bass, as Luttrel approached. And Lily too sprang up joyously, and greeted her father with a glad embrace. "Where is Lady Vivian?" he said, after a while. "I want to see her particularly." "She is in her new room-the Christabel Chamber. O it is such a charming place. Shall I show it you?" "No, I can easily find it. I shall not be long away.' He threw his courier's bag on the stone seat of the Audience Chamber, and went in search of Vivian. At the end of a long corridor Mr. Tostig had ably carried out her poetic caprice. He had fortunately found a young painter in Riverdale, poor but a genius, who was delighted to embellish the walls. So, as you entered the corridor, on each side were painted scenes from the most weird of poems. There was the ancient castle itself, dimly looming under the thin gray cloud of the April midnight. There was the lovely lady, Christabel, tripping down to the wood to pray. There was Geraldine, beautiful with a strange beauty, white-robed, barefooted, with gems entangled in her hair, suddenly appearing in the moonlight. There was the feigned flight on the white palfrey. There was Christabel in her innocence lifting the lady-witch over the threshold which else she might not pass. There was the mastiff old, angrily moaning in her kennel; the tongue of light springing from the embers in the echoing hall, and making visible the lady's eye and the baron's shield. Luttrel passed onward through this charmed entry, on whose stained windows were depicted retreating glades in the far forest. Vivian saw him from her seat through the open door, and sprang to meet him, and half enclosed him with her arms "That he might rather feel than see The swelling of her breast." "O Guy, how glad I am to see you !" It was very hard for Guy Luttrel. "And now come and see my Christabel Chamber. It is the daintiest boudoir in the world." It certainly was. The silver lamp swung from an angel's feet. The carvings were strange and sweet. The paintings were exquisite. One showed Geraldine shuddering at the faint apparition of Christabel's mother; the next the witch drinking the wild-flower wine; another Christabel rising half way in her bed, and on her elbow watching her companion, as the cincture dropped from her breast, revealing to her a mysterious horror which the artist wisely made no attempt to reveal. In a fourth compartment the maiden lay in the witch's arms, and the painter had skilfully portrayed the difference in their beauty, choosing the moment when the malignant spell is over, and with it Christabel's strange trance, "And tears she shedsLarge tears that leave the lashes bright." "And now," said Vivian, playfully, "I can give you some 'wild-flower wine.' Mr. Tostig knows a Devonshire chemist who recovered from some old lady on Dartmoor the method of making wine from the blossoms of heath. You must drink some,in honour of Christabel and me." She took from a quaint cabinet a crystalline decanter of various shape, and two tall glasses, like great bell flowers on slender stalks, their colour the faint red of the maiden-blush rose. The liquid was of a light and lively red, very translucent, full of spirit and sparkle. "It is a true wine," said Guy. "What a fresh pleasant flavour." "A flavour caught by the heather bells from the restless winds of Dartmoor. And now," said Vivian, with the light of love in those clear brown eyes, "what have you got to tell me?" The way was open for Guy. He made a plunge at his story at once. He was eloquent as to his misgivings and uncertainties. He talked long and well, but his talk by no means pleased Vivian; and, as it may not please any ladies who deign to read my story, I shall not reproduce it. Vivian listened quietly, sitting low in a chair of purple morocco, never taking her lustrous eyes from his face. At last he had ended. There was a pause. Then she said 66 I have been too happy." And as she said it, to Luttrel there seemed to come a cloud upon her lovely face, obscuring its sunshine. After a time she spoke again. "It must be all over between us, I fear, Guy. I thought I understood something of politics, but I cannot follow your argument, or comprehend your difficulty. Women ought not to try to be politicians, after all, I suppose. You know that I have loved you, Guy; I could never love any one else; but I do not see how we can marry now. The Ashleighs have always been Tories. I have always felt as if people who were not Tories belonged to some different race; have felt towards them as I read in some book or other a horse feels to a camel. And you know, Guy-it seems absurd-but I can't conceive of you as being a Liberal." "I can scarcely conceive of myself," he replied, sadly. "But I am nothing now. I am beginning to think." "You will come out a Tory after all," exclaimed Vivian, hopefully. "I fear not," he said. "Somehow or other I cannot get rid of the notion that the people ought to govern themselves, instead of being governed against their will, however ably, by either Tories or Whigs." "Oh, don't talk any more about it," she said, excitedly. "If I must lose you, I don't want to know why." "But why should you lose me?" "You know it must be. You came here, knowing it. Oh, Guy, this is a very cruel thing. But you can't help it, my poor Guy." "No," he said, springing up. "We must part, Vivian. You are free. It may come right, but not yet. Forget me, if you can-but don't forget poor little Lily. She will marry soon; you will keep her with you till then, will you not?” "But what are you going to do ?" she asked. "I shall go abroad for a time. Away from England, I shall be able to work out my doubts. You will take charge of Lily ?" "I will. The poor child will be sorry to lose you, but then she has Harry to console her. But what shall I do?" Luttrel would stay no longer. He knew his fate, and longed to be elsewhere, trying to forget it. Descending with Vivian to the Audience Chamber he told Lily that he was going abroad for a time. He said not a word of Africa, so a run over to Paris might have been all he meant, for aught they knew. He was soon on horseback again, and they watched him riding slowly down the avenue. Once outside the gates, he put his horse into a fast trot, and reached Riverdale in good time to see Parker and catch the afternoon up express. His resignation address was on all the walls; Sir Arthur Willesden and his committee celebrated the event with much port wine; and the Charing Cross Chronicle of that evening had a most subtle and ingenious article, in which there were assigned for his conduct the most satisfactory reasons-only they did not happen to be the right ones. 66 Papa does not look happy," whispered Lily to Lady Vivian, as they turned from looking after the departing horseman. But Vivian said nothing. They went to luncheon together, and Lily thought her friend gayer than usual. Perhaps it was because she talked of Mauleverer and its inhabitants-a subject which the maiden dreaded yet liked. "I am so afraid of old Mr. Mauleverer," said Lily. He The words seemed ominous, for hardly had they been uttered when Mr. Mauleverer was announced. had driven over, four-in-hand, as was his wont; he was as cool and strong in the wrist as ever; and he was overpoweringly courteous to poor little Lily. "I wanted to see my new daughter," he said, kissing her fair forehead. And he had luncheon with them, and talked of Italy, and of the political crisis, and of matters artistic and literary, with that exquisite ease, that airy lightness of touch, so rare in these days when everybody is scientific and serious. Hugh Mauleverer, like the Earl of Derby, was præ-scientific; but his was a more flexible intellect than the Earl's, and he would have been quite incapable of translating the Iliad into blank verse. "O that I had the art of easy writing What should be easy reading!" exclaimed the greatest master of that enviable art. Hugh Mauleverer had the art of easy talking. So they passed a pleasant afternoon and Lily looked with real admiration at her future father-in-law as he sprang lightly to the box, and gathered up the ribbons, and the grooms gave the horses their heads, and away went the gallant team down the long avenue at a clipping pace. There are not many men of the Mauleverer type. Late that evening, Vivian went alone to the Christabel Chamber. And she shattered the beautiful Bohemian glass which had carried to Guy Luttrel's lips the wild-flower wine, and locked the fragments into an oaken casket, whose key of gold hung from a chain about her neck. And then-I believe-she wept. Guy Luttrel reached London fast enough; though the express, which stopped twice only in 107 miles, seemed to his eager spirit tardier than a funeral. He drove straight to his rooms, where he was received by Jack Manley. "Jack," he said, "I am going to Africa. Pack up." Then he drove to O. O.'s. 66 Olifaunt, my boy," he exclaimed, "I'm quite ready for the_gorillas. How soon can you start? I want to get out of England." "On Thursday," said O. O. This was Tuesday. "All right," said Guy. "I shall bring one servant-an old, or rather middle-aged, salt. He can do everything, and fears nothing. But you must look after outfit." "Done in ten minutes," said O. 0. "I am delighted you are going." And he commenced filling up telegrams to the various members of his party. "By the way," said Guy, "I have eaten nothing to-day except half an egg. I am atrociously hungry. Let us go to the Chandos." CHAPTER XLIV. "Who is that kneeling Lady fair? HARRY MAULEVERER descended "In dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell Among the fragments of the golden day;" and now, under the opening eyelids of the morn, he wandered forth to pursue those volatile visions. His matutine cigar helped him herein. He loitered about the farmstead, watching its busy life-listening to the low of kine, and noting the multitudinous pigeons that fluttered and tumbled about the irregular roof. Soon the radiant arrows of the sungod smote the mist, and vanquished it, and the bright unclouded summer sky stretched above him, a canopy of stainless blue. By-and-by his mother joined him, timidly garrulous. It was hard for her to identify this Titanic young aristocrat with the chubby baby whom she had deserted in the cradle. And, now that her secret was told-now that her son willingly forgave her-she clung to him for protection, being in mortal dread of her stern and resolute husband. So Harry had to administer consolation and encouragement. However, people must breakfast, as mother and son in time rememwhere the aroma of coffee gave evibered. They returned to the hall, dence that the meal awaited them. No one else had arrived. The old journalist was weary with his day's travel, doubtless; and Helen professed to be a great invalid; but where was Hugh? "I'll go and wake him up," said Harry. "He is not generally so lazy.' Harry proceeded to his brother's room; knocked, but received no answer; found that the door was unlocked, and entered. Then he stopped short, struck with astonishment at what he saw. The room was the very one in which Hugh Mauleverer had slept on his first night at the Grange. As Harry opened the door, the foot of the bed was towards him. It was a simple uncurtained French bedstead. Upon it lay his brother, apparently fast asleep. There was nothing in this to amaze him. But, kneeling at the bedside was a woman in her night-dresskneeling, as if in prayer-perfectly still. Harry stood for a moment perplexed. Then he spoke to his brother. There was no answer. kneeling figure did not move. The Harry went forward, struck by a sudden fear. His brother's hand lay white and listless on the snowy coverlet. He touched it. It was cold in death. There is no mistaking that strange chillness. The strong heart of the young man beat quickly. Suddenly he noticed close to the woman's hand, a piece of paper and a gold pencil-case. The paper was a fly-leaf torn from the book which Hugh had been reading. Upon it was written— "Hugh and I are together at last. "HELEN MAULEVERER.” A crime had been committed-but how? Harry was for awhile too amazed to reflect. But subsequent examination showed that the water in the caraffe, which stood on a small table near the bed, was strongly impregnated with strychnine. Helen had left it thus, doubtless; her husband, in the thirst of a summer night, had drunk a draught sufficient to kill him instantaneously; and she, having watched from the gallery till her strange scheme had succeeded, entered the room, knelt beside the corpse, and drank the poison also. Hugh and Helen were both cold in death; the waxlight on the little table had burnt down in its socket; there was nothing to show how many hours the fatal draught had been drunk. Nothing to show how long Hugh had lain as if in serene sleep, and Helen had knelt as if in silent prayer, while their spirits had flown-ah, whither? It is vain to ask the question, Harry Mauleverer; vain to touch the icy hand of your beloved elder brother; vain to strive to arouse the sleeping sorceress, whose strange beauty once fascinated you : "For these, thou seest, are unmoved- and Iseult of Ireland in that chamber of a castle in Brittany which a great living poet has made immortal. When Harry saw all the tragedy he locked the door of the room of death, took away the key, and descended to the hall. Evil tidings were written in his face who can doubt it? Edith read them there, and exclaimed, in a hissing whisper "What is it? Is he dead ?" Happily, Edith Mauleverer was not given to fainting; she heard the sad tale courageously; she was sufficiently self-controlled to suggest certain necessary steps. Into these details let me not enter. We know all that may be known; the sad story of the Grange is ended; and the Nelly Withers of old days has paid dearly for that perilous draught of the vintage of love which she drank when her young lips clung to Hugh Mauleverer's. Leaving his mother and grandfather at the Grange, Harry Mauleverer hastened to Salisbury to make he met a mounted messenger with a certain arrangements. On his way telegram of four words from Maule verer 66 Bring your mother home." business in the Cathedral City, and Disregarding this, he did his dismal then hurried homewards. He had dire news for the Head of his House. He travelled without freshment. pause, scarcely finding time for reHe reached Mauleverer just as his father dismounted from the box of his drag, after that visit to Riverdale Court. The old gentleman was in high spirits, better pleased with Lily Luttrel than he had expected, and rather curious to see the wife whom he had lost for twenty years, and who was the true heiress of the Mauleverers. 66 Why, Harry," he said, "back alone?" 66 you are now the last Mauleverer. You are the true heir on both sides. And you are going to marry-and marriage seems always to bring a curse upon us. My cousin Edith, as you know, ran away to avoid marrying me; her daughter came in my way by a miraculous chance-Providence, your Calvinists would call it and I married her, and you know what came of that too. However, thank God, she is found again. And here is my poor Hugh murdered by his wife! Are you not afraid to marry?" CHAPTER XLV. "The golden gates of sleep unbar MORE than a year has passed. The "intelligent reader," if that gentleman does me the honour to read it, can easily conjecture what has happened to most of my characters. I follow the fate of two only, in this chapter. The Mauleverers possess, on the western coast, a beautiful residence known, humbly enough, as The Cottage. Though but one story high it is a roomy place, covering a good deal of ground. The ground which it covers is any thing but level; it is, in fact, at the mouth of a narrow glen, through which descends a wild white mountain stream, rising in the free moorland. A stream full of life and music; now foaming over a ledge of granite, and sprinkling the woods above it with eternal spray; now sleeping in a pellucid pool, a bath for Artemis and her nymphs, where, to quote Arthur Clough's hexameters, "You are shut in, left alone with yourself and perfection of water, You are shut in, left alone with yourself and the goddess of bathing." The stream, descending by the Cottage, finds its way to the sea in a very short time. For, while the windows of this quiet retreat look on one side towards the glen, where the silver birch, "the lady of the woods," dips her pendent tresses in the restless water, those in front look across a slope of emerald lawn and a space of yellow sand to the illimitable sea. To the right and left, a mile away, great granite cliffs run far into the water, so that a divine stretch of beach is shut in for the delight of dwellers in this domain. The Cottage itself is an abode of luxury, not unlike Mr. Locker's "Gay retreat In Air, that somewhat gusty shire, A cherub's model country seat, Could model cherub such require." Its wide fantastic windows open everywhere to the ground. Its chairs and sofas are soft enough for any Sybarite. Its statuettes are of Aphrodite and Hebe, of Psyche and Eros, of flying maidens and pursuing Fauns. The pictures on its walls are all full of light and love; if of the wide sea, a maiden and her lover are in that white-winged skiff; if of the green woodland, then knight and lady pass together down the dim green avenues. Everything breathes Elysian air. For this is Honeymoon Cottage; and the fine taste and ample wealth of Hugh Mauleverer have combined to make it perfect for his son and his son's bride. It is a delicious September afternoon. If you were standing on the lawn you might see below you two loitering figures. We know who they are. Harry Mauleverer has gained his bride. His girl-wife trips upon the sands beside him, singing gay snatches of song. Sometimes she throws a pebble into the water, and two huge black dogs fight for it amid the foam. Sometimes she |
