IT is the morning after the Derby Day, and Sir Richard, who has never had a shilling upon that national event, yet reads with interest the prose-poem upon the subject in the Times, over the breakfast-table, and even favours Letty—which is so unusual a piece of graciousness, that it almost suggests the idea of making amends for something—with extracts from the same, aloud. He and his sister are alone at the morning meal, for my Lady, as is often the case now, has had her tea and dry toast sent up to her in her own room, as also a couple of letters—one from Arthur Haldane, and one with the Paris post-mark, and in a foreign hand.

“Lord Stonart is said to have netted forty thousand pounds: just think of that, Letty.”

“Yes, Richard; but then think of the poor people that lost it.”

“Poor people should not bet,” returned the baronet severely. “I am sorry for Mr Chifney, since, if he had not quarrelled with his Lordship, the winner would have come out of his stables. As it was, he very nearly accomplished it with that French horse Menclaus—a success which I should, as an Englishman, have much deplored.”

“Dear me! was not that the horse in which Walter was so much interested?”

“I am sure I don't know, Letty. I should think my brother had no money to spare for the race-course, under present circumstances: he could surely never be such a fool.”

“Very likely not, Richard. I never said a word about his risking money; I only said he was 'interested.'”

“Ah!” rejoined the baronet significantly, “I dare say;” and then he began to whistle, as was not unusual with him when thoroughly displeased. Presently, however, recollecting that this was not a sociable sort of thing to do, Sir Richard abruptly observed: “Mamma had a letter from Paris this morning, and in a foreign hand; I wonder who her correspondent is. I do not think she has heard from abroad since immediately after our poor father's death. Then I remember several of her old French friends wrote to her.”

“I hope it is no ill news of any kind, for I am getting quite anxious about dear mamma, Richard. Ever since Christmas last, she has seemed to get more and more depressed.”

“I have only observed it lately,” answered the baronet, rather stiffly; “and I am sure we have not far to look for the reason.—By the by, there was a letter for her from Arthur Haldane also.”

“Oh! was there?” said Letty carelessly, but turning a lively pink. Then after a short pause, during which the baronet resumed his paper: “If you will not have another cup of coffee, Richard, I think I will go up and see mamma.”

At that moment, the door opened, and my Lady herself entered the room. Her cheeks were ashy pale, but her eyes were beaming with excitement, and the hand in which she held an open letter trembled as she spoke. “Oh, I have got such good news, Richard!”

“What! from Arthur?” cried Letty. “Ah! I thought he would arrange everything as it should be.”

Sir Richard frowned, and seemed about to speak, but did not do so.

“Yes, I have heard from Arthur too,” said my Lady; “and very satisfactorily, although, perhaps, there may be matters which may require my presence in town for a day or two.”

“You may always command my services, mother: I can start at five minutes' notice,” said Sir Richard gravely.

“No, my dear hoy; if I have to go at all—which is not certain—I shall certainly go alone, or rather with nobody but Mary. You will be full of preparations for your fÊte, I know, for one only comes of age once in one's lifetime; and besides, to tell you the truth, you would be of no use at all.” Here she kissed him tenderly, and pushed her fingers through his brown curls lingeringly, as though she was already wishing him farewell. “But the good news I speak of is a much more selfish affair than you dream of. I have had a letter from my dear old friend, Madame de Castellan, who used to be so good to me when I was no older than you, Letty, at Dijon.”

“I remember her,” said Sir Richard. “She came to stay at the Abbey when I was about nine, did she not, and took such a fancy to dear old Belcomb? She said that she and I would marry so soon as I got old enough, and set up an establishment in the little cottage. A charming old lady, with snow-white hair, but a slight deficiency of teeth.”

“Just so,” answered my Lady. “She always vowed she would have nothing false about her, as long as she lived, and she is alive now, and apparently very hearty. But she has had some money losses, as well as certain domestic misfortunes, which induce her to seek an entire change of life. It is a most singular thing that you should have recollected her passion for Belcomb, for it is about that very place that she has written. She wishes to know whether she could be our tenant there, at all events for the summer. The matter is in your hands, Richard, or will be so in a week or two, but I confess I should like to have her for a neighbour exceedingly.”

“Then by all means write and say 'Come,'” cried the baronet; “and why not let her have Belcomb rent free? I dare say she would not mind our having our picnics there occasionally; and it is really no loss to me, for I don't believe anybody but herself would dream of taking it, except in the shooting season.”

“Then that is arranged,” answered my Lady joyfully. “I am to write by return of post,” she says ; “and if the letter says 'Yes,' that then we may expect her any day. She will bring her own French maid; and I will drive over to-day, and arrange about old Rachel and her husband, who, of course, must be no losers, if they have to leave. That must be Madame's own affair, if she is really to have the place for nothing. See how affectionately the dear old lady writes, and what a capital hand, considering her advanced age!”

“Yes, indeed,” said Sir Richard, elevating his eyebrows: “only, to say the truth, I am not good at French manuscript——”

“Although a master of that language, when in printed books,” interrupted Letty.

“Well, the fact is they didn't teach that sort of thing at Eton in my time,” answered the baronet frankly; “or, at all events, they didn't teach me. However, French is not so bad as German, that I will say. One can pronounce it without speaking from the pit of one's stomach.”

“Yes, one can—after a fashion,” laughed Letty a little scornfully; but her elder brother seemed resolved to take all her bantering in good part that morning, as the imperial lion will sometimes tolerate the gambols of a companion kitten. “I don't think, however,” she continued, “Madame de Castellan, who comes from Paris, will quite understand you, Richard.—How nicely she speaks of Mary, mamma. Why, how comes she to know so much about her?”

“Why, when I went to Dijon, before my marriage, Mary Forest went with me, you know, and remained there several years.”

“Ah, yes, of course; I had forgotten.”

“And when we were at the—the college,” continued my Lady, with a slight tinge of colour, “Madame took pity upon us both, being foreigners, and was kind to us beyond all measure. Many a happy day have we passed in her pretty chateau together; and indeed I think I owe my Parisian pronunciation—of which you seem to make so much, Letty—at least as much to Madame de Castellan as to my paid teachers. She never could speak English, if you remember, Richard; everything she addressed to you had to be translated.”

“Dear me,” answered the baronet hastily, “I don't like that. I hope she has learned English since then. It places one in a very humiliating position to be talked to in a language one does not understand; unless you can treat the person as a savage, which, to say the truth, I always feel inclined to do.”

“Well, Richard,” said my Lady smiling, “if I am not at your elbow when Madame de Castellan calls, there will be always Letty here, who is cunning in such tongue-fence, to protect you; but, as a matter of fact, we shall see my poor old friend but very seldom. She is a good deal broken, I fear, by time, and still more by trouble”—here my Lady's own voice began to quaver a little—“and all she seems to desire is quiet and seclusion, before her day of rest at last shall dawn.”

“She will be very welcome,” answered Sir Richard tenderly. “I hope that you will cause everything for her comfort to be looked to at Belcomb, and I will again repeat my orders to Rinkel that the place is to be kept quite free from trespassers.”

He rose and kissed his mother, then, as he left the room, delayed with his fingers on the door-handle, saying: “Have Walter and—and his wife consented to be present at my Coming of Age?”

“Certainly, dear Richard: they will both be very pleased to come—nay, Arthur thinks that they may return to the Abbey immediately. It is scarcely worth while for them to take a house, or rather lodgings, at Canterbury, since they are to be here so soon. Walter has leave now, it seems, and there will be no difficulty in getting it prolonged almost indefinitely: he can do anything he likes with his colonel, you know, as indeed”——

“Exactly,” interrupted Sir Richard drily. “Then I suppose they will be back in a few days.” And with that he placed the door between himself and the threatened eulogy upon Master Walter.

“Was there any particular message for me, mamma?” inquired Letty demurely.

“From Walter? No, dear. He sent his love to us all; but of course he feels a little embarrassed, and perhaps scarcely understands that he has been forgiven. Oh, I forgot: you meant was there any particular message from Arthur Haldane, you exacting little puss! Why, he only left us yesterday morning! But don't be vexed, my darling. You have won the love of a man who knows your worth almost as well as I do. He may not be so brilliant or so handsome as our darling Walter—and indeed who is?—but I must say he has shewn much better taste in choosing a wife. He has both wisdom and goodness, my darling child, and I firmly believe your future happiness is assured.”

“Yes, dearest mother, I do believe it; but”——Here Letty's eyes began not only to sparkle, but to distil pearls and diamonds in the most lavish and apparently uncalled-for profusion.

“Why, what is the matter now, my love?” inquired my Lady.

“Nothing, mamma—nothing at least that I should have thought it worth while to tell you, had I not been overcome by your kind words. I know you have got troubles enough of your own; I did not mean to tell you, indeed I did not; I tried to forget it myself. Only last night, after you had gone to bed, Richard sat up with me talking about his future, and it seems he has made some plan for mine. He spoke of Mr Charles Vane as a person he would like to have for a brother-in-law. He bade me be particularly civil to him at the coming fÊte; and when I said that I did not very much care about Mr Vane—and, in fact, that I had already—— O mamma, Richard said some very cruel things. He reminded me that one member of the family had already made a disreputable marriage”——

“That was an ungenerous speech, and very unlike my Richard,” interposed my Lady with emphasis. “Why, he would have married Rose himself.”

“So I have sometimes thought,” replied Letty simply: “but to do him justice, I think he was referring to the clandestine character of the marriage rather than to the match itself. However, when he used the word disreputable in connection with Arthur Haldane, he made me very angry, I own. I told him that Arthur was worth all the Vanes that had ever been born, whether there might have been nineteen generations of them (as he boasted) or a hundred and ninety. And I am afraid, dear mamma, that I snapped my fingers, and said I did not care that, when he accused dearest Arthur of not having a great-grandfather. At all events, Richard stalked out of the drawing-room vastly offended; and although he has been endeavouring to be extra civil to me this morning, I know that it is only that he may again introduce the very objectionable subject of Mr Charles Vane; and when I say 'No' with decision, as of course I shall do, I fear that he may take it upon himself to write to Arthur; and then, dearest mother, the Haldanes are so proud, you know, that I don't know what may happen.”

Strange as it may seem, there had flitted across my Lady's face during this recital a look of something like Relief—for it surely could not have been Satisfaction—but it speedily gave place to that expression of distress that had become only too habitual to her once serene and comely features. Perhaps, accustomed to mischance as she now was, she had expected even more unwelcome news, and had felt momentarily thankful matters were no worse; but now all was gloom again.

“You were quite right to tell me this, Letty, even though it does give me a new cause for grief. If I know Arthur Haldane, he will not desert his betrothed wife on account of any slight that may be put upon him by any other human being. You may be quite at ease about that, I am very sure. But these dissensions and disagreements among my own children—I know it is not your fault, dear Letty—but I feel that I cannot bear up under them. You will not have me with you here much longer.”

“O mamma—dear, dear mamma, how selfish it was of me thus to afflict you further. But don't, don't talk like that. What should we do without you—you the sole bond that unites your boys together: and I? O mother, what would become of me? You don't know how I love you.”

“Yes, darling, I do. You are tenderhearted as you are dutiful. And my boys, to do them justice, they love me too; but they are wearing me into my grave. At least, I feel it would be far better if I were lying there.”

“O mamma, mamma,” sighed Letty, covering my Lady's tearful face with kisses, “you will break my heart if you talk so.”

“You will have somebody better able to-take care of you even than I, dear child, when I am gone. And I will see that it is so. Yes, I will leave directions behind me—you will find them in my desk, Letty; remember this, should anything happen to me—about that matter as well as other things. Richard will respect my wishes in such a case, I know, and will offer no opposition.”

“But, dearest mother, do you feel ill,” cried Letty in an agony, “that you talk of such things as these? Let us send for the doctor from Dalwynch. How I wish that Arthur's father could be prevailed on to come and see you! O mamma! I would rather die than you, although I am sure I am not half so fit for death!”

“Dear child, dear child!” sobbed my Lady. “It will be a bitter parting indeed for both of us—when the time comes. Perhaps it may not be so near at hand as I feared. In the meantime, rest assured, love, that if I feel a doctor can do me any good, he shall be sent for at once. But it is the mind, and not the body, which has need of medicine.—There, dry your eyes, and let us hope for the best. You will drive over with me this afternoon, will you not, to Belcomb? There is no time to lose in getting things ready there for our new tenant.”

END OF VOL. II.