CHAP. I.

"It is all over with me! My brain is a veritable sucked sponge; there is not an Idea in it. I tell you what, George Burford, I'll go no more to the opera. Instead of original melodies, such as I was wont to write, there comes to me the refrain of an air in 'Martha,' or else the Shadow song, or a bit from the 'Rose of Castile.' How is a man to get on in such a case?"

The speaker threw his arms over his head with a sigh, and his companion, changing his posture slightly, took a cigar from his case, bit off the end, and then answered coolly :

"I look upon that as the natural consequence of an overtasked imagination. We composers are sadly dependent"

"We composers!"

"Don't sneer, Harry Sutton. Of course I go in for a composer, since I perpetrate pictures which-ahem-speak of budding genius, while you set doggrel verses to infamous music gently there."

For a large MS. packet suddenly descended upon the arm of the offender, followed by a pen, a stamp case, and a music-book.

"I wonder what made us two agree to differ in the same chambers-lodgings I mean-eh, George?"

"Natural affinity, I suppose," responded George; "or else the doctrine that extremes meet may account for it. There never was a more contented creature than I am. My pictures bring in suffiicient for my humble wants, no more. Your bravuras, glees, trios, &c. do not satisfy you; but then you have no patience"

"Patience is an assinine quality."

"Hush! This habit of interrupting is another sign of your unfortunately impetuous temper. I was about to speak of a road to fortune which I propose to open to you."

Harry Sutton sprang up from his chair with a bound that shook the room till the china shepherdesses on the mantelpiece chattered with agitation.

"What is it?" he asked.

"There you are again! Upon my word your amazing energy makes a fellow envious.

Suppose," said George, with a slight twinkle in his eye, 66 suppose my plan were to marry an heiress?" "Psha!"

"If I were not afraid of making you vain, I would say that I have seldom seen a betterlooking fellow. Only for your romance and Quixotism

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"Will you never have done taunting me, George, because I once happened to give my opinion about heiress hunters?"

George Burford rose and stood on the hearthrug in that favourite posture of an Englishman, even when the grate is full of shavings, with his hands under his coat-tails. It seemed that his companion knew what this portended, for he held up his hand deprecatingly.

"No lecture, Burford, for I won't stand it."

"Now listen to me, Sutton. I am older than you, and wiser-that of course. You are clever enough, and some day may be a great composer, who knows? But in the meantime you must live-a vulgar necessity I grant, but still a necessity. This, then, is my plan for you. Devote a certain day per week to pupils."

Harry covered his ears, with a hideous grimace.

"It is of no use to pull faces at me," con tinued his friend. "Take away your hands immediately and hear me out. The variety itself would be good for you, and I know of exactly the sort of pupils to suit you. A painter is an animal tolerated ou some occasions in any society, and I have had the honour of an introductiou to that august family, the Bellendens, of Bellenden Park, Blankshire. They are at present in town."

"The who?"

"The Bellendens. What are you looking so queer for? You don't know them, I believe. "Sir Miles, his lady mother, his younger brother-poor beggar!-and his two sisters are at their house in square. The Misses Bellenden are in want of music-lessons from a first-rate professor. I mention my friend, dubiously, as though thinking it probable he is too proud and too great a man for it: they have seen some of his pieces'-fact, Harry-and snatch at him eagerly. All is arranged."

B

"Nonsense!"

"Awaiting his consent. As to the fees-ob, by Jove, enough to make my pictures turn yellow with envy! The young ladies are as proud as-well, well, they are horribly proud, stiff, and not beauties by any means; so you won't be making an ass of yourself. Come, old fellow, the thing is done."

Harry finished a figure of eight he was describing on the carpet with his boot toe. "Can't you speak, Sutton?"

"Is not Sir Miles married?"

May one smoke, Sutton?"

"Yes, yes. You remember when I was in Germany, two years ago?"

"Don't I? At least, I remember the beard you brought back, and the long curls-ah !" "Very well. You know that I went alone,

"Cool, I must say," retorted George, twirling the pallet on bis thumb. 'Anything else?.' "I am in earnest, indeed I am."

"Well, I should say you were. You do not look like a man in a jesting humour. Say on, I am listening."

"What am I, George?"

"Why really," said George, staring at him, "unless you mean me to answer a madman, I cannot say.'

"Don't trifle with me. I want to know who I am.

"Oh, if it's a case of 'Had she a father, had she a mother? Who was her sister, who was her brother?' upon my word, my dear fellow, I know no more than the man in the moon. We met. You were attracted to me naturally. I took pity upon you, and rewarded you with my friendship. I never asked you about your ancestry, and you did not tell me of them." Harry was pacing the room restlessly. "Then you cannot help me?"

accident. Imagine all the details of the accident related, and behold me, after all sorts of hardships, taken in by the inhabitants of a fine, but rather ruinous old château in a certain departement of France. I will make my tale as short as possible, George. The family consisted of a middle-aged gentleman, his young daughter, a housekeeper, and servants. The gentleman was English, and his name Rutherford--"

'Any relation to the--"

"Don't stop me, you will hear who he was. Of course he welcomed his countryman, but more than that, he took an especial fancy to me, and when I got well, instead of going on to Bonn, I lingered at the château. It was a dangerous experiment and I knew it, for, as you will easily guess, Mr. Rutherford was not my attraction, though I liked him well enough. At first he used to go with us for short walks in the neighbourhood, as my injured foot would bear them; but he was a great bookworm, and very soon his daughter Marie was my only companion. Think of that, George! One evening-I shall never forget it-she had taken me to see the sun go down into the sea from a certain famous rock. The walk was a long one and my ankle not yet strong. When she saw my weariness and pain she insisted on rolling up her own cloak and making me use it as a footstool. I don't know how any other man might have felt, watching her do this: the sun was setting red and glorious, it sent a halo upon the brown hair under her hat, it shone upon her face as she looked up at me with a smile and asked was that better, was I easier?

"I bit my lips, George, and ruled my tongue, but what man can govern the expression of his face? We were silent afrer that; she sat on the rock still, but very quiet and thoughtful. I did not dare to trust my voice, but I would have borne all the pain, aye, double and treble the pain I suffered in walking home, for the touch of that tremulous little hand on my arm, as it was then. And yet I did not speak my thoughts."

"She knew them, I suppose?"

"I don't know, I have never known; but she was very young. When we reached the gardengate Mr. Rutherford met us. I don't know what he saw or thought, but he looked at me and stopped abruptly; then he looked at his daughter earnestly, and finally gave her some errand which took her into the house, while he remained with me."

"The air is still pleasant," he said. "Let us go to the seat under those trees."

"I followed him like some one in a dream, for my heart and brain had wandered after Marie, and her face, with the golden radiance on it was still before my eyes."

"How sad it is to think," said my companion, musingly, "that when the head is full of a lifetime of experience, and wiser than it ever was before, that the limbs begin to fail, and the wisdom to be almost useless."

I did not answer, except by an unmeaning sort of gesture.

"And the knowledge of present wisdom adds a donble sting to the remembrance of past folly. Mr. Sutton, I once narrowly escaped having the mark of Cain set on my forehead."

I started, and looked at him.

"Yes," he said, answering the look, "I raised my hand against my eldest brother-I had but one. I wish to tell you about it. You know that my property is in England?"

"No, I did not."

"Yet the name is not common. I am a Rutherford, of Rutherford. The folly I speak of was caused by an agent which brings about more trouble and more happiness than any other in the world-you understand what I mean. The lady was the daughter of a poor curate. We both loved her, but I never told her so. I dreamed and hoped and wrote sonnets, while my brother acted.

"Now, my father was proud-all the Rutherfords are proud and ambitious. He had fixed upon a wife for his son-a rich one, of course; but Harry (that was my brother's name), absolutely refused to bind himself by any promise. Soon after that the truth came out. By mere chance I witnessed an interview between Harry and the woman I loved. I waited until her figure had disappeared amongst the trees, and then I sprang upon my brother. In my madness I believe I should have killed him, for he was quite unprepared, but a strong arm came between us suddenly, and my father's voice called upou me to desist and explain.

"I cried out that my brother was a false coward, that he had insulted a lady who

"There my brother stopped me imperiously, and crossing his arms with his head bent down upon them, he said, turning to my father,

never

"The lady he speaks of is my wife, sir.' "When my father knew all, he swore a fierce oath to disinherit Harry, and make me his heir. He bade Harry go, and come into his presence again. What a thing pride is, Sutton! He never fulfilled that vow, and, on his death-bed, he would have given

worlds for a touch of his son's hand or a word from his lips. No one knew anything about him. Every effort was made, but he must have assumed a false name, for we failed to trace him farther than a little village not far from Rutherford.

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scription, in a remote little inn somewhere amongst the Cumberland lakes. 'My daughter will be a heiress.'

dow, where a fair head was bent down over “My eyes wandered involuntarily to the winsome work; but I thought that Marie, even then, was watching us furtively. Mr. Rutherford saw my glance.

"Yes,' he said, 'she is beautiful; is she not? And good, too; but proud. We Rutherfords are all proud. My daughter will wear a title well. She is betrothed to Sir Miles Bellenden. Bellenden-park joins Rutherford, and though the baronet's estate may be somewhat impoverished, he is a prudent man, and my daughter will be rich. Yes, we are a proud

race."

"There, George," concluded Sutton. course I knew by that time why he had told "Of me all this rigmarole. And now, don't laugh at me, but help me, there's a good fellow."

"I don't see how, yet. What did you do?" "I went away, of course, the next morning. I never saw her again except in her father's presence, and I scarcely dared to look at her. Now you will see that I can give no more lessons in Square." Why

"But, my dear fellow, I don't see. not?"

Harry looked at him for a moment, angrily; then, recollecting himself, he said: "I forgot! I didn't tell you the end! My lady Bellenden has a new charge. Marie Rutherford is there, George."

a

"Did you see her?"

I saw

CHAP. III.

My lady Bellenden sat, stiff and upright, in her easy-chair, with a mass of knitting on her lap, and her head shaking as she plied the needles monotonously. Sir Miles, her son, pored over the columns of a newspaper; while his sisters were going through a course of mutual recrimination over a difficult duet.

"But, Miles," began her ladyship, going back to a previous conversation, "of course I am very glad to have her here, poor thing. I only wanted you to understand

"I thought that was all settled," said the baronet, calmly.

"Of course you know best; and for the present it is all very well! But you see she is an heiress, while your sisters' fortunes are so small comparatively-indeed Augusta says

"My sister's remarks can make no difference to me," said Sir Miles. "As you justly observe, Marie Rutherford is an heiress, and for that very reason, coupled with her extreme youth and simplicity, I do not choose that she should have liberty to select her own acquaintances, much less set up an establishment and a duenna at Rutherford. It would be most dangerous. I wish her to remain under your protection and-my own eye. As for my sis

ters

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Pray don't put yourself out of the way for us," interrupted Miss Bellenden, haughtily: "your ward, or your betrothed, or whatever you like to call her, does not inconvenience us in the least."

As this speech ended, the subject of it entered the room, noiselessly-a downcast, timid figure. The sisters returned to their music, Sir Miles to his paper, and my lady to the fabrication of her woollen couvrette, while Marie Rutherford sat alone on a couch in the shadiest corner. Looking at Sir Miles, you would rather have taken him for her father than her affianced husband. Sir Miles was a little bald, and wore spectacles. He looked older than he really was, while the stranger in that dim corner seemed to be scarcely past childhood.

Drearily she sat there, doing nothing. Her thoughts were back in the old château. If they wandered now and then to a darkened chamber, to the sharp outlines of a dead face to which her own had been pressed with passionate kisses, to a quiet grave with the turf growing over it, no one seemed to notice her, or to care whether she were sad or happy.

"Is Augusta here?" asked Cecil Bellenden, peeping in. "Oh, Augusta, I have had a note from Sutton. It concerns you and Georgina more than me, though how you can afford to

Marie's attitude changed for a moment as Cecil spoke; but she soon sank back again, listlessly; and Miss Bellenden ceased her dignified wrangling with her sister, and condescended to inquire what Mr. Sutton had to say to Cecil.

"I don't know what you have done to him," replied her brother; "he is rather incoherent about it. Circumstances have occurred which render it imperative that he should give up his engagement at once. He regrets the necessity, and hopes it will cause you no inconvenience."

"But it will," exclaimed Miss Bellenden; the very greatest inconvenience. I don't believe there is another man anywhere who will understand my register so well."

"And he is so nice," added Georgina. "Not that that matters much, only one hates to have ugly disagreeable people about one, even if they are only professors."

Cecil Bellenden laughed. "I should have liked Harry Sutton to hear that speech, Georgie; I fancy he would not have come here again in a hurry."

"Then he may stay away," said Sir Miles, looking up from his paper. "I always thought him a conceited puppy. You can look out for another master I suppose, Augusta, if you want one."

"I shall do no such thing," retorted Miss Bellenden. "It is nothing to you, Miles. You don't pay for our lessons, therefore I think we may be allowed to choose our own master."

The paper rustled under the hand of Sir Miles, and an angry reply rose to his lips; but his eye suddenly fell on Marie, and he checked it. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes shining, and there was a look of eager attention about her which he had not seen before since her arrival.

The baronet suffered a smile to steal over his thin lips. He would have gone to sit beside her, but the article he was reading had great interest for him; so he only said, "England has done you good already, Marie. You have quite a colour this evening," and went back to the closely-printed columns.

"Come out of that corner, Miss Rutherford," said Cecil; "you look as if you would have nothing to do with us. You play, do you not?"

But Marie clung to her obscurity. She had never played or sung since her father's death. "Don't you?" repeated Cecil.

"A little, sometimes. But not now, please." "I am at a loss to know what Marie does like," remarked Augusta, in her cold tones. "I fear we must be very stupid, since nothing we can mention seems to interest her."

"That's too bad," said Georgie, goodnaturedly. "She will like our pursuits by-andbye. Won't you, Miss Rutherford ?"

At another time Marie would have responded gratefully to such a speech, but now she did not even hear it. Her attention was fixed on Cecil, and what he had been saying; and she ventured

"Yes," said Cecil.

Sir Miles looked up in astonishment at her confused manner.

"Do you wish to take lessons, Marie?" asked Augusta. "That is the most sensible thing I have heard you say yet."

"No; oh, no! I only thought-I mean I have heard the name before."

"Indeed!" said Sir Miles: "may I ask under what circumstances?"

"In France. A gentleman named Sutton once stayed a few weeks with papa," replied Marie, growing bolder as she saw the expression of the baronet's face. She was very much afraid of him; but she did think he had hardly a right to question her so disagreeably.

"Hardly likely to be the same person," said Sir Miles, coldly.

"Now I think it extremely probable," exclaimed Georgie, mischievously. "And what

a romantic

The baronet did not think this worth a reply. "Well, then, Cecil, tell him so; and tell him we hope he will call-say favour us with a call -before we leave town. I really must have some idea how to manage that German song."

Then Sir Miles sat down to chess with Marie. He liked playing with her because she never won, and was quite content to be beaten-a rare quality where chess is concerned--and the sisters carried on a conversation in an undertone at one end of the room. It was an immense nuisance to have Marie there just then: it had completely spoilt their town-visit. Now Miles had allowed no balls, no gaiety, no life of any description-all because that stupid child was in mourning. And then this sudden freak of going back before the season was over! There never was a man so full of whims. There was one comfort, however-it would be better in the country for some reasons. He would not surely be so particular about parties and gaiety: no one was in the country, and besides, it was quite a month since Mr. Rutherford's death, and time for Marie to put off some of that heavy crape.

"Checkmate!" exclaimed Sir Miles. "You played more foolishly than usual, Marie. "I am very sorry." "You ought to have seen that, when I uncovered check by bishop in the knight, which also gave check, it would be mate: whereas, if you had taken the knight last move, you would

game." "Yes," said Marie, wearily.

My lady rolled up her knitting. 'Miles, the poor child is tired. quite time for us all to retire. Marie."

It is Good-night,

Then her ladyship received Marie's kiss upon her rouged cheeks. Sir Miles just touched the little hand of his betrothed with his lips, and turned to reprove his mother for having called her a child; and the cheeks of the sisters touched that of the stranger frigidly. And the little heiress was shut up in her own room, alone. Was it to be always like this? How could she live, and bear it? Her eye wandered down to the crape about her dress: she took it up and pressed her face upon it passionately; for was it not the only thing that remained to her of him who loved her so well? She said to herself that they were very kind to her, these strange, cold English people; but oh! they were not like him! She was afraid of the stately Sir Miles: she trembled at his voice, but not as lovers tremble. A feeling of glad relief came over her as she reflected that a year must elapse before he would ask for the fulfilment of the compact her father had made for her. His wife! To be his always, always belonging to him, subject to him! The thought began to be full of terror to her, and with that shrinking terror came the question, "Why should it be? Was there absolutely no escape? Then again came the darkened chamber, and a faint voice said to her, painfully, and at broken intervals, "I leave you to him, contented. Remember, you are his promised wife! Speak, my daughter-promise!"

And Marie had promised. Nothing remained but to fulfil! It was useless to think it over again and again, as she did now: there was no escape! A shade of colour flitted across her face suddenly at the recollection of the name which had so startled her when Cecil Bellenden spoke it. Involuntarily she repeated it softly—

66

Harry Sutton!" Could it be the same? The scene on the Merman-rock came back to herwhen he was tired and weak, and she had rolled up the cloak into a footstool. She would like to see him again, just to know th bered her-just to find out that she had not offended him, when he went away in that strange manner. He would be grieved for her father, too. He had been so kind and gentle to her; and she had no friends now-no friends, not one! And then she covered her face, and sobbed like a weary child, rocking herself to and fro. That was the beginning of the old life; and it was so hard to feel that it was left behind forever-and she was alone!

Cecil Bellenden fulfilled his sister's injunctions, and Harry waited a week, irresolutely: then he went to call in Square; but he was too late. Something had caused the "man of whims," as Miss Bellenden called Sir Miles, to alter his plans, and the family had left town.