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FAINT HEART NEVER WON FAIR LADY.

A MODERN STORY.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

CHAPTER XVII.

FIRST LOVE.

WHO can fix the date when the heart for the first time beats with the passion which-whether for life or but for an hour-absorbs us all in turn?

Some very susceptible bosoms have loved almost in infancy; others, informed perhaps by no greater wisdom, have waited till infancy came round again; but most of us, if we write our annals true, must confess to having indulged a flame which began to burn a great deal too soon for present or prospective comfort.

At the mature age of fifteen Walter Cobham was already a lover. Love was a kind of heirloom in his family-the only succession, indeed, which seemed likely to be his inheritance-and he took possession of it on the day when he met with Mary Tunstall.

The malady declared itself by the most unmistakable signs. Naturally of strong animal spirits, and fond of active, even of violent exercises, he suddenly became silent and subdued; study was distasteful to him, and he shunned the society of his playmates to wander about alone-sometimes by the river's brink, sometimes on the heights or amid the forest glades which at the distance of a few miles surrounded the city, but oftener in the cathedral's lonely aisles. Why he preferred the last-named place to all the rest requires little explanation. The beautiful vision which had once appeared there was always before his eyes, and he haunted the spot in the vague expectation that it would again be vouchsafed to him. In vain, however. His heart had only remembrance to feed on, and it was a diet on which he grew visibly thinner.

His pale cheek and restless expression could not long escape the watchfulness of Rachel. What ailed her darling-was he ill, or had anything vexed him? No-nothing was the matter that he knew of; if he was no longer hungry he really could not tell why, and as to his companions at the Maîtrise, it was his own fault if he did not join in their amusements-they were as good-natured as ever. Had Madame Gembloux been cross again? If so, Rachel-though by no means up in her French-would tell the gouvernante a piece of her mind, and expose her before the abbé! Pooh! Walter never troubled himself about Madame Gembloux; he had even ceased to care to tease her. What it could be, then, Rachel vainly pondered. Her own union with Monsieur Perrotin had merely been based on simple liking, just as much as usually goes towards the composition of a ménage in her class of life-something

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of convenience considered in it, but of love-in its all-engrossing, overwhelming character-not a modicum. Besides, who could suppose the predicament of having fallen in love in a boy of fifteen !

In the first enthusiasm of the moment, before the wound was felt, Walter had talked in raptures of the lovely English girl; how sweetly she looked, how kindly she spoke, how much more beautiful she was than any one in Rouen! But, after a few days, when everybody but himself had forgotten the circumstance of the meeting, he hesitated to speak of her even to Rachel—and this hesitation, the more he thought about her, resolved itself soon into absolute silence.

Rachel, then, had no resource but to believe that she must coax her darling's appetite to make him better having no suspicion that his heart was affected, she centred her ideas on his stomach. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred this treatment would have proved effectual, but in Walter's instance it failed, and poor Rachel was driven to her wits' end to devise the means of restoring the boy to his former health and spirits.

While meditating on the advisability of calling in the advice of Monsieur Perrotin-whom she had feared to alarm-accident came to her assistance.

She was sitting by herself, at work, one day, when she heard a tap at the door. On opening it she saw before her a tall, handsome man, wearing a cloak nearly covered with braiding, and a purple velvet cap adorned with a broad band of resplendent gold lace. The cap was speedily converted from its right use by a flourish of the hand, and the flourisher, bowing to Rachel, inquired if he had not the honour of speaking to Madame Perrotin? To say "Wee, musseer," was not difficult, and Rachel said so.

"In that case, madame," continued the stranger, in French, "I have a thousand excuses to offer, and a thousand regrets to express. I have been guilty of a most unpardonable inadvertence."

Rachel only half understood the speaker's words, and was wholly at a loss to account for his extreme politeness. She put it to him if he understood English, and finding that-according to his own account-he was capable of expressing himself to perfection in that tongue, she begged he would be kind enough to do so.

"First, then, madame," he said, "I must declare my name and state. I am Jean Baptiste Dufourmantelle, Commissioner of the Grand Hôtel de l'Europe-and here is my carte !"

Very much inclined to believe that a foreign potentate had condescended to pay her a visit, Rachel looked round for the carriage which she supposed he meant when he spoke of a cart, but-to her disappointment it must be owned-beheld none. A grimacing stranger with a card in his hand was all that met her view, and then recollecting that the word commissioner signified something less awful in France than in England, she began to comprehend the true character of the personage who addressed her, and, recovering her presence of mind, invited him to walk in and take a seat.

All the necessary preliminaries being now settled, Monsieur Dufourmantelle resumed:

"After I had the honour a month gone away-yes-I admit, shame

fully, a month entirely-of accompanying the honourable lord baronnet Sir Stuntall, and his amiable lady with their infant, over the magnificence curiosities of Rouen, I was received instruction when she depart to present a littel bosk from the charming young personne to the son of you madame !"

"What do you mean, sir? Who did you say?" demanded the astonished Rachel.

"The daughterre of Sir Stuntall," replied the commissioner," she give to me a bosk, but I forget him in my oder wainscot-pocket until to-day, when I once more wear that."

"Oh, goodness! you mean Tunstall, don't you?"

"So I say-Stuntall."

"It was Sir James, and my lady, and Miss Mary ?"

"Yas, I believe. Miladi certainly and Meece Mary, and, I cannot tell -Sir Stuntall James-so she call him. Here, madame, is the bosk. I nevare open him."

So saying, Monsieur Dufourmantelle placed in Rachel's hand a small, square, pasteboard box, neatly tied round with a bit of sky-blue ribbon. "Oh, Musseer Furmantle," said Rachel, “did my young lady send Walter this? Was there any message ?"

"She beg of your son to keep him for her sake, because she love so much to have hear him sing."

"And what did my lady say?”

"Nothing at all. She never know. The charming Meece was give to me the bosk in the passage as she follow her papa and mamma to their carriage. I never see them no more."

Rachel was lost in amazement at the strange chance which had thrown Walter and his cousin in each other's way, but though she never doubted that it was his cousin whom he had seen, she put numerous questions to Monsieur Dufourmantelle, in order to make sure of the identity of the persons on whom the latter had attended. These were answered in such a way as to confirm her first impression, and Monsieur Dufourmantelle's peace being completely made and friendly relations established with Madame Perrotin, the magnificent commissioner took his departure.

It had been all along agreed between Monsieur Perrotin and his wife that, until some favourable opportunity offered for making Walter acquainted with the secret of his birth, the history of his family should be concealed from him. The question now arose in Rachel's mind, was this the occasion? Her heart was so full, that if she had replied on the impulse of the moment, she would at once have told him all, but, strong as her inclination might be, she was compelled to defer it, for Walteras had frequently been the case of late-did not come home to dinner. Monsieur Perrotin, however, was not an absentee; his course of teaching always brought him back in excellent cue for the meal, and he generally fell to with the avidity which his countrymen invariably develop when a savoury mess of pottage is set before them. But this day the case was altered: he saw by his wife's face that something unusual had occurred, and though his knife and fork were already raised, he suspended his operations to ask her what was the matter? On learning that Rachel had a communication to make about Walter, he sat immovably fixed to hear it, his fondness for the boy being scarcely less than that of his wife.

Her tale was soon told, and it was followed by the inquiry whether Monsieur Perrotin thought that the time for explanation with Walter had arrived? The Teacher of Languages was of a contrary opinion, and replied to Rachel's wish for immediate disclosure by arguing that a casual meeting, like the one in question, afforded them no hold on Mrs. Scrope's sympathies, on which alone they could reckon with any advantage to the prospects of Walter. Had Sir James and Lady Tunstall interested themselves about their protégé, the case would have been different, but as the interview had ended in a mere childish souvenir, Monsieur Perrotin thought they had better wait. It might not be amiss to keep an eye upon the movements of the Tunstalls, now they were in England and this he could do, he imagined, through the medium of his friend Mr. Williamms (otherwise "The White Bear, Piccadilly")— but if Rachel took his advice she would only give the present, whatever it was, to Walter, and say nothing just yet about the young lady that

sent it.

On this principle the discussion was finally settled, but when Walter at last came in, it was with increased anxiety that Rachel met him. Her heart was more than ever moved to think that another occupied the place alone which he, by right, ought at least to have shared. Lady Tunstall's child was dear to her as being of Edith's blood, but still there was no comparison, in her estimation, between that child and Edith's son, and it grieved her to behold the difference of their relative positions. Surely if Miss Agatha-as she always called Lady Tunstall

had seen her nephew, she must have been struck by his appearance. What a misfortune that she had not! It was as well, perhaps, for Madame Gembloux, that her spiteful conduct was unknown to Rachel.

Walter entered with a listless air, and threw himself into a chair without speaking: he seemed to Rachel to look paler and thinner than ever. She went close up to him, and putting her hand tenderly on his shoulder, asked him why he had not returned at the usual hour? He had been, he said, for a very long walk in the forest of Rouvray, on the other side of the river. Why did he go so far? He did not know; he wanted something to do. Rachel was sure he had had nothing to eat— would he have some dinner now?-he must. No: he did not want any.

"But if I give you something, Walter, that you will like very much, promise to do what I ask."

"I will do anything for you, dear Rachel, that I can, without promising. I know," he continued, smiling faintly-“I know what it is."

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Guess, then," returned Rachel, smiling in her turn: it was the first time for several days past.

"Gelée de pommes !" said Walter: "I know you went to Monsieur Vermeil's shop the last time you were in the Rue des Carmes." "You have guessed wrong this time: try again."

"Is it that pretty grey cap with the blue tassel that I said I saw in Blangy the tailor's window?"

"No. But you will never find out. Nor where it came from, either. Look here!"

She drew out the little square box tied round with sky-blue ribbon, and held it before him.

"What can it be !" he exclaimed, his curiosity fully aroused. "Something you bought at the fair?"

"I did not buy it.

Open it and see."

I know no more than you what is in the box.

Walter eagerly untied the ribbon, which fell on the floor. In an instant the lid of the box was off, and there, embedded in jeweller's cotton, was a small, delicate, cameo ring.

66 Oh, how beautiful!" he cried, as he turned the shell towards him. At the same moment the colour rushed again to his hollow cheek, he trembled and sat with lips apart, scarcely breathing: his emotion was so great that Rachel felt almost afraid.

"What a sweet face!" she said.

“It is a likeness, Rachel-a likeness of—of-of-oh, dear, dear Rachel, where did it come from?"

"You remember the young lady in the cathedral who praised your singing? She left it for you with Musseer Furmantle of the Europe Hotel when she went away. He ought to have brought it a month ago."

"The rascal!" cried Walter; "I'll tear all the fur off his mantle the first time I catch sight of him. Oh, if I had had this before!"

And, to Rachel's astonishment, he pressed the cameo to his lips and kissed it over and over again: he then caught up the ribbon, kissed that too, and thrust it into his bosom.

"It is herself, her very self," he kept on repeating. "I knew it at once and so would you have known it, Rachel, if you had ever seen her!"

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Why, Walter, one would almost fancy you had fallen in love with the ring!"

"With the ring! Oh, Rachel !" he said, throwing himself into her arms and burying his head on her neck-" oh, Rachel, dear-it is beautiful Mary I love! For a whole month I have thought of no one but her. Will you forgive me?"

Rachel replied with tears-but that evening was the happiest she had known for many a year.

And what a change was suddenly wrought in Walter !

Not so much as regarded companionship, for he still felt the same strong desire to be alone-but his solitary walks were no longer sad ones. All the buoyancy of his nature had returned; he was intoxicated with a new sense of happiness. But though the light danced in his eyes brighter than ever, though a sweeter smile played on his lips, it was still only at rare intervals that he gave himself back to the ordinary amusements of his age. He was too eager to taste the delight of gazing on the cameo -which, boy-like, he wore next his heart, suspended by the original bit of blue ribbon-to bestow much of his time on his companions, though he gave more of it than before to Rachel, who knew his secret. To her he could speak without reserve of what he would not for worlds have named to any one else, and, apart from her own private motives, she had too much woman in her composition not to make the very best listener he could have chosen. To see Walter happy again was all she had de