THE TOWN MOUSE

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1685, 15 June 1904, Page 11

THE TOWN MOUSE

(By Lady Violet Greville.)

Plymouth Castle was a historic place. Its great halls, its vast corridors, the large ballroom, the marble floors, the painted hall, the gardens, made the trippers who on certain days were conducted over the state apartments to gape, the antiquarians to rejoice. Over all this magnficence and state reigned still the old family, represented by a couple of simple folk imbued with the jirimitive ideals, prejudices, and customs thdir ancestors had transmitted. ,Lady Plymouth was a lady of the old school. She thought emotion vulgar, and much talking waste of time. To be a lady was to accept fate as it came, whether good or bad. No one, she said, had any power over a woman who bore herself proudly and cultivated self-respect and good manners. Lady Plymouth had never been in any omnibus, or hustled in a crowd; she had driven all her life in a carriage and pair, eaten off silver, and been served by footmen. Yet, when the family fortunes diminished, as taxes grew and farms in less rent. Lord and Lady Plymouth, with the stoicism of good sense which was part of their simple creed, lessened their expenses, discharged some of their garden-

ers, and lived more plainly.- Lord Plymouth worked as hard as any professional man. He sat on County Councils and Boards of Guardians; he took an active part in tho affairs of the county; he deplored the Education Bill and kept his own village church to tho strictest of Protestant practices. The Plymouths’ life was dull if busy, filled with a routine of unimportant but carefully-per-formed duties ; they asked for no excite, ment, they desired no sensations, and the stagnant monotony of their days was as far removed from the rush and bustle of modern strenuousness as from tho luxurious idleness of the millionaire. They were ladies and gentlemen, comparatively poor, while surrounded with magnificence, who tried to do their duty. They bad little influence outside their own set, but they were not worldlywise, and so remained contented with their own insignificance. , Into this quiet, respectable atmosphere came suddenly their niece, Vere Chester, Lord Plymouth’s sister’s child. Mrs Chester had lived in London for years, had moved with the times, become modern, energetic and frivolous, and thought her brother’s ways dull and oldfashioned. Intercourse between them had, therefore, grown rare, and it was a great, if not wholly agreeable, surprise when a letter arrived begging the Plymouths to receive her daughter on a visit.

“She has formed an unfortunate attachment,” so the letter ran. “I can do nothing with her —you know what girls are nowadays; but I’m sure the change of scene, the quiet of the country, which, I may add, Vere detests, and your admirable domestic ways will soon make her forget this undesirable man.” “Catherine never spoke of our domestic ways as admirable before,” said Lord Plymouth ruefully, folding up the letter. “But Catherine always did what she chose. She has no idea of duty.” “I wonder what kind of girl she will be,” mused Lady Plymouth. “I have not seen her since she was quite a child with big brown eyes and a touch of red in her hair.”

“Red hair ! Always a spice of naughtiness' about it,” interposed Lord Ply-

mouth

“What did you say, my dear?” “Nothing, nothing; of course she must come. What room will you give her?”

It was characteristic of these two 'excellent people that they accepted the charge of Vere Chester as a duty, and never thought of shirking it. And so one August evening, in one of the smallest drawing-rooms, and therefore the mast frequently used, sat Lord and Lady Plymouth awaiting their niece’s advent. Lady Plymouth, wearing her regulation evening gown with the tulle scarf round her shoulders; Lord Plymouth, the white choker tied round his thick, red neck; Lady Horncastle, a contemporary of her hostess, dressed with youthful jauntinoss in a pink silk tear gown; Lord Marlow, tho eldest son of the house, with all an eldest son’s wariness of marriageable girls, coupled with a largeness of mind that made him at once an object of admiration and astonishment to bis parents; Aggie, a schoolgirl, already „ yearning for pleasure ; and Sir John Harkington, the M. F. H., whoso horizon was bounded by memories of good runs and packed with details of foxes, hounds, and barbed wire.. Just as a silence had fallen on the company after one of Sir John’s good stories, the door opened, and the butler announced “Miss Chester.” A vision of beauty stood on the threshold—a vision assisted by every artifice of dress and knowledge of the effect of colour. Chiffon and diamonds nestled at her throat, flowers were in her wide-brimmed liat, while a general impression of mauve, spring and youth hung about her person. Lady Plymouth’s calm was almost shaken. The girl was so beautiful, and yet somehow so startling, and startling things held no place in Lady Plymouth’s scheme of domesticity. But she moved forward with stately placidity and kissed her niece on both cheeks.

“Welcome to Plymouth Castle,” she said kindly. Lord Plymouth’s greeting was as cordial. Lord Marlow critically considered liis cousin’s face; and wide-eyed Aggie openly and honestly admired. “The train must have been very punctual.” said Lody Plymouth, who held an unquestioning faith in the merits of the local railway line. “But so slow!” Vere lifted her hands. “After the Pullman to Brighton it seemed awful. That is so quick, comfy, up-to-date.” “Don’t use that word, my dear,” reproved her aunt; “it is the essence of bad taste.” Vere stared. She was accustomed to use what words she pleased, generally the most racy and unceremonious; then, turning to Marlow, “I’m awfully hungry,” she said. “Didn’t you dine?” inquired her aunt. “Well, if you call a bath bun and a bottle of ginger-beer dining, I did.” “We dined an hour ago, but you shall have some supper directly.” “Why, it’s only half-past nine:. Mother never dines by daylight; _ she says it gives away the best complexion.” “And your mother had a lovelynatural complexion of her own,” interposed Lady Homcastle, desirous of sharing the conversation. “Yes; mother never uses powder—she believes in massage.” ; : h “Oh!” said Lady Horncastle, somewhat taken aback, for she was adictedto

toilet practices herself; “you remind me of your mother.” “I don’t think so/’ said Vere carelessly. “Our styles are not considered the same; she’s very fair, and I’m almost dark.” “Oh, well, the air* £he figure, the family likeness, you know.” And Lady Horn castle retired, satisfied she had made a good impression. Aggie rushed into the breach. _ “Vere,” Bhe said* “we’re cousins—you must like

me V* . , “So I will, little one,” and the beauty looked kindly at her. “We’ll be pals.” “Vere has said it, mother —has said pals, and you forbade me to use the word. I shall say it now.” Aggie danced excitedly about. “Hush 1” said her mother, warmngly. “I say a great many things you mustn’t 'Aggie;” reproved Vere. “Wait till you’ve been out three seasons as I have. Oh, I’m frightfully old—at least I feel so.’ Cousin Marlow, please help me off with my coat.” As he extricated her supple figure from the satin-lined confection their eyes met, and Vere knew she had gained a friend. When presently Lord Marlow escorted his cousin down to the diningroom a sigh escaped Lady Plymouth. “She has no dignity, no repose,” she said. “And what a hat! It looked like some big butterfly just fluttered down,” added Lady Horncastle. “S- suppose they re wearing those kind of hats in Paris, but they are remarkable.” “Lovely,” said loyal little Aggie—“just like a thing in a theatre.” “That’s it,” added Lady Plymouth—“theatrical. Our neice is theatrical I” “A monstrous fine girl; no nonsense about her!” put in Sir John’s gruff voice. “Capital thing in women. I shall give her a mount on Clinker. The girl’s as jßtraight as a dart; she’ll ride well.” “And if there’s anything amiss with my niece we can trust to Lady Plymouth’s example to set it right,” added Lord Plymouth benignly. In his opinion nothing could resist the family influence. The next incident occurred when the formal good-nights were said, and Lady Plymouth, a large silver candlestick in her hand,’ offered Vere some barleywater. “No, thanks,’ she replied. “I want a smoke; I suppose I can have a cigarette here or in my bedroom ? I see there are no books, and I’ll just- prowl around and suit myself.” “Smoke!” The others had gradually trooped out, and Lady Plymouth stayed alone with her niece. “My dear, you won’t do that!” “I shan’t sleep if I don’t. Never mind me. Aunt Mildred; you go to bed.” Lady Plymouth had never been ordered to bed by anyone before. She paused a moment, and then said quietly, “Prayers are at nine and breakfast at half-past-. When do you generally breakfast P” “Mother always breakfasts in bed—she says the day isn’t aired before twelve, and I eat mine when I like.” • “Try and be punctual to-morrow.” “Yes, yes,” impatiently said Vere. “You would'never find your room by yourself; you have to pass the ballroom and go down the great staircase and by the corridor. I’ll send Lockerbie to you.” “Who is Lockerbie?” asked Vere wearily. “The housekeeper, who has been with us twenty-five years. We keep our servants a long time here.” “So I should think; twenty-five years —longer than I have lived. Thank you, aunt* and good-night.” Lady Plymouth took her niece’s hands, having previously deposited the silver candlestick on a console beside the one prejjared for Vere, and looked into her face with a mixture of curiosity and tenderness. Vere half laughed. The old lady was a puzzle to her. “My dear child,” said her aunt, “what does this mean ? Why are you rebelling against your mother? Accept your fate if it is your fate; no good will come of kicking against the pricks.” “I'shall make my own fate.” “A woman has to submit iu the end, Vere—it is her vocation. Well, well! we will speak of all these things tomorrow.” Lady Plymouth took up her candlestick and glided softly from the room, shutting the door carefully and quietly behind her. That was one of her traditions. A lady would neither bang nor leave the door open.' Vere stood motionless,. She still felt her aunts-gentle kiss on her cheek; she still saw her kind, troubled eyes; and heard her soft voice cooing in her ear, “Do not rebel.” Then she shrugged her shoulders, gave a quick turn on her ' heel, and muttered, “Barley-water at night, prayers in the morning! I shall /never be able .to stand .it!” H She walked/tq the window, undid the 1 heavy hasp, and threw it open. The . warm August air streamed in, laden with the scent of late roses and jessamine; - everything was very peaceful. - The moon rpse.high in the heavens, its rays falling upon the stiffly-laid-out garden. The terrace balustrade, tbe bushy shrubs threw dark shadows on the grass, and • under the window a man’s figure was visible. Vere leant out,, took % a folded note from her dress, and dropped it delicately on the gravel. The man tuin. - ed, stooped and picked it up. Vere hastily closed the window. Then she lit a cigarette ancl looked about her

for a book. Presently the door opened softly and Lord Marlow entered.

“You see,” said Vere, a little surprised, but calm, “I am enjoying a forbidden pleasure.” “I suppose it is forbidden, but is it a pleasure ? I often think women only do it out of bravado.”

“I really enjoy it. If it is a bad habit, it is a habit I can’t give up,” said Vere defiantly. “Why should you?” answered Marlow kindly. “And, by-the-bye, I fancy this belongs to you.” He handed her the note unopened. She took it stiffly.

“Thanks; it’s mine.” “Tt isn’t a very safe kind of post-box you’ve chosen; there’s a good deal of dew about to-night, and someone might have picked it up.” Vere threw a glance at her cousin—a quick, suspicious look. “You picked it up!” “I couldn’t help seeing the address — 'Count Oscar’—and as I don’t know anyone of that name in these parts, I should advise you to redirect it, and I will then put it in the letter-box in the hall, which is drier and safer.” “I shall not send it now.”

“Isn’t that a pity, if it’s important?” Lord Marlow seated 1 himself near his cousin. “Anyhow, I’m glad to have found you alone here. We must make friends together.” “I’m going to bed,” said Vere sulkily. “You haven’t finished your cigarette. No, stay a little and take pity on me. Up-to-date young ladies don’t often favour us with their society.” .“You call me up-to-date?” inquired Vere. sweetly. “Certainly. I would not insult you by calling you anything else. You’ve met quantities of men and women. You’ve seen the world. What do you think of it? How does it strike you ” “Is this a cross-examination ?”

“I only want to know your point' of view. Why is it that when you come to stay with people who are kind to you, you make private assignations with people they can’t receive?’ “How dare you ?’” / T dare a great deal, because I wsat to be your friend.” “My actions are nothing to you.” “No, but my father’s house is my father’s hospitality. I don’t want to see it abused. I’m afraid it is my duty to tell my parents what I have seen.” “You can tell anything you like. I may as well inform you that I hate the word duty. We were put into this world to enjoy. I’m young. I don’t like tiresome things—and people,”, Vere jumped! up and went towards the window. Her cousin followed her, took her hand, and led her back to the sofa. '“Don’t open that window,” he said. “The night air is treacherous, and I would not like you to take any harm.” “You treat me like a little girl,” pouted Vere. “Y-ou’ll drive me to the very step you wish me to avoid.” “What’s that—an elopement ?” “You are rude/’ “They’re quite out of date, sentimental, and silly, and bring down disgrace and the neglect of the world you love so well.”’ “Nonsense!” “You do love the world’s applause. You couldn’t live without it, and* that’s the truth.’ • \ T ere stamped her foot. “Truth is very disagreeable.” “It is, and that’s why it’s so wholesome.” “I don t like wholesome things—they’re so insipid. I like things with a snap in them.” “Like Oscar, eh?” “I shan’t give up Oscar to please anybody.” “That’s 1 decisive, at any rate.” “Yes.” 1 “Poor Vere! I like frankness, and you’re very frank. I think you and I could get on together. Shall we try? Will you confide in me? And I’ll promise not to be shocked.” “That’s a bargain.” Vere laughed Heartily. “You must make yourself as agreeable as you can to me, and in return I will shock you.” “Agreed.” “No preaching, remember.” “Not a word, and when you get into a mess you get yourself out.” “I never shall get into a mess.” At that moment Lockerbie entered with another candlestick, guarded by a glass shade, and announced her intention of carrying off Miss Chester. Miss Chester, for a wonder, made no objection. She held out her hand to Marlow and said, “Good-night,” as she smiled back at him a mocking adieu. When Lockerbie had safely conveyed her charge to her bedroom she returned to make her nightly rounds and to put out all the lights. She found the draw-ing-room empty. Lord Marlow had gone to the smoking-room, and the housekeeper was extinguishing the last lamp when a low whistle reached her ear. She started and listened. Then a man emerged from the window curtains. “Jack! It’s not you I”

“It’s me, sure enough, mother. Hope I didn’t frighten you. I slipped into the house by the small garden gate and through the library window. You see, I still know my way about, and waited for you here. I remembered you always went your rounds.” “But, Jack, what am I to do? The servants are all in bed, and her- ladyship—

“Need not know. Give me a shakedown anywhere.’” “You’ll be very quiet?” “Mum as a mouse. Kiss me, there’s a good old mother! I’m your son, and you ought to be glad to see, me.” “So I am, dear. , You’ve grown such a gentleman.” She looked at him admiringly. “Why haven’t you been here all the time? And you never wrote. Oh, Jack!”

“I’ll tell you all to-morrow, mother. I’ve come down ■'here to see a young lady—” “No one staying here, Jack? You’re not up to your old tricks again ?” “Silly old mother! Of course not!”

The housekeeper’s tender heart wanned towards her scapegrace son, who had never contributed much to her happiness or comfort, yet whom she had loved dearly for his good looks and his fascination. He could get round her at any time with his wheedling ways and caressing talk. The joy of seeing him after years of absence completely made her forget her usual prudence. She promised to keep him for a day or two, and he passed the following morning smoking just outside the housekeeper’s room in the warm sunshine, and keeping out of everyone’s way. Vere on lier part found life tolerable, especially when she discovered ’ Count Oscar waiting for her round the corner of the conservatory. “Oscar,’’ she said, “I dropped the note as you told me, and I thought I saw you pick it up, but who do you think it was ? My cousin Marlow. He gave me a great talking to, but we’re friends again now.” “You must be very careful.”

“Where are you staying,, Oscar ? How did you find your way m here? You seem to know the place soi well.” “Oli, I’ve made friends with the old housekeeper/’ said Oscar carelessly. “But listen—l shall only stay here today, and I must see you alone this evening, when everyone has gone to bed. Meet me in the long corridor by the big glass specimen cases.” “Where the famous ruby in the miniature is?” “Exactly.’’ • '

“I know all the cases. Marlow showed me everything this morning. He is so proud of the pictures, the antiquities, the gems.”

“Very well. Then you understand, at midnight, near the glass case containing the ruby.’”

- - “But how will you get in?” “Leave that to me. And now go; we mustn’t be seen talking together.” All day Vere went about with a light heart.. This was something like a lover, who braved difficulties and dangers for her sake! Midnight meetings appealed to her sense of adventure, and were spiced with the thought of the conventional atmosphere surrounding her. Propriety, rigidity, and prejudice made a fascinating background for love-making sub rosa. So she listened to> her aunt’s quiet talk with amiability, drove- out with, her in the afternoon, flirted prettily with Marlow, and retired to rest obediently when the clock struck ten. _ At midnight the Castle was rapt in silence and Vere shivered! a little when, seizing her candle she stepped into the gloomy silence of the corridor. Violent draughts threatened to extinguish the

light, ancient boards cracked and creaked even under her light footsteps, and the murky distance seemed full of strange mysterious presences. A flickering taper* which proved to he Oscar’s, met her as she approached the trystingspot. Simultaneously they put down their candles and joined hands. “It was brave of you to come,” he said. “There was no other way ; but somehow it seems wrong.” “It is net wrong if we love each other. You trust me, don’t you?” “Perfectly.” Vere slipped a little closer to him.

“And so this is the wonderful gallery with the heirloom gems.” Oscar looked round. “I wonder they don’t sell them. I hear the family is not well off.” “They have curious ideas. Marlow was telling me they won’t on any account sell their land or' their family pictures. Of course, they would be better off if they did;but my aunt thinks one should keep the things one has inherited as a kind of sacred trust for the family.” “This is the famous ruby, isn’t it?” said Oscar, stooping over the case. “Yes; one can scarcely see it in this bad light. Oh, how glorious this place would be lighted by electricity. I believe the fires of the ruby are wonderful.” “Would you like to> hold it in vour hand?” “Yes, but we can’t open the case.” “We can—there—see and with a quick wrench of some sharp instrument Oscar prised the case open and lifted the lid. “Oh, Oscar! what will they say ? Oh, how could you do it!” “Neat, wasn’t it?” he said gaily, as he took the miniature and handed it to her. “They will think burglars have been here.” He la-ughed. “It is very beautiful,” said Vere. examining it, “and the miniature is a picture of one of the Plymouths who fell fighting for Charles the First—” “Dying for a king—a great mistake! What is the ruby worth ?” “I don’t know; it’s matchless, and so are the diamonds round it.” • “Wasted here in a glass case, from which it may be stolen any day. I’ve a mind to keep it—” “Oscar!” “Why not?”—she looked alarmed—“l’d like to hang it round your neck by a thin gold chain, my beauty. How. splendid you would look!” “Oh, put it back; Oscar—you frighten me! I wish you had never come. These people are so kind they make me ashamed of deceiving them, and Marlow is my. ally.” f “Marlow 1” said Oscar savagely—“l hate him. He has everything, I have nothing”—then seizing her hands he added—“except you.” “Oscar, don't be so violent! bhe tried to draw away her hands. I thought you said you- were rich. Why are you so mysterious P Tell me about nothing to say except that I love What’s that?” Vere started. “I’m sure I hear a noise. Do let mo go 1” He held her still in a firm grip. “My beautiful Vere—one kiss.’” “Give me the miniature. Det us put it back, quick—there is someone—•”

He loosed her, but her candle stood some way off. She had no time to snatch it up and run, as her impulse was, before Marlow appeared, fully dressed, and very grave. “Vere!. ..You here! Who is this gentleman ? What is he doing ? Ah!” He had taken in the whole truth in a moment as his eyes fell on the empty case. “Thief! You’ve stolen the ruby !” He sprang at Oscar’s throat. Vere flung herself upon him. “No, no', Marlow, it is I—l stole it!’ Marlow fell back. “You l”' “Yes, I gave it to him. This is Oscar. We are going to be married.” “Vere—my cousin”—Marlow’s voice sounded broken—“you, a guest in this house, and one of the old race!” “Take back your wretched toy!” said Oscar, who had regained his composure, throwing the miniature on the table. “Miss Chester made a mistake, that is all. I wish you both good-night. This was evidently a mistake, and you shall answ r er to me for your insult, Lord Marlow.” Then the young man slunk away, and Vere laid her hand on her cousin’s shoulder. “Don’t touch me,” be said, shrinking from her. “You’ve disgraced us. Oh, how could you I” Then, raising himself, he added with cold politeness, as he replaced the jewel in the case and shut the lid, “Let me see you to your room; these dark corridors are no place for you to wander about in alone.” “Marlow. I assure you—” began Vere. “Don’t—-don’t speak to me to-night. Say nothing, silence is best;” and in silence he escorted her to her door, bowed, and left her. Vere passed an agitated night. Instead of dwelling on Oscar’s love and his perfections, she thought of nothing but Marlow—his grave, sad face, his “ broken voice. “He despises me,” she thoughts No one had ever despised Vere before. She could not bear it —she hated herself. Next morning, when she hurried late , and unnerved into the breakfast-room. Marlow was absent. No one mentioned his name, and Vere dared not ask. Presently, wandering disconsolately on the terrace, she met Lady Horncastle. never averse to a gossip. “Where are" they allp” asked Vere. “My dear, there’s something up, I’m sure. Lady Plymouth went to the housekeeper’s room; and Lord Plymouth and Marlow, just back from his early ride, were summoned to join her.” “What could be up?” “Oh. some servant s peccadillo. Lady Plymouth is very strict.” Vere winced. Hers was a peccadillo, for certain. Lady Horncastle rambled on, and made jaunty remarks and asked trivial questions, but Vere scarcely listened. What did Marlow think of her? that was tiie question. Luncheon passed as usual. The two old people ate leisurely. A certain amount of disjointed talk took place, but Marlow was. nowhere to be seen. Vpre’s food choked her. She was almost glad when Lady Plymouth, rising, beckoned her into her boudoir. She sat down on a crinkly, chintz-covered chair, and waited. She looked at the pink table-cover, the little bows on the cushions, the broad pink ribbons from which the pale pastel portraits of ancestors hung suspended. A scent of hothouse flowers pervaded the room; it was all dainty pink, with a flavour of oldworld prettiness about it, It recalled powder and patches, compliments and snuff-boxes. “Unreal,” commented Vere to herself; “pretty and feminine.” “Vere, I have been surprised”—it was characteristic of the woman that where another would have said “shocked” Lady Plymouth only said surprised. She . never exaggerated—“l have been surprised to hear that you had an assignation with a young man in the great gallery last night.” “I am going to marry him,” interposed Vere quickly. “I think not. but we will discuss that later. Meanwhile, you have been very imprudent and foolish, and for a lady to be imprudent, and. foolish is a mistake that almost amounts -to a crime.” “Aunt Mildred!” “.What do you know of this man?” “I met him at Mrs Bueklebury’s.” “Mrs Bucklebury, I understand, receives very mixed company. She. keeps a kind of social menagerie, where you may meet duchesses, actcrs, and any notorious person who happens to attract public attention for the moment. That is not a fit place for. you, in my opinion.” “It is a very pleasant house.” “Perhaps; but you make bad acquaintances there.” “Excuse me, aunt, I am the best judge of that.” / “My dear child, we women of good family have got to set an example to commoner people. What kind of an example.'have you set?” “I don’t profess to set examples.” 'You can’t help it. Position gives responsibility.” “I deny responsibility. Life was given us to enjoy. It is every man for himself in this world. I don’t trouble about others—why should they trouble about me?” ♦Lady Plymouth lifted her clear eyes to IVere’s face. Those eyes, kind, quiet, Searching, seemed to look right through

2ier. Vere felt herself blushing inward* ■*, ly.and, as a natural consequence, steeled herself against her aunt’s influence.

“Vere, I fear you will be sorry, very sorry, for all this. When people stoop to deception there is always something wrong. To lie is the tribute paid by vice to virtue.” “Aunt!” ‘You do not know who Count Oscar is. I will toll you. He is the scapegrace son of my old housekeeper. Well educated, good mannered, he has always lived by his wits. He meant to make you his dupe. What do- you say now ?’’• “He loved me.” “I doubt it. His poor mother confessed to me what he had told her. He is the head of a gang of gentlemanly burglars. He meant to steal that ruby and put the blame on you—” Vere gave a great cry. “Oh, auht! If this is true. I wish I were dead!” “Don’t be dramatic, my dear; that won’t help you. Overcome your emotions, and let us look facts in the face. You have fallen in the mire, but you must raise yourself again.” “Oh, what shall I do ? what shall I do?” sobbed Vere. “Think, and be still. In silence is strength.” “I can’t think.” “Leave all to me.” “What does Marlow say ?” The words escaped Vere in spite of herself. “What can he say ? He is very sorry.’’ “Has Oscar gono ?” “Yes, he took the early train. We do not intend to prosecute, for his mother's sake. She has behaved like a heroine. Ah, Vere, she is to be pitied!” “He is gone”—Vere wiped her eyes. “Don’t cry any more,” said her aunt; “red eyes are so unbecoming, and we should always try to look our best, for the sake of others.” “Aunt Mildred,” broke out Vera, “are you always cold and quiet and sensible like this?” “I am not cold, but if one has a fine spirit one does not give way to one’s feelings. I should like you to learn this. It seems to me that the ladies of today emulate their less well-bred sisters. Those strong, undisciplined emotions, that loud crying out, do not show refinement. Don’t think me unkind—l feel for you very deeply, but you must learn the traditions of our race: to suffer and be still, to smile when you are hurt, and do right things because you must.” “It is very difficult,” sighed Vere. “Not so difficult as you think. Come, compose yourself, you have had your lesson.” * * * The world was startled some months later by the announcement of Lord Marlow’s engagement to his cousin Vere. Mrs Chester wrote a grateful letter to her brother. “You see, I was quite right,” she said. __ “Your admirable domestic ways did 'bring my daughter to reason.’’ Lord Plymouth made a little face. “Catherine is improving,” he said quietly. Vere walked in the garden among the" tall chrysanthemums that looked like stately aristocrats in rags. Marlow walked beside her, and a happy light shone in the girl’s eyes. “I am glad,’’ she said, “that I am a daughter of our race. I will try to be worthy of it.” Marlow laughed a low, genial laugh. “So am I' dear little town mouse, that has learnt to love the country—” “And her cousin Marlow.” “And her cousin Marlow.” Then he kissed her, but not like a cousin.