THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

APRIL, 1873.

CLYTIE.

A NOVEL OF MODERN LIFE.

BY JOSEPH HATTON.

CHAPTER V.

WHILE TOM MAYFIELD WAS WAITING.

IGHT o'clock, Clytie, and he does not come."

As Tom spoke, the hour was struck out in measured

tones. The sun had set peacefully in a flush of glorious colour behind the Cathedral towers.

Tom Mayfield sat waiting for Ransford, and wondering what the result of their interview would be.

"What has he to say to me, my princess? What are his intentions, my sweet goddess of the wavy hair?"

The cold white figure only stood there, in the twilight, looking down at Tom with its vacant eyes.

"He loves you, that rich fellow on the hill, that noisy plebeian; that bejewelled cotton-spinner loves you, in his own vulgar fashion, and thinks he honours you, while his sisters sweep by you in a smug crowd of ignorance and silk."

Tom walked to the window and looked across the Green. Returning to the fire-place, he moved the statuette from his table back to the mantel-shelf, and listened.

"No! I thought he was coming, my love; but the footsteps have gone by; and there go the quarters. No matter, you shall stay there, as though I did not love you, in case he should come hurrying in, my Clytie. You do not care for this hulking young Croesus? You have VOL. X. N. S., 1873.

CC

no empty ambition, which money alone can satisfy? No, your heart is too pure for that. If you cannot love me, at least Ransford is not your Apollo. He could make no sacrifices for you. Self-denial forms no part of his nature."

The time went hurrying on; but Phil Ransford did not come to keep his appointment. He had learnt, quite by accident, that Luke Waller had received one of his periodical invitations to dine with the Dean, an honour which was conferred upon the organist at long intervals, in recognition of the introduction which Luke had brought to Dunelm, and out of respect for the noble lord, who was an old friend of the Dean.

Phil was quick, and bold in action. What coward might not have been, when the conquest was a pretty girl? He came down from the cotton mansion on the hill, and loitered in the shadow of the trees by the bridge, near the Hermitage. As the clock struck seven, he saw the door of the little house open, and Mr. Waller come forth. Clytie stood upon the step and kissed her grandfather, and while the old man patted her head, and spoke some words of affection or caution to the young girl, Phil saw that she glanced up and down the street, as if to see whether her appearance had attracted the attention of any casual lounger in the dull old city. She could not help these little acts of vanity. She knew how beautiful she was. It was part of her existence to fling the radiance of her loveliness upon all men alike, regardless of the shadow that might remain behind.

When the last sounds of Luke Waller's footsteps had died away, Phil took a turn in the Banks to think out his audacious plan of spending the evening at the Hermitage. While Tom Mayfield was talking to the Parian prototype of Clytie, Phil was contemplating the lady's boudoir. He had gone round to the back of the Bailey, and there, looking over the river, he could just see the summer-house through the trees, with a peep of Clytie's window beyond. It might have been owing to some galvanic influence that the lady was half.conscious of the hovering presence of her daring admirer; for Clytie was in a flutter of excitement. Perhaps the responsibility of freedom from the immediate influence of her grandfather set her thinking of contingencies. Before the old man had taken his seat at the Dean's table, Clytie had been up and down stairs half a dozen times, trying to induce the servant to go out and leave her in the house alone.

"But master, you know, miss, told me on no account to leave the house," the servant had replied.

It had occurred to Clytie that she would like to have the

Hermitage all to herself for an hour or two, so that she might wear her pearls and diamonds freely, and walk into the garden with them on. It was only a girlish freak; but the servant was firm, and so the belle of the cathedral city had to content herself with her usual private exhibition. She went, therefore, into her own room, locked the door, took out her treasures from their hiding place and clasped them round her fair full throat, admired herself in the glass, wishing it was not wicked to do so, and sighing generally over the misery of being good. She would have liked to flash those jewels before everybody; and it might have been better for her in the end had her grandfather permitted the vanity of her nature to run riot and spend itself on a score of victims.

Presently the wilful beauty went into the garden, and Phil Ransford saw her figure on the terrace. He could not be sure of this, and he cursed himself for not having a field-glass in his pocket. There was no one about. He waved his handkerchief on the chance of her noticing it. Clytie saw the signal. Who could it be? Either Ransford or Mayfield, she felt sure. She blushed and retreated behind the overhanging ivy. Then, looking out again, she saw that, whoever the person might be, he was now close by the water's edge, and the moment she came within his vision he waved his handkerchief again. He was too tall for Tom Mayfield; it must be Phil, she thought. The situation struck her as romantic and complimentary. What should she do? There could be no harm in answering the signal. She could do so, and run into the house. It would be quite a harmless piece of fun. Besides, if it really were Mr. Ransford, she would like to respond to his recognition; he was such a genial, generous, handsome fellow, and evidently over head and ears in love with her. No one would know; and if it were not Phil, she would not be suspected. But it must be Phil. Now he was going lower down the river, as if he were searching for the stepping-stones, and intended to come across. She took the ribbon from her neck, waved it, and ran into the house.

It was just at this moment that the clock struck the hour for Phil's appointment with Tom Mayfield.

Clytie went up into her own room, and looked at her flushed face in the glass, and then, putting a light shawl over her shoulders, ran down into the kitchen. The servant did not know she had been into the garden. Clytie now told her she should go and sit in the summer-house. If any one called she might come there for her. Clytie knew no one would call, and she felt convinced that she would find some one waiting beneath the terrace. There was an appearance of

frankness and innocence in telling the servant where she was going that seemed to commend itself to Clytie's fancy; it was part of the romance of an admirer climbing into their rich neighbour's garden and looking up at her as she leaned over the terrace (quite unconsciously, of course) to see who had sacrificed so much for her sake. She did not contemplate the possibility of the gentleman scaling the terrace wall and presenting himself before her in the summer-house itself. But this was exactly what Phil Ransford had done.

It was for a moment a terrible shock to her when, quietly tripping up the terrace steps, she saw a man half-concealed in the summerhouse. She had nearly screamed and run away; but Phil was too expert to run the risk of such a contretemps. Before she had time to make up her mind one way or another she was clasped in his strong

arms.

"Hush! my dear Mary, pray forgive me."

"Oh, Mr. Ransford, how could you be so rash ?" gasped Clytie, her pretty head in a whirl of amazement.

"Say you forgive me. I could not, indeed, resist your reply to my daring signal," said Phil, his arm still clasping her waist, as if he feared that she might run away.

"Don't hold me so tightly, sir," said Clytie.

"You will not go, then? you will stay a little while?" said Phil.

"You are too bold; supposing we are observed."

My dear Mary, I will risk anything for your sake. My love is overpowering."

"You ought not to have come here."

"Your grandfather is out."

"How did you know?"

"From a friend of the Dean."

"Hush! some one is coming; get behind the ivy."

It was a false alarm; but in a moment Phil was enveloped in the bushy growth of leaves that hung in luxuriant clusters about the summer-house, and trailed down into the garden below.

"There, don't be alarmed," said Phil, speedily coming out of his hiding-place, " no one will come."

"I am not sure of that," said Clytie. "Let me go, Mr. Ransford indeed, it is best that I should."

"You do not care for me," said Phil, half reproachfully; "you would stay if Tom Mayfield were in my place."

"Tom Mayfield!" said Clytie, with affected surprise.

"Yes; perhaps you thought I was Tom Mayfield when you wave your hand to me just now."

"When I waved my hand?" said Clytie; "I do not understand you." "Did you not, in response to my signal, before I crossed the river?"

"When ?"

"A few minutes since."

"Certainly not, sir," said Clytie.

Phil did not press the question further, but he pressed the girl's hand to his lips.

"Say you love me," he burst out, "and give me something to do to prove my love for you; ask me to fling myself into the river; there is nothing I would not do for you!"

Clytie returned the pressure of his hand.

"O that we had lived in the days of chivalry and romance! Then I should have come some moonlight night with a boat down yonder; you would have met me here, we should have glided together down a silken ladder; slipped down that river to the Mill; there would have been waiting for us a carriage and four horses, and love would have given them wings like the steeds of Pegasus." "Let me go, Mr. Ransford."

"Not until you say you do or do not love me--I am desperategive me some token.”

'There, then, will that content you?" said Clytie, giving him the ribbon from her neck.

Phil kissed it passionately.

“Now, if you will sit quietly and talk for ten minutes I will stay; if not, you must really let me go."

“My darling,” exclaimed Phil, "your smallest wish is a command; what a practical little woman it is!"

He placed a chair for her, and sat beside her; and Tom Mayfield was still talking to the statuette in his little room over the College gateway.

Keep your eye upon the house, and if any one comes slip behind the ivy, and I will leave you; if I do not return quickly, go away, and be careful that you do not tear the ivy down when you fall into the garden below."

Phil was astonished at the sudden coolness of the unsophisticated beauty.

"Cannot I go away through the house?"

"Not for the world."

"There is only the servant in."

"Some one might see you leave; besides, cook would tell grandpa."