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<MttgS5gag--lw- a LITERARY MISCELLANY. I [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] AN OPEN VERDICT: A 1\E\V NOVEL BY the Author of" LADY AODLEVS SECRET," II TAKEN AT THE FLOOD," "DEAD MEN'S SHOES," WEAVERS AND WEFT," &0. CHAPTER V. His ITALIAN WIFE. That deep shadow of gloom which had fallen upon Christian Harefield's life seemed to have descended also .pon the house he lived in. The house—with its low Filings, narrow corridors, strange ins and outs, odd corners, and black oak paunelling had doubtless been Olore or less gloomy of aspect for the last two hundred fears. Hut an old world gloom like this contrasts plea- hotly with the movement [nut bustle of glad domestic tife-the flashes of sudden colour—the glow of many dearths—winter's yule log and summer's wealth of tiowers-the fresh shrill voices of young children-tho hospitalities of eventide, the passing in and out of many Sgnres, varied yet recurrent as the combinations of a 'fcHeidoscope. for the last fiftv rears the Water House had been -kaown to all Little Yafford, and within a radius of twenty tnilêS, as a grave and sober mansion, where high jinks any kind were as little to be expected as a re-appear- *nee of white-robad oak-crowned Druids in that stony circle on the moor which had once reeked with the blood 0[, uman victims. Old Christian Harefield, the father of the present owner of the estate, had been distinguished for various Eccentricities, the chief of which was love of money. He ^•4 not love it too well to spend it on himself, but he loved it too well to waste it upon his fellow-oreatures, "hom he did not love. He was a born man-hater. No youthful disappointments, no wrong doing of a familiar friend, no inconstancy of a woman had soured his temper •r changed the current of his life. In his nursery ho had Regarded outside humanity with a cold distrust, and had 1Jèea selfish in the transactions of his babyhood. At Eton be was known as the most respectable of lads, And "as. universally detested. There was a legend of his having given a boy he disliked the scarlatina, deliber- ately and of malice aforethought; and this was the only thing he had ever been known to give away. At the University he took care of himself, made his rooms the prettiest in his quad, rode good horses, road dili- gently and took his degree with ease—but he refused all invitations to wine parties, rather than incur the ex- pense of returning hospitality—and he was remembered aT!1oug his contemporaries as Stingy Harefield. Whe; the time came for him to marrry he made no attempt to Escape that ordeal, as it presented itself to him in the fo m of an alliance with a young lady whose father had enriched himself by commerce, and had recently acquir- a large traut of land conterminous with the Water House estate. The young lady and tho tract of land ^cnt in one lot, and Christian married her without feei- ng himself guilty of that kind of sentimental folly called falling in lovej' which offended his reason ^in those inferior animals whom stern necessity obliged him to acknowledge as his fellow-creatures. From this alli- ance of the mercantile classes and the landed gentry, "Prang an only child, Christian the second. In his boy- hood and youth he gave indications of a nobler and wider Mature than his father's. He was careless of money- had his attachments among his school fellows and com- panions at the UniversHs-gave wine parties on a larger acale than any undergraduate of his year—read hard— rode hard-was at once dissipated and a student—came urottghhis examinations with flying colours, and left be- hind him a reputation which caused at l«aet half-a-dozen •fesh-iaen to ruin themselves in the endeavour to imi- tate Alcibiades Harefield," that being the name which C hristian the second had won for himself. There were hard words between father and son when the young man went back td the Water Home with a B.A. degree and a sheaf of bills on a more tremendous scale than usual. His mother's estate had been settled Upon Christian the younger, and, beyond those paternal reproaches, he suffered very little from his extravagance. Bis majority, which had been wise'y or unwisely de- ferred to his twenty-fifth birthday, would make him inde- pendent. He stayed a month or so at the Water-House -7-shot on the moors—read late of nights in the sombre hbrary-din3d out very often, and saw as little of his father as was consistent with occupation of the same house. After this brief experience of domestic life, ho Went off to the Continent, and remained there roaming from city to city, for the next ten years of his life, his father living on quietly at the Water House all tho time, eating and sleeping and riding his steady cob, and generally taking care of himself in an eminently respee- table and gentleman-like manner. In the tenth year of his a°n'8 absence the father died suddenly of aporlexy-a catastrophe which seemed to most people in Little Yaf- ford the natural close of a selfish self-indulgent life, phristian appeared at the Water House in time for the funeral, after travelling day and night for a week. He ?avv his father buried, he examined his father's papers In. Mr. Scratchell's presence, and he perused hi? father's "Ill drawn by Sratchell, and leaving everything to my son, Christian Harefield." The will had been made directly after Mrs. Harefield's death, when Christian! the younger was still at Eton, and although the father son had not got on particularly well together after- **trds, Christian the elder had not troubled himself toi *lter his bequest. He was too essentially selfish to leavo shilling away from his own flesh and blood. Christian tad not treated him well, but Christian was in some ^ise a part of himself; and although he did not care ^uch for Christian, there was nobody else for whom he ^ed at all. Christian Harefield, now lord of the double estates, ^ent back to the Continent, where he was heard of no tn01'e for the next five years, at the end of which time there came a report of his marriage with a very hand- some Italian girl-but as everybody in Little Yafford re- there had been no advertisement in the Times, ^hich made the whole thing seem rather odd and irreg- A ye&r gt two later Mi*. Harefield was heard of riving near Florence with the lovely Italian wife and baby, and nine years after his fathers's dentil De came home to the Water House, bringing the lovely *?ife and a little girl of three years old home with him. ?e was now a man of middle age, very grave of aspect, and not inaccessible. Aged people at ~^ttle Yafford began to speculate upon a change at the Water House. It would be as it had been when the late phristian Harefield was a child—and old Mr. and Mrs. Harefield gave hunting breakfasts and dinners, and the old place was kept up altogether as it ought to he—with a great deal of company in the dining-room, and plenty of waste and riot in the kitchen and servants' hall. Christian Harefield did not quite realize those hopes ?*hich memory had cooked in the hearts of the oldest ^habitants of Little Yafford—but he was not unsocial. The Water House resumed something of its ancient •plendour—there was a large household liberally con- ducted—a fine stud of horses in the roomy old stables'. ^Ir. Harefield received his neighbours cordially, and fftve dinners enough to satisfy the most exacting among bis friends. There had been a great many stories, for the most part Purely the work of invention—or of that gradual cohe- of casual particles floating in space by which a Scandalous rumour is sometimes created. Some people heard as a certain fact that the beautiful Italian had a flower girl, and that Mr. Harefield had seen her filing violets in the streets of Florence. Others were ^llally certain that she had been an opera singer— others assured that ballet dancing had been her profession Tu ^me she attracted her wealthy lover's attention. more scandalous hinted darkly that she was some else's run-away wife, and that Christian Harefield's Triage was n0 marriage at all. by the time when Mr. and Mrs. Harefield had been 'Ting at the Water House three months, the slightest fusion to one of these once favourite scandals was about ?* great a solecism as any one in Little Yafford could J*6 guilty of. The ancient slanders were sunk in the Sea of oblivion. Those who had been most active tn disseminating the legends forgot all about them— could not have taxed their memory with the slightest de- ntil, wouid have looked quite puzzled if any underhre d in cruder in polite society had questionedthem on the sub- ject, or recalled former assertions. There was a dignity ibout Christian Harefield, a subdued elegance about his h!3i which made such legends as Little Yafford formerly believed in, obviously and distinctly im- possible. He marry a ballet girl-dancer, the proudest of She sell penny bunches of violets, the most aris- tocratic of women. All the best people of Little Yafford '•sited the Water House, and swore by Mrs. Harefield. She was not a woman to make her influence widely t even in that quiet circle. Beauty and elegance were chief gifts. She was passionately fond of music— **ayed exquisitely in a style of her own which was poetic ^ther than brilliant—sang sweetly—-but not wi ih the ,0(>Wer of voice or splendour of execution which would f*a.Ve justified the story of her having been a prima donna. ,.j~e had graceful manners, and distinction of bearing, but leading spirits in Little Yafford, Mrs. Dulcimer- Jane Gowry—and an old Mrs. Pynsent decided she had not much mind. f; She can only look lovely, my dear, and curtsey, jn foreign way of hers which reminds me of my young j K when ladiesbehaved like ladies, and good manners ljad not begun to get obsolete," said Lady Jane toiler Mrs. Dulcimer. "She can only look elegant and git her piano and suffer us to admire her, just as wo r*°uld if she were the Venus de Milo in the Louvre. I ?^Q't think she has mirli more feeling or passion than hat one-armed statue—but she is quite as lovely, and I uPP°se that is enough for Mr. Harefield." Everybody agreed that Christian Harefield was de- j°tad to his wife, and that it was a happy marriage. But his little girl he had evidently no very warm regard, time went on, and no second baby appeared "the father ??8an to feel himself personally injured by the sex of only child. She ought to have been a son. Here «■ the great Harefield property in danger of travelling >?t of the direct line, and belonging to some spurious icefield, who should only assume that good old name Royal Letters Patent. And it seemed to Christian— rge minded and cosmopolitan as he considered himself v~that it would he a loss to English society if real Hate- • elds should becomo extinct in the laud. This idea that daughter was a mistake grew upon him, and by slow ejgrees began to go hand in hand with another idea—of ^fcr more injurious and dangerous nature—and that fts the fancy that his wife loved the child better than loved him. Those tender maternal caresses which the Italian lavished on her little girl galled her husband as much as if she had seen them given to a rival. ^Qls Was tjjg gj-gj. arising ef that sombre passion which V*8 afterwards to turn all his life to poison. He first l^rnt the meaning of jealousy when he sat hy his own j esi^e watching the lovely face opposite him smilin j uPon Beatrix. He had never cared for children ~he abstract, never had perceived any special poetry beauty in young lives and small round rosy faces; he could see nothing to love or admire in Beatrix, a I.at this stage of her existence, was small and sallow, little yellow thing, all eyes and mouth," as he him- to f described her. It was a constant irritation to him "0 See such blind unreasoning affection squandered upon J^Qlovely an object. sPei)t °ne winter and a spring at the Water Housie j\^then carried his wifeaway with him to Baden, and from went to Florence for the winter, leaving Beatrix r £ e of a conscientious and elderly governess at l0. 'eYafford. The child was almost heart-broken at the J5c*l °f that loving mother, but no one except Miss iji Gs' governess, knew anything about it, and Scales wrote Mrs. Harefield cheery letters, telling • dear little Trix was getting tall and strong and «jUst gone into words of two syllables. 'lJ.d t. and Mrs. Harefield came back to the Water House £ ^w.8Pent the summer and autumn at home— and gave ^UlleS made themselves generally agreecble. Then fcejj.0 ^inter and a migration to the South, Beatrix staying -^KS Scales as before. This winter she 'nto words of three syllables, and made small ex- Into various foreign grammcrs, taking to Italian TK as a {luek hatched by a hen takes to the water. Ind Kind of life went on till Beatrix was ten, Mr. Harefield's sojourn at the Water House growing each year, and bv dfcress there S'ose a f«Unu Little Yafford that Mr. and Mrs. Harefield were "not quite the happiest couple in the world, that there were more clouds than sunshine in that small homo circle. These things make themselves known somehow. It was hinted that there were quarrels. Mrs. Harefield had a distressed look sometimes. Beatrix was not so often found in tho drawing-room with her mother when people called. Good-natured Mrs. Dulcimer discovered that the little girl was always cooped up in the schoolroom, or sent out for dreary walks with her governess, and felt herself called upon to interfere and draw Mrs. Harefield'* attention to this negleet of maternal duty; but MM. Harefield, mildly graceful as she was at all times, re- ceived the remonstrance with a placid dignity which rebuked the good-natured busy-body. There was trouble of some kind evidently at the Water House, but no one in Little Yafford could ever get face to face with the skeleton. Italianfriends of Mrs. Harefield's appeared upon the scene, but Little Yafford was not invited to meet these foreigners. Then came autumn, and another migration to warmer lands, and this time Miss Scales and Beatrix went with the travellers. That is more as it should be," said Mrs. Dulcimer, triumphantly. So you see after all, Gleiaent, my re- monstrance had some effect." If ever I find that any act of interference with other people's oonduct of their own affairs has a good effect, I will reverse the whole theory of morals which I have made for myself, In relation to my neighbour," answered Mr. Dulcimer, with unaccustomed energy. This last journey was fatal. Six weeks after the travellers left the Water House, Little Yafford was startled by the tidings of Mrs. Harefield's death. She had died suddenly, at a little roadside iun, among the mountains—the loveliest spot of earth she could well have found for life's closing scene. She had gone there alone with her husband ou their way from Naples to Reggis, leaving Beatrix and her governess at Naples. Mr. Harefield was distracted, and had gone off to wander no one knew where, after sending his child and the voverness home to the Water House. Little Beatrix ap- peared there by and by, a silent an I almost ghost-like child, whose small facelookecl unnaturally white above the dense blackness of her frofk. Its absolutely heart-rending to see a Christian gentle- man's child look so like one's idea of a vampire," ex- claimed compassionate Mrs. Dulcimer, and she tried to lure the little girl to the Vicarage with a view to petting and making her happy, but Miss Scales guarded her pupil as jealously as if she had been a griffin in a fairy tale keeping watch and ward over an enchanted princess. It was the universal opinion in Littls Yaffórd-a. kind of foregone conclusion-that Mr. Harefield would wander for years, and return to.tho Water House after a decade, or two, with long grey hair and a bent backbone—and the general appearance of a pilgrim. Ho disappointed every- body's expectations by coming back early in the spring and taking up his abode permanently in the grave old house, which now put on that mantle of silence aud gloom which had never been lifted from it since. Under this shadow of gloom, encircled by this perpetual silence and monotony, Beatrix had grown from childhood to womanhood. You could hear the dropping of the light wood ashes in a distant ro mi as you stood iu the hall at the WaterHouse— or the chirping of a winter robin in the garden outside the windows—or the ticking of the din- ing-room clock—hut of human voice or motion there was hardly anything to be heard. The kitchens and offices were remote, and the servants knew the value of good wages and a comfortable home toowell to let any token of their existence reach Mr. Harefield's ears. The lmster of that silent house sat in his library at the end of the low corridor, and read, or smoked, or mused, or wrote in solitude. Sometimes he took his daily ride or walk in all weathers, for months at a stretch—at other times he would remain for several weeks without leaving the house. He received no gussts he visited us one—taring taken the trouble, immediately after his return" to let people know that he had come to the Water Hcmse in search of solitude and not sympathy. Scratch ell, his lawyer And agent, and Mr. Namby the family doctor, were the enly two men freely admitted to his pr. sence—and of these he saw as little as possible. He allowed Isabella Scratchell to be with his daughter as much as Beatrix pleased to have her, but he never sat at meals with them or honoured them with his society. His hours were different from theirs—and they had Miss Scales to tako care of them. What could they want more? One day, when Beatrix was between sixteen and seven- teen, Mrs. Dulcimer met the tnisanthrope in one of his solitary Walks on the Druids' moor, and ventured—not without inwar I fear and trembling—to attack him on the subject of his daughter's solitary life. "It must be very dull for Beatrix at the Water House," she said. I dare say it is, madam," answered Christian Hire- field, with austere civility, but I don't mind that. Dul- ness is good for yountj women—in my opinion." Oh, but dear Mr. Harefield," cried the Vicar's wife, emboldened by his politeness, but there you differ from aU the rest of the world." I have not generally found the rest of the world so wise, my dear midam, as to distress myself because iti opinions and mine happen to be at variance." Mrs. Dulcimer felt herself bamed. This stony urbanity was too much for her. But she remembered Beatrix's pale joyless face as she had seen it in the chancel pew last Sunday, and made cne more heroic effort. Mr. Harefield, I am not going to a3k you to change your own habits—" "That would be wasted labour, madam—" Or to ask people to the Water House—" I would not do my friends so great a wrong—" But you might at least let Beatrix come to me. We are v<»ry quite people at the Vicarage—Clement absorb- ed in his books--I in my work basket. There would be no gaiety for her—but there would be the change from one house to another—and we lie higher—you must be damp at the Water House. I know Beatrix has suffered fro;n neuralgia—" « A new fashion among young ladies, like the shape of their bonnets. I never heard of it when I was youug-" Oh; it was called toothache then—but it was just as excruciating. Then you really will let her come," pur- sued Mrs Dulcimer, pretending to make sure of his con- sent. Clement Dulcimer is a gentleman I greatly respect, and you are the most amiable of women. I cannot sea why I should forbid my daughter coming to you if you like to be troubled with her. But I must make it a condition that you do not take her anywhere else—thai she is to come to your house and yours alone." "Most assuredly. I shall consider your wishes upon that point sacred," protested Mrs. Dulcimer, delighted with her success. She called on Beatrix the next day. and carried her Off to the Vicarage. The girl had'been carefully educated by conscientious Miss Scales, and knew everything that a girl of her age is supposed to know, except the theory of music. She could have enlightened the Vicar about latitude and longitude, and the subjunctive mood in various languages. But she had all the deficiencies and peculiarities of a girl whose life had been lonely. She was proud and sliy-what the Yicar called farouche, and it was a long time before her now friends could set her at case. But when she did expand they grew very fond of her, and that new life at the Vicarage was like the beginning of her youth. She had never felt herself young before. Miss Scales's prim perfection had been like a band ot iron about her life. Her father's gloom and hardness had weighed upon her like an actual burden. Sho had waked in the night sobbing, roused from some dim strange dream of an impossible happiness, by the recollection that she had a father who had never loved her, who n'ver would love bar. This hardness of her father's had gradually hardened her feelings towards him. She had left off hoping for any change in him, and with the cessation of hope came a stream of bitterness which overwhelmed every sweet and filial setiment. As she grew from child to woman, her memories of the past took a new shape. Well remem- bered scenes acted themselves over again before her mental vision nnder anew and more vivid light. Sho began to see that there had been unhappiuess in her mother's life and that her father had bean the cause of it—that the cloud always come from him Brief episodes of that bygone life flashed back upon her with a cruel distinctness. She remembered herself leaning on her mothers shoulder one eveni ig, as Mis. Harefield Sat at the drawing-room piano weaving the sweet tangle of Italian melody she loved so well. It Was a summer twilight, and the windows were all open the garden was full of roses, the river shining under the' setting sun. She remembered her father's coming in suddenly, and walking up to the piano. He took her by the wrist with a hard strong hand that hurt her a little. « Go to your governess," he said, "I want to talk to your mother." And then, before she could reach the door, she heard him say.. So you have seen Antonio again." Those words haunted her curiously now that she was growing a woman. Who was Antonio ? She could re- member no one in the history of her life to whom that name belonged. It was an Italiaii nnmc-tho name of one of those Italian inenas of her mother's who came and went, in those memory pictures, like figures in a dream. She could not distinguish one from the other. They had all pale dark faces, like ivory that had been shut from the light, and dark gleaming eyes, and hair like the shining wings of the rooks in th3 tall old elm tops, yonder. But she could not recall any one of them who had impressed her—a wondering child of seven more than the rest. Yes, there was one- the one WHO sang so beautifully. She could remember sitting on her mother's lap one avening before dinner—the room dimly lighted—110 one present but her mother and the Italian gentleman. She remembered his sitting at the piano and singing- church music—music that thrilled her, till, in a nervous ecstasy she burst into tears, and her mother soothed her and carried her away, saying something to the strange eentlemMi in Italian as she went towards the door, and he got up from the piano and came to them and stopped on the threshold to bew down and kiss her, as she had never been kissed before in all her life. She could re- member the kiss now—though it was ten years ago. And ho something 111 Italian, something tha seemed half sorrow and half anger. Was that Antonio ? Her mother's rooms had never been opened by any one but Christian Harefield since his return to the Water House after that last fatal journey There was some- thing ghostly in the idea of those three rooms facing the river those three locked doors in the long oak gallery. Beatrix passed those sealed doors always with a thrill of i if her mother had but lived—how different, how different life would have been for her. There would have been sorrow perhaps—for she knew there had been sorrow in the last year of her mother's life-but they two would have shared it. T .cy would have clung to each other closer, loved each other more fondly because of the husband and fathers unkindnem. What would Papa matter to me if I had Mamma?'' she thought. He would be only a gloomy person com- ing in and out like the dark brief night which comes in and out among the summer days. We should not have minded him. We should have accepted him as syjart of nature—the shadow that made our sunshine brighter." Often and often she sat on tho bench on the river ter- race leaning hack with her arms folded above her head, looking up at those seven blank windows—darkly shut- tered-three windows for the spacious old bedroom- one for the narrow dressing closet—three for the pretty morninff-room which she remembered dimly, a white nannelled room—with pale blue curtains all worked with birds and flowers in many colourod silks—black and gold • Japanese cabinets-a tall chimney piece with a curious old looking-glass above it, let into the wall—pictures— and red and blue chi na jars—a faint odour of pot pourri a Pian0 a frame for Berlin wool work — with a group of unfinished roses that never seemed to grow any ^Dear room," she said, to think that I should live so near you-pass your door every day-and yet remember yousofaintly-^ifyoiiwereadrea™ Once I curious fancy flashed upon her as she sat in the evening'glow, looking up at these windows. Perhaps Antonio's picture is m that room." She had iust. recollected a miniature in a velvet case, which she had opened one day-the picture of a gentle- mi„ gi,c had only glanced at. it, when her mother took the case from her, and put it away. The complexion was more beautiful than Antonio s-supposmg the gen- tl.mau who sang th« «huvch to have Wn Antonio -but then people's complexions in portraits are; gener- ally superior to the reality.. Kind as her friends at the Vicarage were, Beatrix never talked to them of these old memories. The past was a sealed book. Not for worlds could she. have spoken of it-Rot even to Isabella, with whom she conversed as freely, in a general way, as a little girl talks to her doll. The new home life at the Vicarage brightened her wonderfully. Her reserve wore off as she grew accus- tomed to that friendly household. She was enraptured with Mr. Dulcimer's library—her father's book shelves being as inaccessible for her as the Vatican. Here, on the Vicar's well-stocked shelves she found those Italian poets her mother must have loved-prose writers too— quaint old romances, in white vellum, on curious ribbed paper, printed at Venice, two hundred years ago. She spent many an hour sitting on 1 hassock in the sunny bow window, with a pile of those old Italian books on the floor beside her—while the Vicar sat at his big table annotating Berkeley—or making excursions into the world of science. Here she read the BrIJscwater Treatises, and got her first grand idea of the universe. Here her young mind soared away from the narrow track along which Miss Scales had conducted it. and entered the regions of poetry and delight. And here—in this sunny old room, with its walls of books and its shabby heterogeneous furniture—young Love took her by the hand, and led her across the threshold of his wonder-world. Here she first met Cyril Culverhouse, and learnt how fair a thing piety miy seem in a bright young soul, eager to do eome good in its generation. Religion, hitherto, as in- terpreted by Miss Scales, had appeared to her a hard and difficult busineM which no one could take to except under W! severest pressure—a system of punishments and pen- ances invented for the torment of mankind. But in Qyril's teaching how different it all seemed. Keligion became a sentiment to live or die for—without it happi- ness or peace of mind seeoted impossible. "Your Mamma belonged to the old faith, perhaps," he said, one day, when they were talking of high and low church. Beatrix gave a faint shiver. "I dowt know," sbe answered sadly. Mamma never talked to me about religion. I was too young, perhaps." Cyril found her curiously ignorant of all that was most vital in religion, and his first interest in her arose fro" this very ignorance of hers. He was so glad to set her right—to get her out of the narrow Scales track, Mi<w Scales being essentially low church and scenting Roman out roachmeot in -an anthem, orasurpliee. The interest soon deepened, but he could hardly have told when it first g'ewinto love. Perhaps that might never have come, if eatrix's fresh young soul had not gone out to meet his unawares, so that ere he knew himself a lover he found himself beloved. The thought was full of rapture, for at this stage of their friendship she seemed to him the most perfect among women-the lovely embodiment of youth and in- nocence, and noble yearnings, truthfulness, purity, all tilings fair and holy. But the consideration that she was Christian Harefield's heiress dashed his joy. He saw himself in advance—branded in the sight of men as the clerical adventurer, who, under the guise of rcli- gion, had pushed his own fortune. | Then it was—while it was still a new thing for thm to talk of their mutual love—that he told Beatrix her father must be informed of their attachment. CHAPTER VI. The Monday after that Sunday evening supper at the Vicarage, dragged more heavily than any day Beatrix ¡ could remember—since that never to be forgotten awful day when—a little child in a strange country—among wild inaccessible mountains she was told of her mother's death. To-day she felt that a blow was impending-a stroke that must shatter the rosy chain that bound her to her bright new life. The strictness of Miss Scales's rule had been relaxed since Beatrix's eighteenth birthday The lady was now rather companion and duenna tha governess-but Miss Scales was conscientious and (li. not care to take her salary without gaming it, so she ba( urged upon Beatrix that a young lady of eighteen wi in duty bound to go on improving her mind, and Beatri had consented to two --hours daily reading, on a rigi< system. Knglisb history one day—Roman anotber- Grecian another—Travels on the fourth day -Belles by the dullest books in the English language on the fifth-and French—as exemplified 114 an Intensely proper novel on the sixth. And all this reading was to be carefully done, with a good deal of reference to the best authorities—all obso- lete, and improved upon by the newest lights to be ob- tained from the last discoveries published a year or -two before the battle of Waterloo. That her favourite pu- thorities could be superseded was a possibility beyond Miss Scales's mental grasp. She bad learned out of those books, and would continue to teach out of them to her dying day. Upon this particular Monday the English historians hung somewhat heavily. Hume was dull—and Rassiu furnished no improvement uponjhim. Really, Miss Scales dear," said Beatrix, at last with a stifled yawn, I don't think I am appreciating Joan of Arc at all properly this morning. She was much too good a person to he yawned over like this—and if she really was burnt at Rouen, and did not get out of that Beaufort's clutches and marry and leave a lot of children afterwards—" Joan of Arc—married—with a lot or children—Bea- trix what are you dreaming of ?" cried the scandalised Miss Scales, her little grey ringlets quivering with in- dl" Mr!°Dulcimer says she did—and that there are docu- ments to prove it." "Mr Dulcimer is a horrid person to tell you such stories—and after this I shouldn't bo at all surprised at his going over to Rome." "Would you much mmd my putting up the books, Miss Scales, love," asked Beatrix, in the coaxing way in which she was wont to address her duenna. "My mind isn't equal to grasping such heroism as Joan's to- day." "You have been looking absent minded all the morn- ing, certainly," "I do feel rather head achy. Then you'd better take a seidlitz powder—and b" rare you put in the blue paper first-" "No, thank you, dear, I'm really not ill. But I think a turn in the garden would do me good. I'll read ever so much to-morrow, if you'll let me." If I'll let you, Beatrix. When have /ever stood be- tween you and the improvement of your mind ? But I hope you won't get hold of Mr. Dulcimer's crotchets. Joan of Arc not burned at Rouen, indeed ? What is the world coming to? And Bishop Whately has written a pamphlet to prove that there was no such person as Napoleon, though my father saw him—with his own eyes —on board the Beatrix waited for no further permission to put the dingy old books back upon their shelves, and go out bare-headed into the autumnal garden. It was a good old garden at all tfmcs-a wi le stretch of lawn following the wind of the river—a broad gravelled walk with moss grown old stone vases at intervals—and a stone bench here and there-flowers in profusion, but of the old fashioned sort—rare shrubs and trees—plane in(I tulip, and spanish chesnut that had been growirg for centuries -one grand cedar stretching wide his limbs over the close shone sward—a stone sundial with a blatantly false inscription to the effect that it recorded only happy hours—and for prospect, the Komnn onc-urched bnilgc, with the deep narrow river flowing swiftly under it- these in the foreground and in the distance across the river the heterogenous roofs, chimneys, and gables of Little Yafford, with the good old square church tower rising uu in their midst, and behind this little settle- ment the purple moor sloping far up towards the calm ^It was a scene so familiar to Beatrix that she scarcely felt its great beauty, as she walked up and down tne river terrace, thinking of Cyril, and the interview that was to take place to-day. She was not bopeful as to the result of thati ntervieW There were hard thoughts in her mind about her father.. He b is never given mo his love, she said to herself "WiH he be cruel enough to take this love from me. This love that makes life a new thing.' While Beatrix was pacing slowly to and fro along the quiet river side walk, Cyril was coming down the r stoning road to the Roman bridge, thinking of what he had to do. It w»s not pleasant mission- by any means. He was going to beard the lion in his den-to offer him- self as st husband for the richest heiress in the neigh- hnnfhood He Cyril Culverhouse, who had not a six- pence beyond his stipend, and who yet came of too good a family to be called an adventurer. He had never spfckcn to Mr. Harefield, and he was going to him 0 ask^for his daughter's ha id. The position was difficult—but Cynl j:j fi.i.inlr frnin facing it. did not shrink from fscinu it« He went under the archway into the grassy quad- rangle where the low stone mullioned windows laced him with their dull blank look, as of windows out of Sch 110 one ever looked. There w^a ow door in corner studded with iron nails—and a bell that wouk Lav" b,0„ loud cougb/oc m«n. of «»—•' with a house quarter of a mile away. This noisy hell clanged out uumercifuly in the afternoon quiet. "He will never forgive me for ringing such a bell as thThe staBtkmtler looked at him wonderingly when hs asked if Mr. Harefield was at home. Visitors were 'a"eHe is aUilfe,"answered the butler, dubiously as to see^im—upoii particular bUTheebutler led the way to the drawing-room without 1 iip hod heard Mx. Culverhouse preach, at odd tires iho^htoTf a member of the £ ittle Yafford Baptists, and had too much respect for his cloth to ex- his oninion as to the uselessness of this proceeding Se led the way to the drawing-room and left Cyril there. It was a pretty room, despite the gloom that had fal- lenunon it: A long old room, with oak paunelling, a lichly^rved cornice, and a low ceiling a few good Italian pictures, a tall pillared marble xhunney piece, broad Tudor windows looking towards the river-deep recesses filled with books-and chairs and sofas of the Louis Seize period, covered with Gobelins tapestry, But there was no sign of occupation-no open piano- not a book out its place-not a newspaper or pamphlet on the tables. Everything was m perfect order, as in a house that iB shown and not » This was the first time Cyril had been under the roof that sheltered Beatrix. He looked around him for some trace of her presence-but he saw no such trace. Did she inhabit this room ? No, it was evidently a room 111 which no one lived. He went to one of the windows and looked out. He, could just see the lovely figure at the end of the river walk bare-headed under the sunless sky-a figure full of erkce and dignity, to his eye; as it moved slowly along the face turned towards the bridge „ «Poor child, she is watching for me, perhaps," he thought 'with tender sadness, waiting and fearing." « My master will be pleased to see you, sir," said the voice in the doorway, and Cyril turned to follow the He followed down a corridor that went the whole length of the house. The butler opened a deep set oak door thick enough for a gaol, and gravely announced the visitor. It was a very solemn thing altogether Cvril fe^. He found himself in a large low room, lined from floor to ceiling with books on carved oak shelves. A brown- ness of time prevailed throughout the room. All that was not brown leather was oak. Three low windows looked into a court yard. A pile of logs smouldered on the wide stone hearth. Cyril had never entered a more gloomy room. The master of the 'Water House stood before the hearth, ready to receive his visitor-a tall, powerfully built man, in a long cloth dressing gown, like a monk's habit, which made him look taller than he really was. The hard stern face would have done for one of Crom- well's Ironsides—the grizzled black hair worn somewlifit lor.g, the large nostrils, iron mouth and jaw, dark deep set eyes, and heavily lined forehead were full of char- acter, but it was character that was calculated to repel rather than tp invite sympathy. Yon have asked to see me on particular business, Mr. Culverhouse," said Christian Harefield, with a wave of his hand which might or might not mean an invita- tion to be seated. He remained standing himself. If it is any Question of church restoration. Mr. Dulcimer -r. ought to know that my cheque book is at his command, I take no personal interest in these things—but I like to do what is right." It is no Question of church restoration, Mr. Harefield." Some of your poor people burned out—or washed out or down with fevar, perhaps. I hear you are very active in good works. My purse is at your disposal. Pray do not scruple to make use of it. I do so little good myself tbtft I am glad to practise a little vicarious benevolence." He seated himself at a large oak table covered with books and papers, and opened his cheque book. How much shall it be ?" he asked in a business-like tone. Cyril was was looking at him thoughtfully. There was something noble in that iron grey 0 head, snrely-a grasd intelligence at least, if not the highest type of moral good. "Pardon me, Mr. Harefield," sdd the curate, "you are altogether mistaken in the purpose of my visit. I came to ask no favour for others. I am hero as a sup- pliant for myself alone. I know and love your daughter, and I have her permission to tell you that she loves me' and onlv waits your approval to accept mo as her future husband." Christian Harefield started to his feet, and turned upon the suppliant. What, it has come already," he cried. "I knew that it was inevitable, but I did not think it would come quite so soon. My daughter is not nineteen, I believe- and she is already a match for the first gentlemanly ad- venturer who crosses her path-" Mr. Harefield." Mr. Culverhouse, I was marrisd for my money. My daughter shall escape that misery i: any power of mine can shield her from it. We will not bandy hard names. You profess to love her—a raw, uncultured girl whom you have known at most six months—I will give you credit for being sincere, if you like—for believing that you do love her-and I say that I am sorry your fancy should have taken so inopportune a direction. My daughter shall marry no man who is not so much her superior in wealth and position that I can feel very sure he takes her foi her own sake." I expected something of this kind from you Mr Harefbld." You can never know my justification for this line of conduct," replied Mr. Harefidd. "I marked out this course for myself long ago, when my daughter was a child. I will spare her a deception that turned my life to gall. It will spare her disillusions that broke my heart. I am speaking op?nly to you, Mr. Culverhouse, mora .f than I have spoken to any man—and remember let all I have said or may say be sacred." It shall be so," answered Cyril. You think vou can protect your daughter from the possibility of a *sorrow like that which has darkened your own life. But do you not think that Providence is stronger to guard and save than you can be—and that it might be wiser to let her obey the instinct of her own heart." "As I did," cried Christian Haren-M, with a lau^h "Sir, Providence did not guird or save ms. I man—of mature years—and thought I knew mankind by heart. Yet I walked blindfolded i ito the trap. Would vou have me trust my daughter's instinct at' eighteen when my own reason at thirty could so betray me f No, I shall take my own course. It I can save a silly girl from a future of ruined hopes and broken dreams 1 will" so save her against her own will. I have never played the tender fatber-but perhaps in this my stern- ness may serve my daughter better than a more loving father's softness. If Beatrix marries without my ap- proval she will be a pauper." I would gladly so take her," cried Cyril, bis face lightning up, if he saw an easy way out of all diffi- cultics. And teach her to disobey her father—you, who read the commandments to her in church every other Sunday would tpltch her to set one of them at nought." It was Cyril's own argument. He blushed as he heard it. Must; you withhold your love becmsc you withhold your money he asked. You say thst your own mar- riage was unhappy because you were a rich man. Let the weight of riches be lifted from your daughter's life. She does not value them—nor do I." ( "What, a Culverhouse—the son of a spendthrift fathe: —a parson, too. You can afford to despise riches ?" Yes, because I look round me and see how rarely money can bring happiness. Perhaps there is not much real perfect happiness upon earth—but I am very sure that what little there is has never been bought with gold Laave your estate away from your daughter—leave it where you please—devote^ it. to some great work. Let me have your daughter without a sixpence—let me be your son—and if it is possible for affection to brighten your later life you shall not find it wanting." It is not possible," answered 1-Tarclield, coldly. I never desired affection except from one source—and it was not given me. I cau lot open my heart again—its doors are sealed." Against your only child ?" Against all flesh and blood." Then if you withhold your love from Beatrix it would be only right and reasonable to withhold your fortune, and give her the love wliich may in some meas- ure atone for the loss )f yours." "You must have a monstrous good opinion pf yourself, Mr. Culverhouse, when you set your own value above that of one of the finest estates ia this part of York- shire." „ I have no exalted opinion of my own value, but I have a very low estimate of the blessings of wealth. Foi such a woman as Beatrix a great estate can only be a burthen. She has been brought up in solitude, she will never he a woman of the world. She doas not value money." Beramc she has never had to do without it-!md be house she has seen very little of what it can do. Launch car in the world to-morrow, and in one year she will hove learned the full value of wealth. No, Mr. Culver- hause, I cannot accept your judgment in this matter. I cannot receive your Utopian ideas as sober s^nse. If] have withheld any affectum from my daughter so much the more reason that I should give her the estate which, as my only child, she is entitled to inherit. And it shall be my business to obtain for her such an alliance as will place her husband above the suspicion of mercenary ma- tives." "And in arriving at this decision you put your daugh- ter's feelings out of the questiaa. You do not even take the trouble to make yourself acquainted with her senti- ments" No. I trust to time. I regret that she should have been so soon exposed to a peril which I had not appre- hended for her just yet. If I had I should have been more on my gu rd. I must request you,, as a man of honour, to hold no further coinmunicatians -either per- sonally or by letter-with my daughter, and I shall be under the painful necessity of forbidding any more visit- ing to the Vicarage." You are asking to3 much, Mr. Harefield. No man with common sense would submit to such an exaction as that. I will do more than most men in my position would be willing to do. Your daughter is young aftif impulsive, unversed in worldly knowledge. I will promise to wait for her till she is of age-and to hold no communication with her in the interval. Two years hence, if your wishes have conquered, I will submit to my fate. I will make no claim. But if she still thinks as she thinks to-day, I shall claim my right to address her on equal terms. But it is my duty to remind you that your daughter has some strength of will—that she is a creature of impulse—not easily to be dragooned into suiiserviencs to the ideas and plans of another—even though that be her father." I shall know how to govern her impulses, Sir, and to bring a stronger will than her own to bear upon her fol- lies. I have no more to say—except that I rely upon your promise—and consider your acquaintance with my daughter at an end from this hour." Cyril had hardly expected anything better than this yet the actual discomfiture w»* no less difficult to bear! To be told'that he must see Beatrix no more, knowing as he did that the girl he loved returned his love with fullest measure and was willing to fling every tie to the winds for his sake. And then her ties were at best so feeble. The father she was ready to defy for his sake was a father who had never loved her, who freely confess ed his lack of affection for her. Not much, perhaps to forfeit such a father's favour for the sake of a lover who- loved her with all the strength of his strong nature. Cyril could not bring himself to say, disobey your father, fling fortune to the winds, and be my wife. Duty forbade him, and consideration for Beatrix was on the side of duty. The day might come when she would up- braid him with the loss of her father's cold liberty, and her loss of fortune. He saw himself far away in the future a disappointed man—a failure high hopes unrealised labours unsuccessful, aspirations blighted—saw himself struggling single-handed against the Briareous necessity and Beatrix by his side. Might she not—if life went badly with him- repent her choice? And what was the bitterness of the present—tho loss involved in doin^ sight, compared with that sharper bitterness, that greater loss might follow in the future upon doing wrong. My first and last visit to the Wator House, I dare say," he thought, as he paused for a minute in the quad- rangle looking up at the ivyed walls, the massive stone mullions, ani Tudor gables. A fine old house if its as- sociations had been bright and pleasant, but looked at as the dungeon of unloved youth, it appeared dismal as an Egyptian tomb. He saw an open door in the cloisterei side wall-a door leading to the garden, and thought how natural it would be for him t, go there ;n search of Beatrix- thought how happily he would have gone to seek her if Mr. Harefield's decision had favoured their love-if he had given them ever so little encouragement, even so small a ri«ht to look hopefully towards the future. Now, all wSs blank—a dull dead despair. He went under the archway, and the outer door shut behind him with a hollow clang in the twilight. (To be continued )

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