the next instant something told him he had done right; he saw that a very gentle, tender look had come into the old man's eyes as he leant back in his chair.

"I suppose you are going to get married," Charles said, faintly," and that is the meaning of all this? Well," he went on, recovering peevishly," why the deuce don't you go on, sir?"

This little return of the old manner made it easier for the young man to speak. "I've promised to marry a woman; I love her, and that is my secret," he said, still speaking very quickly. "I'm not quite crazy; she is educated and good, and very beautiful, but she is only a farmer's daughter at Tracy. Her mother was a lady, and her name is Reine Chrétien."

Dick, having spoken, sat staring at the

fire.

"And- and you mean to establish that - this farmer's daughter here as soon as Charles, trembling very much, tried to get up from his chair, and sank down again. "You know I don't," said Dick, with a sad voice, 66 or I should not have told you." Then there was another silence.

"I-I can't bear much agitation,' Charles said at last, while a faint colour came into his cheeks. "Let us talk of something else. Is the paper come yet? Ring the bell and ask."

The paper had come, and Dick read out column after column, scarcely attending to the meaning of one word before him. And yet all the strange every-day life rushing into the sick room jarred horribly upon his nerves. Records of speeches and meetings, and crime, and advertisements all the busy stir and roar of the world seemed stamped upon the sheet before him. His own love and interest and future seemed part of this unquiet tide of life; while the old man sat waiting in his big chair, away from it all; and the fire burnt quietly, lighting up the room, and outside the white mist was lying upon the trees and the gardens.

At last Dick saw, to his great relief, that his uncle had fallen asleep, and then he gently got up from his chair, and went and looked out at the twilight lawn. He thought of the picnic, and all the figures under the trees; he could not face the present, his mind turned and shifted, as people's minds do in the presence of great realities.

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"Dick" cried the old man, waking anxiously, are you there? Don't leave me. I shall be more comfortable in bed. Call Mundy and help me up."

Richard Butler dined alone in the great dismal dining-room, and while he was at dinner Mundy told him the lawyer had come. "Mr. Butler desired me to open a bottle of his best claret for you, sir," said Mundy; "he wishes to see you again after dinner. Mr. Baxter is with him now."

The lawyer had not left when Dick came into the room. He was tying red tape round long folded slips of paper and parchment. Old Charles was in his old-fashioned four-post bed, with the ancient chintz hangings, upon which wonderful patterns of dragons and phoenixes had been stamped. Dick had often wondered at these awful scrolled figures when he was a child; he used to think they were horrible dreams which had got fastened upon the curtains somehow. Charles was sitting upright in the middle of it all; he had shrunk away and looked very small.

I'm more comfortable up here," the old man said. "I've been talking to Mr. Baxter about this business of yours, Dick. “It's lucky for you sir, it didn't happen a year ago - isn't it, Baxter ?"

"Your uncle shows great trust in you, Mr. Butler," the attorney said. "There are not many like him who.

"You see, Dick, one thing now is very much the same as another to me," interrupted the master of Lambswold. "It seems a risk to run, but that is your lookout, as you say, and I should have known nothing about it if you had not told me. If in another year's time you have not changed your mind.... Mr. Baxter has provided, as you will find. I have experienced a great many blessings in my life," he said in an altered tone "a very great many. I don't think I have been as thankful as I' might have been for them, and and I should like you, too, to have some one you care for by your bedside when Lambswold changes masters again," Charles Butler said, holding out his kind old hand once more. "I was very fond of your mother, Dick."

Dick's answer was very incoherent, but his uncle understood him. Only the old man felt a doubt as to the young man's stability of purpose, and once more spoke of the twelve months which he desired should elapse before the marriage was publicly announced; he asked him to say nothing for the present. He owned with a faint smile that he did not want discussion.

Of course Dick promised; and then he wrote to Reine, and told her of the condition and of the kind old uncle's consent.

Twelve months seemed but a very little

days went on his uncle rallied a little; but he knew that this improvement could not continue, and of course he was not able to get away. He often wrote to Reine, and in a few simple words he would tell her of his gratitude to his uncle, and of his happiness in the thought of sharing his future, whatever it might be, with her. "Although heaven knows," he said, "how sincerely I pray that this succession may be put off for years; for you, my Reine, do not care for these things, and will take me, I think, without a farthing."

But a year to Reine was a long weary time of suspense to look forward to. She found the strain very great; the doubts which returned for all her efforts against them, the terror of what might be in store. She loved Dick as she hated his surroundings, and sometimes she almost feared that her love was not worthy of his, and sometimes the foolish, impatient woman would cry out to herself that it was he who wanted to be set free.

CHAPTER XVI.

MUSIC HATH CHARMS.

Ir had required all Fontaine's persuasion, backed by the prestige of his municipal authority, to persuade Justine to open the drawing-room shutters, and allow Catherine to use that long-abandoned territory. With many mumbles and grumblings and rumblings of furniture the innovation had been achieved a few days before Madame Mérard's return; Monsieur Fontaine himself assisting in most of the work, or it never would have been accomplished. He was not the man to do things by halves. Catherine wished for a drawing-room and a piano; - poor Léonie's instrument was standing there, it is true, but cracked and jarred, and with a faded front. Soon a piece of bright new red silk replaced the sickly green, the rosewood complexion was polished to a brilliant brown by the indefatigable master of the house; he would have tuned it if he could, but this was beyond his powers, and the organist was mysteriously brought in by a back-door, while Toto was desired to detain Catherine on the terrace until a preconcerted signal should announce that all was ready for her to be brought in, in triumph. Monsieur le Maire was delighted. He led her in with both hands, and then stepped back to contemplate the result of his labours. "Now we shall have music," he said. "Come, Catherine! place yourself at the piano. An

Cath

other day, perhaps I myself.. erine looked up with her dark grateful eyes, and began to play as she was bid.

Monsieur Fontaine contented himself at first by beating time to his wife's performance, with great spirit and accuracy; but one evening, somewhat to her dismay, he produced a cornet, which he had disinterred from its green-baize sarcophagus and rubbed up during office hours. He had practised upon it in his early youth, and he now amused himself by accompanying the movements of Catherine's gentle little fingers with sudden sounds, somewhat uncertain perhaps, but often very loud. Justine sulkily called it a "vacarme," as she banged the kitchen door. Passers-by, driving their cows or plodding home with their fish-baskets, stopped outside astonished, to ask what it could be. The old cider-bibbers at Pélottier's could hear the rich notes when the wind blew in that direction. Poor Madame Fontaine herself burst out laughing, and put her hands up to her ears the first time she heard her husband's music; but Monsieur le Maire instantly stopped short, and looked so pained and disappointed that she begged him to go on and immediately began to play again. Only she took care afterwards to select the calmest and the most pastoral and least impassioned music in her repertory. When she came to passages marked con expressione or with arpeggios, or when she saw fff's looming appallingly in the distance, she would set her teeth and brace up her courage for the onslaught. By degrees, however, Fontaine's first ardour toned down, or Catherine's nerves grew stronger. Toto thought it great fun, only he wished they would play polkas and waltzes, as he stood leaning against the piano with his round eyes fixed upon Catherine's face. People almost always look their best when they are making music; how often one sees quite plain and uninteresting faces kindle with sweet sound into an unconscious harmony of expression. Catherine was no great performer, but she played with feeling and precision. There always was a charm about her, which it would be difficult to define, and now especially, with her dark head bent a little forward to where the light fell upon her music-book, she would have made a lovely little study-for Dick Butler, let us say. "A woman set to Music" it might have been called; she felt nothing but a harmony of sound at such a time, except, indeed, when the cornet burst in with a wrong note. Monsieur Fontaine, between the intervals of his own performance, liked

Léonie's state drawing-room, which was never made use of in her lifetime except 'on the occasion of Toto's christening, and once when a ball was given which Madame Mérard herself had opened? Oh, it could not be it was impossible! But as she was still staring, bewildered, the door opened, and Catherine came in, looking quite at home, bringing some more leaves and berries from her winter-garden, and looking as if she was quite used to the place and sat in it every hour of the day.

"Good-morning," said Madame Fontaine, in her gentle, cheerful way, unconscious of the sword hanging over her head. "I think breakfast is on the table."

"Indeed!" said Madame Mérard. "I am looking in surprise, madame. I was not aware of the changes which had taken plece during my absence."

"Monsieur Fontaine was kind enough to get the piano tuned for me," said Catherine," and I asked him to let me use this room. It has such a pleasant look-out." And still provokingly unconcerned she put her leaves into the flower-cup, and began putting her writing things together.

"And you are not afraid, madame, of the damage which may befall this handsome furniture, for which my daughter paid so large a sum?" cried the old lady, in a voice of suppressed thunder. "She took care of it, but you, no doubt, not having contributed anything, can afford"

Catherine looked up frightened, and was shocked by the angry gleam she encountered; Madame Mérard looked stiff with indignation.

"You have, without doubt, madame, engaged servants in abundance to attend to your various wants?" she went on quivering. "We quiet people must seem to you very contemptible as you sit in your elegant drawing-room. Pray, do you intend to receive your fine friends here, in the apartment upon which my poor Léonie bestowed so much care and expense? Ah! there are only English capable of such baseness."

Mdame Mérard stopped, much satisfied, for Catherine had turned pale, and then looking round, and seeing Fontaine standing in the doorway, the silly little thing ran up to him and burst out crying.

66

"Poor child!" he said, very tenderly. Go, go. I will explain to my good mother; she does not understand; perhaps a little eau sucrée. Try it, mon amie.

We will follow immediately."

This was the first encounter between FOURTH SERIES. LIVING AGE. VOL. IV.

these very unequal opponents. Fontaine was so humble and affectionate that he presently brought the old lady down to breakfast almost mollified. She was really fond of him, and when he made a personal request and talked of the rest after his mental occupations, the diversion and repose the pursuit of music gave him, she reluctantly consented, with a pinch of snuff, to the innovation. It was not the only one.

At one time Madame Mérard suddenly became quite affectionate in her manners. This was soon after her arrival, when M. le Curé was a great deal at the house. He also treated Catherine with great kindness, and called her mon enfant. Old Mérard would dispose himself for sleep during these visits, and Monsieur le Curé and Madame Mérard would enter into long and pointed conversations upon the subject of their common faith. Monsieur le Curé would produce little brown books from his ample pockets, with the pictures of bishops, and fathers and mothers, and agonizing saints upon their narrow pallets; and from one sign and another Madame Fontaine guessed that the time had come when it was considered fitting for her to prepare to go over to the religion of the strangers among whom she lived. She would look at the two sitting in the window, Madame Mérard taking snuff as she listened, the cure with his long brown nose, and all the little buttons down his shabby frock, and his heavy black legs crossed and his thick fingers distended as he talked. The Abbé Verdier was a gentleman, and once Catherine might have been willing to be gently converted by him to a faith which had at all times a great attraction for this little heretic; but now to be dragged over by main force, by the muscular curé, to the religion of Madame Mérard -never, never. Fontaine used to look in sometimes and retire immediately on tiptoe when the curé was there. The maire had promised before his marriage not to interfere with his wife's religious opinions - but all the same he did not wish to disturb the good work by any inopportune creaking noises. When Catherine was younger, before she had gone through a certain experience which comes to most people, her conversion might have been possible, and even likely; but now it was too late. From inner causes working silently, and from outer adverse influence a change had come over her; she could no longer accept new beliefs and creeds, and vivid emotions which she could not even realize, they seemed so distant. She could only cling with a loving persistence to the

54.

things of the past, which were still her own and part of her own old life.

The curé was a clever man, although bigoted, and unlike the abbé in his gentle charity and sympathy even for heretics; after a time he ceased importuning, and only snubbed Madame Fontaine, Madame Mérard scowled afresh; Justine, who had also temporarily suspended hostilities, banged her door in disgust, and took care for many weeks to iron Madame Fontaine's fine things all crooked and on the wrong side. Monsieur le Maire was grievously disappointed, but he said nothing, and only seemed if possible, more tender, more gentle and anxious to make his wife happy.

It was on this occasion that Madame Mérard was at least relieved from another special grief which she cherished against Catherine. One Protestant impoverished Englishwoman in the family was bad enough; but the contemplated arrival of two more at Christmas, their admission into the châlet built with Léoni's money, furnished with her taste, oh, it was not to be endured. The very thought had to be chased away with much snuff, and many waving of the big check handkerchief. The poor little girls, however, escaped the exorcisings to which they would doubtless have been subject if they had arrived, for Lady Farebrother, taking alarm at some chance expressions in Catherine's letters, wrote in her flowing capitals to tell her that she felt she would not be justified in exposing Rosa and Totty to the insiduous and poisoned influences of Jesuitism, and that, acting upon Mr. Bland's suggestion, she had determined to make other arrangements for the children during the holidays. And poor Catherine, her eyes filled up with bitter tears as she read the heart-broken little scrawls enclosed in her aunt's more elaborate epistle. And yet she could scarcely have borne to see them unkindly treated. For herself she did not care. She looked upon it as an expiation in some sort. Often and often she felt ashamed and guilty as she caught the maire's kind and admiring glance. So much affection and devotion deserved some better return than the grateful toleration which was all she had to give. A little patience, a few small services, this was all she could pay towards that vast debt she owed him. As she began to love her husband a little, she found out how little it was. She ought never to have married him. She knew it now, although, at the time in her agitation and excitement she had fancied that she could at will forget where she would love where she should;

and that by flinging away a poor faded rose she could cast from her all memory of the time when it was sweet and red. Alas, the wrong was done, and could not be undone. She could only do her best now, and repair as much as it lay in her power, by patient effort, the harm one moment's weakness had brought about.

Catherine's gentleness maddened the old lady, who was afraid her victim would escape her by sheer obedience and sweetness. Why didn't she laugh and make jokes? Why didn't she get angry? Why was she so indifferent? Even when she gained four tricks running the night before, she did not seem to care. The elegant veil Fontaine presented to her might have been imitation for all the pains she took, wearing it out in the garden with no one to see. If Catherine had only scolded and worried and complained of migraine, and lived with her husband in a way Madame Mérard could understand, she might in time have got to like her, but all this good temper was insupportable.

The time passed on. The people at Petitport heard but little from without. The Tracys were still at Paris - Charles Butler lingered still, although the poison in his system had already attacked some vital organ. It was a long sad watch for Dick. In the beginning of the winter, at Charles Butler's own request, Catherine Butler had been married quite quietly to Beamish. The news of the marriage came across the sea to Catherine Fontaine, but it all seemed very distant and hard to realize.

As the winter went on the people in the cottage lit larger fires in the deep chimneys, and huddled round the blaze. The winds seemed to shake the very foundations of the wooden house, and the maire anxiously inspected his embankment against the expected onslaught of the early spring-tides. Outside the Châlet there was cold, and drift, and storm, and low mists came rolling over the fields and along the edges of the cliffs; inside, fires of wood and charcoal were burning, stew-pots simmering on the hob, and the daily pendulum of life swang on monotonously. Old Mérard's taper burnt with a quiet flicker as he warmed himself in his chimney corner. Madame Mérard's light blazed, and hissed, and spluttered; it was not set under a bushel; nor was Justine's, as she sat below darning away the long winter evenings, while Fontaine busily rapped, tapped, conversed, practised his cornet, settled his accounts, came and went, cheerfully humming little snatches from operas, or with alacrity joined the inevita