LITMIR.BIZ

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to the same twilight carollings, hear the first hoot of the distant owl.

      Cedes coemptis saltibus, el domo

      Villaque, flavus quam Tiberis lavit,

      Cedes, et exstructis in altum

      Divitiis potietur heres.

      But no heir of his blood. No son of his. No man of the Vermuyden name. And for that he had to thank her.

      It was this which to-day gave the old thought new poignancy. For that he had to thank her. Truly, in the words wrung from him by the bitterness of his feelings, she had left his house unto him desolate. If even the little girl had lived, the child would have succeeded; and that had been something, that had been much. But the child was dead; and in his heart he laid her death at his wife's door. And a stranger, or one in essentials a stranger, the descendant by a second marriage of his grandmother, Katherine Beckford, was the heir.

      Presently the young man would succeed and the old chattels would be swept away to cottage or lumber-room. The old horses would be shot, the old dogs would be hanged, the old servants discharged, perhaps the very trees under which he walked and which he loved would be cut down. The house, the stables, the kennels, all but the cellars would be refurnished; and in the bustle and glitter of the new régime, begun in the sunshine, the twilight of his own latter days would be forgotten in a month.

      We die and are forgotten, 'tis Heaven's decree,

      And thus the lot of others will be the lot of me!

      Sunday by Sunday he had read those lines on the grave of a kinsman, a man whom he had known. He had often repeated them, he could as soon forget them as his prayers. To-day the old memories and the old times, which Lady Lansdowne had made to rise from the dead, gave them a new meaning and a new bitterness.

      VIII

      A SAD MISADVENTURE

      Arthur Vaughan was not a little relieved by the tidings which Isaac White had conveyed to him at Chippenham. The news freed him from a duty which did not appear the less distasteful because it was no longer inevitable. To cast against Sir Robert the vote which he owed to Sir Robert must have exposed him to odium, whatever the matter at stake. But at this election, at which the issue was, aye or no, was the borough to be swept away or not, to vote "aye" was an act from which the least sensitive must have shrunk, and which the most honest must have performed with reluctance. Add the extreme exasperation of public feeling, of which every day and every hour brought to light the most glaring proofs, and he had been fortunate indeed if he had not incurred some general blame as well as the utmost weight of Sir Robert's displeasure.

      He was spared all this, and he was thankful. Yet, when he rose on the morning after his arrival at Bristol, his heart was not as light as a feather. On the contrary, as he looked from the window of the White Lion into the bustle of Broad Street, he yawned dolefully; admitting that life, and particularly the prospect before him, of an immediate return to London, was dull. Why go back? Why stay here? Why do anything? The Woolsack? Bah! The Cabinet? Pooh! They were but gaudy baits for the shallow and the hard-hearted. Moreover, they were so distant, so unattainable, that pursuit of them seemed the merest moonshine; more especially on this fine April morning, made for nothing but a coach ride through an enchanted country, by the side of the sweetest face, the brightest eyes, the most ravishing figure, the prettiest bonnet that ever tamed the gruffest of coachmen.

      Heigh-ho! If it were all to do over again how happy would he be! How happy had he been, and not known it, the previous morning! It was pitiful to think of him in his ignorance, with that day, that blissful day, before him.

      Well, it was over. And he must return to town. For he would play no foolish tricks. The girl was not in his rank in life, and he could not follow her without injury to her. He was no preacher, and he had lived for years among men whose lives, if not worse than the lives of their descendants, wore no disguise; who, if they did not sin more, sinned more openly. But he had a heart, and to mar an innocent life for his pleasure had shocked him; even if the girl's modesty and self-respect, disclosed by a hundred small things, had not made the notion of wronging her abhorrent. None the less he took his breakfast in a kind of dream, whispered "Mary!" three times in different tones, and, being suddenly accosted by the waiter, was irritable.

      With all this he was wise enough to know his own weakness, and that the sooner he was out of Bristol the better. He sent to the Bush office to book a place by the midday coach to town; and then only, when he had taken the irrevocable step, he put on his hat to kill the intervening time in Bristol.

      Unfortunately, as he crossed the hall, intending to walk towards Clifton, he heard himself named; and turning, he saw that the speaker was the lady in black, and wearing a veil, whom he had remarked walking up and down beside the coach, while the horses were changing at Marshfield.

      "Mr. Vaughan?" she said.

      He raised his hat, much surprised. "Yes," he answered. He fancied that she was inspecting him very closely through her veil. "I am Mr. Vaughan."

      "Pardon me," she continued-her voice was refined and low-"but they gave me your name at the office. I have something which belongs to the lady who travelled with you yesterday, and I am anxious to restore it."

      He blushed; nor could he have repressed the blush if his life had hung upon it. "Indeed?" he murmured. His confusion did not permit him to add another word.

      "Doubtless it was left in the coach," the lady explained, "and was taken to my room with my luggage. Unfortunately I am leaving Bristol at once, within a few minutes, and I cannot myself return it. I shall be much obliged if you will see that she has it safely."

      She spoke as if the thing were a matter of course. But Vaughan had now recovered himself. "I would with pleasure," he said; "but I am myself leaving Bristol at midday, and I really do not know how-how I can do it."

      "Then perhaps you will arrange the matter," the lady replied in a tone of displeasure. "I have sent the parcel to your room and I have not time to regain it. I must go at once. There is my maid! Good morning!" And with a distant bow she glided from him, and disappeared through the nearest doorway.

      He stood where she had left him, looking after her in bewilderment. For one thing he was sure that she was a stranger, and yet she had addressed him in the tone of one who had a right to be obeyed. Then how odd it was! What a coincidence! He had made up his mind to end the matter, to go and walk the Hot Wells like a good boy; and this happened and tempted him!

      Yes, tempted him.

      He would- But he could not tell what he would do until he had seen if the parcel were really in his room. The parcel! The mere thought that it was hers sent a foolish thrill through him. He would go and see, and then-

      But he was interrupted. There were people standing or sitting round the hall, a low-ceiled, dark wainscoted room, with sheaves of way-bills hung against the square pillars, and theatre notices flanking the bar window. As he turned to seek his rooms a hand gripped his arm and twitched him round, and he met the grinning face of a man in his old regiment, Bob Flixton, commonly called the Honourable Bob.

      "So I've caught you, my lad," said he. "This is mighty fine. Veiled ladies, eh? Oh, fie! fie!"

      Vaughan, innocent as he was, was a little put out. But he answered good-humouredly, "What brought you here, Flixton?"

      "Ay, just so! Very unlucky, ain't it?" grinning. "Fear I'll cut you out, eh? You're a neat artist, I must say."

      "I don't know the good lady from Eve!"

      "Tell that to- But here, let me make you known to Brereton," hauling him towards a gentleman who was seated in one of the window recesses. "Old West Indian man, in charge of the recruiting district, and a good fellow, but a bit of a saint! Colonel," he rattled on, as they joined the gentleman, "here's Vaughan, once of ours, become a counsellor, and going to be Lord Chancellor. As to the veiled lady, mum, sir, mum!" with an exaggerated wink.

      Vaughan laughed. It was impossible to resist Bob's impudent good-humour. He was a fair young man, short, stout, and inclining to baldness, with a loud, hearty voice, and a manner which made those who did not know him for a peer's son, think of

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