If a cordial host and a graceful hostess can throw a wondrous charm over the hospitalities of a house, there is a feature in those houses where neither host nor hostess is felt which contributes largely to the enjoyment of the assembled company. I suspect, indeed, that republics work more smoothly domestically than nationally. Tilney was certainly a case in point. Mrs. Maxwell was indeed the owner,—the demesne, the stables, the horses, the gardens, the fish-ponds, were all hers; but somehow none of the persons under her roof felt themselves her guests. It was an establishment in which each lived as he liked, gave his own orders, and felt very possibly more at home, in the pleasant sense of the phrase, than in his own house. Dinner alone was a “fixture;” everything else was at the caprice of each. The old lady herself was believed to take great pride in the perfect freedom her guests enjoyed; and there was a story current of a whole family who partook of her hospitalities for three weeks, meeting her once afterwards in a watering-place, and only recognizing her as an old woman they saw at Tilney. Other tales there were of free comments of strangers made upon the household, the dinners, and such-like to herself, in ignorance of who she was, which she enjoyed vastly, and was fond of relating, in strict confidence, to her few intimates.

If there were a number of pleasant features in such a household, there were occasionally little trifling drawbacks that detracted slightly from its perfect working,—mere specks in the sun, it is true, and, after all, only such defects as are inseparable from all things where humanity enters and influences. One of these—perhaps the most marked one—was the presumption of certain habituÉs to install themselves in certain rooms, which, from long usage, they had come to regard as their own. These prescriptive rights were so well understood that the frequenters of Tilney no more thought of disturbing them than they would of contesting their neighbors' title-deeds, or appropriating to themselves some portions of their wardrobes. Occasionally, however, it did happen that some guest of more than ordinary pretension arrived,—some individual whose rank or station placed him above these conventionalities,—and in such cases some deviations from ordinary routine would occur, but so quietly and peacefully withal as never to disturb the uniform working of the domestic machinery.

“I find my rooms always ready for me here,” said Mrs. Trafford; “and I have no doubt that Mrs. Maxwell has given orders about yours, Mr. Maitland; but it's your own fault, remember, if you 're not lodged to your liking.”

Maitland was not long in making his choice. A little garden pavilion, which was connected with the house by a glass corridor, suited him perfectly; it combined comfort and quiet and isolation,—who could ask for more?—within an easy access of society when it was wanted. There was the vast old garden, as much orchard and shrubbery as garden, to stroll in unobserved; and a little bathroom into which the water trickled all day long with a pleasant drip, drip, that sounded most soothingly.

“It's the Commodore's favorite place, sir, this garden-house,” said the butler, who did the honors to Maitland, “and it's only a chance that he's not here to claim it. There was some mistake about his invitation, and I suppose he's not coming.”

“Yes, I passed him a couple of miles off; he 'll be here almost immediately.”

“We 'll put him up on the second floor, sir; the rooms are all newly done up, and very handsome.”

“I 'm sorry if I inconvenience him, Mr. Raikes,” said Maitland, languidly; “but I've got here now, and I'm tired, and my traps are half taken out; and, in fact, I should be sorrier still to have to change. You understand me,—don't you?”

“Perfectly, sir; and my mistress, too, gave orders that you were to have any room you pleased; and your own hours, too, for everything.”

“She is most kind. When can I pay my respects to her?”

“Before dinner, sir, is the usual time. All the new company meet her in the drawing-room. Oh, there's the Commodore now; I hear his voice, and I declare they 're bringing his trunks here, after all I said.”

The old sailor was now heard, in tones that might have roused a main-deck, calling to the servants to bring down all his baggage to the pavilion, to heat the bath, and send him some sherry and a sandwich.

“I see you 're getting ready for me, Raikes,” said he, as the somewhat nervous functionary appeared at the door.

“Well, indeed, Commodore Graham, these rooms are just taken.”

“Taken! and by whom? Don't you know, and have n't you explained, that they are always mine?”

“We thought up to this morning, Commodore, that you were not coming.”

“Who are 'we,'—you and the housemaids, eh? Tell me who are 'we,' sir?”

“My mistress was greatly distressed, sir, at George's mistake, and she sent him back late last night.”

“Don't bother me about that. Who's here,—who has got my quarters, and where is he? I suppose it's a man.”

“It's a Mr. Norman Maitland.”

“By George, I'd have sworn it!” cried the Commodore, getting purple with passion. “I knew it before you spoke. Go in and say that Commodore Graham would wish to speak with him.”

“He has just lain down, sir; he said he did n't feel quite well, and desired he mightn't be disturbed.”

“He's not too ill to hear a message. Go in and say that Commodore Graham wishes to have one word with him. Do you hear me, sir?”

A flash of the old man's eye and a tighter grasp of his cane—very significant in their way—sent Mr. Raikes on his errand, from which, after a few minutes, he came back, saying, in a low whisper, “He's asleep, sir,—at least I think so; for the bedroom door is locked, and his breathing comes very long.”

“This is about the most barefaced, the most outrageously impudent—” He stopped, checked by the presence of the servant, which he had totally forgotten. “Take my traps back into the hall,—do you hear me?—the hall.”

“If you 'd allow me, sir, to show the yellow rooms upstairs, with the bow window—”

“In the attics, I hope?”

“No, sir,—just over the mistress's own room on the second floor.”

“I 'll save you that trouble, Mr. Raikes; send Corrie here, my coachman,—send him here at once.”

While Mr. Raikes went, or affected to go, towards the stables,—a mission which his dignity secretly scorned,—the Commodore called out after him, “And tell him to give the mare a double feed, and put on the harness again,—do you hear me?—to put the harness on her.”

Mr. Raikes bowed respectfully; but had the Commodore only seen his face, he would have seen a look that said, “What I now do must not be taken as a precedent,—I do it, as the lawyers say, 'without prejudice.'”

In a glow of hot temper, to which the ascent of two pairs of stairs contributed something, the old Commodore burst into the room where his daughters were engaged unpacking. Sofas, tables, and chairs were already covered with articles of dress, rendering his progress a matter of very nice steering through the midst of them.

“Cram them in again,—stow them all away!” cried he; “we 're going back.”

“Back where?” asked the elder, in a tone of dignified resistance years of strong opposition had taught her.

“Back to Port-Graham, if you know such a place. I 've ordered the car round to the door, and I mean to be off in a quarter of an hour.”

“But why—what has happened? what's the reason for this?”

“The reason is that I 'm not going to be packed up in the top story, or given a bed in a barrack room. That fellow Raikes,—I 'll remember it to him next Christmas,—that fellow has gone and given the garden-house to that Mr. Maitland.”

“Oh, is that all?” broke in Miss Graham.

“All, all! Why, what more would you have? Did you expect that he had told me to brush his coat or fetch his hot water? What the d——l do you mean by 'all'?”

“Then why don't you take Mrs. Chetwyn's rooms? They are on this floor. She's going now. They are most comfortable, and have a south aspect: by the way she was just talking of Maitland; she knows all about him, and he is the celebrated Norman Maitland.”

“Ah, let us hear that. I want to unearth the fellow if I only knew how,” said he, taking a chair.

“There's nothing to unearth, papa,” said the younger daughter. “Mrs. Chetwyn says that there's not a man in England so courted and feted as he is; that people positively fight for him at country-houses; and it's a regular bait to one's company to say, 'We 're to have Maitland with us.'”

“And who is he?”

“She does n't know.”

“What's his fortune?”

“She doesn't know.”

“Where is it?”

“She's not sure. It must be somewhere abroad,—in India, perhaps.”

“So that this old woman knows just as much as we do ourselves,—which is simply nothing, but that people go on asking this man about to this dinner and that shooting just because they met him somewhere else, and he amused them.”

“'T is pretty clear that he has money, wherever it comes from,” said Miss Graham, authoritatively. “He came to Hamilton Court with four hunters and three hackneys, the like of which were never seen in the county.”

“Tell papa about his yacht,” broke in the younger.

“I don't want to hear about his yacht; I 'd rather learn why he turned me out of my old quarters.”

“In all probability he never heard they were yours. Don't you know well what sort of house this is,—how everybody does what he likes?”

“Why didn't Alice Lyle—Mrs. Trafford, I mean—tell him that I always took these rooms.”

“Because probably she was thinking of something else,” said Miss Graham, significantly. “Mrs. Chetwyn watched them as they drove up, and she declared that, if Maitland had n't his hand in her muff, her eyes have greatly deceived her.”

“And what if he had?”

“Simply that it means they are on very excellent terms. Not that Alice will make any real conquest there: for, as Mrs. Chetwyn said, 'he has seen far too many of these fine-lady airs and graces to be taken by them;' and she added, 'A frank, outspoken, natural girl, like your sister there, always attracts men of this stamp.'”

“Why didn't he come over on Wednesday, then? It was his own appointment, and we waited dinner till seven o'clock, and have not had so much as one line—no, not one line of apology.”

“Perhaps he was ill, perhaps he was absent; his note might have miscarried. At all events, I 'd wait till we meet him, and see what explanation he 'll make.”

“Yes, papa,” chimed in Beck, “just leave things alone. 'A strange hand on the rod never hooked the salmon,' is a saying of your own.”

“There's that stupid fellow brought the car round to the door; just as if our splendid equipage had n't attracted criticism enough on our arrival,” said Miss Graham, as she opened the window, and by a gesture more eloquent than graceful motioned to the servant to return to the stableyard; “and there come the post-horses,” added she, “for the Chetwyns. Go now and secure her rooms before you 're too late;” and, rather forcibly aiding her counsel, she bundled the old Commodore out of the chamber, and resumed the unpacking of the wardrobe.

“I declare, I don't know what he'll interfere in next,” said Miss Graham.

“Yes,” said Beck, with a weary sigh, “I wish he'd go back to the American war, and what we did or did not do at Ticonderoga.”

Leaving these young ladies to discuss in a spirit more critical than affectionate the old Commodore's ways and habits, let us for a moment return to Maitland who had admitted young Lyle after two unsuccessful attempts to see him.

“It's no easy matter to get an audience of you,” said Mark. “I have been here I can't say how many times, always to hear Fenton lisp out. In the bath sir.”

“Yes. I usually take my siesta that way. With plenty of eau-de-Cologne in it there 'a no weakening effect. Well, and what is going on here? any people that I know? I suppose not.”

“I don't think it very likely: they are all country families, except a few refreshers from the garrison at Newry and Dundalk.”

“And what do they do?”

“Pretty much the same sort of thing you 'd find in an English country-house. There 's some not very good shooting. They make riding-parties. They have archery when it's fine, and billiards when it rains; but they always dine very well at seven, that much I can promise you.”

“Not such a cook as your father's, Lyle, I 'm certain.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mark, evidently flattered by the compliment. “But the cellar here is unequalled. Do you know that in the mere shadowy possibility of being one day her heir, I groan every time I see that glorious Madeira placed on the table before a set of fellows that smack their lips and say, 'It's good sherry, but a trifle too sweet for my taste.'”

“And this same heritage,—how do the chances look?”

“I shall want your power of penetration to say that. One day the old woman will take me aside and consult me about fifty things; and the next she'll say, 'Perhaps we'd better make no changes, Mark. Heaven knows what ideas they may have who 'll come after me.' She drives me half distracted with these capricious turns.”

“It is provoking, no doubt of it.”

“I 'd not care so much if I thought it was to fall to Bella; though, to be sure, no good-looking girl needs such a fortune as this. Do you know that the timber thrown down by the late gales is worth eight thousand pounds? and Harris the steward tells me it's not one fourth of what ought to be felled for the sake of the young wood.”

“And she has the whole and sole disposal of all this?”

“Every stick of it, and some six thousand acres besides!”

“I 'd marry her if I were you. I declare I would.”

“Nonsense! this is a little too absurd.”

“Amram married his aunt, and I never heard that she had such a dower; not to say that the relationship in the present case is only a myth.”

“Please to remember that she is about thirty years older than my mother.”

“I bear it most fully in mind, and I scout the vulgar impertinences of those who ridicule these marriages. I think there is something actually touching in the watchful care and solicitude of a youthful husband for the venerable object of his affections.”

“Well, you shall not point the moral by my case, I promise you,” said Mark, angrily.

“That sublime spectacle that the gods are said to love—a great man struggling with adversity—is so beautifully depicted in these unions.”

“Then why not—” He was going to say, “Why not marry her yourself?” but the fear of taking such a liberty with his distinguished friend just caught him in time and stopped him.

“I 'll tell you why not,” said Maitland, replying to the unuttered question. “If you have ever dined at a civic fÊte you 'll have remarked that there is some one dish or other the most gluttonous alderman will suffer to pass untasted,—a sort of sacrifice offered to public opinion. And so it is, an intensely worldly man, as people are polite enough to regard me, must show, every now and then, that there are temptations which he is able to resist. Marrying for money is one of these. I might speculate in a bubble company, I might traffic in cotton shares, or even 'walk into' my best friend al faro, but I mustn't marry for money,—that's positive.”

“But apparently I might,” said Mark, sulkily.

“You might,” replied Maitland, with calm dignity of manner.

“It is a privilege of which I do not mean to avail myself,” said Mark, while his face was flushed with temper. “Do you know that your friends the Grahams are here?”

“Yes; I caught a glimpse of the fair Rebecca slipping sideways through life on a jaunting-car.”

“And there's the old Commodore tramping over the house, and worrying every one with his complaints that you have turned him out of his rooms here,—rooms dedicated to his comfort for the last thirty years.”

“Reason enough to surrender them now. Men quit even the Treasury benches to give the Opposition a turn of office.”

“He 's a quarrelsome old blade, too,” said Mark, “particularly if he suspects he's been 'put upon.'”

“No blame to him for that.”

“A word or two, said as you well know how to say it, will set all right; or a line, perhaps, saying that having accidentally heard from me—”

“No, no, Mark. Written excuses are like undated acceptances, and they may be presented unexpectedly to you years after you 've forgotten them. I 'll tell the Commodore that I shall not inconvenience him beyond a day or two, for I mean to start by the end of the week.”

“They expect you to come back with us. Alice told me you had promised.”

“L'homme propose,” said he, sighing. “By the way, I saw that young fellow you told me about,—Butler; a good-looking fellow, too, well limbed and well set up, but not a marvel of good-breeding or tact.”

“Did he attempt any impertinences with you?” asked Mark, in a tone of amazement.

“Not exactly; he was not, perhaps, as courteous as men are who care to make a favorable impression; but he is not, as you suspected,—he is not a snob.”

“Indeed!” said Mark, reddening; for, though provoked and angry, he did not like to contest the judgment of Norman Maitland on such a point. “You 'll delight my sisters by this expression of your opinion; for my own part, I can only say I don't agree with it.”

“The more reason not to avow it, Lyle. Whenever you don't mean very well by a man, never abuse him, since, after that, all your judgments of him become suspect. Remember that where you praise you can detract; nobody has such unlimited opportunities to poison as the doctor. There, now,—there's a bit of Machiavelism to think over as you dress for dinner, and I see it's almost time to do so.”