CHAPTER VI.

A TROUBLED HEART.

I'm

' AND so, miss, we're going down to the country to stay a while with Mr. I mean Miss Osborne's mother. Well, that will be a change anyway, and it's time we had a change out of London. tired of London for one! And where are we going after Stratford? Are we coming back to London ?' 'I do not know, O'Connor.' 'And when do we leave London for Stratford ?'

"To-morrow afternoon.'

The maid withdrew and left the mistress alone.

Marie sat in an old-fashioned elbow-chair before the fire. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her head drooped forward. Her eyes were fixed upon her hands. Her face was dull and expressionless. No light shone in her eye. The thoughts that visited her came like shadows and went like shadows, vague in their approach, leaving nothing after them when they had gone. She was not thinking so much as musing, not so much musing as allowing what idea would to stray into her mind. Her heart had become a weary spectator of her thoughts. She was not dreaming, for dreaming means dealing with things which are not. She was looking with heavy, dull, uninterested eyes at a panorama of the immediate past.

So grave now, and now so restless. What had happened to her George, to her great fair-faced, calm-minded, loyal gentleman lover? What had happened to him? His eyes no longer rested on her. They were dim, and busy with far-off things. He was no longer attentive to her motions or words as a while ago. When he came back last evening from Stratford he was polite and gentle, but there was no ardour in his ways. He had not seemed to

wish for a quiet chat with her. He had not sought a solitary greeting or leave-taking. He had, in fact, treated her as though she wore no ring of his giving on her finger. What could be the meaning of this?

The notion that she could have displeased him seriously was nonsense, for she knew she had done nothing wrong, and she knew he was of too simple and manly a nature to be altered by any trifle. Nothing petty could have changed him. It must have been something of importance. What could it be?

He was not a man to change in any respect for a trifle. Why had he changed towards her? It could not be that the change had been wrought by his visit to his home, for had he not come back with an invitation for her to go there? He could not have been displeased with her for accepting that invitation, for he had handed her his mother's cordial letter in the presence of Kate and Mr. Nevill, and had given her no opportunity. of talking over the matter with him. Besides, why should he bring the invitation unless he wished her to accept it?

He had not only afforded her no opportunity of discussing that invitation with him, but immediately before, and ever since his going to, and since his return from, home he had avoided her; he had never sought her when they might be alone. It was not so much that he avoided her, as that he did not seek her. This was inexplicable. She, if she had her choice, would never be a moment from his side. His voice was all she wanted to make everything beautiful and gay. The sense of youthfulness and joy came to her when she heard his voice. It was as though all the troubles and jars and difficulties and vexations, which, added upon youth by years, made one

feel the loss of early sprightliness, had been removed, and the full irresponsible joyousness had been restored. Love in women takes off all responsibility save the duty of loving. It may add to the cares of man the burden of which woman is relieved.

But, then, George had broad shoulders and a brave spirit. The burden of her own responsibilities had always sat lightly upon her; it surely could not bow down, much less break down, George. He was no coward; he was no weakling. He had asked her to make certain pledges, and she had made them as unhesitatingly as she would follow him all over the world. If she had any doubt or difficulty now, she would go to him and tell him all. Why did he not come to her if he were in any doubt or difficulty? Kate had never seen him in such a way before. What could it mean?

Kate had never seen him thus before, and Kate must have seen him in every phase of his character. Yes, in every phase of his character. In every phase of his character-save one. She had never seen him love before. He had been very much in love with her a few days ago. He showed it in all his acts, he told her so in plain words a hundred times, and yet Kate did not then say she had never seen George's general manner such before. It was only since this change towards her came that Kate noticed the unfamiliar manner. Kate had never seen him in love before, and yet a week ago his general manner had not been changed by love. What had changed his particular manner towards her and his general manner to those around? Had he repented of his hasty love-making ?'

Had he repented?

No doubt he had been hasty. Did he now think he had been

rash? Ah, that was a thing to ponder over, but not now, not now. George had come back; that was the great matter now. But how different he was from what he had been only a few days ago! Then he had made royal warm love to her, and she had sat in the sunshine of his love, content and rich. Now she was going with Kate on a visit to his home, to see the place in which his nature had expanded and developed. She had pictured to herself that home for their own home. He had made a sketch of it, and she had filled in the sketch. There was to be no romance in their future, but that divinest of all earthly romance, the romance of wedded love. He was, outside the ordinary duties of his position, to devote himself to her. He was not to make a goddess of her, but she was to share all things with him.

What was he sharing with her

now?

Ah, well, perhaps, when she got down to the country, out of this worrying city, he would tell her all, share his secret with her, instead of imposing this strange cold gloom. Why did he not come to her and tell her what his trouble was? Even if it were she, it would be better for him to come and tell her boldly, and she would know what to do. She should then merely tell O'Connor to pack up, and they could go away-whither she cared not, so long as he was relieved. Men talked about dying for women they loved. She would live in any misery, if living could do him any good. He was lord of her, and she was his slave. He had to order, she to obey. She did not want kind words or gentle consideration. She would be satisfied with anything, so long as he was happy. He was her lord and master. He should be her lord

and master until her heart had ceased to beat. She would have no other lord and master, no other all her life. Why did he not come to her and tell her what was the matter, that she might lay her heart at his feet? She wanted him only to show her what sacrifice of hers could ease him in any way.

She had once been proud or vain, she knew not which. She had in the olden time scorned women who were easily led by men; now she would follow him to the grave. Nay, she would walk into the grave, although she knew he was not to follow her; although it was to be their final separation for time and eternity. Was this infatuation? No. This was love, as she had dreamed of it, as it had always presented itself to her in the long-ago of unrest and heart fancy-free. Yes, she would rather see him married to some one not herself, than that he should be her husband and dissatisfied with his wife.

But would he ever unbosom himself to her? Would he allow her to go down to his mother's place without explaining the alteration of his manner? That would be worse than even here. What should she do? Another girl in her place would refuse the invitation. But he had brought the note from home, and she was justified in concluding it had been dictated

by his heart. O, that there were any way of finding out what would come of this-death or life!

Gradually, as the minutes went on, the mind of the girl had become more active. In time the mere dreamy contemplation of dull shadows passed away, and her ideas assumed sharp edges and her thoughts exact formule.

'O'Connor, is that you?'
'Yes, miss.'

'What brought you back?' 'A note for you from Mr. Osborne.'

With hands that trembled slightly, the mistress took the note, and opened it. The contents were :

'Tell me when you can give me an hour or two. I want to have a quiet chat with you in the open air somewhere.

GEORGE.'

She took up a pencil, and wrote back:

'I can keep any appointment MARIE.' you make.

He rejoined:

'Come at once.'

She rose, and said, 'O'Connor, give me a waterproof; I am going out.'

'Going out, miss! I'm glad of that. I hope it will make you feel better.'

'Nothing can make me feel worse,' thought Marie.

TOM CREMLIN was an actor, and played old men. He was an odd fellow, with quaint ways and fancies, but as good and true at the core as the best of pippins. I remember when I was a lad being fond of a peculiar kind of apple which we youngsters called 'old men.' Whether this name was general or not, I am not aware: I only know that whenever I think of Tom, he always reminds me of those crisp little apples with their rough autumn skins.

He was round of body, with short legs and arms; he wore tightfitting trousers of brown, with thick heavy gaiters of the same hue, bulging out clumsily about his ankles and over his square-toed shoes. His coat was a brown swallow-tail, with a double row of dull brass buttons, looking like so many staring blind eyes. His hands were gnarled, and he wore a straggling wig of reddish-brown, surmounted with a rusty bell-top hat; and there was an autumnal tint about his little odd face which at once suggested the idea of the sere and yellow leaf. He carried a large snuff-box, which left traces of its frequent use on the frill of his shirt; he also carried a crabstick. When I say carried, I mean it literally; for he never used it to help him in his rambles, but let it hang from his left arm, causing him to walk as if he had a lady clinging there.

Tom was a stanch disciple of the good old times, and rated everything in the shape of new ideas or improvements 'new-fan

gled humbug.' He liked everything old he frequented old taverns, drank old ale, read old books, haunted mouldy cathedrals and ruins; in fact he detested the present, and lived only in the cobwebs of the past; he liked nothing new except babies, and even those he preferred old-fashioned. I remember once making him a present of my favourite old men apples; and when I called to see him, I found them piled in the centre of his table, with their tawny skins unbroken, and Tom looking at them every now and then as fondly as if he found a sort of companionship in their quaint little forms.

He had been in the habit of coming to our town for many years, and Tom was a privileged person with all classes. His chief haunt, in his social hours, was the Brown Bear, one of those sluggish fat old inns with a sluggish fat old landlord to match. There he met the disciples of his own creed, who chatted, smoked, and argued over the same old subjects every night. The place was sacred in Tom's eyes, for the London coach used to stop there, and it was frequented by an ancient Sir Oracle, who was clerk of the parish church, one of the oldest buildings in the county. He was looked up to by them all, for he had a wise and solemn way with him which made even the most commonplace remark seem valuable, coming from his lips. But I am inclined to think the secret of his wisdom lay, after all, in his hair; it was so white that it gave

him quite a patriarchal appearance -at least that portion which was left; for Father Time, after heaping his reverend head with snow, had commenced to shovel it rapidly off again. However, he was Tom's pet crony.

One non-play night (for it was one of the last of the old circuitcompanies, and they did not act, as now, every night in the week) Tom was in his cosy chair by the fire, but his crony had not yet arrived. Most of the regular customers were there, as the pipe-rack could witness, being only half full. Several visits had been paid to the tobacco-box, and the room was already half-filled with smoke. The box alluded to is almost out of use now. It was a recognised institution on the table of every oldfashioned inn; it was a brass contrivance made square, with a tube through which you dropped a halfpenny, when the lid flew open; you filled your clay pipe and pressed the lid back in its place. The walls were lighted up with pictures illustrative of travelling in the coaching-days. The furniture was heavy and substantial, each fat unwieldy chair and table looking as if it had grown with the place. The gas, a new invention, was not yet alight, but a huge fire from the jaws of a monstrous grate filled the room with a glow of comfort, while the ponderous walls teemed again with a sort of ruddy glory.

In this cosy manner the guests were calmly puffing at their long pipes, when all at once the door swung heavily open, like a huge mouth yawning. Tom turned his eyes lazily, expecting to see the patriarchal clerk.

'I beg your pardon,' said a sharp crisp voice.

The exclamation acted like a spell on all present; every head was turned sharply towards the speaker. A girl, entering, lighted

the gas, which revealed at once the owner of the sharp crisp voice.

'I'm afraid I disturb you. I asked the girl here which was the smoke-room; but she was so long finding her tongue, I thought I would find what I wanted without her aid, and have succeeded.'

Without taking any notice of the silence, he coolly took off his topcoat, then said,

'Bring me a glass of brandy, hot.' Looking round for a peg whereon to hang his coat, and finding the accommodation required, he quietly dropped into the chair opposite Tom.

Everybody stared harder than ever, and no wonder, for it was the chair of their Sir Oracle.

No one had invaded the sanctity of that seat for years. Why, the man might as well have taken one of their pipes from the rack! And the cool way in which it was done, too! It was an insult to the clerk, the man from whose head Time was shovelling the snow.

'Ah,' he added, glancing around, 'this looks very comfortable.'

Then he produced from his pocket a pipe of his own, which he coolly proceeded to load with his own tobacco, too! No one had ever dared to smoke in that room without paying toll to the brass box; and here was a stranger breaking their laws in the most unconcerned way.

The landlord opened his sluggish eyes in wonder, and sent puff after puff from his long clay till his head became so immersed in smoke, he looked like a fat cherubim suddenly grown old taking a peep through the clouds.

'What a sleepy old place this seems to be!' remarked the stranger, quite unconscious of the landlord's seraphic appearance; 'not much business here, I should say.'

'Quite as much as we need,' said some one curtly.