A week had passed away. It had been a time of cloudy mental weather to

Swithin and Viviette, but the only noteworthy fact about it was that what

had been planned to happen therein had actually taken place. Swithin had

gone from Welland, and would shortly go from England.

She became aware of it by a note that he posted to her on his way through

Warborne. There was much evidence of haste in the note, and something of

reserve. The latter she could not understand, but it might have been

obvious enough if she had considered.

On the morning of his departure he had sat on the edge of his bed, the

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sunlight streaming through the early mist, the house-martens scratching

the back of the ceiling over his head as they scrambled out from the roof

for their day's gnat-chasing, the thrushes cracking snails on the garden

stones outside with the noisiness of little smiths at work on little

anvils. The sun, in sending its rods of yellow fire into his room, sent,

as he suddenly thought, mental illumination with it. For the first time,

as he sat there, it had crossed his mind that Viviette might have reasons

for this separation which he knew not of. There might be family

reasons--mysterious blood necessities which are said to rule members of

old musty-mansioned families, and are unknown to other classes of

society--and they may have been just now brought before her by her

brother Louis on the condition that they were religiously concealed.

The idea that some family skeleton, like those he had read of in memoirs,

had been unearthed by Louis, and held before her terrified understanding

as a matter which rendered Swithin's departure, and the neutralization of

the marriage, no less indispensable to them than it was an advantage to

himself, seemed a very plausible one to Swithin just now. Viviette might

have taken Louis into her confidence at last, for the sake of his

brotherly advice. Swithin knew that of her own heart she would never

wish to get rid of him; but coerced by Louis, might she not have grown to

entertain views of its expediency? Events made such a supposition on St.

Cleeve's part as natural as it was inaccurate, and, conjoined with his

own excitement at the thought of seeing a new heaven overhead, influenced

him to write but the briefest and most hurried final note to her, in

which he fully obeyed her sensitive request that he would omit all

reference to his plans. These at the last moment had been modified to

fall in with the winter expedition formerly mentioned, to observe the

Transit of Venus at a remote southern station.

The business being done, and himself fairly plunged into the

preliminaries of an important scientific pilgrimage, Swithin acquired

that lightness of heart which most young men feel in forsaking old love

for new adventure, no matter how charming may be the girl they leave

behind them. Moreover, in the present case, the man was endowed with

that schoolboy temperament which does not see, or at least consider with

much curiosity, the effect of a given scheme upon others than himself.

The bearing upon Lady Constantine of what was an undoubted predicament

for any woman, was forgotten in his feeling that she had done a very

handsome and noble thing for him, and that he was therefore bound in

honour to make the most of it.

His going had resulted in anything but lightness of heart for her. Her

sad fancy could, indeed, indulge in dreams of her yellow-haired laddie

without that formerly besetting fear that those dreams would prompt her

to actions likely to distract and weight him. She was wretched on her

own account, relieved on his. She no longer stood in the way of his

advancement, and that was enough. For herself she could live in

retirement, visit the wood, the old camp, the column, and, like OEnone,

think of the life they had led there-'Mournful OEnone, wandering forlorn

Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills,' leaving it entirely to his goodness whether he would come and claim her

in the future, or desert her for ever.

She was diverted for a time from these sad performances by a letter which

reached her from Bishop Helmsdale. To see his handwriting again on an

envelope, after thinking so anxiously of making a father-confessor of

him, started her out of her equanimity. She speedily regained it,

however, when she read his note.

'THE PALACE, MELCHESTER,

_July_ 30, 18--.

'MY DEAR LADY CONSTANTINE,--I am shocked and grieved that, in the

strange dispensation of things here below, my offer of marriage should

have reached you almost simultaneously with the intelligence that your

widowhood had been of several months less duration than you and I, and

the world, had supposed. I can quite understand that, viewed from any

side, the news must have shaken and disturbed you; and your

unequivocal refusal to entertain any thought of a new alliance at such

a moment was, of course, intelligible, natural, and praiseworthy.

At present I will say no more beyond expressing a hope that you will

accept my assurances that I was quite ignorant of the news at the hour

of writing, and a sincere desire that in due time, and as soon as you

have recovered your equanimity, I may be allowed to renew my

proposal.--I am, my dear Lady Constantine, yours ever sincerely,

C. MELCHESTER.'

She laid the letter aside, and thought no more about it, beyond a

momentary meditation on the errors into which people fall in reasoning

from actions to motives. Louis, who was now again with her, became in

due course acquainted with the contents of the letter, and was satisfied

with the promising position in which matters seemingly stood all round.

Lady Constantine went her mournful ways as she had planned to do, her

chief resort being the familiar column, where she experienced the

unutterable melancholy of seeing two carpenters dismantle the dome of its

felt covering, detach its ribs, and clear away the enclosure at the top

till everything stood as it had stood before Swithin had been known to

the place. The equatorial had already been packed in a box, to be in

readiness if he should send for it from abroad. The cabin, too, was in

course of demolition, such having been his directions, acquiesced in by

her, before he started. Yet she could not bear the idea that these

structures, so germane to the events of their romance, should be removed

as if removed for ever. Going to the men she bade them store up the

materials intact, that they might be re-erected if desired. She had the

junctions of the timbers marked with figures, the boards numbered, and

the different sets of screws tied up in independent papers for

identification. She did not hear the remarks of the workmen when she had

gone, to the effect that the young man would as soon think of buying a

halter for himself as come back and spy at the moon from Rings-Hill

Speer, after seeing the glories of other nations and the gold and jewels

that were found there, or she might have been more unhappy than she was.

On returning from one of these walks to the column a curious circumstance

occurred. It was evening, and she was coming as usual down through the

sighing plantation, choosing her way between the ramparts of the camp

towards the outlet giving upon the field, when suddenly in a dusky vista

among the fir-trunks she saw, or thought she saw, a golden-haired,

toddling child. The child moved a step or two, and vanished behind a

tree. Lady Constantine, fearing it had lost its way, went quickly to the

spot, searched, and called aloud. But no child could she perceive or

hear anywhere around. She returned to where she had stood when first

beholding it, and looked in the same direction, but nothing reappeared.

The only object at all resembling a little boy or girl was the upper tuft

of a bunch of fern, which had prematurely yellowed to about the colour of

a fair child's hair, and waved occasionally in the breeze. This,

however, did not sufficiently explain the phenomenon, and she returned to

make inquiries of the man whom she had left at work, removing the last

traces of Swithin's cabin. But he had gone with her departure and the

approach of night. Feeling an indescribable dread she retraced her

steps, and hastened homeward doubting, yet half believing, what she had

seemed to see, and wondering if her imagination had played her some

trick.

The tranquil mournfulness of her night of solitude terminated in a most

unexpected manner.

The morning after the above-mentioned incident Lady Constantine, after

meditating a while, arose with a strange personal conviction that bore

curiously on the aforesaid hallucination. She realized a condition of

things that she had never anticipated, and for a moment the discovery of

her state so overwhelmed her that she thought she must die outright.

In her terror she said she had sown the wind to reap the whirlwind. Then

the instinct of self-preservation flamed up in her like a fire. Her

altruism in subjecting her self-love to benevolence, and letting Swithin

go away from her, was demolished by the new necessity, as if it had been

a gossamer web.

There was no resisting or evading the spontaneous plan of action which

matured in her mind in five minutes. Where was Swithin? how could he be

got at instantly?--that was her ruling thought. She searched about the

room for his last short note, hoping, yet doubting, that its contents

were more explicit on his intended movements than the few meagre

syllables which alone she could call to mind. She could not find the

letter in her room, and came downstairs to Louis as pale as a ghost.

He looked up at her, and with some concern said, 'What's the matter?' 'I am searching everywhere for a letter--a note from Mr. St.

Cleeve--just a few words telling me when the _Occidental_ sails, that I think he goes

in.' 'Why do you want that unimportant document?' 'It is of the utmost importance that I should know whether he has actually sailed or not!' said she in agonized tones. 'Where _can_ that

letter be?' Louis knew where that letter was, for having seen it on her desk he had,

without reading it, torn it up and thrown it into the waste-paper basket,

thinking the less that remained to remind her of the young philosopher

the better.

'I destroyed it,' he said.

'O Louis! why did you?' she cried. 'I am going to follow him; I think it

best to do so; and I want to know if he is gone--and now the date is

lost!' 'Going to run after St. Cleeve? Absurd!' 'Yes, I am!' she said with vehement firmness. 'I must see him; I want to speak to him as soon as possible.' 'Good Lord, Viviette! Are you mad?' 'O what was the date of that ship! But it cannot be helped. I start at once for Southampton. I have made up my mind to do it. He was going to his uncle's solicitors in the North first; then he was coming back to Southampton. He cannot have sailed yet.' 'I believe he has sailed,' muttered Louis sullenly.

She did not wait to argue with him, but returned upstairs, where she rang

to tell Green to be ready with the pony to drive her to Warborne station

in a quarter of an hour.




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