Down below, in the garden of the hotel, all was cheerful enough, and most unlike the existence of any mystery here or elsewhere. The night was very soft and mild, though dark, the scent of the mignonette in the air, and most of the inhabitants of the hotel sitting out among the dark, rustling shrubs and under the twinkling lights, which made effects, too strong to be called picturesque, of light and shade among the many groups who were too artificial for pictorial effect, yet made up a picture like the art of the theatre, effective, striking, full of brilliant points. The murmur of talk was continuous, softened by the atmosphere, yet full of laughter and exclamations which were not soft. High above, the stars were shining in an atmosphere of their own, almost chill with the purity and remoteness of another world. At some of the tables the parties were not gay; here and there a silent English couple sat and looked on, half disapproving, half wistful, with a look in their eyes that said, how pleasant it must be when people can thus enjoy themselves, though in all likelihood how wrong! Among these English observers were Mrs. Lennox and John Trevanion.

Mrs. Lennox had no hat on, but a light white shawl of lacey texture over her cap, and her face full in the light. She was in no trouble about Rosalind’s absence, which she took with perfect calm. The girl had gone, no doubt, to sit with the children, or she had something to do up-stairs— Mrs. Lennox was aware of all the little things a girl has to do. But she was dull, and did not find John amusing. Mrs. Lennox would have thought it most unnatural to subject a brother to such criticism in words, or to acknowledge that it was necessary for him to be amusing to make his society agreeable. Such an idea would have been a blasphemy against nature, which, of course, makes the society of one’s brother always delightful, whether he has or has not anything to say. But granting this, and that she was, of course, a great deal happier by John’s side, and that it was delightful to have him again, still she was a little dull. The conversation flagged, even though she had a great power of keeping it up by herself when need was; but when you only get two words in answer to a question which it has taken you five minutes to ask, the result is discouraging; and she looked round her with a great desire for some amusement and a considerable envy of the people at the next table, who were making such a noise! How they laughed, how the conversation flew on, full of fun evidently, full of wit, no doubt, if one could only understand. No doubt it is rather an inferior thing to be French or Russian or whatever they were, and not English; and to enjoy yourself so much out of doors in public is vulgar perhaps. But still Mrs. Lennox envied a little while she disapproved, and so did the other English couple on the other side. Aunt Sophy even had begun to yawn and to think it would perhaps be better for her rheumatism to go in and get to bed, when she perceived the familiar figure of young Everard amid the shadows, looking still more wistfully towards her. She made him a sign with great alacrity and pleasure, as she was in the habit of doing, for indeed he joined them every night, or almost every night. When she had done this, and had drawn a chair towards her for him, then and not till then Mrs. Lennox suddenly remembered that John might not like it. That was very true— John might not like it! What a pity she had not thought of it sooner? But why shouldn’t John like such a very nice, friendly, serviceable young man. Men were so strange! they took such fancies about each other. All this flashed through her mind after she had made that friendly sign to Everard, and indicated the chair.

“Is any one coming?” asked John, roused by these movements.

“Only Mr. Everard, John; he usually comes in the evening—please be civil to him,” she cried in dismay.

“Oh, civil!” said John Trevanion; he pushed away his chair almost violently, with the too rapid reflection, so easily called forth, that Sophy was a fool and had no thought, and the intention of getting up and going away. But then he bethought himself that it would be well to see what sort of fellow this young man was. It would be necessary, he said to himself sternly, that there should be an explanation before the intimacy went any further, but, in the meantime, as fortunately Rosalind was absent (he said this to himself with a forlorn sort of smile at his former disappointment), it would be a good opportunity to see what was in him. Accordingly he did not get up as he intended, but only pushed his chair away, as the young man approached with a hesitating and somewhat anxious air. John gave him a gruff nod, but said nothing, and sat by, a grim spectator, taking no part in the conversation, as Mrs. Lennox broke into eager, but, in consequence of his presence, somewhat embarrassed and uneasy talk.

“I thought we were not to see you to-night,” she said. “I thought there might be something going on, perhaps. We never know what is going on except when you bring us word, Mr. Everard. I do think, though the Venat is supposed to be the best hotel, that madame is not at all enterprising about getting up a little amusement. To be sure, the season is almost over. I suppose that is the cause.”

“I don’t think there is anything going on except the usual music and the weekly dance at the Hotel d’Europe, and—”

“I think French people are always dancing,” said Mrs. Lennox, with a little sigh, “or rattling on in that way, laughing and jesting as if life were all a play. I am sure I don’t know how they keep it up, always going on like that. But Rosalind does not care for those sort of dances. Had there been one in our own hotel among people we know— But I must say madame is rather remiss: she does not exert herself to provide amusement. If I came here another year, as I suppose I must, now that I have begun to have a koor—”

“Oh, yes, they will keep you to it. This is the second year I have been made to come. I hope you will be here, Mrs. Lennox, for then I shall be sure to see you, and—” Here he paused a little and added “the children,” in a lower voice.

“It is so nice of you, a young man, to think of the children,” said Aunt Sophy, gratefully; “but they say it does make you like people when you have done them a great service. As to meeting us, I hope we shall meet sooner than that. When you come to England you must—” Here Mrs. Lennox paused, feeling John’s malign influence by her side, and conscious of a certain kick of his foot and the suppressed snort with which he puffed out the smoke of his cigar. She paused; but then she reflected that, after all, the Elms was her own, and she was not in the habit of consulting John as to whom she should ask there. And then she went on, with a voice that trembled slightly, “Come down to Clifton and see me; I shall be so happy to see you, and I think I know some of your Essex relations,” Mrs. Lennox said.

John Trevanion, who had been leaning back with the legs of his chair tilted in the air, came down upon them with a dint in the gravel, and thus approached himself nearer to the table in his mingled indignation at his sister’s foolishness, and eagerness to hear what the young fellow would find to say. This, no doubt, disturbed the even flow of the response, making young Everard start.

“I don’t think I have any relations in Essex,” he said. “You are very kind. But I have not been in England for some years, and I don’t think I am very likely to go.”

“Dear me!” said Mrs. Lennox, “I am very sorry. I hope you have not got any prejudice against home. Perhaps there is more amusement to be found abroad, Mr. Everard, and no doubt that tells with young men like you; but I am sure you will find after a while what the song says, that there is no place like home.”

“Oh, no, I have no prejudice,” he said hurriedly. “There are reasons—family reasons.” Then he added, with what seemed to John, watching him eagerly, a little bravado, “The only relative I have is rather what you would call eccentric. She has her own ways of thinking. She has been ill-used in England, or at least she thinks so, and nothing will persuade her— Ladies, you know, sometimes take strange views of things.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I cannot allow you to say anything against ladies. For my part I think it is men that take strange views. But, my dear Mr. Everard, because your relative has a prejudice (which is so very unnatural in a woman), that is not to say that a young man like you is to be kept from home. Oh, no, you may be sure she doesn’t mean that.”

“It does seem absurd, doesn’t it?” the young man said.

“And I would not,” said Aunt Sophy, strong in the sense of superiority over a woman who could show herself so capricious, “I would not, though it is very nice of you, and everybody must like you the better for trying to please her, I would not yield altogether in a matter like this. For, you know, if you are thinking of public life, or of any way of distinguishing yourself, you can only do that at home. Besides, I think it is everybody’s duty to think of their own country first. A tour like this we are all making is all very well, for six months or even more. We shall have been nine months away in a day or two, but then I am having my drains thoroughly looked to, and it was necessary. Six months is quite enough, and I would not stay abroad for a permanency, oh! not for anything. Being abroad is very nice, but home—you know what the song says, there is—Rosalind! Good heavens, what is the matter? It can’t be Johnny again?”

Rosalind seemed to rush upon them in a moment, as if she had lighted down from the skies. Even in the flickering artificial light they could see that she was as white as her dress and her face drawn and haggard. She came and stood by the table with her back to all the fluttering crowd beyond and the light streaming full upon her. “Uncle John,” she said, “mamma is dead, I have seen her; Amy and I have seen her. You drove her away, but she has come back to the children. I knew— I knew—that sometime she would come back.”

“Rosalind!” Mrs. Lennox rose, forgetting her rheumatism, and John Trevanion rushed to the girl and took her into his arms. “My darling, what is it? You are ill—you have been frightened.”

She leaned against his arm, supporting herself so, and lifted her pale face to his. “Mamma is dead, for I have seen her,” Rosalind said.