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10 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 ] PERFECT MANHOOD! How attained—how re stored—how preserved. 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