CHAPTER XI.

ONE OF OUR HEROES.

On the following morning, Cecil Chamberlayne was busy over his edition of Horace, "cramming" for his interview with Meredith Vyner, whose acquaintance he was the more anxious to cultivate, now he knew that he had three marriageable daughters.

Cecil has been introduced once or twice before, but I have not yet had an opportunity of sketching his portrait, so let me attempt it now.

He was a social favourite. He had considerable vivacity, which sometimes amounted to wit, and always passed for it. He drew well, composed well, sang well, dressed well, rode well, wrote charming verses and agreeable prose, played the piano and the guitar, and waltzed to perfection: in a word, was a cavalier accompli.

But with all these accomplishments there was no genius. He could do many things well, but nothing like a master. He painted better than an amateur, but not well enough for a professed artist.

Indeed, there was in him, both physically and morally, a sort of faltering greatness which arrested the attention of the observer. The head and bust were those of a large man, but the body and legs were small and neatly made. In his face there was the same contradiction: a boldness of outline, with a delicacy amounting to weakness in the details. His brow was broad and high, without being massive. His eyes were blue and gentle. His nose aquiline, and handsomely cut. The mouth would have been pretty had it not been too small. In appearance he was somewhat over neat—dapper.

At school, the boys called him "Fanny."

It is not often that the physical corresponds so well with the moral, as in Cecil Chamberlayne; but in him the accordance was perfect. You could not look at his white hand without at once divining, from its conical fingers, and the absence of strongly marked knuckles, that it belonged to one in whom the emotions predominated, and in whom the intellect tended naturally to art; it was, in truth, an artistic hand, the largeness of which showed a love of details, as the broad palm and small thumb showed an energetic sensuality and a wavering will.

Lively, good-natured, and accomplished, he was a great favourite with most people, and, indeed, the very attractiveness of his manners had been the obstacle to his advancement in life. His time and talents, instead of being devoted to any honourable or useful pursuit, were frittered away in the endless nothings which society demanded, and he had reached the age of seven and twenty, without fortune and without a profession. He flattered himself that he should be made consul somewhere, by one among his powerful friends, or that some sinecure would fall in his way; and on this hope he refrained from applying himself to the study of any profession, and only thought of sustaining his reputation as an amusing fellow. Meanwhile his small patrimony had dwindled down to the interest of four thousand pounds, which was preserved only because he could not touch the capital: a misfortune which he had frequently declaimed against, and to which he now owed the means of keeping a decent coat on his back.

He went to Vyner, listened to his remarks on Horace, sympathized with his hatred of editors, wondered at the beauty and rarity of his editions, expressed strong and lively interest in his commentary, and, in short, so ingratiated himself with the old pedant, that he was invited down to Wytton Hall, whither the family was about to go.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

CECIL CHAMBERLAYNE TO FRANK FORRESTER.

MY DEAR FRANK,

I am alone in the house; everybody is gone somewhere, except that prosy, respectable gentleman, Captain Heath, who is in the library, reading Seneca or Hannah More, I dare say; and in consequence of this solitude I obey the call of friendship, and devote my unoccupied time to you.

I have been here three days without a yawn. That is enough to tell you how different the place is from what I expected. On the other hand, I must confide to you my suspicions, that I shall return to town perfectly heart-whole. There are only the two elder girls at home; and, though very pretty, they are not at all my style. Rose, the eldest, is satirical, and far too lively to get up any sentiment with. She makes the place ring with her merry, musical laugh; but I never get on with laughing women. Her sister Blanche is better; but she is shy, and, I suspect, stupid. Violet, the youngest, is expected home in a few days; but both her father and stepmother give fearful accounts of her temper; and, without making any positive charge, Mrs. Vyner has, from time to time, said things which convey a very unfavourable impression of the girl's disposition.

As this is the case, I must look at Wytton Hall from a totally different point of view. It is now only a country house to me, and I must criticize its attractions accordingly.

My first impression was anything but favourable. I arrived here about half-past six, and was received by—the butler! He showed me to my room in silence, and I did not feel disposed to question him. As he asked me whether I wanted anything, I inquired after the dinner-hour.

"Dinner will be ready, sir, as soon as you are dressed," he replied, and left me.

The house seemed very quiet, but I dressed myself with care, all the time speculating on the cause of my singular reception, or rather, nonreception. By the time I was ready, I had made up my mind that everybody must have been dressing for dinner on my arrival, and that perhaps I had been keeping them waiting half an hour.

I rang, and the servant lighted me down a complicated course of corridors and oak staircases; very sombre, very rococo, but very superb. The wind shook mysterious tapestries. Banners drooped by the side of complete sets of steel armour, looking like prodigiously uncomfortable knights, stiff as steel and the middle ages could make them. Formidable griffins of finely-carved oak glared at me, with heraldic fury, from the balustrades; and endless ancestors, of unheard-of bravery and incorruptibility, looked stiffly at me from their dim canvass; each and all haughtily eyeing me, as if my intrusion on the scene was one of the inexplicable facts of modern progress. In short, I could have fancied myself in a Castle of Otranto some centuries ago, instead of in a gentleman's country house, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty. And I assure you, as the solemn flunky strode before me, his candle throwing but a dubious light amidst all this sombre splendour, I felt quite romantic, and should not have started if, in some gusty movement, the tapestry had opened, and one of the faded-visaged ferocious ancestors had stepped from his frame.

At length I reached the dining-room: there the silent butler condescended to explain to me that the family and visitors were all out at a pic-nic. I was to dine by myself. And never did I sit down to a stranger or more uncomfortable dinner. You know the dinner hour is the period at which I shine; my best stories are inspired by the cheerful scene, the lights, the clatter of glasses, and the sparkle of the champagne. It is then I feel myself possessed of all my faculties. Well, then, fancy me seated at a solitary silent meal, without even the advantages of solitude and silence. The vast saloon, with its carved oak-panels, its high and vaulted roof, its heavy antique furniture, required all its three chandeliers to be properly lighted; instead of which, a massive candelabra threw light just on the table and its immediate neighbourhood, but left the greater part of the room in deep obscurity. In this Rembrandtish picture, which I could have painted with greater gusto had it not disagreeably affected me, you are to fancy me in the light silently eating, and in the surrounding shadows two silent flunkies, silently bringing and taking away the various dishes which represented dinner; as if dining consisted solely in eating.

You often laugh at me, Frank, for my gourmandize—and you, too, such a perfect gourmand—but if you had seen me on that occasion, you would have credited my fundamental maxim, which Brillat Savarin has omitted in his Physiologié du Gout, viz., What the chef de cuisine is to the raw materials, that is the company to the chef de cuisine.

I never ate less, nor with such profound contempt for the process of eating, reduced to the mere satisfaction of hunger. Besides, the sombreness and silence of the scene oppressed me.

I was shown into the drawing-room; a handsome, well lighted, comfortable-looking place, which quite cheered me. A log was blazing joyously in the fire-place, for the autumnal nights down here are keen; and, altogether, the contrast with the dark, grandiose, majestically-uncomfortable dining-room, made this drawing-room delightful.

I threw myself on an ottoman, and tried to amuse myself with a book; but you know, I dare say, how impossible it is to read in such uncertain moments. Expecting the family to arrive every minute, it was in vain I tried to fix my interest in anything I read.

I threw down the book, and gazed thoughtfully at the crackling log. The wind sighed mournfully without, the clock on the mantel-piece ticked with a sort of lively monotony, the embers fell with a cozy familiar sound, and I sank into one of those exquisite reveries wherein the past is curiously enwoven with the future, and, treading the imaginary stage, we play such brilliant parts.

I must have passed from these waking dreams into dreams of a less coherent kind, and have fallen asleep, for I was aroused by the barking of a dog, and noise of considerable bustle in the hall, which was quickly followed by the entrance of Meredith Vyner, his wife, his daughters, and his guests. He apologized for being absent on my arrival, but had accepted the engagement before my note reached him to say I should be down on that day. His welcome was warm enough; but the others seemed to me disagreeably cold and constrained. They were all very tired, and went early to bed, except Vyner, who sat up with me discussing Horace; and Captain Heath, who was reading the paper.

I retired to bed somewhat disgusted, and resolved to receive a letter which should call me up to town on urgent business; I felt so lonely in that great house full of uncongenial people. Sleeping in a strange house is always rather unpleasant to me. I am bothered by unfamiliarity in familiar things. I could sleep in a wigwam comfortably enough; but in a bedroom which is substantially the same as all other bedrooms, and which, nevertheless, wears an air of strangeness, I feel out of my assiette ordinaire. This was peculiarly so on the night I speak of, from my unpleasant impression of the people I was thrown among.

It happened, however, that my impression of the people was similar to my impression of the place—at first repulsive, afterwards attractive. What the well-lighted drawing-room was to the dining-room, that was the next morning's hilarity to the over night's frigidity. Breakfast was charming. Everybody seemed in high spirits—the first freshness of morning—and my opinion was completely changed. You know how intimate one becomes after having spent a night under the same roof: it seems as if you breakfasted only with old friends. I felt myself at home; and kept the table in a roar of laughter. This success operated favourably on my own spirits; and in consequence, I have established myself as a general favourite.

Now for my companions, Vyner himself promises to be more of a bore than I anticipated. His wife is very charming, and seems to agree wonderfully in all my views, which I, of course, regard as a sign of excellent taste and judgment. The daughters I have already spoken of. Captain Heath is handsome, gentlemanly, but confoundedly "sensible," and, though a guardsman, has no idea of "life." I can't say I like him; though why, I don't know; as Martial says,

Non amo te Sabidi: nee possum dicere quare;
Hoc tantum possum dicere: Non amo te.

(I hope you remember enough Latin to understand that, eh, Frank? The truth is, I charmed Vyner yesterday with it, by quoting it as the original of "I do not love thee, Dr. Fell," which he quoted to me. He was so pleased, that I would wager he introduces it into his commentary on Horace, which already amounts to nearly three octavos!)

To return to Heath, I think something of my dislike may be the mere re-action against the immense liking, I almost said veneration, which every one feels for him here. They are always telling some story of his goodness. "Goodness!" and in a guardsman!

Mrs. Langley Turner, who arrived yesterday, Sir Harry Johnstone, and Tom Wincot, I need not describe to you. But there is a young fellow named Lufton who ought to be under your hands; he would be an admirable fellow if "formed." To convey to you his stupendous innocence, he told me yesterday at billiards, when I asked him what was his usual stake, that "he had never played for money." Is not this something fabulous—a myth? Let me add, however, that he had enough savoir vivre, to propose that I should name the stakes, as he was quite willing to do what I did. That re-established him in my opinion. He won a pony from me, which I am not likely to regain, as he plays decidedly better than I do.

I must also not forget George Maxwell, a saturnine, stupid, fanatical individual, in love with Mrs. Vyner, or I am vastly mistaken, savagely jealous of every one she notices, but by no means rewarded by any notice from her. I can't tell whether she observes his passion; but she certainly does not return it. Nobody likes him.

There are, besides, a merry little widow, a Mrs. Broughton, and her niece, an inoffensive girl with a happy simpering visage, radiant with foolishness.

This is our party: rather mixed, but very agreeable. I can't tell you now how we pass our time, for here am I at the end of my paper and patience.

Good-bye, Frank,
    Ever yours,
          CECIL.

CHAPTER II.

ROSE TO FANNY WORSLEY.

News, my dearest Fanny—news is an article as rare with us as with the morning papers. We see nobody, hear nothing, do nothing, but amuse ourselves as we best can, and that is not adapted to a letter, it would require such endless explanations.

In answer to your first question, Yes; Julius is here, or rather, he is with his mother at the Grange, and very frequently walks over. As to his being my slave, don't think it! He is evidently not indifferent to me, but as evidently not in love. The vainest of our sex (are we so vain?) in my place could not imagine him in love. I'm rather glad of it, for I certainly don't love him, and should be sorry to lose a friend.

But let me tell you of another new acquaintance in the jeune premier line,—a Mr. Cecil Chamberlayne, whom papa has invited here for a week. He is handsome, witty, good-natured, and clever—all very excellent qualities; but there is a levity about him which somewhat disturbs my liking for him. I could never fancy myself sentimental with him for a moment. His gaiety makes me laugh, but does not, somehow, make me gay. Everybody sides against me here, except Captain Heath, who says he feels as I do in that respect. They all swear by Mr. Chamberlayne; but, to my taste, Julius St. John's gaiety is far more exhilarating, perhaps because it is tempered with a manly seriousness; you feel that his laugh is as hearty (in the real primitive sense of the word) as his earnestness is sincere.

Violet is to be home at the end of this week. Papa has written for her, as mama says that she is only being spoiled at my uncle's. The real secret is, I believe, that mama has heard how Violet speaks of her down in Worcestershire, and that the character there given of her comes up to London. Now, though Violet is, I believe, unjust to mama, yet people are only too willing, as mama says, to believe everything ill of a stepmother. I fear Violet won't be comfortable. Suppose Julius St. John should fall in love with her? It would be a capital match. They would suit so well: I should like it above all things.

I am reading Leopardi's poems; they are very beautiful, and very mournful. Julius St. John says that they are the finest productions of modern Italy. By the way, though you will accuse me of filling my letter with Julius, I must tell you of something that occurred àpropos of Leopardi:—the first evening I met him—it was at Dr. Whiston's, and I wrote you a long account of it—he spoke to me of Leopardi, whom I had not heard so highly praised before. Papa had brought a copy with him from Italy, and I had looked into it from curiosity, but finding it difficult to read, my Italian being somewhat flimsy, I took no further trouble with it, till Julius spoke so enthusiastically about him. I then set doggedly to work, and mastered the poems; having done so, I read them over again with great pleasure, and am now a sworn admirer of this strange unhappy being.

Well, one evening, shortly after we had come down here, Julius took up my copy of Leopardi, which happened to be lying on the table. It was pencilled all over. He asked whose marks those were. I told him mine. "You seem to have been a careful reader," he said. "Your praises," I replied, "taught me to be."

He looked up for a moment, to read in one full, rapid gaze, the expression of my countenance, and then dropped his eyes once more upon the book, but not before I had noticed that his cheek was flushed. Whether in anger or in pleasure I know not, for his eyes are so shadowed by his dark, straight eyebrows, which meet across the nose, that it is only in certain aspects you can read what is passing in them. What there could be in my reply either to anger or to please him, I cannot guess; but he changed the subject, and I could not interrogate him, as mama came up at that moment, nor have I dared since. All I can say is, that if he was angry he had quite forgotten it; and if he was pleased he is perfectly ungrateful.

This little incident is all I have to relate. Imagine what our life must be when that is an incident; and yet, as Julius says, "it is not events but emotions which make life important; and events are only prized inasmuch as they excite emotions."

Your affectionate friend,
    ROSE VYNER.

P.S.—Now, don't you misinterpret a fact which strikes me in reading this letter over, namely, that one name occurs very frequently. It is purely owing to the want of any subject to write about. Don't imagine it otherwise.

CHAPTER III.

CECIL IS SMITTEN.

MY DEAR FRANK,

Your complaint respecting the omissions of my letter was not very generous, considering the length of the aforesaid letter. However, I will now tell you what I didn't tell you then—that there is endless fishing and famous preserves; so you may cultivate Vyner with perfect safety, though excuse me if I doubt your success.

The hall is, as I told you, formidably rococo, or rather moyen age; but handsome of the kind, and spacious. The Italian terrace in front of the house has the trim beauty of such things, but is spoiled by a want of "keeping;" the balustrades are griffinesque, and yet there are copies of the Greek statues in the garden!

A rich embowering shrubbery leads you down to the river, which brawls through the property; beyond, on the other side, there is a lovely wood, which skirts the banks of the river, and affords a most romantic promenade. I should have certainly been most poetically touched the first day I went there, had it not been for the saucy merriment of that liveliest of girls, Rose; but she drove all seriousness out of me. I could have kissed her ruddy lips to close them, and put a stop to her merciless merriment. I have since visited the wood alone, but one cannot be sentimental alone—at least I cannot. The river runs through rich meadows, on which the sleek cattle browse in philosophic calmness: it forms an endless source of amusement. I have sat for hours in the boat gently dropping down the stream, lulled by the soft ripple, and yielding myself to dreamy listlessness. The broad leaves of the water-lily that float upon the stream supporting the delicate-shaped yellow flower, and the rich colours of the luxuriant loosestrife and other wild flowers, whose names I know not, together with the windings of the river, and its undulating meadows on one side, and many-tinted wood on the other, make up a picture of which I cannot tire.

But the charms of this place are nothing to those of one of its inmates, about whom I will now endeavour to convey my impressions. If they are somewhat confused, attribute it to the effect of an apparition, which has left me very little command over my ideas.

I told you that the youngest daughter was expected to arrive. I had consented to prolong my stay another week, and was not sorry to have an opportunity of judging for myself. It happened that one morning before breakfast I was looking over the paper, waiting, with that intolerance which only hungry men can appreciate, till the others should descend; when in bounded a magnificent Scotch deer-hound, who sprang over the chairs and sofas, in a riotous manner, and came up to me, thrusting his shaggy head in my hand to be caressed.

"Down, Shot, down!" exclaimed a sweetly imperative voice.

I looked up, and surely never did mortal eyes behold a more bewitching apparition. A young girl of more than ordinary height, dressed in a blue riding-habit, which set off the budding beauty of a graceful figure, stood before me. She wore a black straw hat, whose broad brim sheltered her face from the sun, and which, with a simple blue ribband, made a head-dress ten times more picturesque and becoming than the odious man's hat which amazons put on; from under it escaped ringlets of dark brown hair, tipped with a golden hue. Her brow was low, but broad—perhaps too massive for beauty. Her eyes large, long, almond-shaped, and inconceivably lustrous—the sort of eye which looks you down, which, even if you meet its gaze in passing, seems to project such indomitable will and energy, that involuntarily you avert your glance. I am not easily stared out of countenance, and am rather apt to look into women's eyes, but I find myself unable to withstand Violet's gaze—for you must have already divined that my apparition was Violet Vyner. Do not, however, suppose that because all eyes droop beneath the intolerable lustre of her glance, that she is otherwise than bewitching. Her eyes are not fierce; though doubtless they could be. It is the astonishing energy and imperious will which look out at you, and make you feel your inferiority. And this effect is heightened by a certain impetuous haughtiness of demeanour which I never observed before. Haughtiness generally implies coldness, reserve, restraint. But in Violet, although the haughtiness is unmistakeable, the fire and passion are still more so. With the airs and carriage of the most imperial of her sex, she unites an appearance of abandon, of impetuosity, of lofty passion, which belongs more to the southern women than to any I have before seen in England. To complete my feeble sketch, let me add that her nose is a trifle too large and aquiline, her mouth also too large, though handsomely cut, her complexion of that luminous brown which Titian so well knew how to paint, and the form of her face a perfect oval. Handsomer women may be seen every day in the park, or at the opera; but a woman with more character in her face—a woman more irresistibly fascinating, I never saw. Critically, there are many defects; but, taken in the ensemble, they only seem to heighten the one effect of a queenly beauty, half sad half voluptuous.

I rose as she entered, but was so absorbed by her beauty that I stood gaping at her like a cockney at a covey of partridges, suddenly whirring up before him.

She bowed quietly, I thought haughtily, and did not even pay me the compliment of a little embarrassment. I recovered from my surprise, and ventured on a commonplace about the weather. She had already been out for a morning scamper; and we soon got upon the subject of horses and hunting, which she understood a great deal better than I did. Her attention was, however, soon diverted to her dog.

"Down, Shot; down, sir! Do you hear me? Down!" she said.

The hound was at this moment resting his front paws on the table, and taking an inquiring survey of the books and flowers on it. Disregarding the command of his mistress, he continued to twitch his nose interrogatively, till a smart cut from the riding whip she held in her hand, made him spring away with a howl; and then, obedient to a gesture of command, he came and crouched at her feet.

This little incident disagreeably affected me. I am rather tender-hearted, and particularly fond of dogs; so that to see one beaten by anybody is extremely unpleasant to me, but by a woman, a young and lovely woman, it is odious. Besides, I thought the punishment needlessly severe. She seemed quite unconscious of having done anything out of the way, and continued a lively conversation with me on dogs and animals in general, all the time caressing Shot, who remained at her side; and in this conversation displaying a love for animals, which rendered her recent act of severity more wanton in my eyes.

I have since found out that she is anything but cruel; but upon the principle of spare the rod and spoil the dog, she exacts implicit obedience. It gives her as much pain to correct her animals as it does a mother to punish her children; but like a courageous mother, she knows it is to save them from more pain and sorrow, and, therefore, unhesitatingly punishes them.

To tell you that I am fast falling over head and ears in love with this adorable creature, will be only to tell you what my description must have betrayed. To tell you that she seems no less inclined to follow my example will be more like news. We generally ride together; we sing duets, and our voices harmonize charmingly; in a word, young Lufton has begun to joke me about her.

Unfortunately my visit draws to a close, and unless I can make a tolerably deep impression before I leave, she will have forgotten me by next season. She is only sixteen; but to look at her you would say she was twenty; and to talk to her you would say, much more. She is one of the precocious, and has been bred up in a queer way. Adieu! We shall meet at the club next week.

P.S.—I open this to tell you that they will not part with me here, and that I have promised to remain till the shooting begins, though I told them I had no longer any pleasure in shooting. But I was too happy for any excuse to remain under the same roof with the enchanting Violet.

CHAPTER IV.

CECIL EXHIBITS HIMSELF.

The three letters, just given, will save me a great deal of explanation and description and, as the horses are at the door, we have no time to waste.

Mrs. Langley Turner, Sir Harry Johnstone, young Lufton, Cecil, and Violet are preparing to ride out, and afterwards to lunch at the Grange.

Cecil rode remarkably well, and was proud of it; besides, he looked handsomer on horseback, as then his head and bust were seen to full advantage, of which he was also aware; and Violet, who had of late been accustomed to follow the hounds, and spend the greater part of every day on horseback, looked upon him with fresh admiration, as she marked the graceful mastery of his bearing. With a more than womanly contempt for effeminate men, she had at first imagined Cecil one, from the delicacy and dapperness she noticed in him. But finding that he was an excellent shot with the rifle, that he even excelled her with pistols, that he fenced well, and rode boldly, she gave him her esteem,—and was nearly giving him her heart; but that was not gone as yet. She was charmed with Cecil's manner—she admired him, and saw his admiration for her; but she loved him not as yet, however fast she might be galloping on the road to it.

Off they started, Shot barking and leaping up at the nose of his playfellow, Violet's bay mare, Jessy, while a sedater hound trotted slowly behind. Mrs. Langley Turner, Sir Harry, and Lufton rode abreast, discussing the proposition which had just been started, of getting up private theatricals at the hall. Violet and Cecil followed, talking of favourite books and favourite composers, comparing sentiments, and looking into each other's handsome faces, suffused with the bright flush of excitement.

"Here we are at the Grange," said Violet, as they cantered within sight of the lodge gates.

"Alas, yes!" replied Cecil.

He sighed at the thought of his delicious tête-à-tête being broken up; and, though he consoled himself with the idea that, since he was to remain at the hall, many other opportunities must occur, yet he knew by experience that there is no such thing as the repetition of a scene in which emotion plays the principal part. You cannot command such things. They spring out of the moment. They are dependent upon a thousand circumstances, over which you have no control. The mood of mind, the state of the atmosphere, the accident of association, all concur in investing some ordinary occasion with a magic charm, which may never be felt again. "I was a fool not to have declared myself. She would certainly have accepted me," he said to himself, as he dismounted, and passed into the drawing-room, where he found Mrs. St. John, Julius, the clergyman's wife, and Marmaduke Ashley, who had just come down on a visit at the Grange. Maxwell, with Mr. and Mrs. Meredith Vyner arrived shortly afterwards, and the whole party sat down to a merry luncheon.

"I'm delighted to learn that you are going to prolong your stay down here, Mr. Chamberlayne," said Julius St. John; "and hope you will not confine your shooting to Wyton. The Grange, they tell me, is famous for its game."

"You are very kind," replied Cecil; "but I shall scarcely avail myself of your offer. I am no sportsman."

Violet, turning suddenly round upon him, with a look of incredulity, said,—

"No sportsman?—and such an excellent shot!"

"Don't confess it before her," said Vyner, laughing; "or you will be lost in her estimation. She is a true descendant of Diana; and, like her mythic ancestress,—

        Sævis inimica Virgo
Belluis...."

"I'm grieved, indeed!" replied Cecil; "but treat me as a cockney; shower contempt upon me for the confession; but, the truth is, I never found much pleasure in any sport, except hunting; and the little pleasure I used to find in shooting was destroyed five years ago."

"How was that?"

"The anecdote is almost childish, but I am not such a child as to be ashamed of relating it. I was one day rambling over the wood at Rushfield Park, with my rifle in my hand tired of shooting at a mark. There started a hare at a tempting distance from me, I fired. A slight appearance of ruffled fur alone told me that he was hit. He ran leisurely away, and described a circle round me, till approaching within a few paces he lay meekly down, and died. I know not wherefore, but the death of this hare was indescribably touching to me. It was not the mere death: I had killed hundreds before, and often had to despatch by a blow those only wounded. But this one had died so meekly, without a cry, without a struggle, and had come to die so piteously at the feet of him who had shot it, that I took a sudden disgust to the sport, and have never fired a gun since at either hare or partridge."

There was a slight pause. The emotion of the speaker communicated itself to the audience, and Mrs. Meredith Vyner, with tears in her eyes, declared, that for her part she so well understood what his feelings must have been, that she must have hated him (hated was said with the prettiest accent in the world), if he had not relinquished shooting on the spot.

Violet would have said the same, but her mother having volunteered the observation, closed her mouth. She really felt what her mother only spoke; but the intuitive knowledge of her mother's insincerity—the thorough appreciation of the tear which so sentimentally sparkled on that mother's eyelid—made her dread lest any expression of her own sentiments should be confounded with such affectation, and she was silent.

Cecil was hurt at her silence. The more so as she did not even look at him, but kept her eyes fixed upon her plate.

Meredith Vyner, who had been vainly beating his brains for a pat quotation, now gave up the attempt and said,—

"But then, my dear, you have so much sensibility! Why, I vow if the story hasn't brought tears into her eyes—

        Humor et in genas
Furtim labitur.

Certainly, there never was a more tender-hearted creature—nor one shrinking so much from the infliction of even the smallest pain."

Vyner, as he finished his sentence, turned aside his head to fill his nose with a pinch of snuff adequate to the occasion—as if it was only in some vociferous demonstration of the kind that he could supply eloquence capable of properly setting forth his wife's sensibility.

At the mention of her tender-heartedness, both Marmaduke and Violet, involuntarily looked at her, and as they withdrew their eyes, their gaze met. No words can translate the language which passed in that gaze: it was but a second in duration, and yet in that second each soul was laid bare to the eyes of each. The ironical smile which had stolen over their eyes changed, like the glancing hues on a dove's neck, from irony to surprise, from surprise to mutual assent, from assent to superb contempt. Marmaduke and Violet had never met before, yet in that one glance each said to the other, "So, you know this woman! You appreciate her sincerity! You know what a cruel hypocrite she is!"

Mrs. Wyner did not observe that look. She had felt Marmaduke's eyes were upon her, and affecting not to know it, threw an extra expression of sensibility into her face.

When Cecil fairly caught a sight of Violet's face, he saw on it the last faint traces of that contempt which she had expressed for her mother, but which he attributed to her unfeminine delight in field-sports, and her contempt for his sensibility.

He was glad when luncheon was concluded, and the party rose to ramble about the grounds. As they were walking through the garden, he managed to bring up the subject, and frankly asked her if she did not feel something like disdain at his chicken-heartedness.

"Disdain!" she exclaimed, "how could you imagine it? Knowing you to be so little effeminate that it could not spring but from a kind and affectionate nature, I assure you I look upon it as the very best feather you have stuck in your cap—at least in my presence. I have only contempt for the affectation of sensibility."

"It was what your father said——"

"My poor father understands me about as little as he understands mama. Less he could not. Fond as I am of hunting and everything like exercise in the open air, I have seen too much of the mere Nimrods not to value them at their just ratio. Good in the field: detestable everywhere else."

"I'm delighted to hear you say it."

"I must confess to prizing manliness so high, that I prefer even brutality to cowardice. There is nothing to me so contemptible in a man or woman as moral weakness, and therefore I prefer even the outrages of strength to the questionable virtues of a weak, yielding, coddling mind."

"What do you mean by the questionable virtues of such a mind?" he asked.

"They are questionable, because not stable: the ground from which they spring being treacherous. A man who is weak will yield to good arguments; but he will also yield to bad arguments; and he will, moreover, yield against his conviction. A man who is timid will be cruel out of his very timidity, for there is nothing so cruel as cowardice."

By this time they had left the garden, and joined the others, who had disposed themselves in groups, which permitted their tête-à-tête to continue. Meredith Vyner, Mrs. St. John, and the clergyman's wife were in advance. Mrs. Langley Turner and young Lufton followed, conning over London acquaintance and London gossip. Marmaduke, Sir Harry, and Mrs. Vyner were very lively, talking on an infinite variety of topics—Mrs. Vyner making herself excessively engaging to Marmaduke, whom she had not seen since that Sunday night when his last words had been so contemptuous, his look so strange and voluptuous. She did not doubt that the great motive of his visit at the Grange was to put his threat of vengeance in execution; and determined either to soften him, or to learn his plans, the better to combat them.

George Maxwell walked behind them, scowling.

Julius remained in doors; so Violet and Cecil had only to lag a little behind, to enjoy a perfect tête-à-tête. Shot walked gravely at their heels.

The ramble about the grounds lasted all the afternoon. There only occurred one incident worth relating, as bearing upon the fortunes of two of the actors.

Cecil and Violet, in stopping to pick many flowers, had been left so far behind the others, that they determined to take a shorter cut to the house through a meadow lying alongside of the shrubbery. They had not gone many steps across the meadow before a bull seemed to resent their intrusion. He began tearing up the ground, and tossing about his head in anger.

"I don't like the look of that animal," said Cecil. "Let us return."

She only laughed, and said:—

"Return! No, no. He won't interfere with us. Besides, when you live in the country you must take your choice, either never to enter a field where there are cattle, or never to turn aside from your path, should the field be full of bulls. I made my choice long ago."

This was said with a sort of mock heroic air, which quite set Cecil's misgivings aside. He thought she must certainly be perfectly aware the bull was harmless, or she would not have spoken in that tone; and above all, would not have so completely disregarded what seemed to him rather formidable demonstrations on the part of the animal. They continued, therefore, to walk leisurely along the meadow, the bull bellowing at them, and following at a little distance. He was evidently lashing himself into the stupid rage peculiar to his kind, and Shot showed considerable alarm.

"For God's sake, Miss Vyner! let us away from this," said Cecil, agitated.

"He doesn't like Shot's appearance here," she calmly replied, as the dog slunk through the iron hurdles which fenced off the shrubbery.

She turned round to watch the bull, and her heart beat as she saw him close his dull fierce eye—the certain sign that he was about to make a rush.

Cecil saw it too, and placing his hand upon the iron hurdle, vaulted on the other side, obeying the rapid suggestion of danger as quickly as it was suggested.

No sooner was his own safety accomplished, than almost in the same instant that his feet touched the ground, the defenceless position of Violet rushed horribly across his mind.

"Good God!" he said to himself; "what have I done? How can I ever explain this?"

He vaulted back again to rush to her succour; but he was too late. His hesitation had not lasted two seconds, but they were two irrevocable seconds; during which Violet, partly out of bravado and contempt for the cowardice of her lover, and partly out of that virile energy and promptitude which on all occasions made her front the danger and subdue it, sprang forwards at the animal about to rush, and with her riding-whip cut him sharply twice across the nose. Startled by this attack, and stinging with acute pain—the nose being his most sensitive part—the brute ran off bellowing, tail in air.

He had already relinquished the fight when Cecil came up. The coincidence was cruel. He felt it so. Violet, pale and trembling, passed her hand across her brow, but turning from Cecil, called to her dog.

"Shot! Shot! come here, you foolish fellow. He won't hurt you."

This speech was crushing. Cecil felt that he had slunk away from danger like the dog, and that Violet's words were levelled at him. Never was man placed in a more humiliating position. To have left a young girl to shift for herself on such an occasion, and to see her vanquish the enemy in his presence; to appear before a brave girl as a despicable coward, and to feel that he could not by any means explain his action, except to make himself more odious; for if he were not himself too terrified to face the danger, what utter selfishness would it appear for him to have so secured his own safety!

Cecil felt the difficulty of his position, and that chained his tongue. Violet, who was suffering morally as well as physically, was also unable to speak. The shock given to her frame by the recent peril was in itself considerable; and she trembled now it was past, almost as much as another would have trembled at the moment. But, perhaps, the moral shock was as great. She had begun to consider Cecil in the light of a lover, and was almost in love with him herself. What she had just witnessed turned all her feelings against him. Deep and bitter scorn uprooted all her previous regard, and she was angry with herself for having ever thought of him kindly.

They joined the rest of the party, without uttering a word. "My dear Violet," exclaimed Mrs. Vyner, "how pale you look! Has anything happened? Are you ill?"

Cecil's temples throbbed fearfully. He expected to hear himself exposed before them all, and was trying to muster courage to endure either their scorn, or Violet's sarcastic irony in her description. She only said,—

"Oh, nothing; only a little fright. There was a bull in the meadow who took offence at Shot, and began to threaten us. It is very foolish to be so agitated; but I can't help it."

"Very natural, too, my dear," said Mrs. St. John. "Come and let me give you a glass of wine: that will restore you."

"No, thank you," she replied; "it's not worth making a fuss about. It will go off in a minute or two. Well, Mrs. Langley Turner, have you settled anything about the theatricals?"

"Settled nothing, my dear, but projected an immense deal. Let us lay our heads together a little."

Mrs. Langley Turner twined her arm round Violet's waist, and moved away with her.

Cecil was intent upon the structure of a dahlia.

Nothing more was said on the subject of the fright; and amidst his poignant sense of shame, there was a feeling of grateful reverence to Violet for having spared him. He knew her well enough to be certain that, as she had not revealed his conduct then, she would not whisper it in private. He knew her capable of crushing him in her scorn by some epigram, such as she had uttered in the meadow, but incapable of a spiteful innuendo, or sarcastic narration, in private.

Nevertheless, she knew it. How could he again face her? How could he dwell under the same roof with her? He would not. He would set off on the morrow. He would invent some pretext; anything, so that he had not to encounter the scorn of those haughty features.

The ride home was a painful contrast to the setting out; at least for the two lovers. The rest were as gay and chatty as before; the horses pranced, and shook their heads; Shot leaped up at Jessy's nose, and the sedater hound trotted calmly behind. The ring of laughter, the clatter of hoofs, and the barking of Shot, only made Cecil more conscious of the change. He rode on in sullen silence. Violet had taken her mother's place in the carriage, not feeling quite recovered: her mother mounted Jessy.

It would fill a volume to tell all that passed in the minds of Violet and Cecil during that ride. Her thoughts were all thoughts of unutterable scorn; his thoughts were of overwhelming humiliation. There was an oppressive, moody, suffocating sense of remorse and rage weighing down his spirits. He cursed himself for that unreflecting action as deeply, perhaps more deeply, than if he had murdered a man. In his impotent rage, he asked himself how it was that he had so utterly forgotten her to think solely of himself; and cursed his ill fortune that had placed the fence so close to him. Had it been only half a dozen paces removed, he should have thought of her before reaching it, and then he could have been spared this galling shame.

Violet tried to find excuses for him, but could not. As he rode past, rapt in gloomy thought, crest-fallen, shame-stricken, she wondered that she had ever thought him handsome. The scales had fallen from her eyes.

Who has not experienced some such revulsion of feeling? Who has not looked with astonishment upon some delusion, and asked himself, "Was it, then, really so? Was this the person I believed so great and good?" Alas! no; not this, but another. It was your ideal that you loved, and mistook for the reality. Seen in the bright colours of your fancy, that man appeared admirable whom now you see to be contemptible.

The other day I took up a common pebble from the shore; washed by the advancing waves, and glittering in the summer sun, it looked like a gem. I carried it home; arrived there, I took it from my pocket: the pebble was dry, its splendour had vanished, and I held it for what it was—a pebble.

Such is life, with and without its illusions.

CHAPTER V.

A TRAIT OF JULIUS ST. JOHN.

As Cecil was dressing for dinner that day, he asked himself whether he really loved Violet; the answer was a decided negative. He had loved her till that afternoon: but that one fatal incident as completely turned his love into dislike, as it had turned Violet's into scorn. He disliked her, as we dislike those who have humiliated us, or who have witnessed some action which we know must appear contemptible in their eyes, but which we feel is not really so contemptible. He resented her superior courage; called her coarse and unwomanly, reckless and cruel. He remembered her beating Shot on the morning of their first interview, and it now seemed to him, as then, an act of wanton severity. He remembered what her father and mother said of her temper. They were right; she was a devil!

He went down to dinner quite satisfied that she was not at all the woman he should choose.

She was seated on the sofa, talking to Mrs. Broughton, and caressing the head of her favourite Shot. Marmaduke stood by her side, gazing enraptured upon her beauty.

Never was there a more adorably imperial creature than Violet. If in her riding habit, the prompt decision and energy of her manner conveyed the impression of her being somewhat masculine; directly she doffed it for the dress of her sex, she became at once a lovely, loveable woman.

I have a particular distaste to masculine women, and am therefore anxious that you should not imagine Violet one. She had, indeed, the virile energy and strength of will, which nature seems to have appointed to our sex; but all, who had any penetration, at once acknowledged that she was exquisitely feminine. Her manner had such grace, dignity, softness, and lovingness, tempering its energy and independence. She had grandeur without hardness, and gentleness without weakness. Her murderous eyes, whose flashing beauty few could withstand—there was something domineering in their splendour and fulness of life—had, at the same time, a certain tenderness, the effect of which I know not how better to describe, than in the bold felicitous comparison used by Goethe's mother, when she wrote to Bettina thus: "a violoncello was played, and I thought of thee; it sounded so exactly like thy brown eyes."

I dwell with some gusto on the beauty of this creature; she was so beautiful! Majesty generally implies a certain stiffness: dignified women are detestable; but there was such majesty in Violet—such commanding grace—accompanied by such soft, winning manners, that, in the midst of the sort of awe she inspired, you felt a yearning towards her. Firenzuola would have said of her, and said truly, that "getta quasi un odor di regina," and yet, withal, no one was more simple and womanly.

As Cecil entered the room, he just caught this conclusion of Violet's speech:—

"Besides, had it come to the worst—had the bull made his rush, I was in very good hands. Mr. Chamberlayne and Shot were with me."

This was uttered before she saw Cecil. She coloured slightly as he came in, but continued her conversation in an unaltered tone. He felt no gratitude to her for sparing him, as, by this account of the affair, it was evidently her intention of doing; his self-love was so deeply wounded, that he only perceived the covert sarcasm of again coupling him with Shot. It made him congratulate himself on being no longer in danger of offering her his hand.

"What a wife!" he mentally exclaimed, as he walked up to Rose and Julius, and broke in upon their tête-à-tête, for which neither thanked him.

At dinner he sat between Mrs. Broughton and her niece, who, regarding him as a wit, giggled at whatever he said. He was in high spirits. His gaiety was forced, indeed, but it inspired some brilliant things, which I do not chronicle here for two reasons. First, they had no influence whatever on subsequent events. Secondly, very few repartées bear transplantation; they have an àpropos which gives them their zest, and are singularly tame without it.

"By the way, Mr. St. John, Wincot has a mysterious story about you which ought to be cleared up."

"Pray, what is it?"

"Oh! something impossible, grotesque, inconceivable, but true; at least, he swears to it," said Cecil.

"Let's hear it," said Mrs. Langley Turner.

"By all means," added Mrs. Broughton.

"By all means," echoed Julius. "I find myself the hero of a romance before I was aware of it."

All eyes were turned upon Tom Wincot.

He was not averse to be looked at, so neither blushed, nor let fall the glass suspended to his eye.

Wincot is young, good-looking, well-dressed; rides well, waltzes well; gains his livelihood at whist and écarté; pays debts of honour; has no ideas; knows nothing beyond the sphere of a club or a drawing-room, and has no power over the consonant r.

"I consider this vewy twaitewous," he said; "when I told Chamberlayne the stowy it was under strict secrecy."

"That is to say," rejoined Cecil, "that you wished me particularly to divulge it."

"Not at all, not at all, a secwet is a secwet."

"You excite our curiosity to the highest pitch," said Mrs. Langley Turner.

"Quite thrilling," said Rose.

"Tell us the story yourself, Mr. Chamberlayne," said young Lufton.

"No, no; it is Wincot's story."

"Well; if your cuwiosity is excited, I must gwatify it. Besides, Mr. St. John has pewhaps some explanation. Yesterday, as I was wambling along the woad to town I saw him wide down by the wiver. Well, would you cwedit it? he was cawying, its twue I vow, cawying a side of bacon!!!"

"Is that all?" asked Violet.

"All!" exclaimed the astonished dandy; "All! why Miss Violet, I pledge you my vewacity that I wefused to believe it, it was so twemendous an appawition! Fancy, widing acwoss countwy with a side of bacon on your saddle! It must have been a wager. It must. Why, I would as soon have dwiven my gwandmother down Wegent-stweet; dwank clawet at an inn; gone to a soiwee in shoes; or anything equally atwocious!"

"But let Mr. St. John explain," said Cecil gaily. "This is a serious imputation on his dandyism. Unless he can clear himself of the charge, he will be utterly lost."

"What was it Julius, my dear?" said Mrs. St. John.

"One of those things which he alone is capable of," interposed Marmaduke, warmly. "I will ask the ladies present to judge. Happening to meet Julius with that same side of bacon, I naturally asked him how he came to have it, and he told me the story with his usual simplicity. This it is. He was riding through Little Aston on his way home, he stopped opposite a broker's shop where an auction was going on. A side of bacon was knocked down to him, much to his astonishment, but he paid for it, threw it across his saddle, and carried it twelve miles as a present to one of his poor cottagers. The poor woman was as much shocked as Mr. Wincot, to see the young squire so equipped, but her gratitude was unbounded. I could have hugged him for it; the more so, as, with all my admiration for the simple goodness and courage of the act, I doubt whether even now I should have courage to imitate it, and certainly should never have had such an idea come unassisted into my head."

"You are trying to make a mountain out of a molehill, Marmaduke," said Julius. "The thing was quite simple. I had to pay for the bacon; why should not one of my cottagers benefit by it?"

"Yes, yes; but carrying it yourself."

"I had not my servant with me. It was no trouble. As to what people thought, that never troubled me. Those who knew me knew what I was; those who knew me not did not bestow a thought about me."

Every one declared that it was an act of great kindness and philosophy; except Tom Wincot, who pronounced it vewy extwaowdinawy, and seemed to think nothing could justify such a forgetfulness of what was due to oneself. But of all present, no one was more proud, more pleased than Rose, who looked at her "dear, little, ugly man," as she called him, with fresh admiration all the evening afterwards. It was a trait to have won her heart; if, indeed, her heart had not been won before.

CHAPTER VI.

HIDDEN MEANINGS.

The subject of private theatricals was again started that evening, when all were assembled in the drawing-room; and as the conversation happened by chance to be one of those underneath which there runs a current of deep significance to certain parties, while to the apprehension of the rest there is nothing whatever meant beyond what is expressed; I shall detail some portions of it.

But first to dispose of the scene, as it is rather crowded. In the right-hand corner there is a rubber of whist played between Meredith Vyner and Mrs. Broughton, against Sir Harry Johnstone and Mrs. St. John.

Seated on the music-stool is Rose, who has just ceased playing, and by her stands Julius, who, having turned over her leaves, is now talking to her.

At the round table in the centre, Mrs. Meredith Vyner, Mrs. Langley Turner, Miss Broughton, and Violet are disposed among Marmaduke, Maxwell, Tom Wincot, Captain Heath, and young Lufton; the ladies knitting purses, and engaged on tambour work: the gentlemen making occasional remarks thereon, and rendering bungling assistance in the winding of silk.

To the left, Blanche and Cecil, the latter with his guitar in his hand.

The fire blazes cheerfully. The room is brilliant with light. Mrs. Meredith Vyner is applauding herself secretly at her increasing success with Marmaduke, who she doubts not will soon have lost all his anger towards her. Maxwell looks blacker than ever, but is silent. Violet is recovering from her disappointment, and settling into calm contempt of Cecil. Marmaduke laughs in his sleeve at Mrs. Vyner's attempts, but is too much struck with Violet, not to be glad of anything which seems likely to smooth the path of acquaintance with her. Captain Heath is rather annoyed at having lost his accustomed seat next to Blanche, with whom he best likes to converse. Cecil has completely shaken off his depression, and is wondering he never before discovered what incomparable eyes Blanche has.

"But about these theatricals," said Mrs. Langley Turner. "I am dying to have something settled. You, Mrs. Vyner, are the cleverest of the party, do you suggest some play. What do you say to Othello?"

"Oh!" said Mrs. Broughton, "don't think of tragedy."

"No, no," rejoined Mrs. Vyner; "if the audience must laugh, let it at least be with us."

"By all means," said Vyner, shuffling the cards; "remember, too,

        Male si mandata loqueris
Aut dormitabo aut ridebo.

"At the same time," observed Mrs. Vyner; "Mr. Ashley would make a superb Othello."

"I rather think," replied Marmaduke, slightly veiling his eyes with the long lashes; "Iago would suit me better."

Mrs. Vyner affected not to understand the allusion.

"You would not look the villain," she said.

"Perhaps not," he replied, laughing; "but I could act it."

"By the way," interposed Julius, "surely that's a very false and un-Shakespearian notion current, respecting Iago's appearance: people associate moral with physical deformity, though as Shakespeare himself says—

There is no art
To find the mind's construction in the face.

The critics, I observe, in speaking of an actor, as Iago, are careful to say, 'he looked the villain.' Now, if he looked the villain, I venture to say he did not look Iago."

"Mr. St. John is right," said Cecil. "Had Iago 'worn his heart upon his sleeve,' no one could have been duped by him. Whereas everybody places implicit confidence in him. He is 'honest Iago'—a 'fellow of exceeding honesty;' and he is this, not only to the gull Roderigo, and the royal Othello, but equally so to the gentle Desdemona, and his companion in arms, the 'arithmetician' Cassio."

"So you see," said Marmaduke, turning to Mrs. Vyner, "in spite of your handsome compliment, I might have the physique de l'emploi. Then Cecil would be a famous Cassio,

Framed to make women false."

Mrs. Vyner asked herself, "Is he showing me his cards? Does he mean to play Iago here, and to select Cecil as his tool? No; he can't be such a blockhead; but what does he mean then?"

"If we are not to play tragedy," observed Mrs. Broughton; "what use is there in wasting argument on it. Let us think of a comedy."

"The Rivals," suggested Captain Heath; "it has so many good parts, and that I take to be the grand thing in private theatricals, where every one is ambitious of playing primo violino."

"Very natural too!" said Julius.

"Very!" rejoined Heath, sarcastically.

"When people laugh," said Julius, "at the vanity displayed by amateur actors, in their reluctance to play bad parts, it is forgotten that there is a wide distinction between playing for your amusement, and playing for your bread. Every actor on the stage would refuse indifferent parts, were it possible for him to do so. And when gentlemen and ladies wish to try their skill at acting, they very naturally seek to play such parts as will give their talents most scope."

"We really ought to thank Mr. St. John," said Mrs. Vyner, "for the ingenious excuse he has afforded our vanity, and he must have a good part himself as reward."

"You are very kind," said Julius; "but I have no notion whatever of acting, and must beg you to pass me over entirely, unless you want a servant, or something of that kind."

"I am sure," said Rose, in a low tone, "you would act beautifully."

"Indeed, no."

"Did you ever try?"

"Never. I have no vis comica; and as to tragedy, my person excludes me from that."

Rose was silent and uncomfortable; all people are when others allude to their own personal deficiencies.

"Will you play Sir Anthony, Sir Harry?"

"Two by cards ... I beg your pardon, Mrs. Vyner .... Sir Anthony Absolute? Yes, yes, you may put me down for that."

"And who is to be Captain Absolute? You, Mr. Ashley?"

"Perhaps Mr. Ashley would play Falkland," suggested Mrs. Broughton.

"No, no, Falkland is cut out for Mr. Maxwell—he is the most tragic amongst us."

Maxwell answered with a grim smile.

"At any rate," said Mrs. Langley Turner, "let me play Mrs. Malaprop. I quite long to be an allegory on the banks of the Nile."

"And Violet," said Mrs. Vyner, with the slightest possible accent of sarcasm, "can be Lydia Languish."

"No, mama," replied Violet, "you ought to play that—it would suit you."

"I play? ... my dear child!"

"Do you not intend to take a part?"

"My dear Violet, how could you suppose such a thing?"

"I imagined," replied Violet, with exquisite naturalness, "that you were an accomplished actress."

"So I should have said, from the little I have the pleasure of knowing of Mrs. Vyner," observed Marmaduke.

The two arrows went home; but Mrs. Vyner's face was impassive.

"How imprudent Violet is!" said Blanche, in a whisper, to Cecil.

"Do you understand that?" said Rose to Julius.

"What?"

"Nothing, if you did not catch it."

"But who is to be Sir Lucius, we haven't settled that," said Mrs. Broughton.

"I wather think I should play Sir Lucius O'Twigger, as my bwogue is genewally pwonounced so vewy Iwish."

"But," interposed Marmaduke, "we have forgotten Cecil ... Oh! there is Acres—a famous part!"

"Surely, Captain Absolute would be better," suggested Violet.

"Is that a sarcasm?" Cecil asked himself.

"Anybody," rejoined Marmaduke, "can play the Captain, whereas Acres is a difficult part. It is not easy to play cowardice naturally."

This is one of those observations, which, seeming to have nothing in them, yet fall with strange acrimony on the ears of certain of the parties. It made Violet and Cecil uncomfortable.

"Besides," pursued Marmaduke, "it is a rule in acting, that we always best play the part most unlike our own; and as Cecil happens to be the coolest of the cool in a duel, he ought to play the duel scene to perfection."

"Did you ever fight a duel, then?" exclaimed Miss Broughton. "How romantic!"

Violet was astonished. Cecil, delighted at this opportunity of redeeming himself in her eyes, said, "Marmaduke, who was my second, will tell you that it was by no means romantic, Miss Broughton. A mere exchange of harmless shots about a very trivial circumstance."

"And," inquired Miss Broughton, with inimitable naïveté, "were you not afraid?"

A general laugh followed this question, except from the whist players, who were squabbling over some disputed point, and from Violet, who was asking herself the same question.

"Why," rejoined Cecil, gaily, "I suppose you would hardly have me avow it, if it were so; cowardice is so contemptible."

"Oh, I don't know," said Miss Broughton.

"If I may speak without bravado, I should say that, although I am a coward by temperament, I do not want bravery on reflection."