CHAPTER XXXII.

Think women love to match with men, And not to live so like a saint.'

T was a fact, this engagement, be

IT

cause the banns were put up in church, argued the people. Banns cannot lie. Bostock might very well lie; Alma herself might lie; but banns are not to be disputed. Therefore the country-side became convinced that the Squire of Welland was really going to marry the Bailiff's daughter, an event as wonderful as that historic parallel of Islington, and the thing could be discussed as if it had already taken place. They knew not, they could not understand, these simple rustics, that the marriage was but a trap set by their Seigneur to catch the sunbeam of their hearts. Had they known that fact they would have regarded the proceeding with the contempt which characterized the prevalent attitude of mind towards the Squire.

'He's not been that good to the village,' said the young man they called William, to the cobbler of advanced thought, as the village had a right to expect from the way he began. They suppers, now, they was good while they lasted as much beer as you Jiked, and all-why was they left off? And the Parliament, where we was to meet and talk, why wast hat left off?'

'Meanness,' said the cobbler. 'Because we wanted to defend our liberties; ah! because we wouldn't be put upon with lies no longer; because

some among us wanted to ask questions.'

'And the Bar-what call had he to set up a tap?' asked William. 'Who wanted his tap when we'd got our own? And then made us buy it.'

'Gave away the beer, too, at first,' growled the cobbler. 'They'd make slaves and chains of us all again, they would-him and his lot.'

'P'r'aps he'll go back to the Court, now's he married, and let us abide by ourselves,' said William. We don't want no Bailiff's daughters along of us; nor no Squires neither.'

'P'r'aps he'll go on as he has been agoing on, corrupting the minds of them as has otherwise the will to "read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest,' "said the cobbler, thinking of the Atheistic publications which he had been unable to procure in the library.

The Bailiff occupied a position so much higher than their own that the engagement was not considered in the same light as by those who stood at Alan's end of the social ladder. Anything which was likely to remove this uncomfortable Squire from their midst was felt to be a relief. Is not that day the happiest in life when the schoolboy steps forth from the tutelage of masters? Would any one like to be always at work under surveillance? Why, then, expect it of the British. peasant?

There was one face, however, which grew sadder daily, in thinking of the future the face of Prudence Driver, the librarian. Alan's schemes might

have failed, but he remained to her the best and noblest of men, while Alma Bostock continued to be the shallowest and vainest of women. This pale-faced little reader of books knew how to read the natures of men and women. Not wholly out of her books, but by mother wit, had she acquired this power. A man may read and read and read, and yet remain a fool. Many do. Prudence knew Alma, and loved her not; she knew her antecedents; and she was certain that the girl would bring her prophet neither help nor sympathy nor encouragement. And, of course, she had long known that Alma disliked her, and would perhaps prejudice Mr. Dunlop against her. Alma might even, Prudence shuddered to think, cause her to lose her pleasant place and its sixty pounds a year. In any case, no more evenings spent all alone with him, while he unfolded his plans and revealed the manner of life which he would fain see in his village. No more would the poor girl's heart glow and her pulse quicken while he spoke of culture and sweetness spreading through the labourers' cottages. All that beautiful dream should henceforth be an impossibility, because Alma would throw the cold water of indifference on the project.

'I would have,' Alan said one night -it was the peroration of a long discourse which he delivered walking about the library, for the instruction of Prudence alone I would have the whole day of labour converted into one long poem-a procession of things and thoughts precious and beautiful. The labourer should be reminded at daybreak, as he went forth and watched the mists creep up the hillside, and the trees thereon bathed in mysterious cloud and sunlight, of Turner's landscapes copies of which he would have studied in our picture gallery; as he stepped along the way, the awaking of life, the twittering of the birds, the crowing of the cocks, should put into his head verses which had been taught

him, sung to him, or recited to him at our public evenings. He would shout then, in his joy. And he would watch the flowers by the wayside with a new and affectionate interest; he would beguile the way with examining the mosses, grasses, and wild vegetation of the hedge; his eyes would be trained for all kinds of observation; he would have a mind awakened to a sense of progress in everything, so that the old conservatism of the peasantry, with habit, the rooted enemy of progress, should be destroyed in him. He would no longer do the day's work as a machine but as an intelligent artist, trying how it should be done most efficiently. And on his return he would find a clean and bright cottage, a wife who would talk to him and for him, a meal cooked at our public kitchen, clean clothes washed at our public laundry, children taught at our public school, and nearly every evening something to do, to hear, to enjoy, which should break the monotony of the week. Music in every house; books, joy, and education, where there is now nothing but squalor, dirt, and beer. All these things I see before us, Prudence.'

Prudence remembered every word. What part of it would be achieved now, when he was about to clog his feet with an unsympathetic and indifferent wife? If things were hard to accomplish before, they would be tenfold as hard to accomplish in the future.

Things hard to accomplish?' Prudence reflected, with dismay, that as yet nothing had been accomplished at all, except the general feeling of discontent. The people did not want to be meddled with, and Mr. Dunlop appeared to them in the light of a mere meddler and a muddler.

Worse than all this, she saw, she and Miranda alone, that Alan was not happy.

In fact, during the three weeks of publishing the banns, Alan's face grew more sombre every day.

For he felt, though this was a thing he would not acknowledge even to

himself, that his marriage would probably be a great mistake.

To feel in this way, even about an ordinary marriage, such a marriage as any couple might contract for their own solace, is indeed a melancholy way of entering upon the holy bond of matrimony; to feel in this way when, as in Alan's case, marriage is intended to advance some great end, is more than melancholy, it is almost desperate. His word was pledged ; he was, therefore, bound to fulfil his part of the contract. And yet.. and yet... it was the wrong woman; he knew it now, it was the wrong woman. Nor was there any other woman in the world with whom he could mate happily, save only Miranda.

When he found Alma alone in the pretty garden, among the rugged old apple-trees, it seemed to him, a dreamer as well as an enthusiast- to be sure, it is impossible to be the one without the other that the future of things looked rosy and sunshiny. She smiled and nodded, if she did not answer, when he asked her questions; if she did not interrupt him by any questions of her own; if she never showed any impatience to begin her ministrations among the poor, but rather put off his own suggestion that her work in the village homes might be usefully set in hand at once; if she gave him no further insight, as yet, into the minds of the people, than he already had-it was, he said to himself, because she was new and strange to the position, that she was as yet only a learner; that she was shy and nervous. was ready to make all excuses for her

He

long as she was at home in her own garden, pretty of her kind, a flower among the common flowers.

At Dalmeny Hall it was different. She sat beside Miranda, and it was like a wild rose beside a camellia, or a daisy beside a tulip, or a russet apple beside a peach. The face was common compared with Miranda's; her voice was strident compared with Miranda's, which was gentle without being

too low; her eyes, bright and animated as they seemed at her own home, where there were no others to compare them with, looked shallow compared with those deep orbs of Miranda's, the windows of a brain full of knowledge and noble thought; her expression, in which could be read clearly, even by Alan, successive moods of shyness, boredom, and sullenness, pained and alarmed him. For what would the future be like, if these things were obvious in the present? and what should be done in the dry, if these things were done in the green?

Miranda did all she could to make the girl at home and at ease; yet every day saw Alma more sullen, more silent, more reserved with her. Perhaps Miranda would have succeeded better had not the custom grown up during this fortnight of Desdemona seeking Alma every day, and encouraging her to contide in her motherly bosom. This Alma did; she could not help herself; such sympathy was too attractive. At first she trembled, thinking that her confidences would be carried to Miss Dalmeny. But as nothing was carried, she grew more and more unreserved, and finally bared nearly the whole truth. Every day, she confessed, was more irksome to her up in this grand house. She grew tired of wandering about the garden; she was tired of walking about the rooms; she could not do work such as ladies do; she could not play; she took no interest in books or reading; she had nothing to talk about with Miss Dalmeny; she did not care one bit about the things Miss Dalmeny tried to interest her in-cottagers and their ways. And oh the dreary evenings when Mr. Dunlop came, looking as if he was going to a funeral; and when he sat with her, or walked with her, talking, talking for ever, as if the more he talked the more likely she would be to understand what had gone before.

But not a word, as yet, to Desdemona of what she had promised Harry.

Then Desdemona, in her warm and sympathetic way, would croon over her, and pat her cheek, telling her how pretty she was, wondering why Alan was so blind to beauty, commiserating her afresh for the sorrows of her lot, and holding forth on the obstinacy of Mr. Dunlop, who, she said, had never been known to abandon a scheme or confess himself beaten, so that, even when he found that Alma was not fitted to be the cottagers' friend, guide, example, and model, as well as his own servant-of-all-work, he would go on to the end of his life, or of hers, which would probably not be a long life, with unrelenting tenacity of pur

pose.

Alma shuddered and trembled at the prospect; and then she thought of Harry and his promise.

'I'm not married yet,' she said, after Desdemona had exhausted herself in drawing the gloomy terrors of her future.

'No, my dear,' said Desdemona, 'no; that is very true, and yet,' she added, sorrowfully, the banns have been put up twice, and there seems no escape for you. What a pity! what a pity! And you so pretty; and Harry Cardew such a handsome young fellow. You'd have made the handsomest couple ever seen. And Miss Dalmeny would have taken such a fancy to you, under any other circumstances. Of course you can't expect her to like you very much now, considering all things.'

suppose.

6

'No,' said Alma, of course I can't. No girls, not even ladies, like another girl for taking away their sweethearts, I But I wish mother would let me go home and stay there.' She sighed drearily. Even the society of her father seemed more congenial than the frigid atmosphere of Dalmeny Hall.

'Better stay here, my dear,' said Desdemona.Do you know I keep thinking of that line in your hand-the interrupted marriage line; the long and happy wedded life; how can

that be? And yet the hand never lies.'

With such artful talk did this crafty lady corrupt Alma's simple mind. The girl fell into the trap like a silly, wild bird. Fate, she said to herself, ordered her to follow Harry, when he should give the word.

For a fortnight no word came. Then on the Sunday of the third and last publication of the banns, Mr. Caledon met her in the gardens of the hall. It was in the evening, and Mr. Dunlop was gone. She was thinking how much she should like to go to the garden gate and find Harry waiting for her, when she heard a manly heel upon the gravel, and looked up, and in the twilight, saw and knew Tom Caledon.

'I've got a message for you, Alma,' he said. 'I had to give it to you all alone with no one in hearing.'

'Is it-is it from Harry?' she asked.

'Yes; it is from Harry. It is a very simple message; I met him today, and he asked me to tell you to keep up your heart. That is all.' Thank you, Mr. Tom.' The girl looked humbled. She had lost her old pride of carriage, being every moment made keenly conscious of her inferiority to Miss Dalmeny ; and the intrigue in which she was engaged made her guilty and uneasy. Suppose, after all, that Harry should fail. And what did he mean to do?

Alan, for his part, was not without warnings of the future in store for him-warnings, that is, other than his secret misgivings and the pricks of

conscience.

He had an anonymous correspondent a person apparently of the opposite sex, though the writing was epicene in character, and might have belonged to a member of either sex.

Alan read these letters, which began to come to him, like many blessings, too late. Had he acted upon them, indeed, he would have had to stay the banns after the first putting

up.

He felt himself it was not a feeling of undisguised pleasure-already married. The burden of his wife was upon him. He seemed to have found out, though as yet he did not put his discovery into words, that so far from being a helpmeet, she would become a hindrance; and that entrance into the minds of the people appeared to be as far off as the entrance into Hamath continued to be to the children of Israel.

And so the anonymous letters, some coming by post, and others pushed under the door by night, came upon him like a new scourge. Was it necessary, he thought, that he should know all the previous life of Alma-how she had flirted with this man, been kissed by that, been engaged to a game-keeper of his own, and had walked through the woods at eve with a Brother of the Abbey? To be sure, none of the allegations amounted to very much; but when the mind is occupied and agitated these things sting. Again, he might have been foolish in entrusting too much power to a man of whom he only knew that he had been on the point of becoming bankrupt. But what good did it do him to be told that his bailiff was a common cheat and a rogue; that he was going to marry the daughter of a man who rendered false accounts, bought cheap and sold dear, and entered the converse in his books; who was notoriously making a long purse out of his transactions for the farm; who was a byword and a proverb for dishonesty and cunning.

These things did no good, but quite the contrary. Alan read them all, cursed the writer, put the letters into the fire, and then brooded over the contents. He would not say anything about them, even to Miranda; an anonymous slanderer is always pretty safe from any kind of punishment; and yet it must be owned that anonymous slanders are grievous things to receive. Alan read them and remembered them.

And then little things recurred to him which he had heard before and forgotten. or taken no heed of. He remembered meeting Alma one day, when he hardly knew who she was, walking in a coppice with Harry Cardew, his old friend and young gamekeeper. Alma blushed, and Alan, who was thinking about the grand march of the Higher Culture, just rashly concluded that here was another case of rushing into premature wedlock, and went on his way. Also he had heard Tom Caledon talking lightly of Alma's beauty, and thought nothing of it. And now those anonymous letters accused her of flirting with half-a-dozen men at once; he would marry a girl who had been kissed— the writer declared he had seen the deed perpetrated-by Tom Caledon, and presumably by his gamekeeper and a dozen other young fellows. That was not a pleasant thing to read.

As for the letters, they were written by one person; he or shespelled imperfectly, and wrote a large and massive hand, covering a good deal of paper. The letters, like those of Junius, greatest and most detestable of slanderers, waxed in intensity as they proceeded, until the latest were models of invective and innuendo. The last which came to his hands was dated on the Sunday when the banns had been put up for the third time. It began with the following delicious.

morceau:

'Oh! you pore fool. To think that it's cum to this. You and Alma Bostock called at Church for the third and last time, and after all I've told you.

Can't you believe? Then send for Harry, send for Mr. Caledon, if he'll tell the trewth, which isn't likely, being a gentleman? send for Alma's mother, and ast them all, and see what they say. Is it for her looks? Why, she isn't a patch upon the blacksmith's daughter'-could the letter have been written by that young lady not a patch upon her for good looks, and yet you never turned