Nothing in Captain Winstanley’s manner during the sultry summer days which went before his marriage betrayed his knowledge of Violet Tempest’s rebellious spirit. He would not see that he was obnoxious to her. He spoke to her and looked at her as sweetly as if there had been the friendliest understanding between them. In all his conduct, in any act of his which approached the assumption of authority, he went to work with supreme gentleness. Yet he had his grip upon everything already, and was extending his arms in every direction, like an octopus. There were alterations being made in the garden which Violet knew were his, although Mrs. Tempest was supposed to have originated them. He had, in some measure, assumed dominion over the stables. His two hunters were already quartered there. Vixen saw them when she went her morning round with a basket of bread. They were long-bodied, hungry-looking animals; and the grooms reported them ravenous and insatiable in their feeding.

“When they’ve eat their corn they eats their ‘ay, and when they’ve eat their ‘ay they eats their bed, and then they takes and gnaws the wooden partitions. They’ll eat up all the woodwork in the stable, before they’ve done. I never see such brutes,” complained Bates, the head-groom.

Vixen fancied these animals were in some wise typical of their owner.

One morning when Vixen was leaning upon the half-door of Arion’s loose-box, giving herself up to a quarter of an hour’s petting of that much-beloved animal, Captain Winstanley came into the stable.

“Good-morning, Miss Tempest. Petting that pretty little bay of yours? I’m afraid you’ll spoil him. You ought to hunt him next October.”

“I shall never hunt again.”

“Pshaw! At your age there’s no such word as never. He’s the neatest little hunter in the Forest. And on his by-days you might ride one of mine.”

“Thanks,” said Vixen, with a supercilious glance at the most leggy of the two hunters, “I shouldn’t care to be up there. I should feel myself out of everything.”

“Oh, by-the-way,” said Captain Winstanley, opening the door of another loose-box, “what are we to do with this fellow?”

“This fellow” was a grand-looking bay, with herculean quarters, short legs, and a head like a war-horse. He snorted indignantly as the Captain slapped his flank, and reared his splendid crest, and seemed as if he said “Ha, ha!”

“I don’t quite know of whom you are speaking when you say ‘we,’” said Vixen, with an unsmiling countenance.

“Naturally of your mother and myself. I should like to include you in all our family arrangements, present or future; but you seem to prefer being left outside.”

“Yes,” replied Vixen, “I prefer to stand alone.”

“Very well then. I repeat my question — though, as you decline to have any voice in our arrangements, it’s hardly worth while to trouble you about it — what are we to do with this fellow?”

“Do with him? My father’s horse!” exclaimed Vixen; “the horse he rode to his dying day! Why, keep him, of course!”

“Don’t you think that is rather foolish? Nobody rides or drives him. It takes all one man’s time to groom him and exercise him. You might just as well keep a white elephant in the stables.”

“He was my father’s favourite horse,” said Vixen, with indignant tears clouding the bright hazel of her eyes; “I cannot imagine mamma capable of parting with him. Yet I ought not to say that, after my experience of the last few months,” she added in an undertone.

“Well, my dear Miss Tempest, family affection is a very charming sentiment, and I can quite understand that you and your mamma would be anxious to secure your father’s horse a good home and a kind master; but I cannot comprehend your mamma being so foolish as to keep a horse which is of no use to any member of her family. If the brute were of a little lighter build, I wouldn’t mind riding him myself, and selling one of mine. But he’s too much of a weight-carrier for me.”

Vixen gave Arion a final hug, drying her angry tears upon his soft neck, and left the stable without another word. She went straight to her mother’s morning-room, where the widow was sitting at a table covered with handkerchiefs-cases and glove-boxes, deeply absorbed in the study of their contents, assisted by the faithful Pauline, otherwise Polly, who had been wearing smarter gowns and caps ever since her mistress’s engagement, and who was getting up a trousseau on her own account, in order to enter upon her new phase of existence with due dignity.

“We shall keep more company, I make no doubt, with such a gay young master as the Captain,” she had observed in the confidences of Mrs. Trimmer’s comfortable parlour.

“I can never bring myself to think Swedish gloves pretty,” said Mrs. Tempest, as Vixen burst into the room, “but they are the fashion, and one must wear them.”

“Mamma,” cried Vixen, “Captain Winstanley wants you to sell Bullfinch. If you let him be sold, you will be the meanest of women.”

And with this startling address Vixen left the room as suddenly as she had entered it, banging the door behind her.

Time, which brings all things, brought the eve of Mrs. Tempest’s wedding. The small but perfect trousseau, subject of such anxious thoughts, so much study, was completed. The travelling-dresses were packed in two large oilskin-covered baskets, ready for the Scottish tour. The new travelling-bag, with monograms in pink coral on silver-gilt, a wedding present from Captain Winstanley, occupied the place of honour in Mrs. Tempest’s dressing-room. The wedding-dress, of cream-coloured brocade and old point-lace, with a bonnet of lace and water-lilies, was spread upon the sofa. Everything in Mrs. Tempest’s apartment bore witness to the impending change in the lady’s life. Most of all, the swollen eyelids and pale cheeks of the lady, who, on this vigil of her wedding-day, had given herself up to weeping.

“Oh mum, your eyes will be so red to-morrow,” remonstrated Pauline, coming into the room with another dainty little box, newly-arrived from the nearest railway-station, and surprising her mistress in tears. “Do have some red lavender. Or let me make you a cup of tea.”

Mrs. Tempest had been sustaining nature with cups of tea all through the agitating day. It was a kind of drama drinking, and she was as much a slave of the teapot as the forlorn drunken drab of St. Giles’s is a slave of the gin-bottle.

“Yes, you may get me another cup of tea, Pauline. I feel awfully low to-night.”

“You seem so, mum. I’m sure if I didn’t want to marry him, I wouldn’t, if I was you. It’s never too late for a woman to change her mind, not even when she’s inside the church. I’ve known it done. I wouldn’t have him, mum, if you feel your mind turn against him at the last,” concluded the lady’s-maid energetically.

“Not marry him, Pauline, when he is so good and noble, so devoted, so unselfish!”

Mrs. Tempest might have extended this list of virtues indefinitely, if her old servant had not pulled her up rather sharply.

“Well, mum, if he’s so good and you’re so fond of him, why cry?”

“You don’t understand, Pauline. At such a time there are many painful feelings. I have been thinking, naturally, of my dear Edward, the best and most generous of husbands. Twenty years last June since we were married. What a child I was, Pauline, knowing nothing of the world. I had a lovely trousseau; but I daresay if we could see the dresses now we should think them absolutely ridiculous. And one’s ideas of under-linen in those days were very limited. Those lovely satin-stitch monograms only came in when the Princess of Wales was married. Dear Edward! He was one of the handsomest men I ever saw. How could Violet believe that I should sell his favourite horse?”

“Well, mum, hearing Captain Winstanley talk about it, she naturally ——”

“Captain Winstanley would never wish me to do anything I did not like.”

The Captain had not said a word about Bullfinch since that morning in the stable. The noble brute still occupied his loose-box, and was fed and petted daily by Vixen, and was taken for gallops in the dry glades of the Forest, or among the gorse and heath of Boldrewood.

Mrs. Tempest had dined — or rather had not dined — in her own room on this last day of her widowhood. Captain Winstanley had business in London, and was coming back to Hampshire by the last train. There had been no settlements. The Captain had nothing to settle, and Mrs. Tempest confided in her lover too completely to desire to fence herself round with legal protections and precautions. Having only a life interest in the estate, she had nothing to leave, except the multifarious ornaments, frivolities, and luxuries which the Squire had presented to her in the course of their wedded life.

It had been altogether a trying day, Mrs. Tempest complained: in spite of the diversion to painful thought which was continually being offered by the arrival of some interesting item of the trousseau, elegant trifles, ordered ever so long ago, which kept dropping in at the last moment. Violet and her mother had not met during the day, and now night was hurrying on. The owls were hooting in the Forest. Their monotonous cry sounded every now and then through the evening silence like a prophesy of evil. In less than twelve hours the wedding was to take place; and as yet Vixen had shown no sign of relenting.

The dress had come from Madame Theodore’s. Pauline had thrown it over a chair, with an artistic carelessness which displayed the tasteful combination of cream colour and pale azure.

Mrs. Tempest contemplated it with a pathetic countenance.

“It is simply perfect!” she exclaimed. “Theodore has a most delicate mind. There is not an atom too much blue. And how exquisitely the drapery falls! It looks as if it had been blown together. The Vandyke hat too! Violet would look lovely in it. I do not think if I were a wicked mother I should take so much pains to select an elegant costume for her. But I have always studied her dress. Even when she was in pinafores I took care that she should be picturesque. And she rewards my care by refusing to be present at my wedding. It is very cruel.”

The clock struck twelve. The obscure bird clamoured a little louder in his woodland haunt. The patient Pauline, who had packed everything and arranged everything, and borne with her mistress’s dolefulness all day long, began to yawn piteously.

“If you’d let me brush your hair now, ma’am,” she suggested at last, “I could get to............