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Between Midnight and Dawn.
BY
INA L. CASSIUS.
Author of “Society's Queen,” etc.
CHAPTER I.
FELLOW TBAVBLLBBS.
“There are none of Englands daugh
ters who can show a prouder pres
ence.” —-E. * Browning.
Two gentlemen were seated in a
first-class smoking compartment of a
Midland express, both smoking, while
they conversed in the desultory fash
ion of casual acquaintances, for until
today they had never seen each other,
and after today would, in all human
probability, never see each other again
The elder and taller of the two travel
lers had entered the train at St. Pan
oras, and was bound for Bramblemere,
in shire; the other came in at a
country station, and his destination
was a town a hundred miles north of
Bramblemere. So much and no more
each traveler knew of his fellow. En
glishmen are not communicative in
the matter of personal history.: but
perhaps a close observer—had there
been one in the carriage—might have
thought that one of these men had a
history worth the hearing. Not the
younger—unless by the broad appli
cation of the maxim that there are al
ways strong elements of interest in
even an apparently trivial existence.
The twenty-four or twenty
five years that had passed over
this gentleman’s head seemed to
have been years oi prosperity and
happiness; and the fair, good-looking,
and open countenance betrayed, even
in repose, no sign of care or sorrow
ful retrospect. He looked like a man
i« whose past there is no cloud to
overshadow the present, whose future
opens before him broad and sunny:
a man who had always worn good
clothes and travelled first-class, and
had hitherto escaped any of those
troubles which for the most part fall
alike on rich and poor. His voice
was frank and hearty, his laugh as
joyous as a schoolboy’s.
His companion, a man of five or six
and-tbirty, perhaps older, was of more
striking exterior, and there were sug
gestions in his countenance of more
than could be discovered by a super
ficial observation. He was unusually
dark for an Englishman, his com
plexion swarthy, his hair jet black;
and he was as clean-shaved as an actor
or a monk. This last peculiarity
would alone have served to mark him
out from his fellows, for he was man
ifestly not an ecclesiastic and almost
as clearly not an actor. His eyes were
not black as might have been expected,
but grey—the grey that is green round
the iris, A full red lip seemed to in
dicate sensuality, and a square reso
lute jaw promised firmness of purpose.
But it was a pleasant face, and if not
exactly handsome, went near to de
serving that appellation.
The train had been for some time
running between high embank
ments, and the travellers were
talking on public affairs, but
a sudden emergence into the
open country, all bathed in the mellow
light of the westering sun of July,
gave a new turn to the thoughts of
each, an d naturally also to their con
versation.
“Lovely country, isn’t it?” exclaim
ed the younger man, enthusiastically.
“Do you know these parts?”
“Not at all. I have been very little
in the Midlands.”
“Then you have a treat to come.
Perhaps I am prejudiced, for lam
Midland born and bred, and one’s own
county is like a mother; don’t you
think so?”
The other smiled. “I can under
stand the feeling, but I never had the
chance to cultivate it. I am London
born and bred, and Londoners have no
home feeling.”
“Well, no; one can’t well get up ro
mantic associatians with streets and
squares; but I think Cockneys miss
a great deal.”
“No doubt they do. I confess that
I am not very fond of the country, for
its own sake. There is a passage in
one of George Eliot’s works in which
a fine description is given of Midland
cenery, through which some one is
riding in a cart, jnow that ‘gamut of
delight to Midland-bred souls’ (I am
not quite sure that I am quoting cor
rectly) would be a gamut of boredom
to me.”
“An!"’ said the younger man, laugh
ing; “now to me the chief charm of
George Eliot’s writings is their de
scription of Midland life and scenery.
I can’t follow her metaphysics, but to
read her description is like walking
through the fields and woods that one
knows so well.”
Again the other smiled, and there
W “ the least touch of a sneer in his
in e, which his companion’s percep-
tions were not keen enough to appre
hend. . „
“I like a good run across country,
he observed, “and so I prefer the north
to the west, because there is more
hunting; otherwise all country is
much alike to me. I more incline to
the axiom of Lord Lilburne, one of
Bulwer Lytton’s characters, who re
mains in town in the silly season’ be
cause, he says, even then ‘London is
fuller than the country.’ Not but
what I prefer a pleasant country
hou«e to London out of season.”
‘•Especially where there are good
preserves,” said the young man;
“there is not so much preserving just
about here as there might be, but a
mile or two farther on there are some
splendid preserves.”
“On whose property? You seem to
know this county well.”
“Pretty well The property belongs
to a Mr. Grantley Herbert, a great
sportsman; a very old family; and
Ercildoune is about the finest place in
the county, but its master is no vast
favorite.”
“Indeed! Among the gentry do
you mean, or among his tenants, if he
has any?”
“Plenty of them. It is a very large
property. No, I believe he’s a good
landlord; but I’m told he’s a passion
ate, overbearing fellow, and if he
wasn’t such a big fish he’d get consid
erably snubbed. I should think his
wife must wish herself single again.”
“Who is his wife?”
“The Marquis of Darnleigh’s daugh
ter. You must have heard of her in
town—a great beauty. She only came
out two seasons ago, and married Her
bert in her first season —a Jove match,
they said. I don’t know; I suppose it
was, for she might have had her pick.
Herbert is the sort of man, I believe,
that women affect at first.”
“And repent of at leisure, eh?” Well,
maybe my lady is not all sugar and
honey.”
“I don’t know more of her than I’ve
told you. There, that’s Ercildoune.”
He pointed, as he spoke, to a build
ing, or portion of a building, visible
through the trees which clothed a ris
ing ground, apparently about a mile
distant.
“That’s the clock-tower you see
from here.”
“He’s a lucky man who possesses
such a place,” said the elder man, his
eye travelling from the grey tower
over the wide expanse of wooded
“rolling” country. “Is there no sta
tion near?”
“None nearer than Bamblemere —
seven miles the other side.”
“My journey will soon end, then.
Bramblemere is an assize town, is it
not?”
“Yes, and han a mayor and corpora
tion as well. You must not despise
Bramblemere.”
“I will try to regard it with the pro
foundest respect, though I think a
country town is of all places the most
dismal.”
“I agree with you; there is vigorous
life in the country, or in a capital; but
life goes on crutches in a country
town.”
A few minutes more and the train
ran into Bramblemere station.
“Here we are,” said the elder travel
ler, rising; “thank you for a very
pleasant journey. I hope we may
meet again one day,” he added, hold
ing out his hand.
“Thanks, I hope so, too. Good even
ing.”
They did meet again—one day.
As the tram moved on again, the
young man, looking from the window
of the carriage, saw a liveried servant
approach his late companion, touch
ing bis hat respectfully.
“By Jove I” said the young fellow,
half aloud, and he turned scarlet at
the thought that occurred to him.
“That groom has Herbert’s livery!
Surely it was not Grantley Herbert
himself to whom I paid such precious
compliments? No, no: I’ve heard
Herbert spoken of as tall and fair.
Besides, why should he play up such
a trick? Anyhow, that beggar has
taken a rise out of me, for he evident
ly knows the Herberts. Whew! I’m
deuced glad I didn’t give him my card,
though I should like to know who he
is ”
CHAPTER IL
KOST AND GUEST.
“This is truth the poet sings,
That a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remem
bering happier things.”
—Tennyson.
A well appointed dog-cart drew up
before the principal entrance of
Ercildoune, and from it alighted the
clean-shaven passenger from London,
glancing up admiringly as he did so
at the antique carving over the an
cient doorway, and then surveying so
much as from this spot was visible of
THE SOUTHERN FARM
the picturesque mass of grey build-1
ings that for centuries had called the I
Herberts lord.
“A splendid heritage,” he said, in
wardly, “and as yet Herbert has no
heir.”
His keen grey eyes were observant
as he followed a servant through the
noble entrance-hall, hung around with
pikes, and bows, and ancient armour,
and many trophies of the chase; up a
staircase railed with black oak, richly
carved, and panelled with paintings
by Vandyck and Lely; and along a
wide corridor with painted ceiling,
and quaint old cabinets, and quainter
pictures of knights and fartningaled
ladies at intervals between the tall,
narrow windows.
Truly Grantley Herbert’s lines had
fallen in pleasant places, so far as
worldly matters were concerned.
The guest had not been
many minutes in the luxurious
dressing-room into which be
had been ushered, whence a bed
chamber opened on the one side, a sit
ting-room on the other, when there
came a knock at the door, and a man’s
voice asked —
“May I come in, Desborough?”
“By all means,” was the answer; and
Desborough turned round quickly,
stretching out his hand cordially to
the tall, handsome man who entered
the apartment.
“Bo glad to see you,” said this last,
with a look and manner of genuine
pleasure; “hope you had a pleasant
journey. But I say, where’s my fel
low? He ought ”
“My dear Herbert,” interrupted the
other, “1 regard a valet as a nuisance.
Your man came, but 1 dismissed him.
Sit down and tell me how the world
wags with you.”
Grantley Herbert flung himself into
a chair with a laugh.
“Well enough,” he said, with a half
reckless air, “or I ought to think so.
What can a man want more than I
have?”
“What indeed!” echoed Desborough,
washing his hands with highly scent
ed soan; “birth, wealth, a peerless wife
n
“Hm!” interrupted Herbert. “You
can stop short there, my friend.”
“I thought she was the most perfect
of women,” said Desborougfi, between
whom and the master of Ercildoune
there evidently existed great familiar
ity.
“I suppose she is,” returned Her
bert, again with that short, reckless
laugh; “but she and I weren’t born
under the same star.”
“And yoji have been married barely
eighteen months,” said Desborough,
glancing backwards over his shoulder
at his friend. “I remember, when we
first met after your marriage* you
talked a great deal about my lady’s
beauty; the next time, six months
later, you wouldn’t talk about her at
all; this time you talk about her; but
evidently—pardon me, old man—you
don’t pull well in double harness.”
“Not with my Lady Una, certainly
not,” said Herbert, with an almost
brutal frankness that might easily
suggest one reason at least why he
and his young wife did not “pull to
gether.” “Not that she is of the ‘icily
perfect, splendidly nil,’ order of wo
man; one can manage a nonentity, but
she simply runs counter to me in
everything. She can ride, boat, swim
like a fish, walk longer distances than
I care for, handle the ribbons as well
as I can myself, but she doesn’t care
for even things that we seem to have
in common, in my way; and her head
is full of things I know nothing about,
and care for still less. We don’t seem
to have one point of agreement. I
doubt if she ever tries to think or feel
with me.”
The sublime egotism of this speech
was almost too much for Desborough’s
risible nerves, the more so as Herbert
spoke in perfect good faith, and evi
dently looked upon himself as a
martyr. Desborough did not reply
for a minute or two, removing the
soap from his hands with great assid
uity. When he turned round his fea
tures were quite composed.
“I’m sorry for you,” he said; “mar
riage is always a leap in the dark, and
a fellow generally comes down on his
head. That seems to have been your
luck. But you were fond of your wife
when you married her, were you
not?”
“She dazzled me, that’s all. She
ioved me, or said she did, which comes
to the same thing with a woman,
though I’ll allow there was no other
reason why she should marry me. She
could have had a duke if she had
chosen. I wish she had chosen one
now.”
“Perhaps she does too,” observed
Desborough, laughing.
Herbert did not answer this, but
rose up suddenly, and crossed the room
to the door.
“ Are you ready ? ” he asked,
abruptly, and again Desbo
rough smiled to himself. It
was quite permissible for the
husband to wish himself rid of his
wife; but woe betide the wife if she
reciprocated the wish!
“Quite ready,” Mr. Desborough said,
fastening the stud of his wristband,
and Grantley Herbert led the way to
the drawing-room.
“Una’s cousin, Lord Darnleigh, is
staying with us,” he said, as they went
onwards; “he's not a bad sort of fel-
low; and there’s a girl friend of hers,
Evelyn Barrington. I fancy Darn
leigh is rather sweet on her; so take
care how you flirt. But you’re not
much of a flirt, you’re too devoted to
the ”
“Bh—h i” said Desborough, laughing
under his breath, as Herbert laid his
hand on the drawing-room door.
It was with a feeling of more than
quickened curiosity—of keen interest
—that Laurence Desborough entered
the presence of the woman reputed
by the world both beautiful and
gifted, yet of whom her hus
band spoke in such slighting
terms. He received scarcely even a
general impression of the apartment
in which he found himself, though,
unique in its decorations and style of
furniture, it might well have impress
ed a stranger; his gaze went straight
to the tall, lithe figure that turned as
the door opened, and came forward to
meet the guest. Desborough was
vaguely aware of the presence of two
other individuals—a man and a wo
man-seated on a sofa in the back
ground, but be only saw distinctly the
young girlish form, the auburn gold
curls, the oval face with opal clear,
colourless complexion, the large shi
ning, dark-blue eyes. Was it some
ideal portrait endowed with life that
was moving so gracefully across the
floor, clothed in picture-like, old-fash
ioned garb of pale blue, gold embroid
ered, with flashing gems on neck and
arms? Surely this beautiful creature,
with a beauty so spirituelle, was not
a nineteenth century queen of society 1
Surely—the idea seemed still more
incongruous- this was not the woman
who had given her life into the keep
ing of Grantley Herbertl
Thought is swift enough to have
traversed more than all this before
Lady Una Herbert and her husband’s
friend met, and Mr. Desborough went
through the introduction with the
self-possession of a man of the world,
though in truth he was so impressed,
not only by his hostess’s rare loveli
ness, but by something which lay far
deeper than mere beauty, that he
found the appropriate conventional
words difficult of utterance.
“I hope you had a fairly pleasant
journey, Mr. Desborough,” said Her
oert’s young wife, with a smile, which,
as Desborough noticed—for he was a
keen observer—did not reach her eyes;
“but railway travelling is always a
bore, is it not? Let me introduce you
to my friend and my cousin.”
Desborough bowed to Miss Ev
elyn Barrington and to the Most
Noble the Marquis of Darnleigh.
The former was a very pretty girl,
probably two or three years older than
Lady Una, and the latter, a tall, fair
young man of the ordinary type of
good-looking, well-born Englishmen.
They had doubtless an individuality
of their own, but they would be al
ways in the background when Una
Herbert was present.
Laurence Desborough was hungry,
and a man is rarely oblivious of the
claims of dinner, but he actually wish
ed that the five minutes which elapsed
before dinner was announced had
been prolonged to the proverbial—not
this time mauvais—quart d’heure.
But, he reflected, he would be next to
his hostess at the dinner-table, and
would naturally, as the newest guest
and the stranger, receive the major
part of her attention.
Whatever she suffered in se
cret, the lady of Ercildoune
was evidently not one to carry her
on her sleeve for daws to
peck at. She was the life of the din
ner-table ; and Desborough, no mean
judge, quickly perceived that her con
versational powers were of a high or
der ; her wit keen and sparkling. She
did not put herself forward or seek to
lead; much of the charm of her words
and manner was in their utter un
consciousness of self. She was either
too proud or too pure-hearted for
vanity; yet she led because she could
not help it. She always spoke well and
to the purpose; if but a few words
they were apropos, never nonsense or
meaningless conventionalities; and
pervading all there was that aroma—
if one may so term it—of culture
which is so different from mere ed
ucation. Small marvel, Desborough
thought, that there was little sym
pathy between my lady and her hus
band. This gifted mind, this rich and
vivid imagination, could not be tied
[continued on eleventh fags ]
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