be buried alive because I am going to live in a country parsonage? Why, Edith, you know that I expect to mix in much higher society than I have ever done yet. Have you forgotten what aristocratic parishioners we are to have at Longenvale? Sir John Brentwood, General Fitzhardinge, and Lord Westaxon-an Earl, think of that! And yet you would prevent me having lace round my handkerchiefs? Why, it ought to be sewn on double!" "Don't be absurd, Rose! Lord Westaxon is a cripple, and, as Mr. Featherstone told you, there are no ladies at Westaxon Park. Besides, if there were, it would be no reason why you, as the Vicar's wife, should dress above your sphere." "My precious Minerva, I grow more astonished every day at the mistakes our respective adorable ones have made! To think of Robert Hilton, a handsome, fascinating, lively young fellow, choosing a quiet, puritanical maiden like you, instead of-well, some one of a more springy nature like his own. And, more astounding still, think of my middle-aged William passing by the most perfect model, the ne plus ultra of a female ecclesiastic, and fixing his foolish affections instead on a feather-brained young person who does not love her needle, but who does love pretty garments. And then, mirabile dictu! the most surprising thing of all-to think that not one of us would consent, for half a moment, to reverse this wrong-headed arrangement!' Miss Edith Ashmead smiled, and as she did so she displayed a set of white and very even little teeth, and a pretty dimple in either cheek-her sole claims to anything in the shape of beauty. Twentyfour years of age-and older in character than in years, the girl's face, when in repose, accorded with her somewhat starched and pragmatical disposition, and gave excuse for the sort of epithets playfully bestowed upon her by Rose. The latter, who was Edith's junior by two years, had even less pretension to regularity of feature than her sister; but she was a happy-hearted, sunny-faced little woman whom, despite her plainness, everybody loved, not only to be with, but to look at. Both sisters, as may be gathered from the foregoing conversation, were on the eve of marriage. The younger, whose wedding was to take place within a month, was expecting to become the bride of a gentleman nearly double her own age-the Rev. W. Featherstone, lately appointed to a very handsome living in Surrey. The latter, two months later, would, if all went well, change her name for that of Mrs. Robert Hilton, and would then leave England for Canada with her husband-young Hilton having been invited to join in business a bachelor uncle, who was the principal in some very extensive mercantile operations carried on in Toronto. Residing at present with his family in London, Robert Hilton had managed to arrange just now to spend a couple of days with his fiancée in the rural district of Clavermere; and Edith was expecting him to arrive this evening. Her amiability stimulated, no doubt, by this pleasing anticipation, the young lady now laid aside her own work, and, contenting herself with another sense-of-duty protest against her sister's extravagance and vanity, she applied herself to that which Rose, with unshaken good humour, still pressed upon her. "I say, Edith, how strange it would be," observed the younger girl, after a brief pause, "if Olivia's future husband should prove to be coming home from Canada, only such a short time before yours is arranging to go there! How do you really feel about that affair? Do you think it will be renewed?” "It is no use speculating about such things, Rose; one can never tell. But, of course, I should be glad if it were renewed." "I should think you would! It seems a shame that you and I, who, although we are younger, are so plain and unattractive compared with her, should have secured such good husbands, whilst she” "I object to that expression, Rose," interposed the other, rather tartly. (Though it was not this part of her sister's remark that had specially displeased her.) "Secured husbands'-what a vulgar way of putting it!" Beg pardon, dear. Consider the expression retracted in your case! But for myself, I assure you, I feel as though I had dropped upon luck which I didn't deserve, whereas poor Olivia, who sacrificed herself, as I know she did, for her family" "If she did, she ought not to have done!" again interrupted Edith." And I don't know why you should call her poor. Olivia does not pity herself, I am sure. She has six hundred a year, plenty of self-confidence." and "I should have plenty of self-confidence also," protested Rose, laughing, "if I had six hundred a year!" "You have quite sufficient, my dear, without possessing sixpence," affirmed her sister. "Now, there you are mistaken! Naturally I am very shy. It is true, really, and though I may manage, when I am married, to go about distributing tracts, I shall never have the courage to instruct the poor women how to clean up their hearth-stones, or nurse their babies, or manage their general domestic economy, as you, my sweet Edith, would have been able to do in my place. There, don't look cross. We are always sparring, we two, somehow, but I didn't mean to vex you. And see, mamma and Olivia are coming in! Look, Edith, is she not beautiful? Who would believe she was nearly twenty-eight? I don't think she has fallen off in the least all these years. Douglas Awdry will be sure to fall in love with her again. Indeed, I don't expect he has ever fallen out of it. He has remained faithful to her memory all this time, you know?" "Nay, I don't know. And we had better not let Olivia hear us discussing the question, Rose. She would consider it indelicate, as I do." "It can't be indelicate to want her to be happy," answered Rose, getting the last word, as the subject of her remark threw open the glass door and allowed her mother to precede her into the apartment. "Well, mamma, how is your head now?" she asked. Mrs. Ashmead replied that she thought the fresh air had done her a little good. But she spoke in a querulous tone, caused by habitual ill-health and mental suffering. Dressed in deep mourning, and wearing a widow's cap, as she had done for the last eighteen years, Mrs. Ashmead still showed in her features the remains of much past beauty. But her pallid complexion, in conjunction with the very dark circles which surrounded her eyes, gave her a sickly, at times even a ghastly, aspect. For this aspect or rather, the illhealth that occasioned it-a shock which the poor lady had met with, some three years ago, was accountable. This shock resulted from the death, under peculiarly distressing circumstances, of her only son and favourite child. As the exigencies of our story have necessitated the introduction. of this family to the reader's notice, we must briefly narrate those, and a few other circumstances, concerning them at the beginning of the next chapter. CHAPTER XV. OLIVIA ASHMEAD. A WIDOW now for eighteen years, Mrs. Ashmead could boast connection, though not of a very close nature, with the Awdry family. She had married a cousin of the late and present squire's (Douglas's) father, and since the death of her husband she had occupied the house in which she now lived, situated about a mile and a half from the lodge-gates of Clavermere Chase, and close by the village of Clavermere. Poor in purse, but not in pride, her connection with the great fr extreme satisfac the relation nast mes by recognition. As muff his time under person and attraction me me to the stemness on me other the warm " and "cousins;" be that no consanmight the boy to Degas's chief com 1. the eldest. wa tad seemed to him ms of the family. ter he had it is true, conIz rada. Denglas had I will and as he grew towards LSC Faked. Indulged 24 bust Diner, who had trained stance to their brother in everything, 20 mestre dose of his up-bringing. Set to Eton and then to I I TEIN Í 12-moning a home, the young fellow From the University he was in me cose of sirst term, in order to avoid erism, må eis milest he was then articled to a solicitor Ter le comenced a marver of dissipation, gambling, bo-be the san cld and oft-told onegradu v reduced his moter's moome from a thousand to five hundred For the fulst women tod allowed herself to be persuaded, te paving her son's debts, whilst, at the same tme, she hi deavoured to screen his delinquencies from the knowledge of the wor & and even, so far as was possible, from that of her daughters Of the latter, Glivia stood nearest to Mrs Ashmead's affections, and it had all along been her secret hope and aim to secure for her the honour of an alliance with Douglas Awdry, and the advantages of his prospective wealth. And when, by-and-by, she guessedand guessed rightly-that Olivia's girlish friendship for the young wan had developed into a very much warmer sentiment—her designs were quickened in their intensity. A slight stumbling-block in the way of their accomplishment, however, existed in the fact that Douglas's feelings towards Olivia had not, like hers, changed in character. To him she was still his "cousin," his sister, his friend. No thought of her in the light of a wife had ever entered into his head, nor is there the least probability (notwithstanding a subtle, explicable alteration which he had noticed in the girl's manner from the date of his return from a lengthened tour abroad) that it ever would, had not certain hints from her mother enlightened his perception. At those hints Douglas had at first laughed, not believing, scarcely even understanding, their purport. Then they had grown plainer and plainer, until at length, one balmy summer's evening, Mrs. Ashmead, with tears in her eyes, had confessed in unmistakable terms her daughter's love for him, and had pleaded for a return of that love. Then, fresh from the interview, which had shocked, bewildered, but at the same time flattered him, she had introduced the young fellow (twenty-two years of age at the time) to the drawing-room, where Olivia was singing in the twilight, and had there left the pair together. The device was a cunning one. Olivia Ashmead possessed a sweet, well-trained voice, whilst Douglas, as his "aunt" knew, was peculiarly susceptible to the influence of music-the "moody food of love." Thus, loving her already in his different fashion; carried away by the impulse of a generous and sensitive nature; moved by the "concord of sweet sounds," and having his senses stimulated alike by the witchery of the hour and of the young lady's unquestionable beauty, Douglas had, there and then, offered her his hand. It was the one weak moment in the life of a naturally strong-minded man; and scarcely had it passed, ere Douglas recognised its weakness. He had made a mistake -a vital mistake-and he knew it directly the irrevocable words had escaped his lips. This was the episode in his history, which, it may be recollected, the young man had related to Claudia Estcourt on the day when she had promised to become his wife; this and the sequel, which was as follows: For eighteen months, or rather longer, the engagement had continued, Douglas striving all that time to hide from the girl whom he felt honourably bound to marry, the fact that he did not love her with that potential love which, when it takes possession of the heart, is Not to be reasoned down, or lost In high ambition, or a thirst of greatness : |