IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER I.

'Is it very bad? Do you think it will mark her? How unfortunate I am.'

'Oh, it won't signify—much,' says the major, making a feeble attempt at consolation.

The groom is on his knees washing down the mare's leg. As he washes, the red raw patch shews out with ominous distinctness from the glossy dark-brown skin that surrounds it; and Cissy, standing in her riding-habit, whip in hand, regarding the operation, begins to look the very picture of ill-concealed misery.

'How dreadfully bad it looks now,' she says fearfully.

'Not at all,' replies the major.

'I cannot imagine how it happened; she is usually such a clean jumper,' goes on Cissy, diligently searching for excuses. 'I never in my life injured a mount before, and I would not have harmed this one for all the world. Captain Halkett will be so awfully angry.'

'Nonsense! You don't suppose he will bite you, do you? Think of his angelic temper and your privileges as a woman. He daren't blow you up, you know.'

'It is not so much that'—with hesitation. 'Of course I know he will say nothing, but he will think the more; and'——

'Like the parrot,' interrupts the major.

'And he will look so annoyed,' goes on Cissy, torturing herself with immense success. 'I would not for anything it had occurred. I do think I am the unluckiest girl on earth.'

'Are you in love with him?' suddenly asks the major sharply.

'In love with him? What an absurd question! Of course I am not,' says Cissy angrily, while blushing in the most furious and uncalled-for manner. 'What can have put such a ridiculous idea into your head?'

'Well' (sulkily), 'you are so afraid of vexing him, for one thing.'

'Not a bit more afraid of him than I would be of you or any other man, under the circumstances,' declares Cissy with exemplary candour. 'But it is not a pleasant thing at any time to injure a favourite hunter; and the mare, for some reason or other, is a special darling with Captain Halkett. Indeed, it was only yesterday I heard him saying he valued her more than any animal he had ever had.'

'Given him by one of the fair sex, most likely,' says the major with vicious intent.

'Very probably,' returns Cissy quietly, who carries a very game little heart beneath her pretty Irish skin, and would have died rather than betray any undue emotion. Nevertheless, it must be confessed her colour faintly wavers and fades away a little, only to return with tenfold brilliance as she sees Captain Halkett pass the stable window.

'Here he is!' she cries hurriedly. 'Now, what shall I do?'

'Nothing, if my advice is worth anything,' says the major sententiously.

Captain Halkett coming slowly up the yard, cigar in mouth as usual, and hands thrust deep in the pockets of his shooting-coat, sees Cissy, Major Blake—and the groom on his knees beside the mare. He takes in the whole situation at a glance. Throwing away his cigar, he turns to Cissy, and says pleasantly: 'Good-morning, Miss Mordaunt. Had a good day, I hope?'

'Yes; thanks—very—that is, no, not at all,' says Cissy nervously. 'I am afraid you will be horribly angry. But the fact is, as Major Blake and I were coming quietly home—cantering through the Park fields, at the last gap some sharp stone caught the Baby's leg, and has hurt her, as you see. I—I am so very sorry about it,' concludes Miss Mordaunt, genuinely vexed for the mishap.

'Don't say that,' entreats Halkett gently; 'and don't vex yourself. I would rather the mare was dead, than that you tormented yourself about her. Besides'—stooping to examine the injury—'from what I can see it is only skin-deep, and won't matter in a day or two; eh, Connor?'

'Yessir; only a scratch, sir. Right as ever in a week, sir.'

These words carry balm to Miss Mordaunt's breast; and presently the bandages being finally adjusted, and the Baby consoled by an additional feed, they leave the stables; and Blake considerately diverging to the right, Miss Mordaunt and Halkett go leisurely towards the house.

As they reach the stone steps leading to the Hall door, Cissy pauses. 'You are sure you forgive me?' she asks sweetly.

'How can you speak to me like that!' says Halkett, almost angry. 'Did you think I should cut up rough with you? What an ill-tempered brute you must consider me; you ought to know me better by this time.'

'I have not known you for so very long,' says Cissy smiling; then impulsively, while her colour once more deepens: 'Why is that horse such a favourite with you?—beyond all others, I mean. Was it a present?'

'Yes,' says Halkett in a low voice.

'From a very dear friend?'

'Very dear; more than a friend.'

'From—a gentleman?'

'No. From a lady,' says Halkett shortly, and turns away his head.

On the instant, the words the major had uttered in the stables come back to Miss Mordaunt's mind, and without further comment she sweeps past Halkett into the house, and he sees her no more until dinner-time.

When half-past seven chimes out, and the solemn retainer of the House of Mordaunt announces dinner as being served, both Major Blake and Captain Halkett make a hard fight of it to take Miss Cissy down; but Fate, in the person of Sir Thomas Lobin, interferes, and balks them of their prey. Halkett, however, may be said to have the best of it, as he succeeds in seating himself directly opposite his Irish divinity, and so can watch the changes of her beloved face, and perhaps edge in a word or two, addressed particularly to her, during the repast. All this can be the more readily accomplished, as he has been told off to a young lady who, if not actually insane, is at all events three parts silly, and so does not feel it incumbent upon him to supply her with the orthodox amount of small-talk.

Major Blake falling into line, finds himself presently situated somewhat low down, with Mrs Fairfax on one side of him, and Grace Elton, a cousin of Cissy's, on the other. If it were not that his thoughts are altogether centred on Miss Mordaunt, he might have considered himself in luck, as he is undoubtedly in very good quarters. Grace Elton is as unaffected as she is charming, and extremely pretty into the bargain. But the major will neither acknowledge nor see anything beyond the tip of Cissy's nose, as it shews itself provokingly every now and then from behind the epergne.

On a line with Sir Thomas, and the third from him, sits Mrs Leyton the Indian widow, in a ravishing costume of pearl and blue that speaks alone of worth. She is looking wonderfully handsome to-night, and has a bright adorable spot on each cheek that is not born of rouge. She is keeping her hand in by trying a little mild flirtation with the vicar, who occupies her right, and is making very pretty play; while his daughter—who is almost too young for society—watching them from the opposite side, finds her mind much exercised, and wonders in her heart if Mrs Leyton is really very fond of papa. Surely she must be; else why does she raise her large soft dark eyes so tenderly to his once in every three minutes precisely, by the marble clock on the chimney-piece?

Aunt Isabel, at the head of the table, is radiant as usual, and dispenses roast turkey and smiles with equal alacrity. She is carving with even more than her customary vigour and well-known proficiency, while at the same time she is listening to and adding a word here and there to every topic under discussion. She is, however, particularly attentive to Miss Lobin, who sits beside her, and who is as deaf as a post; though no trouble to any one except herself, poor lady, as she seeks not for conversation, and as long as she gets a bit of everything mentioned in the menu, is perfectly content.

There are two or three stray men from the neighbouring barracks scattered up and down; and these, with the three Misses Brighton—who being evidently not cut out by mother Nature for the civil service, have been considered suitable to ask to meet them—make up the party.

'Well, Cis, you had a pleasant day, I hope?' says Uncle Charlie, presently addressing his favourite niece.

'A delicious day, dear uncle; only we wound up with a misfortune. I was stupid enough to hurt Captain Halkett's horse on my way home through the Park; though indeed I scarcely think it was my fault. However, as it was to happen, we were lucky in having it occur at the end, instead of the beginning of our day, as we had our ride in spite of it.'

As she makes this little speech, she never once glances at Halkett (indeed she has taken no notice of him since the commencement of dinner), and purposely treats the whole thing as unworthy of regret. Halkett, contrasting her pretty contrition of the morning with this off-hand dismissal of the matter, is, manlike, thoroughly mystified.

'I am sorry to hear of an accident,' says Uncle Charlie, who holds all good animals dear to his heart.—'Nothing serious, I hope, Frank?'

'A mere scratch,' returns Halkett carelessly.

'That is right. It could not have happened through any great desire on the rider's part to reach her home, as she delayed her return so long we all imagined an elopement had taken place. But there was no such excitement in store for us.—I do think, as your guardian and uncle, Cis, I have every right to know what you and the major were talking of all that time.'

'Politics,' says the major lightly; 'we never talk anything but politics.—Do we, Miss Mordaunt?'

Here Blake dodges to one side of the epergne, that he may the more surely get a full view of Miss Mordaunt's face.

'Never,' replies Cissy emphatically, dodging the epergne in her turn; and then they both laugh.

Here Halkett mutters something under his breath that is so far audible as to rouse the silly young lady by his side into some kind of life. She sighs and uplifts her head.

'Were you speaking to me?' she asks in a somewhat startled tone.

'No—yes—was I?' stammers Halkett, rather shocked. 'I ought to have been, of course; but I have fallen so low as to allow dinner to engross all my attention. Pray, forgive me. It comes entirely of going down to dinner with a middle-aged gourmet.'

'Dear me—I fancied you quite young,' responds his companion with a simper; and lapses again into silence after the effort.

'Politics!' says Uncle Charlie, going back to the subject, after he has desired the butler to take several different dishes to Miss Lobin. 'How you must have enjoyed yourselves—especially Cissy. I never met any woman with such keen and comprehensive views on all matters connected with the state. It was only yesterday I asked her opinion of Gladstone, and she told me she always thought he was'——

'Now—Uncle Charlie,' interrupts Miss Mordaunt with such indignation, that the old gentleman, though chuckling to himself, audibly refuses all further information.

'May we not hear your opinion of Gladstone?' demands Sir Thomas, who is an old beau, and much addicted to Miss Mordaunt.

'Certainly not. And remember I distinctly forbid you to ask Uncle Charlie any questions when my back is turned; as he is capable of saying anything once my eye is off him.'

'Your will is my law,' says the old beau with a bow that would have reflected credit on a Chesterfield; and shortly afterwards, at a signal from Aunt Isabel, the ladies rising, leave the gentlemen to their own devices.

On entering the drawing-room, Mrs Leyton walking with the undulating graceful motion that belongs to her, and that cannot be acquired, goes straight to the fireplace, where she sinks into a lounging-chair, leaving the opposite one for Aunt Isabel, who almost instantly falls into a gentle doze. Little Miss Millar, the vicar's daughter, losing sight of her shyness in her desire to obtain her object, seeks a resting-place that will enable her still to keep a fascinated watch over Mrs Leyton, the widow having cast a glamour over the timid country maiden. The Misses Brighton and Grace Elton keep up a continual chatter, and are evidently enjoying themselves immensely; while Miss Lobin taking the cosy corner of the sofa, emulates her hostess, and letting her face lengthen until it reaches a state of utter imbecility, sweetly snoozes.

Cissy is standing in one of the windows, somewhat apart; she gazes out upon the stilly night, and softly cogitates. She cannot quite make up her mind whether she has been most sinned against or sinning; she cannot wholly approve her conduct at dinner, and finds it impossible to divest herself entirely of the idea that Halkett was looking miserable the entire time. But all men make a point of appearing injured when placed in the wrong position, and of course he had not liked her cross-examination of the morning. Yet again, why should he not receive presents from women? What right had she to question act or word of his? No matter what thoughts and hopes she may have encouraged in the secret recesses of her heart, she feels now she has no certain data to go upon to prove that Halkett cares for her beyond all others. Somebody—who was it?—had said he was a flirt. Well, one thing was positive—he should not flirt with her.

Here Aunt Isabel, slowly rousing, sneezes, and hems audibly, to let her friends know she has not been sleeping.

'Cissy, child,' she says, 'you will be perished over there. Come to the fire and warm yourself.'

'I am warm, thank you, and quite comfortable.'

'My love, I don't believe it' (with extreme mildness); 'it is freezing as hard as it can, and there is always a draught near a window. Come here, when I desire you.'

'Oh, I shall die near that blazing log.'

'And I shall die if you remain over there,' says Aunt Isabel; and carries her point.

'Better I than you, Auntie,' says Miss Mordaunt, and coming over, good-humouredly kneels down beside her kinswoman.

'Cold hands—warm heart,' murmurs the old lady, caressing the soft white fingers that lie upon her lap.

'A troublesome possession,' remarks Mrs Leyton with a lazy smile. 'No one is really happy in this world except he or she who carries an empty bosom.'

'Are you happy?' asks Miss Cissy innocently.

'Almost. The little worn-out article that beats here'—laying her hand over the region of the heart—'has pulsations hardly strong enough to cause me any uneasiness. Now and then I feel a faint pang—not often.'

'I would rather keep my heart, even at the expense of my suffering,' says Cissy warmly. 'She who cannot feel anguish, can know no perfect joy. Without love, life is a mistake, an unutterably stupid gift. That is how I think; but then I am Irish, and therefore of course unreasonable.'

'O no,' says Mrs Leyton graciously. 'The Irish are the most charming people in the world—so light-hearted, so quick to sympathise. Though I have been here only two days, and have asked no questions, I knew you to be Irish before you told me. Most of my friends come from your land; even Captain Halkett is half Irish, his mother being from Galway.'

'Yes?' says Cissy. She rather shrinks from mention of Halkett's name, and remembers with a slight pang how friendly have seemed his relations with Mrs Leyton since her arrival. 'Have you known Captain Halkett long?' she cannot help asking.

'All my life. His father and mine were fast friends; our childhood was spent together. Then we separated'—with a sigh, that sounds ominous to Cissy, but in reality is only born of past sorrow, utterly unconnected with him in any way—'to meet again after many years in India, and now—here. One way or another, all through, Frank's life has been mixed up with mine.'

Cissy bites her lip, and asks no more questions; but Mrs Leyton notices the action of the white teeth, and ponders.

'There is a great charm in Frank's manner, I think?' she says interrogatively.

'Is there? Most men nowadays are charming, as acquaintances,' replies Cissy carelessly. 'And Captain Halkett is too universal a favourite to be altogether charming to one.'

'Poor Frank!' laughs the widow lightly. 'He is unfortunate; or at least has found some one who cannot appreciate him. Then you mean to say you would find it impossible to care for any man who liked some other woman besides yourself?'

'Well, as you ask me the question, I confess I would,' says Cissy, who is feeling irritated, she scarcely knows why. 'I would divide honours with no one, and I would be winner—or nothing.'

'Then the man you love must be civil to no one else?'—with arched eyebrows indicative of surprise.

'Oh, "civil." Let him be as civil as he pleases. If you were talking merely of civility, I altogether misunderstood you. I only meant if I had a lover—which at the present moment I certainly have not—I would wish to be first in his eyes. Let him be civil to all the world, but let him love me.'

'Quite so; that is only fair, I think,' says the widow, but she looks immensely amused; and Cissy seeing her expression, feels her wrath rising. 'I quite thought—judging from appearances—that you and Captain Halkett were very good friends,' goes on Mrs Leyton unwisely, and regrets her speech a moment later.

'I beg you will not judge me from appearances,' says Miss Mordaunt haughtily. 'A woman of the world as you are, Mrs Leyton, ought surely to know that people for the most part do not always feel everything they may look. And besides, you must forgive me; but if there is one thing I have a particular objection to, it is being watched and commented upon.'

'You are right,' returns Mrs Leyton with suspicious sweetness; 'I fear I have been very indiscreet; for the future I will not watch you and Captain Halkett.'

There is a covert meaning in this speech that is absolutely maddening; but the entrance of the gentlemen puts a stop to Miss Mordaunt's reply. She withdraws slowly, and seats herself upon a distant lounge, where she is immediately joined by Major Blake.

'I hope you have missed me,' he says with a tender glance, pushing aside her trailing skirts that he may gain room for his huge person. 'I assure you the time those men spent over their wine was actionable; while I was tantalised by dreams of fair women the entire two hours.'

'Two hours! What an exaggeration. Why, by Aunt Isabel's watch, that was never known to lose a minute, it was only half an hour.'

'What to me was two hours, to you was but a fourth of the time. How cruel an interpretation may be put upon your words! And I have been buoying myself up with the hope while absent from you, that when we did meet again, I should hear something kind from your lips.'

'And so you shall,' says Miss Mordaunt, bestowing upon him a radiant smile, just to let 'that woman' see she is not pining for the recreant Frank. But unfortunately for the success of the thing, Mrs Leyton is looking the other way, and does not see it at all, while Frank Halkett does.

'Must I confess to you? Well, then, my accurate knowledge of the hour arose from my incessant glances at the watch, to see if your delay in coming was really as long as it appeared—to me.'

'If I thought you meant that'—begins Blake hesitatingly, with a sudden gleam in his eyes (what man but feels more valiant after dinner than before?)—'if I really thought you meant it'——

'Well—"if you really thought I meant it"—what would you do then? But no!' she cries hastily, seeing she has gone rather far, and unwilling to bring matters to a climax—'do not tell me; I do not wish to know. My ignorance in this case no doubt is blissful; I prefer to remain in it.—And now to change the subject. Who is Mrs Leyton? and what do you know about her? I am all curiosity where she is concerned.'

'Do you like her?' asks Blake, merely as a precautionary measure.

'I can't say I do—exactly,' replies the Irish girl candidly. 'Now tell me where you first met her.'

'In India. Her husband was alive when I first became acquainted with her. He lived tremendously hard; but he was devoted to her, without doubt, and she to him; and she took his death awfully badly. Never saw a woman so cut up by anything before; they generally take it pretty sensibly after the first shock, but she didn't; and went to a skeleton in less than three months.'

'She is not very thin now.'

'No. I suppose one can't keep on pining for ever, and in course of time good food will cover one's bones. But she felt it no end for months, and was altogether down in her luck. You see he got rather a horrible death, as his horse first threw him, and then almost trampled him beyond recognition.'

'How dreadful!' murmurs Miss Mordaunt, with a little shiver; and wonders how Mrs Leyton could ever have smiled afterwards.

'Yes; wasn't it? She took it so much to heart, that for years after she could not bear the sight of a horse, though she had the best seat in the regiment—amongst the women, I mean—and could not be induced to take a ride. Before leaving India, she sold, or gave away, every one of her horses.'

Here Cissy becomes intensely interested. 'To whom did she give them?' she asks indifferently.

'I hardly know; I was up-country at the time, but her most intimate friends, I suppose.—By-the-bye, Halkett was an immense crony of hers.'

'Indeed?'

'Never out of the house,' says the major, thinking it a good opportunity to improve his own chances, though really only giving voice to what had been the common report in that part of India where the catastrophe had occurred. 'After Tom Leyton's death, he would have married her like a shot; but she would not hear of it. She is a very handsome woman, you know, and tremendously admired by some fellows, though for my part I don't altogether see it.'

'Don't you? I think her wonderfully pretty. Perhaps she will relent, and marry him now; who knows? Certainly his constancy deserves some reward. Was it Mrs Leyton gave him the mare?'

'Don't know, I'm sure. But think it very likely, now you mention it, as he sets such uncommon store by her.—How very well Mrs Leyton is looking just now,' says the major, adjusting his eyeglass with much care, and glancing significantly at the other end of the room, where sits the widow in earnest conversation with Frank Halkett. Cissy follows the direction of his gaze, but, conscious of his scrutiny, takes care that not one muscle of her face betrays what she is really feeling.

Yes, very well, very handsome looks Mrs Leyton, as leaning gracefully back in her chair, with one hand toying idly with the rings that cover her fingers, she listens to Captain Halkett's conversation. Now and then she raises large dreamy eyes—half mirthful, half sympathetic—to his face, but scarcely interrupts him. He is talking with much earnestness—is apparently entirely engrossed by his subject—and takes no heed of what is going on around him. Presently he ceases, and evidently seeks an answer from his beautiful companion. She gives him one of her upward glances—all sympathy this time—and says a few words; but they are without doubt the right ones, as Halkett's face brightens, and a smile overspreads it that makes it positively handsome. At the moment he raises her hand, and bending over it, seems to examine her rings curiously. To Cissy the action almost bespeaks a betrothal, and renders her half indignant, wholly miserable. Nevertheless, turning to Major Blake, she says with a bright brave smile: 'I think my idea was right, and even now he has received his reward.'

'Looks uncommon like it,' says the major with a sigh of relief.