at all."

“What, what? Then what the deuce isto be done ?”’
returned the chairman, in a whisper. “Can't dismiss
the case, you know; that’s impossible,”’

“ Why not?’ answered the old man, in the same low
tones; ‘ there’s no case to go on with.”

‘No case! Why, I’m come here on purpose; pooh !
pooh |+What do you say, Mr. Wray ?’’

My father shrugged his shoulders; he knew well
enough what should be done, I saw, but he did not
wish to take any leading part in the affair. ‘‘ Ask the
clerk,’’ said he, ourtly. t

Now, the magistrate’s clerk at Holksham (as in one
or two other country seats of justice in these isles) was
in:fact the sole authority from which all judgments ot
the bench were derived; but the fiction was always
kept up among the Groat Unpaid of his being the mere
amanuensis and recorder of their legal decisions.. To
“ask the clerk’ was, therefore, an impossible sugges-
iion, and one which caused the Rev. Mr. Close to frown
and shake his head; but he bent down over the table,
and held a consultation with.that functionary in a low
tone, the peculiarity of which was that all the signs of
gesture-language were reversed in if, so that to the eyes
of the spectators it appeared as ifthe clerk were humbly
putting his interrogatories, anil the chairman blandly
but firmly laying down the law. It was really a very
clever performance on the part of his -worship, and got
him great credit; hut it was even a still cleverer one on
the part of the elerk, since it got him not only credit,
butinsured the continuance of a salary of some hua-
dreds a year. ;

‘Let those, witnesses be summoned,’’ observed the
chairman, speaking aloud, and with great dignity,
“upon whose information the constable was induced
to arrest the prisoner.”

At this there was a slight commotion in the crowd, as
though two ar three persons were making a hurried
exit; and when the constable had indicated who the
proposed witnesses were, it was discovered that they
were not in court; for to be connected with a great
public event in its first stage—such as picking up a
man, who has been run over by a Hansom cab, or run-
ning for the fire-escape when we see flames—is often
very gratifying; whereas some subsequent. deyelop-
ment of the affair—such as an inquest or an action at
law by an insurance company—may. causous a good
deal of trouble, if it does not seriously compromise
us.”

Thug, in the skittle-ground of the Red Linn, it had
doubtless been very pleasant to detect a willful mur-
derer, but it was not at all pleasant ta have to prove the
fact on both before the Holksham bench, and then tobe
“bound over,” perhaps, to do it again before tho still
more impressive majesty of the judges of assize. The
constable’s self-important airs had persuaded his in-
formers that all responsibility had been shifted to his’
official shoulders, and now that they found themselvés
about to share it, they had turned ‘and fled. The get-
ting up of criminal cases, as may be inferred, was not
an art brought to pertection at Gatcombe.

The witnesses having in vain beén summoned, the

roceedings eame once more to a dead-lock; and again

r. Bourne rémonstrated with “the chair’ against
the case being proceeded with, ,

“ But we are not proceeding, Mr. Bourne,” argued
the unhappy chairman; “we are waiting for eyi-
denee.”’ : ;

“You may do as you please, Mr. Chairman,’”’ an-
swered the old man, raising’ his voice, “but it will be
at your own risk. Iam notat all sure that the pris-
oner may not haye grounds for bringing an ‘action
against us for false imprisonment. é has’ pleaded
‘ Not guilty,’ and nothing has been brought forward”

“Please your worships,” here exclaimed one of the
constables in charge of Batty, “ the prisoner is a-telling
us as how he did it.” 1

“ What do you mean ?” ejaculated the chairman, in-
credulously, yet welcoming any solution of the diffi-
culty in which he found himself involved. ‘He's not
saying he’s guilty, ishe?” © ,

“I did it, I did it !’’ here broke out poor Batty, wear-
ied with the tediousnéss of the proceedings, and thor-
oughly disenchanted of the attractions of a public po-
sition. ‘I stole the props,and made the cave fall in,
There, there! Now let’s be off to London.”

It was a pitiful sight to behold the witless, friendless
lad (he was not much over twenty, and looked younger)
turning from one to the other of those who stood about
him, and pleading to be taken away. Even old Mr,
Bourne had for once the sympathies of his hearers with
him, when he pointed out to the chairman the absurd.

 

ity of pursuing so. serious s charge against one who

had manifestly shown himself an irresponsible agent.
“But there’s.a man been. killed,” urged. Mr. Close,

“and here’s the fellow that did it, and says he did

“ That’s just. the point, my good sir, This unfortu-
nate lad will say anything, because, as everybody is
aware, he does not know what he says.”’

* Well, well, you know more about. him than Ido,
Mr. Bourne; that _is,’’ stammered the chairman, ‘you
ought to do so; I mean, becanse he belongs to your
parish, But we who sit here have nothing,to do with
previous wqeetainnce with an accused person. What
do you say, Mr. Wray ?”

“If you ask my opinion,” said my father gravely, “I
must needs say that since we have this poor fellow be-
fore us protesting that he committed the offense with
which he is charged, I see no other alternative than to
send him for trial. A judge and jury are as competent
to perceive his irresponsibility as ourselves. Indeed,
we have no power, as it seems tome, to deal with the
matter otherwise.”

The chairman looked towards. the clerk, who, with
obsequious face, seemed to reply, ‘Just as you please,
sir; you are the best judge ;” but I caught in his defer-
ential whisper the words; “Your only course,” and
“the Home Secretary ;” and then Mr. Close’s answer :
“The devil it.is ! then that settles it.’’

Then the chairman blew his nose, like s trumpeter
proclaiming’silence, settled his spectacles that had been
disturbed by that operation, and addressed Batty in
solemn tones.

“ Prisoner at the bar, you stand. committed.”

“IT didn’t commit it,” roared Batty ; ‘I was set on to
do it. I was given money to do it.”

“Set on to do it? money.!’’ ejaculated Mr. Close.

“Yes, money,” repeated Batty in a grudging tone.
“ [knew I shouldn’t.be allowed to keep it—I never am ;
T have got it in the waistband of my breeches. They've
taken away my knife, or I would let you see the gold.”

‘He has got money, your worship,” said. the consta-
ble, rapidly inyetaatiog the repository , thus indi-
cated, “though I’m sure I searched him through and
through. Here are five golden sovereigns.” ,

It Batty hadsuddenly announced himeelf in posses-
sion of his five wits, and had laid them for inspection
on the magistrates’ table, they could not have excited
greater wonderment than did the exhibition of this
wealth. That Battyshould have been in possession of
such a.sum was indeed as astonishing as though a vein
of gold should have. suddenly been come upon in the
sand-cliff ; a few shillings was the very most the poor
fellow had ever had to call his own in his life ; indeed,
asa general. rule, he did not earn sufficient to support
himself, his scanty, wages being supplemented by char-
ity and parish relief.

“ Where did you get this gold from, Batty ?” saidmy
father, gravely ; his magisterial functions utterly lost
sight.of for the moment, in the interest which un-
expected turn/had given tothe case. If this poor lad
had really been bribed to remove the props, there was
murder with a vengeance; but of course it seemed
more probable that he had stolen the gold. . That was
the view, it seemed, which even Batty understood his
audience to entertain, for he replied at once: It’s my
own money ;,it was giyen.me for taking away the
props.”

“Good heavens !’’ ejaculated Cecil in my ear. “Did
ou ever hear any thing so horrible!, Perhaps poor
ichard was right, after all, when he said, ‘I’m a mur-

dered man.’ ’’ ‘

‘‘ When was it given to you, and by whom ?’’ contin-
ued my father, kindly. ‘‘ You will not be punished for
speaking the truth, you know.”

“It was given tv me last Thursday; I remember that,
because I got my dinner up at the manor-house just
before.. They're always good to me up there," ere
was a simple gratefulness in Batty’s tone that touched
one; but acurious sort of apologetic hesitation also;
and he cast a wistful look at his interrogator, as much
as to say; “ Do you really wish me to tell?’’,

“Tt was on Thursday, was it!"’ said my father, ‘‘ Well,
and now tell. us who it was who gave.you these five
sovereigns to take away the props from.Richard Wal-

ler’s pit.’’

It.was a calm summer day, and though the court-

house windows were all open, not a breeze was stirring;

the drowsy crow of a cock alone broke the hush with-
out, and within was unbroken silence, Every eye was
fixed on Batty, and every ear was stretched to catch his
answer. He hesitated, glanced neryously towards us,
and then, nodding towards my cousin, as though in

aweting reco; on of him, answered simply; ‘It
was Mr. Cocil, yonder.” 7 i

CHAPTER XII

COMMITTED FOR TRIAL

Tue sensation produced by Batty’s amazing statement
on all who heard it was profound. The silence which
had preceded it. was broken by aconfused «murmur of
astonishment, and then, once more, there was not a
sound, All eyes had turned from Batty to Ceci), in-
cluding. those of my father and» myself. I knew, of
course, that the charge was absurd and false; but I
looked to him to reply to it, just as if, had some sense-
less fellow struck at him in brutal jest, I should: have
expected to see him ward off the blow. But, since

‘there he sat'so pale and speechless, I could not.choose

but strike in for him in: my passion, notwithstanding
that his accuser was bua poor natural, with, ‘You
vagabond liar’’——— ; f id ba

“Hush, sir!” interposed my father, sternly, “It is
not for you to speak.” mats ‘

Thank you, Fred,” whispered my cousin; “thanks,
my friend;"" and then, with one deep sigh, heseemed
to rouse himselffrom his stupor, and spoke alond in
his own clear tones. ** You.are ‘mistaken, Batty,’ ssid.
he, ‘ Look at me again, and be quitesure,”
  

ua

 

CECIL'S TRYST.

 

 

If Cecil’s silence had been prejudicial to him in the
opinion of the crowd, his voice and manner ought now
to h redeemed it. In place of indignation at the
hateful charge that had been brought against him, they
only evinced gentleness and pity, though his face testi-
fied to the anguish that he suffered from this random
shaft that had pieréed to his. inmost heart, where lay
Ruth’s image.

“Yes, yes; it was Mr. Cecil,” returned Batty, peev-
ishly, but’ without looking my cousin in the face. “I
ee him well enough. He has’ given me méney
often.”’

“Silver and copper;’’ said Cecil, still speaking in
the same calm tone ;°“ but surely not gold, my good
fellow.”

“ Only oncé gold—the real red gold,” persisted Batty;
“but I was to do something for that, and I did doit; and
now’’—here he looked at his confiscated ‘coins with
pitying yearning—" they have taken it all away. Oh
dear! 6h dear !’’

“Come, come; none of this drivelling !’’ observed
the chairman, angrily:| He was a thorough gentleman
at heart, and felt keenly for his brother magistrate,
whose nephew, he was well convinced, had in reality no
more to do with the affair than he had himself.

“ The best way will be to let the poor fellow tell his
story in his own way,” whispered my father.

“ Well, if you don’t mind,” returned Mr. Close “but
it seems to me the fellowis mad. What do you say,
Mr. Bourne?”

“Whether mad or not,” returned the old gentleman,
coldly, “he is* not more miad than he was five minutes
ago, Isuppose, when you were so bent on taking his
evidence. But, if Mr. Wray wishes to stop the proceéd-
ings, I for one donot wish to feed public scandal, what-
ever others may do,”

My father flushed from brow to chin at this malicious
speech, but uttered not a word, and, when Close
glanced towarda him in a helpless sort of way, only bent
his head towards Batty.

“The bench wishes to hear all you have got to say,
prisoner,” said the chairman, acting on this hint. “ If
Mr. Cecil did give you this money, how and when did
it happen ?”

“It was on the Thursday, I tell you,” said Batty,
“when I got the cold beef and pudding at the manor-
house.”

“Was it at the manor-house that the money was
given to you, or elsewhere ?”

“Eh? inquired Batty, vacantly.

“What the deuce is to be done ?” muttered the chair-
man ; ‘‘all this is but ¢0 much waste of time.”

“I think the work ‘elsewhere’ has puzzled him, your
worship,” murmured the obsequions clerk,

“Well, put the question to him yourself, then,”
-_ Mr. Close, téstily. “I am not used to talk with a

001.”

With a smile that perhaps veiled the thought, “Iam,”
the clerk obeyed.

“Did Mr. Cecil Wray give you this gold at the manor-
house ?”

“No; in the  fir-wood above Wayford, where I took
my pudding to eat it.”

“About what time was that ?”

“Why, dinner time, of course.”

A roar of laughter burst forth from the crowd at this
undesigned sally. It was not the opportuneness of
the reply that proyoked their mirth, but the readiness
to seizé upon anything facetious which is always mani-
fested under circumstances of serious import, which
gives piquancy to the small jest of the judge upon the
bench, and to the unintentional mot in the parson’s
sermon ; it put Batty, however, who took it as a
compliment to his epigrammatic powers, in high good
humor,

” br the pudding was good, was it?” continued the
“lerk.

“It had plums in it!” returned the other, trium-
phantly. “But even the plums were not so good as
the guineas that Mr. Cecil brought me. ‘There,’ said
he, ‘is enough to buy you fifty puddings ;* and Iwould
ha’ bought ‘em, and eat ’em, too, if you'd ha’ let ’em
bide wi’ me.”

“And what were you to do for the guineas ?”’

*“ Well, I was to go: into Waller's pit that night and
take away the props,” he said; ‘and so I did. There,
now, Ihave done wi’ it.” And with the air of aman
who has at last ae free from his responsibilities, the
poor natural made once more an attempt to leave his
place of durance. :

Frustrated again in that endeavor, he turned sulky,
and’ refused to answer any more questions. The ma-
gistrate’s clerk tried all his Machiavellian arts on him
in vain ; and, indeed, I don’t believe’ the rack would
have constrained Batty to speak & word when in one of
his morose moods.

“Is there anybody in court,’ at last exclaimed the
chairman, wearily, ‘“‘ who can throw any light upon
this strange affair ?””

I would have spoken long ago had not my father’s
rebuff forbidden me to do so; and I had only been
= for an invitation of this kind to take advantage
of it.

“I wish to be sworn, may it please your worships,”’
said I, stepping down from the little platform. My fa-
ther looked surprised, but said nothing, and old Bourne
favored me with one of his ugliest looks as I got into
the witness box. ’

“Administer the oath,” said the chairman, with eye-
brows raised to their full height. I think he was
under the impression that matters had at last come to
a climax, and that I was about to say that it was I who
had killed Richard Waller, after all...  Now,-tell us, in
Heaven’s name, what you know about this matter,
young gentleman ?”’

“I know ‘nothing, sir,” said I, “about the taking
away the props; but I can prove that the prisoner’s
story, 80 far as my cousin Cecil is concerned, is utterly

. On Thursday last—the date on which he is ac-

 

 

cused of having paid over this money—he was absent
from Gatcombe, and in my company, at Monkton, the
entire day.”

Amurmur of applause broke forth in court, which
was immediately hushed, when old Mr. Bourne was
seen about to speak,

“What you say is true, Mr. Frederick Wray, I have
no doubt,” said he, coldly ; “but the prisoner may be
right in the fact, though wrong in the date.”

Then ensued a scene such as the town hall at Holks-

The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,
For thee, Old Bailey, welcome all.’ ”’

Unselfishness was:as much a characteristic of my fa-
ther asthe quoting from ancient authors, and I felt that,
though doing his best to arouse Cecil from his gloom,
he was himself much disturbed in mind. 'The malicious

| conduct of old’Mr. Bourne during the late inquiry had
vexed him; and he was still more annoyed with him-
self at being vexed. at anything such a man could do.
| Odi profanum vulgus et arceo might haye been his

ham had never before witnessed, even in the tumult of | motto, though he was neither proud nor unsympathet-

an election time. My father, though years ago, as I
have said, he had lost his seat for the county, had
always been personally popular; the natural interest
excited by the charge so unexpectedly brought, against
his relative had been largely mixed with sympathy
upon his own account; and now that Cecil had been
apparently exonerated from blame, that this old miser,
whom everybody despised or feared, should seem still
to hold him guilty, raised public indignation to the ut-
termost. Lhad hever before heard that, peculiar ‘‘ yah,
yah,” of an’ English ‘mob, in which contempt and hate
find such acid but forcible expression: and I looked
with wonder at the transformation of that tossing
throng, most of whom were laborers in the sand-cliff,
and vat known to me, but who now, as they yelled
and shook their fists against their common enemy, as
though they would have torn his heart out, had snd-
denly become unrecognizable. In the social world,

perhaps, asin the physical, though all without appears |

so safe and solid, there is but a thin layer that hides
from view the central fire.

Iam bound to say that old Mr. Bourne showed him-
self no coward, but satin his place looking down in
grim silence upon the tumult, while my father rose
and denounced it. It seemed to be his business to do
80 rather than that of the chairman, since the disorder
had its origin partly on his account; and he did it with
a fire and energy for which few would have given him
credit. It was necessary, as he afterwards apologeti-
cally explained, to speak in the Cambyses vein, when
there were only two policemen to back the voice of
authority against five hundred rebels; and, at all
events, he re-established comparative calm, during
which the proceeding were concluded.

Batty was committed for trial. It was impossible
that any other course could have been taken, since,
though the details of his confession—to which he had
stuck with as great tenacity as to the main fact—had
been disproved, there was his possession of those five
golden pieves to be accounted for, which, as the chair-
man ventured to Observe withont consultation with
his familiar, if they had not been given him for the
purpose he had stated, “had been certainly come by
by some dishonest means, which it was tor a judge and
jury ‘to investigate and determine."

Though not unconscious of the want of logic in Mr.
Close’s reasoning, I felt, for my own part, that the
contents of poor Batty’s waistband were indeed very
strong corroborative evidence of his guilt; and as for
his story, notwithstanding that I had exposed its falsity
with my own lips, I was well convinced that it was at
least no fiction; not only was the poor lad utterly in-
capable of having invented it; he evidently believed
thatit was true. Such ‘a tale might have been the de-
lusion of a madman, but not of a poor natural such as
Batty; and again, there was the gold,

After the first moment of his being 80 unexpectedly
called upon in his own defense, Cecil had never lost his
calm collected look, which had, however, an inexpress-
ible sadness in it, as of one who had made up his mind
to suffer much. As we drove homé together, both my
father aud I endeavored to cheer him, not by avoiding
the subject which monopolized his mind, but by «pec-
ulating on the strange fancy that had taken possession
of Batty. That it was weird and baseless as a dream,
would have been easy to prove in any case, but the for-
tunate circumstances of his having given a false date to
the supposed occurrence had, we argued, removed from
it all aspect of seriousness. It did not become & man
of sense to be disturbed about such a matter, and so
forth. But my cousin only shook his head, and held
his hand up, as though in rejection of all comfort.

“But, my dear Cecil,” said I, well understanding upon |

whose account he was so. distressed, ‘ this charge
against you of all men, is not only absurd, but mon-
strous, by reason of your well-known personal regard
for the Wallers.”’ . .

“ Yes,” returned he, gloomily, “ But suppose it should
be. also well-known that only last night I termed peor
Richard ‘an obstacle,’ and was in a manner congratulat-
ing myself upon his ‘remoyal,’”’

“‘ Nobody but an Old Bailey.counsel could make any-
thing of that, I think, Cecil,” observed my father,
cheerfully; ‘‘ and even as for the murder, as it is called,
it remains to be proved such.” |

“I believe it was.a murder,” returned my cousin,
gravely. “1 believe Batty told the truth about the
matten, so far as he was capable of understanding it,”

My, pe did not reply, . I think he thought so too,
as I did,

“But, if Batty was really bribed,” urged I, “the in-
tention of him who bribed him must have been doubly
criminal, since the removal of the props not only jeop-
ardized the life it destroyed, but that of Ruth also.

Cecil shuddered. . y

“ Well,,’ said I, “it was you who saved her life; can
any reasonable being suppose that it was also you who
wished to kill her.” ,

“That is well put,” said my father. ‘Fred shall be
brought up to the law.”

“«*Shakspeare, no more thy sylvan son,

Nor all the art of Addison,
Pope’s heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller’s ease,
Nor Milton’s mighty self must please.
€ visage wan, the_purblind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn rate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,

ic; and now it was only too probable that our family
name would be in everybody’s mouth for sometime to
come.
| » We brought home with us, of course, the contagion
| of our melancholy; and nobody would haye recognized
that night in our little party the same which had been
| so gay, and bent on gayety, scarce a week ago, Cousin
| Jane didnot make her appearance, but her brother
| visited her in her room, and I understood that she had
| feceived his: news with her accustomed philosophy,
| She treated Batty’s story with great contempt, and as
being a fabrication from beginning to end. ‘‘ Depend
; upon it,” she said, “thereis nobody to blame in the
| matter but the fool himself, who is not without a
| method.in his madness. If he had been well whipped
| on the first occasion when he stole the props (as he
ought to have been), he would never have done it
| again.”
For the moment, Cecil, aceumstomed to defer to the
| opinions of his sister, was a little comforted; but on
his asking her how she accounted for Batty’s possession
| of the gold, her reply, though by no means without
sagacit y, was less satisfaetory.

“ Why, he stole it, of course, as he stole the props,’”
said she; “and thus endeavors to excuse himself from
two charges (one ofthem by anticipation), by one and
the same story. IfI had been chairman of the magis-
trates’ bench, instead of Mr. Justice Shallow, I would
have dealt with the matter summarily enough ”—which
I believe she would have done, and most devoutly

| wished she had.
| Poor Aunt Ben, on the other hand, was utterly de-
| moralized by what had happened, and constantly dis-
| Solved in tears. “ She already beheld Cecil in the clutches
| of the law, out of which she was by no means of opinion
that innocence always emerged triumphant. “They
| will swear anything,” she sobbed, “ those lawyers ’”
| (whose position she vaguely confused with that ot wit-
nesses for the prosecution); ‘and the cleverest of them
are somehow always on the wrong side.”

“But, my dear aunt,” urged I, “there is no sane

person who even hints at Cecil being’ concerned in the
matter.”
|

“IT hope not, Frederick; I should like to see them at
j itt ” returned she, indignantly, ‘The déar boy is, of
| course, as innocent as alamb; and even if he wasn’t,”
| added she, throwing her arms about his neck and burst-
| ing into tears, ‘his old Aunt Ben would love him all
| the same.”
Her naivete did not even raise a smile among us.
| Cecil was far too wretched to be moved to mirth, and,
besides our. common distress upon his account, my
father and myself had each our own trouble. The
events of the day, among other disagreeables, had left,
| he felt, a break between the manor-house and the
| rectory; my father hated quarrels with his neighbors,
| and had hitherto always steeredclear of them; and as
for me, though I neither had nor could have any quar-
rel with Eleanor, it was too probable that I shouid be
from henceforth debarred from her society. Latein the
evening, however, the rectorcame down to us accom-
panied by his daughter, and expressed himselfin a very
frank and generous fashion. I had no idea that in so
dull and pompous a personage there could have existed
so much manly feeling; it had always seemed to me
that there was not stuff enough in the Rev. John
Bourne to make a gentleman, but I had been mis-
taken, .

Without any undutiful reference to his father’s un-
friendly conduct towards us at the tria), of which he had
probably received an exaggerated account, he gave tis to
understand that the report of it had annoyed and dig-
tressed him exceedingly.

Aunt Ben, however, received him with great stiffnese
(it is the women, who perpetuate, even when they do
not make, our family, vendettas) und very soon left the
room, on pretense of looking after Jane, :

Cecil had withdrawn himself when the door-bell had
announced the arrival] of visitors.

“Tam sorry not to see my friend and pupil, said the
rector, warmly, “I regret beyond measure that he
should have been exposed to this wicked slander, and.
especially that any relative of mine should have acted
otherwise than to have put his foot upon it and stamped
it out as soon as named.”

My father was deeply moved, and I think as much
taken by surprise by this generous behavior as my-
self.

“Mr. Bourne,”’ he said, ‘did but do his duty as‘s
magistrate, though he certainly might have evinced a
more neighborly feeling. His expression was that
the prisoner might have been right in the fact, though
incorrect in the date.” ;

“It is impossible that he could have been right in
the fact,’ observed the rector, vehemently.

“ As to Cecil, of course,”’ returned my father. “ What.
Mr. Bourne doubtless meant to add was that the state-
ment was'also incorrect as to the person.”

‘You are most kind to say so,” said the rector; “that
is certainly what he ought to have said, and what I hope
he will make a point of saying in public upon the
first opportunity. It is,in my opinion, only what he
owes to — nephew.”

My father bowed stiffly, with a grave smile. The
idea of any public explanation of old Mr. Bourne’s being
required to set his kinsman right in the eyes of the
world seemed unpleasantly absurd,

 

-

 

 
 

CECIL’S TRYST.

w

 

 

“ Can I see Cecil himself,” asked the rector, hesitat-
ingly.

£ Bo and fetch him, Fred,” said my father.

I left the room, but waited in the hall for Eleanor,
who, I guessed, would follow me, under pretense of
seeing Jane. It was evident that the two gentlemen
wished to be alone, perhaps in order to speak of Batty.

“ How shocking all this is!’’ cried she, bursting into
tears for the first time. ‘ Poor, poor Cecil!’

“My dear Nellie,” said I, comforting her in lovers’
fashion, ‘‘ you need not take it so to heart; it is ‘only a
nine days’ wonder, after all. The Assizes will have
been held by that time,and the real criminal have
doubtless got his deserts.”

“Then you think there ‘s a criminal, do you, Fred?”
asked she, with a frightened air.

“TI do,” said I, gravely; ‘ Batty could neyer have in-
vented such astory. That he was bribed to take those
props by somebody, I have hardly a doubt.”

“That is what Ruth says. I had hoped that she took
a prejudiced view of the matter, on account of the
words she heard her poor brother say—those last terri-
ble words, that are always haunting her.”

Ishook my head. ‘It is useless to deceive ourselves,
dear Nelly; there is a great mystery about this sad mat-
ter, which hag not it’s beginning in poor Batty. How
did Ruth take the news of to-day’s doings ?”

“ That is what I wanted to sce you about, dear Fred.
When she first heard of that wicked attempt to impli-
cate Cecil, I thought she would have broken her heart.
She begged and prayed of me to send-for him at once,
but I dared not do it; and presently my grandfather
came in—and—and—there has been a*quarrel between
him and your father, and he spoke very bitterly against
the family, and especially against Cecil, in Ruth’s pres-
ence, just as though he had really been the guilty per-
son; and Ruth spoke up for him to his face—who could
blame her for it ?—and he bade her leave the house at
once, and she is gone.’”’

“‘Good heavens ! gone whither ?”

“I do not know,, I was not allowed to speak with her.
Grandpapa is so hard, you know.”

Here [heard the drawing-room bell ring, and know-
ing that it was for Cecil, we parted hastily. Iran upto
my cousin's room, but it was empty. I called: “Cecil,
Cecil!” at the top of my voice, but there was no reply.
I looked at my watch’; if was nearly eleven o’clock.
Then I went down stairs, and found from Martha that
my cousin had left the house immediately after Mr,
Bourne and Miss Eleanor had arrived. Whither could
he have gone at such a time of night, and on -what er-
rand? A cold despair crept to my heart as the thought
flashed upon me: “Suppose he should have gone away
for good!’ What a terrible misnomer would that “for
good” be, had he really fled with Batty’s ghastly accu-
sation hanging over him!

 

CHAPTER XIII.
A GHOSTLY WALK.

“‘WueEre is Cecil?” asked my father, impatientiy, as
I re-entered the drawing-room. ‘I hope he does not
refuse to see Mr. Bourne.”

“It is not that,” said I.
has left the house.”

“Left the house!"’ repeated both my. father and the
rector; and they looked at one another with the same
thoughts in their minds, as Icould well perceive, which
had already occurred to myself.

“But where is he gone to? Has he left no message ?”’
Have you no idea, Fred, what has become of him?”
There was not only perplexity in my father’s tones, but
positive alarm.

‘ There is only one place that I can think of,’’ replied
I, with hesitation; ‘* he may have gone to Wayford,”’

“T trust not, indeed,’ observed the rector, hastily.

“Ruth Waller has gone home to, her cottage. It
would be a most improper proceeding.”

“Go and see, Frei,’ said my father, gravely, . Impro-
priety had become, it was evident, a secondary con-
sideration in his eyes; ‘*Tell the servants that they
may retire. I will sit. up for you myself.’ ,

“Had you. not better go, or J, and. bring him back ?”’
suggested the rector.

“No,” said my father, curtly. ‘“Irely upon Fred’s
judgment and strength of character.’

This was gratifying, and more especially so since I
knew that my father had hitherto been not well pleased
by my conduct with respect to Cecil.and the girl; but I
must say I did not welcome the responsibility. If Ruth
had been @ ward in Chancery, and I ‘had been furnished
with a decree of that high court, launched against her.
contumacious swain, I should have had my doubts of
the success of my enterprise; but asit was, what ar-
guments had I to use besides those which already
proved fruitless? What hold had I upon him? Iwas
well acquainted with my cousin’s impulsive character,
and a double source of apprehension now possessed me;
it suddenly struck me that they had gone off together.
Cecil was always plentifully supplied with money; and
finding this beautiful creature alone, and in distress, I
could easily imaginé that, blinded by passion, and eager
to estape from a locality which recent events had ren-
dered hateful to him— ‘But ‘no; I could not wrong
him thus, even in thought; it would be tinie enough
to think ill of my friend when he had proved himself
in fault. The next minute Dhad snatched my cap from
its peg and was on the moonlit road.

Iran at that swi‘t but steady pace that is meant to
last, and which admits of the mind communing with
itself as well as of taking impressions from without;
and in order to avoid the risk of meeting any one who
might inquire my errand (though this was not likely,
for our folks at Gatcombe kept very early hours), I took
the terrace way. Not asound but that of my own pant-
ing breath disturbed the midnight’ silence, Nature,
asleep, lay stretched before me for mafy'a mile in all
her loveliness, lit up by the pale light of the moon,

“He is not to be found. He

 

Each field and farm stood out distinct and clear, most
recognizable, yet not familir; for a landscape, under
such circumstances, resembles its own self at noonday
only as some fair virgin, newly dead, resembles herself
in life. The brightness and the glory are fled, but a
spiritual beauty, born of calm and peace, reigns in their
place. Alas, thoughtI, how soon the parallel ends; for
the world will wake to life, and light again, while the
beauty of the dead @illfade and change to unutterable
horrors. Then, with a flash, my errant thought revert-
ed to Richard Waller and his ‘terrible fate, the scene
of which I was approaching. It was more than a mile
aliead ; but the hearse-like canopy offirs that overhung
it was distinctly visible, looking blacker even than it
was wont to do by daylight. My lonely path had alrea-
dy led me by many a gaping cave which had proved, at
one time or another, the sepulchre of alivingman; but
with such catastrophes I had been only acquainted by
report. The Wayford pit, which I had to pass on my
road to Ruth's cottage, had given up its dead before my
own eyes. A vague terror suddenly beset me, and shook
my knees asI ran on. Should [ once stop, even for a
moment, I felt that it would overcome me utteriy. My
nerves Were naturally strong enough, but the events of
the last few days had unstrung them; and perhaps I
had cultivated my imagination somewhat to the neglect
of my reasoning powers. At all events, I felt a strong
inclination to descend the sand-cliff at once and take the
lower road, ®On the other hand, though there was none
to see me, I experienced a sense of shame atsuch a pro-
ceeding. I debated the matter’ with myself, thought
arguing with thought within me, as it was oiten
wont to do. The case is not uncommon, perhaps,
with those who have lived long without companions of
their own age; but it is no sign of a healthy mental
condition. Hadmy father,atmy age, beenin my place, he
would, I know, have given way to no such weakness for
an instant, and that idea gave me courage. The Wrays
had never been given to fear of any sort; my uncle
had been bold to audacity; even Aunt Ben would have
approached yonder wood, if duty had called her so to
do, as fearlessly as she would have gone to her garden.
Was I, then, to be the first coward of my race? Iran on
at increased speed. Perhaps it was that which caused
my heart to beat so loudly that I could hear ® as I
reached the pine-wood, The white terrace was flooded
with the moonlight, and made the grove intensely
black, A whisper ran through its dark plumes, which
Thad heard a thousand times, but it had never said,
“Hush, hush! the dead is here,’’ as it did now,

In the front of each cave was. a little covered
hut in which the scythe-stones were wont some-
times to be roughly chipped, before they were taken
home to undergo the more delicate operations. I
had often seen Richard Waller sitting in the one to
which I was now drawing near, and heard his shrill,
yearning cough—and I heard it now, Yes, with the
sweat-drops on my forehead, with every vein in. my
body filled to bursting, and my heart beating like a
steam-engine, I stopped and listened toit now. It was
full a minute before the sound was repeated, and then I
recognized it for what it really was—the swaying of a
tree-top in some breeze of the upper air. I blushed from
chin to brow as I thought how my father, with his faith
in my “ strength of character,”’ would have blushed for
me, and then walked resolutely on, I no longer ran ; I
was resolved to punish myself for having given way to
such abject weakness. I would not even avert my eyes
from the pit-mouth as I passed by, nor did I. Phe hut
I have spoken of had hitherto had its back towards me,
but [now came into full view of it; and horror cf hor-
rors! there sat in it a human figure,huddled up and
cramped together, just as I had seen that of Richard
Waller when he was taken dead out of the cave—the
head was drooped upon the hands, and the elbows rest-
ing on the knees; and, ‘‘ Hush, hush! the dead.is here,”’
said the trees again.

In my last experience, I thought I had undergone all
that fear cbuld inflict, but I had been mistaken ; that
had been but panic, whereas this was veritable terror,
unspeakable, unimaginable, and yet a thousand times
intensified by the imagination. The self-same sight
that Eliphaz, the Temanite, beheld in his dream seemed
now to bé before'me in reality; and ‘‘ the hair of my
flesh stood up,” like his, and my bones shook. If the
Thing had moved or cried out, I verily believe my wits
would have fled forever, ifnot mylife; butit remained
quite still, and I, as still, stood staring at it. .Leannot
express the relief to my mind, and also my .grateful
sense of that relief, when the fact was presently made
apparent tome that it wasnoghost, but my Consin Cecil.
He might have been dead himself, however, for any
sign of life he gave’; and, remembering my own terrors,
Itook care to make no sudden exelamation, but called
him by his name in alow voi¢e. As it turned.ont, how-
ever, I need have taken no’such precaution, for he an-
swered: “ Yes, it is I,” in a sad and unconcerned voice,
with neither start nor expression of astonishment, at
seeing me.

“My: father sent’ me for you,’’ said1; ‘he is dis-

tressed and alarmed at your absence, and so’ are we,

“Ah,” replied ‘he, wearily, ‘it is late, I suppose. I
will come home.”

“But, my dear Cecil,” said I, approaching him, and
taking ‘his hand, which was very hot and feverish,
“why are you here atall at such a time?”

“Why not ?” saidhe. “Is it not said that murderers
have an inexpressible desire to revisit the scene of their
crimes ?” t

“But you are not Richard Waller’s murderer,’’ said I,
soothingly.

“No,” answered he, firmly; “but I desire above all
things to meet with the man who was.”

“ You are not serious, Cecil, or if 80, you are not your-
self,” observed I, gravely.

“No, that is true,’"he answered. Then, with s deep
sigh, but with all his old kindliness of tone; he added:

 

“ Ah, Fred, this day has done for your friend and
kinsman; my life is going out altogether; in this foul
breath of report it can no more exist than can a candle-
flame in a damp cave.”

“The breath of a fool,” said I, “is of less account
than the breeze among those firs, How can you take
such rubbish to heart?”

“Nay, Batty spoke the truth in the main, Fred,’’ an-
swered my cousin, solemnly. ‘It is useless to dis-
credit him, Even Rue thinks that.” ,

“(Have you seen her since—since the magistrates’
meeting ?”

“Yes; just now; she parted from me here not half an
hour ago. I called at the rectory to see her; but Mr.
Bourne had turned her out of doors, for disbelieving
that I had tried to kill her brother, and she had gone
home. She is at the cottage yonder, all alone.”

“And you followed her thither?”

“Yes,” said he, observing, perhaps. some dryness im
the tone of the inquiry. ‘ What then?’

“Nothing my dear Cecil, only, since you seem so ner-
vously sensitive to the ravings of a poor natural, it
surprises me that you should have exposed yourself
and Ruth, by such an act of imprudence, to be talked
about by the whole »iNage.’’

“T was obliged to see her, Fred; Iwas indeed. But I
did not stay beneath her roof; perhaps I dared not; at
all events, I brought her here—here, where her
brother was murdered but a week ago, and where she
herself, by a’miracle, was saved from death. It is not
a spot, you will allow, for love-passages. Yet here we
first plighted troth.” He looked about him in a pitiful
way, as though the girl herself had been dead, and only
her memory associated with the scene. “Well, she
loves me still, notwithstanding what Batty had said;
and I verily believe, had I pressed her to do so, would
have fled with me this very night.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say I did not doubt
that in the least, for, indeed, Idid not. My heart, per-
haps, was somewhat hardened against the girl who had
been the cause of so much trouble to us all; and, more-
over, though my cousin was so dear in my own eyes, I
did not think him one likely to have inspired a disinter-
ested affection in those of Ruth. I nodded gravely, and
he went on.

“She loves me dearly, Fred; and, I believe, for my
own sake,” said he, piteously, as though perceiving my
thought. ‘ AndI, oh! I never loved her as now, when
we are parted perhaps forever !’’

He sat down again on the bench, from which he had
risen in his passionate excitement, and buried his fuce
in his hands.

‘‘ Parted forever !’’ repeated I, in wondering tones.

“Of course,’ said he, simply. ‘ How can it be other-
wise, while this monstrous charge ‘hangs over me; and
who can tell if it will ever be removed Do you sup-
pose that while this shadow of suspicion lingers I would
marry Richard Waller’s sister ? and it may linger long,
perhaps forever! If poor Batty sticks to his story, as I
think he will do, this horrible affair, whether he be
right or wrong, may remain a mystery forever; and if
it does, so help me Heaven— But there, I huwve already
sworn it to her, on this spot, where the blood of -her
brother cries out for vengeance. I will drag out my
days‘alone ; for lam alone, when Rue is absent.”

To one who did not know my cousin, or only saw in
him a youth of twenty, impulsive and perplexed by
grievous trouble, these would have seemeu but wild
and wandering words; but tome they were both sad and
serious, If the cloud that hung over Richard Waller’s
fate should never be dispelled by the rays of truth,’ I
felt that it was only too likely to darken Cecil's life for
many a day ; but, on the other hand, it seemed almost
certain it would be dispelled. Few cases that are sifted
in a criminal court leave much that is unaccountable
behind, and I had good hope of the coming trial not
only putting Cecil's innocence beyond a doubt—tor that
was within my own power to do—but of fixing the
crime upon the real offender.

“My dear Cecil,” said I, assuringly, “in two days’
time, you will, I both hope and believe, be wholly free
from these forebodings; you are cheerless and dispirited
now, as you well may be. This spot itself, with its
melancholy associations, is sufficient to depress any-
body’s spirits. Let us come homé, My father told me
that he should sit up for us,”’

“Jam sorry that he is doing that,” said Cecil, rising,
and immediately moving homeward, “and »very sorry,
believe me, to be giving trouble and sorrow to those
from whom I have received such unmerited kindness,
It is very poor repayment, Fred’’-—

“My dear Cecil,” interrupted I, “such words, I am
sure, would distress my father much more than any
trouble you may have caused him from a matter beyond
your own control; for we know that Love is such,
which

“* Rushes on one like a mighty stream,

And bears one in a moment far from shore.’

I. have heard my father himself repeat those lines as
though he had once experienced what he had quoted,
and yet he calls himself a philosopher.’ You might say
with his favorite Chamberlayne—
“«*Ts’t a sin to be
Born high, that robs me of my liberty ?
or ask, with Massinger, why

“* “Riches, with other men
Esteemed a blessing, is to you a curse 9’

We may differ from our friend in the choice of the ob-
ect. of, his affections, butit would be folly to blame
im. ‘We do not do that even when love is unrequited.”

“At all events we should not,” said Cecil, gravely ;
“and yet when women place their love where it is not
reci) ated, they are both blamed and scorned.”

“No by those whose blame or scorn is worth a farth-
ing,” I, pleased to win my companion, even for a
little, from his private grief; “for women’s love is,
after a more engrossing passion than ours.

 
\

 

 

au CECIL’S TRYST.

 

“* Poor love is lost in'men’s capacious minds;
To theirs it fills up all the room it finds.’

’ Won must excuse my old tags and scraps, Cecil,” said I,
Naughing ; “you know that I have learned that “damna-
»ble trick of iteration’ from my father.”

ing of Cecil. .Thatis my only ailment. You can eure
it.” { ;
“ Your brother is come home,” said. I, “all right. He
is now with my father in the study.”
“Where is
“I know it,” said my cousin, sighing; “and you

And the girl?” inquired she, eagerly.
she?” ; ;

have learned much else that.is hotter of him also. at, oe girl!’ repeated I.. “Do you mean Ruth Wal-
-Bred, of us two cousins, though I have heard myself | *®". st x bits
called the more fortunate, it was yon who were to be | Sauean eos I moan?!’ xetnreed she, enpelien iy
envied, and not I, even before this blow fell on me. ‘To ctor, on rectory ; aaey has she gone to?”,
have had such a father as you have, is a better lot than | | Pehewaur td armen nin: “4
bobo talking iataceeneae Tie tn with ie Sony | “No; Tdid not po to Wayford—at least not to the vil-|
modesty, Fred, so great, that you are unaware that you | #°- I found Cecil on the sand-cliff just above it. It
yourself are the object of such affection?” a wit Why? relief to:me,as you may imagine,
aoe. eee y had it wet oo one The question staggered me nota little. She had asked
Repton, Ishould not have known it, But howin honor | . eiaenen fm like one who is really in-a doubt that
could I confess it ? , Ee rene

ate , ““Why, because it would have been such a dreadful

my sy the lady in ; 7 :
arate ects See ee eee eet tae ya | thing it I had not found him. It he had fled away trom
word of hopeless passion in my ear.” | 'Gatcombe, a instance. ait iat

«Because she knows, it would be useless,” returned It would have been: the best thing in the world,
he, quietly. “Icould not have blamed you for your answered she ; “ that is, if they had fled together ; for
preference for Eleanor, even if you had not known an he ee not oe married her. teanted: sith: th
and loved her before you saw my sister. Jane is too | e'vellemence. of ler Manner, contrasted with the
much like myself to inspire love.’” | low tone in which she compelled herself to speak, was

“You ete right S speak of any woman in that | terrible ; it seemed the very concentration of rage.
way, Cecil, when discussing sucii a subject,” observed | ,, . You — a ees eee eT
L, coldly, “not even of your own sister.” |,“ You are thinking of her, and not of him; you

Pa Why not?” said he, simply, ‘‘ when. she knows it as | Pity tor her because she is pretty. I have no pity ex-

‘ t for him.” i

Well as I, and when nothing can give her hope, or alter | °°P >
What is fated, You can never be her lover, Fred ; but a eek ae mar pa y. “You men are all
if anything should happen to me, you must. take my | lik ” ae ane a . ied eo aelent pcre he
place as her brother, so far as you can. It has not been | *like—as soft as wax, unless, indeed, when you have
less painful to me, dear Fred, to broach this matter | oat maniieeitaenamneee, Some:peoplewho,are very

, i ce 5 7 ;. | tende: very cunning. « tse f
tant of tho fact for mothe though sou, ark en | ‘There wae something in her manner which reminded
Eleanor, may have been blind to it. One owes a woman | nie of her behavior on the occasion of Cocil’s accident ;
Something for her loye, even if one cannot repay it in ee seaeaie he ae ¥ er be satisfied,
kind. Come bromise me to repay Jane, if ever it should | 8°° pdumteaderntpt gions, Brig! yen yee
be necessary, with your care an protection.”

 

 

| “Imay be cunning, Jane,” said I, stiffly, ‘ but I can-
a * » | Not understand you.” : ; j
vals LE ena cay. Bose: Monti” seat ak de ae | “I know it,” said she, her voice changing to quite.#
affection for yourself, would dictate no less.” _. | ee a i» eae onan en me * Seat
“Thanks, Fred, thanks.” He pressed my hand, and | inapeccaenr “ P Ste
walked on more quickly, as ifrelieved of some burden a ines 5 ; ” :
my idea was then that he was thinking of his sister’s I foe Tdid not help him to her, Jane,” was ae aiipt
comparatively friendless condition, in caso he should | TeP!Y- ‘ :
marry: Ruth, and Jane should refuse to sanction the “Yon could have hindered him if you chose, Fred-
alliance ; but perhaps he alluded to the still more com- | rick.. He made you his confidant; Yow could shave
plete separation of deittn: ‘ told him what ‘she was, and what she will: be. Your
“That you do not like Jane for her own sake,” he ae can be sharp enough when you please.”’ 4
added presently, as though in continuation of some! “ ut I knew nothing against Ruth’s character,Jane,
‘line of thought he had been pursuing in the meantime, | Pleaded I; “and ’as to her position and, belongings,
“Tecan ay too easily imagine. I believe I am the only | Cecil was as well aware of them as I... .
gerson in the world that does ; I ought to do so, for} *‘‘ You knew nothing !” repeated she, with contemptu-
there is no sacrifice, I verily believe, which she would |. ous mimicry. i
not make for my benefit, or for what she considers to be | angel, without doubt, as he did ‘himself, ‘I tell you [
such.” would rather see him dead-before my eyes than married
“You are right there,” said I, eager to join in any | to her. Such women should be whipped and putin the
‘genuine commendation of one in whom. I felt but.a|'stocks.”” d Nia te
mip interest, and eyen that not of a favorable sort, | ‘For being beautiful ?” said I, . spoke with bitter-
“ The whole world; to Jane, seems to be comprehended | bess, but not with any: dosign to affront my cousin per-
in yourself. She watches’ you as a mother her child, or
as a bride her husband, with eyes of loving duty ; and
When you speak, she hangs, on your words. as though
» they were honey, and she a bee.”
“Then you think she loves me dearly?” asked Cecil,

when, with a sharp and sudden cry, she hid her face in
her hands, and burst into a flood of tears. ms

“My dear Jane,” said I, soothingly, ““what is the
meaning of all this? I can easily imagine that you are
‘looking up with animation. . : ; much annoyed with Cecil’s choice. , It annoys and dis-
“Of course, she: does ; who can doubt it?’ asked I, | tresses us all. But certainly there is no good to be done
' surprised. ag 9 tere : by villifying the object of if.“ I have done my best—in-
“No one, no one,” returned he. “But you are wrong | deed I have—to dissuade him from. his purpose, and
if you think she has no ambitions of her own, even .be- | Will continue to do so; but if you, or any one, weré to

sides that unhappy one of which we have been speaking,

mia er can never be gratified. Poor Jane! poor
Here we turned into the ayenue, and caught for the first
the gleam of the lamp in my father’s study, a sight

ing, it would have the very contrary effect to what you
wish,
be her defender. »She is. an honest girl enough in her
way, and some,day you will be sorry for having said

qade us quicken our pace to arate that was in- | such things.”’ c
compatible with. her talk. . , «7 ” 5 old ’ aan
f jatre x tate a “Yes. Forif your brother should marry her—and I
eiyi toh : releu honestly tell you I think he will—it will be the wisest,
oi, CHAPTER, XIV. / | | and indeed the only course for us all to make the best of
_ JANE AND I. ; it ei

“Your father did not sav that to-night,” sobbed Jano,
ae It was the first time that I had seen her

“6No jbecauso he draws, of course, the gloomiest
picture of the ect for Cecil’s eyes, while it is still
as your brother's marri:

‘THOUGH my father looked very gravya when he o
the front-door for. us, it was in that he was ved
‘to see us. “Good-night, »”’ said he, in significance
that I should retire,-and beckoned Cecil ‘into his study,
‘My cousin wrung my hand as we parted, as much as to
say: ‘ Whatever happens, I will
I Shall not be any cause of breach between you-and
him ;” and I have no doubt he did his best to exonerate |Cecil had
me from all blame: as for himself, it was clear to me
he had thoroughly made up .his mind as to his own
course of conduct, however it might pain him to op-
‘Pose to my father’s wishes. ;
__ As Ipassed Aunt Ben’s boudoir, the door softly opened,
and ge Jane appeared, fully dressed: pos
“Hush !” said she, holding up her finger as though in
_ fear of some exclamation of astonishment escaping me.
mi Will you come in here and speak to me for a min-
ute?”
T obeyed at once, though hardly less. surprised than I
had been an hour ago to find her brother sitting on |)
Richar Waller’sbench. Of course, I thought she had | your face. You have never, cruel to me, Fred ; at
east not designedly, I beseech you, fc. mercy’s sake,

long, retired to rest, and certainly she looked like one"
was | sundtiot to be out of her bed. ween to tell me wherein that hope lies ?””.
: } were

4 ocked, that. you should
wish your brother had committed a baseness.”” y

“Ah, you do not know what love is, Frederick, though
you may think you dc.’ Sout ;

“Nay,” said I, smiling,
would tell you. In your devotion'to him, it is true you
would cheerfully sacrifice another; but he has sacri-
ficed himsely, remember.” )

“Not yet, Frederick—surely notiyet?”? she pleaded,
passionately. “Do you mean to say there is.no. hope ?”"

“In my opinion, very little, Jane.”” r int

* But-there is some,” ee she; “I can seesit in

 
 

 

“You thought this: drunken drab an |

sonally. My consternation, therefore, was excessive |

speak of her as you have done to me,.within his hear-
I do not like Ruth myself; but you move me to’

| pers, and those who did not; and Fam afraid

“that is just what Cecil:

“His dishonor, or what he fancies to be such. While
this mystery still hangs over Richard Waller's death,
Cecil will certainly not marry. Rutli; and perhaps it
may hang forever.” : oe

“That is just possible,” observed Jane, thoughtfully:
“it is a. peculiarity of such idiots as this Batty, I have
heard, to adhere with obstinacy to their delusions. Let
us hope it will be so in this case."" ‘

“T niust differ from you there ‘again, Jane,” said I,
gravely. “If you had heard your brother speak of the
matter to-night, yon would hope anything rather than
that the weight of this groundless’ charge should not
be shifted to the right shoulders. It oppresses his
| very soul; he is not like the same man; nor will he
ever be himself, in my opinion, while he bears it.”

“How strange,” said Jane, with a cold smile, “that
| the shadow of a shadow should have such power! A
| drunken, fellow, whose death, it seems, is a relief to
every body, is smothered in a sand-heap, A village
idiot confesses that he was the cause of the accident, as
he had already been of a similar mischance. Nothing
appears simpler, or,I must say, more in accordance
with the fitness of things. But because this natural
gets it into his addled pate that a young gentleman
gave him money thus to act—on a certain day, too,
when it is proved that the thing could not have occur-
red—thereis all this trouble and bother.”

“Still,” said I, “a verdict of willful murder is a
serious thing ; and whoever bribed Batty to remove
those props was an accessory before the fact.” —

“If he was bribed, perhaps it may be so; but who
can suppose such a story to be true?”

“Ido,” said I, quietly ; and, what is of more consea-
quence, Cecil does. It thé blood of Richard Waller
were really on his hands, he could hardly feel the mat-
ter more poignantly. It makes him shrink even from
Ruth herself; and, as I have already told you, that re-
sult will be dearly purchased at the cost of his peace
of mind. My hope is, however, that at the trial next
week Batty will either withdraw his statement, or that
his possession of the money may be accounted for in
some other manner. .In the meantime, I am most
thankful on all accounts that Cecil has returned.”

“Well, you are wiser than I,” said Jane, cheerfully ;
“and if you are pleased, I suppose that Jought to be.
I have kept you from your bed, when you were doubt-
less tired, and troubled you with many questions, be-
sides inflicting on you my own views, which are wick-
ed, it nae, as well as mistaken. Forgive me, cousin-
and good-night.” y : ‘

I took her hand, which was cold and damp, as usual,

‘Do not fret, Jane,” said I. ‘In a few days’ time
your brother's mind will doubtless be set at ease, and
he may then be. more amenable to reason. At present,
if I were.you, I-would venture with him neither on ar-
| gument or persuasion.”

She nodded assent ; and I left her standing by the ta.
ble, rigid as a statue, As I closed tie door, and while
| the handle was still in my fingers, I heard a heavy fall.
| Ire-entered quickly, but without noise, fully expecting
to see her stretched on the floor. But she had only
dropped into her seat, with hérelbows on the table; and
her face buried in her hands—the very image of wretch-
edness and despair. She was evidently unconscious of
my presence and I'withdrew.at once with precipitation.
| Perhaps I had misjudged Jane, after all. . Underneath
that icy exterior, a heart might bé ‘beating full of sym-
pathy, which was all the deeper because it ran ina
single channel. Icould not believe that such emotion
was produced by the thought of her brothers mesalli-
ance; it must needs be therefore on account of the
charge which had been brought against him ; her en-
deavors to make light of it had been characteristic,
She felt the disgrace and shame as bitterly as he did
himself, but was too proud to owmit. «> ‘a

At that moment Iheard the study-door shut; and then
voices in the hall: oobaal ,

“God bless you, sir!”’ I heard Cecil say, in broken
tones, so like his sister’s had been once that night, when
she had shed tears, that I could have thought them to
be the same. : < il ee

“And bless you, my lad !”’ returned. my father,
tenderly. A few days herice and you will laugh at
these forebodings, me, come, Cecil—be 4 man.

 

 

 

CHAPTER Xv."

’ WHAT THE “ TOP” SAID, ;

_ Ir the progress of civilization is.to be measured, as
many meta bane it, by the number of ’ er read-
ers we are not ina very screnoed Magnet, it.at. Gatcombe
Manor. My father, indeed, was wont to divide the world
into .two classes—those who believed in rf pees
e former
class were in his eyes identical with the fools, and the
latter with the wise men.. That t week! eae
journal, the Aangel Wurzel News, without which no
Conversative breakfast-table could be. said to be com-
Plete upon 4 Saturday, was, in fact, the only news: per
we took in; and it, was therefore a t purpaiee us,
on the morning after the events I have just described,
to find in our letter-bag the Sandylandshire Turnip
Top, @ newspaper whose circulation, in Gatcombe at
— had ae ane nent to the Borers It
was the co Radical organ, and. supposed to ad-
vocate Sodvenced opinions;’”’ the dues between it
and its rival consisting, however, mainly in the fact,

 

‘feat " beneath her In spite of the anger which her harshness had stirred | that the former was in favor of the ehu of

ei ‘ims. ° ‘wen evs ee el withinme, Twas moved by her plaintive earnestness, | the neighborhood, and the. latter of. the ° aay

“My dear Jane,” siid T, eg shocked by this} which had also something of personal tenderness in it | families. The Zop (as it was irreverently.termed by its

change in her a) which I felt was not 80 much Oe Frame Ricp lensing to my vanity... K opponents) was always asking, for instance, how 1o! g
ed by_ _indisposition as by anxiety on her| ‘‘ Well, there isjust one thing, se mnice man are the infamous hereditary principle was to exelude suc

: r’s act , “this is no time | to be up, I’m | vent ‘brother's marriage with Ruth; yet that, |.aman as John Bourne of be the list of

+ you will yourself dow1 Eas alas! is what none of us can desire to pS! j -lieutenants for For, the Al-

“ matters?’ returned she, g ully. -Then,} “What is it?” asked Jane, im ~ What can| chemist had money in every investment met

in quieter tones, she added ; “Tcan not rest for think. ! it be except his death?” offered, and the Zop was # very thriving concern. My

 

 
 

1

CECIL'S TRYST.

 

 

father, who was no more aTory than he was an ichthyo-
saurus, used to chuckle over tuis particular grievance,

and er thatit caused him to have a better opinion of
the bgeaitary principle’’ than any argument he had
seen advanced in its 1avor; but Aunt Ben, who was

Mangel Wurzel (or True Blue) to the backbone, would
have had the 7op burned in the market-place by the
common hangman, if market-places and common Lang-
men had been articles on hand,

“Why, good gracious, Irederick, here’s the Jop/”
cried she in horror, taking the unclean thing from the
letter-bag and holding it between her finger and tiumb.
‘Who could have senf it tous? Pah, pah! it should
have been thrown into the kitchen fire,"

“Let it be tumigated,” said my father, gravely, “but
not burned, It may perhaps have an account of our
tueatricals in it, and a criticism upon Jvanhoe,”

“Not it,” said Aunt Ben, scorn ully; “and, besides,
that would have been in lust week's paper, if at all.”

But the idea ot being in print, even in the Top, fired
all my soul, and I snatched at the paper with trembling
fingers, and put it in my pocket. A natural instinct
suggested an adverse yerdict, and I did not wish to let
tae public mark my agonics while the barb worked in
my soul. It is said that one of the most trying expe-
riences in connection with a literary career is one’s first
review—the first notice taken in a public print of one's
novel or poem; but I am inclined to think that tie
or:jeal is even still more severe ia the case of a dramatic
aspirant; for he who writes a drama, writes for the
public only, and cannot comtort himself with
the fond delusion that if a failure on the stage, his work
will be perused by private persons. In the case
of @ novel, if the critics (confound ,them!) do band
themselves together to decry it, there is still an appeal
to Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Brown; whatever its artistic
shortcoming, it may still have its attractions, and se-
cure success in despite of the hebdomadal arbiters of
fame ; but when a play is condemned upon the boards,
it is not only hopeless to imagine that it will be A
in the closet, but no advantageeven ifitis. I felt that
Jvanhoe was damned in the Top, the term would have
all the significance that it has in theology.

I had fortunately eaten my breakfast, for otherwise a
piece of toast would have now choaked me, and at once
retired to'myownroom. Then I took the newspaper
out, and looked at it still folded; gazed forebodingly
at its frontispiece, the Banner of Freedom, which pro-
truded itself on_ either side of the wrapper, and felt as
though Fame, Fortune, Fate—my Future, in fact,
whether for good or ill—were all inscribed within that
(sixpenny) roll. The idea, of course, was absurd, the

osition ludicrous ; but it was no joke to me. And

ooking back upon that incident after the experience of

a lifetime, I must allow there was at. least as much
cause for gravity as in many another junction of affairs
which has hinged on an equally imaginary pivot. It
is not the most grave matters that concern us the most
seriously, but those which most nearly affect our
&noUur propre.

The Mangel Wurzel News in its last week’s issue
had informed its readers, under the unpromising head
of Miscellaneous, that “ At Gatcombe Manor, the seat
of Frederick Wray, Esq., a dramatic entertainment, at
which Lady Repton (once the famous tragedienne of
the London boards) had kindly assisted, had been given
to the tenantry of the estate ;” surely a most unsatis-
luctory and insufficient notice of that great event ; and
ifthe Turnip Top should not show itself alive to the

' future interests of the British drama) I was quite pre-

pared to discard a foolish prejudiee, and take the
editor—and his principles, too, if necessary—to my
beating heart. How it did beat, and how sick I felt, it
is quite impossible to depict in words, And all the time
the Top contained not one single syllable about the
matter. But I anticipate.

While I still turned over the fateful journal in
my hands, entered Cousin Cecil, ‘smiling. “Well;
ee what does it say? What! have you not ‘opened

t 2”
_ “No,” said I. ‘Don't laugh at me, please but open
it yourself and tell me.” :

“My dear Fred,” returned he,in a tone of remon-
strance (but then it was not his play), “ why, what dues
it matter ?”

He sat down, crossing his legs unconcernedly, and
tore the paper over with irreverent finyers.

“Under what head will it be, Fred ?—The Drama ?
or Gatconibe ? or Accidents and Offenses ? ~ Eh?
don’t sce a word about it.” Suddenly his roving eyes
were arrested, and an expression of intense interest
caine over his features,

“Have you found it, Cecil? Don’t read it to yourself,
Pray, let me hear it” (for 1 suw it was no good news),
“\\ hatever it is, I can bear it from your lips.”

“Listen, then,” answered my cousin, witha mocking
laugh that made my blood freeze. “It is not a para
graph that I am about to read you, but a leading article
—the first in t.e paper; the ene that everybody must
Reels road. Some kin | trial has, however, marked it
with two crosses, so that we sould not miss it,”

‘Beast!’ observed I, parenthetically. “But what is
it called 7” /

“Gross Miscarriag? of Justive.—\t is our painful
duty tocomment upeén certain proceedings betore the

agistrates’ bench at H.l.sham, a detailed account of
Which will be tound in another portion of our paper,
They illustrate so completely tie evils uttendant upon
that syxtem of Kulservience to the lords of the soil
which it has always been our proudest iission to ex-
pose, that we eannot forbear to dwell upon them, un-
willing a8 we are to wound the feelings of a family
which, notwithstanding it has already contained one
notable iadvais sijet’ (‘That is my father, Isuppose,”
interpomted Cesil, bitterly), ‘has been hitherto widely
Tespected. It would be affectation to conceal the name;
werc’cr t) the Wrays of Gatcombe. A coroner’s jury
Drvauslt ia last week a verdict of Wilful Murder against

 

some person or persons unknown. The next day one}
of the culprits pave lin.self up to justice, and yester-

day repeated in open court the contession which he

lad already made, soimewhat in-ormally, as it appears,

to the constable who arrested Lim. So far tue case

seems clear; nor wvuuld there, we apprehend, have

been the slightest difficulty in the matter, but for the

social position of another, persow implicated in the

prisoner's statement. True, it is averred tnat the cul-)
pri. in custody is of weak inteflect, but even if it be so,

it is hard to see how his wurds should Le permitted to

weigh against, himseli, and yet lose their torce when |
directed against his (alleged) accomplice. He char,es |
Mr. Cecil Wray of Gatcombe (son of the late Domus |
Wray, of whose conduct the Liveral purty had such |
bitter cause to complain at tue time waucn th s county |
first threw off the yoke of Vory serv! wile) with direct '
participation in the crime of which ti ¢ou'esses him. |
self to be guilty; declares that he wos ircved by him i
to steal the props, the removal of which caused the

sand-pit to fall upon Richard Waller, and produces the |
very gold which (as he alleges) wus paid him for that

purpose. Far be it from us to press harder on this
young gentleman than the case demands; let us be
careful to add that in one particular, the date, Mr.
Cecil Wray was able to disprove this statement, But
with that exception, it must surely be admitted that
the case is astrong one—far too strong to be readily
discarded from the minds of honest men, even though
summarily dismissed by the county magnates sitting
in judgment at Holksham—one of whom, shameful to
narrate, was no other than the uncle of the young gen-
tleman thus implicated. We put it to our readers
whether, if Bill Styles or Thomas Noakes had been the
persons pointed out as his accomplices by the unhappy
prisoner at the bar, ‘ey would have been suffered to
leave the court, not without astain, indeed (for the
stain of blood will remain where it has been indicated
till this matter has undergone a thorough investiga-
tion), but without measures being taken to insure their
subsequent attendance if required. One voice, indeed,
that of Mr. Beurne of Gatcombe, was raised from the
bench itself on behalf of evenhanded justice, but it was
overborne; the principle of family influemce triumphed,
and Mr. Cecil Wray is still at large. Of course, it is
possible that he may abide at home in readiness to
meet the renewal of this grave charge at the Assires or
elsewhere. But it would be a dereliction of our public
duty mot to point out that he may also remove himself
from the jurisdiction of the law, if he so pleases; and
also to remind our readers that it would not be the first
time that a member of the proud race of Wray has
similarly eluded justice.’ ”’

“What does this man mean by that?” inquired Cecil,
sternly.

He saw I hesitated.

“ For Heaven's sake tell me, Fred. There is nothing
left me now to hear which can make life more bitter.”

‘It is, Lsuppose,” said I, “ a cruel and exaggerated
reference to some election trouble with which your
father was concerned. All this is mere venom, ay. dear
Cecil, which has doubtless been rankling in this black-
guard’s mind for years, Perhaps my uncle horaewhip-
ped him twenty years ago; and I'll do it again myself
before he is three days older.” ‘

“No, no,” said Cecil, sadly, ‘‘ You can never horse-
whip this away, dear Fred ;’’ then suddenly casting
down! the paper: “Great Heaven?” cried he despond-
ingly, “ what have I done to have earned such punish-
ment as this ?”’ ‘

“Dear Cecil,” said I “don’t give way thus. What
does it matter (as you yourself just said to me) if a toad-
like thing such as the op doves spit its venom ? No one
who knows you or it will be affected by such rubbish.
And, besides, as I heard my fathersay to you last night,
afew days hence, and, in all probability, the truth will
be known, and we shall laugh at all these slanders.”’

“I feel .as if I should never laugh again,” groaned
Cecil. ‘‘Hush!"’ He started to his fe t, then added
hastily: “That is your father’s step. Put away the
paper, lest his noble heart should suffer from that base
weapon,”

However stricken and past further harm poor Cecil
felt, as far as he was himself concerned, he could still
feel for others.

“Well, a what does the critic of the Top say ?”
inquired my father, cheerily. ‘To judge from your:
looks, the infidel dog has. damned your Jvanhoe.”

it was touching in him (knowing, as I did, how he de-
spised such matters) to have come to inquire how the
paper had handled my poor play.

“They have not mentioned it at all, sir,”’ said I rue-
fully enough. ‘

“Tut, tut! That is bad, Fred. Still tiuey might
have abused it (‘or the 7op does not love our swunily) ;
end not to be famous is better, after all, than to be in-
famous ; in it not, Cecil?"

This unlucky question, and its direct appeal, was too
much for my unhappy cousin ; he strove to reply, but
could not, then burst into tears.

“It is Cecil who has been wounded by what the
paper says, and all of ns through him,” said I, in
answer to my father’s inquiring look. ‘There is a
s-andalons article aginst the Wrays, founded upon
Batty s siutemant before the bench. Ithink you had
better not read it, sir."

“My dear Pred,” sail my father, with a look of quiet
scorn, “hav? yon known me all these years to such
little purpose as to suppose anything written in a news-
paper coull move 7°? Let me read what thia able
editor has written about us. Je sees the necessity of
his living, remember, though it may not impress us
with the same force.” {

“Don't read it, sir—oh, pray, don’t rea’ it!’ pleaded
Cecil, passionately : “nobody who reads it can ever
think well of me again.”

The hand which Cecil warningly interposed my
father took, and tenderly retained throughout thei

 

perusal of the article ; when he had read it, he quietly
ejaculated, ‘* Hany him, Rook !’’ which was his favorite
quotatiun when annoyed with any one, and put the
paper into his pocket. ‘* What does Suckling say about
such fellows ?” murmured he, musing : ‘

**'Thou vermin Slunder, bred in.abjeet mind
OF thoughts impure, by vile tongues animate,
Canker of our prized Freedom, couldst thou find
Nought but our love whereon to show thy hate?

This strikes through you at us, my lad, else we should
not feel it; and what you suffer, remember, is the
mezsure of our hurt, so, fur our, sekes, wear a Dold
front. Neither your sister nor your Aunt Ben must
read this rubbish, Light a mutch ana burn it, Fred,”
Then laying his br at land on Cecil’s head, just as
thoayh he had ben a ehila, ana patting it encourag-
inely, my father Jeff the roam, wounded, as 1 believe,
to tue qnick ; for his pnilosopliy was reserved for his

| OWn affairs: in what concerned those who were dear to

Lim—whetuer dead o2 alive—he was only too sensitive,

 

CHAPTER XVI,
BATTY MAKES NO SIGN.

THE pleasure of inflicting pain on others, even
though they be not our enemies, is not, uphappily,
confined to the Lreast of the British schoolbdy. It ex-
ists more or less in all low human natures, though
ae the doubtful exception of the kitten wio

as caught a mouse) not, I believe, among the brutes.
To whose good offices we were indebted for that copy of
the Turnip Top, we never knew, but several kind femule
friends were good enough that very day to call and
condole with Aunt Ben upon its “abominable” con-
tents. They were distressed above measure at the dis-
graceful attack upon her respected family; and while
confessing that the insult was beneath contempt, very
solicitous that “ something should be done.”

“Perhaps you had better make your kind suggestion
to my brother,’ was Aunt Ben’s grim reply, at which
these well meaning ladies gathered up their skirts and
retired precipitately. If my aunt suffered, she did so,
like the North American Indian at the stake, without
moving a muscle. ay

“T always told you, Fred, what the Turnip Zop was
like,” observed whe, calmly. ; $

Nor, strange to say, did Cousin Jane vive any outward
sign of exasperation, beyond the recommendation of
her usual panacea, for all offenders. ‘*He ought to be
whipped,”’ said she, through her shut lips. i

“What! the 7op?” returned amy father, smiling,
“Well, that seems very appropriate.” ;

“No, the editor,” answered Cousin Jane. .

“My dear, if the paper had been burned, as I have
always advised,” said Aunt Ben, gravely, “in some

rh
?

public place, by the common—— But hush! here comes

your brother.” im \

By tacit consent, not a word was said about the
matter in Cecil’s presence. It was idle to expect him
to forget it—indeed, it was plain to all of us that he
stk t of nothing else; but we strove to ade
him that we ourselves made light of it, Those days
that succeeded the magistrates’ mecting at Holksham

sort of lurid expectation derived from the coming

‘

\

wero very sad ones, their darkness relieved aaa ; Lf

What disclosure would it bring about? What course
would Batty's scanty wits induce him to take? Would
he persist in his present story, and, above all, would
his possessiun ot the gold be, by any other means than
it, accounted for? If that could be done, his curious
hallucination as respected Cecil must needs be taken by
everybody—even by the editor of the 7op—for what it
was really worth. In the mean time, Cecil kept at home,
shrinking iromi every eye. : om .'

The rector called again, with the intention, as before,

of expressing to him the kindly feelings by which he was
personally animated towards him, and of disavowin,
all participation with his father’s conduct on the bench

But, to the regret of us all (save one), Cecil refused to

see him; not, as I honestly believe, through anger, but
because he really felt abbétial to the mtaiview . His

nerves were shaken to their center, and he might well |

decline to listen to any allusion to the cause; and,
moreover, perhaps he dreaded that Mr. Bourne, in his :
injudicions zesl, miyht even have something to say
upon another subject quite as delicate, and just now
hardly less pain‘ul. ee oe

The exception I have referred to was Cousin Jane.

She expressed her conviction that Cecil was quite justi-

fied in his objection to hold any communication with

and which was made so, as I well

‘

   

the rectory people—a condemnation sweeping enough,
in order |

derstood,
to includé Eleanor. ;

The longest days drag themselves out somehow, and
that preceding the assize at Monkton
last. ” father had engaged lodgings in
Cecil, him , u
early in the morning. Dinner—a meal now almost na-
touched—was over; it was a beautiful evening, but Ce-
cil had retired as usnal to his own room, while’ Aunt
Ben and Jane liad taken their work out into the stone
veranda that ran round the minor-house, and my fa

the city

   
 

ther had joined them with his bok, 1 was lying on the
grass in front of them, claboratiag a drama’ , into
which the incident of stealing : a sand-pit
would perpetually intrude, like King’ I. into Mr,
Dick's memorisl, when my eye caught the flutter of a
white dress in the winding avenue. Irose in quite o

leisurely manner, and walked into
the opened drawiny-room window,
“He's gut an ides,” observed m
ing to write it down;" and called out to me:
sure it’s your own, Fred ?” 23 *

fie, Hovey, arog

e round at ei

  

uself, and me, and we were te drive thither

+N
pee AS

 

ee

 

 

   

Cal

“T believe a0, ir,” waid I, demurely; then, once out

of their sight, ran round to the front and ? Be
Eleanor, She was pale, notwithstanding that she

eee

 
 

 

 

 

18

CECIL’S TRYST.

 

 

also been running; and I knew by her sweet eyes that
she was the bearer of some serious intelligence. ‘‘ What
is ome I, “my darling; tor I see you have brought
news ?””

“‘T have,” answered she, almost breathless.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” saidI. ‘Take time, and re-
fresh yourself ’’ (here we inteschanged the refreshment
of a kiss). ‘‘ It must be good news to me, at all events,
since it brings you here.”

“IT hardly know whether it is good or bad,” replied
she; “it’s” (here she looked up quickly at an upper
window; it was my cousin's, and there he stood, waving
his hand, and trying to smile in his old fashion}—‘ Oh,
a why, he must have seen us,’”’ whispered Nel-

, in great confusion.

* Never mind, my darling,” said I, assuringly. “ If
he did, it only reminded him of somgbody else's kisses;
and even tie recollection must be welcome to him, poor
fellow, in uis present trouble.”

“Aa, yes; itis about that thatI am come, Fred. I
was not told to do so, and perhaps I ought not; but I
could not bear that you should be kept in suspense an
hour longer than was necessary. News has just arrived
from Monkton—terrible news; and yet, though it is so
shocking, perhaps it will put an end to all this dreadful
trouble. Poor Batty has committed suicide—hanged
himself in his cell.”

“Good era ! are you quite sure that this is true?”
Thad no doutt that it was so; but asked the question
See a: in order to give time for my own thoughts
to work. as this catastrophe for Cecil’s advantage or
not? Onthe one hand, it would quash further pro-
ceedings; on the other hand, it would leave the ques-
tion of Batty’s having had a confederate a mystery more
impenetrable than ever.

“ Oh, yes, it’s true,” said Nelly. “The village consta-
ble himself, who has just returned from Monktcn,
whither he went this morning to be in readiness for the
trial to-morrow, breught word of it to grandpapa;”’ and
here a blush betrayed that she was not ignorant of the
reason which scandal had at least suggested for old Mr..
Bourne's interest in Batty’s fate. :

“Let us come and tell my father,” said I, gravely;
“ they are allin the veranda, Did you hear any cause
a for the poor creature's putting an end to him-
self?’

“He had pined and fretted ever since he was commit-
ted to jail. Having always lived inthe open air, he
could not endure the confinement? it seems; at least
there was no other reason given.” a

Here we rounded the corner of the house, and came
in sight of the party I had just left. Jane rose at once,
asif to go in-doors; but I called out to her that Nelly
had brought news abput the trial, and she stopped at
once, like one turned to stone, with a foot upon the
window-sill, and her hand pressed to her breast.

“Good heavens! what is it?’’ cried Aunt Ber. ‘‘ Have
they found the man who bribed poor Batty?” for m

' aunt, who, of all of us, knew Batty best, by reasor® Of

her ministrations in the village, had nbt a doubt that
tale was so far true.
“Tt they have found him,” said Jane, sarcastically,
“they must be very cleyer. It is much more likely
a ey have discovereR@Batty to be more“knave than

“He is dead!” said Eleanor, simply. “ He hanged
himself this morning in his cell in Monkton jail.”

“The Lord have mercy on him !” ejaculated Aunt Ben;
“and I think he will, for I don’t believe the poor soul
meant harm. Indeed, his leaving life in that way shows
him to have been mad.”

“ Or guilty,” said Jane, coldly. ‘‘ Indeed, we know
asmuchas thatalready. Well, I confess, for my part,
Iam glad;” and she looked so.

“ Oh, Jane !’’ said my aunt, reprovingly, “we should
surely never rejoice in a fellow-créature’s death.”

_ “ Fellow-creature!, Why, even according to your own
showing, Aunt Ber, he was an idiot.”

* Hush, hush!” said my father, quietly. “It has
been categorically proved of late that the intellectual
difference between idiots and persons of average ability
is not so great as that between Shakpeares and the

_ same persons; so let us ayvid all narrow yiews of fel-

low-creatureship.””
“Did r Batty die without further sign Eleanor?
I mean, is it said that he mado any communication as
ae this unhappy charge ?’”’ }

f was 4 question which, of course, went home to
us all; yet Jame, whom one would haye expected, on
her brother’s account, to be the most concerned, seemed
the most indifferent to it. Instead’ of showing the
hushed anxiety of “hand and eye” that manifested
itself in Aunt Ben, my cousin stepped within the draw-
ing-room, a3 Eleanor was about to speak, and there re-
mained, in shadow. only just so long as sufficed to hear

her BR Se.
_ “ Bdtty is said to have remained obstinately silent

ever since hig committal,’ was the answer. “It was
with difficulty they could even persuade him to take
his meals.”

There was an awkward silence, during which the
closing of the drawimg-room door informed us that my
cousin had withdrawn into the house. :

“It is strange how lightly Jane has always treated a

matter that has so deeply affected her brother,” observed
Aunt Ber, But I suppose this sad end of poor Batty,
his silence, rather beara out her view that the un-

, happy lad was even more witless than we imagined, and

   

“his statement met wild and wandering talk—Don’t you

think so, Frederic

“So far as his words went,” answered my father,

Pe: doubtfully, ‘that would be so, supposing they were
unsupperted by any other qvidence; but there is still

his possession of the money to be accounted for, and I
confess it puzzles me. It is too large asum not to be
Missed if he had stolen it from any of our neighbors.

If the gold had changed to dry leaves, as in the Arabian
talo, it would only seem in accordance with so strange

and weird a story; but there it is still, a solid fact.”

 

“But you don’t surely think that this matter will
still continue to be a trouble to us?” inquired Aunt
Ben, disconsolately. ‘I am sure poor dear Cecil has
tretted himself about it more than enough already. It
is my belief that it is haviug a serious effect upon his
health.”

“Yes; he will need change,” said my father, thought-
fully: “a thorough change will be good tor him on all
accounts.”’ ¢

“ You are not thinking of sending the boy away fpom
home?” cried my aunt, in alarm, for she was much
attached to Cecil. ‘Well, I do really agree with Jane,
that that is making far too much of the matter. I did
hope, after what has just heppened, that there would
be an end of it for good and all.”

“Tam afraid not,” said my father, seriously; “for the
fact is, it is only natural that the sudden end of this
poor creature should give his statement a greater force
than it had when he was alive. I had great hopes that
to-morrow’s trial would haye somehow elucidated the
truth; whereas now—though I would not for the would
that Cecil should hear me say it—the matter is more
mysterious and graye than ever, since all is left to be
proved and disproved.”

“You are right, sir,” said a,piteous voice, that sent a
thrill through us all; and there stood Cecil immé-
diately before us—~whose approaching footsteps on the
grass had made no sound. It was easy to read in his
pale and haggard face that he had heard my father’s
words, and that they had come upon him like the
words of doom. “You are quite right, sir,’’ repeated
he. ‘God help me!”

CHAPTER XVII.
GOOD-BYE BY PROXY.

Wrrx Batty died Batty’s secret ; or rathor, the key of
the mystery, which the poor fellow himself knew not
how to use, was buried with him. In spite of all our

pains, and my father spared neither his purse nor his%

trouble in the investigation, the village idiot’s posses-
sion of those gelden coins remained unaccounted for ;
while, of course, his own explanation of it, disproved
theugh it had been in one important particulay, lived
and throye in men’s minds, like an ill weed, wherever
the soil was rank. My unhappy cousin did not tarry
with us to see its full growth; and, notwithstanding
we foresaw that his sudden departure must needs foster
it, we were glad that he readily fell in with my father’s
proposition, that he should leave Gatcombe, and travel
with his sister. The suggestion was made to him on
the very evening on which the news arrived of Batty’s
decease, for Cecil was thrown by it into such a state of
nervous depression, that it aroused our fears for his
reason. It seemed to me—for youth imagines all pas-
sions to be enduring—that he would never smaile again.
He was, however, perfectly collected in his words and
manner, and asked of me, next morning, a certain favor,
with the air of one upon his death-bed, who demands a
last service of his friend.

“So soon as I am gone,’ said he, “ dear Fred, take this
to Ruth ;”’ and he gave me a small packet. “ Be very
gentle with her, for my sake, I shall never see her
more, I know.” $

“ But, indeed, I hope you will,” said I, most honestly,
for in our greater trouble about his health and mind,
the old regret for his attachmént to the girl had almost
taded away. ‘‘ When we see you next, you will be your
old self again, and this foul slander slain.”

“Yes, is must be slain,” said he, thoughtfully. “It
will never die out ; and while it lives, Fred, ay life is
not worth the having. Tell her I said tat. I can trust
you to tell her all,I know. Tell her that I love her
now more dearly than ever, though Iam about to put
half the world between us.” (He was going to South
America.) ‘She will rot stay here, perhaps; but if she
needs aught at any time, I have told her to write to
you. Iremember how those last words of the Merry
King were wont to touch you: “Don’t let poor Nelly
starye.”” Well, Ruth is more to me than Nelly was to
him a thousand times, and Iam more to you than the
aoe to whom he made appeal. You will see to

“Of course, dear Cecil,’ assented I. ‘Can I do any-
thing more for you?”

‘“No Fred; there is nothing more to a4; but try, when
we are gone, to think alittle kindlier o\Jane. She is
leaving, for my sake, a py home, and the person she
loves best in the world, though to no purpose.”

I felt confused, as I well might, and stammered out
some commonplace about one who was dear to him
being always dear to us; but, “ I don’t mean that,” he
said. “You are all angry with her—you especially, I
know—about this very matter that is driving me away,
She does not take it enough to heart, you think, since it
has crushed me; sheds glad tiat Batty $s dead, and was
not greatiy grieved at Waller’s death. Well, aM that is
not her fault. Hersympathies are very strong, but they
are narrow. She loves only afew people in the world;
the rest are nought to her; but we whom she does love
should pardon her. She'would haye me treat this
dreadful charze with indifference, and is impatient at
what she deems my weakness. I sometimes think that
she should haye been the brother, and I the sister.
But she loves me dearly, notwithstanding, Fred, and let
that move your heart towards her, though it moves you
nothing that she loves yourself. We are almest one,
Fred—Jane and I.”

The tender earnestness of his tone was indescribable;
in his anxiety that his sister should possess. our. good-
will, it was easy to see that he had, for the moment,
forgotten his own sorrows. I promised him all I could,
and then, at his own desire, departed to do his errand
at Wayford. He wished to hear tidings of Kuth from
my own lips before he left,Gatcombe; but his résolu-
tion not to see her again, so long as ashade of suspicion
attached to him of having had a share in lr brother's
death, was unalterable. :

| Accordingly, I went to Wayford, where Ruth was now
| residing quite alone, in the old cottage by the river. I
| had not seen her for many weeks, except on the occa-
| sion when she was carried forth half dead trom the

mouth of the sand-pit; and the change in her appear-
| ance tor the better struck me as quite marvellous. She
| was sad and depressed, of course, and her melancholy
| became her, as it becomes all beauties who are some-

what lacking in refinement of expression. She was, it
| is true, attired far more tastefully than usual in a black
| silk dress, with a little white collar, the shape of which
I recognized at once—and indeed her whole costume
| was the gift of Eleanor; but her tone and manner were

also no longer what they had been; their roughness
| had been smoothed away; while the provincialism of
| her very speech, though still noticeable, was so sub-
}limed that it seemed rather an attractive eccen-
tricity than the course burr it had been. Sorrow, Iknew,
was said to be a great refiner, but such achange as
this was beyond Sorrow’s power to have effected; and
Love, I knew, was even a greater magician. But was
this girl in love? I doubted it, as well I might, for had
not Cecil himself confessed his doubt ? If this change
was due to mere culture, derived from association with
him, how often must he lave seen her, what pains must
he have taken with her, and how apt a pupil must she
haye shown herself to be! This elucidation of the
mystery was possible; for although Cecil’s own nature
was under no obligation to letters for his sensitiveness
‘and delicacy, he was fully alive to their civilizing in-
fimence. ‘ ¢

Ruth received me with a little flush of surprise, but
with perfect selt-possession. It was very kind of
“Master Fred” to come and see her, considering whet
things she ie had been said against her, and in what
ill-favor spe held at the manor-house. That was
only natural, she owned, but yet it was not her fault.

To this I readily assented; nor could I help adding a
little compliment upon the marvellous beauty which
‘#lone was to blame in the matter.

“Mr. Cecil says that I am beautiful,” sighed she, ‘80
Isuppose it must be’ true; but it would be better, it
seems, for poor girls to be born plain.”

There was a bitterness in her tone which led me to
avoid discussion upon this subject, and I at once en-
tered upon the business on which I had come. ~

She opened the packet in my presence; it contained a
long letter, and what seemed quite a little fortume in
bank-notes. The latter she showed me witha quict
smile, “Your cousin is very generous,” said she.
“ Will you think ill of me for accepting such a sum ?”’

“Far from it,” said I. “In my opinion, it is his duty
to proyide tor you in his: absenee; and since the dura-
tion of it is indefinite, it was necessary to make an
ample provision. When that is gone, he bade me say
—what I am very glad to repeat—that you have enly to
apply to me, Rue.” ,

She shook her head, with a grateful but sad smile.
“No, Master Fred. This will be more than sufficient
for me until the time comes when I shall make my own
living.”

“ Well, well, let us hope so, Ruth. Bug remember,
you are now alone in the world, without poor Richard
to work for you.”

She turned quite white at this mention of her brother,
and sat down. She had hitherto been standing, out of
mechanival respect, perhaps, for a visitor fsom the
manor-house; for, though she called me Master Fred,
she was never otherwise familiar.

“Don’t speak of Richard,’ saidshe. ‘Though he was
near hés endy and could never have seen another summer,
I would give ten times this sum, if I had it, to see him
sitting yonder in his old place in the chimney-corner.
Andget, again, sometimes at night here,” she added,
with a shudder, ‘‘ when I seem to hear him coughing in
his rvom, that terrifies me.’””

“You must not live here alone, Ruth, any longer,”
returned I. ‘It is bad for you to do so, and now you
are so rich, there will be no occasion. You can easily
get some old scheol-friend out of the village to come
and stay with you.”

“Oh, no,” said she, thoughtfully ; “I shall not stay
at Gatcombe now. IT shall leave this at once.”

“Not for a day or two, I hope,’ said I, “since Cecil
goes to-morrew.” tae

“T underatand,’”’ said she, blushing deeply; ‘“ Gat-
combe folk would say that I had gone with Him.”

“They say anytiting but their prayers, as Ant Ben
says, Ruth; se indeed it is but too likely.”

“Yes ; if they do not spare Mr. Cecil, but eredit even
him—at least some of them do—with having killed
poor R&hard, what would they not say of me? Not
that I care, Master Fred, one yin for such a8 they,”’ she
added vehemently ; ‘‘but there is Mr. Cecil himself to
be considered.”

“Well, he has certainly enough to bear of slander, as
itis, Ruth. What is your opinion of poor Batty’s wild
story ?” ‘

“Don’t ask me, Master Fred, I cannot bear to think
about it, for when I (lo so, there comes into my mind a
story that I have read about the devil assuming a
human form in order to work evil; suppose he really
did take yout cousin's shape—and surely that is not
more unlikely than that Mr. Cecil himself should haye
done that of which he is accused.”

“That is true,” said I, smiling ; “still, I don’t think
dt was Lo) devil. In what book did you find so weird
a story ?” org

“In one of these,” said she, throwing open the cw
board of the dresser, in which was piled quite a little
library. ‘Mr. Cecil has given me all these ks ; pear-
haps you will amuse yourself with tltem for a little,
while I read his letter and reply to it.” ,

If she had been a lady in Mayfair, in place of a cotter’a
daughter, she could not have made this suggestion with
mone sangyroid and as a matter of course ; whereas,
six mouths ago, to offer a chair and a glass of milk
wowd have en*barrassed her, besides exhausting her
whole resources of entertainment. The secret of this

 

 

|
|
|
|

 
CECIL'S TRYST.

19

 

 

transformation lay partly, as I now found out, in the | by reason of its cause.

For he and I were dear to one

1 “Well, Lhope he has,” said my aunt; “but I doubt

books themselves, the majority of which were modern | another as brotiers; nay, dearer, for we had never ex- | it, if it’s anything good.”

dramas, Ruth had studied life, as it were, from the

perienced those fraternal quarrels which are not always |

Without being what is called “a good hater,” Aunt

lay-figure, which, if not so good as the living model, | the renewals of love, nor used that excessive irankness | Ben did not lose, in her Christian principles, what many

can do wonders for an artist of imagination; and I
began to comprehend that allusion of Cecil’s to Ruth’s
dramatic talents which had so excited my surprise.

«And have you read all these books, Rue?’ inquired | departed, tor the contra t between the farewells of the |

I, forgetting, in my astonishment, that I was interrupt-
ing her in the act of literary composition. As it hap-
pened, she did not hear me, being exceedingly engrossed
with her occupation, the mechanical difficulties of
which were obviously very great. With head aslant,
she sat at the deal table pursuing every up-stroke of
the pen with a grave movement of her head, and every
down-stroke with a severe pursing of her “‘cupidon’”’
lips.

What a charming “ secretary ’* or confidential page,
thought I, would she make upon the boards, and what

acredit she would be to aplay, if she could only act |
the part as well asshe looked it. I watched her in |
silence til her task was done, and she was folding up |

the letter, and then reiterated my question.

“Have you read all the books, Rue, in this cup-
board ?”

“The story-books? Yes, all, Master Fred.”

« And the plays ?’””

“Oh, the plays I have learned almost by heart,’’ an-
swered she, simply. ‘ Mr. Cecil wished me to learn

the words that the heroine has to speak in each, and I}
found it just as easy to learn the rest. Onelikes to know |

what is said to one, you know, as well as what one has
to say one’s self.”

‘Quite right,” said I;
compare the conscientiousness of that course ef con-
duct with that of the gentleman who blacked himself
all over to perform Othello. So you used to recite to
Cecil, did you, from these plays ?”’

“He wished it,’’ said she, not apologetically, but as
one who gives an all-sufficient reason.

“But it gave you pleasure for its own sake, did it
not, Rue ?”

“Tam not sure,” answered she, doubtfully. ‘ When
I did well, I liked it, because I saw that I had pleased

him; but when I forgot my part, or spoke it ill, I was.

very sorry.”

“But how strange that he should have set you such
a task at all!’ mused I, more to myself than interroga-
tively. ‘Though, to be sure, heis very fond of plays.”

“T think Mr. Cecil thought it was the quickest way
of making me alittle more like a lady,’ was Ruth’s un-
affected reply.

“If such was his object,’ said I, gallantly, “I am
sure that your diligence has been well rewarded. The
process has been most successful, Ido assure you, and
Ihave been wondering ever since I came here how its
effect had been produced.”

“No; have you really?” said she, her face lighting
up with pleasure. ‘Iam so glad to think that all his
pains have not been thrown away.”

“On the contrary, Rue, they have borne magic
fruit ; and, besides, what an advantage you will findit,
now that you are likely to be alone for a time, to have
acquired a taste for reading. It you want more books,
you have only to let me know, for we have plenty of
them up at the manor-house.”

“Play-books?” inquired Ruth, eagerly.
like these.”

“Well, no; there are plenty of plays, but they are all
old ones, Lam afraid, and such as—considering the ob-
ject you have in view—will do you more harm than
good. I willlook out, however, such as I think likely
to suit you, and you shall have them to-morrow.”

Her eager face darkened at the word, which it was
plain reminded her of Cecil’s abrupt departure and
doubtful return.

“Thank you, Master Fred,” sighed she, “Tell him
—tell Mr. Cecil for me, that I will lay all he has said to
heart, and do my best to please him. I will do that,
even if he never comes back, he may be sure.”

“Oh, but he will come back, and very soon, I hope,”
said I, cheerfully. ‘This mystery about your brother’s
death shall be cleared up, my father says, at whatever
cost; and even if it be not, my cousin will think less
seriously of this absurd slander some day, or find him-
self unable to keep away from you. I’m sure, it I were
he, I should find it very difficult myself.”

This little compliment, which had more truth in it
than I should have thought possible previous to this
interview, and which I paid in any best manner, was
utterly thrown away. :

“No, no,” answered she, sadly; “he will never come
home again, nor back to England, until all is made
clear. He says so here, and he has sworn it to me be-
fore.”

There was more disappointment, as I fancied, in her
tone than distress, or, still less, despair. Yet it was
plain that she entertained but very slight hope of his
return at aH. The conclusion I arrived at, on the
whole, was so far consonant with my first impressions
of the matter. that I did not think the girl was what is
called “in love” with Cecil; but she was evidently at-
tached to him by the bonds of deep respect, and also by
that of gratitude. She reminded me of some young
girl who, wooed by an old man to whom she owes all
she has in the world, would love him if she could, aud
eudeavors to do so, but only with partial success.

“You will give this letter to Mr, Cecil,” were her
last words, spoken with feeling, but without any pas-
sionate emotion, “ with my loving duty; and tell him I
shall be patient, and never, never forget him.”

It she really loved him, was it possible that the
sense of inferiority of her own position could be still so
keen as to compel her to call him “Mr. Cecil?” I
thought not.

The next day Cecil departed. The leavetaking be-
tween us was a very sad one; more 80, I do believe,
even on his side, because of the act of separation, than

“TI mean

“though Lady Repton used to |

too often peculiar to fraternity, which makes it and
friendship such differdit things. Some- excuse was
| afforded, by the painful sircumstances umder which he

} household in his own ase and in that of his sister;
| but even as it was, I fell pained on her account. It was
| evident she did not lea ‘e a single triend behind her.

I threw into my own ad 3u, therefore, from compassion, |

; a warmth that was not wholly genuine: and she held

| my hand in a long, linge sing clasp that seemed to thank |

|me for the effort. ‘the rector and Eleanor had taken
| leave of my cousins on the previous evening, but the
| latter came down at the moment of their departure to
repeat her good wishes.
| which he kissed with a gratetul blush; but when she
would have embraced his sister, Jane drew back, and
held out her gloved hand.

said I,

“T trust so, too, Fred,
low voice, ‘I shall never sce Gatcombe more.
wiil write to me about your dar selves, and—and—
Ruth. No money will be spared, your tather has prom-
ised me, toremove the fatal barrier that ”’

“My dear Cecil, we shall be late for the train,’’ in-
terrupted Jane, in her sharp, depisive tones. I dfew
back trom the wheels; the horses started; and Cecil’s
sentence remained unfinished. I knew, of course, what
| he would have said: but, doubtlcss, Jane imagined that
he was leaving some message for Ruth Waller. Her
countenance darkened; her color deepened, as was her
way when angry; the last look I saw upon her face was
a frown.

But not. here,’ he added, ina

CHAPTER XVIII.
IN WHICH MY FATHER INCURS THE CONTEMPT OF ALL
SENSIBLE PEOPLE,

My forebodings as to the melancholy that would fall
on Gatcombe aster Cecil’s departure were more than
fulfilled. Before his coming I had been well content,
since friendship was unknown to me; but having
known it, there was now a void in my life which noth-
ing could fill. Eleanor, indeed, was left; but I seldom
saw her, for she was forbidden to visit the manor-house
by old Mr. Bourne, whose will was law to his son,
though he obeyed it unwillingly; while the rectory
doors were, of course, closed against myself. The home
of my youth had lost its joys for me:

“ From end to end
Of all the landscape underneath,
I found no place that did not breathe
Some gracious memory of my friend.”

So vezed was I with all that had contributed to his
departure, that my heart was once more steeled against
Ruth, and instead of taking her the promised books at
once, I delayed doing so for ten days; and when I did
visit Wayford, she had left the village, no one knew
whither, unless indeed Cecil knew. This, howeyer,
could scarcely be the case, since, under cover to me, he
addressed a letter to her—written at sea—which I was,
of course, unable to deliver. The tone of his epistle to
myself was very tender; he called to mind our years of
companionship, unsullied by dispute; our common
occupations and pursuits; the homely joys we should
never share again; and bared his whole loyal heart.

“When your first play comes out, dear Fred, I will
come and see it from the antipodes itself, if I be there.
Don’t give way to despondency.” [This was in allu-
sion to a letter I had sent him to Liverpool, and which
he received the day he sailed.) “ You will see my face
again, Fred, never fear, In the meantime, the play,
‘the play’s the thing.’ Your Eleanor shall see you
famous, and blushing before the foot-lights ; I predict
it. Tell her I teel the kiss she gave me still burning on
my cheek ; and give her one for me.”

There was little allusion to himself. He wrote with
characteristic, unselfishness about my own affairs.
“Your father, I am sure, will let you take your own
way about the stage. It is what you are born for; and
ace his part, only lives for you. God bless you

‘oth !”

“May Isee Cecil’s letter?” said my father; and, of
course, I placed it in his hand, though not without
misgivings. He read it, looked grave, and returned it
to me without a word. It was not surprising, I
thought, that its reference tomy writing plays, as a
profession, should be unwelcome to him. It seemed,
however, that he had another cause for gravity ; he
mentioned to Aunt Ben, before he lett the breakfast-
table, that he feared we were going to have fever in the
village. “Both the Stoddarts are down with some-
thing, which Cherwell” (the doctor) “ does not like the
look of.” )

“Indeed? Iwill goand see them,’ said Aunt Ben
quickly.

“Tf you think it right,” was my father’s quiet rejoin-
der, “doso. But there is no occasion for you, Fred, to
go into the village just at present.”

“Very good, sir,” said I, carelessly, for youth is sel-
fishly indifferent. to such matters, and I was thinking
of Cecil’s letter. “The cottage is Mr. Bourne’s prop-
erty, is it not?”

“ Yes, and if it ts fever, he has, I fear, himself to blame
for it. His cottages are the worst drained in the place ;
and, notwithstanding that hisson hus represented the
wrong he thus inflicts on the commntity, he will apply
no remedy.”

“He is a wicked old wretch!” observed Aunt Ben,
with cheerful alacrity. “Nothing, I believe, is sacred
with him—not even human life itself.’”’

“ Auri sacra James—he has the divine hunger,”
joined my father, apologetically.

re-

 

She offered her cheek to Cecil, |

“We shall see you soon again, I trust, dear Cecil,” |

You |

weak people are too apt to part with—an honest con-
| tempt for meanness ot all kinds. In our general phil-
| antrophy and universal. brotherhood, we are some-
times inclined to open our arms to rogues and tyrants;
| but my aunt knew the wheat trom the tares. ’

| The Holksham doctor, in whose district Gatcombe
| also lay, joined our little dinner-party that evening ;
and Though nothing was said at table about the matter,
I knew that his jears had been confirmed as to the
nature of the epidemic in the village, and that it wasno
longer confined toa single cottage. On the next day
the church-bell tolled, both in the morning and in the
atternoon—an unprecedtnted occurrence at Gatcombe ;
and I observed that our domestics looked pale and
frightened. ;

“Is the fever very bad ?” asked I of Aunt Ben.

“Yes, Fred. It I was your father, 1should send you
away. He was only saying this morning what arelictit
| is to him that Cecil and Jane are not with us.”

“Good heavens!” said 1; “but if there is reelly-
danger, is not Eleanor in the midst of it?”
| “Its her place {o be there, as the clergyman’s daugh-
| ter; or, at least, she thinks so. Never tear for her,
| Fred ; God protects his cwn anpels. If you had seem
| her, as I have seen her, these Jast two days, you would.
have felt sure of that.”

“So I, not being an angel, ought to leave Gatcombe,.
you think, while Nelly, and ycu, and my father run all.
risks ?’’

“Of course ; since we are of use, and you can be of’
none. If anything was to happen to you, Fred, it would
| break your father’s heart, and yet he is too proud to say
so. That is so like a man.”

‘‘And yet, Aunt Ben, I think you would think it was
very unlike a man, if I was to say to my father: ‘This
fever frightens me; let me go away and hide some-
where out of the way of it,’” ,

“* No; of course you can’t do that. But what I want
| is this: to impress on you, that if your father should
| Suggest your leaving Gatcombe on auy other pretense,
| however apparently insufficient, do not balk him, for
| what he will really have in his mind is to save your
lite.” I suppose I could not suppress a smile, for she
added, vehemently; ‘If you think that there is not
peril, Fred, and great peril too, you are much mistaken,
‘The fever is of the most vi®ulent sort. If a mad dog
| was known to be loose in the village, yon would say

there was danger there, I conclude. Weil, there are, as
it were, half a dozen mad dogs there loose already ; and:
before the week is out, there will be a whole pack,”

This prophecy was fulfilled to the letter ; the church-
bell began to toll daily, and on the Sunday it did not
ring for church, for the rector himself was taken ill,
Nosooner did I hear this news, than, forgetting my
promise about not visiting the village, I started for the
rectory in hot haste. At the gate of the avenue my
father met me. ,

‘Fred,” said he, reproachfully, “I did nct think this
of you. I charged you not to come up here; and you
donot obey me. Beware lest He should keep his word
who says the fruit of disobedience is death.”

“ But, sir,” urged I, “I have just heard that Mr.
pacrne has got the fever,and I must see Eleanor,
bud? :

‘What for?” returned my father. “She is where she
ought to be—by her tather’s pillow; I have just leit her
there. If she is fated to catch the disease, your pres-
ence there will not prevent her doing so, while your
life will be endangered to no purpose. Her own lips
have just besought me to keep you out of harm’s way;
I had thought that my injunctions would have been
sufficient to do so, but I now add her entreaties to my
own.” y aT “

“Tt appears to me, sir, that you would make a coward
of me,” said I, bitterly, for the thought of Eleanor’s
peril swallowed up even consideration tor niy father.

“No, no, Fred,” returned he, tenderly. ‘It is I that
am the coward; I confess it.”

What could I do, in return for such an avowal of af
fection, but take his hand and
Eleanor was herself attacked
pass the gates. et , ;

He expressed himself, as gratefully as though I was
thus taking measures for the preservation of his own
life instead of mine; and after dinner that evening, for
the first time referred to the contents of Cecil’s letter, —
with the sense, I am sure, of my having earned their
calm discussion at his hands. Thesubject of my future
CMT g a ROATNe it suggested our separation—was al«
ways distasteful to him; while to have to disagree with
me on the point was still more paintul. And was it
possible for however fond a father to do otherwise than
disapprove the idea of his son’s becoming by profession
a writer for the stage ? 2

He entered upon the’ subject characteristically
| enough. As we strolled upon the lawn, and passed into
| the shadow of a fragrant lime, he looked up into its
| green and murm urous depths, and quoted, ~

‘Be sure no laurel casts so sweet a shade,”

| from Mackenzie's “ Praise of a Conntry Life;” then he

| went on to speak of the pursuit of fame, its disappoint- _
| ments, the tardy fruition of it, and its unsatisfactoriness

| even when attained. :
| _ Llistened respectfully, and not without gratitude, to

| the generosity which led him to thus discuss the gen-
| eral question, when it would have been obviously so

; much easier for him to point out the
| ticability ef my particular plan.

by the fever, I would not

 

folly and imprac-
| “I have mixed with the world, dear Fred, myself,”

concluded he, “ and was once the ver

opposite of the
recluse you have known me. cat

If experience can ever be

of use at second-hand, it should be so to you, paren me ae

' know I am incapable of deceiving you. this,
‘boy, as truth, then, from your father’s lips—‘a mind mg

 

romise that, unless — é
&4
t

4

content both crown and kingdom is’—and cease to!

beuker aft r what is not even gold, but worthless tin-

{ did not answer, for I naturally imagined, from his
‘words, that my case had been considered and finally ad-
Awalcated upon, Then he laid his hand upon my shoul-
dex, and added, sadly : “But perhaps, Fred, your mind
‘is ‘ot content?’ ~

“It is not, sir,” said I, “Iown. I have, it is true,
“ae reason to complain of anything that you have done
for me.”

“Nor left undone ?” inquired my father, quickly.

“No, sic; nor left undone. Ido notregret that I have
ever been at school.” Iknew what was in his thoughts;
tio consciousness that he loved to have me with him,
‘and shronk from parting with me, sometimes made him
‘Yeproach himself—quite unnecessarily, as I still think
-—tor not having entrusted my education to other hands.

Tt is impossible that my boyhood could have been
amore happy; and, indeed, until quite lately, my whole
Mra, But” Here I hesitated; for how could I tell
im that his love, and the home he had made so pleas-
%o¢ no longer sufficed me.

You would say that Gatcombe is but a dull place,
Fred, now that Cecil is gone, Well, it is but natural
that you should feel itso, I have made up my mind to
part with you fora time. You shall go to college.”

“Very good, sir, if it so pleases you.”

“That means, it would not please you, Fred? Yet, to
most lads, college is a pleasant place; and that compan-
jonship you now miss would there be supplied to you
in abundance.”

“But I am not fit to go to college,” saidI. “I know
little or nothing that is tanght there—not that I blame

ou for that, sir, for L have no desire for such knowledge;
ut such is the case, as you well know.”

“What do you want, Fred?” inquired my father, not
angrily, but with the vehemence of one who wishes to
know the worst at once. ‘You don’t wish to go and
live in London by yourself, at your age, surely, in hopes
to carry the citadel of fame at your pen’s point?”

“T should like to try my fortune, sir, with—on—in
dramatic ork Of course I seem very young for such
an experiment; but Lady Repton tells me that all I need
is knowledge of practical details, which I can only ac-
quire by observation. You have told me yourself that
my talents as a playwright are far from contemptible.
Perhaps you are wrong in so judging; and perhaps my
own self-confidence is misplaced; but if so, we shall
soon find it out. Ican but try, you know; all I ask is

-@ fair field.”
My father looked at me with an affectionate pity.
“Ah, worthless wit,” he murmured, ‘‘to train him to this

 

use;

Deceitful arts, that nourish discontent.”

* “Nay,” saidI; “the art you have taught me to ad-
mire, so far from making me discontented, has been the
greatest pleasure of my life, and is so.”

He smiled to see me so eager to defend him from
himself, but shook his head. ‘“Inever dreamed that
you would have taken our little recreations so
dreadfully in earnest, lad. Indeed. indeed, it will not
do, The glories of the stage,

“ «Like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,
But looked too near, have neither heat nor light.’ ””

“Well, let me look at them near, and find them so,”
urged I. ‘‘Then I will acknowledge my error. Jf I fail,
it will not break my heart.”

‘‘Lam not so sure of that, dear lad,” said my father,
gravely.

“* Full little knowest thou, who hast not tried,

What hell it is in suing Jong to ride;

To lose good days thatmight be better spent;

To waste long nights in fewerish discontent;
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;

To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow;
To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares;
To eat thy heart, through comfortless despairs;
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run;

To spend, to give, then find thyself undone.’

You are not of the family of the Thickskins. The noble
savage, however noble, is not fitted to contend against
a race that is clothed in armor, or, rather, that is pachy-
dermatous. My dear Fred,” added my father, drawin,
himself up, and speaking with a scorn of which I aid
not think his nature capable, ‘‘ you have no idea of the
eoecn ot the people with whom you have to do—
; vulgarity, their jealousies, their——Is it possible
that Lady Repton has deceived youin this matter? I
thought I could have trusted her to have told you the
whole truth.”

“She did not seem to like theatrical managers,” said
i, urely ; ‘and she told me that the stage would
be a delightful profession ifit were not for the actors
and the actresses.’”

My father laughed at this, and rubbed his hands ; and
T hastened to press what I considered to be my advan-

tage.

“TI dare say the stage is a corrupt school, sir; but
then I don’t wish to goon the stage, but to write for
it. You have often told me that you believe I have
good principles ; and, thanks to you, I trust it is so.

“* What though I on a sledge be drawn,
And mangled by a hind,
I do defy the traitor’s power;
‘ He can not harm my mind.’ ”

1. “Your quotation is not a happy one,” observed my
father. coldly, “since its author passed the whole of his
own short life in misusing his talents to the worst of

t ” (The unfortunate Chatterton was never for-

_—s- purposes.’
given by my father for having feloniously imitated, and,

still worse, for having occasionally surpassed his favo-
rites, the old English poets.) “Iwas not, however, re-
ferring to the mere vices of the stage, from which, I be-
, lieve, you would, for more than one reason, be preserv-
ed” (here I blushed, for I knew that he refe: to my
love Eleanor), “so much as to the low

‘sion.

 

CECIL'S TRYST.

standard of morals generally, which, as I have
been told. on good authority, is held by those con-
nected with it. You are very young and impression-
able; and evenif it were otherwise, the influence of
constant contact with shallow, vulgar natures must
needs be baneful. Icannot let you go, Fred, from my
side into the midst of so many perils. If I had friends
in London who could offer you a home—any relative,
such as your Aunt Ben, for instance—I would not balk
you of your humor, fantastic as it would seem to most
fathers. But as it is, dear Fred, Imust say ‘No’ de-
cisively. When this trouble in the village is over we
shall all need change, and perhaps we three may go up
to town together ; and then you shall try your luck as:
you desire, and plumb the depth of ocean safely from
the shore.”

Ihad bowed my head when he said “No,” in disap-
pointment, but in submission ; for, eagerly as I longed
to enter life upon my own account, my father’s will was
law to me; and now that he himself was, after all,
about to place me in the very path I would have chosen,
I could scarcely find words to express my gratitude and

joy,

“ Well, well, my lad,” said he, embracing me fondly,
“T have no doubt that all wise men will say I spoil you.
Don’t tell Aunt Ben that I have given in thus far to your
wild fancies, or she will think I have taken leave of my
senses, She will have no objection, however—if I know
the sex—to stay a few months in town, And now let
us go In, for it is getting cold.” ’

e shivered, not, as I fancied for the reason he as-
signed, for it was a warm, windless night, but because
the thought that all our quiet days together at Gat-
combe were nigh ended struck a chill to his very heart.

CHAPTER XIX,
THE SICK-ROOM.

Tue next morning my father did not take his usual
place at breakfast ; and my aunt herself came down
later than was her wont. I noticed that she held a let-
ter in her hand, though it was before the usual post-
time, and was looking very grave.

“What is the matter?’ inquired I, with apprehen-
“There is no bad news of Cecil, I hope ?”

“No, dear; nor any bad news at all, please God. But
your father israther indisposed this morning, and—this
is a letter which he wishes you to take to Monkton.”

“For the doctor?’ cried I, starting to my feet. ‘‘He
must be ill, then.” ~

“No, not for the doctor.”
door-handle, when Aunt Ben seized my arm,
must not go up stairs. He has forbidden it.
to take that letter to Canon Browne.”

“To Canon Browne?” exclaimed I, with amazement.
“Well, so I will, but not before I have seen my father,
Iam sure he is ill; Iam certain of it, by your face.”

My aunt burst into tears.

“He is ill, Fred. I believe he has got the fever.
have been up with him since two this morning.”’

“Good God! while Ihave been dreaming of my own

I had my fingers on the
“You
You are

I

| plans and pleasures! Has the doctor been sent for ?”

“Hours ago.
done.”’

A bitter sense of my own selfishness pervaded me,
and I groaned aloud.

“Tt is through no neglect of yours, Fred, nor of any
body’,” said Aunt Ben, gravely, ‘‘save of him who has
let things come to such a pass in the cottages. But the
truth is, the whole place is plague-smitten. Your father
has written to his old friend, the canon, beseeching him
to take youin at Monkton for a week or two, and you
are tostart at once. I will see to packing your things.”

“What ?” cried I, indignantly. ‘‘Iam tc go and en-
joy myself, while you are all sick and dying here }”’

“T have given you your father’s message, Fred,’’ said
my aunt. quietly, but she trembled in speech and limb.

“And you think I ought to obey it,do you?” de-
manded I. ‘You and he haye your duties, it seems,
and Eleanor and the Rector—and even old Mr. Bourne,
although he neglects them—but I have nothing to con-
sult but my own safety. Is that your opinion, Aunt
Ben? You love me well, I know, but your love does
not surely blind you so to what is right for me to do, as
to suggest such conduct ?”’

“T promised to do your father’s bidding, Fred, and I
have done it,’’ said my aunt, with a sigh of relief, and
withdrawing herself trom the door. “If you decline
to obey it, I must say that in this matter I cannot
blame you.”

She held out her arms and kissed me fondly, _

“I knew you would not leave him, Fred,” sobbed she.
“T told him so. Go up and tend him, and may God pre-
serve you both to one another !”

Ihave often wandered whether ft would not bea
good plan—though of course, a very “ ridiculous,”
“ Quixotic,” and “impracticable’’ one—to include in
our present course of education, even if it should cur-
tail it a little in other respects (such as Greek verse and
conchology), one or two simple subjects the knowledge
of which might make us useful to our fellow-creatures,
For instance, since neither good birth nor wealth can
debar those very vulgar visitors, Disease and Death,
from making an occasional call, why should we not all
be in some measure prepared for their reception?
When our nearest and dearest are struck down by sick-
ness, why should we be so ignorant of what is neces-
sary to be done, as to be obliged to leave everything—
even in the way of mere tendance—to hireling hands,

Everything has been done that can be

|or learn our duties at the expense of the patient?

How gladly, if we could would we minister to him,
and smooth his pillow with our loving hands ; but the
consciousness of our incompetence forbidsit. It is not
that the calamity unmans us, but that being aemetinig
wholly out of our experience, we stand useless an

agape atit. Our presence, which might have been so
helpful as well as consolatory, is better dispensed with;

 

our room is wanted for others who have aid to give;
and we are ‘‘in the way.” A coming in on tiptoe, often
at undesirable times, to see our dear one; a hushed in-
quiry of his mercenary ally, the nurse, as to his pro-
gress ; and a kiss of his. forehead, or pressure of his hot
hand, at morn and eve, are all the assistance we can
offer him.

It is true that women (all at least who are worthy to be
called such) have more or less of this gift of ministering
to the sick bestowed on them by nature; but men have
no such power, and how o:ten is it that, afar from country
and from home, men fall sick among men only! In the
upper elasses of England, it is not too much to say,
that more men would be found qualified to doctor a
sick horse than to nurse a sick man.

The miserable failures that I myself made as an at-
tendant at my dear father’s bedside haunt me still,
though, in the end, since there was plenty of time in
which to learn, Isucceeded in making myself useful.
Unluckily, from the very first, he loved to receive his
medicine and be turned on his uneasy pillow by my
hands ; to speak into my longing ears the broken words
I could often not interpret ; and, when at his worst,
to be read to by my voice—most trying task ot all, since,
unaccustomed as I was to control my feelings, it would
break down, choked with sobs.

Never shall I forget that first morning when I entered
his sick-room—without my shoes, for fear my clumsy
footsteps should disturb him—and gazed upon him as
he lay with eyes half closed, and cheeks that, by con-
trast with the white sheets, looked crimson, What
thoughts passed tarough my brain of Death and Eter-
nal Parting, and the house withoutits head! What
Self-reproaches for not having valued at his worth the
friend and tather whom I might now lose forever! As
Linadvertently stirred the curtain, my father, thinking
it was Aunt Ben returned, murmured anxiously ; ‘Is he
gone? Is Fred gone ?”

“No, sir: Lam here,” said I. “Do not be vexed; I
am come to nurse you. If, as you said, Eleanor’s place
was beside her father’s pillow, surely mine is also
there.” I took the hand he would have drawn away,
and kissed him. Then I knew that it would be too late
to send me away since, if I was to take harm, the mis-
chief was already done ; I should be unsafe to be re-
ceived elsewhere. :

“My boy ! my boy !” he murmured, mournfully, but
not reproachfully ; and then such acontented smile
came over his noble face that I felt my presence was a
joy to him, after all.

This ‘‘Gatcombe fever,” as it was subsequently
called in the neighborhood, was almost as virulent and
rapid in doing its evil work as tue plague itself. The
heat of the weather, which was excessive, doubtless
aided it ; and the insufficient drainage, and neglects of
all sorts in the village, was as fuel to its fire. When-

ever, through the windows of the sick-room, came the ~

tolling of the church bell, as it did daily, my father
would inquire, calmly: “ Who is it, Fred?” and hig
words went to my heart like another knell. A new
aspect of life had unfolded itself to me. Instead of
amusements, and studies that were themselves amuse-
ment, completing the whole round of my existence, I
was now brought face to face with the expectation of
death. We talk of the ignorance of the rich as to the
ways of the poor, and truly it is great and terrible, but
not more complete than that of the sound with respect
to the thoughts of the sick. Itis good for us to have
knowledge on both points. The affairs of the world
assume their just proportions only when we are leaving
it, or are watching others leave it. What does this
and that matter, which was so important yesterday, to
him who is going beyond the stars to-morrow? or tu us
who are bidding him good-by, and feel that we shall
rejoin him there so shortly.

Those ideas, however, did not affect me much at first.
My father was always cheerful in his manner ; and if
he showed any apprehension of his illness having a
fatal result, it was only in increased affection for those
about him, ~

“If you want to see an angel before you go to heaven,”
said he, speaking of my aunt, ‘ watch a good woman in
a sick-room.”

Aunt Ben made no noise with her wings; she never
“ proke down” as to her feelings ; she forgot nothing
that should be remembered ; she introduced no topic
that would be out of place. The doctor and she had
long conferences together with closed doors; but, no
matter what she had heard, whenever she re-entered my
father’s room, it was with unruffled features ; if she
wept, she used some elixir for red eyes. On one day
only, the first on which my father began to talk of his
Lrother Thomas as though he were alive, did I see any
change in her, she turned pale to her v lips and con-
fided to me that it always “‘ gave her a turn”’ to hear
people talk when delirious. I afterwards discovered,
however, that the doctor had previously informed her
that if my father should lose his senses it would be a
bad sign. His memory did not fail him even at this
pass. I heard him once repeat half a dozen verses of
Byron’s ‘“‘ Careless Content ’’—the poem he liked best
of all poems save those ot the Elizabethan era—though
he imagined himself to be in Monkton Cathedral, re-
peating the responses.

“ With good and gentle-humored hearts
I choose to chat where’er I come,
Whate’er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum,
Thold my tongue to tell the truth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth,
* * * * *

“« Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,
Of they’re i’ the wrong, and we're i’ the right,
I shun the rancors and the routs;
And wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,
I deem it all but ducks and drakes

* *

* * oh!

 
CECIL’S TRYST.

 

“T love my neighbor as myself,
Myselt like him tou, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf,
Came I to crouch, as I conceive:
Dame Nature doubtless has designed
A man the monarch ot his mind.”

My father never wholly lost that monarchy, but, after
‘@ temporary abdication of it, would reassume it, and be-
cvins uimself again; then he would pray with us and
fur us, using grand old prayers, such us ‘aylor’s or Sir
‘Li mias Moores. But for the most part he lay as one
way sad long made his peace with God, and had leisure
tv coucera himself witu the affairs of those he loved.

*“ Waen [ am gone, Fred—it Ido go—you and Aunt
Bon inust not part.’

‘ais I most readily promised.

Then he asked to sce Eleanor (this was after he had
been ill for weeks); and she came accordingly, in black;
for t 1e rector had died tue third day ot his seizure—a
fact, however, which we had kept irom my father’s
knowledge. I had not seen hér—though Aunt Ben had
done so—because of the word that I had given that I
would not pass the. gates, notwithstanding thera was,
of course, no danger now to be incurred that was not
ae alrealy. Every wish of my father’s was become
Sacred.

We met in the drawing-room and embraced one an-
other in Aunt Ben’s presence, without the least em-
barrassment: though my heart was so sad, it never
held her dearer than at that moment, when I seemed
not only her lover but her brother,

My aunt dressed her in some colored clothes belong-
ing to Jans before she went into the sick-room, and she
Wore as cheerful a countenance as- she could assume.

But, as it happened, all our pains were needless; for
my father desiring to see her alone, she told him the
whole truth, being, as she said, unable to do otherwise,
at which I did not wonder. He commended me to her,

as she told me long afterwards, in the most tender |

terms, and blessed her as his future daughter-in-law.
To me, when she had departed, he repeated those ex-
quisite lines of Middleton :

“The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the concealed comtorts of a man
Locked up in woman’s love, I scent the air
Of blessings when I come near the house.

What a delicious breath marriage sends forth |
The,violet bed’s not sweeter!’

Your Eleanor is a true pearl, Fred. Oh, never leave
her for a counterfeit !

  

: _ ‘Base Passion,
With all her powslers, paintings, and best pride,
1s but a fair house built by a ditch-side.’ ”

It was not worth while at such a time to speak of the
Obstacles which I foresaw would be opposed to our
union, iid, besides, his confidence in the matter gave
meh p>». . : '

That was the last day on which my father was
thorous.ly himself. His mind now mingled past with
prese.: .n sad confusion. He spoke again of my Uncle
Tuonas, but this time as if he had been accused otf
Ricuard Waller’s death. “A shameful thing !’’ he mur-
muved. ‘No Wray could do it. Well, well, I shall
knw all from him.”
om whom, father ?’”’ inquired I,

“Brom Batty, lad. I am going to see poor Batty.
Wuy not?’

When he was almost at the last we pressed the doc-
tor to stay on with us, vhich he did; the Gatcombe
fever having by this time burned itself out, like some
raging prairie-fire, and thus lett him some leisure ; else
my father would never permit him to pay a longer visit
than he imagined his own case to demand.

“*Can nothing more be done ?”” inquired my aunt, in
a despairing whisper.

“ Nothing but what we are doing, madam; the case
is, alas? beyond all remedy.”

Never shall I forget how the yoice of the dying man,
whom we had thought comatose, electrified’ us, as it
broke in with this reply.

   

“* “No, no ; the remedy
Must be a winding-sheet, a fold of lead,
And some untrod-on corner of the earth.’ ”

Then he went on from the same old play of Ford’s :

“**T have left me
But one poor jewel to bequeath :_ my fame,
By scandal yet untouched: this I bequeath
To Memory and Time's old daughter, Truth.
Ifever my unhappy name find mention
When I am fallen to dust, may it deserve
Beseeming charity without dishonor,’ *

Thess words, expressed with infinite pathos, though
in we tk and faltering tones, were my father’s last. He
had ais wish. Noman of his race or place ever died
more veloved, or left a memory more unstained behind
him. An enormous concourse of persons of all ranks
attendel his funeral, notwithstanding the danger.of
coming to our decimated village, and especially on such
an errand. Of all our immediate neighbors. Mr,
Bourne alone made himself conspicuous by his absence;
in any other man, an excuse would have offered itself in
the tact of his own recent bereavement ; but it was
evident that he did not wish excuse to be made for him,
for he showed himself ostentatiously elsewhere.

 

CHAPTER XX.
I ASK GRANDPAPA,

At first I was so filled with the sense of my great loss
that there was no room for any other feeling ; what old
Mr. Bourne might think or do, was absolutely without
interest tome. The manor-house seemed like a vault :
and though the summer grew and glowed about it, all
Was with me as faded autumn. My father’s study,

 

where I had listened to his wise wor's a thousand
times, and never heard a hasty onv, was t scome a holy
place. for the first time I began to undet tand the rev-
erence whijch attaches to mere sacred flings. The
cuair iu which he had been wont to sit » dinner-time
was put aside; I could not use it. His ; vorite books
were become solemn scriptures, and the otations so
tamiuliar to his lips as hallowed texts.

As regards all that related to my fat ¢ personally,
indeed, it has never been otherwise; tue link of love
between us, by the miracle that only Love can work,
has lengthened witaout growing weaker; but as time
went on, I found myself looking less and less within
myself, and more and more upon the world without,
The want of occupation began to make itself felt, and
the need of something to suppiy, however inade-
quately, the noble companionsaip I had lost forever.
Aunt Ben was all she coald be to me, and far more than
I deserved ; but my heart longed tur cumpanionship of
another sort, and it was denied me. Not only was
Eleanor forbidden by her grandfather to visit us on
any pretence, but to converse with me if we chanced
to meet. I often saw her at a distance, haunting the

spots where we had been wout to be so happy together

years ago ; but I did not dare to approaci: her, jest I
should draw down upon her the old man’s wrath ; for
orphaned like myself, she had no comforter at home, ag
Thad in Aunt Ben, but only the society of this crabbed
relative, who hal power to make her life even more
wearisome and. somber than it was through his ill-
humor. How strange it seemed that my father, whom
all loved, and whose existence was a joy to others,
should have been taken from the world he brightened,
while this old withered wretch, who had wrought
nought but harm, should be lett in it, not only standing
between me and Eleanor, but between all men and the
sun! For his influence was that of an evil spirit—unhap-
py in himself, and hating to see others happy. Feur and
Hate were the demons that sprung up at his footstep;
and if the lips of Subservience wished him “ good-
morrow,’ in her heart she wished him dead.

“Well, he is old,’’ thought I, ‘and must needs die
soon, andin the meantime patience !” But it is not
80 easy to practice tiat virtue as to talk about it; and
when I reflected how much less eusy it was tor Nelly to
practice it than for me, I felt very bitter against the
oldman. This was but natural, perhaps; but besides
my strong personal feeling toward Eleanor, the recol-
lection that my tather had expressed his wish that we
should be united, weighed with me very powerfully ;
and I looked upon the “ Alchemist ’’ as a rebel against
an authority that was to me almost divine. ‘

This was most unreasonable, I own.

Many weary months had thus passed by, when a,

second letter arrived trom Cecil, written from
South America, and ll of his first impressions
of its wondrous sc€hnery. He represented all

things as brightly as he could; but it was clear
to me, by the feverish eagerness he expressed
for news trom home, that nochange of scene would give
him any genuine pleasure while Batty’s statement re-
mained undisproved. There were many affectionate
messages (that touched me to the heart) for an ear that
was deaf forever, and, in additien, a curious native ac-
count of the origin of crocodile’s tears which he thought
would tickle my father’s sense of humor, | “ These crea-
tures having devoured a man, find themselves unable to
swallow the head; and taking it to a solitary spot, they
are accustomed to bewail their inability to conclude
their meal with tears.’” Then immediately afterwars,
though the proximity was certainly not due to any
association of ideas in the writer’s mind, occurred these
words: “Dear Jane bids me send her love to all at
Gatcombe. How selfish it is in me to have carried her
away from home and friends that she never ceases to
bewail, I know, though she does her best, tor my sake,
to hide her tears |” . pe

“ The poor thing can’t swallow our heads,” exclaimed
Aunt Ben, as I read this out; at which we laughed to-
sether, the first laugh that had been heard in the old

ouse for many a day. , {

Cecil made no allusion to Ruth, but a letter was in-
closed to her as before which I was obliged to put aside
with the other one. How strange it seemed that she
had not confided to either of us whither she was going !
My cousin's communication ended with renewed ex-
pressions of tender affection for us all, anda kindly mes-
sage for Nelly. ‘‘ Have you asked papa?” inquired he,
“‘and grandpapa? I should indeed be glad to hear that
your happiness was assured, even if the fulfilment of
it should not be for the present, not only upon your
own account, dear Fred, but on another’s. I fear there
is still some hope in a quarter where I grieve to see it.
In fact, the news that your engagement had been ac-
knowledged would be to me only less welcome than that
other piece of intelligence, for which I pant as the hart
for the waterbrooks.”

I could not give this letter into my aunt’s hands be-
cause of its allusion to Jane’s misp’aced affection for
myself; but when I had read the rest of it aloud, she
observed: “Dear Cecilis a curious nyixture, so way-
ward and impulsive in his own affairs, and wise and
sensible when thinking for others.”

“Do you think his advice is good as respects Nelly,
aunt?’

“ Unquestionably, Fred,” she answered. ‘I was only
waiting for an opportunity to suggest it to you myself.
It is quite impossible that you can live on at Gatcombe
in this way; you will be moped to death; and before
you leave it, it is only right that you should under-
stand your exact position with respect to dear Eleanor.
Mr. Bourne is bound to express himself clearly upon
that point, and the sooner you come to an understand-
ing the better. Iam quite sure that her poor father was
in favor of your union—a fact which, at all events, will
prevent that wretched old man from talking about the
duty of obedience. Heis sucha canter! I sometimes
wonder whether any people do talk about duties except
those that habitually neglect them.

 

 

Since the outbreak of the fever, that “wretched old
man’ was more abhorrent to my aunt than ever, though
I never heard her directly accuse him of haying been its
cwuse; perhaps she was too charitable to do so, an | per.
haps her religious opinions were ot a nature tu utiacd
the sense of“ visitation” to such calamities, rat.er
than to account for them in a material way, Her pre-
sent bitterness, as I suspected, arose from the consiucr-
ation that the Alchemist woulil oppose himself to my
projected proposal to the uttermost; and I asked hor
frankly whether such was her opinion.

“Tscarcely know what to say, Fred,” she replied,

“The old man, like all purvenns, is doubtless desirous

of an alliance for his granddaughter with a tamily of \
position and good blood: he would not mind—not

much, at least—the want cf meansin such a parti. I

even think that at one time he did not look unfayor-

ably upon your own intimacy at the rectory. But the
unhappy circumstances connected with poor Batty

have undoubtedly embittered him against us. He can’t ,
refuse you an interview of course, but you must be
very careful how you play your cards. In any event,
you must rot quarrel with him, for Eleanor’s sake.”

“Of course not,’ said I, indignantly, . “ Why should I
quarrel, when, whether he says ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ will not
affect our future in the least, except so far, I suppose,
as his filthy money goes.”

“Yes, but you musn’t tell him that, my dear Fred,
but, on the contrary, be very submissive and concilia-
tory; and you must not talk of money as ‘ filthy,’ be-
cause it is with him a very sacred thing. You will
have to lay before him the state of your own affairs,
with which, of course,” added my aunt, dryly, “you
are fully acquainted.”

‘ “Tam not quite sure that I am,” said I, with hesite-
jon,

“Tam quite sure that you are not, you silly boy,” Bm
was Aunt Ben’s rejoinder, “When your father’s will
was read, I doubt whether you heard three words of it.
Well; you have no fortune, of course, to be called such, ‘
but still enough to live uponin a quiet way; the manor-
house and what lands are left about it are of consider.
able value, and will have a tuncy price in the old man's f
eyes, who has so long been hankering atter them. You |
can point out to him how complete the Gatcombe es-
tate would be made by an alliance between the heir of
the old race and the daughter of the new; but don’t be
too romantic, Fred, I would not adyise yuu to try
poetry, because I don’t think he’s fond of it.’

She spoke quite seriously, and I said, “Thank you,
aunt. Ishould have thought Mr. Bourne was just the
sort of person to delight in music, poetry, painting, and
the fine arts; but I bow to your better judgment.”

“You may laugh, my dear,” returned she, good-

| humoredly; “but my belief is that I could manage this

affair much better than. you; however, I suppose that
wouldn't be quite business-like.” :

“I am afraid not,’’ swid I, doubtfully; “or else Lam “
sure I should be delighted to have you for my advo- 3
cate, and indeed to havea much less efficient proxy. . ;

I do so very much dislike that old gentleman! ‘Hang
him, Rook!’ as my poor father used to say.” fae

“Yes, but you must forget all that when you are
talking tohim. Think of Eleanor, and that will bring
a pleasant expression into your features, By-the-by,

Fred, when speaking of your own atfairs, you will not
omit, of course, to mention your expectations,” as? of

“Expectations! What expectations ?” Be Peale

“Well, my dear, the word speaks for itself, God
forbid that anything should happen to Cecil; but I
suppose no contingencies ought to be lett out when .
dealing with these matters, and especially with an old
schemer like Mr. Bourne. You are your cousin’s heire
presumptive, remember.” ae

“My dear aunt,” exclaimed I, reprovingly, “I am
astonished at you: nothing could induce me to hint at er, oe
such a thing to Mr, Bourne, and indeed the idea has et
never entered my own mind.” ‘

“So I supposed, and that is why 1 mentioned it,”
observed Aunt Ben, coolly. “ However, whether you
hint at it or not, it is quite certain that Mr. Bourne will :
not forget the fact; so it does not much mmatter,” i

The opinion which my aunt had passed on Cecil—
that he was impulsive in his own affairs, but thought-
ful for others—might, in fact, with a little moditication,
have been applied to herself. She was disinterested
and unselfish, even to excess; but when her advice was
sought by those she loved, she was eminently shrewd ‘
and practical; nor is such inconsistency uncommon, i tae
especially in the female sex, ¥ we

The very next morning after this council of war (and
love), I put a bold tuce upon a beating heart, and
walked up to the rectory. ‘The new clergyman, a young
bachelor, had been glad to let the house for a consider- _
ation, and lived in lodgmgs in the village, while Mr.
Bourne and Eleanor retained their old home. it was a
pretty little house, overgrown with jasmine and honey- —
suckle, the scent of which, as I think of that visit,is
fragrant still. I did not dare look upatthewindow, —
lest the sight of Eleanor should disturb my equanim-
ae, bo like an eager dog, kept my eyes fixed downcast aM
on the door, :

 

“Is Mr. Bourne at--—” Ihad begun, before I “
ceived that it was the old gentleman himself whpined sen
opened it to me. I think he enjoyed my conusion |
thereupon, though he never evinced any sign of enjoy- — es
ment beyond a momentary stretching of the lips, which ss
instantly returned to their due limits, like an india-
rubber band. He was very tall, but stooped a BOO | at
deal, and carried his head on one side, ke ee vile
fox as he was. His hair was white’ as snow, but 80 ‘
had been for years, and his face had a fresh brown 5
color, which boded length of days, : sa ays

“To what am I indebted for this visit, y pir?”
gad

said he, looking through and through me with
black eyes, the only attribute his granddaughter — *
he had in common. “I thought I had let you ,
you were not welcome here; but being lord of the

7 » ¢

 
CECIL’S TRYST.

ce

 

matror, perhaps you imagine you have aright to come
where you please.”

He spoke with mocking severity, and in allusion, as I
well understood, to some disagreement which my
father and he had had long ago respecting a right of
way. I felt such an allusion to be not only in the
worst taste, but to signify a hostile attitude; but I
thought of Eleanor and smiled.

“T wish to have a few minutes’ private conversation
with you, Mr. Bourne,” said I

He led the way into his business-room—a bare parch-
ment-littered apartment, whica by no stretch of cour-
tesy could have been termed a study—closed the door,
and without asking ime to sit down, wheeled about and
exclaimed: “ Well, what is it ?’”’

How lightly ‘Time and Loss adfect some men! Here
was one who had reached the threescore years and ten
allotted to mortals, and had just seen his only son drop
into the grave, the victim, in part, of his own neglect;
and yet, but tor his white hairs and his black clothes,
there was nothing to proclaim either tact. The harsh-
ness of every feature remained unsoftened; the fire of
his eye unquenched; his voice alone had that queru-
jous tone which speaks of age, and even that had less of
querulousness in it than of downright suspicion,

“Tam come, sir, to speak to you about Eleanor.”

“So I suspected, young gentleman,” returned he
grimly, and regarded me with great disfavor. ‘I can-
not preyent your speaking of her, but I will take care
that you never speak (oO her—you may take your oath
of that.”

“May I ask you why, sir?”

“You may ask, of course; whether I shall answer or
not is another matter. I will tell you this much, how-
“ever, that if you think you area great man because
that tumble-down old house and a few acres of cottage-
garden are now your own, you are much mistaken.”

“I don’t consider myself a great man, Mr. Bourne,”
said I, quietly; ‘‘but I am a gentleman,I hope, and
though not rich, Iam not without independent means.
There is nothing incongruous, I should suppose, or at
least not so much so that it cannot be listened to, in
my proposing for your granddaughter’s hand. Her
father, your son, was, as she will tell you, by no means
averse to the prospect of my being her suitor. Of
course, Iam not speaking of anything immediate. We
are both very young, and I have to make my way in the
world, All we ask of you at present is to give us leave
to meet occasionally, to correspond, and, in short, to be
engaged to one another.”

“Very reasonable indeed, I’msure,”’ observed the old
man, in mocking tones. ‘‘ It is very modest of you not
to insist upon being married to-morrow, and on my al-
lowing you five thousand a year! You say that my son
was not averse to this little scheme: I dare say, now,
that your own father was in favor of it ?”

44 was,sir. He had a very high regard for Eleanor,
and thought I should be most fortunate if I could win
such a wife.”

“And doubtless you think so, too, young gentle-
man ?”

“Indeed, I do, sir. I know very well that I am not
worthy of her. As to her fortune’ —~

“ That’s right—now we are coming to it,’”” sneered the
old fellow, rubbing his hands, and inclining his ear to-
wards me with much politeness. ‘Her eighty thous-
and pounds or so? Well, what of that ?”’

_“Tdon’t want her fortune, sir, if you will only give
me Eleanor.”

“ And do you really mean to say that you are come up
here to try such a stale device and sorry falsehood up-
on me?” exclaimed the old man, angrily. ‘Your taste
—inherited, I believe—for play-acting or play-writing
—it’s all one—must be aruling passion. Now hear me,
once for all. If youever marry my granddaughter, you
will weda beggar, for not a shilling—as your wife—
shall she ever have of mine. To some folks, one would

pay: ‘Thatis enough;’ but you, torsooth—you Wrays

“

—are careless about fortunes; lose them, spend them,
‘and then affect to despise riches. Your father ,did so,
and perhaps you may be like him; but though such
high and mighty indifference—whether feigned or genu-
ine, it matters not—be doubtless a fine thing, it is not
80 fine, remember, to make others poor (who may not
possess such philosophy), in order to gratify your pri-
vate vanity. You have no right, I say, to make a simple
ignorant girl blind to her own advantage, and sacrifice
great prospects to your selfish pleasure.”
As he said these words he watched my face like a fer-
ret, and Isuppose it betrayed some chagrin; for I had
not expected him to take this line of argument, which
certainly was not without its weight. ‘No, young
man,” he went on in milder tones, ‘we have all our
duty to perform in this world, and our inclinations
must submit toit. Iwill do you the justice to say
that Ido not believe you so devoid of principle as to
strive to win my granddaughter in direct opposition to
my wishes.”
had not understood until that moment what my
aunt had meant by calling Mr. Bourne “a canter;”’ he
had never as yet had any necessity in my case to use
the phrases of morality which he employed with my
elders, when defending his own meanness, or adyocat-
ing harsh enactments with respect. to the poor; but I
felt now as if I was being sprinkled with holy water by
_ the devil, and with some difficulty restrained myself
from saying so,
_ “So far as the principle of which you speak is con-
cerned in this matter, Mr. Bourne,” said I, quietly, “I
must frankly tell you that the approval of Eleanor’s fa-
ther is quite sufficient for me, though, of course, if I
could gain your consent ’’——
‘Which you never will gain,” interrupted the old
man, coldly. ‘Let me frankly tell you that, young
_ jackaaapes. If it comes to frankness, indeed, I may say,
that there was a day when I might have answered you
_ otherwise, and that you have nobody to thank for your
- present disappointment but your own father. When
F ~

 

\
next you think of his high-mindedness, independence
of spirit, generosity, and all the rest of it, you may
think of that also, for your comfort.”

It is impossible to descsibe in words the malice of
the speaker's tone, or the antipathy which his sneering
features expressed towards me.

“It will be my comfort to think,” said I, looking at
him steadily, ‘that not even to secure my happiness
could my father be tenipted to commit a baseness.””

There was a moment when I thought the old man
would have struck me, so terrible was the passion in
his face at this allusion to his attempt to stop inquiry
into Batty’s case; but he curbed himself, and, in a half-
smothered voice, inquired :

‘‘Have you anything else to say, young gentleman,
before we part, since this will be our last chance to say
RGSr s

“Yes,”’ said I; “I must be permitted to remark, that
what you have just said with reierence to my father
convinces me that your objection to my suit is founded,
not on the grounds you would have me believe—my
insufficiency of fortune—but on hereditary dislike. My
dead father did you what you choose to imagine a wrong,
and you revenge yourself upon his son. ‘That is cow-
ardly and infamous !”’

“You lie !’”’ cried the old man, trembling with rage.
“T always hated you, the whole lot of you, for your
pride and stubborness, that is true; but you are proud
and stubborn, and a beggar as well; and my gram ‘ichild
is meat for your master. The proudest family in Eng-
land, might be proud of her, ay, and the richest. Let
her marry whom she will but you—but you—and she
is my heiress; let her marry you, and she shall inherit
nothing but my curse! Now, go.’’ Here he led the
way into the hall, ‘‘You haye my answer, Pauper
Wray.”

Something in this depreciatory epithet, of the appli-
cation of which he was obviously very proud, for he
continued to repeat it—‘ Pauper Wray. Pauper Wray ’”’
—as he stood, with mock-politeness, with his hand on
the outer door, reminded me of what my aunt had men-
tioned concerning the possibility of my succeeding to
my cousin’s wealth; I paused, therefore, upon the
threshold, to observe, ‘‘I am no pauper, Mr. Bourne;
but your constant harping on that word suggests to me
that, notwithstanding your antipathy to my race, you
might not have been so obdurate, had Cecil, instead of
his poor cousin, come to woo your granddaughter.”

“Cecil, Cecil Wray!’ cried the old man, shrilly ;
“how dure you say so! His heart is as black as his
face! He isamurderer; and if I had had my way, I
tell you [ would haye seen justice done, and had him
hanged !”’

Iconfess that it was wrong, but stung beyond en-
durance by this infamous speech, I forgot myself so
far as to reply, with all the significance of which my
voice was capable: “Nay, we are all sorry for poor
Batty, sir, but you should not allow paternal affection
to blind you to the fact that his statement was un-
founded.’’-

For an instant he glared upon me with a face con-
vulsed with rage and hate, and then slammed the door
behind me.

Idoubt whether any course of conduct on my part,
however diplomatic, would have much influenced the
event; but, as it was, Ifelt that I had far from pros-
pered in my wooing with grandpapa.

CHAPTER XXI.
HOW THE GREAT MR. MAGNUS TREATED ME.

I rotp my aunt all that had passed between myself
and Mr. Bourne; and although she took me to task for
having been tempted to use bitterness, I don’t think
that she much blamed me in her heart for resenting his
cruel words against Cecil.

“JT never expected, my dear boy, that you would
make much way with that wretched old man, but I
saw that it was necessary that your position with
respect to Eleanor should be defined.”

“Yes,” said I, rather doubtfully, I suppose, for Aunt
Ben continued: ‘‘ You have made up your mind as to
your future course, have you not, Fred ?”” /

“Well,” said I, “I cannot do Eleanor the injustice of
depriving her of her grandfather’s fortune, can I? It
would be shameful to allow her to sacrifice so much
for me, though I do not doubt she would be willing to
do so.” :

“Very good,” said my aunt, dryly.

“ At the same time, you know,” added I, hastily, “I
have no idea of giving Nelly up.”

“ Better,” aaid Aunt Ben—“ much better, I began to
think that old gentleman had got the advantage of you.
Well, what are you going to do?”

“IT must wait,” said I, rather testily, for I was an-
noyed that she should have thought me capable of
giving Nelly up. ‘You would not advise my killing
Mr, Bourne off-hand, would you?”

“Not while the detective is about here,” replied
she with gravity. (For that vigilant official was still
what he called “prosecuting his researches’? in the
neighborhood, at Cecil’s expense.) ‘But you can’t
wait here, with nothing to do but wait ; you must let
the manor-house, and live in London.” 7

“That is what I should like to do, of course,’’ said I.
“But are you sure that you can live there, Aunt Ben ?
I know you detest town.”

“My dear Fred,” replied my aunt, affectionately,
“wherever your happiness lies will henceforward be
my home, I should have hoped you understood that.
If you have still a fancy for trying your fortune on the
stage, by all means do so, Any occupation is better
than none. I only wish I could help you in this one;
but, except as a female pantaloon, I don’t see my way
to do so. I will not, however, be any obstacle, be sure
of that—while if you fall among wicked women, as I

 

believe all actresses are, and that Lady Repton as bud
as any of them ’’——

“My dear Aunt Ben,” cried I, ‘you astonish me!"

“Oh, I dare say. If any woman ever made love to #
boy in her life, that woman made love to you. Lor
bless you! you must think me blind. However, :or
the future J will take care of you. I shail tell Flean .r
to make herself perfectly easy im her mind, for I will
be your chaperon.”

With a hearty laugh, she kissed me, and then becam
quite a serious talk about business affuirs. It wo could
only let the manor-house, we should have a sufficient.
income between us to live very comfortabiy in town ;
and we decided to advertise it immediately, so as tu be
in plenty of time for the liunting-season. I might
without doubt have sold it ut a good price to Mr.
Bourne, who was exceedingly desirous of pc ssessing it;
but I did not like to part with the last piece of land
that remained to the Wrays, nor with the old house,
which my father loved—and especially to his enemy.

Gatcombe Manor was situated in convenient prox-
imity tono less than three packs of foxhounds. It had
ample stabling, and there was a@ legend, which tue
housesagent took upon himself to narrate as a fuct
within his private experience, that grouse had been
seen upon the moor. These were the points on which
his advertisement mainly dwelt; while our fine situa-
tion, and the magnificent prvspect we enjoyed, were
mentioned as subsidiary attractions. With this seme
enterprising agent my aunt had now a deadly quarrel :
he had full leave to advertise freely, and he abused that
liberty by patronizing the columns of the Zurnip
Top. Happily for the success of his letter of apology,
it was accompanied with the intimation that the house
was let. Sir Richard Harewood, a sporting widower of
middle age, was the lessee. My aunt wrote to incui
whether he had any small children—she had always
idea that our furniture was very valuable, and n<t to
be exposed to ravage—and his answer was satisfact:
though curt; ‘Thank heaven, I have none, é
small or great.” He had fifteen horses, and as 1
thousands per annum ; and his humor was, it s:
to hire country-houses, and not encumber hims:
with aseat ofhisown. He came down in person to be
“interviewed.” <A thick, squat man he was, with a
watery eye, and an unnaturally hoarse voice—per!:aps
acquired in the hunting-field, perhaps from the brandy
bottle, perhaps from both.

‘He'll wave dogs all over the house,” was my aunt's.
comment, when he left us an accepted suitor.

“T hope he will dono worse,” thought I.

There was something about Sir Richard which made
us feel no regret that he only took the place as a yearly
tenant. This arrangement also afforded me an excuse
for revisiting Gatcombe at the end of a twelyemonth.
I was resolved to see Eleanor then, at all hazards; but
for the present I was doomed to leave home without
even wishing her good-bye. My aunt persuaded me to
forego a farewell which would be certain to exasperate.
the old man against his granddaughter, and promised
to say all she could for me, in my place. Alas! “ How
little would that be,” I thought, thongh the dear, good.
soul had all the will in the world to serve me. But
even these good intentions of hers were frustrated, for
Mr. Bourne remained in the room during the interview
from first to last, with an evident resolve to prevent my
name being mentioned; and it never was.

“Nelly gave me this little book as a parting gi't.’”
said my aunt, when she had done her narration, wich
had greatly depressed my spirits.

“It looks a very pretty one,” sighed I.

“Yes; and it’s a sort of book I’m so very fond of, you
know— Lamb's Specimens of the Old Dramatists.’ "”

“Why, she must have meant that for me?” cri-dI,
excitedly. ‘I remember telling her I wished to have
it. Didn’t she say that ?”’

“How could she, you silly boy! She said, however,
that she gave it with her kindest love, and that she had
worked a book-marker for it. Here it is; and it’s very
lucky that wretched old man didn’t happen to look at
it. Wait and Hope is the motto—the applicaticn of
which, Fred, I dare say you will beable to make out for
yourself, At all events,’ added the old lady, with a
sigh that was not perhaps altogether affected, ‘ I don’t
see how it can apply to me.”

That little strip of ribbon was afterwards an amulet
against many an evil. Its colors faded, but the love and
constancy of which it was the assurance never lost
their brightness for me. When I was cast down, it
cheered me; when I was weary with waiting, it invig-
orated and gave me courage; wed I was tempted to be
disloyal, it reproached me with its simple faith.

Before we finally took leave of Gatcombe, a third let+ _
ter arrived from Cecil. It contained an inclosure,
which was put by with the rest: it was the last come
munication which he sent for Ruth, since, in the means
time, he had heard from me that she had left Wayford
without leaving her address; it was the last, too, that
breathed of cheerfulness and hope. ‘Don’t fear for
us,” wrote he, “ though I dare say the details of ovrad-
venturous life v ill astonish you. Ialways promised you
that you should see my face again andsoyoushall. In
any case, you will have our bones, if the custom cf the
people hereabouts is adhered to in our case, The Incians
among whom we are now staying” (there were other
Europeans with them of both sexes, and a large escort)
“ live in villages built on posts above the water, which,
though their architecture does not remind one of Ven-
ice, are very picturesque. They ‘bone’ [their deceased
relatives in this way : the corpse is tied to a rope, and
placed under water, and im one Gay the ‘ Caribe’ fish
strips it of every particle of flesh, and leaves it a clean-
picked skeleton. Thereupon they separate the bones
with ease, and put them in highly ornaménted baskets,
of which the contents are so well calculated that the
the skull just fits in like alid. Ifthe Monkton carrier,
therefore, brings you a parcel, some fine morning, of ®
pyramidal shape, do not let Aunt Ben imagine it is a

 
- ready to believe the time

OECIL’S TRYST.

os

 

 

heath for the conservatory, and be dreadfully disap-
pointed to find it is only myself or Jane, The survivor |
will make arrangements to have it carriage-paid as tar
as possible.

The ghastly drollery did not raise my aunt’s spirits

respecting Cecil, of whose wild enterprises she wholly °

disapproved ; and she wrote him along jobation upon
the impropriety of taking his siwter among people who
lived on posts and boned their relatives; but for my
part, I thought he was using the best means for effacing
painful recollections, and felt every confidence in Jane’s
ability to take care of herself. I had almost forgotten
to say, indeed, that there were a few lines added by Jane
herself, describing their mode of life as being very un-
pleasant, and “my dearest Cecil,” as lookimg quite him-
self again, “though I fear he is still worried about
that girl at Waytord!” Their handwritings were so
similar, fiat at first I took the whole letter to be from
Cecil only.

In the late autumn Aunt Ben and I removed to town.
We stayed at first at a hotel, a mode of life which my
aunt described as “ simpde ruination,” and after-
wards in lodgings, till we could find a house to suit us.
The locality ,we finally pataonized was on the western
confines of that region which enyy denominates Pimli-
co. It had, however, no pretensions to fashion, nor,
indeed, to form; for, although called Merton Squere,
it was a very iwregular figure, with a wilderness ofa
public garden in the midst of it, which perhaps formed
its chief attraction in our country-lowng eyes. The
house had also in its rear a little garden ofits own,
about ten feet square, in which Aunt Ben worked every
morning in an apron fitted with a sort of opossum
pouch—in which were kept scissors, and matting, and
twine—and a great flapping sun-bonnet. She had no
more idea of there being anything particular in her
costume than had Eve in the garden of Eden; but we
had neighbors (which Eve had not) who stared at her
a good déal.

he novelty of our mode of life having worn off, and
sight-seeing beginning to pall a little, began to addness
myself to the pursuit of my proposed profession.
From theater-going my aunt dropped off, pore. after
the first month; but I still continued to attend the per-
formance of each new piece, in hopes to derive adyan-
tage from the lesson. I had, of course, everything to
learn, so far as stage business was concerned; but as re-
spected the literary merits of these dramas—well, I was
not discouraged by the sense of their surpassing merit.
It was the beginning of tae epoch of Sensation Plays,
and the object of the dramatist seemed to be to employ
the carpenter to the utmost, and of the actor to emu-
late the acrobat. Not content with holding the mirror
up to nature, the playwright made use of Nature her-
self: lovers were drowned in real water, and came be-
fore the curtain dripping, to express their acknowledge-
ments for applause; when a tyrant’s castle bad to be
destroyed, it was effected by bona Jide fire, and the
London Brigade were in attendance, to take care that it
did not burn ‘‘thg house” down as well as the castle.
Elopements were effected in yellow post-chaises, and a
stable was as necessary an adjunct to every theater as a

reén-room. Even farce displayed its Hansom cab.
Suscle and spring were the stock in trade of the trage-
dian, and the coungry actars swarmed upon the London
boards to the exclusion of old favorites, because they
could jump. Not only was Falstaff's occupation gone,
but all fat actors had to Bant. The tarif of payment
was regulated by the danger incurved in representing a
part. Toclimbing up outside tower hand over hand,
£5 58, To falling headlong Jrom the same in flames,
£10 10s. If I had but thought of composing anything
with the leaping-pole “ effects’”’ in it which I used to
exhibit at Gatcombe, I beldeve it woultl have been pro-
duced at once; but, unhappily, J stuck to the legiti-
mate drama. .

After some months of conscientious toil in the way
of improvement and excision, I felt that I had put my
best’ play into the best guise of which my powers per-
mitted; and, after having it carefully copied out by a
professional hand, I sent it to the manager of the
Corintheum. I fixed on this gentleman for my first
victim, because he was not only the proprietor of a
large theatre, but a great patron of dramatic art. No
publec dinner was ever held in its honor, or for the re-
lief of its professors, but Mr. Magnus was in the chair,
or the vice, or itisome other conspicuous position. One
of his stock speeches on such occasions which was
alyvays greatly applauded, was an expression of thank-
fulness that he had been placed Providence—and
the courtesy of his noble friend (if he would allow him

to call him so) the lord chamberlain—in a position “to!

hold owt a helping hand” to his “brethren’”’ of the
sock and bugkin ; andin the word brethren he wished
to be understood to include authors as well as actors ;
all‘young aspiwants to fame; the sucking (if he might
be permitted the expression) Shakspeare as weil
as the buddiag Garrick. His hand was open to them
= ;

Tl.

I had heard ié said of Mr. Magnus, that if his hand
was epen there was never anything in it; but with
that I did not concern myself; I did not want money
for ne ete but only a hearjng.

Yed¥s have gone by sirce the date of which I speak,
and managers and I have come to an understanding long
ago; but even now the waiting and watching for news
of that unhappy péy still recur to me with a pang.
Great Heaven! what must those poor wights, then suf-
fer who write plays for bread! In my country innocence,
which identified the position of a gmeat London man-

* ager with that of a gentleman, and in my ignorance of

the depth of human selfishness, I comstrued the silence
of Mr. Magnus as a sign that the Peddlei’s Pack had
been received with favor. If otherwise, thought I, I
should surely have had a line to that effect or the man-
uscript itself would have been returned tome. In the
short note which I had sent with it, I had inclosed
stamps for that very purpose; and valuable as I was

 

Mr. Magnus was, I felt that

he might have spared one minute to have addressed my
pre io. 1s mynuscript to Merton Square, even if he could
not have given five minutes tojte porusal. I say “five
minutes,” ior if within that time 4 play does not attract
its reader, he may be justified in giving himself no
further trouble ; whereas, if it does attract him, it is
not unreasonable to expect that he should goon. So I
argued that Mr. Magnus had’ gone on” with the Ped-
dler’s Pack and was more or less enraptured by it ; 50
much so, it seemed, that he could not trust himself to
say what he thought about it, far less to put his ideas
in writing. Perhaps this good man wished to give me
a surprise, and would send me a short note of ¢ongrat-
ulation one fine morning informing me tlrat the first
rehersal would take place “that evening’’ and in the
meantime was engaged in. putting it on the stage with
every appliance that money could purchase to insure
its success. Perhaps he would callin person in his
wicked brougham—the “ wicked brougham,” however,
was a subsequent idea, when I had got to know some-
thing more of Mr. Magnus. My feelings toward this
eminent personage ran through the whole seale of
opinion trom veneration to uftlying hatred. I began
by believing him to be a Mmcenas with the wit of
Horace. I ended with hawing the same opinion of him
that was entertained by his creditors in general, and tho
Hebrew race in particular.

After three months I ventured to send him a cour-
teous reminder that the Peddler’s Pack was 1 his es-
teemed possession, and that I should be thankful for
any news concerning it. I did not expect to get afl
answer the next day, because it happened to be a great
theatrical anniversary upon which Mr. Magnus was
advertised to fill the ehair at a public banquet, and did

llit to admiration. I was there myself, and admired

im. When he observed, as usual, that he had been
placed by Providence im a position to hoid outs helping
hand to dramatic authors, I almost imagined his beney-
olent eye was resting upon m/’. But he did not answer
my letter the next merning ; and when, a month atter-
wards, I wrote a mere peremptory note, demagding to
have my manuscript, dead or alive—that is, read or un-
read—he did not amswer that. Then I cursed Mr. Mag-
nus in the Vittermess ef my soul, and took my pige—I
mean the Pedaqier’s Pack—to another market.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
ACCEPTED.

4vren this unsatisfactory experience with the great
autocrat of the British stage, I did not waste so much
time in my attempts en ebher mamagers. Instead of
“ sitting down” before the fortress, and waiting in all
due form until its gates should open, I pushed the siege
with considerable vigor. Though the old-fashioned
weapons of courtesy were certainly not used by the be-
sieged, and were about as useless in my wn case as
bows anf@ arrows against stone walls, I did not abandon
them; but I no longer took it for granted that silence.
was a good sign; I even began to have an idea that it
wasa badsign. And, unfortunately, it was the only
sign the managers gave. I very much doubt whether
in any other prefession or trade #2 Emglapd such uni-
form discourtesy and selfishness are to be found as
among this class, who have, unhappily, so many per-
sons more or less dependent on their good-will; but, to
be sure, I only tried about a dozen of them, and nearly
as many were lett untried. Magreover, my #pplications
were not mvyariably treated with contemptuous silence.
After the Peddler’s Pack had remained for two months
in the possession of Mr. Quayer (of the Favorite Thea-
ter), and I had twice requested its restitution, I reeeived
a—well—communication, consisting of two letgers and
one word, written on the inside of an envelope: “MS,
lost,” with the great man’s signature, “ P. Q.,’’ attached
to it—I suppose for authority, though I never had any
reason to doubt his statement.

The gloom that settled upon me after this event I was
unable wholly to coneeal from Aunt Ben’s obserymion.

“My dear Fred,’’ said she, at breakfast one nrorning,
as I was perusing the cokimne of the Era, and wonder-
ing whether the Peddler’sPack would ever be noticed
in that respectable organ, “ why don’t you set Lady
Repton at these horrible people ?””

~ Bureka !” cried I, jumping up from my seat.

“T’m what ?” said my aunt, sharply. .

“ You’re right; you’ve hitit; you're a dear old thing!”’
exclaimed I, with enthusiasm. “I'll write to her this
very momgnt. Why on earth did you not suggest it to
me before?”

My aunt did not reply, nor was it necessary for her to
do #0. I could easily imagine that nothing but the spec-
tacle of my extreme chagrin and disappointment could
have induced her to propose such aremedy. She had al-
ways disliked Lady Repton and what she termed her
“art,” meaning, not the profession in which she hed
distinguished herself in early life, but 8 certain faeulty
for making herself agreeable to the male sex which was
not, perhaps, wholly natuyal or unsophisticated. I, on
my part, had by no means forgotten, but I Wad never
thought of using her influence in the way that*my sunt
suggested. Self-conceit had probably prevenéed may
doing so, I had looked forward to writing to her upon
the success of my first play, to thanking her prettily tor
the early encouragement and advice which had led to it,
to asking her to come up to town and see ft acted ; and
now——Well, things had come to stich a pass that I felt
genuinely grateful to my aunt for a proposition which
gave me some hope that my r play would # least
reach a manager’s eye, though I was no longer sanguine
enough to believe that there was not a great distance

between that organ and the ear of an audience. 80 I ai

wrote to Lady Repton, depicting my troubles in Indian
ink, and by no means sparing the authors of them. She
replied by return of post.

«*My DEAR Frep : I was charmed to hear from you,
notwithstanding the melancholy character of your com-
mumication, and Iam afrafd loould not help laughing a

  
  
 
 
  
  
  
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
   
 
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
   
   
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
 
 
 
 
   
   
 
  
   
  

littke over your woes. By whose experience could you
possibly have been misled to expect courtesy in theman-
ager of a theatre? If you find one with common honesty
you will be exceptionally fortunate, believe me. It isa
mastahe, however, to suppose that they have no consid.
eration for anybody; they have a considerate nespect
for two classes of their fellow creatures—namely, noble-
men and newspaper critics, The latter class are their
tyrants, the former are the only superiors they acknowl-
edye; and they cringe to both ef them. Itis not neces-
sary that a titled person should be a patron of their
‘establishment in order to insure their respectinl atten-
tion ; and I have no doubt that the enclosed note from
my husband, if you choose to forward it to Mr. Magnus,
will produce at least the restitution of your manuscript.
Lord Repton bids me say he has ‘ some little reputation’
in dramatic matters, and if he were in town would bo
glad to assist you—I suppose in composition. For my
part, ITcannot be half the use to you that I wish to be.
You know how long I have been absent from the scenes
of my former triumphs; and alas, there is no 80
short-lived as the memory of us poor artists, as it is
now the fashion to call us—we used to be termed actos
and actresses ; but perhaps it is as well to have changed
the name, since the thing, acting, is no longer to be
found anywhere. What tales, by-the-by, I hear of these
burlesques | I hope it is true that the young ladies still
retain some drapery on One leg; but such stories never
lose in the telling. Well, the only acquaintance that re-
mains to me in managerial power is Mr. Coryton (of the
Memnon)—twenty years age the best walking gentle-
man in London, and the only gentleman (between our-—
selves) that J ever saw upon the stage; of course he
only plays his character, and you will | eive &
monstrous difference between his acting and real-
ity; but still, I think, for the sake of old times, he will
treat any friend ef mine with some show of attention,
and an afiectation of geniality which used to become
him exceedingly, and won many & warm young heart,
no doubt, besiies my own. Heigh-ho, what am I saye
ing! Ishall write to Corydon (as I used to ell him)
by to-morrow’s post, and spare you the trouble of in- —
troducing yourself. Of course I should like to read —
the Peddler’s Pack, and would gladly come a few hun-
dred miles that lie between us to see it on the stage.
I don’t doubt ita merits, but I hope there isa li
time allowed in it for the characters to change ther
costume. I remember you used to ignore all‘ c: -
ters’ scenes.’ To be sure, the stage heroines of the
present day wear but little, nor, I may add, that a
long ; but I dare say they require quite as much time
tor the toilet as of old. Besides Mr, Coryton, thenp is a
Mr. Burder, by-the-bye, who used to be a great, dra-
matic authoxity in my day. My husband once asked
him down to shoot here, when there was some talk of ©
a play of his lordship’s being produced in London.
Mr. B. had his shooting, and the play did not come out
(for which I thank the gods), so the obligation (or
appears to lie) upon his side; he may permeae n+
clined to work it off im your favor; at eventsIlem —
close a note for him. You had better ask him to your |
house and‘dine’ him. He is tolerably presentable
and likes attention ef that sort; but you must let him —
havea little whisky after dinner. te Hert ft ts
“You say nothing of your Eleanor; that is bad, ©
Master Fred. Iam afraid you want some staid te
like myself to look after you in the gay ci sae that yi
I would accuse your Aunt Ben of je and friv- —
olous, butthat she probably spoils you, and lets you
have your own way. I should have more confi wo
the guardianship of Cousin Jane. Loftenthinkofthet |
grim young femate, and of your plain Cecil’s devotion —
toher. Iam not the least surprised to hear that she

has carnied him off into savage 3 if he could
only find a chief courageous eae co her his
3 and no donbt |

squaw, it would be a happy ny tor no
that is whatshoisaftex But I forgetI am woun
your susceptibilities. She xt net wi a .
taste, I allow. So you have let the old house toSir —
Richard Harewood, As lord of the manor, I should —
have thought you would have had more care for the __
morals of the vNlage than to have admitted such a |
ne’er-do-well on your premises. Mr. © could ’
tell you a stary or two about him; but you -
know how I hate scandal. With my respectffil c =
ments to 7 duenna—I conclude you are sufficienty
a man of the world by this time net to leave your

letters about—I am yours always ene se

m } a :
The effect of the intervention of this }on my
behalN was twofold and immediate. Baga ae ta
came reminded of my existenes to the extent o: aoa
ing me my manuscript by the hands of a Meir

senger, and Mr. Cgryton wrote me a few which
filled me with gratitude and hope; ~— inet. 7

|

Repton, informs me that you have a drama tha
attention. I pass by Merton Square daily on my to
my duties here, and shall be happy to look in any is
you may choose to appoin y in the : ‘
suit me best, if that be equaMy convenient to yourself.
“Yours faithfully, Ep@ar Conytox.”” —

Tho note was written upon pink paper, at. the top of
which the words “ Memnon Theatre were “Apestibed
in gold, ‘

What do you think of shat, Aunt Ben?” ex:
I, exhibiting in triumph this highly decorated |
which emitted a eharmtng odor as I waived it in the —

r.
“Tt is very fine,” said my a quie
it in my handkerchief-case, if you
place of & scent-packet,” ;

“But is ft not good of Mr. Coryton to come and see
6 in this friendly fashion, instead fi sky dead
. ? fa

“Mer prar Sim: A letter from my old friend, Lady
‘merits

 

attendance at the Memnon be him?” pear ae
“It is very good oi him indeed,” said my aunt, dryly.

  
 
 

 

 

 

 

CECIL’S TRYST.

 

 

 

 

Bhe was so prejudiced against dear Lady Repton, that I
do believe she almost grudged me the good-fortune
that had befallen me through her intervention. ‘I
should think you had better ask him to lunch.”

“Excellent idea,” cried I, ‘*‘ My dear aunt, you area

enius!

will tell him to name his own day, and ''—here I hesi-
tated, pen in hand— most of these people have a
habit of smoking after their meals—you wouldn’t much
mind his having a cigar here, would you?’

“Not at all, my dear; he shall have everything he
wishes. I only regret I cannot execute a pas seul
to please him’’—my aunt had a fixed idea that a
theatrical manager was a sort of Sardanapalus, always
surrounded by meretricious splendor—but whatever
lies in my power shall be done to please him. If I
cannot charm his eye, I can at all events tickle his
palate.’

This was not a vain boast of my aunt's, and I had
every confidence in the success of the luncheon. Mr,
Coryton named an early day at two o'clock; and the
appointed time found us waiting for him with eager
expectation in the drawing-room, to which the most
fragrant smell of costly viands was wafted from the
kitcben.

“ We had better make this our dinner, Fred,” observ-
ed my aunt, as she looked at her watch. “Ido hope
Mr. Coryton will be punctual.”

“He said in his note of acceptance that he wasa
slave to punctuality,’ said I.

“Humph!” said my aunt. ‘It’s ten minutes past
two alrealy: that curried lobster will be spoiled.”

At twenty minutes past two orders were given to
“put back” the more delicate of the dishes.

At half-past: ‘There will be nothing for him to eat
now but the plovers’ egys,”’ said my aunt, with a re-
signed air. At a quarter to three, she observed sol-
emnly: ‘Mark my words, Fred; that man won’t
come,’’

“At three o'clock arrived a canary-suited footman
with another little pink note, which, however, I no
longer regarded with admiration.

“My prar Srr,”’"—it ran—‘I am in despair at not
being able to lunch with you this afternoon. But Iam
suddenly ealled away to Richmond. When a lady’s in
the case—you know the rest of it. Perhaps we may be
more fortunate in meeting oue another some other time.
“Yours ever, E.C.”

'“What an impudent scoundrel !’” ejaculated I, asI
_ handed over to my aunt this precious epistle.
“TI don’t think he can be such a very gentlemamn-like
nas Lady Repton gave you to understand,” ob-
served she, dryly. “Well, let us go down to what is
left of dinner.”” Which we accordingly did, though in
is case there was but very little lett of appetite.
a ‘was the worst blow that my dramatic prospects
had yet received. It was impossible to doubt that Mr.
n’s “some other time’’ meant no time at all;
and as I had been greatly elated by hope, 80 was I now
cast down to the very depths of despair. Fortunately,
I had already written !o thank Lady Repton in anticipa-
tion for her introduction to this man, and there was
no occasion to pain her (as I am sure it would have
done) by telling her what came-of it. Moreover, there
was one more string to my bow in her note to Mr. Bur-
der; if that should snap, I made up my mind to give
up shooting ; for making a hit upon the stage was one
, but making one’s self a butt for managers was
quite another.

The note to Mr. Burder was answered by that gentle-
man in person within twenty-four hours: He was a
little corpulent man, with a red face-and a black wig,
and arrived in a miniature brougham, into which he
exactly fitted. I was past transports by this time, but I
ee ren gladly, and thanked him for his prompt

? t. uu

“Not at all, not at all,” said Mr. Burder. “To be a
friend of Lady Repton's is to have a passport to what
remains of my heart. There was a time when she made
dreadful havoc with it—yes, sir.”

I told him how I had been treated by all those con-

managers, and he laughed till the tears rolled

lown his vinous cheeks. They were very highly col-

. ored, and puffed out in places, as though he had had

his mouth full of precious stones, which showed their
gorgeous hues through the skin.

“You have got the right man at last,” said he, “‘to do
your work for you. You should have come to me at
first. Ned Burder is hand and glove with every mana-
ger in London. Would you like tickets for any theater,
madam ?’—this to my aunt. “The free list is never
suspended in my case. I've got half a dozen orders in
my pocket at this moment.”

“You're most kind,” replied Aunt Ben, warmly; al-
ways grateful ‘tor the smallest: favor in her own case,
though by no means so easily satisfied with what people
did for her nephew. “Iam not much of a playgoer in
a general way, but if you can help Fred to get his drama
brought out, I shall then accept your offer with infinite

ph ¥

“Well, well, that shall be managed all in good time.
Trust to Ned Burder; what man can do shall be done
‘for our young friend.—Thank you: yes, ldo takelunch,

though it’s not my principal meal.” - ‘.
Iflunch was not Mr, Burder's “principal meal,” it
struck me, from his performance with his knife and
fork, that he must have breakfaste1 very early; but the
fact was, he nsed the phrase in the same sense that the
ee end without prejudice: he wished it to be
y understood that nevertheless and notwith-
' standing the feats he might exhibit in the way of appe-
at midday, he was quite open to an invitation to
dinner. His angling with this intent—when one got to
‘know him—was a most amusing spectacle; and when
he had quite securely hooked his fish, he would play it,
as though it was really of no consequence whether he

Give him the best lunch that money can buy.’

air that touched me.

 

landed it or not, ‘Upon my life, I have no right to
come, ‘Sir William,’ or ‘my Lady D.,’ I fear, are
counting on me; but still’”——

Here the fish would nearly get off.

“ “But if you have a previous engagement, Mr. Bur-
er’ ——

“No, no, no,’ he would put in precipitately. ‘It
was not settled, my dear sir, and tius is settled. My
word is passed, and I am yours for the evening.’’

On one occasion, when my aunt and I had shown soine
resolution in closing the dining-room door against him
—I think for a whole week—he revenged himself very
characteristically.

He called and lunched—for we could not stop that—
and, as he took his leave, observed with a smiling coun-
tenance; ‘“‘ Have you two good people any e:gagement
for Tuesday, now?”

He had often promised us a box at the opera, and I
thought it was come at last; and Aunt Ben, who doted
on music, though she turned her back upon the stage
during the ballet, thought so too.

“No,” said I, rather briskly ; ‘we have no engage-
ment.”

“That's capital,’ said Mr. Burder. ‘Then I have a
capital plan—/'U come and dine with you—and I tell
you what—/'U bring a friend with me, He's a nephew
of mine—just as Fred is of yours, madam—a blue coat

boy. The fact is I promised his father to take notice |

of him, and to introduce him to good society ; and what
better opportuvity can he have than to come here?”

If my poor father hud been alive, he would certainly
have compared tuis worthy to Solomon’s Abra:

“Burder was ready ere we called his name,
And though we asked another, Burder came.’

He took my drama away with him on the first day,
under pretence of “looking it over,” and kept it for
months, undergoing ‘‘a few touches,” “little niceties,
my dear friend’’ jhe leaped from “my dear sir’’ to
“my dear friend ’’ at a single bound], “which no ge-
nius, however great, can effect, but only one who has a
thorough acquaintance with stage business.’’ My firm
beliefis that he never read one single line of the Ped-
ler's Pack. He avoided the subject as though it was
atopic of exceeding delicacy, and when I pressed it,
tapped his nose, corrugated his eyebrows, and whis-
pered like a stage villain: “ Allis well; we must have
patience.”

Of course, if there had not been much to like in this
old reprobate—for indeed he amused us both exceed-
ingly—he could not have imposed on me 80 long (for
we believed in him for months); and even when the
crisis came, I could not findit in my heart to be angry
with him.

Mr. Burder had been dining with us (of course), and
was partaking of his third glass of whisky-and-water
ae ar when I suddenly fell upon him with the

quiry:

“Now, where is this play of mine to be brought out,
Burder, supposing you ever finish your ‘few touches ?’
Or is it not to be brought out at all? Come, I can bear
the worst.”

“Brought out? Of course it will be brought out,
hn dear young friend—that is, in time. All. is
well” ¢

‘“No, itis not,” I interrupted him, sharply. “I want
to hear the truth, You promised me your advice six

months ago, What is it? It’s no use your laying
your finger on your nose”’ (perhaps J had been taking
whisky-and-water, too, but I know I ‘felt desperate) ;

“you might just as well put your thumb to it, and
spread your fingers out.”

Mr. Burder was not all angry. He nodded, affirm-
atively, rather than otherwise, as much as to say that
there was, no doubt, some considerable truth in that
observation.

“Well, my dear boy, I have been thinking about
yourplay for months, night as well as day, believe me,
and the conclusion I have come to is this. I under-
stand the subject of stage representation thoroughly
and practically, you see; it’s not an affair of theory
with me at all. Would you mind cutting me one very
thin slice of lemon? Your excellent aunt does it beau-
tifully.—Thanks. Where was I?—Yes, sir, my final
advice to you is this. The best way of bringing out
your drama—you can do it,‘you know; you are well
connected ; and you know lots of people that live in
country houses, and so on—get anamateur company

to play it for you—get it noticed in the principal

paper” [I thought of that hateful 7op,] “and send the
notices in slip (I'll show you how) to the London man-
ers.””

I believe, to do justice to the intelligence of Mr. Bur-
der, that this brilliant idea had only oceurred to him
on the spur of the moment, and that he was by no
means sanguine of its favorable reception. But for my
part I roared with laughter. The matchless impudence
of this dramatic guide, philosopher, and friend of mine
tickled me to the core.

“You don’t think it feasible?” inquired Mr. Burder
comically, and yet with the air of aman who has done
his best. “ You don’t see your way.”

“Not quite,” said I gravely. “I am deeplv obliged
to you for your advice, but I would not recommend you

to repeat it up in the drawing-room. My aunt has an |

idea that you really proposed to be of service to me.”

» “Justo, my dear friend—just so. Well, I won’t go
upstairs tomight. And look here, you won’t tell her
tilt this time to-morrow ; promise me that?”

“ Very good,” saidI. “ I promise.”

There was something of pesos in the old humbug’s

His life had been passed, I fancy,

mostly among rogues and vagabonds, and Aunt Ben
seemed to him as a firm rock in a quicksand, one whose
good opinion he really valued, and would have been
loath to lose. He'went away without fishing for an in-
vitation—a convincing sign of his perturbed mental
condition—and I never expected to see him again. ‘

 

On the morrow, however, he returned in the highest:
a of excitement, and glowing like a peony in full
oom,
} “My dear Fred,” cried he, rushing into the morning-
| room where my aunt andI were seated, “it’s done !|—
congratulate yourself, excellent Miss Wray : congratu-
late your nephew! The play is accepted |”
“No?” said Lin genuine astonishment. ;
“Yes, sir; the Peddler’s Pack is accepted, and will
be brought out immediately.”
|, ‘{Dear me, how pleased I am!’ exclaimed Aunt Ben.
Le Kiss me, Fred. Mr. Burder, I feel greatly obliged to
; you.
“Don’t mention it, my dear madam. When I have
| once said, ‘Trust to Ned Burder,’ you may be assured
| that Isee my way pretty clearly.”
| “But where is it coming out, my dear fellow?” in-
| quired I, with eagerness. ‘“ At what theatre ?”
“Well,” said Mr. Burder, cheeriully, “it’s not exactly
\ a theatre ; though, looked at jrom some points of view,
| it’s even a better thing. It’s a place that las been call-
| ed the nursery of the British stage, where Biles, and
| Ram, and Spiffkins made their first appearance—and I
have reason to believe also Garrick and Mrs. Siddons,
| Your play is coming out, my boy, immediately—think
\ of eas invnediately!—at the Hole-in-the-Wall, in South-
wark !”’
“The Hole-in-the-Wall ?” reiterated my aunt. “Why,
| it sounds like a public-house !””
| “ Well, you wouldn’t have ita private house, my dear:
| madam,” remonstrated Mr. Burder, cheertully, “would
you? It isa public-house for those who wish to eat,
| drink, and be merry ; but for the more ethereal spirits,
| who can appreciate wit and refinement, strong situa-
| tions, and the best dramatic effects, there is a Hall of
| Amusement attached to it capable of holding three
| thousand people, without counting children in arms.
The posters will be on all the hoardings in a week, Fred
| —think of that—in red,and green, and yellow! For the
| Peddler’s Pack, by Frederick Wray, Esq., of Gatcondbe
| —yes, sir, we'll have that; they like a territorial title
\ ofa in Southwark—come early to the Hole-in-the-
fauy” ‘ 4

CHAPTER XXIII.
MY PATRONESS,

Upon the Lord Chesterfield principle of leaving your
company at the moment you suppose you have made
your most favorable impression upon it, Mr. Burder
vanished while the green, red, and yellow posters were
still flaming before our eyes, and the Hole-in-the-Wall
looming vaguely asa Temple of Fame. We heard him
laugh triumphantly in the passage, and bang the tront
door as. though he would have emulated a royal salute,
before we could quite bring our minds to bear on the
situation. My aunt, indeed, seemed to wake up from
something very like a dead-faint. ¢

“He won't really put ‘ot Gatcombe’ on those play-
bills, will he, Fred ?’”’ inquired she, despairingly. “Only

{ just imagine it in connection with the—with the Hole-

in-the-Wall! It is enough to make: your poor father
turn in-his grave.’’ f

“I don’t like it myself, Aunt Ben,” said I, thinking
of the general proposition; “(but if it does hold three
thousand people, I shall) certainly have aJarge audi-
ence; and then you heard what he said about its being
‘the nursery of the stage?”

My aunt nodded, but scarcely in assent. I don’t think
she had a better opinion of the Hole-in-the-Wall on that
account,

“I hope it will all turn out well in the end, Fred,”
she observed, resignedly., ‘All I do beg is, that they
may not put ‘Wray of Gatcombe’ on those play-bills
in green, and yellow, and red.”

I promised that this should not be done, and she
expressed: herself as satisfied, though I knew very
well, what the dear old soul was thiakingesbout the
whole matter, and that the British ‘drama was at a
worse discount than ever, in her estimation. She drop-
ped her knitting in her lap from time to time, and
moved her lips in a slow mechanical way, as though she
was trying. to accustom them to utter the words ‘ Hole-
in-the-Wall’’. composedly—a_ feat, however, which
she never accomplished. At times I would catch her
wane turned covertly upon me with a mournfulness

hat seemed uncalled for by the circumstances, dis:-
greeable as they undoubtedly were. But Aunt Ben,
though not averse to a chat, or even a discussion, had
the golden gift of keeping silence on all embarrassin,:
topics—a most rare and excellent thing in a woman,
and I set down her Jugubrious air to the sole account of
hersympathy with my dramatic misfortunes. Presently
there was a seufile at the lJetter-box, and. that sharp.
ring at the bell which proclaims the postman’s ire at
having to wait. k

“Well, I hope there is some good news to come,
Fred,” sighed Aunt Ben,

“There's ark of it,’ remarked I, *‘ at all events ;’*
and certainly, if the budget was to be estimated by its
bulk, we had cause to congratulate ourselves. The
packet that had defied the letter-box was from Cecil :
and there was another letter also in an unknown hand,
which I threw aside for the present. We had not
heard from my cousins for months, and had been get-
ting anxious about them, so this communication was
very welcome, To our great joy, we found that they
had returned in safety to Europe,‘end were now in
Switzerland, where they were mountaineering with
great vigor. “Jane,” wrote Cecil, “is more venturesome
than Iam—and you remember that J did not often re-
fise my leaps at Gatcombe—and excites the admiration
of the guides.” He inclosed their diary for the last few
days, full of descriptions of glacier scenery and ad-
venture, with which the graphic annals of the Alpine
Journal have since made us all so familiar, It was a
rich treat to Aunt Ben and me at that time. Of family

 

 

a ee

&%
CECIL'S TRYST.

 

 

es ‘Ae

‘matters Cecil said little: I had already received from | sense, and this behavior of hers disappointed as well| “That is a very pretty speech. sir : but not a prettier

‘him a most touching letter (and Jane had written feel-|'as distressed me, Of course she wag not playing the | one than you owe me for having. had the ood to
mn

‘ingly also) in reply to the news of my father’s deuth :
‘his kind heart had felt for me to the quick, though ‘the
‘ame post had borne to him the intelligence of his own
‘bereavement—if one might call it so—in the ‘mysteri-
ous disappearance of Ruth from Gutcombe. “I have
no fears except tor her happiness,” he had written,
“tor she is as honest'as the day, and not easily mis-
ted ; though it pains me to hear nothing of her, [ know

- well that there-is nothing but good to hear, and Iam

saved the pain of having to write again and again: ‘We
must have patience, Rue, avid await Fate’s pleasure.’
‘Oue comfort is,'too, that she always knows where to
finda friend in you. Your father dead, Ruth fled, and
‘the mystery of Batty’s crime uncleared up, and with-
‘out hopé of clearance, form a catalogue of woes indeed ;
while that last cloud ‘sits on my life, Fred, I shall
never, heverreturn to England—perhaps to Europe ;
meéver sce Ruth again. How could I ask her, then—
even if T knew where to find her—to think of me as TI
Shall never cease to think of her! Maj you never
know, dear Fred, what it is to feel as I feel 23 I white
these words. Forgive me for making you share eveh a
portion of such wretchedness, I remember that you
have to be patient too. But, then,” added he, with a grim
pleasantry that seemed to have taken the place of his
former high spirits, “ you wear your Rue with a differ-
ence.”

In the present fetter there was not one word of Ruth.
That his passion for her was unchanged, I telt assured:
nay, thatit was its very intensity which kept him
silent? As to the philosophy which he had so strangely
exhibited at the news of’ her disappearance, I ac-
counted for it not so much on the gfound on which he
himself seemed to put it—namely, his confidence in
her fidelity and good sense—as because he was secretly
not displeased that she had put it out of his power to
write to her what might well seem to him to be his
duty to write—namely, that all attempts to discover
the author of her brother’s death having failed, and
even been discontinued, he could no longer, in honor
‘and in justice to herself, consider their engagement as
binding; ; viet

Aunt Ben, on the other nand, conceived that the
absence of any mention of Ruth in Cecil’s letter was a
sign that time was doing its work with him as re-

spected his ‘unfortunate attachment,” and that he_

was “‘ getting over it.” ‘She’ pointed owt how, in his
last letter, he had hinted of never returning to Europe,
and now his very next communication was dated’ from
Switzerland. “Mark my words, Fred: your cousin
will be in England in six months; nor showldI be sur:
prised if he then ‘settled down,’ and married re-
spectably,"’ + ’ >
As it happened, had we each been allowed ten thous-
and guesses we should neither of us have in the least
foreshadowed Cecil’s destiny; but that did not prevent
us from settling the matter to our respective satisfac-
tions, and disagreeing with one another very, much,
We were so intent upon Cecil and his affairs that I
vad quite forgotten the letter that had arrived with his
own, until the servant came to take away the break-
fast things, and found it unopened beside my plate., It
was but a tiny note, the address of which seemed to
have been written either by a child, or a person just
beginning to write what is called “a running hand,”
and I turned it over in my hand with some anxiety.
“Who on earth can this be from, Aunt Ben?” said T,
for I had‘no secrets from her, and it always pleased her
to be appealed to, even on the smallest matters... “
“Tshould think, my dear,” replied she, scrutinizing
it with gravity, “that it must come from the manager
—or the manageress—of the Hole-in-the-Wall: ifit had
been sealed with a thimble or a red wafer, I should.
have been sure of it—Who does it come from?. You
seem quite interested in the contents, at.all events,”
“My dear aunt,” cried_I, excitedly, “it's the best
news T’have had since Icamé up to town! It is from

"Miss Brabant, the new actress, of whom we have. heard

Mr. Burder speak so enthusiastically. We were to have’
gone and seen her ourselves, you_remember, only you
would not go to that detestable Mr. Magnus’ theater,
you said, to see anybody or anything.” ‘1

“ But what has Miss Brabant to do with you?” in-|

quired my aunt, with a marked absence of enthusiasm.

“Nothing with me, aunt; but she will have a great
deal, I hope, to do with the Peddler's Pack. She can
bring out anything she likes, and she may like my
play, you see. She has doubtless heard of it from, Mr.

urder. Now I think of it, he did promise to speak to
her about it; but Lattach no imports toa w he
Says, andit had escaped my memory. She tes a

eee letter, Tassure you.” __ sf ‘vac
“The handwriting is peculiar,” observed my aunt,

~ coldly; “ that is, to judge from the. address, which is

all that I have seen of it.”’ ry

I knew Aunt Ben’s little projudice so well that I had
made up my mind not to show her the letter, though
its contents were very innocent, and, to treat it as a
mere matter of business; but her last hint was so. ver
broad that I could not ignore it, ‘+ "This is all that
in the note,” said I: “ Miss Brabant (ofthe Corintheum
Theater) ne her compliments to Mr. k
Wray; an
bring out a drama on the stage, would be glad to have
half an hour's conversation with him upon that sub-
ject any afternoon he may please to appoint,”’
weadone such a silence in the room’ when I had

aera simple lines, that I could hear my
- Does dy—write from the theater ?” inquired.

she, . ; ' }

oa 0; from her private residence—Laburnum Villa,
‘My aunt only replied On!” but at.

aoe oy : Vela bat it was not one of

stand for no’ i ‘ t's
Thad always credited Aunt Ben with’ great good

having understood that heis desirous to.

 

determined one, } aman who carries a horse-. arene om eabes cee I pe hh ae
|| whip. Through the halfshut door I caught a glimipso | Poca ater Le @ Maoyto play the: L _
of his face, thin, bearded, and aristocratic, as he young Sheridan; wake Shak i" ear how ‘hot
went out, unlike a guest. without. attendance pay much attention, being oceupied with the rida!
from the servant. He was evidently the master of that'was perplexin ones : vot; ne Ha 8
the house. Miss Brabant had, on some. pretense, got point-blank to see the Pe ane : Thea tad f
rid of her friend and protector—perhaps a duke—in, or- ; ution to bring @ of +e te gochoten the
der to give me my promised interview. The next mo- ¢ example of my Ganka 0 efforts oes Seas
ment 1 was ushered into the drawing-room. It was or two with such evident satisfaction et tee she
empty, save for the elegant and costly furniture with should throw away her praises, I menting ‘or ane
pohchintel otk tem ae multiplied | out a blush of humiliation, that it hiud boot
each object of beauty, though on open piano ¢: 5 i
Jay the unfinished piece of music—a song from the Bs ‘he last: twelve hours fur the at e

prude upon her own account. If Phad been her hus-
band, she would haye dispatched me to Laburnum Villa L re D
with confidence, and had the distance been’ sufficient | I listened in vain for some familiar note which should
| to demand such retreshment, would have cut’me sana- | dissolve the. mystery ot her- identity. In this mental
wiches for the art with her own hands: But in,| maze, I had almost forgotten what my fair companiun
the interests of Eleanor she outdid Argus, and had a | had said, till an angry boat on her pretty lips recalled
microscopic eye for the arts ot’ her sex and her nephew’s | it to my memory. en I hastened to explain to her
perils. At the same time, a3 I have said, she never | how it was that I had hitherto debarred myself from the
argued; aud except for that single “Oh |” anda silont | pleasure of seeing her on the boards of the theater
protest in her iit, i} met wren obstruction trom | through detestation of Mr, Magnus, ,
Aunt Ben to visiting Laburnum a. “So you hate old Mag, do you?" said ‘romically.
I went thither that very afternoon, with a heart ta wot oe we have copie. deancthlngy! in ‘eaehcn
beating higher ea it 3 ree ae mate hopes of between tis.” ; ?
dramatic success. iss Brabant, although a new addi- | Pr oo ,
tion.to the London stage, was a star of considerable | « eee egy ohh Te eet a reget tegiay ih =n
HRT OTe ite cana yk ue, GOIA Ho, has. thes, me antcall moved over the costly appointments of
liked with managers. The Peddler’s Pack, it was true, the’ Bee vfs a 9 stly appolntmes
was now bespoken, ‘but that did not so much matter, ; *#¢ #partment. boshys ‘
since there was no part in it quite adapted for this) |“ You thought that I was his debtor, observed Miss
young lady; I had several other dramas in my Brabant, coolly, “and theretore his iriend? A dramat-
desk, and one, The Foot-Page,* contained just the |ist should know better than to identify the two
character to suither; in tights and a violet doublet, | Pelations. «As. it happens, however, I am neither.
she should come out in (Vat, and take all London, with | Tcame up to town with little or no reputation as-an '
the trifling exception of Aunt Ben, by. storm, But | actress, and called on the great man, who at once \re-
though I ventured to this perhaps 'tod tamiliar ortrait | cognized what he was pleased to call ‘ my talents.
of“ the Brabant,” ds I had heard Mr. Burder call her, I | Now he is angry with me, I hear, and says that my face
felt not a little awed as I neared the residence of the | ve my f rune, bay Les ~ a Ba we grew
original. ’ also. 6 gave me a helpin, n ave it for
A very pleasant semi-detached house was Laburnum | sal he treated you ill, did he, about your
Villa, standing in quite a garden of its own, with. tio | play ’
of those ‘‘dropping-wells of  fire’’in it trom which it! I poured into her dainty ear my woes, making as
derivedits name, and with boxes full of flowers at every merry with them, however, as I could.’ At Mr: Cory-
story. A charming young person was looking over the | ton’s letter, pleading his Richmond engagement as an
blind of the dining-room, who might herself haye.been | excuse for not coming to luncheon, she laughed
the arbitress of my dramatic fortunes, for all that || heartily. , ‘
‘knew ; and from the.open windows of the first floor, a} «How like the vain old creature!” cried she. “ Why,
flood of melody, from voice and instrument, poured | that was me /” v
down upon me,as I stood onthe top step and waited| «pear me ”" said I; like an echo, and before I could
for the door to open, not without some era me stop myself, h ‘
my reception, like the Peri at the gate of Paradise; for Aas os | oe . 2 ,
now that Iv,as here, and had rung the. bell, it began to! f ener e) ub ae Ne quife yes There | eee ;
strike me for the first time that there was something Rindaba vou kate ne bce aber rented
rather queer about that invitation, after all; not, of at the Star a atin Reais oe ee dine feild
course, in the sense. in which my aunt had taken it— us, when Mademotselle 4 a (th ote one taille
though, if she had seen Laburnum Villa, her prejudices know) ShOWs < Oe ai Hg. ae an . ie

would, withoutdoubt, have been fortified, since it was F .
far too tasteful a dwelling to look ‘respectable ”—hut soso aiee we could procure a quator alemes; sol —
in the genuineness of Miss Brabant’s letter. Was it not nea aes bie ’ t x

quite as probable that it wis altogether a hoax, as that Oh, I see,” said I. It was somehow a great relief to

4 young lady in her position should have troubled her- | Me to hear that there had been twelve other persons at
selfto have written to an unknown writer about a| that Richmond dinner besides Miss Brabant and thut
manuseriptplay. It would have been strange even in | fellow Coryton. ’ EY
Semrepr pers done so; and, indeed, from what I| Then we began to talk of Mr. Burder, from whom,
knew of managers, they were about as likeiy to send me | it seemed, she had first heard of my being a writer of
a blank check on their bankers without yalue received, | plays. . i ce :
as to perform such an act of patronage. Nor was there |" «It was very good of him to mention it,” laugh-
a character in the Peddler’s Pack, as I have said, which | eq she, ‘‘for, you know, he writes for the stage him-
could have been pointed out as especially suited to her self.” . ¥ we

abilities. pose: Bink: ambnced. a “ He write!” cried I, “Impossible!
However, it was too late to think of: these matters |“ gaid he wrote rs as etarae Mr. Wray—anybody

now ; [had rung the bell, and it was answered ‘by the | can do that; I don’t say that a play of his was eyer

same lovely being whom I had seen patronizing nature accepted. Not that he is by any means. astupid man— \

— te era ae ee as a bayer ig infeed he is very fees ; but he is the greatest bore x
iss ant was at home, she firs: “Yes,”’ then, | and nuisance with his rejected ripts that .

with a glanco at the man's hat on the hall table, cor: | can imagine,’ Se ae ee

rected herself hastily, and said “No ;” finally, sho -ush-| «But how was it, then, may I ask,” said I, “that this

ered me into the dining-room, and bid me stay there | unpromising advocate of mine contrived to enlist your

while she ran up stairs. tosee.” I took great care to | sympathies for my unhappy case, which you denied to

put my cardinto her hand, that: there might be-no | his own ?” ‘ ony T

turther mistake, if there should chance to be one al- Miss Brabant blushed, and hesitated, Well, per-

aps”

ready, and aioe I: heard the music ‘
- Where Had I seen her before? Where had T heard

confess that you never saw me oo? ‘
The arch tone and artificial laugh were pew to me:

 

   

ee i Sais

‘cease with suddenness in the drawing-room, and ~pres-
ently a man’s yer J — down the stair—a slow,
e it 0

then running at the Corintheum. On the
fable — half moa of those. large Inxur-| ‘‘How on earth came that about ?””
ious volumes, such as 2, only goon facie Well,” said I, more hu
ho of very rich or very improvi' people, oO ‘
Tivulets of description and meadows of engravings. 1| doing. H
was engaged in examining.one of them when the.door | indeed, acc: to
wrt rm

 

opened, in came,or rather swam, my hostess, a on boc : ‘
splendi Sm pe young woman, with a profusion of That's all rubbish, Mr. Wray,” exclaimed. Bra-— ay
Jet-black hair, the contrast of which to her complexion, | bant, He has simply answered an advertisement inthe =
Which was as fairand delicate as a lily, was movt strik- | 2a, and sold your play for five shillings a nigh: g08 oy
ing and peculiar. ‘ rs teks 1 given it away altogether. He has done youa “ 3
‘4a_Mr. Wray, I believe,” said she, with a graceful cour- | Of Lam much mistaken, Who introduced | to. r
tesy. |“ You are better acquainted with me, probably ” | man? dewey pai: Bast z
PRT ant ee and smiled. good-naturedly), | « Well, thesame who wrote in my favorto Mr.

4 , ¥ 3 Coryton—b: fe t, I did not tell : the.
Of course, she. re to her performances on tho- Cube tunous sctpeah tik ton.” ya on though*,

f ferred t,
stage, to which it was certainly in the highest
proposed

and at the very instant abies formed the

 

3 “though not, I am to say, upon

| improbable, considering my Profession, that I | association of ideas’ between Lad Repton, ; be, = 1
should not have been a witness... fore wri. | Bd my fair hostess was a perfect Shans I ae i
“Ihave cortainly seen you somewhere before, Miss | read my recognition of her in my eyes, for she Niet
Brabant,” said I, bewilder my alittle host of recol- | after her own fashion beloks 1 could ,
lections of fair women, which I in vain endeavored to | out the words: “Why, you are Ruth Waller!”
“Not yet, Master Fred,” said she.

 

 

stage. Where could it have been ?” : dahe, Then, stepping ;
the pet of the oi mamiled again, but not so mirror ae removed eae Serene hair that c hie
aped-nstutenl Se netert..s Rerhape: it.wee: some ane Gat pipet pllded ke ine ate
oe Yo are very kind to.some one else to say. so,” sai Sea age assumed guise—with both her hands held —
Tegallantly ; “but to mnistake another for yourself is . Seok magia
hardly possible.” ' :

4 :

 
 

ray agree

 

 

 

 

 

weiss ve three letters for you, Ruth, that should have
a , rwitded ment would for a moment detain Cecil from flying to

_ living, as Mr. B
f , on.”

hod what does he say of me now ?”*
Here it 3

a a

CECIL'’S TRYST,

 

 

CHAPTER, XXIV, ...) >
AUNT BEN HAS “A LITTLE SURPRISE’’ FOR

My first thought, as Tlooked at Ruth, and while I | j,

still held her hands in mine, was “What would es
Cecil give tobe in my place?’ She had always been
very beautiful, but her beauty—as happens with most
blondes—was not of that sort which unadorned is ad-
orned the most. Art—by which I mean the arts of
elegance and fashion—had heightened it to an extraor-
dinary degree, and yet she had not lost her honest
country look; her smile had the old sunshine in it
still, and not the lime-light.

“So it was to shine in London that you left usall in
darkness at Gatcombe, was it, Ruth ?”’

“Yes, Master Fred,” said she, quietly. ‘It was the
example of your Lady Repton that tempted me to try
my fortune on the stage. I could not live at Wayford,
you know: Icould not bea burden on—on Mr, Ceci)
all my life: and since he had taught me something—
all I know, indeed, that is worth anything—of how to
speak a speech, I resolved to gain ahearing.” ©
z - And you have put out your talent to some interest,

ue.”” .

“You mean that I get money?” said she simply.
“Well, yes, Ido; but I had money to begin with—Mr.
Cecil's—or else I doubt not matters would have been
very different. If I had come to Mr. Magnus poor”—
She shuddered, and broke off. “But I was rich, or
seemed to beso ; and he-was pleased to sayhe thought
that Ishould suit him, and would draw. And I did
draw, you see.” F

“Yes, Rue, and you don’t paint,” said I, admir-
ingly,‘ which does you great credit. You ‘seem to
- ae the same simple, kindly girl you were at Way-
ord,’’—— ‘i

“Then I must be indeed an actress born,’’ inter-
rupted she, with bitterness. ‘‘ Don’t think it, Master
Fred ; don’t think me ‘simple,’ nor a girl, at all; Iam
a@ woman wn, that knows, too, how to hold her own
against—her friends. God help all women such as I
who don’t! ‘Kindly,’ you said too. Well, perhaps I
am; there may be something left of heart about me;
but surely I should have been something less than
kind, and lower, if, when I heard your name, and felt |
that it might be within my poor power to help you on
the path that you have chosen, I had not written tosay
so. Your visit here is like a breath of fresh air from the
high moor at Gatcombe !””

such a tone of disappointment and dejection were
these words of welcome spoken, that a suspicion 'vague
and chill began to steal over me, the influence of which
I could not resist.

“ The air is pure here, is it not, Ruth?” said I, with
significance.

“Why ask that question?” inquired she, angrily.
Then : “ButI forgot: you havé a right. Well,
you may tell your cousin he has no cause to be ashamed
of me. What made you think he had?’

“ Nothing,” said I, hesitatingly.

“Yes, there was: come, be frank with me.”

“Well, I had no idea, of course, that this was your
house; andI did think it strange—though indeed it
‘was no stranger than my own presence here—to find a

0)
eee I see,” she laughed out merrily. ‘ Well, that was
my music-master. Iam quite ignorant of such things,

of course, and Mr. Magnus says itis necessary tolearn a | her ob had,

songor two. Is there any other count against yme,
Master Fred ?” .

“ Against you? No,” saidI. ‘But do you think
eee aaa approve of your being an actress at all,

uth ?”*

‘I don’t'!know, Master Fred.’’ She looked exceed-
ingly embarrassed: her quick flow of words at once
deserted her, but she spoke firmly enough, like one
whose course of conduct has been decided upon. “I
don’t know if he wouldor not ; but how could I remain
de: t on his bounty when I might never be his
wife? He told me that himself at parting ; and now—
since nothing has been discovered down at Gatcombe—
our union is farther off and more doubtful than even

“ But why did you leave Wayford without letting
me know your address, Ruth ?”’ . i

“Well, that. was wrong,” said she; “but I was:
ashamed—not of going upon the stage—but lest I
should fail; and when I had succeeded”’ (she hung

- down her head),.‘‘ I was still ashamed.”

“Then, if you had not chanced to hear of me and of
my play, you would have remained ‘ Miss Brabant,’ and
never revealed yourself at all ?”

“T cannot say. Don’t press that: let it suffice that
when I saw an o: unity to help you, I did not resist
it ; indeed, I cout not. It is dreadful to be quite alone:
in the world, Master Fred. Quite alone,” she added,
with a bitter smile, “and yet among so many friends !””

been delivered long ago: I was to have fo
them ”—— oe

“Have you no recent ones ”” interrupted she.
_ “How should I have, when I had informed him you

had disappeared ?”

: — . But he has written to you recently, has he
not?’ : f )
_. Yes; only yesterday, as it happens, though after a
of, silence. Heisin Switzerland.” —  -

At | coming home?’ eried she, almost, as it seem-

me, in
Sinko though my aunt, with whom Iam now
Burder doubtless told you, is of the con-

my turn to feel embarrassed ; for, as I
. “not even mentioned her name in
rs ~ ‘ell, you see, it was useless his say-

wae as : . xoy
‘interrupted’ she, with gravity ; “he says’

 
   
 

»

“But his first letters, Ruth, were full of you, andI
have no nous that those of which I have charge are
Jaden with his love. I will send them to you this even-
ing.” z od

8 wire J . :
“Tt is no matter,”’ said she, quietly ; ‘‘ for I shall not
read them.” I looked astonished, a she added, pathet-
ically: ‘‘Why should I do so, Master Fred? <A love
that is blighted and can never ripen, is a dead love.
Sar Bere I wound my heart afresh, all to no pur-
pose?” :

“But it may ripen, Ruth: time smoothes all things
but its own wrinkles. My cousin will not always feel
80 deeply the poisan of that cruel accusation which
ety ett within him, like a bee’s sting, before he

ed.”” ;

Ruth shook her head, not despondingly, but in abso-
lute negation. :

“Well, time alone can show it,” saidI. “Jane de-
scribes her brother as being decidedly more cheerful.’’

_“ His sister is still with him, then?”

“Of course; he clings to hér more than ever in his
loneliness and anxiety about yourself.” __

Deep in ones Ruth remained silent for a space;
then with tender earnestness inquired: “Will you
grant me, for the sake of old times, dear Master Fred,
one favor?” —

“ Most certainly,” said I. ‘What is it?’

““Do not mention to Mr. ‘Cecil that you have found
me.” ea

“As you please,” said I; for Cecil’s last letter made
silence on this point comparatively easy to observe.
“ But you will let me tell Aunt Ben?” This I stipu-
lated for, since, otherwise, I should scarcely have been
_ to explain my visit to Laburnum Villa satisfactor-

y. .

“ Yes, you may tell your aunt.” *

Then I rose to go, for our interview had been a long
one.

“JT will keep your play, Master Fred, and shall be
glad to read the other of which you spoke, There is
just one thing more—you have never mentioned Miss

f or,”

“If I have not,” said I, smiling, ‘‘ it was only because
my mind was occupied with your affairs, She is quite
well, and at Gatcombe.”’

* And all is well between you ?” :

“* Yes, indeed. Why should you ask ?” .
“Because I knew your answer would makg me ha:
py. Well, you should have no secrets from one ano-
ther, and you can tell er, too, that I am Ruth Waller.
She will not shrink from me because I am a play-ac-
tress, as your Aunt Ben willdo. If she were here this
moment, she would take my hand, and—and pity me,
as she was wont to doin those sad days at Gatcombe.
But there, I have to play Florella in two hours’ time,
and must not have red eyes. Good-bye, and thank you,

Master Fred.” ‘

Good-bye, Ruth, and thank you.”

Not till I left Laburnum Villa, and was on my way
home alone, did the strangeness of my late discovery
strike me with its full force. That Ruth should have
gone on the stage, and succeeded upon it, did not as-
tonish me so much when I called to mind the change
that had been already apparent in her during our last
interview at Wayford; that she should not have reveal-
ed her purpose while its accomplishment was doubtful,
was also explicable enough; but when she had gained
indeed, been eminently successful, and
that, as she had assured me (and I did not doubt her),
without loss of self-respect—why then she had not
written to say, ‘‘I am well and prosperous, Master Fred
—tell Mr. Cecil,”” was a mystery Icould not unravel.
For I was no longer of opinion: that Ruth did not love
my cousin; it seemed to me, on the contrary, that she
was apprehensive of loving him too much, and in vain.
If she did not care for him, why should she have ex-
pressed her resolve not to read those long-delayed let-
ters, without doubt so full of passionate ardor, and
have forbidden me to inform him of her calling or
place of abode ? » Sten

‘Like Cecil himself, she probably believed their union
to be hopeless, though not on the a ates I
had-never heard from her (though Cecil had said some-
thing about her entire acquiescence in his view of the
matter) that Batty’s accusation against my cousin, so
long as it remained disproved, was in her eyes also an
insuperable their union; but it was likely enough
that, from what she knew of his character, she foresaw
that it would prove so. Moreover, it struck me, from
the half-resentful tone in which Ruth had said, “ His
‘sister is still with him, then?” that she gave my Cousin
Jane more credit'than she deserved as another source
of opposition to their union. Jane had, in reality, no
power in ‘the matter (though, if she had, she would
have undoubtedly used it like a wedge to separate
them); and should the ee of Richard Waller's
catastrophe be discovered, I felt certain that no argu-

his beloved’s arms. To Ruth, however, it doubtless
seemed that even if time should lessen the proportions
of that obstacle which constantly presented itself to
Cecil’s sensitive mind, or even remove it altogether,
there was always an enemy of hers at hig right hand to
interpose new impediments.

sare) having arrived at all these s conclusions,
I was obliged to confess to myself that Ruth’s conduct
was an enigma still. It was —. to get rid of the

rofitless speculations that filled my mind with regard
bo her that Isketched out for myself a little amuse-
ment with Aunt Ben, as respec my visit to Labur-
nim Villa. Since she had treated poor Miss Brabant,
and indeed myself, with such un ved distrust, it,
was only just that she should be punished a little. I

gthened in

was stren; this determination by finding my
esteemed relative by no means recovered from her sus-
picious state of d, but maintaining a stately re-

serve, under which it was easy to detect a most vehe-

 

ment curiosity, She would probably have had her tongue

| whether it be good or not is another punt,
h

al

cut out rather than ask the question, ‘ Well, and what
about. that wicked woman ?” but if it had been, that in-
auiry would certainly have been found upon the tip
0 ‘ j

“My dear aunt,” cried I, with enthusiasm, “ she’s
Oe chi ing ? J

“ Who's charming ?”’ replied Aunt Ben. sharply, and
knitting with great raj ait . ae

“ Why, Miss Brabant, of course.”’

‘I don’t want to hear about it, if she is,’’

“Oh, but I must tell you,” said I.. “ You have no
idea how kind she has been to me. She hasnot the
least nonsense or mauvaise honte about her.”

Here my aunt muttered: “No onte at all, I dare
say ;”’ but I affected not to hear her. 4

“I don’t think I ever saw anybody but Nelly so pret-
ty—her black hair was just like Nelly’s; and I do be-
lieve she will bring out my Foot-Page atthe Corinth-
eum, and play the principal part herself, in tights.
Never was such a piece of good fortune; I— Why,
what's the matter, aunt? You surely don’t think that
I’ve fallen in love with the woman?, Why, what on
earth is there to cry about? What’s happened? What's
the matter ?”’

For, to my horror and amazement, Aunt Ben had sud-
denly dissolved in tears, and was now sitting with
bowed head and her work fallen on the ground, looking
br woman by ten years than I had yet known

er.

“ Nothing has happened that was not to have been
expected, I suppose,” sobbed she. ‘* Your poor father
used to say that men were all alike when
flattered by a wicked woman ; he had one exception
in his mind, however, and there he was wrong. It will
break Nelly’s heart, I know, and it has nearly broken
mine. I had such confidence in you, Fred, and now——
Well, Nelly is coming up to us, and she will judge for
herself. As for me, I wash my hands of it altogether ;””
and she wrung her withered palms as though she had
already done so, and was drying them in the air,

“Nelly coming up to town,” cried I, “and to us ;
Why, when did you know that ?” ;

‘* What does it matter?” sobbed my aunt, “when you
will be half your time at Laburnum Villa, or rehears-
ing things at the theater with this abandoned young
person in—tut—tut—tights.”” ;

“My dear aunt,’ said I, gravely, “this has gone too
far. You were mistaken in tle whole matter trom the
first, and out of a little revengeful malice I did not un-
deceive you. But the fact is, that this Miss Brabant is
no other than Cecil’s young woman, Ruth Waller.”

And in a tew words I told her all. She listened with

t interest, and when I had finished, seemed never
tired of putting questions on her own account. “You
shall hear everything in time,” said I at last; but tell
me first about Nelly’s coming to town.”

“Ah, but suppose she isn’t coming,” said my aunt.
“If you play tricks on me, why should not I on you?”

If Aunt Ben was joking, her merriment was of a very
ghastly kind, and even a little hysterical as well. I felt
certain that not only was Nelly coming, but that some-
thing very serious had occurred to induce her to do so.

“Tf there is news from Gatcombe, let me know it,
aunt,” said I; “you have no right to keep it from

e. 7
“Well, Fred, there is news, and great news: but

But
first, let me , have you noticed nothing peculiar in
the tone of Eleanor’s Tetters of late ?” oe

_ “They have seemed to me to be written with effort,”
said I; “not, of course, as regards their affectionate
warmth, but their cheerfulness. She tries to make the
best of herself; but herlong separation from us, and
the being shut up alone with that hateful old man at
Gatcombe, appear to tell upon her more and more.”

. “And that is all,” murmured Aunt Ben, half to her-
self. “Oh, Fred, you little know what that dear crea-
ture has been suffering!” ~ aed we

“Is Nelly ill?” cried I. “ What do you mean?”

“Yes ; illin mind, Fred—sick at heart. . Persecuted
by him who was bound ‘to be her protector, she has
confided in me alone, because if you had known of it
matters would have been made worse. You would
liave gone to Gatcombe, carried her off under the old
man’s nose, and probably kicked Sir Richard.” ;

= 3 coked Sir Richard Harewood ? icked our. ten-
ant ?” . " , * ,

““ Yes, because he has been making love to Eleanor.
—There, now, I knew you woud”, he Wwoubiakt in
a tantrum. ‘sno usé your snatching at your hat
and stick. The matter is now ged, and Sir Richard
has got his conge, But poor Nell}'s osition been

‘making me miserable for weeks,’ “I did not like to tell

you of it, partly for the reason T have mentioned, and
partly because I saw you were 80 Renteased ake
play. Every morning I said to myself, ‘I will tell him
to-day ;’ andevery day something occurred with Mr.
Burder—or did not occur—which put youin
“What is the use of making him more miserable than.
he is,’ thought I, ‘ when any'remedy he may take in his
own hands would only make matters worse?’ Yester-
day I was on the very point of telling you; and then
that news about the Hole-in-the-Wall came, and I mcr
‘the heart to do it. Even when this Miss
bant wrote to you, and t seemed to me that you
‘were about to fall into the net of a bold and forward
young person, I still hesitated, since Eleanor had laid
on mesuch strict injunctions to keep her secret; but
when gor came home to-night and talked of that un-
desirable acquaintance so enthusiastically (you naughty
boy, and take in your poor old aunt), then I to
myself ; ‘How can he, can he do. The if he only
knew that his own rwas coming to.town!’—and
then I told you,” added my Smt Nat sae
“ But you haven’t told me, Aunt Ben, or at least on

 

onl
enough to make me anxious.” An +4
began to couple this news with the gains Seat
which Ruth had inquired whether all was we! ieeetcn

spirits. ~

 

 
27

CECIL’S TRYST.

 

 

myself and Eleanor—doubtless with reference to this
Sir Richard. Harewood, better known (as I was well
aware) than spoken of in theatrical circles—I began to
feel very anxious. He was quite capable, from what I
had heard ot him, of persecuting a girl with his atten-
tions, however unwelcome they might be.

“ Well, Frederick,’’ said Aunt Ben, gravely, ‘‘ the long
and short of.the matter is, that'that dreadful old Mr.
Bourne has been throwing Eleanor at Sir Richard’s
head. He always liked a title dearly ; and no doubt it
would have been an additional satisfaction to him if he
could have secured a. baronet, for a son-in-law, and at
the same time got you jilted.”

“ What an old villain !’’ ejaculated I,

“ Yes, but unfortunatey, also, what an old fool!’ con-
tinued Aunt Ben. ‘The way he went to work was the
very course most fitted to disgust his granddaughter,
and to take another view of what she had hitherto con-
sidered to be her duty as regarded himself,.. She wrote
to me a week ago that she had told her grandfather that
if Sir Richard came to the-rectory again, she should
leave his roof and throw herself upon my protection ;
and as for his money, she frankly told him he might
give itto whom he pleased. This indifference to her
inheritance must, I suppose, have seemed incredible to
the old wretch, or perhaps he doubted her determin-
afion ; but, at all events, he permitted the baronet to
pay another visit, and yesterday Nelly wrote to say she’s
coming.”

«When ?” eried I, excitedly. ‘‘Oh, when ?’’

‘Well, in a day or two. In time tosee your play at
the Hole-in-the-Wall; and certainly, in time to see the
other—at the what do you call it?-in which your
beautiful Miss Brabant is to act in tights, sir,’

But I was much too excited and delighted by Aunt
Ben’s news to feel her satire.

** Dear Fred,’’ continued my aunt with gravity, ‘‘ this
is all my doing as respects Eleanor coming hither, for at
the first hint of her trouble Linvited her; andI do hope
that you will not give me cause to repent it, I trust
to your good feeling not to use your influence to pre-
cipitate a marriage. She will have left her grandfather,
it is trueyfor good and all, as she thinks; and he will
have told her that his wealth will now pass into some
other chfmnel; and perhaps he is really bent on carry-
ing out that design. But, on the other hand, he may
not be so; or if his threat of disinheritance is put in ef-
fect for the present, the ties of blood grow stronger as
we approach our end, and at the last his: heart may
turn towards her. He cannot live forever. And re-
member, Fred, however indifferent you yourself may
be as to whether your wife comes to you as a great
heiress or empty-handed, there are others to be con-
sidered in this matter—not only Eleanor herself, of
whose simplicity we must not take advantage, but also
those unborn, who may one day reproach you both for
a selfish precipitation. Your motto, therefore, must
still be, ‘Wait and hope.’”

“So be it,” said I, eagerly; “it will be happiness
enough for the present to see her here under our own
roof.” And, indeed, I spoke the truth, for this unex-
pected news had fairly transported me. But, on the
other hand, it made me nervous and apprehensive, as
the promise often does ot a pleasure that seems almost
too great to be realized. Although I knew that Nelly
was not one to be intintidated, or to be kept in subjec-
tion unless from a sense of duty, and that all folks
around Gatcombe were her friends, and would be, if
necessary, her helpers, I was consumed by vague fore-
bodings. The sunshine of hope was with me, and was
also, I well knew, with my darling, but there loomed a
dark cloud between the intervening space, which
seemed to menace Hope's fruition. Such presentiments
of evil are common enough, but seldom verified; and
when they are so, the misfortune which we dread
comes as often as not from some quite unexpected quar-
ter, and fills us all the more with terror and dismay,

 

CHAPTER XXV.

BAD NEWS.

In spite of my forebodings, Nelly arrived safe and,
sound in Merton Square, and filled our house with sun-
shine, There is, however, no need to paint my rap-
t%res, since the intention of this history is to describe
not my own life, but only so much of it as is (directly
or indirectly) connected with my cousin Cecil. Let it
suffice to say that we were supremely blessed in one
another’s company, and that the contemplation of our
happiness used to affect Aunt Ben so’sympathetically
that she would often burst into tears. We were rather
gay than otherwise, for London was as new to Nelly as
it had been to me, and its most ordinary amusement
afforded her great pleasure. We went pretty often to
the theaters, and it quite vexed me to see how she en-
joyed the performances, with their hansom cabs, their
real firemen, andthe bona jide well into which the vil-
lain of the piece fell backward with an audible splash.
Of course we went to see Miss Brabant act, and all ac-
knowledged that she looked gpiendidly; but my two
companions were rather cold in their encomiums of her
talent. . I am sure that my aunt did her best to preju-
dice Nelly against Ruth, and I think in part succeeded.
There were no questions asked about my visits to La-
burnum Villa, so obviously necessary in connection
with my drama of the Foot-Page, which Miss Brabant
had promised to have brought out; and any details of
a Pte) fo with which I fayored them were re-
ne ved with but alanguid interest: I know it would

ave given Ruth an intense pleasure—and something
more—if Nelly had gone to see her; but when T asked
her to dogo, she had replied: “ Yes, dear Fred, if you
wish it very much;” and, though I was not yet @ mar-
ried man, I knew what. that meant. :

Ruth neyer reproached her with this conduct—the
offspring not of pride, of course, but of Aunt Ben’s pru-
dence—xior ceased to speak of her with the utmost grat-
itude and respect; but it wounded her deeply, and T

 

fear in the end did her grievous harm. It made her
feel more than ever that she was cut off from the whole
some side of life, and tended to attach her to that un-
desirable society among which she had hitherto moved
without absolutely belonging to it, My remonstrances
with Aunt Ben upon this point were fruitless. She
“had nothing to say against Ruth’s character (she was
sure), but the young woman had chosen a path tor her*
selt of which she, for her part, could in no way ap-
prove.” As to the argument that she should do her
best for her, for Cecil's sake, “it was for his very sake
that she wished to hayeno relations with her; when he
came home, it was to be hoped that he would be in his
right mind, and any. intimacy on our part was to be
deprecated which was likely to bring his old delusion
to his recollection,”

Aunt Ben was one of those admirable women who
have no parallel in the opposite sex for kindliness, selt-
sacrifice, and good sense—and whose determination not

to listen to reason, where their prejudices are concerned,

is impregnable.

It was within less than three weeks of Nelly’s arrival
that, as we three were walking over Southwark Bridge
one afternoon, we had to stand aside close to the balus-
trade while seven men went by us, each bearing an im-
mense letter ona placard, and with 7Zo-nigit in char-
acters of blood upon their chests, instead of a waist-
coat.

“What does that mean ?”’ asked Nelly.

“It’s some advertisement of a music-hall or a play,”
said I, carelessly. ‘If you read the letters—supposing
the men were in their proper order, which does not al-
ways happen—you would get the name of the perform-
ance.”

‘But I did read them, Fred, and that’s wha gave me
such asurprise. It was the word Peddler, and that ’——

In an instant; like one, most. literally, “in hot pur-
suit of Fame,” I was running after the men with pla-
cards. My worst. suspicions were realized. On the
reverse side of these sandwiches, in a sort of medimval
type, ‘on a scroll, appeared the words, Ye Hole in ye
Wall. A grotesque figure was painted beneath it, a
caricature of the manager, or perhaps of myself, Its
colors were yellow, and green, and red.

“You are disappointed, dear, I am afraid,’’ said Nelly’s
gentle voice, as I stood gazing over the bridge at the
dark river, while Hood’s poem recurred to my mind
with a new meaning:

“(One more unfortunate,
Rashly importunate,
* * . * * ae

Just on the brink of it,
Picture it, think of it.’

My play was coming out that very night, without a
word of warning, at that horrible Hole!

I gasped out something, in reply to her kind in-
quiries, to that effect.

“But the word ‘Pack’ was not on the placards,”
reasoned Nelly.

“I wish ‘Peddler’ had not been there either,’’ was
my sombre reply. ‘‘Oh, that villain Burder !”’
‘They haven’t put ‘of Gatcombe’ on the
have they, Fred ?”’ pleaded Aunt Ben. “Not

Gatcombe ?”’

“I dare say it’s on the bills,” groaned I, despairingly.
“IT must goand see.” I hailed a four-wheel cab and
dispatched the ladies home in it, then jumped into a
hansom myself. ‘Do you know the Hole-in-the-Wall ?”
asked I, through a hole in the roof.

“Bingles’s Free-and-Easy, we calls it,” was the
crushing reply. Oh, yes; I'll take you there in no
time.”

And he did, He pulled up at a gigantic public-house
—for a dram, asIfondly hoped. “This is Bingles’s,”
he said. And it was.

Iasked at the bar for the proprietor, and. was in-
formed that‘ Mr. Bingles was in thé theater.” A pot-
boy undertook to conduct me to him. We passed
through a large boarded court with a stand fgr mn-
sicians in it placed in a garden composed of six Ameri-
can aloes in tubs. . ‘“Here’s where they dance,’ said
the pot-boy, perceiving that I was a stranger to his
lord’s domain. ‘Five hundred couples and more
there’ll be on a fine night here.””

“And how many does your theater hold?”

“Our theatyr?” said he, as if in delicate reproof of
my mispronunciation, ‘‘ Oh, that holds as many as it
can git.”’

“There is anew play tobe acted to-night, is there
not?’

“J dare say, sir; there mostly is, once a week.”

“Do your plays only run. six days, then?” asked I,
aghast.

“Why, no, sir. Ifour master was to try to run ’em
seyen, the Bobbies would be down upon him pretty
sharp, You can square ’em a’most for everything, ex-
cept Sunday work,”

It was not worth while to undeceive this young man,
though my inquiry certainly had no connection with
the Sabbath question.

We had arrived at the theater by this time,a huge
oblong edifice, before the stage-door of which a stout,
squat man was standing in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a

lacards,
ray, of

pipe. q
“That is Bingles,’ muttered the pot-boy, and van-
ished.
: ea the first time I beheld a manager in the flesh.
“Morning!” said the great man, taking his right
thumb out of the arm-hole of his waistcoat to remove
his pipe. ‘ What,can I do for you, sir?
«*T have called upon business in connection with the
new play that you are bringing out to-night.
“Ay, ay; yes, I believe there is one. ate
“Believe?” said I, “ Why, it is advertised all. over
wn.” :
torr Biriglen nodded, and removed his pipe once more
to scratch his head with the stem of it.

 

“Iam the author of that play,” said I, with some
dignity,

A fly had settled upon the manager’s nose, induced
by what temptation it is impossible to imagine (if it
had been a butterfly, I should not have been surprised,
since it might have mistaken that favorable descrip-
tion of eruption known to the vulgar, if not to the
scientific, as’ “ grog-blossoms”’ for flowers); and Mr.
Bingles proceeded to catch it with elaboration, and suc-
ceeded. “ Very good,’’ said he. ‘You want to have
your name in the bills? I thought you would, but
Burder suid you wouldn’t. It’s not my fault.”

“T want nothing of the kind, Mr. Bingles. But I do
desire an explanation of your extraordinary conduct. im
never letting me know that the play was about to be
produced. .I have not even been invited to a re-
hearsal.’’

“What's the use?’ replied the manager, curtly. “It
only leads to disagreements... Gillow—that’s our funny
man, you know—will always have his own way; and as.
for our other people, why, they don’t matter.’’

“Do you mean that it does not matter how the
pathetic and sentimental characters of the Peddler’s
Pack axe sustained ?’’ inquired I, in amazement.

“Just so; it don’t signify tuppence. If Gillow can
tickle the public, the play goes; if it don’t go, it
stops. Our last play stopped quite sudden, and that’s
how yourn was put on in sucha hurry. Notone of my
company,’’ said Mr. Bingles, in triumph, “knew a line
of it yesterday morning |’

“ And they’re going to act it to-night?”

“Mostcert’ny. See bills.”

I had given Mr. Burder full authority to dispose of
my drama, and I had no reason to believe that I could
restrain Mr. Bingles from doing what he pleased in the
matter; nothing remained for me, therefore, but con-
cilation. “I suppose they will take pains to improve
themselves in accuracy, and in their conception of the
author’s meaning, as they go on ?’”’ observed I. :

“Oh yes ; never fear about that. Gillowis never the
same man two evenings running.”

I had already dreadtul presentiments about Gillow.
“ And how many evenings, Mr. Bingles, do you think
the Peddler's Pack will run ?””

“It is quite impossible to say, sir. It all depends on
how Gillow takes. I call him Vaccination on that ac-
count; sometimes he spots them, and sometimes he
don’t. Our last play ran—walked I should say—like a
blessed ghost in an empty house, for threenights. The
one we had before was a'’——

“ Was a what 2?” inquired I, inalarm. ' I did not quite
catch the word; but I have a very strong suspicion
that Mr. Bingles used the term “ buster.”

“Was a great success,” continued he; “It ran ten
nights.”

“ And how much,” said I, emboldened by Mr, Bingle’s
manner to be frank myself, ‘did the author make by
that transaction ?”’

“Why, lucky dog ?”’ cried the manager, slapping his
knee, “I offered him thirty shillings down; but he said,
‘No, I'll chance it—I’ll be paid by the night ; and so he
was. Five shillings a night, sir, for ten nights, did I pay
that fellow ; and the copyright of the play remains his
own, to do what he likes with.”

This was the one piece of good news that Mr. Bingles
gave me. The copyright of the Peddler’s Pack would
remain my own a(ter it had once passed through this
terrible ordeal. Along with the other thirty or forty
plays—all supplied by answers to advertisements
—that came out at the Hole-in-the-Wall per annum, it
would probably flourish for a week, then fade, and be
forgotten, to reappear, I hoped, in a nobler sphere. As.
to remuneration, Burder had arranged nothing about
that ; and there was nothing tobe Sose but to accept
the same terms as my predecessor.

My manager and I parted on excellent terms. He had
given me a private box for that evening, and his last
crow were a courteous invitation to partake of refresh-
ment,

“Ave a drain, sir?—No? Well, perhaps to-night,
then, you'll come in to drinka glass with Gillow. You'll
find him fust-rate company.”

Aunt Ben, Nelly, and myself were in time for the play
that night, but not to drink a glass with Gillow. Our
leisure was wholly taken up in the contemplation of
theinterior of the Theatre Royal Hole-in-the-Wall—its
decorations, arrangements, and peculiarities. The box

-which had been reserved for our use had three: cane

chairs in it, but the accommodation in that respect was
insufficient ; because, as in the case of Silverhair and
the Three Bears, somebody had been sitting on the
fourth chair and had sat the bottom out. Round the
outside of each box ran a dark fringe of about six inches
long, which we at first took for painting in panel: this,
however, was caused bya habit in which the inmates

_indulged of hanging their ungloved hands over the

ledges, and beating time or applause therewith upon
the wood-work beneath. In the center of the building,
which was very large, was a refreshment-bar (with en-
trances from the pit), in which was a beer-engine of
great power, worked, as it seemed, upon the perpetual
motion principle. Delicacies of all kinds—the audience
were informed by placard—could be procured within
the establishment and without leaving their seats, “ as
good as at any house in the neighborhood.” This was
a bold statement, since, to judge from the drop-cur-
tain, which, in place of a classical picture, exhibited a
congeries of local advertisements, the neighborhood
was in acondition to supply every.desire of humanity
from the cradle to the grave—from Injants' Elixir to a
One-horse Hearse, The stalls—for they were stalls—
had no divisions between them, and were patronized
(my aunt charitably a either by married folk,
or by young persons whose engagements were stffic-
iently acknowledged in society to admit of their being
tender towards one another. The protecting arm of

the swain (in its shirt-sleeve) was thrown, almost in

every case, around his beloved object. who, on her part,
leaned herconfiding head upon his manly bosom. The

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

‘28

CECIL’S TRYST.

 

 

question of toilet had greatly puzzled my two compan-
ions: they did not like to be too finely dressed—and yet
—— an idea that the tenants of a private box ought
to do credit to the establishment ; the result had been

“ what they considered to be a medium apparel, but
which, by its contrast with that of the other female oc-
cw ts of the house, was a blaze of splendor. Much
public comment. was. therefore passed upon them,
which, though for the most part of a complimentary
character, they felt to be embarrassing, and were much
relieved when the curtain rose, and the general atten-
tion was directed to the stage,

It is not my purpose to describe the performance of
that unhappy piece ; ashiver goes through my frame,
as TI recall it now, similar to that evoked by tne open-
ing ofa pill-box. It was not my play at all, but a
helerdgencous compound, half of which owed its pater-
nity to me, and half to Gillow. He did not act
the comic character, because. I suppose, it was
not sufficiently important for him; he took a serious
role, and made thatcomic. He was the legal guardian
of the heroine, a bluff good-humored gentleman enough
4as I had made him), but not likely, when visiting his
ward at school, to put on her backboard, and sing a
comic song with a dumb-bell in each hand, H» made a
joke about a “dumb-belle,”’ which, instead of fulling flat,
as it ought to have done—it fell on me just like a cold
pat Of lead—was uproarionsly applauded. My aunt be-

an to applaud too, which compelled me to tell her that
Tires not answerable for the witticism. Next to “gag”
(an interpolation of original dialogue), Mr. Gillow..was
remarkable for original costume. He had a green
coat-with brass buttons, and nankeen pantaloons; and
they must have been of very durable materials, since,
in the second act, though ‘‘ twenty years were supposed
to have elapsed” in the action of the drama; he wore
them still. As to the pathetic touches, they moved me
to tears of chagrin; for the actresses had but one: soli-
tary 2 among them, which they invariably prefixed to
the word “honor.” A cry for assistance in extremity,
followed by the reflection that, under the circum-
stances, it was no. use to cry, was thus rendered by the
heroine: “’Elp, ’elp! but’ow?” Then, with a disap-
pointed air, she added: “ Alas | I ’ave no ’ope, except in

“eaven !
Altogether, the Peddler’s Pack, as performed at the
Hole-in-the-Wall, was too dreadful to sit out; the In-
quisition itself could hardly have devised for a dramatic
authora torture more terrjgle than to see his first-born
play so torn in pieces befg@ his eyes, .
When we had lett the pMce, however, and Were in the
cab, and just. as Aunt Ben was in the act of saying some-
thing of consolation and condolement, the full absurdity
of the whole affair began to stike us, and we all three
indulged in quite a paroxysm of laughter. We had each
a favorite quotation to repeat from Mr. Gillow, or an as-
piration (without an aspirate) from the other performers,
and made very merry with our jiasco all ‘the way
home. F

1 know nat whether it really is so, but it seems to me

that itis the times when the laughter is loudest, and the

heart most free from care, which envious Fate selects to
shoot at-us poor mortals her sharpest arrows. ,
Inoticed that as soonas we entered the house my

aunt’s mirth had died away: she ate nothing at supper,

though we had a lobster, which was her favorite dish,
a 2 ately. afterwards proposed retiring up stairs,
on, the plea of fatigue. . p

Iwas sitting in my own room, witha pipe, as my
custom was when the ladies had withdrawn, when the
door opened and in came Aunt Ben with a ghastly face.

“I found this on the hall table when we came home,”
said she, holding up aletter with a deep black gigs.
“I snatched it up and put it in a pocket, so that Nelly
should not see it. Itis from Switzerland, andI am
afraid there is bad news.”’ :

“Good heavens!” cried I; “from Cecil?”

“ Open it; it, is for you,” said my aunt, with a certain
twitching at the corners, of her mouth, which only
manifested itself with her at times of great emotion. I
tore open the enyelope at once. les ;

“It is news,” said I, solemnly. ‘Poor Jane is

“Lord have mercy on us!’’ ejaculated-my aunt.. “I

knew there was death in it. I am sorry, Heaven knows,

‘om the bottom of my heart; and yet—I am almost

to say it—I feel thankful that it is no worse.”

“No worsel” returned I, greatly displeased; for

1 my conscience was clear enough as respected

1¢, I felt at the moment a sort of remorse that

been unable to reciprocate her affection. “How
it have been worse, aunt ?’’

“ My dear,” said she, ‘I was afraid that it was Cecil.”

   
 
 

- + CHAPTER XXVI.
, THE RETURN HOME, s

_ Jax waa not only dead, but, what is nuvre shockin,
to those who receive such calamitous news, she
_ died a violent death. -Cecil’s letter ran as follows;
. ' “ 2Bggischorn Hotel.”
“My DEAREST Frrenp : I write this in the most ter-
rible distress of mind and wretchedness that it is

told you, I think, in my last letter how bold and ven-
turesome she was in our mountain excursions, exciting
the of our fellow-tourists, and even of the
guides. ° ioe: that is all over now. She has paid the

her rashriess—if she indeed were rash—with |

“were we, that I myself
writing, not of her fate, but of my own, which is to be
alone in the world forever. : .
“We had been ean hotel for some time,
and making excursions it among the mountains;

especially we had been more than once to the beautiful

| hours passed in the meantime. It was moonlight when

‘| and exhausted was I,

known it, I do believe, blindfol

dearest Jane is dead and lost.. I) itself

cess. I shall start

Marjelensee, and had grown quite familiar with it.
Beyond it lies the Alitsch Glacier; we had been thither
also. The snow had hidden its crevasses, so that we
had to be very careful; but our guide was a good one,
and perhaps for that very réason his work looked much
easier than it really was. He told us that the snow was
the great danger, and that, if we could only have seen
our way, there would have been little to fear. A few
days afterwards I proposed to Jane—yes, it was I; I own
it—to go to the Marjelensee alone. I had not the least
intention to proceed farther; and, as it happened, we
did not even go thither alone, for we were accompanied
by a party bound for Faulberg, where they were to pass
the night on the rocks. These, with their guides, left
us upon the brink of the Alitsch Glacier; with the
understanding that we ourselves were ‘returning
homeward—that is, to the hotel. How shall I describe
to you what then happened? TI grow sick and faint
even while I think of it. Jane and I watched our late
companions until they were specks—black dots on the
waste of ice and snow. Itwas early in the afternoon,
and we had plenty of time before: Alas ! for one of us
there was an eternity! It was Jane, and not I, who
then proposed that we should extend our own wander-
ings alittle. A great peak rose above us, one side of
which went sheer down to the glacier; but the other,
though steep, looked practicable enough from where
we stood. ‘Let us climb it,’ said she; ‘ what a splen-
did view we shall then have!’ You know, dearest Fred,
that I could never réfuse my sister anything; and, be-
sides, I confess that I saw no great danger in the adven-
ture. Well, we climbed it, and rested on its wedge-like
summit, beneath which we could look—though scarce
without some dizziness—right down. upon the glacier,
bare of snow just. there, and showing in places a crack—
a crevice, as it appeared; each of which, however, was
a deep crevasse. There was scarce a breath of air
abroad, as we stood leaning on our alpenstocks, en- |
trauced with the solemn splendors of the scene. I had
just looked at my watch—it was half-past three
o’clock—and had mechanically turned round in the
direction of the Eggischorn, when a terrible cry -rang
through the silent air. Jane was no longer by my side !
Oh Heaven, the horror of that moment! My. heart
ceased to beat; it seemed as though my own life had.
fled with hers; for even ‘in that moment, as I strive to
believe, she had lost her life.

rsuade myself, alas! for saw her falling down that

rrible precipice, with her poor hands stretched out in
vain to save herself, and then shoot on to the gray-blue
glacier and disappear. Pity me, dear Fred, pity me!
Not only could I do nothing—I could not even think
for her; not, indeed, that thought could have availed
her—but I knelt down upon that fatal ridge, and gazed
and gazed till I seemed to see the whole dreadful thing,
as in a dream, pass before my eyes again and again ;jand
yet I knew all the while that she was lying in the
depths of some creyasse a corpse, and colder than any
corpse. Icannot tell yon how long I thus remained,
and hardly what I did, when I came to’my wretched
self. But I got down the peak somehow, the same
way as we had ascended it, though with infinite diffi-
culty, for I trembled in every linib, and then—you will
say—returned to the hotel for aid. That is what has*
been alreddy said tome: ‘Why did you notreturn at
once? If aid had then been possible, doubtless I
should have done so; but if my darling had wad fifty
lives, they must all haye been lost long since, not to
mention that it would haye taken me hours, in the con-
dition to which grief and terror had reduced me, to
reach the inn at ‘all fad she all the while deep down in
the cruel ice: I could not bear to leave the spot; I
strove to get on to where I thought she was, and called
her name a hundred times; but she was dumb:'

“How I got home myself I cannot tell, or how the

I arrived there somehow, and not in my senses even
then, for it seems'I must have gone straight to her
room—the people of the inn being all in bed, and its}
door as nsual being unfastened—as though to assure
myself that I had indeed been witness to what seerned
still a nightmare vision too terrible for realit; - But the
next minute I had roused the house, and told them all,

“Though nature is so en can I ever forget the

oO

cold and otters, beauty of that hateful glacier, whose
rayening maw had swallowed up ee oe Isaw
it that night by moonlight? Man is kind; and a part

was formed at once to go search for Jane. So
at Ihad to be carried on men’s
‘shoulders, for, if course, my presence was necessary in
order to identify the fatal spot. Il] and bewildered as I
was, there was no difficufty in that. I should have
+ But though we had
ropes ag puetiances of all kinds, and bold men, whose
services I feel nd money can repay. who suffered them-
s>lves to be lowered down, down in those icy depths—it
was all in vain. They came up numb and half-dead them-
selyes, and reper that they had not neared the bot:
tom of that tl ve, I have said that she was
dead and lost. There she lies yet, Fred, and will lie,
perchance, until the judgment day, unless, as is suid
the slow-moving glacier, scores of years to come, shall.
bring her dear remains to light, to the eyes of an un-
born generation. If the news of such a catastrophe is
awful to you, what then, think you, must the event
‘have been to me, the hélpless witness of it!) My
nerves are shattered and gone. You will see me an
Le br Brag phot but you will see —— T cannot
bear this loneliness any longer, or remain here, now
that all has been accomplished which is practicable—

committee of guides, who have been

‘sad service, that there is not the faintest of suc-
‘for London to-morrow, and arrive
Merton Square on the heels of this letter. I know I,
shall find a welcome there, a place of rest after this

I strive, but L,.cannot |

Ireter to the attempts to recover the body. I have |:
| been assured this morning by a delegate from a ee

 

 

heavy trouble. It is no longer a sharp pain, as:at first,

which consumes me; my existence is becoming an ach-
‘ing void. But these are words of little meaning: only
when you see me will you be able to discern what has
been wrought in me by the events of the last few days.
I have not heard news of you for amonth—no doubt
in consequence of our late erratic movements, and not
of any neglect on your part. Heaven grant that with
you, at least, allis well! Believe me, my dear Fred, in
my present wretchedness, even more than of old, to be
yours ever faithfully, ; Crom, Wray.”

Poor Cecil! How thoroughly I sympathized with
him, how deeply I pitied him! ever in my
young life had I read any words that so affected me
as these. And yet, though the letter was full of feeling,
itseemed a curiously reticent one. My cousin had
scarcely ever written to me, before, without some ten-
der allusion to his sister’s affection for myself; and
now ofall times, when she was dead and gone, it was
to have been expected that he would have referred to
it. Poor Jane! Her courage,I had never doubted,
nor had I been surprised to hear of her ee
her brother in perilous places, but I should: have
thought he would have insisted. upon their having
guides. I had begged of him, while in South America,

not to b3so venturesome, and it was unlike him.to have av

neglected any appeal of mine. ‘ Never fear ; you shall
see my Jace again ,” he had written back ; halfin jest ;
and though I was about to doso, he had little thought
that Ishould see his face only, without that other one,
which had been almost as constant to itas its own
shadow. " $

Well, we would do all we could for him with willing
hearts. AuntBen would welcome him as of old, and
Eleanor (whom, since he -had not heard from us of late,
he would not expect to find with us) would hold out a
sisterly hand to him, though she might never supply
his sister’s place. ’

All next day, and the next, we three could talk of
nothing but of Jane’s awful fate. We dwelt upon the
good that was in her—her courage, her resolution, her
devotion to her brother, and even her accomplishments,
such as music, down to the patient toil: she used to be-
stow on the intricacies of her Chinese puzzle ; and we
forgot, or strove to do so, all her faults. As time went
.on, in every hour of which welooked for my cousin's,
coming, we still talked of her, but more at large.

Aunt Ben’s affection for Cecil was great and genuine,
as I have said ; but, of course, she did not entertain the
love for him which friendship had grafted in me: she
knew of poor Jane’s old tend7esse (how old it seemed ! )
for myself, but it did not seem to her now: as it did to
me. She discoursed, therefore, upon the calamity with
less of reverence, if I may use the word, than I did ; it is
thenature of women,I think, to treat such matters
with more familiarity than men use; and her words
sometimes jarred upon me. Iwas. much annoyed by
one observation of hers in particular, which seemed to
mre in very bad taste ; I can apply to it no worse terms,
for ‘‘ heartless’’ I knew it was not. ‘ Only think,’ said
she, “if this shocking accident had happened to her
brother, instead of poor Jane, how rich you would have
been, Fred !"’ i ‘ ‘

Lreplied with indignation that I would not have had
itso for a million of money; the very ideaof such a
thing seemed to freeze my blood, just as it had,to do
her justice, frozen Aunt Ben’s when she thought the
letter had come from Jane. :

“TI believe it, my dear Fred,” returned my aunt;
“your friendship is aright loyal one. Else it might.
have occurred to some people in your position, debarred
—at all events for the present—by lack of means from
wedding such a girl as our Eleanor.” .
| “My dear Aunt Ben,’’ broke in Nelly, ‘‘I should not
me ae if I thought him capable of harboring such a

ought.” i

A reply so creditable to my darling that I thought if
only right to reward her for it with a kiss.

Another and another day, and yet no Cecil, At last a
letter from him from Paris—where he had been taken ill,
it seemed—to say he would be with us that evening,
but not to dinner. We dined, therefore, as usual, and
-afterwards all three remained below stairs, because the
dining-room window looked into the square, and we

} could watch for him, It was autumn, and the nights

‘were fast drawing in; it grew almost dark, and yet we
did not eed $o have the shutters closed, nor the lamp
‘lit. It ed better that he should come to us in the
| gray twilight, somehow, and not show every seam that
sorrow mig) t have made in his poor face to our tearful
eyes at first. The long-expec cab at last drew up at

| the door, and the next instant we heard Cecil’s voice:

very sad and broken it seemed, but still unmistakably
his. As he came into the room I threw myself into his

arms.

“ Dear Cecil,” cried I, “‘ welcome home !’

Considering the cause that had brought him, it was
impossible to say more. Surely it could not be that
he thought my less warm than they might
have been, but I fancied that he did not return my
hand with res: ve cordiality. I did not know
then. ef is called “ bitter” because it sometimes
makes acrid the sweet waters of the soul. The next.
“eee however, he was himself again, and sobbed
out:, , . oe
_ “God. bless you, Fred!” then hid himself in the
arms of good Aunt Ben. . git

«You are better, I trust?” said she, her nsual good
senso at once suggesting allusion to his own recent in-
be Teubj ei avoi for the moment the, more

nful subject.

“Yes, I am well saoheh now,” said he, wearily—
, nese whe Sead paral eee

e ed e enou ;
fact, what he had warned us that we see him—
veld pects ita bat Het the  Puctpeauserebior Gm
ive! often do; but the who
lite ‘at Gatconibo had given to him wae, 90 far as Tcould
judge by that dim light, quite gone; he looked more

 
 

CECIL’S TRYST.

29

 

 

like what he was when he had first come from India,
and through that, association he seemed, curiously
enough, a younger man. But the lines in his face had,
on the other hand, aged him much, and the tremor of
his limbs, and the unsteady accents of his tongue, cor-
roborated only too well the words of his letter—“ my
nerves are shaken and gone.”

Eleanor had hitherto remained in the baekground, but
now she came forward with extended hand, just as the
servant was bringing in the lighted lamp.

“Who is this?” cried Cecil, starting back, almost, as |

it seemed, in alarm,

“Why, it’s Nelly, to be sure,’ said I, unconsciously |

adopting a soothing tone, for, for the moment, it really
struck me that my poor cousin’s brain was affected.

“Oh yes, I forgot; I—I bey your pardon,” stammered
Cecil. ‘I did not expect tu see you here, Eleanor;” and
he kissed her cheek.

“Oh yes,’”’ said Aunt Ben, cheerfully; “ Nelly is one
of us now, as you would have heard had you received
our last letter.”

“ One of you!’’ gasped he, looking at me as if for an
explanation. ‘What does she mean?’

‘She is living with us, under my aunt's roof, at pres-
ent, Cecil.”

“Living here.!’’ exclaimed my cousin, excitedly.
Then turning round to the suryant, he cried: “ Stop the
cab—do you hear me ?—or call another, Don’t take my
luggage up stairs; I won't have it.’”’

it was plain to us now that there was something
wrong with poor Cecil’s brain: it must have given way
under the pressure of his grief; or perhaps it was owing
to his late illness, which might have been sun-stroke.
Eleanor slipped out of the room at once, and my aunt
motioned the servant to go away.

“My dear. Cecil,”’ said she, quietly, ‘“‘ why should you
refuse to stay here because Eleanor is with us?’

Cecil pointed to me with a shaking finger, and mur-
mured, hoarsely ; “‘J/e knows why,” '

Then I perceived, for the first time, what was the real
state of affairs, My cousin’s mind was wholly taken up
with the thoughts of his lost sister: he had been her
confidant with respect to her affection for myself, and
he could not just now endure to live under the same
roof with her who had won the love I had denied to
Jane. It was very sad and painful, but, knowing
Cecil’s sensitive nature as I did, it seemed charac-
teristic enough.

“I know to what you refer, Cecil,’’ said I, “ or I think
Ido, but I do trust you will not allow a morbid senti-
ment to affect you so deplorably.

Cecil had fallen into a chair, and hidden his face—the
very picture of despairing woo,

‘Bear with me, both of you, for a little,” groaned he.
‘‘I will see her to-morrow. Yea, yes, we shall be good
friends, as of old, no doubt, in time, but I cannot live
here. If there is an inn near, I will go there, please.”

We thought it right not.to argue with him further,
and apartments were secured for him at a neighboring
hotel for the night, After this had been arranged, he
scemed to grow calmer, discoursed of the catastrophe
which had deprived him of his alter ego with greater
self-command than could have been expected of him;
and we felt twlerably convinced that our fears had been
groundless with respect to his state of mind. Some re-
ireshments was brought in for him, of which he ate but
little, though he drank more wine than he had been
used to drink: and after more talk in excited tones con-
cerning Jane, he presently withdrew to his hotel, prom-
ising to breakfast with us the ensuing morning.

 

CHAPTER XXVII.
JUST IN TIME.

OF course, poor Cecil’s conduct distressed us all very
much, but we sympathized far too deeply with the
cause of it to feel.angry with him, I confess I felta
little sore, upon dear Nelly’s account, for it seemed a
eruel thing that she, who had no other home than ours,
should be made to feel that her presence was an obsta-
cle to my cousin’s reception there; but Nelly behaved
like an angel. She kept out of Cecil’s way as much as
possible; and when she was compelled to bein his com-
pany, as at meals, she showed a tact and delicacy that
drew forth from Aunt Ben, when she and I were alone
together, the warmest eulogiums. Cecil, on his part, I
do honestly believe, did his best to get over his most
unwarrantable prejudice, and was studiously polite and
civil to her, as though desirous to make amends for that
first outbreak ; but his behavior at the best was only
like that of a gentleman of courtly manners, and those
somewhat stiff; his old genial tone was gone, as regarded
Nelly, altogether, and sadly altered with respect to Aunt
Ben and myself. Iam bound to say that, so far as feel-
ing went, I think he loved me no less than of old, but
the tender frankness that had formerly characterized
him had now given place to a melancholy reserve, He
had been wont to be a great talker, and his laugh (be-
fore the occurrence of that miserable affair at Gatcombe,
which had exiled him from home, and country, and
sweetheart, and been indirectly the cause of his sister's
death) had been one of those cheery ones which win an-
swering echoes from those who hear it; but he was very
silent now; and if he smiled, it was easy to see the effort
that it cost him to do so. It was not likely, we thought,
tuat he would be interested with ordinary topics; and
besides, we felt a delicacy in discussing them in his
presence, and go it happened that our constant talk was
ubout poor Jane, so that we became a very mournful
little company.

After dinner, over a cigar—I say a cigar, for my cousin
never smoked, which at this time was certainly a mis-
fortune for him, when he stood so much in need of so-
lace—Cecil would emerge a little from his shell ot reti-
cence (or perhaps it was I who drew him out, as it were,
by the horns)—and talk of his South American experi-
enoes; but any reference to Gatcombe seemed distasteful
to him, though I studiously avoided such recollections

 

of the place as were not immediately connected with
his sister. He answered in monosyllables, and at times
seemed to be quite oblivious to what I was talkin
about. 1] reminded him of the old days~when we use
to Beaumont-and-Fletcher it together, but it touched

no responsive chord, though he professed a great inter- |

est in my present dramatic fortunes, and listened with
attention when I spoke of them. (How little he

guessed, pocr fellow, that the successful young actress, |

to whom I hoped to be indebted for my introduc-
tion to the stage—for the Hole-in-the-Wall fiasco, I

counted as nothing—was his own Ruth!) He seemed |

alinost to have lost his memory for all events in which
Jane had had no share. So curious an instance of this
occurred one day, that the idea that his. brain was af-
fected again intruded itself upon my mind,and gave
me great uneasiness, It happened in this way: One of
my early attempts at dramatic writing was a sort of
burlesque in verse on the subject of Bluebeard. Before
the wicked being was slain the avenging brothers
were made to discuss his character ; in speaking of the
airs he gave himself, one described him rather wit-
tily as

“4 wretched Cove who thinks himself a Bey!”

and apropos to something Cecil and I were discours-
ing about, I quoted’ this line, and asked him if he re-
membered it.

“Of course I do,’’ said he; ‘I remember I used to
think it one of your very best.”

‘But it was not mine at all,” returned I.

“Indeed !’’ said he. ‘* Whose was it ?’’

,

“Why, yours,” answered I, in great surprise (and, |
indeed, not without some trepidation on his account), |

“ Don t you remember coming tomy room at Gatcombe
with the slip of paper in your hand with that very line
written out upon it, and telling me that the words
had suddenly struck you, and.that you had been afraid
of forgetting them? Why, my dear Cecil, you must
surely remember that !”’

“No,’’ said my cousin, smiling faintly, and witha
strange painedlook. ‘1 remember nothing now, ex-
cept what I would wish to forget.”

“You surely do not forget Ruth Waller,” said I, sig-
nificantly;

It struck me that it was better to speak plainly with
him, and also, upon my own account, I was very eager
to get that subject over; he might otherwise allude
toit ata less opportune moment, and detect in me
some signs of embarrassment.

“ Forget her! ‘Great heaven ! never!” cried he.

He trembled in every limb; his accents were those of
positive terror.

“Do you wish to forget her, then?’ said I. “Is it
possible that this misfortune of yours should not only
disincline you towards your old friends’””——

“Misfortune?” echoed Cecil, interrupting me.

“ Well, my friend, call it what you will—this catas-
trophe, then, which fills us with terror and regret—I
say, are you going to permit it to make your whole life
miserable—to chill your heart against love itself?”

“Do not talk to me of love, Fred,” said he, trembling
again; ‘that is over and done with.”

“You think so now,” said I, ‘But all wounds heal
in time; and supposing that this mystery of Waller's
death should be cleared up’’——

“It never will be!”’ broke in Cecil, in a hollow voice.
“Itnever can be!”

“Nay, but if it showld be, and Ruth were to be
found”’——

“TI do not desire to meet her,” interrupted he, “I
tell you if she were found to-morrow that I would not
see her.”

He spoke with passionate energy, as though he would

have made up by force of expression for his lack of

fixed resolve; for it was monstrous, I thought, that the
antipathy entertained by his sister against Ruth should
affect him seriously for long. For the present, however,
it was evidently better to avoid this subject. My allu-
sion toit seemed to have alreudy disturbed him great-
ly, for he rose, and proposed our joining the ladies,
much before our usual time: asa rule, he preferred to

be alone with me, as I have said, though he did not |

smoke.

We found Eleanor at the piano, andI asked Cecil to
play an accompaniment with her on the flute. He
shook his head. ‘‘ I have quite forgotten my fiute-play-

ing,” said he; “it would be useless to attempt it.’”|

Then he whispered to me that that was not his true
reason for deelining, but that he would never play the
flute again, because he had been wont to do so with
Jane only. ;

“That is another pleasure sacrificed to a morbid
idea,”’ saidI, ‘‘ Your sorrow takes an unhealthy form
indeed.’’ Isuppose I spoke rather sharply (and I own
Iwas getting somewhat impatient at his conduct), for I

saw a keen expression of pain come into his face, “ For- |

give me, my dear Cecil,’”’ continued I;** but I do hope

you are not serious in what you say, To give up your |

music would, just now, be indeed bad for you.”

“Tf you think so” said he submissively, “I will
not give it up,” and presently, when Nelly left her seat,
he sat down at the instrument and played a few pieces.
I noticed that he chose those of which his sister used to
be fond, and not his own old favorites; and it seemed
to me that his touch was improved—the reason of
which was plain enough: he played, as the critics say,
“with feeling.”

“Do you remember the last time I ever heard you
play, Cecil ?’’ said I, as I leaned over him.

“Yes,” he said: “it was this, was it not ?—his
fingers struck out at once, And ye shall walk in silk
Attire. It’ was the tune he had played that night at
Gatcombe when he had announced his determination
to marry Ruth; and even now, at the last verse;

“* And ere-I’m found to break my faith,
I'll lay me down and dee,”

‘that look of tender resolve which he wore when he
| played it then came once more into his face,
| Now, ifhe had really given up all thought of Ruth,
how could this have been ? ,
Cecil’s conduct altogether, in short, was not only
strange, but inconsistent; and I put this down at first:
‘to the struggle in his own mind between his natural
inclination and the course he had imposed upon him-
self to take, out of respect for Jane’s memory. In
time, I thought, the tormer would gain the upper
hand, and he would be himself again. But in this, it
seemed, I was mistaken. A very curious phase began
to exhibit itself in my cousin s character, and one of
the existence of which I (who had faneied I knew him
so. well) had certainly never dreamed. He began to
show an alucrity in business matters; not exactly a
passion for money, but an interest in it, which he never
showed before. .|t was only with the utmost difleulty
that my father had been able to get him to listen to
any statement of his own affairs; whereas now he
seemed to like nothing so well as to’ make appoint-
ments with his lawyer, Mr. Clote—the same whom my
‘ uncle had named as trustce to the twins in conjunctiom
| with my father—and to discourse of the great property
| that would accrue to him upon his coming of age.
Though this puzzled us, we were all inclined to think
it a good sign, for we had begun to despair of the poor
fellow’s becoming ‘interested in anything; but, un-
happily, he pushed this interest so far beyond all rea-
sonable limits that it began to injure his whole charac-
| ter. It became plain to me that my once kind, gene-
| rous, impulsive friend was becoming—it is @ harsh
word, and I was very slow to use it—purse-proud,
Though I am sure he entertained all his old atfection
tor me, he wanted to be something besides my friend—
something which is not only very different from, but
incompatible with, friendship—namely, my patron.
He knew that I was comparatively poor: and starting
upon those premises, he took upon himself not only to
administer lectures upon my improvidence generally,
but actually had the bad taste to warn me against con-
tracting marriage upon slender means. I could scarce-
ly believe my ears when they heard him. For the first
time in my life I was seriously angry with my cousin ;
still, [remembered the: heavy blow that had befallen
him—though not by this time what could be called re-
cently—and for the sake of the old days, and because
he was under my own roof, I hesitated to express what
I felt. Unhappily, he took my silence for a sign that I
was willing to hear more on the same theme.

«You must not think,’’ said he, “ that I am actuated
by any feeling against Eleanor in the advice I ‘have
ventured to give you; I should say the same if you had
imprudently engaged yourself to any other young lady
with insufficient means.”

“You are most generous, Cecil,” said I, coldly, “ with
your advice ; but ’——

“Excuse me,” interrupted he, with haste; ‘ do not
‘mistake me, Fred; not only my advice, but all else
that belongs to me is equally at yourservice. I should
not think it right—from principle, I assure you, and not
| from any morbid antipathy, such as you may imagine
—to make over to you, for example, some large sum to
| enable you to marry Eleanor ’’——
|“ Cecil,” cried I, ‘are you drunk or mad, that you

dare to speak to me in this manner?”
| “Hear me out, hear me out!’ answered he, excitedly;
“I was about to add that, for your own benefit—to do
‘ you certain gool—there is no sum within my means
that I would hesitate to give you.”

| Cecil,” said I, speaking very slowly, *‘ you have de-
' stroyed, by your last five minutes’ talk, the work of
years of friendship. ‘You toldme in your letter from
Switzerland to expect to find you another man; I am
sorry tosay that that expectation is fulfilled, You have
spoken what no gentleman should speak, what should
never, for an instant, have even entered into his mind.
| You have proposed to yourself to bribe me with your
money to give up my promised bride. And why?
Because, torsooth, Jane was jealous of her! If your
sister's memory urges you thus to disgrace yourself,
| the sooner you forget her the better. To be plain with
you (for you have earned plainness), her influc nce with
you was always for evil, and now that she is dead, she
|seems to be doing you more harm than she did when
jalive. I have borne with your, morbid fancies lon
jenough. I will not have them brought to bear agains
my darling, who is worth ten thousand Janes !—nor,
| when I have said that, have I estimated Nelly very

| highly !”
|

 

 

It was a most improper speech to make to my guest
and sorely-stricken friend, and the instant it had
; hurried from my lips I was sorry for it. The effect
} upon him was quite shocking. to witaess: he put up
| his hands, to shield himself from those sharp words, as.
| though they had been visible arrows.
“ Spare me, spare me !’”’ cried he, bitterly, “‘ you have
| said enough !””
| “I had no intention to say more, or to hurt your
feelings at all, Cecil,” said 1; ‘but you drove me to do
80. If you have a regard for me, as you profess (and
which I do not doubt) you should have also some con-
sideration for her with whom my life is henceforth to
be bound up. You should not have supposed that I
would have given her up for any reason on earth, and
far\less have insulted. me by offering me money to do
so. Lown, however, I was wrong to use such words
about Jane. I.did not, it is true, entertain much afiec-
tion for her; nobody did, Cecil, as you well. know,
except poe but it is not right to say harsh things
of the dead,” p
It was not so much anger against Cecil (though I was
still very angry) that caused me to speak so plainly, as
a desire to strike, once for all, and for all our sakes,
against those eternal references to his lost sister. My
words had in the end the desired result, for he became
for the future almost reticent regarding her; but, in
the meantime, their effect was far beyond what I had
intended. Cecil seemed literally to shrink iuto him-

 

 
 

! hand. He motioned me away with a frantic gesture.

and we.should both have got our deserts,

ee

30

CECIL’S TRYST.

 

 

self; he strove to speak, and failed; then, white and
trembling, he arose, and had passed swiftly out of the
room, and out of the house, bareheaded, and taken a.

~ cab’ to his hotel, or elsewhere, before I could think of
what to say or do. i i

To Nelly I was obliged to explain his precipitate de-
| Pome upon the ground of sudden indisposition, for

could not, of course, reveal to her what had in reality
caused it; but to Aunt Ben I confided all. Devoted to
Eleanor, of whose merits, since she had been an inmate of
our house, she was more convinced than ever, my aunt
by no means blamed the sharpness which I had used
on her behalf; but, on the other hand, shé expressed
a as seriously apprehensive of its effect upon

il.

“ Yes,” said I, gloomily; ‘he will never forgive me.
Instead of our old friendship reawakening, as I had
hoped it would in time, I fear that we have killed it
between us.” , ,

“No, no,” said Aunt Ben, positively; ‘there is no
fear of that; all the affection that is left in the poor lad
is concentrated upon yourself. But I think you should
see him again to-night, after what has happened.” -

- But we had no ee argued I; “ or rather, J, at
least, have said nothing that I wish to unsay.” one

“My dear Fred,” returned Aunt Ben, gravely,
“that isnot the question. I do not blame you for feel-
ing as you do, nor wonder that my suggestion is dis-
tasteful to you. But Cecil is not himself: he has noone
with him, and he conceives that he has mortally offend,
ed the only friend he has in the world. There is no
knowing, in his morbid and excited state, what rash act
he may not be capable of committing.”

“If I thought that,” said I, with hesitation.

“ Well, 7 think:so, Fred, If it is only an old woman's
fancy, you have given in to such already many a time,”
(here she kissed my forehead); “ it is only doing so once
more: for my sake, follow him. He has left his hat; let
that be your excuse, if your pride insists on’one;: but
pray, go atonce.”” - ; .

I went, of course. A thousand times since then have
I blessed Aunt Ben for making me do so. The convic-
tion that she was right was strengthened with every
step I took; and before I had reached the hotel, the
likelihood of the peril at which shehad hinted was only
too ent tome. Iran up stairs unannounced, and
opened tste- sitting-room door without knocking. He
was not there; but I heard him moving about in his

- bed-room beyond. The two rooms comminicated with
one another.» Upon the table lay the old-fashioned
desk Wiich had been his father’s, with: a letter on it,
the address of which—and it was’ my ownwas not yet
dry. I hesitated as to whether or not I should read
the contents, doubting if I was privileged to do so; and
also reflecting, if they should be words of farewell,
would it not distress him, if all should still be made
right, to know that I-had perused them? Most for-
tunately, as I now ‘think, I decided not to do so.' I
stepped to the bed-room and tried the handle of the
door; it was not locked, and I softly opened it an inch
ortwo and put my foot in,so that it could not bé closed ‘|

nst me. Then, in a voice which I did not, recog-
nize myself, so overcome was I with anxiety, I called
“* Cecil.” Webs

There was a sound of some motal falling on the
8round—arazor, as I rightly guessed—and on theinstant
tt im headlong. My cousin was alive and untouch-

; but his bared throat, and the weapon dying ga the
floor were proofs of how narrowly I had escaped bein;
too late. The situation was terrible enough; but no
even the expectation of immediate death, I should have |
thought, and by self-murter, could have imprinted on
human countenance such unutterable terror as that
with which my cousin now regarded me.

Startled from his purpose, I suppose, by the sudden.
utterance of his own name, he had fallen back against
the bed, and there remained half-standing; half-sup-

orted by it, speechless and staring. To give him time

‘collect himself, I picked up the razor and put it into
its case; then I advanced towards him, holding out my

“7 you read that letter?” said he in hoarse, low
} “No, Cecil.”
“ Upon your solemn oath ?” : i |
“Yes,” said I, ‘if, you wish to have it. I thought
that I was not privileged to do so. » But,’’ added I, re-
lH provingly, ‘‘I can guess its contents only too well.”

F “Ah!” He gave a sigh of intense relief, took out his
handkerchief to wipe the perspiration that covered his
forehead, and rose feebly to his feet. “It was very,
very wicked of me, Fred,” said he; “a minute ater
You would:

oes

i} —and I—Ishould have been a lost soul !

Shocked as I was, it struck me as very s' 6 that at
such atime he should be ee of his money. “It had
evidently become:a disease with him to do so; nor are
other cases unknown, though rare, in which excessive
griet has taken that morbid form. Observing that m
eyes wandered to the razor, he said: “Never fear, Fred,
I will not listen to that devil again.” or 18

By the razor was a Bible, with the name of! the hotel
stamped upon it—Iseem to read it now—and it sug-
gested to me what I thought an excellent idea,

“You talked of oaths,”’ said I, “a minute ago.

 

ae

 

 

r
Nel, ‘ou shall swear that, or else, as sure as you are
8 alive, I will call for help, and you intocus-
tody fora madman. You dare not break an oath, I
know, and indeed there was a time when your bare
panne aonene Come, swear to me that

- you willnever attempt your lifeagain.”) =
Cecil took the sock: readily enough, then looked at
me, as if of how to as Rass T68le
) gre do as the witnesses did in Batty’s trial,”
| OL AG: Hoh Belmae Fatty Jens evgtut ods 4
: “What did they do?’ said he. “I have forgotten
et Ae & aie . < » . BODES

ua o

eo

=

 

t

of the Peddler’s Pack
even won to smiles by its
delays and mismanagement incidental to all theatrical
proceedings pos’

out of the Foot: Page, and afforded
ing Cecil and

reumstances
well demand my undivided attention. ©

man
of a

“seemed,
come her; the’ designed

thing to f
friend had thereupon taken the responsibility of tele-

I thought this a mero excuse for delay; for it seemed
incredible he could have forgotten any incident in an
affair so important to himself, and of which I remiom-
bered every detail. ;

“You must kiss. the book,” said I, “and say ‘I will
ps on my life with my own hand again, so help
me God.’ ”

He kissed the book, and repeated the words readily
enough, but with this addition: “ Unless ajrcumstances
should arise which should make it, in my Cousin Fred-
erick’s eyes, the best thing for me to do.”

“ That can never be,” said I, coolly, for I did not wish
to excite him unnecessarily by remonstrance. He
seemed to me to be standing on the very boundary-
line between sanity and madness.

‘ Ifit can never be, Fred, then there can be no harm
in making the proviso.” :

“ Neither harm nor good,” assented I. “You look
very ill and worn, Cecil; I shall now leave you to your
repose, in complete confidence in the word that you
haye passed to your Creator.” j

“Yes, yes; I will keep that,” said Cecil, slowly. I
would have shaken him by the hand then and there,
and left him, but he insisted on accompanying me to
the door of the sitting-room. As hedid sol saw his
eyes glance anxiously at the letter on the desk, and
lighten up as it fellon the unbroken seal; but though
this pained me, as implying a doubt of my veracity, I
took no notice of it. If there was much to forgive in
my poor cousin’s conduct, there was much reason for
forgiveness; and I resolved to keep even from Aunt
Ben what I had just seen and heard, ‘

—

CHAPTER XXVIII.
“I WILL GO WITH THE REST TO-MORROW.”

For some days after the occurrence I have narrated,
Cecil kept to his own apartments at the hotel, where I
took an occasional meal with him alone; and before he
felt sufficiently himself to revisit our house, an event
took place which, for the present, removed from it thé
chief cause of his disinelination to doso. A telegram ar-
rived for Nelly from’ the Gatcombe doctor, desiring her
immediate presence at her grandfather’s bedside: the

old man was dying, and had expressed an earnest wish

tosee her. Ofcourse, she did not hesitate for a mo-
ment to obey such a sumntons; and as it was obvious
she could not go alone, for- many reasons—Sir Ri¢hard
Harewood was still at the manor-house, for one—Aunt
Ben volunteered to accompany her, and, what was a
feat very creditable to the sex, which, with all its vir-
tues, is apt to be a little slow in movements of depar-
ture, the two started off together within three-quarters
of an hour of the receipt of the news. Thus it hap.
pened that Cecil and I,were thrown more together

alone than we had been eyen in the. old Gatcombe days.

Of course, after what had happened, I could not leave
him to himself, even if I had wished to doso; andi did
not wish it, pee on his own. account, and partly be-
cause the only business of importance that called me
from him. gave me great embarrassment to pursue ‘it;
for the business was no other than the. preparation of
my play of the Foot-Page, under the superintendence
of Miss Brabant of the Corintheum, and the embarrass+
ment arose from the fact that Ruth was’ evincing a
great desire to see Cecil—who was still unaware of my

having discovered in the successful actress his old’
| flame—and I had not the courage. to tell her that his

heart (t: ough it might love her still as of yore) was
more steeled against her love than ever. r OF

This change in her feeiings towards him was caused,
curiously enough, by the same event which had made

‘him more obstinate not to press his suit—namely, the

death of Jane. Even if the mystery of Richard Waller's

) fate should be cleared up, there would still now remain,

as my cousin had himself told me, a positive disin-
clination to meet Ruth, upon the ground of his dead
sister's strong dislike to her: and this was not so pleas-

ant a piece of news to communicate that I should wil-
lingly put myselfin the way of having it extracted by
cross-examination.
me, I was convinced, forshe had already put some lead-
ing questions, which I had had some difficulty. to
answer, in’ the single interview I had had with her
‘since Cecil’s return. It was clear to me she wished to
seo him, and, as I thought, counted upon her novel
‘charms—for her beauty was
‘tasteful attire and ornament, an
acquired, in the foreing-house of theatrical life,.a
piquanay quite incredible, considering the short space
of time that had elapsed since she was a mere village
girl—to quench the faint embers of morbid feeling that
might still remain to him, now that Jane was no longer.
have had wealth—the means of happiness, in your case at his side to fan them and keep them aglow. What
Pe 8 | added. to my perplexity still more was, that Cecil on
his part was somewhat desirous to see Miss Brabant, |.
albeit he would on no account have been present
(though, goodness knows, rehearsals are not  gayeties)
even at the rehearsal of my play. It was astounding,
now that we were left alone together, how his old in-
‘terest in my affairs began to show itself. He made me

That Ruth would cross-examine

her conversation had

ell him the whole lamentable story of the enactinent
at the Hole-in-the-Wall, and was
recital. Fortunately, the

tponed from week to week the bringing
‘ an excuse for ee

Miss Brabant apart; and in the meant
were occurring at Gatcombe that might

When Nelly arrived at the rectory, she found the old
speechless, and apparently ae consequence
paralytic seizure. He knew her, it was plain, and
‘by the expression of his distorted face, to wel-
mention of her tl

doctor in his presence had indeed been the first
recall him’ to consciousness, and our old

aes heightened by

he | ‘her promisé to come

‘author, was like clay to the»
‘Icould not help alluding to the little 1

graphing to us at once; but he was quite incapa-
ble of communicating his wishes more particularly.
He could’ not stir a finger joint, nor voluntarily
wink an ‘eyelid. The frame of iron had given
way in allits parts with simultaneous completeness;
the will alone was left as strong as ever, but powerless,
Others could read its existence in the anxious fire 0:
his sleepless eyes, but they could not, or would not
translate it. His punishment had indeed begun; for
what must such as he’ have suffered, to know himself
about to perish without sign, his last consuming desire
unsatisfied, his last command unobeyed, because not
understood. That he was reconciled with his grand-
daughter was evident from the yearning glances that
he threw towards her while she sat beside him, and the
despairing look he wore whenever she left the room,
even for a moment; and at last it struck’the doctor that
what lay so heavy on the sick man’s mind must needs
be in connection with her. Having come to this saga-
cious conclusion, he communicated it rivately to
Aunt Ben, with the following result (as F shaWards
learned from her own lips).

“Man alive !"’.answered she, impatiently, “do you
suppose I do not know it, or that poor Nell yonder
does not knowit? Ican tell you much more than that.
Do you not see how, when his eyes are not upon her,
they rove to the big escritoire; in which he keeps his
papers, and from it to the fire-place, and back, and

ack again? He wants to burn his will!” —

At this the doctor slapped his knee so vigorously thdt
" made Nelly start in her chair by the sick man’s pil-

ow

“Miss Wray,”’ said«he, “Master Fred may be the
genius of the family, but you’ve got all’ the common
sense. You're right, no doubt. What a shame, and
what a pity it seems. I suppose it would not be per-
missible to-eh? But, of course, it wouldn’t.”

“If one could give him speech but for one minute,”
mused my aunt; “or, still better, strength to enable
him to make half a dozen strokes with his pen, they
would be worth ten thousand pounds a piece to Nelly
yonder.”’ ; :

“If you promised

me the money for myself, Miss
foares returned the

doctor, gravely, “I could not do

“Lknow it,” sighed she, “ The:

1 don’t let us speak
about it any more.” And they di

not; nor was it till

ter disappointment she had experienced on my account,
and how very narrowly my Nelly had missed being a
great heiress. the : B nals '

At last the old man died, and his heaped-up wealth
wag found to be bequeathed to strangers. Most of it—
curiously enough in one -who had never cared in life for
the respect of his fellow-men—was devoted to the pre-
servation of his name ‘as a public benefactor. Fiye
thousand pounds went to the erection of the Bourne
Fountain, in the market-place of Monkton—a bronze
erection of great pretentions, but which, in consequence
of some complication in the machinery, is generally
dry; a like sum was left to found a Bourne Chair of
Political Economy in the Antipodes; ‘and the rest fell
to existing public charities, always with €he proviso
that, year by year, remembrance shotld be made of
him who:gave it. - ee er.

«To my Coe gis Eleanor Bourne, who has dis-
pleased me,” was left the sum of one hundred. pounds
fees which subsequently purchased her trousseau.

All this was no worse than what I had expected for
Nelly ; and, as I told Cecil, I only blamed myself for
having so long put off our marriage, in hopes of concil-
iating the old man.

“You are still but boy and girl, dear Fred,’’ observed
he, quietly.

“While you will be of age in a few weéks,”’ answered
I, smiling, for I was fully resolved for the future to
take all that he might say upon this matter in good
part, if it should be possible to do so. “Ican remem-
ber the'time, Cecil, when you yourself thought of mar-
riage, though younger than I'am now. You had always
money, to be sure ; but there were as great obstacles in
your case as the want of it ; whereas, in ours, there is
nothing else to hinder us ; and even as regurds means,
we have enough to live upon in a simple way. Besides.
who knows but that the Foot-Page may not turn ont a
gold-mine !’’ . rset

«That is true,” said he, thoughtfully ; “ who knows !”

It was a great comfort to me, wpon Nelly’s account,
to feel that though the idea of our marriage might be
still distasteful to him, he had at least peat up all
thoughts of opposition to it. Notwiths inding this,
however, I could see that the return of Eleanor trom Gat.
combe began at once to ‘affect his spirits unta crably,
and that he Soon shrank again, as before, wit in’ his

But for this conduct upon Cecil’s part, which gaye
me age pain, no matter how I strove to account for it,
my life would now have been one of almost unmixed
happiness. My marriage with Nelly was fixed for the
coming spring ; and, in the meantime, the darling ob-
ject of my labors for the last two years was about to be
realized in the a nce of the Foor eae, Wt ‘the
‘Corintheum. Old Magnus, who had 80 deaf
and inexorable when he had to deal with an unknown
tter in the hands of “ the
to her protégé—myself.
the Peddler’s Pack ; but he escaped fro the sani, +

e 8 Pack ; bu escaped from the subject
in a glowing enlogium upon Lady Repton, through
whose kind offices, it will be remembered, T had at last
obtained from him the return of that pore of Aye
since cast upon the dunghill at the Hole-in-the-Wall.
I had veritten to h tadlysbtp ‘to inform her ot the
acceptance of my present psy. and ded her of

to ‘own to see it. i hee
and much to my sati on, she had announced he
intention of doing so. His lordship was laid up with

shell of reticence and reserve.

Brabant,” and was all civilii

   
 

 

1 a
fit of the gout, but had given her leave of absence for a

years afterwards that Aunt Ben confided to me the bit-.
CECIL'S TRYST.

31

 

 

few days, which she was to spend under our roofs
visit to which I looked fotward with much greater
pleasure than did her would-not-have-been hostess,

Dear Aunt Ben would as soon have parted with’ an
article of her faith as with a prejudice, Each one was
vital with her, and she clung to it like a shipwrecked
man toa buoy at sea. She was sometimes apparéntly
conyinced by argument, and the buoy went under—
fora moment; but up it bobbed again the next, and
there she was holding on. by its rusty iron ring as fast
asever. Lady Repton was one of her “ horrors:’’ th
rehearsals to which an author was invited’ without his
wife was another. These performances, in sober truth,
are, for the most part, neither meretricious nor attract-
ive. To behold a young lady in fashionable morning
attire playing a foot-page of the epoch of the Kestora-
tion, is not a captivating spectacle ; to find one’s prin-
cipal actor entirely mistaking the character he is called |
upon to.play,and yet so vain and obstinate that it is
impossible to correct, him, and dangerous to call him a
fool, is not to plunge into a vortex of pleasure ; nor to
any one short of a cynie is it agreeable to find one’s self
the modest pivot around which a system of naked
jealousies and very thinly clad downright hates revolve.
The Old Man and his Ass isa faint figure to image the
position of a dramatic author at a rehearsal: tor while
it is not less difficult to please everybody than it was
for the sage in the fable, it is’ absolutely impossible for
him to please the ass,

However, this by-the-way, for our story’ concerns
itself, not with my affairs, but with those of Cousin
Cecil. Hé visited us now more seldom than ever, and
resolutely refused to partake of our gayeties. Mr. Bur-
der, for example, though he had not dared to show
himself since that Southwark fiasco, would still send
us occasional orders for the theater ; and although they
were not good ones—being tor the upper boxes and
such-like second-floor situations—we took advantage of
them, and by paying the difference of price, obtained
good places cheaply—an object which, with matrimony
drawing.near, it was become desirable to effect, Cecil
would never accompany us on these occasions, and
rarely even dined with us, unless we were quite alone.
However, on the day of Lady Repton’s arrival, which
was that preceding the production of my play, T insist-
ed upon his meéting so,old a friend, and, after some
demur, he consented to do so. .

Lady Repton looked not a day older than whén'I had
last seen her, and was-as sprightly as ever. She gave
some imitations of her. husband’ during an attack of
gout, which recur tomy memory to this day, and never
without filling my eyes with tears. They were not pa-
thetic, however, in their character, especially when he
was made to say to the footman: “I flatter myself f
haye some’ little reputation as a philosoplrer, and—
damme sir, take tial’? which was the footstool which
the valet had omitted to placeat the proper
angle. She was laboriously civil to. Aunt Ben,’ pat-
ronized Eleanor, and flirted with myself in’ fhe most
unblushing manner. The gloom and silénce of
Cecil seemcd to act upon her like the presence of the
skeleton at the Egyptian feast, or, perhaps it was that
théy’ heightened her merriment by contrast. “She ral-

   

/ ‘* you will not refuse me now, Mr, Cecil; I charge you

“Theu why not go?’ insisted her ladyship, who, to
my great distress, was evidently getting angry pene
my account. ‘If you are in bad spirits, that is no
reason why you'should neglect your duties—tfor it isa
duty to see your friend through his first piece.’’

“Cecil has had a great trouble, you know. Lady
Repton,” whispered my aunt; “and it weighs. upon
him still.”

“I know that well, my dear madam,” replied her |
ladyship, softly. ‘ But in my humble judgment, you |
re all going the wrong way to work with him.” Then |
he whispered something into Cecil’s ear which made |
him crimson. I guessed what it was, though I trust no |
one else did. She told him that if his sister Jane had
been alive—the very woman for whose sake he was de- |
barring himself from this pleasure—she would have |
been the first to have gone to see my play, and done |
her very best for it. ‘‘Come,”’ continued she, aloud,

 

upon your allegiance.”

And, to the surprise and horror ‘of us all, Cecil an-
swered, humbly. ‘‘ Very well, Lady Repton. If you
think it right, 1 will go with the rest to-morrow to see
Fred’s play.”

She as little thought, of course (sincé we had not told
her about Ruth), what she was asking him, as did he
what he had consented to do.

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE FIRST NIGHT OF THE ‘‘ FOOT-PAGE,”

Ir may be, and doubtless is, a vain and pitiful confes-
sion to make, but [honestly believe there are ‘few things
so personally interesting in human affairs as is the first
production of a play to its author. It has all the flutter
and excitemént of a first book, with that supplement of
chance which gives whist pre-eminence in interest over
chess ; forits first success or failure (if not its final
fate) depends on many things quite independent of its
merits—ability of the actors, the manier in which it is
placed’ upon the stage, and the temper of the audience:
Moreover, the mere novelist is unable to judge, except
by the gradual evidénce of-circulation, whether his
work has been acceptable or not, whereds the dramatic
writer is crowned or sentenced off hand ; every charac-
ter he‘has drawm appears in flesh and blood before his
judges, and is pronounced upon at ‘once by sibilation
or applause, The anticipation of this is avery suf-
ficient excitement for any young gentleman, especially
if his future—so far as material prosperity is con-
cerned—is’ to be affected, as mine was, by the re-
sult; and yet I, protest that, from the ‘moment
Cecil announced ‘his intention of accompanying us |

 

to the theater, my hopes and fears upon ‘my own
account were wholly ‘swallowed up in my apprehen-
sions upon his ; for what might not be the effect upon |
oné sensitively organized, and in a state’of mind’ so mor- |
idand abnormal, in suddenly being confronted withthe |
woman I felt sure he still adored, though he might not
own it, even to himself, under circumstances so strange
and unexpected! Would he shrink into ‘the corner of!
the box, with a cry of wonder or horror? ‘Or would he

 

lied him upon his perfotmance of Ivanhoe in the old
days at Gatcombe, and demanded of him the loving |
allegiance that he owed to her as Rowena: but the’al-
lusion seemed only to’ awaken unpleasant memories,
and was recéived with marked distavor. Not a whit dis-
couraged however, her ladyship rattledon, chiefly upon
that congenial theme, the stage, She had alréady over-
whelmed me with questions about “this Brabant,’” ¢
ghé called her, some of which had ratheér énibarrassed |
me; ‘‘ Was she really pretty, or only ‘young, Which
seems to do as well in these days? Tal she any idea of
acting, or was she a mere walking doll?” etc, Tanswer-
ed all these questions as truthfully as T could, consist-
ent. with the desire to please her ladyship, who had
formed no very high opinion of her ‘presént successor
tothe throne of public fayor, But when'she put the
question, “ How does she dress?” I trenbled because
of,Aunt Ben.

“Oh, Miss Brabant dresses with great taste, said T; |
“and, [am bound to say, always looks like a lady.”

“Tut! I mean how does se look as a genfleman ? |
inguired her’ ladyship. Your pet pagé is not in petti- |
coats, [suppose ; you must have had a dress rehearsal.”

Now the tact was that there’/iad been a dress rehear-
gal that very afternoon, only I had not thought it worth
while to mention it, Aunt Ben had been so foolishly
particular, that I was quite glad to have been able hith-
erto to describe every body behind the scenes’as dowdy,
commonplace and unattractive ; and besides, would
not éverybody have an opportunity of judging tor thems
selves the very next night upon the question of attire?
But Lady Repton was merciless, and Thad to describe
Miss Brabant’s wholé costume down to the chocolate
tights, whilé my aunt pursed her lips, and even Eleanor
wore twolittle blush-roses, which deepened into peonies
when her ladyship told her “not to mind,” since she
(Lady Repton) had had personal experience that her
Fred was faithful. “I fished for him myself, my dear,
down at Gatcombe. and he never rosé to the fly, nor
eyen so much as nibbled.” This was terrible enough,
but there was worse coming, for the sprightly creature
suddenly turned round to Cecil, with: You're going, of
course, to-morrow night, sir, with the ‘rest of us
claqueurs ?”*

“No,” stammered Cecil, turning quite pale beneath
her flashing eyes. ‘‘I have-no spirit forit. Ithink I
shall be better at home.” ‘ .

“ What !—not going to see your best friend's first
piece brought out?” cried she, impetuously.: ‘Are
you afraid of its being'a failure, then. Why, that is
only another reason why you should go, to give him
the help of your hands.”

  
 

   

 

| enough, no one féels for the share-holders of an insur-

leap from,it on to the stage, and einbrace his beloved
object, regardless of herruffles and tights? In either-|
, the incident would be too sensational not to di- |
vide thie interest of the andience, to the detrimént of |
the piece, and espécially of its heroine. T could not, of
course, but regard the’ matter as it affectéd Ruth as
well as Cecil. With what startling suddenness’ would |
the apparition of her old lover strike 7é7’ also (since T |
had told her positively that ‘he would ‘not bé presénty, |
and pes bine atthe very ‘moment when she miost: re- |
quired all her professional wits; and ‘yet, to send her |
word that he was coming was likely to ‘unhiigé ‘her al-)
together, and not only produce the failure of the play,
but damage, perhaps irretrievably, her fayor with the |
public for the future} If this last consideration did |
not occur to Aunt Ben and Eleanor, they were ex- |
cessively nervous, both upon my account and Cee
and if we had suddenly received news that ‘the Co:
intheum was in flames, and insured (for, curiously |
|

  

  

ance office), I do believe that it would have been wel-
comed by all three of us. “ Lady Repton, to whom
“ first nights” were familiar, and who had a friendly
confidence in the merits of my play, which she had
purused, was, on the other hand, in the highest spisits,
and rallied ‘us all on our pale faces.

‘‘It'll.go, Fred, it'll go,’’ said she, meaning thet the
piece would take—“if only Miss Brabant understands
her. business, Dear me! if I wag but a few years
younger, how I should like to be in her place, and hear |
you thank me when all was oyer, Eleanor, my dear,
have you got a wreath for him? He will be led upon
the stage by the manager, like a house lamb, you know, |
and have to bow with his hands, so. Then aim your
wreath at him like a hoop at a la grasse stick. Your|
heart is.on the lett side, remember, Fred, and don’t put |
your hand too low; but there, I dare say you have been |
practising it,all the morning.”

Her ladyship was quite in her element, for the stage
was more than second nature with her, it was nature |
itself, and. even this indirect connection with it had all |
the effect upon her of a cordial.

We had an excellent box, in which the three ladies
occupied the front seats, while Cecil and T sat as: far |
back as I could put the chairs—a disposition such as T |
knew. would please him, and which, little guessing the
real cause, he set down to my modesty. The first’piece |
was a farce; upon which Lady Repton’ passed sharp |

 

 

 
 

 

was partly owing to the fact that nobody recognized her, |

 

“Indeed,” said Cecil, ‘hastily, “I am not afraid of
that. Fred has said himself, that if the — breaks
el quite cere

down it will be his own fault, so that Ife
tain of its success.”

reputations, however great; but perhaps she had not
| been, without a hope that some old play-goers would have
| leveled their glasses'in her direction, and, jogging one
| another’s elbows, whispered together that it was She.

 

judgment, the severity of which Tam inelined'to think’ said‘ Lady Repton gravely,

She had often bewailed to me how fleeting weredramatic |

Those who looked towards our box, alas! were not old
play-goers, but young ones, and the object of their at-
traction was Nelly.

At last the farce was over, and the curtain rose on
the first scene of the Foot-Page., I endeavored to fix
my eyes upon the stage, but as the moment drew hear
for the heroine to appear, I found them involuntarily
wandering towards Cecil, A burst of applause informed
me that she had come forward, but I cquld not turn
then trom him ; the expected scene from real life had
more interest for me than the mimicry of the drama,
although it was the child of my own pen, To my in-
tense relief, though likewise to my, great surprise, it
was evident that Cecil did not recognize Ruth, He was
staring at her with interest indeed, but without a spark
of excitement, and presently he whispered, smilingly:
“ She acts well, Fred, and does you justice.”

The audience seemed to think so too, for the applause
was: loud and, drequent. Even Lady Repton conde-
scended to remark that the young woman had some-
thing besides good legs to recommend her. “She
paints but very slightly too, I perceive ’’—her ladyship’s
eyes were glued to her opera-glass—*“ but her hair ia
not her own, surely.’’

“Tt is not,’ said I, in a low voice; for Ruth was
wearing black hair: of course, if she had not been do-
ing so, Cecil must have recognized her immediately :
and, even as it was, it struck me as most strange that
the eye of love, proverbially so keen, should not have
penetrated the disguise which had not baffled even mo
for long. :

“T have seen that girl’s face before,” said her lady-
ship, as she closed her glasses.

“It is not likely,’’ reasoned I, coldly; “for she has not
played in the provinces at all. She came out in town
for the first time,’’

“TI never forget a face,’’ mused her ladyship; “and TI
have certainly seen hers; but where or when it was, I
cannot call to mind,”

I trembled’; , for if Lady Repton, who had only seen
Ruth on one occasion—and that when she was carried
out half dead in Cecil’s arms from the sand-pit at Gat-
combe—began to have a glimmering recollection of her,
would not the truth dawn, sooner or later, upon Cecil
himself? Fortunately, however, he never leveled
glass at her; and, apparently satisfied with the general
success of the play, paid no particular attention to the
heroine atter her first appearance. This indifference,
and his position at the back of thé box, might even, I
began to flatter.myself, cause him in: his turn to re-
main unrecognized, because uhseen by Ruth. If she had
caught sight of him already, atleast, she must have been
gifted with great self-control, for Her whole intelligence
had_ been apparently absorbed in her part, which, in-
deed, she played to perfection.,° The piece, in short, was
an unequivocal success ; and at its close, after the ac-
tors had been summoned before the curtain, thero
arose from all sides that cry of “Author! Author t’’
which makes young ears tingle and the young heart to
beat, as, much, perhaps, as any sound from human lips>
It was of Nelly that Iwas thinking then, and of dear
Aunt Ben, as, with eyes dew-bright with pleasure, they
congratulated me, from their loving hearts, rather than
of Cecil or of Ruth ; and when, in obedience to this re-
iterated call, they made way for me to come to the
front of the box, in order that I might make my bow, I
was unaware that my cousin followed me, doubtless
the better to observe the triumph of his friend. He
did not see, nor did Isee—though Nelly did—a white
hand move the drop-scene aside, and a white face gaze
out, upon us from the stage with all the pride and
triumph faded ont of it, and a wild and puzzled look in
their place.

It was.a moment in my life which, though I can never
foget it, T have never been able to recall, as regards those
details which generally imprint themselves on ‘the
memory 80 vividly on supreme occasions ;“T saw a sea
of upturned curious faces ; I heard atumult of applau-
sive voices, mixed with the clapping of hands; TI felt
that Aunt Ben was patting me on the back: knew that
Nelly was standing behind me somewhere, with tho
happy tears in her bright eyes, but I was aware of all
these things only in a confused and dream-like fashion:

! and when a hand was placed on my showlders, and my

cousin’s voice said; ** Yon are wanted, Fred, behind the
scenes,” it was like waking from ® dream,

A servant in scarlet (for the Corintheum affected
splendor in its liveries, though its + tage “ properties ”
enjoyed a well-earned reputation for economy ‘and
second-handedness) was standing at the door of the
box,

“Miss Brabant wishes to see you for a moment,
sir.
“Ah, that’s the worst of it!” groaned Aunt Ben : she

 

 

| seemed to imagine that a dramatic triumph must al-

ways needs be purchased by a sacrifice of morality.

“Let Cecil go with him, and see that he is a good
boy ?” cried Lady Repton laughing—* Go, Cecil go!"

I can not guess (or, at-least, I could not at that time)
what it was that made my cousin so obedient to Lady
Repton; but ashe had come to the theater at her
command, so now he at once arose at her suggestion,
and moved towards the door.

“But he has not been asked,” urged Nelly, hastily,
the first to recognize that, if this matter was carried

out, the next moment would bring Ruth and, Cecil*face

to face.

“Yes, yes; it was only my little joke,” pleaded
Aunt Ben, earnestly ; ‘of coursé there can ‘be ‘no harm
in Fred's going alone.”

“Tt you love your friend, Mr. Ceci}, and have any re-
gard for his good principles, you'll go with him now,”

though in fits oflaughter be-
hind her fan.

«I will certainly go with him,” said Cecil, resolutely.
He had no longer the appreciation of humor that had
once distinguished him; but took everything that was
saidto him aw pied de lettre. =
| “Very good,” said I, nota little displeased with his

 
 

pertinacity, and irritated by my aunt’s folly. ‘Since
heisso determined to make a tool of himself and me,’’
thought I, “ let him take the comsequences.”’ So we
both followed the man in scarlet.

On the other side of the stage-doorI met Mr. Mag-
nus, the manager: he held out both his ‘helping
hands” to welcome me.

“This isa proud moment for you, Mr. Wray," said
he. “Icongratulate you heartily. I trust my com-
pany has fulfilled your expectations, and rendered your
play to your satisfaction ?”’

“They have quite fulfilled my expectations,” said I,
dryly, for they had not been very high; “but Miss
Brabant has exceeded them.”

“Ah, yes, she was glorious! I have just been telling
her so. You will find her in the green-room.”’

She was not there, however, but in her own dressing-
closet, Muking asign to Cecil that he should remain
behind alittle, [ knocked at the door, and Ruth opened
it with her own hands ; she had not changed her stuge-
attire, and looked very pale, and less like herself than
ever,

‘You brought your cousin with you to-night,” she
began, excitedly ; “I wish to’’

“‘ Hush !”" saidI; “he is here. He has not recog-
nized you yet, He wishes to be introduced to Miss
Brabant.”

“Let it be done,”’ said she, with a curious sort of de-
fiance in her tone, which I was at a loss to understand ;
though it was natural enough that she should feel ag-
grieved with him—that her self-love should be
wounted.

She steppe1 out at once, like & beautiful prince in a
fairy tale, aud stood with her plumed hat in her hand,
while I beckoned to Cecil to come forward.

“ This is Miss Brabant,” said I, “ the lady to whose
talents I am indebted for the succéss of my little
play.”

He bowed politely, and murmured a few words of
commonplace compliment. Cecil had given evidence,
in the old days at Gatcombe of his capacity for acting,
but if he was acting now he would have been a greater
actor than Kean or Kemble. It was perfectly certain
that he did not recognize his old love. Wounded to
the quick by this, as she well might be, Ruth yet re-
tainei her self-possession.

‘« Have you never seen me before—upon the boards?”
asked she, in her stage-voice, and drooping her eyelids
after the stage siren fashion. “

“ Never,” said he, “I am ashamed to.say, before to-
night. ButIhave long wished to have the honor of
being introduced toa lady of whom I have heard my
cousin. here speak with such admiration and regard.”

He spoke rapidly and with an indifferent air—under
the circumstances indeed almost a rude one—like a
man who, paying a compliment at the expense of truth,
does not even take the trouble to secure viraisemblance.

“But you have not seen Miss Brabant at all,” re-
turned she, archly, and with a glance of piqued embar-
rassmnt at her male costume ; “you have only seen the
Foot-Page. Now, if you will accompany your cousin
to-morrow to Laburnum Villa—for I hope to get him
there, to mike a few verbal alterations in my part—I
shall then have great pleasure in receiving you in my
own proper character. [lunch at two—will that hour
suit your convenience ?”

“Tam quite at my Cousin Fred's disposal,”’ observed
Cscil, coldly.

‘‘And he is bound to be at mine,” interposed Miss
Brabant, hastily, just as I was about to frame an excuse;
“so that point is settled. I will not detain you any
longer,” continued she, addressing myself, “ because I
know what troops of friends are always waiting to con-
gratulate a successful author: I shall see you both to-
morrow.”

As she shook Cecil by the hand, she again repeated
her invitation. ‘‘ You will not fail me, I trust, even if
your cousin does ?”’

“‘T will come most certainly,” said he; and this time
I thought there was really something like warmth in
his tone, though it might have been only decision. Was
it possible that Ruth was about to attain the unparal-
leled triumph of winning my cousin’s heart twice over
—once as the simple village maid, and again as the ac-
complished actress? I felt well-high certain, from her
behavior, that that at least was the task which she had
set herself to. do, and also that she was confident of its
accomplishment,

“The Brabant is very beautiful, Cacil,” said I, as we
retrace] our steps through the labyrinth of narrow
ways that led from that Rosamon 1's Bower of hers into
the house. ‘Don’t you think so?”

“‘T dare say many persons would,” said he, carelessly ;
“but to my mind, she is only pisaably good-looking.”

I felt morally certain that this reply was a hypocriti-
cal one—tor, indeed, it could not have been natural in
any man’s mouth—and was more convinced than ever
that her beauty had made a strong impression on him.

 

 

CHAPTER XXX.
“SPEED, HANSOM, SPEED.”’

TaovuGH I woke next morning to find myself famous
as the author of that highly-successful little drama, the
Page, the remembrance of my promise to take
Cecil to Laburnum Villa weighed down my spirits, and
filled me with a presentiment of evil. In vain Lady
Repton read aloud at breakfast three-quarters of a col-
umn of eulogium from the Thunderer itself, Aunt Ben
observing: ‘Very true, I’m sure,” at every laud-
atory adjective, and dear Nelly squeezing my hand
unierthe table. As kings and laws are said to mitigate
but little human distresses, so does public favor fail
to remedy one’s private grief. Amidst al] the praise and

congratulation that poured in upon me that morning, I
was sick at heart with the apprehension of the im-
pending meeting between Cecil and Ruth. In the wild

 

 

CECIL’S TRYST.

excitement of the preceding night, I had attached but
slight importance to it, and had even, as I have narrated,
been the very one to introduce her to him, though not
in her proper person; but now as I reviewed the matter
calmly, I could hardly believe that I had played so rash
a part, and, still worse, had undertaken to repeat it.
Recognition (as it seemed to me by miracle) had not
taken place on the first occasion, so far as Cecil wascon-
cerned; but it was quite certain to do so on the second.
For some reason or other, which I could not fathom,
Ruth was evidently bent upon discovering herself; and
Iknew the vigor and determination of her character too
well by this time to doubt that, even if I refused to aid
her, she would find other means to accomplish her pur-
pose. As regarded Cecil, I positively dreaded, as the
result of this interview, no less a calamity than the loss
of his reason. His behavior had been occasionally so
very strange and unaccountable, his habits were be-
come so peculiar, and he was altogether so altered from
the man he had been, that the balance of his mind
seemed to me to be most insecure, and liable to be de-
stroyed by any shock. It may well be asked, if such
were my apprehensions, how could I have so easily con-
sented to let him accompany me to the theater, far less
behind the scenes, and into the very presence of Ruth
herself; but as to the first, I had no possible excuse for
dissuading him, since I had always pressed and urged
him to visit such scenes, in order to distract him from
his melancholy; and as to the second, Ican only reply
what I have already said, that I was half-demented my-
self by the excitement of my dramatic triumph.

When I now recalled his words and air in reply to my
inquiry, six months ago or 60, whether he would like
to see Ruth again or not,I fairly trembled. It was
just possible, it is true, that the approaching meet-
ing might have the best possible effect upon my poor
cousin. Love might once more resume its sway over
him, and that with such passion and power as to sweep
away all his morbid thoughts like cobwebs; but, on the
other hand, the sight of Ruth might reopen the half-
healed wound made by the accusation of Batty, and
recall all the bitter memories of his more recent past
as well. These last, indeed, seemed to be ever present
with him, as it was; but while they were so, there was
at least no room in his breast for other troubles. If
the matter turned out ill, he would, naturally enough,
reproach me with my deception; though, after all, that
had been forced upom me. I had passed my word to
Ruth not to disclose her identity to Cecil; and my
cousin, on his part, had not only expressed but little
anxiety on her account, but announced his determin-
ation not to see her, even should she be found. Their
position in regard to one another. was, in fact, inexpli-
cable to me in both cases. While Jane was alive,
Ruth had evidently acquiesced with cheerfulness in
her separation from Cecil; and it would not,I verily
believe, have much distressed her had she been told
that they were never to meet again. When Cecil re-
turned without his sister, however, I felt sure that
Ruth had desired her relations with her old love to be
renewed; nor was I surprised at it for reasons that I
have already given, But what did astound me was
that, after she had seen him, and found him so unlike
his dear old self, so indiuerent to their past—for what
but indiffvrence could possibly have rendered her un-
recognizable to him—and so consumed with sorrow for
one in whose fate she had not only felt no pang, but
even a sense of satisfrction and relief—I say, what did
astound me was that now she should not only wish to
seehim, but should have insisted upon it, and even
asked him to her own house.

Ofone thing I was quite certain—that reawakened
loye had nothing to do with it, If I had last night
fancied—for I had scarcely been in a condition to use
my judgment—that Cecil himself had been struck
anew by the charms of Ruth in the person of Miss Bra-
bant, the feeling had certainly not been reciprocal,
She had been obviously annoyed and hurt by his con-
duct towards her; if her heart had been touched, she
could never have coquetted with him as she had done.
Then why did she want to see him? Perhaps only to
take revenge upon him for his forgetfulness of her.
And, indeed, at times he did seem to have forgotten her
altogether. A curious instance of this had taken place
with reference to, the letters he had inclosed to me for
Ruth, and which (as it will be remembered) she had de-
clined to receive, and bidden me burn. I had not
burned them, because it struck me that if Cecil shonld
come back to England he would, naturally enough, de-
mand from me their return; and when he did come
back, and omitted to do so, I took an opportunity of
reminding him that I was still in possession of them.

« Letters 2’ cried he, putting his hand to his fore-
head. “ Letters that I wrote to Ruth ? What letters?”

Ifhe had asked, What Ruth? I could scarcely have
been more astonished; but it was a peculiarity of his
strange mental condition, and one which most caused
us apprehension, that his memory upon all subjects
(except those connected with his sister) would suddenly
fail him and become a blank. It is no wonder, then,
taking all things into consideration, thatI felt anxiety
about this comm aterer es: and avery strong personal
disinclination to be present at it. It was cowardly, no
doubt; but afterall, as I argued with myself, what good
could my presence effect ? Ifmy cousin and Ruth should
wish to throw themselves into one another’s arms, my
company would be very embarrassing to them ; and if,
on the other hand, they should upbraid one another, I
had no apology to offer for either of them. I well knew
what Aunt Ben and Nelly would have advised me to do
in the matter, and what they would have done them-
selyes—especially if they had known of Cecil’s conduct
that dreadful night at the hotel: they would not have
deserted him in the coming ordeal, I did not, there-
fore, consult them in the affair, or tell them a word
about it, and tried to persuade myself thatit was to
spare their feelings. ‘‘ Surely,” I now reflect, looking
back upon that eventful day from quite another stand-

 

 

point, “The old bond of friendship between my cousim
and myself must have been much loosened, to have:
permitted mo so to act ;” and yet I was positively con-
vinced that, notwithstanding the sad change in him-for’
the worse, in all other respects—and even in his man-
ner towards me—his affection for myself was to the full
as warm and genuine as ever.

It had been arranged that I was to call for Cecil at
his hotel at midday, and take him on with me at
Laburnum Villa; butI now wrote him word that I
would meet him there instead, for which a fortunate
excuse offered itself in the departure of Lady Repton,
whom it was no more than bare politeness that I
should accompany to the railway station ; and this I
did. She was very sorry to leave us, for (with the ex-
ception of my cousin) she had probably found us more
genial associates—for my Aunt Ben forgot all her dis-
like when playing the hostess—tiian sie was “wont to:
meet with at her own stately home, and parted from
Nelly especially with effusion. She was full of ‘her
praises, and profuse in her auguries for our ‘future.
happiness ; and, in acknowledging them I ‘expressed
my regret that my poor cousin had not the good for
tune to possess an Eleanor, who might wile him from
his melancholy mood back to his old self,

“He did have a tendiesse, as you hayé doubtless:
heard, years ago at Gatcombe, with that beautiful
went whom he rescued from the sand-caye, Ruth

Valler.”’ .

“ That’s the name, and now I’ve got it!” cried Lady
Repton, triumphantly,

“Got what ?’’ said I, affecting to misunderstand her,
though I guessed pretty well what was coming.

“Well, upon my word, Master Fred, you must be in
love, Cupid is blind, one knows, but I always thought’
his blindness was only in reference to the beloved ob-
ject. But no’’— Here she stopped,and looked exceed-
ingly disconcerted. “And yet, of course, that could
not be the case either, or else your cousin would have:
known her.”

“Known whom ?”’

“Well, I was just upon the point of discovering a.
mare’s nest, The fact is, as I sat at the play last night,
I was haunted by a recollection of some face—I could
not remember whose—in connection with Miss Brabant;
and when you mentioned Ruth Waller, I seemed all of
a sudden to have found the key to it.”

“So you have,” said I, smiling. “Miss Brabant is
Ruth Waller; only you must keep it a dead secret,
please, for all our sakes.”

“ For all your sakes,” repeated Lady Repton, gravely,
“T am sorry for this, Fred ; Lam moresorry than I can
say, Iam not a straight-laced person, my dear boy—
don’t lace half tight enough, indeed, as some eople
say—but I don’t like such goings-on as these. oung
men will be young men, but that’s a phrase that is
made use of to excuse a deal of villainy. Under your
aunt’s roof, and with Eleanor by your side, you should
not, in my opinion, be playing into your cousin’s hands
in this way. If he likes the girl, there is no excuse—
since he has plenty of money—for his not marryin
her. I was an actress once myself, and perhaps tha’
makes me feel strongly upon the point; indeed, I
should not like to say to you what I feel about it, mas-
ter Fred, because we might quarrel ; but if that girl
goes to the bad, remember it will be partly your fault.
I honestly believe that I should be only doing my duty

if I wrote to your Aunt Benita, and told her the whole _

story—for you may be sure I know it.”

These words were delivered witb such amazing volu+
bility and indignation, that I was quite unable to inter-
rupt them; but while she stopped to take breath, I
hastened to set her right.

“If you wrote to Aunt Ben to-morrow, my dear Lady
Repton, you could tell her no news; both she and
Nelly know that Miss Brabant and Ruth are the same
person. It is only my cousin who is not aware of it.”

‘Cecil not aware? Your cousin Cecil not know it?”
Her ladyship looked aghast.

‘Last. night was the first time,I should have told
you, Lady Repton, that my cousin had had the oppor-
tunity of seeing Ruth since he left Gateombe. We had
purposely concealed from him the fact of her identity
with Miss Brabant; and but for you, he would never
have gone to the play at all, or run the chance of meet-
ing her. I wasnot surprised that he did not recognize
her upon the stage ; but afterwards, when he insisted
upon accompanying me behind the scenes, I confess I
thought he could not fail to have done so. Yet Iam
bound to say that Iwas myself in her company for a
quarter of an hour, when she was less disguised, too,
than yesterday, and on that occasion she deceived me,
though, like yourself, I had a vague recollection that I
had seen her, or some one like lier, elsewhere.” —‘

“You? Yes, that might be,” exclaimed Lady Rep-
ton, scornfully. ‘ But nothing will persuade me that
she deceived your cousin. He may have had his reason,
for ignoring her, but that he did know her is cer-
tain. Depend upon it, he had some design in it—not a
very creditable one, perhaps. Do you know, Fred,”
added she, gravely, while I was turning over
this novel view of the subject in my mind, “I
never saw so great a change in any man for the worse
as in your cousin Cecil! I don’t speak of his mere
melancholy, but his whole nature is soured and distort-
ed. .He seems to have no affection left for any one, ex-
cept it be for yoursely, and he cannot have much of that,
since he thought of absenting himself from the first
night’s performance of your play.”

“Nay, but,” said I, thoughtfully, “in case you are
right in your impression that Cecil is not deceived as to
Ruth, but-only pretends to be, he may have discovered
who she was long ago, and declined to attend the per-
formance on that very account. As there are none so
deaf as those who don’t wish to hear, he, of course, gave
no sign of recognition; but then, again, he would surely
have refused, even at your bidding, to go with me, as
he did, into her very presence. Besides, he has ac

 

(
CECIL'S TRYST.

33

 

 

copted ‘her invitation to go and see her to-day at her
own house.”

“Alone?” asked Lady Repton; “or in your com--

any ?’’.

: + Well, he was to have gone with me; but the fact is,
Josue

“You got out of it,” said her ladyship, quietly. “ You
thought there might be some unpleasant scene, and
therefore made use of my departure as an excuse to
avoidit. Thatissolikeaman! Your father, however,
would not have done so, Master Fred. What time were
they to meet?”

“At one,” said I. “Cecil is very punctual, and has
already seen her, without doubt.’”

“Tam sorry for it,” observed my companion, senten-
tiously. There was an unmistakeable look of alarm in
her expressive features.

“Well,” said I, “they must either quarrel or make it
up. It can be nothing very serious, after all.’

“TI don’t know that, Fred,” said she, slowly. ‘The
only tragedy of real life to which I was ever a witness
took place under some such circumstances as the pres-
ent. If your cousin has recognized Ruth, he must have
some very strong reason forignoring her; while she, on
the contrary, must be bent indeed upon her purpose
(whatever that may be), to have thus invited him to her
own house, after the slight he has put upon her. It
will be a terrible interview, you may depend upon it.
There will be bitter recriminations and stinging words,
Heaven grant there may be no worse !”"

“What !’’ said I; ‘do you suppose that Cecil is capa-
ble of harming a woman, and especially one that he has
once loved, ag he did Ruth—nay, whom, moreover, as I
believe, he still loves ?”’

“If he still loves, he would not avoid her,” returned
my companion; “nor, on the other hand, would he fail
to know her. No, no; he loves her not, Fred. But it
is not of Cecil that lam atraid, but Jor him. Wewomen,
when we are injured, are very dangerous; we have this
much of the nature of the serpent that tempted our first,
mother—when trodden on, we turn and bite.”

“Great heaven!’ cried I. ‘Do you mean that, in
her passion, she might stab him?”

“I do,” said she, quietly; ‘and I know some that
would forgive her if she did, He is an altered man,
even we ourselves admit; but what must he appear to
her, to whom he paid his vows, and promised to be
faithful until death! Sv changed in two short years,
that he repudiates her to her face. as we cut a disagree-
able acquaintance in the street! Yes, Fred, you ‘are
right.’”? I had pulled the check-string while she was
speaking, and stopped the brougham, ‘You must see
to this at once, and heaven grant that you may find all
well with both of them!”

With a hearty clasp of the hand, I left my companion
to pursue her way with her maid (whom she called in
from her seat upon the box), and jumped intoa han-
som cab... How bitterly 1 reproached myself with my
selfishness in not having accompanied: my cousin that
morning! I, felt that Lady Repton’s words were
weighty in any case; but in this (when the idea of vio-
lence was once presented to me), how natural it seemed
that a girl like Ruth, impulsive and hot-blooded,
though capable, as I knew, of deep and generous feel-
ing, might be hurriedinto some rash act she might re-
gret her whole life-long, but for which she ¢onld never
make atonement! They must already have been an
hour together, and I was at least half an hour’s drive
from Laburnum Villa. My driver did his best, and
urged his horse (it was a white one, and I well remem-
‘ber how his hairs came out, and covered me like a
snow-storm) to his full speed; and yet I seemed to
hhaye never been driven soslowly.

 

CHAPTER XXXI.
‘ INEXPLICABLE.

WHEN Icame in sight of Laburnum Villa, it was a
positive relief to me that there were at leastno exter-
nalsigns of a catastrophe ; that its white walls shone
brightly in the sun, unstained by blood; that there
‘was no crowd within its well-ordered little garden, no
clamor about its porched door, Every thing, indeed,
Jookedmuch as usual, except that the drawing-room
window was closed, which it was Ruth’s habit to keep
open almost throughout the year, her old Gatcombe
habits of out-door life eling fresh air indispensable
to her. Perhaps they were sitting in that yery room
together, reconciled, and only, waiting for my friendly
voice to congratulate them on their happiness ; per-
haps——But I did not dare to picture to myself what
my heart foreboded. It struck me that the house was
stiller than usual; the cook was not singing at her
work below stairs, as was generally the case; nor was
the gaily-dressed little sovbretle, Fantine, at the lower
window, on the look-out for the baker or the policeman.
At the thought of the policeman, quite a shudder ran
through me, and I rang the bell with a trembling hand.
The servant wa’ much longer than usual in replying
to en summons; but she came at last, looking pale.

“Miss Brabant is not at home this morning, sir,” said
she, in answer to my inquiry »

“ That is impossible,” said I: “I had an appointment
with her for one o'clock.”

“Yes, sir; so she said. But since you did not come
in time, she went out immediately after lunch. She
bade me say that she was very sorry to have missed
you.”

“Did she go out alone ?””

“Yes, sir ; no lady has called this morning.”

The manner with which this remark was made was
even more worthy of admiration than the sentiment it
conveyed: it would have become the mouth of the
concierge of & nunnery. ; 3

“A gentleman hag called to-day, as I happen to know,”
replied I, quietly, “for we were to have come together.
Now” (here I yp five shillings into Fantine’s hand),
fs he here still or he gone?”

“He has gone, sir—upon my solemn oath,” returned
the girl, desirous, doubtless, of giving a full measure
of assurance to so liberal an inquirer.

“ But your mistress is in, Fantine, I feel convinced.”

“She says she is not, sir,”* returned the pirl, naively ;
*‘and I suppose she ought to know.”’ The: she added,
with sudden gravity : ‘The truth is, she isin, Mr. Wray;
but she cannot see anybody. Something—i don’t know
what—has terribly upset her. She cannot see even
you, or attend to business of any sort.” ¢

“ But it is not business about which Iam come, Fan-
tine ; it is something quite different—something con-
nected with the very matter which you say has dis-
tressed her ; and I hope to do her good.”

“Then come in, sir, in heaven's name!’’ said Fan-
tine, with a sudden collapse of her bright manner, and
bursting into tears. ‘‘ My dear mistress is quite beside
herself about something or other. It’s all, as I believe,
on. account of that black young gentleman as called this
morning, and whom you say you know. However my
mistress could allow herself to be put out for a party
of that kind !—for my part, I should as soon think of
breaking. my heart for an African Serenader! But
there, so itis; and if you can bring her any comfort,
I’m sure you'll be welcome, though she did say : ‘ Not
at home, Fantine ; not even to Mr. Wray.’”’

With that compliment, so delicately insinuated, and
with alook to match that seemed to say: ‘ Black or
white, there is nobody she loves like you,” the damsel
swept away her tears with the back of her plump hand,
and ran up stairs. She was along time absent, during
which I heard whispered talk in the drawing-room
above, but at last she returned with a sealed envelope
addressed to myself. I broke it open and read
these words: “You had better not see me, Mr.
Fred, much better not, I think. If, however,
after that expression of my opinion, you still deem
itright to press your request, came up.’’ This note did
not give me a moment’s hesitation. I could easily
imagine that the interview would be @ painful one to
both of us; but Iwas resolved not to shirk my duty a
second time. I motioned to Fantine to lead the way up
stairs.

“She is so altered that you will scarcely know her,”
whispered the soubrette, serrowfully. ‘She has al-
ready sent to the theater to excuse herself from acting
to-night.”

Fantine had not exaggerated the change in her mis-
tress’s appearance, as she held out her hand to greet me,
without moying from the sofa on which she lay. Her
eyes were red with weeping ; and over her face, streaked
with the traces of tears, her hair fell in tangled masses,
When she had worn those false black tressas, she had
not looked so little like herself as she did now with her
own.

“Jam very sorry, Rue,” said I, “to see you thus. 1
was not without hope that, in place of this misery, I
should have found all well.’’ i

She shook her head with such a sick, despairing
smile, as was far worse than tears,

“Come, Ruth,” said I, taking her hand, which was
quite cold, in mine ; ‘‘ I cannot but think thatyou take
too gloomy a view of matters. I wish I had been here
when Cecil came.”

“You? No, no! Iam glad you were not,” returned
she, with a sort of shudder. ‘‘Iam sorry you came
now—too soon ; Iam not equal to it.”

“Tam sorry too, dear Ruth,” said I, “if that be so, I
should not have come, after the note you sent me down,
but that I thought that so old a friend as I—a common
friend to both—might be of use to heal a breach, or—”’

“There is no breach” interrupted she, impatiently.
“T cannot tell you what has happened ; but it is noth-
ing that you can guess.”

“Dear Ruth,” said I, “forgive meifI seem officious
or importunate ; but I owe it not only to yourself, but
to poor Cecil, to do my utmost in this matter, I feel
that I myself have been to blame ”’—— ‘ 4

“No, no,” she interposed again in a fretful tone ;
“you are not to blame. You have done no harm, You
can do no good.” ‘

“Nevertheless, continued I, “ at the risk of your dis-
leasure, Ruth, which I should be very sorry to incur,
must say a few words. Iam the only friend that my

cousin has now left to him, and bound to speak in his
behalf. I feel sure that, whatever he has said to-day,
or however strange his previous conduct may have
seemed to you, he loves you in his heart. I know his
nature well, and though it has doubtless suffered from
the shock of his sister's death, he will be himself again
one day—the same true, faithful, earnest-hearted man he
was. He is still loyal to you, Ihave seen him among
others of your sex, not so beautiful as yourself, indeed,
but fair and young, who, aware of his great wealth,
have shown their willingness to share it with him—to
become his wife ; and they might as well have smiled
upon a marble statue.”

“T can’t believe it,” said Ruth, quietly.

“Tt is so,on my soul!” continued I. “He loves no
other woman in the world but you, nor will he ever
love one.” ;

She did not contradict me, but only closed her eyes,
as though to shut ont my appealing looks, and sighed :

“There are two things Dosh. Ruth, that bar him
from making you his own; the one, that cloud of mys-
tery which still hangs over the fate of your poor
brother; the other, a morbid feeling in connection with
his sister Jane, whose opposition to your marriage he
seems strangely enough to respect in death more than
he did in life. As to the first, [must confess that it ap-
pears to me unlikely that the secret, if there be one,
will be ever now revealed. Nay, Cecil, himself is of
that opinion, for he told me so.” ;

«And so am I,” said Ruth.

Her tone was so gravely confident—which on this
oint it had never been before—that I turned amazed
owards her; but she had put her handkerchief to her

 

eyes, doubtless to dry the tears which my reference to

unhappy cousin, and yet everythin,

 

her brother’s death had caused to flow afresh, and its
folds concealed her features.

“And yet,” urged I, “he has never referred to the
matter since his return to England, except upon thut
one occasion, whereas of old he used to talk and write
of nothing else. From this I gathér hope that time is
weakening the hold of that event upon his mind.”

I paused, but Ruth did not reply. -

“You do not deny this, Ruth? You think with me
that he is getting over it ?” $

“It may be so,” said she, still keeping her face con-
cealed. ‘But that would make no difference.” She
did not speak with the despairing calm that seemed to
fit such a reply, but with quiet coldness, as though she
were only stating a matter of fact.

“ But if it is so,” urged I, “then one of these two ob-
stacles is being removed, however slowly; and isit to be
supposed that this much more morbid and unnatural
feeling with respect to Jane will endure when that is
ay or so strongly as to condemn him to loveless soli-

ude?" : :

She was gazing at me now with a strange weird look,
quite new to her fair face, so long as I had known it;
and with a strange, harsh voice she made reply : “Have
you said your say? Have you quite done? I have lis-
tened very patiently, though your words were torture. ©
It would be no use, I told you; andit isno use. Pray,
leave me, Master Fred.” The touch of tenderness im-
plied in the use of my old name gives me still a gleam
of hope.

“Dear Rue,” said I, “by the memory of those old
days in which he wooed you first, I beseech you, do not
steel your heart against my unhappy cousin, How-
ever you may wrap yourself in scorn and coldness, I
am well convinced that he is dear to you as you to him.
Come, once for all, do you not love poor Cecil ?”

She burst into a flood of passionate tears, then
turned upon me with angry vehemence. “You are
cruel and unkind,” sobbed she, “and I will hear no
more. It is too much, too hard! I cannot bear it!
What is it you want to hear, sir? Are you anxious to
watch every pang—like some hard-hearted doctor, who
dissects a miserable creature while it is still alive~in
order that you may set them down in writing, for your
plays? I have told you, or if I have not done so, I tell .
you now, that all is over between your cousin and my-
self rere we shall never meet again this side the
grave!” .

-Trose, alarmed as well as shocked. She
one possessed, so that her tidings, grievous as they
were, were made thrice as positive and hopeless by the
tone and air with which they were conveyed.

‘“* This is bad news, indeed, Ruth,” said I. “I did not
understand that matters had gone so far, and'so ill, or I
would not have pained you by a fruitless interference.
Cecil, at least, shall be saved, at your expense, from
similar distress—unless, indeed, you should wish me to
urge anything from you.’”’

“There is nothing to urge, nothing to say,” said she,
now quietly enough, and indeed she seemed quite spent
and weary ; ‘all is settled for the best, owaver ae
and besides, you will not see him more.”
ik +e not see him? You surely must be dreaming,

uth.”

“Tf so, itis a ghastly dream,” was her reply. “No,
you will never see your cousin more ; but he will write
to you. Whatever his letter may ask you to do—how-
ever strange his request may seem—accede to it; and
ask no more questions, at least of me.”

With those last words upon her lips, she fell back on
the cushion—on which she had been supporting her-
self upon her elbow—exhausted and half-fainting. I
ran to the door and summoned Fantine, who, seei
por mistress’s condition, cast upon me a cope oacttat
glance.

“A gentleman should know when he is not wanted,”
said she, indignantly. “I told you how it would be.
Perhaps you can let yourself out at the hall-door””—a
kia too remorseful to be chapfallen, I hastened
0 obey. ‘

spoke like

' CHAPTER XXXII.
CECIL’S FAREWELL,

Ir might be thought that, after so strange
view, in which nothing was cleared up as oa a
é placed on a new
footing, [should have repaired to his hotel atonce. But
the fact was, that I was fairly panic-stricken by Ruth’s
last words, which had a dread signification for me of
which she did not dream. That neither she nor I was to
see Cecil more, though I was to receive a communica-
tiion from him by letter, could surely mean nothing else
ow ‘ood-bye oe had already meditated, and

© very point of saying, months ,» Namely, —

his farewell to life itself. The letter had feck written
then, and for all I knew, had not been destroyed; in that
case, hnd he would only have to leave it out “upon his
desk, as before, and complete the act which I had only
delayed. Ifmy apprehension was well grounded, my
cousin was no longer among the living ; and if he was
dead,“ let my eyes,” thought I, with a shudder, “ be not
the first look upon him.” The excitement of the last
few days must be my excuse for this. moral cowardice.
I felt completely unhinged; weary, and yet full of —
thoughts that denied me a moment's rest. 4

Utterly without confidence im myself, I drove rapidly
home, de d to make Annt Ben the judge of what
was to be done, and deeply regretting that I had
not taken refuge in common sense before: but on
reaching home I found both my aunt and Nelly had
gene out for a long day’s shopping—in connection with

ays eater te tit as a: now remembered—and
wou me for dinner. To apply
mind to writing or reading—far less to sit demraienen:
oupied, and let my fancy take its wild, weird way—was
not to be thought of ; moreover, I did not wish to be
alone in the house when that letter should arrive.

@

’

 
 

 

Fr

SSS

 

 

 

 

4

CECIL'S TRYST.

 

=

 

which in all probability, was already on its way. I

started, therefore, to walk, I cared not whither, so long)

as it was in the crowded streets, with all the noise an
stir of life about me, to distract my thoughts. In this,
however, they so little succeeded, that within the first
five minutes I found myself opposite Cecil’s uotel, and
looking up at the window of his bedroom, and lo, it was
as red as blood !, It is ashametu) contession to make,
put for an instant I shuddered with horror; nor even
when I reflected that the sinking sun was flaming
against the pane, didI escape trom the idea to which
the fright had given birth, To what ghastly sight in
yonder chamber, thought I, might not those rays be
a@ witness ! '

Had I not seen him with my own eyes, a staring
dreadful figure, with neck half bare, and the shining
weapon in his hand, about to cut the knot of the mys-
tery of lite? and now, perhaps, he had done it, and the
heart that had once beat in such unison with my own
was stifled forever, and the gracious lips forever dumb!
What would I not have given to see him come to the
window, or even to see another there, though it were
the unconcerned face of the inn servant! All seemed
80 lonely and desolate up there, and yet I did not dare
to invade its solitude. I went home again with fever-
ish haste, to ask if any letter -had come for me, and
finding none, then out again, this time for a long walk
at speed, in the opposite direction. But I could not
egcape from the specter I had raised in my own mind.
In a by-street in Pimligo, a street-hawker troze my
blood by crying: “ Mysterious murder in a West End
‘otel—mysterious murder :”—for might not Cecil’s
suicide be thought to be a murder, or;the man
have called it so, to make his broad-sheet the more
salable? It was, of course, impossible that the catas-
trophe I dreaded to hear of could, even if it had hap-
rened, be by this time in print; and yet I felt relieved
when the fellow went on to roar out: “ All. sor love—
his sweetheart having perished by drowning in the
River Lee.’”’ As I passed the Corintheum, there was a
grumbling crowd about its pit door. “If I'd a-known
she didn’t hact to-night,’ said one, “ I’d never have
cvme ;” and “ What's: the play without ’er in it?’
growled another. The uncomplimentary comment
upon my drama did not wound me; but the mention
of Miss Brabant’s absence recalled to me its cause with
renewed alarms. How thankful was I, when I got
home, to hear from the servant that “ the ladies had re-
turned,” for a letter was lying on the hall table for me
in Cecil’s handwriting, and, if J had been alone, I felt
that I should have lacked courage to open it. I took it
up with a trembling hand, and carried it with me into
the drawing-room, under pretense of getting more light
to read it by ; and even then I was glad to defer doing
s0, and affected to listen with interest to Aunt Ben’s
triumphant account of her good bargains. -

“ We have been very econonrical. but also highly suc-
cessful—hbave we not, Nelly ?”’ said she.

And Nelly corroborated her with becoming enthusi-
asm. Not till we had dined—for what was the use of
spoiling their dinner, though, for my own part, I only
made believe to eat, and could scarcely swallow a
mouthful—did I produce the letter; and, after premis-

- ing what had happened at Laburnum Villa, proceeded

to read it :

“By the time you receive these lines, dear Fred,” it
began, ‘I shall have left London, never to return to it,
nor to see any of you in this life again.”

Here I stopped breathless, not with surprise, but
with that sharp sense of relicf which is akin to pain,
and deeply thankful that matters were no worse.

My aunt, on the other hand, seemed turned into
stone with astonishment. , “Good Heaven!’’ ejaculated
she, “what is the poor lad afternow? Hemust have
taken leave of his senses altogether.”

“ How very, very sad this is,” said Nelly ; the tears
rose in her bright eyes ; she was pitifully contrasting,
as I guessed, her own exceeding happiness, with
«he wretchedness and desolation that poor Cecil's words

bespoke

“This is not a resolution of the moment, beloved
cousin,’ the letter went on to say, ‘ but cne that I have
had in mind for long. Lam un‘it to be with you in my
present state ; whenever I enter your pleasant home
circle, it is to damp its mir‘. an l chil its sunshine ;
and yet it is not for your suke that I withdraw
myself from  it—irrevoc:ily, inexorably — but
for my own. To say tliat I shall be happier
alone than in your company would bea mockery, for
I never am, nor can be happy; but I feel that it is bet-
ter for me to be alone. You must be content with that
excuse for my conduct, for I have no other, You may
imagine that my motive for thus estranging myself
lies, somewhere, in the interview which I havo this
day had with Ruth; but that is not so. Ishould have
bidden you ‘good-bye’ a little later, perhaps; but it
would have come to pass all the same. I do not re-
proach you for not having told meabout Ruth; she has
taken blame, if there be blame, on herself, and
doubtless with justice, though the shock to which I
have been subjected was, as you will understand, most
terrible. If my last wishes are dear to you, you will
forbear to interrogate Ruth upon this matter ; her li
are sealed, except so far as to corroborate, if it be
necessary, the fact that I have left my native land for-
ever. It is useless to search for me; and to know that
ig were di 80 would only be to add another grief

the heavy burden that I must carry to my grave.
Enough of that sad subject—my wretched self. t me
now speak aoe Own affairs. The one bright gleam
in my dark life, since I returned to England, has
my beloved cousin, the success which has dawned at
ljast upon your dramatic future ; that it may grow and

ww, and your fame with it, is my most earnest wish.
fT could hope that it would do soin proportion to
your deserts, there would be no necessity for what I
am about to add; but though merit so often gains the
reward it deserves upon the stage, the playwright him-
welt does pot always reap it.” ,

, | Fred so well,

“That is not like Cecil,” observed Nelly thorght-

fully. ba
“That is true,’’ said I, reperusing aloud the labored
passage ; “‘ but, then, we must remember that Cecil is
not like himself.” t

“No, i .deed,” said my aunt sighing. “To think that
he shoul 1 have ever taken such delight in law and law-
yers! 1 elieve that Mr. Clote did him a deal of harm
by making him think 60 much of his money: depend
upon it, that. will now become the poor lad’s hobby-
horse ; he will care for nothing else, and die a miser,””

“ Hush !’’ said I, soitly... ‘Do not judge him harshly.
Here is something, Aunt Ben, which, at least, will clear
him of that.charge.’’, And 1 read out as follows:

never bring you a fortune; and without, at least, good
means, I aju sure, dear Fred, you are not the man who
ought to marry. I have distressed you once by speak-
ing'on this subject, but you must not misunderstand
me now, as you did then; I had never any end in view
beside your happiness; and—since your happiness is
bound in hers—that of your Eleanor.” ;

‘‘ Now, that again is very unlike Cecil,’’ remarked my
my aunt: ‘“‘fhere is not a word of kindliness for Nelly
herself.” '

“Nay, but this is like him,’ said I—*just like his
old Gatcombe self. Listen!”

“In order, therefore, to insure for you material pros-
perity, I have arranged certain matters with Mr. Clote,
with which I earnestly entreat your compliance. There
was a time when there would have been no sense of
| obligation in either of us at receiving a favor at the
| other’s hand ; recall it now, dear Fred, and feel none in
| receiving one at mine. What use have I for money?
Even if it could buy me friends, it would be of mo ser-
vice, since I wish to live alone. I have reserved to my-
self what is amply sufficient for my needs.
rest, if you oblige me by accepting it, I shall have
purchased happiness—the happiness of making another
happy, who is still dearer to me, Fred (you may always
be sure of that), than my own life. Mr. Clote will call,
and communicate to you the particulars. Do not, I
beseech you, refuse the only proof of friendship—
though it may seem a gross one—that it is now in my
power toshow you. @ same reason, or unreason, if
you choose to call it so, that exiles me from you and
England makes me also averse to carry on any corres-
pondence; your letters would only bring once more
before my eyes long-banished joys, and wake again
regretful memories. If you have, however, serious
occasion to write to me, Ruth will always be in pos-
session of my address.

“ Adieu, dear Fred, adieu forever! May all happiness
attend you, is the constant prayer of your a

: “ CKCIL.”

For a full minute after I had finished this epistle,
none of us spoke, so busy were jwe all with our own
surmises or suspicions. .

«The poor dear fellow is mad,” sighed I, at last.

“Tf his head is amiss,” observed Aunt Ben, thought-
fully, “‘he shows, at least, that his heart is sound, I
wonder what sort of arrangement he has made with
Mr. Clote in your favor? A very handsome one, I'll be
bound.” r ‘

“My dear aunt,” said, I, grayely, ‘I trust you do not
uae me capable of taking advantage of it in any
case ?”

«And why on earth should you not, Fred? Your
poor cousin has obviously no use for all his money,
while even a small slice of it would be of the greatest
benefit to you and Eleanor. For my part, I think it
does Cecil immense credit to have thought of making
you such an offer at a time like this, instead of waiting,
as most folks would be content to do, for the oppor-
tunity of presenting a silver fork and spoon. It is
when a young couple are without experience in cutting
and contriving, and just setting up for themselyes, that
they stand most in need of such help—not when they
have settled down, and learned how to cut their coat
‘according to their cloth. Ithink it a great proof of
common sense in Cecil.” ~

“And yet, my dear aunt,” urged I, unable to repress
}a stuile at-the queer logic which her love for her
| nephew and prospective niece had suggested to Aunt
| Ben, “ you have just admitted that Cousin Cecil’s wrong
in lis head.” he

“Well, well,” returned the old lady, impatiently,
“he can’t help that. We ought to be thankful that his
madness has not driven him in the other direction, the
same that was taken by old “—— . ;

I’ knew she was within @ hairbreadth of saying
“old skinflint,”’ for she turned the same color as her
-eap-strings, which were purple, as she corrected her-
self with : ‘Taken by poor old Mr. Bourne, you know—
our dear Eleanor’s grandfather. And this I will say,
that, if you don’t take the money, you are ten times
madder than your Cousin Cecil is or ever will be, Why,
I suppose if he had given yous handsome marriage
present, you would not have been too proud to accept
that ; und what is this but a marriage present, made a
few weeks in advance ?”’

“That would be a yery different matter, Aunt Ben,”
said I; “for, if I don’t mistake, this letter of Cecil’s
conveys an offer of such a sum of money as it is quite
out of the question that I should accept. However,I
‘have no doubt that we shall see Mr. Clote to-morrow,
and he will tell us all about it.” ' :

“He won't accept it, my dear,” observed Aunt Ben to
Eleanor, in a very loud “aside.’”? ‘I know poor dear
He’s just like his father before him—

ite md4d about money matters. The Wrays all‘pique
themselves upon not thinking much of money ; upon
not bowing down to the golden calf, as other people do;
and yet they must think there is something very sacred
about the animal, teo, or they would not make such a
fuss about accepting aloin or a shoulder as @ present
trom a friend.’’

 

 

“And yet you are a Wray yourself, Aunt Pen,’ re-

With the:

turned Eleanor, smiling ; “and, if 1am not much mis-
taken, would be quite as unwilling as Fred, if you.were

| placed in his position ’’—— d gw
“Stuff and» nonsense!’ interrupted) the old lady,
angrily.. ‘“Ithought you were a more reasonable per-

taking up with such opinions, it would make-him turn
in his grave. You pretend to think with that foolish
boy, just to please him ; and if you do that now, when
you are your own mistress—markmy words—when you
are married to him you will be his slave !”’

While this’ sharp admonition was in progress, there

| had come a ring at the front door-bell, and at this mo-
, {mient.our handmaiden ‘entered with an address-card.
“ Dramatic suecess, however great, will, at all events, |

“This gentleman wishes to see you, sir, wpon im-
portant business.’”’ On the card was printed, Mr, Clote,
Gray's Inn. P

 

CHAPTER XXXII,
, ELEANOR’S SCISSORS,

I ap seen Mr. Clote years ago at Gatcombe, where he
had come upon business, immediately after the arrival
of my cousins from India, and he: now looked pretty
much the same as he had done then: a small, spare
man, with a skin like parchment, and nota trace of hair
upon it, he seemed to bid defiance to Time. We had got
on very well together of old, though we had nothing in
common; he was very frank, and had had the courage to
confess his antipathy to a country life, hisecontempt for
horses, and his disbelief in exercise and fresh air. They
had never done him any good, he said (though I doubt
if he had given them a fair chance), and he was-always
wellin his chambers at Gray's Inn. As he was there
for seven hours every week-day, for about fifty weeks in
the year, it must be allowed that he had very good
health—a fact which he mainly attributed to “never
putting any thing that was not warm into hisstomach.”
But I don't think he enjoyed ‘it. He enjoyed nothing,
by his own confession (which I have no reason to dis-
believe), except attending to business, and letting off
little jokes, generally at his own expense. Literature,
he was went to say, was a dead letter'to him. ‘Deeds,
not Words,” was his motto. With this facetious account
of his opinions he was greatly pleased, and repeated it
often: doubtless his clerks always laughed at it, and it
was considered in their salaries; for. he was a kindly
and open-handed little fellow, though, to look at him,
you could have scarcely called him flesh and blood.

“‘@lad to see you, Mr. Fred—glad to see the ladies:
they need not leave us;’”’ for both my aunt and Nelly
were pluming their wings for flight to the drawing-
room at the sight of Mr. Clote, who hada reputation for
contemning the fair sex as well as exercise and fresh
air. ‘My business is not ofa private nature; indeed,
it is not business at all, in a high sense, being an affair
of sentiment. The ladies will doubtless understand it;
I confess J don’t. However, I have excellent news for
you, Mr. Fred; though, perhaps, it is no news after all.”
(His quick eye had fallen on my cousin’s letter.) ‘ Mr.
Cecil has written, has he ?”

“ He has written,” said I, “to offer me, as I under-
stand, sore portion of his property.’”’

_ “Some portion |” echoed the little lawyer. “ ene
you give your aunt a slice of plum-pudding, you don?
call the’pudding some portion, do you, but the slice.
Well, Cecil has given away his pudding—thirty thous-
and pounds orso—and kept the slice—some five thousand
pounds, little more than his sister’s share—tor himeelf,””
* “Thirty thousand pounds?’ cried I, “That is in-
credible.”

“Mr. Fred, here’s the deed of gift.”

And Mr. Clote produced a parchment covered with
cabalistic signs and seals.

“Well, and what do you think of it all, Mr. Clote?’”’

“Think of it? Why, that you are a deuced lucky fel-
low 1” <

“Yes. But what do you think of Cecil? He gave
-you his instructions personally, as I conclude. Do
an think him, to say the least of it, very eccen-
trie?”*» : ‘

“Of course ; but not more so than aman who lives in
the open air and yives himself up to exercise is liable to
become. At Gatcombe he was always flying through
space with a leaping-pole, like a witch on a broomstick;
in South America he rode wild horses, as I understand;
in Switzerland, he climbed the mountains before sun-
rise—this is what comes of it all. But he is perfectly
sané in the eye of the law, ifyou mean (Wat. Moreover,”
—I am sure this was in reply to some expression of
opinion conyeyed by my aunt’s face, though I did not
catch it—“ the money would be sure to come to you or
yours sooner or. later, if your cousin does not marry, as
he protests he never will. He is a very sensible yo
fellow so far—begging your pardon, Miss Bourne. —
meant, that since there are certainly not two Miss
Bournes in the world, he was a sensible young fellow.
Oh, there’s not the slightest reason why you should not
take the money.” ;

“You must permit me to be the judge of that, Mr.
Clote,” said I, coldly, : : :

“¥ think there is one other person who ought to be

consulted, Fred,” observed my aunt with significance.
“You should remember, that your future wife would
have been an heiress—I don’t say but for your fault, yet
certainly but for you. It should surely be a question
‘whether you should deprive her a second time, from a
po lang sense of independence, of competence and po-
sition.” .
__ “Itis a question,” said I, ‘which she shall answer
for herself! This deed, as I understand, Mr, Clote,
en in possession of the sum you have mention-
ea?” >

“ Justao,” said he ; ‘you can read it for’ ourself.”
I took the parchment and placed ft in Nelly's hand.

 

“Tf you think it right to keep it,” said I, “we will do
80, dear Nelly ; you are quite free to choose.”

son, If your poor’ old grandfather could hear you °

 

.

 
CECIL’S TRYST.

35

 

*Good heavens!" cried the little lawyer, jumping out
of his chair; “if it had been ad valorem, there would
have been a matter of ahundred pounds gone, in stamps
alone !’’

For Eleanor had snatched up her scissors and cut the
precious document right across !

Thad already cause to know that she was possessed
of spirit and independence, but I had never admired my
darling more than at the moment when I saw her with
half that parchment in each of her hands.

“She has been accustomed to be a great deal in the
open air herself,”” observed my aunt, quietly, in answer
to Mr. Clote’s look of astonishment and alarm ; and it
was the only occasion on which I ever knew Aunt Ben
to indulge in a piece of satire.

“It does not matter to me, of course,’ said the law-
yer, ruefully ; ‘‘but you understand that all Mr. Cecil
has done is now labor in vain.”

“We quite understand that,’ said I,” and also that
it was a labor of love. Pray, tell him that we thank him
with all our hearts.. He has forbidden me to write to
him, but I nrust send him a few lines upon such a mat:
ter as this.”

I was by this time in the hall with Mr. Clote, who,
I fancied, was not sorry to escape from the company of
a young lady of such a very resolute character as Elea-
nor had proved herself to be. In this, however, I did
him wrong.

‘‘My dear sir,” said he, confidentially, “I couldn’t
tell you so before the ladies, but the fact is, I can tell
Mr. Cecil nothing, for the simple reason that I don’t
know where he is. If I wish to have any communica-
tion with him in future it isto be carried on through
an opera dancer, Yes sir. Did you ever hear of such
an unprofessional proceeding in your life?”

“An opera dancer?” saidI. ‘Do you mean Miss
Brabant, the actress ?’’

“ Well, I believe that is the young lady’s name. There
is not much difference (as I have been given to under-
stand) between actresses and opera-dancers, She lives
at Laburnum something, in St; John’s Wood, Upon my
life, sir’’—and here he mopped his forehead—‘ I feel as
if I was being struck off the rolls:”’

I was not so shocked as Mr. Clote, but I was almost
equally ek for singular as it was that, after what
had passed between them (which was‘surely something
of no pleasant kind), Cecil should haye appointed Ruth
be to the medium of correspondence between myselfand
him, it was yet more strange that he should have done
the same in the case of his lawyer.

A new key to the mystery of Cecil’s conduct now pre-
sented itselfto my mind. Perhaps Mr, Clote was right
in his conclusion, though he had arrived at it so easily.
It was possible that my cousin was keeping his resolu-
tion with respect to Ruth in the letter, but notin the
spirit. He would not marry her, but he had found it
impossible to live without her, A proposal of that
kind might easily have - produced the indignation
and chagrin which I had beheld in Ruth, but she might
have accepted it, nevertheless. It was by no means out
of character with Cecil's old self that she should make
atonement for such a course of conduct in the Quixotic
offer that he had made to myself. It would be impossi-
ble, under such circumstances, that he could continue
to visit us, and hence his letter of final farewell.

On the other hand, there was Ruth’s solemn state-
ment that they two were never to meet again, which
certainly atthe time impressed me with its truth,
Moreover, I had my doubts whether my cousin, with
five thousand pounds, would have been welcome to
the brilliant Miss Brabant, however acceptable he
might have been with seven times that sum. And
again she must have been fully aware of his inten-
tion of making over his fortune, and have approy-
ed of it, since. she had told me to expect a letter
from him wlth a request, to which “however strange,”
he had besought me to accede,

Bewildered with these conflicting views, I determin-
ed, as far as possible, to resolve the question for my-
self; and, late as it was, I took a cab, and drove to Ce-
cil’s hotel. ‘‘ Mr. Wray had departed, with all his lug-
gage, at two o’clock that day,’”’ was the reply to my in-
quiries ; ‘‘and had left no address.”

I then drove to Laburnum Villa. The house was
dark but for a single candle in an upper window. I
rang the bell—first softly, then loudly, then with a
peal fit to wake the dead. The little household, as I
knew, kept very late hours ; and I felt confident that
the neglect of my summons was intentional. If it
was, Ishould have no right to. complain ; for, after all,
I was not “my cousin’s keeper.” ButI didnot think
of propriety until I heard Fantine’s step descending
the stairs. Then I trembled a little, remembering the
sharpness of her tongue ; and, taking out half a sover-
eign, held it between my finger and thumb fora sop
toCerberus. It was not, however, Fantine at all, but a
blear-eyed old woman, such as that. comely damsel
might have become some fifty years hence.

“Is Miss Brabant. at home?”’ said I, taken greatly
aback by this spectacle, 7

“No, she ain’t,’”’ said the old lady with a defiant air.
“It’s a pretty time. for calling, this is, bringing honest
people out of their beds! What do you mean by it?”

I felt so terrlbly in the wrong, that I hastened to
offer this good woman the coin which I had intended
for Fantine. 7 :

“It’s a farthing,” said she, sharply; then, having
tested the gold between her toothless gums, she added:
“No, it ain’t,”” and scrutinized me admiringly by the
light of the candle.

“I want to know how Miss Brabant is ; she was very
unwell this morning.”

“ She’s as right as right,” replied the old lady cheer-
fully; “ gone into the country for a little change—
that’s all.”

“ Alone?” inquired I, carelessly as Icould.

«Yes, yes,”” answered the dame, assuredly. ‘Besides,
ahandsome young gentleman like you ought to have
no call to be Jealous”

 

The leer with which she favored me was full of sig-
nificance. I dare say, from Fantine’s eyes it would
have been that “‘roguish glance,’ which is asserted to
be so attractive ; and indeed there was roguery still in
this, and plenty of it.

« Any name?” said she.

‘I hesitated, in doubt whether to leave my name or
not. ‘“ No,” said 1: “never mind;” and I turned up-
on my heel. ‘“ Good-night.’

“ He’s tight,” muttered the old woman, like an echo.
“ He’s forgot hisown name ;”’ and I think she was sur-
prised to see me make such a straight coursé to the

cab.
My expedition had been barren in results; but there was
something in this last interview with that old hag which
seemed to give me the conviction thatI should hence-
forth be a stranger not only to Cecil, but to Miss Bra-
bant. It was my belief that they had gone offtogether.
I had never repented for a single moment of Nelly’s
act of ‘decision with regard to the deed of gift; but I
now approved of it more than ever. To accept money,
even from a friend’s hand, was, as Aunt Ben had said,
distasteful to me, as it had been to all my race; but
what would have weighed still more with me in reject-
ing Cecil’s offer (even if it had been- less unreasonably
large) was the fact that it had been made, as it seemed
to me, with a studious avoidance of Nelly’s name—nay,
with a sort of repudiation of her. Not a wish had been
expressed for He happiness; not a single message of
good-will towards her was to be found throughout that
letter of farewell; and though the samemight be said
with respect to Aunt Ben, I felt the neglect of my dar-
ling, of course, more keenly, and resented it with an
indignation that my cousin’s generosity towards myself
inflamed rather than assuaged. And now, so far from
accepting a fortune at Cecil's hands, I shoul: have hesi-
tated not 4 little at receiving a marriage present.

CHAPTER XXXIV,
ON OUR HONEY-MOON,

WEEXs Went on, and my feelings with regard to Cecil’s
conduct grew less intense, and likewise my curiosity to
know its cause. It remained as great a mystery
as'ever; but I was content to let time resolve it.
Miss Brabant had returned to the Corintheum, and was
playing my Foot-Page to stillcrowded houses, She
evinced no desire to see me, and the drama remained as
it was, without those finishing touches of which she
hadinformed me it stood in need; but perhaps that had
only been an excuse to compel me to bring Cecil to
Laburnum Villa. He had not replied to the letter I had
written declining his splendid gift, andI did my best
to prevent my mind from dwelling on a subject that to
me was as painful as it was perplexing. In this circum-
stances assisted me. The success of my play had re-
versed the relations between myself and the managers.
I found that they were not now so ceaselessly occupied
but that they could acknowledge the receipt of a letter,
and even write half a dozen for every one of mine,
They vied with one another to secure my_ dramatic
services, and I had quite as much work on my hands in
that way as I could conscientiously perform. To do
them justice, they did not exact from others a virtue to
which they themselves were utter strangers, and
thought the conscientiousness quite superfluous. What.
they desired was, not a good play, but any play, by one
who had already achieved popularity. I got three hun-
dred pounds down—and the down is a very difficult
thing to pluck out of a manager—for the Peddler’s
Pack; which, therefore, realized, with the addition of
what I had received for six night’s representation from
the manager of the Hole-in-the-Wall, a grand total of
£301 10s. I found Mr. Magnus politeness, and Mr.
Coryton punctuality itself; and both of them to be very
agreeable sc: undre!s.

But besides having my hands full of professional
engagements, a subject for still greater congratulation
claimed my attention. The happy day of my marriage
with Eleanor, so long delayed, was now drawing very
near, and I could think of little else. It ever wedded
happiness could be counted upon, it surely could be so
in my case; for though we were both so young, I had
known my darling all her life, and loved her throughout
it—first as brother, and then as lover. I had long come
to the end of her faults, but every day I seemed to find
in her some new flower of virtue. There were few pre-
parations to make, for we were to occupy the same
house as man and wife as that in which we already re-
sided; the only differenee being, that Nelly was now to
be its mistress in place of Aunt Ben, though, of course,
she was to live with us still. I wrote to Cecil to inform
him of the date of the ceremony, and besought him to be
present at it; for my own fervent happiness had melted
my heart towards him. But he neither wrote nor came.
This grieved us all, but more upon his own account
than ours. We could not restrain our thoughts, though
even to one another,we never whispered, “‘ He is asham-
ed to come.” He sent no marriage present; but, greatly
to my embarrassment, a very beautiful one arrived
from Miss Brabant.

“Of course you will send it back to her, said my
aunt, looking very seriously at me over her spectacles.
“T call it the height of impudence, and most infamous-
ly bad taste on the part of your cousin ?”’

“My dear aunt, said I, “we know nothing certain to
Ruth's discredit; and if we should chance ‘to’ be doing
her wrong by our suspicions, I should never forgive
myself for putting such an insult upon her as you sug-
gest. She has been exceedingly kind to me”-——~

“No doubt,” interrupted my aunt, dryly. “I can only
say that if I were Eleanor’— And she cast a glance at
that unfortunate young woman, which seemed to say :
‘« Arise, white slave, or be forever fallen! Assert your-
self now, or be a spiritléss and subjugated woman all
your life.” °

“Permit me to finish my sentence, my dear aunt,”
said I, and it was the only occasion that I remember

 

using sharpness to that excellent creature. “It is to
Miss Brabant solely, I was about to remark, that I owe
my present success, and all the brightness of my pro-
fessional future, Whatever injurious thoughts you
may entertain about her, I must beg that you do not
give them utterance, at all events in my presence. If
appearances seem against her, that is no reason why I,
ot all men, should take her misconduct for granted.
While it remains in doubt, you should give her, in bare
justice, the benefit of that doubt—at all events J shall
give it her, If the gift had been sent to Eleanor, (and
that, it had not been so, and also that no letter ac-
companied it were certainly circumstances that seemed
to justify my aunt’s suspicions), “I should have in-
sisted upon her acknowledging it, though I think she.
would have had the good taste and charity to do so of
her own free-will. As it has been sent to both of us,
however, it is not necessary for her to write her own
thanks, but I will convey them for her.”

Nothing more was then said about the matter; but
before the post went out that evening, Nelly slipped
into my hands a little folded note.

“Don't. tell dear Aunt Ben,” she whispered; “ but.
send that to Ruth with yours.”

From that.moment I felt more assured,than ever that
I was going to marry a sensible woman,

The wedding took place early in June; and leaving
Aunt Ben in solitary state in Merton Square, we went
to Switzerland for our honeymoon. This choice of
locality was, as. I believe, by no means influenced at the
time by any association with Cecil. Itis not likely that
the recollection. of the catastrophe,to which he had been
witness among these Alpine solitudes should on such
an occasion have attracted us towards them; yet no
sooner did we find ourselves within the shadow of the
snow-crowned hills, than it began to occupy my
thoughts to an extraordinary degree. I do not wish to ex-
aggerate the fact, but it is certain that, while she was
alive, my poor cousin Jane had never excited half the
interest in me that the remembrance of her awful fate
awoke in the region of its occurrence. After all, and
though I had been less kind to her than I could have
wished to have been (or perhaps the reflection arose be-
cause of it), I was still her kin; and it wasa grievous
thought, and one that intruded on me like anightmare,
that somewhere in those wastes of snow and ice my
own flesh and blood was lying, unburied, yet incorrup-
tible. Of course I took good care to say no word of this
to my bride; but the idea had taken such possession of
my own imagination that it began to effect my spirits,
and I had already resolved to pass over into Italy, in or-
der, as I hoped, to get rid of so morbid a sensation,
when a circumstance took place which caused it to re-
cur to me with greater force than ever.

We were just sitting down to breakfast one morning
in the common room of the hotel at Breig, when (of all
men to meet in such a region) who should walk in but:
Mr. Clote, attorney and gentleman-at-law !

Even on one's honeymoon, one is glad to meet an ac-
quaintance when one is far from home, and we both
welcomed the old gentleman heartily enough.

“Have you been tearing up any more valuable law
documents lately, my dear madam ?” inquired he of my
wife; and Nelly retorted by asking him whether his
mind had yet given signs of decadence from exposure
to the fresh air of the mountains, and the exercise that
Swiss traveling must needs have entailed upon him.

“‘ Well, yes, my dear young lady,” replied he frankly,
“it is softening under the circumstances you have
mentioned, combined with female influence; for the
fact is, lam traveling about with a young lady. No,
sir,” said he, turning round upon me sharply, as I lift-
ed my eyebrows, “she is not my wife, as you imagine;
I dare say you wish she were. We all know the table of
the fox that had lost his tail, and how you bridegrooms
affect to hug your gilded chains; but the fact is, she is
my niece, Minna—a most terrible plague to me, but the
only possession that my poor brother Tom had to leave
behind him, and I was his residuary legatee. She
keeps house for me—very well, I’m bound to say, and
lets me do just as I like.’”’

“Then how was it she made you come to Switzerland,
Mr. Clote ?” asked my wife, mischievously.

‘A client of mine fell ill at Geneva, and sent for me
to what he. thought was his death-bed: overwalked
himself, I dare say, and lost his sleep through gettin,
up to see the sun rise, as though the sun-set was no
equally satisfactory. Well, I had to come, and as I
could hardly leaye Minna at home alone, I brought her
with me. She loves climbing like a boy; but otherwise,
there is not much fault to be found with her. But here
is Minna. Look at her boots!”

Miss Clote was a bright little blonde, with blue eyes
twinkling with fun, and the wholesomest appearance
generally; in her h nd was an alpenstock, for she had
already ‘been climbing something; and on her little feet:
a pair of such very stout boots, that I did not wonder
that her uncle had called our attention to them. It
was easy to see that these two relatives apparently
80 unsympathizing and even antagonistic, were on the
best-of terms with one another.

“I know she tyrannizes over me,” explained the old.
gentleman, in apology for his abject submission to this
fair enslaver; “ but oe it is only for a little while.
Unlike you, Mr, Fred, when I once put my foot on
English soil, Iam a free man again; ere, I admit, I do
indulge her a little. She is presently going to drag me
up to the Zggischorn, to visit—what is it, Minna ?—oh,
the Marjelensee.”’

“Why, that is close to the Alitsch Glacier, is it.
not?’ said I.

“My dear sir,’’ pleaded Mr, Clote, “how should I
know? Ask Minna?

Minna said it was; protested that there was nothing
80 well worth seeing as that elevated lake (subsequently
compared by Mr. Clote to a more familiar sheet of
water the pond at Hendon); and that the accommodation
. the Hggischorn was perfect—" like a delightful pic-
nic,

 
 

 

SS

 

 

 

 

36

CECIL’S TRYST.

 

 

My wife and I both listened to her with interest, but
with very different feelings. It seemed to me, caught
as I was just escaping from this melancholy district—at
the very outlet of it—and thus reminded of the spec-
tral scene which haunted me, that my eyes were doomed

to look upon it as it really existed. ‘If this were so, it.

was better to get it over at once, andin cheerful com-
pany. ‘

When, therefore, Nelly said: “Oh, Fred, let us go
with them,” without any recollection in her mind of
the locality as being associated with poor Jane’s catas-
trophe, I acceded to her request at once. I did not
think it necessary to tell her why I did so; and ac-
quiescence in a bridegroom being the most natural pro-
ceeding in the world, she suspected nothing.

On the first opportunity, however, which did not
happen till evening—for the lawyer and my wife went
up on horseback to the Mggischorn, while I and Minna,
the Indomitable, walked—I told Mr. Clote that’ if it
‘could be done without frightening the ladies, I should
very much like to explore, on the morrow, the very
spot where the accident to my cousin had occurred.

“That is all very well,” said the lawyer; “but it
‘can’t be done without frightening me. To visit such a
place as you describe, I should require not only to be
roped to any number of guides, but to the hotel itself;
and even so, I should preter it to be a bigger one.”

“We will, of course, take guides and ropes,” said I;
“‘but Iam quite sure, from poor Cecil’s description of
the place, that we need run into no danger; that he saw
all was done that could be done I have no doubt; but

_ still, I feel that it would be some sort of satisfaction to

me to gaze on the very grive-mouth that received my
cousin, and toconvince myself with my own eyes that
itis not possible to rescue her poor body trom the
sharp teeth of frost and snow.”

Mr. Clote shuddered. “It is a most pious wish of
yours, Mr. Fred, no doubt; but Ireally see no sort of
obligation—at all events, on my part” ——

“Tam not so sure of that,’ interrupted I, gravely:
“you are poor Jane’s trustee; it is your duty to take
every reasonable means of convincing yourself of the
fact of her demise, The body has never been discovered;
how do you know she is dead? Swppose the crevasse
ae e thoroughly explored, and the body not found
at all 1”

“Upon my life,” said Mr. Clote, “ that’s quite a new
view of the matter. I think there’s something i” that.
Dear me? To besure, I have got nobody’s word for your
poor cousin’ s death but that of a parcel of foreigners,
and of her brother himself, and /e’s an interested party.
He's got her four thousand pounds, you know. Of
course, I would take his word on such a point in pre-
ference to the combined evidence of the governors of
the Bank of England. Butt it certainly would be more
business-like to investigate the locality for myself. It
is denced slippery on the glacier, isn’t it, though !”

I calmed the little lawyer's fears, and vigororously
prodded the place where his conscience had proved ten-
der till he agreed to accompany me to the Alitsch Glacier.
I did not intend to tell the ladies of our project till
mext morning, when I hoped to induce them to stay at
‘the hotel while we put it into execution. But I found,
on retiring that night, that my wife knew all about the
catastrophe—the chamber-maid at the inn haying been
communicative to her upon the matter—and that both
she and Miss Clote had made up their minds to visit
the place.. “To tell you the truth, Fred, though I had
quite forgotten the names of the Alitsch Glacier and
the Marjelensee, I have scarcely ever had poor Jane’s
accident out of my mind since I had been in Switzer-
Jand, though I would not have told you so for the
world had not this happened; and now that we are so
near to the spot, as should as soon think of neglecting
to visit it as of passing by the church-yard in which
whe lay buried. If the expedition is dangerous, then,
of course, that is a different matter; and Minna andI
s@hould only’ be in the way.’” Birtsf
~ It was arranged, then, that if the guides should give
leave, the ladies were to accompany us to the scene of
iast year's disaster; and they did give leave. Scores of
men, and a good many ladies, had already visited it, at
the conclusion of last year’s season ; and, in fact, we
‘were compélled to understand that the Alitseh Crevasse
had become a sort of sensational exhibition. This
etre me excessively, and Nelly as much as myself.

“Tous, |
The fools of habit, sweeter seems
To rest beneath the clover
That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Qr where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God,”

than to “‘lie fathom deep in brine, tossing with tangle
and with shell ”—how much more did we revolt against
our lost one being buried in the thick-ribbed ice, and
looked for, though unseen, by curious, careless eyes
for year after year to come.

It was very early in the season, for Switzerland; no
pilgrimage had as yet been made to the place since the
autumn, and Nature, though so changeless in her'gen-
eral aspect, is very variable in such a region with re-
spect to her lesser features; still, we were positively
assured that the fatal spot would be recognizable; and
on the morrow, accompanied by guides, carrying an
abundance of ropes and ascaling-1 r, we four set out
for it accordingly. — :

CHAPTER XXXV. _ .
OUT OF THE CREVASSE.

were the only guests at the Mggischorn, we
of assistance in addition to the guides we
brought from Brieg; but although every member
f the 1 force had been familiar with the aspect of.
this fatal crevasse last year, they were now quite unable
find it—it was either so altered in its features as to

“
4

z

As the glacier was comparatively free from snow, how-
ever, we did not discontinue our researches, though it
was evident to me, trom what I remembered of Ce-
cil’s description of the catastrophe, that we were rang-
ing wide of the spot where it had oceurred.

“What is that, Fred, on the ice yonder?’ inquired
Nelly, suddenly, pointing out some distant object
which had attracted her sharp eyes.

Following the direction ot her glance, I perceived
something small and black lying by the side of a great

“yawn in the glacier. :

“Itisa man’s cap,” said I, regarding it through an
opera glass which I had with me. ‘How can it possi-
bly have got there ?”’

‘Easily enough,” said one from theinn. “That is
on the road to the Faulberg, and. somebody. must have
dropped it last summer. No one, at all events, has
passed that way this year; of that I am certain.”

When we reached the spot, which was not approached
without some difficulty, the appearance ot the cap—
once apparently a wide-awake, but now crushed out of
all shape—certainly bore out the man’s suggestion.
Perhaps it had not suffered much more than acap would
do if left out for a winter upon Helvellyn, but it was
certainly a deplorable object. The silken root, with the
name of the maker, had been rotted out by the snow;
but on the leathern lining there were some letters
written, which, though faint, were not wholly obliter-

ated. Some of the party thought them O. M., and some
C. M.; but Mr. Clote presently pulled outa magnifying-
glass—ordinarily used for the perusal of old deeds, but
of late employed to convince his niece that even mod-
erate elevations were insurmountable—and decided
that the letters were ©. W.

“Why, those are Cecil's initials,” cried I. ‘‘He may
have lost his cap here in looking for his poor sister; and
this, after all, may be the very crevasse we are in search

of;” and thinking of what that gaping grave might con- |

tain, I gazed down into its cold, blue depths with rev-
erent awe.

“Nay, sir,’”” said the guide who had spoken before;
“that cannot be; for I know we are a long way from
the spot pointed out by the young gentleman, which
was under those steep rocks yonder,as I told you. |
was one of those who accompanied him in his first
search, and he was yery positive about the place.”

“And yet,” said another, ‘‘I do remember .that, on

there were plenty of hands mt the rope beside my own,
for the spectacle that was now presented fairly paralyz-
edme. Along with Baudin, and side by side with him,
was now emerging from the orevasse another form, an-
other face—a face which, though it, had suffered a sad
change, was still as recognizable to meas that of my
bride herself—a face the owner of. which had once bid
me not, to fear, for that [should surely see it again—
the Jace of my cousin Cecil. :
| My brain reesed as I looked down at him, but I could
| not disbelieve my own eyes. It was undoubtedly he
who had thus kept Tryst in such a ghastly fashion. I
did not utter a syllable; some instinct repressed the
cry that rose to my lips, and dried my tears at their
; Source. If he had raised, up an ice-cold finger, in sign
| of silence, I could not have telt more bound to keep my
| lips sealed for his sake, though my reason could not
| tellme why, The idea that was uppermost in the
| medley of weird thoughts that crowded on my mind was,
that he from whom I had parted afew wecks—almost
in anger, certainly with but little of that ancient triend-
ship which had once seemed inviolable—had come
hither to the spot where he had lost his sister, and
, Sought death by her side. I did not comprehend what
| the men were saying, in hushed tones, about the length
| of time that the body must needs have been lying in
| that icy charnel-house; one said, “for years;’’ and one,
| “No, no; but through the winter.” Evidently none of
the Hggischorn people recognized it for their visitor of
the preceding season, as they took it up among them
and began to carry it towards the inn. Nelly and Minna
had hidden their taces in a close embrace, but Mr. Clote
was staring at me like one thunderstruck. I held my
hand up and shook my head, and he was silent. No-
thing more was said at present that had reference to
this dread discovery, for our guides perceived that the
nerves of all the party were shaken by it, and applied
themselves ne to smooth the difficulties of the way.
| As for poor Nelly, she sad tallen into a sort of half-
| swoon, and walked like one in her sleep; so her we car-
ried. She recovered, however, before we reached the
inn, which we found in great commotion. Fortunately,
| although the sandlord observed something to us about
| the likeness of the corpse to the poor young lady who
had lodged with him last year and perished near the
same spot, he did not pursue thé subject; and as we
were supposed to be connected with the deceased, we

that night when he woke us all up at the inn with the | Were left quite to ourselves. It was a great relief to us
bad news, that he did say something about having lost | all (even to Minna, though she had no such reasons
his cap.” ay yOF courting privacy as the rest of us) to find ourselves
This was quite enough (notwithstanding all were | one, : y

agreed that werweste far apnah-ward.of the fapal spot) to! “Did T not tell you, Fred, that I knew whom’ we
make me insist upon the crevasse being examined. - A | Should find?” were Nelly’s first disjointed, half-hysteri-
belt was buckled round one of the chief guides, and a | cal words. id 5 z ss

rope being fixed to it, he was lowered down very gradu- You did,” said I. “But how, in heaven’s name, did

in acc @ wi directions, | you guess it was poor Cecil ?”* ;
aily, and in accordance with his own directions, Pres- “Clow ti) continued ahé*tont tne tnddtiene we

ently he gave a signal to be drawn up, which, of course, |

was obeyed.

“Itisno use sir,” said he, after a pull at my brandy-
flask, for he was damp and cold. “I went down the
crevasse after the poor young lady last year, and feel
quite confident that this is not the same. To begin
with, the other had no bottom, and was thrice the
size.”

“ Have you reached the bottom of this one, then ?’’
inquired I. :

“Well, no, sir,’’ said the,man, frankly. ‘I got to

where the crevasse narrows a good deal; but it opens \

out, I see, below again, down to forty feet or so.’”’
The man had evidently a disinclination to pursue re-

| found the cap with his initials in it. I bribed the por-
| ter to volunteer to descend the crevasse when the other
| man declined to do so. I would have gone down my-
| self rather than have left him there. Oh, think of it,
Fred, lying there all alone in the ice and snow of Alpine
; winter !”” and she began to sob most pitifully.
| “Tdon't understand all this,” said Mr. Clote, looking
| from my wife tome, “I parted from my unhappy cli-
| ent certainly not two months ago; and you talk of his
‘haying lain in that dreadful place throughout the
| winter,”” .
| “Nelly is right, Mr. Clote,” said I, gravely, for I saw
|itallnow. “This matter, as my wife whispered ere I

searches not only disagreeable in themselves, but which 8aw his face, is far worse than we imagine. It is not
promised no resillt,, Ae I 100ked wistfully, round our | only Death that.we have to face, but Deceit and Fraud.”
little party,my eye lit upon a young porter whose eager | Here T hesitated. “ Your niece can be relied on, I am
face—like that of a small boy in class who knows his sure ?

 

to
be unrecognizable, or it had altogether disappeared.

lesson, and sees the question coming down to him—;_ Minna rose to go, with a deep blush ; but her uncle
seemed to say “ Try me.” is {

*‘ Will you go to the bottom of the crevasse, and satis- |
ty us that there is nothing there ?’’ said I. {

This he at once agreed to do; and we lowered him, as |
we had lowered the other man, though, of course, pay-
ing out more rope. We could see him but very indis- |
tinctly; but the walls of ice gave back his voice te us|
quite clearly. Presently he uttered a violent ejacula-
tion, and we began to draw him up with haste, think-
ing that he had met with some accident. ‘No, no,”
cried he, in his rough patois, of which Miss Clote was
our interpreter. ‘More rope; there is something lying
here.’’ In qother minute, during which we kept an
ominous silence, he added: “ It is a dead man !”’ ;

weer the effect of such a ghastly statement deli-
vel

 

laid his hand upon her shoulders. “The girl is true as
steel,” said he, “If the honor of your whole family
ae be placed in her hands, believe me, it woud be
safe.” °
“Tam about to place it there,” said I, solemnly: “If
this body is that of my cousin Cecil, Mr. Clote, where,
think you, is Jane? You told me only yesterday that
Cecil was. benefitted to the extent of four thousand
pounds by his sister’s death; how much would Jane
have been benefited by that of Cecil?” : a
“Why, nothing—nothing at all; the estate would then

| have passed to you.’

“Just so. By personating Cecil, however, Jane es
contrived to secure his fortune and her own as well.”’
“ Personating Cecil! You don’t mean to tell me thet

y its unseen utterer from the depths of that icy | my client—your cousin—whom I have had interviews

vault! Exclamations of horror burst from every
mouth; but Nelly turned so deadly pale that I put my
arm around her, thinking she was ut to fall.

“There is no dead man there.” said the guide who |

| had ever such a head for business, to

| with a dozen times, is a woman?—a chit of a girl in

man’s clothes, It is absolutely incredible; Saar “< woman
n with.”
“My cousin Jane was always shrewd, Mr. Olote,’’ I

had already descended; for we have had no one missing. | said, “and somewhat too shrewd. I will stake my life

The cold has touched Baudin’s brain.
to”’——

“Pull up—stout ana steady,” here interrupted Baudin
from below; and we did so, The weight was much
heavier than before.

“It is worse than anything you imagine,”’ whispered
Nelly in my ear.. “Oh Fred, be firm, be calm! Iknow
who it is he is bringing up with him.’’

«Nay, nay,” said I, comfortingly; ‘‘ dreadful as may
be the spectacle, it is not poor Jane, we may be sure.”

“Iknow that,” answered she, with a shudder. But
this is worse. Becalm, be firm!” f

Treally thought that my poor darling was for the
moment frightened out of her wits. It would be ex-
cusable enough had she been so. Ishould havesent
both the ladies back to the hotel ere this, if we could
havespared the men to accompany them, but we could

y discontinue such work as we had on
‘hand, even for such a purpose. .I motioned to Mr.
Clote to take my wife, and lead her, with Min-

It is not right

na, ia -few 3 off, but-a fascination which I
could not t kept my own eyes fixed "Ee the cre-
vasse. It was fortunate for brave young Baudin that

 

that the fraud I have described has been = upon us,
though much indeed yet remains to be explained.’ What
a return has that woman made for a brother’s love!”
Alas, thought I, if that poor cold breast lying yonder
could feel a pang from human wrong-doing, how
through and through would it be smitten now!

“A base return indeed,”” mused the old lawyer; “and
with what guileful craft she has gone to work! It is
certainly most fortunate that you fell in with me. You
and your wife are interested parties, you see, but I can
bear independent testimony with respect to idéntifica-
tion, Not, however, that she’ll venture to fight such a
question fora moment. You'll not make it a criminal
matter, I suppose, unless you think ”’—— :

“Of course not,” interapted I; “I should not dream
of prosecuting Jane, for fier brother’s sake.—What is it
you mean?” for there was a look in the lawyer’s
significant of something amiss, worse than what we
already knew. . : s oree

“You might do it for his sake. I mean, thatit isjust
possible that there has been foul playin the matter—-
as - the way I mean, in which your cousin came to his
end.” . nh ron

ease,
CECIL’S TRYST. 8T

 

 

and must be left to have its own effect. It ran ae
tollows :

“Cousin ’"—for I could not bring myself to write
“ Dear Cecil”’ now, with the protest of t poor dead
face so fresh in my recollection,—‘‘I have tidings for
you which must need demand your attention: our lost

My blood seemed to stand still in my veins as I) was quiet and undemonstrative, though firm and re-
listened to his words. “If I thought that,” cried I, | solute. A hundred incidents occurred to us now, any
with vehemence, “the law should have its uttermost | one of which would have strengthened suspicion had
with her. Imyself”—— | we once entertained it ; but, of course (with the excep-

“Hush! hush! we do not think that,” interrupted | tion of those momentous instincts on Nelly’s part,
Nelly, rising and laying her hand upon my arm. ‘If! which I have just: mentioned), we had entertained
anyone has cause to complain that Cousin June has been | none. ‘ one was found here in a crevasse of the Alitsch Glacier
her enemy, / have; and it is I whosay she isinnocentof | Cecil’s—that is, the supposed Cecil’s—forgetfulness | jast night, and is to be buried to-morrow. Mr. Clote is
any such charge, When Cecil (as [ thought her to be) | of all that had happened in the old Gatcombe days, ex- | with us at this place, the Hyggischorn, which you
was striving to prevent my marriage all he could, and | cept in so far as his sister had been mixed up with | doubtless remember so vividly, and the identification.
jas was pretended) for his sister's sake, I never doubted | them; and in particular, his total obliyiousness of the | of the body. is established beyond doubt; ut it will
even then that sister and brother had loved one an- ! plays that we had been wont to write, I might almost | not be made public, unless you choose it to be so.
sther dearly, and I do not doubt it now. Jane never | say together, since much of them had been contributed The newspapers will doubtless speak of it as that of
ved but two persons on earth "—here Nelly glanced | by his own pen: his excusing himself trom playing the | «an unknown tourist;’ and so tar as we are concerned,.
xt me with tender significance—“but she loved them | flute—which, in reality, he could not play at all, but) believe me, we should prefer it to be always 80 de-

ae

|

with all her heart, and one of them was Cecil.”

“That may be as you say, my dear Mrs. Fred,” said
Mr. Clote, thoughtfully; “but I look to the business
aspect of the matter, while you regard it from a senti-
menta] point of view. Now, to ?/ eyes, that deed of
gift to your husband of all Cecil's fortune, except a bare
thousand pounds—which was probably retained for the
very reason that, if she had given all, it would took too |
like restitutidn—the execution of that deed, I say, seems
to me to argue acute remorse.

“No, no, Mr. Clote,” continued Nelly; “it was not
that, though I-cannot undertake to say what it was.
It may have a suspicious lock to yon; to meitis simply |
inexplicable; and remember ’’—here she turned to me
again— that deed was not drawn up until our mar-
riage day was fixed. No; Janenever harmed her brother
—I will stake my life, nay more, dear Fred, your love, |
on that; but when he met his death yonder, so sud- |
denly, a dreadful instinct must have seized her to take
advantage of it. If you and I had not been engaged to
one another, it is my belief Jane would never have done
so; but she could not endure the thought that your in-
heritance of Cecil’s wealth would enable you to marry
me”?

“It needs a woman to explain a woman's conduct, |
uncle, dear,” said «inna, softly; ‘you may be sure that |
Sirs. Wray is right.”’ ; |

“But what are we todo?” ejaculated Mr. Clote. |
“You have no right to indulge in sentiment, you know |
—that is to compound a felony, at the expense of the
land. You don’t mean to say that you are going to let
this sort of thing goon? This masquerading cousin of
yours is not to be allowed to keep the property that has
been entailed upon heirs-male, I suppose; you'll stop
that?”

“Let us sleep a night upon it, Mr. Clote,”’ replied I,
quoting a favorite maxim of the lawyer's own. “ We
are all of us far too much excited, and some too pained
and distressed, to exercise any sober judgment on it just
now.”

|
'

‘ striven to propitiate her by all means in her power !

only the real Cecil—and, on the other hand, the im-
provement which we had all noticed in his touch on the
piano, How easy it was now to explain his disinclina-

|
|
‘tion for going into soctety, since the more eyes were |
|

fixed upon him, the greater chance, of course, he ran
of discovery; and especially his determined objection to |
meet Ruth. He had teared her eyes beyond all others, |
and would without doubt never have attended the per- |
formance of the Foot-Page had he dreamed that she |
and Miss Brabant were the same person. More than all,
and which ought to have excited in us something more |

| than mere surprise, was that astounding circumstance |

of his not recognizing Ruth even when brought tace to
face with her. How feeble now appeared those argu-
ments by which I had endeavored to explain this fact
away both tomyself and others; and how sagacious had
Lady Repton shown herself in attaehing such extreme
importance to the occurrence: no wonder that my mas-
querading cousin had dreaded er sharp looks, and

“You don’t’ think, by-the-bye,’’ said I, ‘that her
ladyship herself had any suspicion of the truth, do you,
Nelly ?” '

“No,” returned my wife, slowly, “I do not think she
had; and yet I believe she was always on the very verge
of discovering ‘it. I can’t understand this change in
your cousin Cecil,’ she would say half a dozen times a
day. ‘Heis not himself at all, and he has certainly
not altered for the better.’ But then, again, she was
always ready to allow that his friendship for yourself
was as warm and loyal asever. In fact, Fred, your
cousin Jane would not have been able to carry on the
imposition fora day if she had not been in love with
you, which enabled her with ease to simulate friend-
ship, and still keep a residue of tenderness.”

‘Poor Jane !’’ sighed I. ‘

“Tt will be time enough to pity her when she has
owned her crime,”’ observed my wife, dryly.

Here there was a little pause. ‘

‘Aunt Ben had no suspicion of the matter, Nelly,

scribed. We shall be at home when this letter reaches.
you; so direct thither to your kinsman,
“FREDERICK WRAY.”

The nails were being driyen into my dear Cecil's
coffin as I wrote this letter; and when I addressed it to
“ Cecil Wray,” I fe& as sharp a pain as though they
had been aimed at my own heart; yet, curiously
enough, my very love for him made me tender to-
wards the sister he had held so dear, and when that
letter had once passed beyond my power to do so, I
would have given much to have recalled it. :

For was it not but too likely that it might have some
immediately fatal effects upon its unhappy recipient ?
Iremembered now with a shudder that almost fatal
day at his hotel—I still thought of it as “his”
from habit—when I arrived only just in time to pre-
vent him from committing a new and still more
deadly crime than that of which he stood convicted;
and how much more reason was there for his commit-
ting it now! Trecalled bis look of terror, too great, as
it seemed to me, even then, to be ascribed to the pro-
pognity of death, and found the right solution of it.

e had not recognized my voice, changed by fear and
excitement, when I cried “Cecil! Cecil!’ at the door;
and the sound had doubtless struck him as something
supernatural—a cry of reproach from yonder icy tomb,
or the voice of his own conscience appealing to a
dead brother for pardon. The letter on his desk,
about which he had been so solicitous as to whether
I had read it or not, had doubtless been his
confession, made, as he imagined on the brink of
eternity; and was there not far more reason for his
crossing that brink now—for his escaping, “anywhere,
anywhere out of the world” wherein his fraud and false-
hood had been exposed—than there had been then? To
be sure, he had passed his oath tome that he would
never again attempt his life, but he had done so with
that curious proviso, ‘‘ unless I myself should # ve
his doing Coe. doubtless, in view f oer

might he not now easily convince

For my part, indeed, I was scarcely master of myself; | think you ?” sible detection; an
for while we were thus talking about Cecil's property,| —« None whatever. No one had any, to be called | Himself that in my opinion, as in his own, the best
was not his own dear self, or rather the poor battered | such.” thing he could do in so sad # case was to end shame and

shell that had once held him, lying without, under a
shed, stared at, perchance, by ‘prying, irreverent eyes,
or tendel by unloving, alien hands at least! I did not
venture to visit him, however, lest my emotions should
betray me, until nightfall, when the superstitious fears
of others made tlfem glad enough to leave him to me
alone. I shall never forget that solemn interview—if a
meeting between the dead and the living can s0 be
termed. The moon was shining through the window-
less shed, and fell upon the rough coffin in which he
had been already placed. The lid was not yet fastened
down, and I took it off tolook my last upon him. A
change for the worst had come over it, even during the
last few hours that the body had been exposed to the
air; but I could still recognize the face that had always
worn a smile for me, and never an angry look. On his
finger wasa poorringIhad given him when he had
left Gatcombe, and I remembered, for the first time,
how moved his sister had been whenI asked her
what had become of it. “You promised me,” I had
said, “that it should never leave your hand;”
and she had made some lame excuse for having
lost it. But Cecil had kept his promise—warm-hearted,
honest Cecil, who had been wronged so cruelly in the
opinion of his friend, and well-nigh despised. I protest
that I was more wroth with Jane upon that account—
the injustice which her deception had caused us to do
him—than at all else. To have thought him (ofall
men) avaricious, mean, morose, and he all the while ly-
ing lost and dead in his grave of ice—how his dumb face
reproved me now f

CHAPTER XXXVI.
COMING HOME.

Wuen I had bidden adieu to my poor friend forever,
and retired at last to my own chamber, it was not to
sleep, but to think upon his fate, and to pass in review
again and again the strange events that had succeeded
it. My wife was as wakeful as myself, and full of the
same thoughts, which she pursued with far more skill
than I, Blame she had no cause to feel, as I had; nor
was her sorrow, though great, so violent as.to quench,
as it were, with tears (asit didin my case) the fire of
her indignation against Jane; or perhaps, as Minna
had said, woman’s wit is keener than man’s to observe
the actions and guess the motives of those of her own
Sex. She astounded me by declaring that an actual
suspicion of the truth respecting Jane had flashed
upon her on the night when I read the letter

it had recurred again, in spite of herself, when Mr.
Clote called with his news, and had ey bw eer

 

her to tear up the deed of gift—an act which I had my-
self thought out of keeping with Nelly’s nature, which

 

«One person, however,”’ said I, ‘‘ has known the fact
for these two months. Ruth, of course, discovered it
on the day of their interview.’ j

“She discovered it before, Fred. She knew it on thi
previous night, when we were at the theater. I well
recollect now that I saw Miss Brabant’s face peering
through the curtain, when you were acknowledgin,
the plaudits of the audience, with a pained, puzzle
look upon it that I could not understand; it struck me
as so strange—for I had forgotten the relations between
them, and indeed everything else but your triumph—
that she should be looking at your cousin, and not at
you; and then do you remember the message that ar-
rived immediately afterwards, asking you to come be-
hind the scenes? If you had gone alone, this mystery,
would, I think, have been solved at once; but as Jane
accompanied you, Ruth took her own way with her in
the matter.” ,

“ And she has kept her own way ever singe,”” mused
I. “She must certainly have some very powerful rea-
son for silence, since I am sure she would not volun-
tarily be a party to any fraud on you and me, and
above all to benefit Jane.” ‘

To that opinion my wife assented; but her wits
could not help mine to any conclusion as to Ruth’s
motive. One thing, indeed, was tolerably plain—that
she had been oe some means or other, Jane's
confidante, and could elucidate matters if she would.
And yet I shrank from oe disclosing the whole
affair to Ruth, for fear that she might, after all, be
herself deceived; it was very unlikely, but still, in a
case where so many improbabilities did exist, that also
might be. On the other hand, I had no means of com-
municating with Jane except through her.

The best way of contriving this, of letting my cousin
understand that the fraud was discovered, without at
the same time disclosing it, should the letter fall into
the hands of a third person ignorant of the fraud, occu-
pied our thoughts for hours; but at last I hit upon a
plan which at least had simplicity to recommend it,
and if approved of by Mr. Clote, we decided to act
we iton the morrow. Convinced that we had now

one our best in the way both of council and reflection,
we contrived, though not until the little household of
the inn was already astir, to snatch a little sleep.

The course I proposed to myself, and in which Mr,
Clote concurred, was, that I should write to Jane at
once, but not to Ruth, The note would, of course,
pass through the latter’s hauds; and its Swiss post-
mark and the Jmmediate upon the cover, would, if she
were in possession of the secret, convince her that it
was discovered. At all events, it was probable that she

the matter, and mere curiosity compelled her to open
the note, it was so worded as not to compromise Jane;
and in such a case, the communication would, of
course, be forwarded (for it was very certain now that
Ruth and my cousin were not under the same roof),

 

we
|

life together ! ,
This apprehension troubled me exceedingly, though
I strove to keep it to myself, and haunted me more and
more with every hour that brought us nearer home.
My wife, and even Mr. Clote and Minna (who accom-
ied us), were anxious enough for the contents of

| that letter which we should doubtless find awaiting us:

in Merton Square; but, for my part, I scarcely looked
for a letter at all, but only for ghastly tidings. :

 

CHAPTER XXXVII.

WHO BRIBED BATT YX?

We found Aunt Ben awaiting our return in a most
excited state, for we had not liked to intrust to paper
what had brought us home so suddenly, but had only
written to say we were coming. We, on our part, too,
had an anxious question to put to her; Was there a.
letter from Cecil? But she replied carelessly that there
was not, and rallied me about my devotion to my
cousin, “which seemed to make Fred ignore his poor
old aunt and everybody else.” b

I am sure the dear, kind soul had no cause to say
that, tor the sight of her honest, kindly face was wel-
come to us both—more at that time than ever, for its
promise of sympathy in trouble. She listened to the
story of our discovery at the Zggischorn with hushed
amazement—not that surprise was too great for horror,
but that, from the moment she understood what had
earch wre details ceased to interest her, in.

mparison with her coneern for the unha Jane,»

“What will she do? What canshe do PP ajacnlated
she. “Some one should go to her at once.”

Mn this I quite concurred; and Aunt Ben yolunteered.
to be the ambassador.

“Twill go to Miss Brabant the first thing to-morrow
morning,”’ said I, “ and procure the address.”

“ By-the-bye, there is a letter for you from Mise
Brabant on the drawing-room mantelpiece.” *

Thad flown down stairs and seized the letter before:
Aunt Ben had done explaining to Nelly that she had
thought it didn’t signify, and might wait.” It was but.
4 little note, indeed, written on pink paper, and just
such a communication, to look at it,as might have
“ waited” (from my aunt’s 7 of view) any amount
of time without damage. But its contents were very
pregnant. : ;

Dear Master Frep: I opened the letter you ad-
dregsed to Cecil, for which, under the circumstances, 1
had his authority. After much consideration, I have

this aftern have

. which announced (the supposed) Cecil’s intention | would open the note, and, finding that all was known, Sent ae - on,» Heavelt grant
S & of never seeing us more. It was. so like | would take such means to inform Jane as might seem | You tmnn cn ee eee
woman's letter, she said, from first to last. It} most judicious, ‘ jnoment.. If I ain at the theater and fetoh me
was true she had dismissed the idea from her mind,| On the other hand, if Ruth was herself ignorant of “Rane teats coe ana
next moment, as too monstrous to be entertained; but ques Army, f 7 ‘

It was then ten o'clock at night. I snatched up ®
serene and, looking at ioe ere of the
Corin re perceived Miss Brabant ad Mee eac is be

Foot. would

burlesque as Well as for the be

oat
 

 

 

 

38

CECIL’S TRYST.

 

 

at the theater, then, for another honr; and thither I
determined to'go, that I might see her the first moment
she was at liberty.

For once, even Aunt Ben did not disapprove of my
eagerness for an interview with Ruth: “Tt have done
her wrong, I allow, Fred,” said she; ‘‘at all events
with respect to your cousin.”

Agitated as I was, I could scarcely help laughing at
the unnecessary air of candor with which this apology
was made. “It is most créditable to you Aunt Ben,”
said I, “to confess‘as much.”

“Tam always ready to own myself in the wrong,
when I am in the wrong,” returned she, gravely.
“But you must admit that the case was most suspi-
cious. We ought to be charitable; but it surely can
scarcely be expected of us to credit a gentleman with
being a lady.”

The burlesque was drawing to its close as I entered
the theater, but Thad hardly patience to await its con-
clusion. How thin and pointless fell its poor jests upon
my ear as I stood, concealed from the notice of those
upon the stage, and watclied its tinselled scenes and
worthless glitter! The central figure was always the
Fairy Queen (Miss Brabant), more beantiful ‘than all
the rest, and more unreal. Beneath the paint which
she had freely given her cheeks I thougbt I could dis-
cern the traces of anxiety and grief; and at times her
grand eyes seemed to wander round the house as though
in search of some new-comer; but she played her part
to perfection ; and when at last the curtain fell, it was
amidst a tumult of applause. A born actress was Ruth,
if ever there was one, for it was certainly not want. of
feeling that enabled her to throw aside the burden of
such, a secret as she carried in her breast, and as-
sume so Naturally a character that was to real life what
a rainbow is to a sunbeam. 7

I came upon her ere she had reached her dressing-
room, and while shé was still bedizened in her robes of
mimic state. .They were rich and costly, however, as
though they had belonged to veritable majesty: and I
nator that her fingers were covered with splendid
tings, ;

“You are come at last?’ were her.first eager words.
«‘T have been looking for you all the evening.” Then
om ‘ing to her, ‘‘ dresser :”’
girl,”

“ But I can wait,” said I. ; :

“Yes; but Ican not,” interrupted she, impériously.
“Every moment, for all that. we can tell, is priceless,””

“Do you apprehend, then, that he—that she’— My
voice. was tremulous, I know, for I dreaded to hear her
corroborate my fears by her own. ~ ‘

“I apprehend, the worst,” answered shoe, gravely.
‘The cloak and hood were brought, and rapidly, adjusted,
yet with such skill that they quenched the glories of
her stage attire as completely as an extinguisher on
flame. ;

A brougham was in waiting at the stage door, which
carried us quickly to Laburnum Villa. :

“Don’t talk to me upon the way,’’ said she; “let me
collect my thoughts, for I have much to tell you.” |

Fantine opened, the door to us without, betraying a
scintillation. of. astonishment.
not being suprised at any event; or, if she did possess
the curiosity peculiar to her sex, she had the resolution
of a North erican Indian not to betray it.
lighted the chandelier in the little drawing-room, re-
lieved her mistress of her cloak, and left us together at
midnight—Ruth a dazzling butterfly, and I a grub,
travel-worn and travel-stained (for Lhad had no time
even to change my clothes)—as unconcernedly as
though I were making a morning call.

“IT knew this interview must come to pass some day,
Master Fred,’ began Ruth, slowly, and speaking with
painful effort; “I have been expecting it, looking for-
ward toit with dread, for months, that appear years,
it is hard for you, but it is far worse for me, as you will
hear.” Here she stopped, and laid her hand upon her
. heart, as though she could scarce draw breath. To

spare her, and help.her out with a narration, that gave

such evident pain, I put a question. i

“You knew her, did you not, from the moment that
you first set eyes on her in Cecil’s clothes ?’’

“T knew her while she stood by you in the box,
Master Fred. Iam too much used to dress in, mascu-
line attire myself to fail to detect such masquerading
in others; but the recognition brought about, another
knowledge—the corroboration of a suspicion .much
more terrible, much more strange, that had haunted
me for years.”

‘ “What suspicion?’ inquired I, “What knowledge
could be more terrible or strange than that about which

Iain here to speak ?”’ ;

“Ah! you have forgotten,’ said Ruth, vehemently;
“but I, who loved him, with all his faults, from his
cradle even to that awful day when he and I were
buried in one living grave—I, for whom he toiled, and
to whom, for so many years, he was father and mother,
and loyer, and all—J had not forgotten my brother
Richard!” «

“ But how did the sight of Jane, disguised in, man’s
attire, remind you of'your poor brother?” .

« Because I saw in her his murderer! Yes, it struck
none of you wise gentlemen in Sandylandshire that
Batty’s story might, after all, be true; but it struck me

\ from the very first. It was Cecil's gold that bribed the
poor wretch to remove the poles, and it was Cecil’s self
that placed it in his hands; that is, this spurious Cecil

—not my own. No, no; not he who risked his life to

save my brother, and who did save me—oh, would that

he had let ‘me die !—but this one.” yt

Ruth was sobbing as an angry child sobs, partly with
fury, pied with grief, and her eyes flashed fire
through her tears. :

“She did not wish to murder Richard, I know; she
wanted to kill me, the village wench whose beauty had
witched her brother. But since she could not find the
chance fo doit unless by slaying another victim also,
my Richard was sacrificed. What mattered the life of a

)

“ Bring my cloak and hood,

light, that one, at least, was never to behold again.
| Her self-control had broken down, too, upon the yight

| dever-had been discovered in her unconscious instru-

She had the faculty of |

She |

 

mere country clown like him, when weighed - against
my lady’s prospects !—Not capable of it?”’ (This in
reply to some teeble protest of my own, nets to say
truth, I had no doubt that Ruth was right, and that the
true explanation of Batty’s story had been found at
last.) ‘‘ You saw her tace when she stood at our cot-
tage-door—the first time that Lever met her brother—
and yet you say, not capable of it! Why, there was
murder in her eyes that very day !’’

When I recalled that scene to mind, I could not, deny
it. I remembered Jane’s outburst of contempt and
fury; her patient submission under Cecil's passionate
rebuke; and then her brooding silence on the journey
home. It was not likely, being what she was, that she
should ever forget that it was through Ruth that her |
brother’s wrath (for the first time in their lives, as I
believe) had been evoked against her; and then, as
weeks went on, and Cecil’s love for Ruth came to his
sister’s ears (as no doubt it did), was it likely, being
what she was, that she should have borne it tamely,
unless she had had some scheme within herself like
this, which should have ended all at asingle blow! I
called to mind that hour upon the sand-clitf when I saw
her coming. from the pinewood above Waytord, pale
with rage;.the fiendish plot that had been so long
smouldering in her mind, doubtless just ripe for
action; and, again, how she had kept her room from
indisposition—the better, probably, to slip out unob-
served in Cecil’s clotiies and bribe the foolish lad; and,
then, again, how, as I had noticed when the news of
the catastrophe came to us in the Hall, she alone of all
the audience seemed neither surprised nor shocked,
but only looked to see the effect of it on Cecil. She
alone, too, had abstained on that occasion from coming
to the sand-cliff: resolute and cruel as her nature had
showed itself to be, she had not been equal -to the
task of watching by the pit-mouth while the bodies of
her victims were being dragged out into the sun-

when the constable. brought word that the real mur-

ment, Batty—though that, of course, had scarcely ex-
cited our surprise, much less suspicion. Read by the
light of this startling discovery, in short, all the seem-
ing inconsistencies in Jane’s conduct were accounted
for, and her motives explained. >

“But how was it; Ruth, knowing. what you did,’
inquired I, ‘‘ that you yourself kept silence ?”

‘I knew nothing, Master Fred,’’ returned she, yehe-
mently. “Is it not enough that my poor brother’s
dying words should ring in my ears, demanding justice
even now, without your taunts to back them? I did
not know; I scarcelyeven guessed, A black suspicion |
haunted me as I have said, but that was all. Istrove
to think it baseless, for Mr. Cecil’s sake. You think 1|
did not love him; and you used to think so. Ah me,;
I would I had loved him less, and justice more |’’

“And yet, Ruth, when I went to wish you good-bye |
for him, as it seemed probable forever ’’—+- |

“It was forever,” interrupted she. ‘I. knew that, |
whatever might happen. This, Jane, I felt, would never |
suffer us to meet again ; and hatred of her, and above,
all, this dread suspicion of her, overshadowed all my |
being, and chilled my love. But do not say I did not)
love him, when even now, when I know all for certain, |
my loveis still so strong that, for his sake, I permit my
brother’s blood to cry out to mein vain, and her to live |
on unpunished ! I told her so in this room, to her face ;)|
andit was the bitterest drop in. all tue cup of her |
humiliation to know that she owed her life to the love:
L bore her brother!” weg a mat anht |

A look of triumph lit up Ruth’s hagged features for |
an instant, but it passed away, and gaye place tothe |
same dejection as before. , |

“Tt matters not now, Master Fred—when nothing |
matters—but you have been very good tome, and such |
friends are very, very searce. with such as I, and I
should like to keep your good opinion of me when I can.

 

‘You are doubtless thinking that I ought not to have |

taken Cecil’s money. But why not, since Jane had |
killed my bread-winner? True, I did not know it then |
for certain, but I guessed it. And if my guess was right, |
it would be some beginning of punishment to her to
know that her brother had made provision for me, and |
was still bent on making me his wife. But I myself |
had lost that hope. While his sister lived, I could
never have wedded him; nor,asI then thought, even
had she died! I strove to shut him from my thoughts ;
I changed my name, and made my way in life unknown
to all, till accident threw you and me together. Berett |
ot friends, and utterly forlorn—though always in a
whirl of gayety—the thought of seeing your kind, hon-
est face was very welcome tome ; and when the oppor-
tunity offered itself of doing you some service in my
profession, I could not but seize it. ?

You will do me justice as to Cecil even then; I for-
bade you to let him know that you had discovered me;
I dectined to receive the letters that he had confided for
me to your hands; I closed the doorof my heart against
him ali T could. But when the news came of Jane’s
death, my love returned for him as with a torrent’s
rush, and forced the door. I strove to forget his sister
and to remember only him, and, alas for me, I succeed. |
ed! You avoided me, for some reason—probably be- |
cause you perceived the hope that was springing up
within me, and knew, from some conversation with
cousin, that it must needs be barren—but I deter:
mined, nevertheless, to see him ; and I showld have
seen him, though not so soon,‘had you not brought
him with you to the play. What a moment was that
when my eyes first lit upon your Cecil and showed me
Jane! T have told'you what that single glance ravealed
tome; but I have not told you all: Not only did I
recognize in’ your disguised cousin the murderer.of my
brother, but, as I hope for lieaven’s merey,T thought
for the moment that she had murdered Cecil also! Tf,
when you obeyed my summons, you had not brought
her with you behind the scenes, I would have had her

 

brought to mé at all hazards; not for your sake even
dear Master Fred, nor for your wife’s sake, would I
have spared that woman, had she proved to be the
thrice-dyed villain for whom I took her! For Cecil’s
sake, I was ready tolet her go unpunished for the act,
which, designed for my own destruction, slew my
brother; and for Cecil’s sake (had she turned out to be
his murderer), I would have had her hanged, as sure as
dawn will break to-day! Imagine what I felt, as I
stood side by side with her—I in my page’s dress, un-
recognized by her, but she disguised from me in vain—
and asked her to this house upon the morrow! Once
standing face to face. with one amother, I knew that I
should learn the truth; and the next day we stood so.
You did not come and hear her tell it—the whole story
of her fraud from first to last—but, take my word for
it, she told it truly. Next to herself and you—yes,
you, I say—she loved her brother, and never thought
of harming him, nor profiting by any harm to him, un-
til she saw him perish. before her eyes. The account
she wrote you of the catastrophe was a correct one, if
you read ‘Cecil’ for ‘Jane;’ except that the crevasse
down which her brother fell was not so deep as she
described it to be. He was dead, of course, poor soul!
and past all aid; butit was necessary for her purpoes
that the body should never be brought to light ; and
she pointed out another crevasse, which seemed to be
without bottom, as the scene of the calamity. I cannot
say when she resolved to play this hateful part; I don’t
think she quite knows herself. Perhaps the idea first
crossed her while she was still upon the glacier, and
grew and grew with every minute of fruitless search,
until she reached the inn, when the opportunity of
changing her clothes for Cecil’s before her arrival was

erceived, presented itself, and overcame her last
ingering scruples; then it took final shape. I asked
her motives: they were love for you, and hate of
Eleanor. She could not bear to think that Ceeil’s
money should enable you to wed your bride; amd just
as a good mother says of her tempted daughter; ‘I
would rather see her dead before my eyes, than that
she should'marry such an one;’ so Jane said to herself:
‘I will see the man L love defrauded of his rights, and I
myself be his defrauder, rather than that he shall
wed my rival.’’’ Ke j

“That is likeenough, Ruth,’ said I, thoughtfully.
“‘But how came you to know it? What spell had you
- a with, that could make my cousin Jane so

ank 2” 5

““The shadow |that the gallows casts before it,’’ re-
turned Ruth, fiercely. ‘My first words to her let
her know her life was in my hands. You should have
seen herdark, false face so like to Oecil’s, and yet so little
like—when I cried: ‘Murderess! you killed my
brother; have you also killed your own ?’. I knew that
she was guiltless, before she spoke; no one could have
refused credit to that look of passionate, denial. Great
Heaven! what fire abides in that heart of flint. As
ace she had been some guileless innocent ac-
cused of shame she scarcely knew by name, she scorch-
ed me with her scorn. ‘ She kill her Cecil—she! Her
precious Cecil !’—as though my love was dross, while
hers was gold.’’ ay :

‘But she expressed remorse and sorrow surely,
penitence for her crime—I mean for that crime at Gat-
combe ?”” : i

“T know notif she did or not. I did not. speak of
that—I could not trust myself to do so, but strove to
put it from me altogether, since she was to go unpun-
ished, I did but show her she was in my power, and
then spoke of Cecil only, and her fraud.’’

‘Then it was through you,” said I, ‘‘ that Jane bade
us good-bye, and wanted to have made such amends to
us as lay within her power ?” '

“Not wholly so,’ said Ruth. ‘Weeks ago, she
told me, she had been on the point of putting an end
to herself (as'_you would witness) and making restitu-
tion to you that way. She took no pleasure, so she
said (and I believe her), in her ill-got wealth (though
she strove at first todo so), and would have gladly
parted with it to its proper owner, if she could have
done so without suspicion. Even that she would
have risked, she said (and I believe her), but for Cecil's
sake. To have her crime discovered would have been
to blacken Cecil’s name and memory.” ‘

“And it was that reflection which weighed with you,
Ruth, also, and earned her-pardon ?”’

“Pardon? No; she never earned it: itis not mine
to give. Ihave not, orI had not, even pity for her.
But it was for Cecil’s sake I spared her, and for
yours. Icould not bring such public shame on you
and Eleanor,” N
_ “Thanks, thanks |’? said I, with fervor. “It would
indeed have been hard to bear.—Where is this wretched
woman ?”” ;

“At an hotel at Swanby, on the Sussex coast. "That
is, she was.”’ :

xp ao shall then be able to communicate with
once ?”’

“She will be at that address, if she be alive.”

“Do you think the tidings of our late discovery will
kill her, then ?”’

‘Ruth shook her head. “No,” said she, gravely.
“She will kill herself. I said just now, I had no pity
for her, but I did feel pity while I spoke, and I feel ‘it
now—the pity that one feels, in any case, for thase
whom Death has carried before the Eternal Judge.
There is no hurry now,’’ for I had risen to my feet in
horror at this confirmation of my tears. ‘It happened
hours ago, ifit did happen.” :

“Aunt Ben has offered to fo down,” said I. ‘But
if anything so terrible is. likely to have occurred, I
should not like to let her do so alone.” ‘

“Go with her, Master Fred, is my advice.”

“T will, and let us still hope for the best.” ?

- “ Yes,”’ sighed Ruth, as we shook hands, for -I was
in haste to be gone now, “for whatever is the best.”

Her last words sank within me, for they reminded
me again of Jane’s proviso, that she would never again

her: at

\

 
CECIL’S TRYST.

 

attempt her life unless I myself should make ,ex-
cuse for it, and if I did not make excuse for it, I
should now for certain find no cause for wonder.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
AT LAST.

By the first train next morning, my aunt and I,
and Eleanor—for my wife insisted on accompanyin
us, in hopes to be of some comfort to my mrcehen,
forlorn cousin—went down to Swanby. It was a
seaside place of growing repute, with a gigantic
hotel, palace in appearance, and for three months
in the year, at least, as full of tenants as a barracks.
“There was no sitting-room at present disengaged,”
said the lady-manager, in answer to our inquiry;
“but there would be one vacant for certain the next
day. In the meantime we could use the lady’s
coffee-room.”

There was an.air of embarrassment in the wo-
man’s reply, L noticed, but I set it down to- some
doubt in her own mind of whether the promised
apartment would really be disengaged.

In the coffee-room, which was of immense size, it
also struck me, as such trifles do strike one, no mat-
ter how the mind be occupied with serious matters,
that the waiters hung about in groups, and whis-
pered together to an extent which greatly interfered
with the practice of their profession.

We ordered some refreshments, and while it was
getting ready I inquired of one of them, as careless-
r could, whether a gentleman of the name of

ray was still stopping at the hotel. s

**Do you mean Mr. Cecil Wray? Are you any rel-
ative of his, sir?’ asked the waiter, mysteriously.

“Yes,” said I. “Why do you ask? What is the
matter?’ He is not ill, 1 hope?”

““ No, sir; no,” answered the man, nervously. “I'll
tell the head-waiter, sir.” ‘

And before I could stop him, and inquire the mean-
ing of his strange conduct, he had left the room to
summon his chief. The head-waiter was a portl
man, with even a graver air than'is Customary wit
such important functionaries, and he moved like a
monarch at his own coronation.

““ Were you asking for Mr. Cecil Wray, sir?”

“*I was asking whether he was at the hotel?” said I, ,

‘* Why, yes, sir; yes, he is,” answered the man, in
a confidential tone. “Would you please to walk this
way?”’—and he motioned toward the door:

“Well,” said I, turning. doubtfully toward the
ladies, “‘ perhaps it will be as well if I went first.”

“You had better leave the ladies here,” whispered
_ man, behind his hand. SoIaccompanied him
alone.

“If Mr. Wray is any friend of yours, sir, Tam

afraid I have-bad news for you,” said he as we , 1léft
the room. .

‘He has not met with any accident, I trust?’ said
I, not knowing what to say, but on my guard not to
appear to anticipate any catastrophe.

No, sir, no. This is his sitting-room,,No, 18;

and he stopped at the door so numbered, and pro-

duced a key.

“Ts he here?” I inquired. ?

“ No, sir. Youcan come in, They took him up-
stairs at once.”

The room was peng but showed signs of ‘recent
oceupation; and on the floor were strewed some
fragments of letters torn in ‘very’ small pieces, and
on the table was the old desk I knew so well, but
closed and locked. Mi
_ “* What has ae man?” said I, in a fever of
impatience. ‘“* Tell me the worst?”

“ Well, sir, your friend was taken ill this morning
on a sudden—just after his letters had been taken in
to him at breakfast—yes; sir, that’s the truth. He’s
dead ; and we’ve locked the room up, just as it is,
incase there should need to be a crowner’s quest.
Take a glass of water, sir?”

From a carafe upon the sideboard he poured out
some water in a tumber that stood by it. '

“One moment,” said I, as I held’ it in my hand
untasted. “*IT am Mr. Wray’s cousin and sole rel-
ative, and this news has been too much for me. Is
pas Sai who attended him in the house at pres-
ent?”

“ Yes, sir. Tb fetch him at once. Keep up your
spirits, sir, pray do.”

I am sure the good man was apprehensive of a
second catastrophe in No, 18, with such unwonted
quickness did he start upon his errand, ,

No sooner was I left alone than I emptied the
tumbler behind the grate, ree it thoroughly with
my handkerchief, and refilled it from the carafe. In
the water I had thrown away I had at once detected
the presence.of prussic acid. I had hardly satisfied
myself, by’ a hasty glance around the room, that
there was no other object of suspicion, before the
waiter reappeared, with a tall gentleman in black,
whom he introduced as Dr. Fullam. {

“A sad ‘case, this, of your poor relative’s, sir,”
were his. first words, when we were left alone to-
gether.

“A most’ distressing one,

doctor,” said’ I; ** in-
deed, the news Ihave just
beyond measure,”

heard has shocked me
“Very natur

ally; very. reasonably. I have just
been telling the proprietor of the hotel that I have no
doubt in my own mind that it was the heart.- Have
you any cause for suspecting that your relative,-was
suffering from na nervous depression? Could any
news have arrived, think you ’—and helooked down
ae scraps of paper—“ likely to give him a sudden
SO t
Yes,” said I; “*T think it extremely probable.”
Very good, it corroborates my view, you
see. It is most bupeetent that no sone, Stir,
such as an inquest would infallibly make, s ould
happen. Lhaye no doubt about its feing the heart,”
nodded, unwilling to trust myself to speak.
“Do you wish to see the body?”

 

 

“No,” said I; ‘unless it is absolutely necessary
for the sake of identification.”

“You can satisfy me of that, sir, by word of
mouth,’’ said the doctor, sinking his voice to a
pblepe. “IT said it was a sad case; let me now add
that it isa very a ae one. The name of Cecil
is one common to Do you understand
me?”

“Perfectly,’’ said I, with significance. “I am
~T. far from wishing you to do an; hing contrary
to the law qr your own conscience, but if you can
manage matters so as to prevent idle talk,
would be conferring a great personal obligation,’

‘*] will do my best, sir,’ said the doctor, thought-
fully; ‘‘at all events, there need be no farther in-
quiry as to the cause of death,

Dr. Fullam’s services were of the utmost value to
us. Irevealed to him the whole circumstances of
the case—with the exception of what I had detected
in the tumbler; they were corroborated, for his satis-
faction, by the respectable Mr. Clots of Lincoln’s
Inn, and my poor cousin’s burial was effected with-
out public scandal.

To stop idle talk, however, was a much more diffi-
cult matter. The secret of the sex of the deceased
had of necessity to be confided to. other. and less
discreet persons than Dr. Fullam, and eventually it
oozed out, and even became a topic for the news-

apers.

‘hose portions of the story, however, which it was
most important at that time to keep concealed, re-
mained untold, ee are told now, when their rev-
elation can effect no harm, in such a manner as only
toinform_ those i, few whom they concern, not
others, To the world at large this. ‘‘o’er true narra-
tive”? will haye no personal application, and .seem
but a curious episode in human life, to be-read and
then forgotten.

To these three persons, however, whose names
have been most frequently mentioned in this history,
the mutual relation between Jane and her. brother
affords a topic of lasting interest,

Aunt Ben is disposed to think that the love that
was certainly shared between them was equally dis-
tributed; that Jane’s, love for Cecil was never so

reat as his for her, and infinitely less thau her love

or herselt. If she had hie loved him (argues my
aunt), and notwithstanding the devotion manifested
by the great personal risk she ran in the commission
of that awful crime at Gatcome for his sake, it is

uite impossible she could have behaved in such a
shameful and irreverent manner toward him, for his
mere money after death.

My wife, on her part, acquits her of all sordid mo-
tives, though, and is of opinion that Jane loved some-
body else even better; and that to that misplaced af-
fection her fraudulent impersonation of Cecil was
wholly due.

As for me, Istrive to see in the character of my
unhappy kinswoman an extreme example of that
large class of. persons who -possess_ affections run-
ning flercely (in her case uncontrollably), but only
in'a few channels;-never Nabi ymeal their. narrow
banks to fertilize a neighbor field, or even so much
as to lay the dust upon the common road. Such
persone may be ga husbands, fathers, brothers,

ut must needs be bad citizens (in a'social sense), and
hardly deserve the name of fellow-men. They are
so wholly devoid of hurmian sympathy, that they
have none even for those they love.

I look upon Cousin Jane as on a half-mad Czar
Peter, shrewd, ‘unprincipled, egotistic, passionate,
revengeful. kn the eye of justice, she was, of course
but a common criminal, or, if you will, a criminal
above the conimon, since her temptation was com-
paratively small. t have no sort of mitigation or
apology to offer for her. ‘ It is no excuse,’ as I
ahowte Nelly when we argue upon this matter, ‘* to
say that every individual who sacrifices the interests
of another to his own, or makes them of no account
in his own mind, because he chances to be wiser or

th sexes.

ou

‘richer, commits the same crime (except in degree)

as Jane did when she bribed Batty to remove the
props of safety from Richard Waller’s pit.

“There is no excuse at ail, dear Fred,’ says Nelly,
interrupting me with tenderness; ‘‘ but there is ex-
cuse for you for trying to find some palliation for her
conduct, I sometimes think if ithad not been for
me—if you could have returned poorJane’s affection
for you from the first, that her heart might have
opened like a flower to the sun, and her life been al-
together different.”

unt Ben shakes her gray head at this.

“ Jane would have been Jane,’’ says she, ‘under
all circumstances, Let us remember, rather, for
our-consolation, how she became Jane. Neglect
must have attended her from her birth—neglect of
morals, of religion, and the absence of all home ties.
Without mother, when a mother’s care was so indis-
pensable; and with a father who understood so little
of a father’s duties, is it surprising that the poor
child — up to be the woman she did? On the
other hand, to be sure, dear Cecil, who had no bet-
ter hay rey was wholly different.” ;

So here Aunt Ben’s. apology breaks down like the
rest, and itis a relief to turn to the subject that has
been suggested by it—the consideration of Cecil's
case alone. Did he ever doubt his sister’s love for
him? Did he ever apprehend that she was capable
of conimitting a crime for his sake, and out of the

reatness of that love? We all agree in thinking

hat he did not, and are glad to thinkso. As to his

entertaining any suspicion of whose hand had bribed

r Batty, the first breath of it would, I verily be-
ieve, have slain him.

* As surely,” assents Aunt: Ben, gravely, “as the
knowledge that her fraud was discovered slew his
unhappy sister. It was ‘the heart,’ of course, as
the dontor said, but it was the shock that affected
the heart.” F

To this opinion I profess adhesion; for why should

 

I tell her, or my wife, what I uid not tell the doctor,
respecting my poor cousin’s decease? I had never
in my own mind the slightest doubt of how it hap-
pened, from the moment when1 put that tumbler
with its faint, sickly perfume to my lips; but it was
not till long afterward that, opening that same old
desk of Uncle Tom’s, {found corroboration of the
fact. In the place the sand-caster had been wont to
occupy was a screwed-down ink-bottle that never
had held ink, but a more deadly liquid, the odor of
which, though empty, it had not lost, and which I
did not fail to recognize, How long had that fatal
draught been secreted there for the occasion that
was sure to come at last?’ With what feelings ot re-
morse and agony must its owner have poured it out,
and then replaced the screw and locked the desk, to
spare us, if it were possible, one shame the more!
But let us no longer contemplate such a spectacle of
despair, Sbe has been removed from the tribunal
of human opinion, and has been elsewhere condemn-
ed - pardoned. Those words of the world’s great
poet,
“ Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all,”
which were most frequent in my dear father’s
mouth, seem to fallupon my ear once more in the
tones I loved so well:

“Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all;
Close up her eyes, and draw the curtain close.”

If Jane had ever written a confession intended for
other eyes than her own (as I believe she had), she
had destroyed it.. Nota scrap of writing was dis-
covered among her possessions, except some letters
of my. own to Cecil, and those that I had written. to
herself in_the belief that I was addressing her
brother. Since Ruth had discovered her secret, she
did not perhaps, deem it necessary to reveal it in her
own hand,

To Ruth we all naturally felt indebted, who had cer-
tainly done her best both for.us and for Jane. Even
Aunt Ben owned this, and offered no opposition when
I expressed my hope that for the future Miss Brabant
would be received with welcome at our house.
When, therefore, I wrote to tell her of Jane’s de-
cease, I inclosed to her a letter from Eleanor,.re-

retting the estrangement that had taken place be-

ween them since the old Gatcombe days, and beg-
ging as a favor that their intimacy should be re-
newed. The reply to this appeal was not direct, but
contained a communication to myself, chiefly about

oor Jane, “I thank your dear. wife,” it ran, “for

olding out her pure hand to me so cordially; Do
not let her imagine that it is herown fault that the
offer of such friendship comes #00 late.”

To me these words had a very sad significance,
and I almost feared to set them before- Aunt Ben,
lest she should express some triumph in the ac-
curacy of her prudent foresight. ‘“ Did not I al-
ways tell you,” etc. ‘‘ Perhaps you will believe me
another time.” But in this I did that excellent soul
a grievous wrong. She made no comment at the
time, but\the very next afternoon took Eleanor with
her upon an errand which, although bootless, did
her infinite credit,

A few months ago, when Ruth was still nourishing
an honest love, it might have borne,good fruit; te
have had such women-as Aunt Ben and Nelly about
her then, would doubtless have been a_ priceless
benefit: but now it was, as poor Rutb had said,
“too late;’’ she bad closed.our door against her, a3
it were, with her own hands.

I know, though she has never owned it, that Aunt
Ben. blames her owm past conduct in this matter
severely, and her prejudices generally have in con-
Sequence received a shock which renders them less
solid and “four-square*’ to the assaults of reason.
To our loving bearts there seems to us no room in
her for other improvement. She continues to re-
side with us as of old, and though she unnaturally
forsakes her own flesh and blood in the person of
her nephew, and habitually ‘takes Nelly’s part
against me in all domestic arguments, I am bound
to say she is generally in the right, Another genera-
tion is springing up around us, whose affections for
her bids fair to rival ours, and with whom she is,
“The Great Aunt Benita” (from the Zoological
Gardens), “‘ Big Ben,” and other absurd synonyms,
which show love unmixed with fear,

Not long after the event I have just described
Lady Repton became a widow; her lora’s last
words—which affected her to tears in the repetition
of them were: ‘‘I flatter myselt have some little
reputation as a phiicacpher.’

She lamented him with genuine sorrow; but after
the due time of mourning, she discarded her widow's
weeds as unbecoming, and took up her ‘residence in
London, She is very gay, and almost as much ad-
mired ‘in the great City, though in a different way,
as in her youth; but she does not fail to pay fre-
quent visits to her old friends in Merton Square.

After marriage, friendships are_ rarely made, or
at least they are not the same as those begotten in
our youth; and Cousin Cecil was my first frierid and
my last. My mind recurs to the old times at Gat-
combe, and paints him for me as he was, fresh,
frank, and loyal; and then, for a companion-pic-
ture, mirrors the dark days in which deceit and
crime made him their unnconscious victim, I see
his face once more, bright, blithe, and fond, as
when young love first touched it; and then, un-
called for, rise those awful lineaments that lay so
long beneath the snow and ice—the face with which
he kept his tryst withme.

The mere form in which death may chance to
comeé to us is but of small account in the Jong reck-
oning of existence; but when I think upon his life,
how marred it was through no fault of his own,
“the riddle of the painful earth’ grows darker to
mé, and more than ever do I need the poet's faith
that “ somehow Good will be the final’goal of DL”

THE END.

 
 

 

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