CHAPTER VII.

A CLIMAX.

"It is not only money, but sometimes vain-glory, pride, ambition, do as much harm as covetousness itself in another extreme. If a yeoman have a sole daughter, he must overmatch her, above her birth and calling, to a gentleman, forsooth, because of her great portion,―too good for one of her own rank, as he supposeth; a gentleman's daughter and heir must be married to a knight baronet's eldest son at least; and a knight's only daughter to a baron himself, or an earl, and so upwards,—her great dower deserves it." BURTON: Anatomy of Melancholy.

WHAT a week it was!

The same duty had to be done daily, and yet there was variety in its execution. Breakfast over, with its inevitable sweepstakes and discussion of the day's racing, croquet followed, or walks to the river's bank, or music in the little boudoir, while the men lazily clicked the balls about till midday, when it was time to drive to the course. This was the great event of the morning, and it was wonderful how smart they all looked; the men in white waistcoats, varnished boots, and much pomade hon

groise; the ladies a perfect band of beauties, with Millicent at their head, appearing each day in newer and more splendid apparel, till it seemed as if millinery could do no more. Oh, blessed fecundity of invention which can so organise and cut out material so that no two people shall seem to dress alike! Of course in Alured's eyes Millicent had far the best of it. She was such a little swell, as he told her; blue, faint pink, tender maize, or pale sea-green, all colours suited her; and, as usual, her costume gained in picturesqueness by its originality. She sought, too, in innocent coquetry to ensure success by neatness and perfection in all details of gloves or bonnets. Nor was she above such a pretty trick as to hide her head one day in a long veil of feathery gauze, which might have been a bridal wreath, or a fleecy cloud, through which her eyes shone bright and sparkling, like twin planets at midnight. She told Alured she dressed for him; and it was no doubt a pleasure simply to see her, but here his satisfaction ended. Though they knew that they now belonged to each other, they seldom got a quiet word together. She was more than half hostess,

and had the care of the household and the other young ladies upon her shoulders. Indeed she discouraged his attentions; and Millicent had it her own way of course. Girls in the first blush of an engagement always have it their own way. If he expostulated, she replied, with a wilful toss of the head, that it must be so for the present. "You would not have us announced as an engaged couple? Are you ready to face Aunt Moynehan? and before all those people who would watch our sayings and doings all day long?" So he had to content himself with such smuggled fondlings as his young lady deigned to vouchsafe to him. An affectionate, though perhaps mute, good-night, or a sweet glance and a few tender words in the morning when they found themselves the first, alone in the breakfast-room. They arranged to meet thus before the urn, or in the garden early. It was not always that they succeeded, but when they did there was no end to what they had to say. Alured was not very jealous now, and laughed with Millicent in private at the tender speeches which Pierpoint or some other fond youth presumed at times to utter.

If they were lucky, the scene of a morning. was something such as this :

Half-past eight, no more. The house not as yet entirely awake, and still very quiet, except when an occasional frantic bell breaks the silence; but there is no one about but a hurried maid or two, flitting past with cans of hot water. All the best rooms of the house open upon a gallery that surrounds three sides of the hall. It is such a light pleasant morning that the hall doors are thrown open, and through them the sunlight chequers the marble floor, while from outside comes the chirping chorus of the birds. Stay, some one's up already; there is one early riser in the house, who is standing in the portico, ostensibly reading, but with both ears laid back as keen as a hare in its form, for a certain sound—the sound of a dress's rustle; and here it is. A starched, white piqué dress, that crackles almost against the balustrades, announcing the near approach of its wearer. She has just come out of her room, a clean, healthy English maiden, fresh from her morning toilette; as dainty and as sweet as a nosegay of spring

flowers; a broad blue band, as deep as a southern sky, encircles her waist; great blue bows are sprinkled among the white folds of her dress. The rosettes in her shoes, and the ribbons in her dark hair are the same. All unconsciously, as it would seem, she trips down slowly, stair by stair, humming a few merry notes, as a bird might carol out its heart with gladness, because the sun above is bright and the earth below beautiful. By accident of course she strays within the portico and starts, a well feigned start, at the shadow that falls across the pavement.

"How odd! Who expected to see you so early," she remarks.

Still more strange that you should be up." Then both laugh, as if at some excellent joke. "No, Alured; I can't have you touch me." "Stuff! sit down here."

"People are coming; I must go and make the tea."

And then for that day, the interview was ended. His chances of speaking to her alone again were almost nil. On the course, whether seated on the box of their break, or upon the