It was a dull autumnal afternoon when Maurice paid his final visit to the Manor House. That brilliant summer, which had lasted in all its heat and glory to the end of August, and even extended to September, had vanished all at once, and had given place to a bleak and early autumn. Stormy winds by night, and dull grey skies by day, had prevailed of late; sad stories of disaster at sea filled many a column in the newspapers—to the relief of editors, who must needs have had recourse to gigantic gooseberries, or revivified the sea-serpent, but for these catastrophes.

Even the Manor House had a gloomy look under this leaden sky. Pyramids of scarlet geraniums, thickets of many-coloured dahlias, lent their gaudy hues to the scene; but the lack of sunlight made all dull. The gilded vane pointed persistently northeast. Gardeners and underlings had laboured in vain to keep the paths and lawns clear of dead leaves. Down they came, in a crackling shower, with every gust, emblems of decay and death. Maurice Clissold, sensitive, as the poet must ever be, to external influences, felt depressed by the altered aspect of the place.

Within, however, all was mirth and brightness. There was the usual family group in the hall, where a mighty wood fire blazed in the antique grate, with its massive ironwork, and two burnished brazen globes, on iron standards—golden orbs that reflected the ruddy glow of the fire. The billiard-players were at work. A party of young ladies playing pool industriously, under the leadership of Mr. Tresillian, J.P., who was in great force in feminine circles where there was not much strain upon a man’s intellect. Lady Cheshunt was in her pet chair by the fire—her complexion guarded by a tapestry banner-screen—deeply absorbed in that very French novel the iniquity whereof she had seen denounced by the critical journals. Viola Bellingham was working point-lace at a little table by the central window, and listening with rather a listless air to Sir Lewis Dallas’s discourse. Neither Madge nor her husband was present.

Lady Cheshunt closed her novel with a faint sigh, leaving a finger between the pages. Mr. Clissold was not so interesting as the last and worst of French novelists; yet she felt called upon to be civil to him.

‘How is Mrs. Penwyn?’ he asked, when he had shaken hands with, and duly informed himself as to the health of, the distinguished dowager.

‘That poor child is not very well,’ replied her ladyship. ‘East wind, I suppose. I don’t think we were created for a world in which the wind is perpetually in the east. On such a day as this I always wish myself in the torrid zone, the centre of Africa, anywhere where one could feel the sun. To look at that grey sky and those falling leaves is enough to give one the horrors. It’s as bad as reading Young’s “Night Thoughts,” or staying at a country house with goody-people, who insist upon reading one of Blair’s sermons aloud on a wet Sunday afternoon.’

‘I hope it is nothing serious,’ said Maurice, meaning Mrs. Penwyn’s indisposition.

‘Oh dear no, not in the least. She is only a little out of spirits, and has been spending the morning in her own room with the baby. I dare say she will come down presently. I think she worked a little too hard last season, giving dinners to all the people Mr. Penwyn wanted to conciliate, and going everywhere he wished. She would make an admirable Cabinet minister’s wife, I tell her, so devoted and self-sacrificing; and I suppose, at the rate Mr. Penwyn is going on, he is sure to be in the Cabinet sooner or later. A very wonderful man—so serious and self-contained—a man who never wasted a minute of his life, I should think.’

Madge entered at this moment, a little paler than in the days of old, but very beautiful. Her flowing grey silk dress, with broad sash and gimps and fringes of richest violet, became her admirably. Not a jewel or ornament, except the single amethyst stud which fastened her plain linen collar, and the triple band of diamonds on her wedding finger. The plenteous dark hair wound coronet fashion round the small head. A woman for a new Velasquez to paint, just as she stood before Maurice to-day in the soft grey light.

‘I am so sorry to hear you have been ill,’ he said, as they shook hands.

‘But you must not be sorry, for I was not really ill. I was a little tired, perhaps a little idle, too, and I wanted a morning alone with my boy. What have you done with Churchill, Lady Cheshunt?’ with a little anxious look round the room—empty for her, lacking that one occupant.

‘What have I done with him?’ ejaculated the dowager. ‘Do you suppose your husband is a man to be kept indoors by any fascinations of mine? I should as soon expect to see Brutus, or Cassius, or any of those dreadful Shakesperian persons in togas, playing the tame cat. I asked your husband to read aloud to us, thinking that might please him—most men are proud of their elocution,—but you should have seen his look of quiet contempt. “I am so sorry I am too busy to allow myself the pleasure of amusing you,” he said, and then went off to superintend some new plantation of Norwegian firs. Wonderful man!’

‘You have come to spend the rest of the day with us of course, Mr. Clissold?’ said Madge, with that pleasant cordial manner which was one of her charms, and in no wise out of harmony with her somewhat queenly bearing. Who more delightful than a queenly woman when she desires to please?

‘I shall be only too happy if I may, and if you will excuse my appearing at dinner in a frock coat. I reserved this day for my visit here. It is my last day but one in the west.’

‘I am so sorry,’ said Madge. ‘Well, since we have you for so short a time we must do our best to amuse you. Perhaps,’ with a happy thought, ‘you would like to go and see Churchill’s new plantation. We might go for a drive and join him.’

Maurice understood the wife’s desire to be near her husband, a new proof of that love which had an element of pathos in its quiet intensity.

‘I should like it of all things,’ he answered.

‘But are you sure you have lunched?’ It was between three and four in the afternoon.

‘Quite sure. I joined Mr. Trevanard at his early dinner.’

‘Clara—Laura, which of you will come for a drive?’ asked Madge, indiscriminately of the pool-players. ‘I know it would be useless to ask you, dear Lady Cheshunt.’

‘My love, I would as soon drive across the Neva in a sledge for pleasure. I never stir from my fireside, except to go out to dinner, when the wind’s in the east. Setting aside the discomfort, I can’t see why one should make a horror of one’s self by exposing one’s complexion to be rasped as the bakers rasp their rolls.’

The pool-players were too deeply involved in their game to care about leaving it, unless dear Mrs. Penwyn particularly wished them to go out.

‘Let me come, Madge,’ said Viola, ‘and let us take Nugent.—You won’t mind, will you, Mr. Clissold?’

‘Do you think that I am such a barbarian as to object to that small individual’s society?’ asked Maurice. ‘He shall sit on my knee, and pull my beard as hard as he likes.’

Sir Lewis Dallas asked to be allowed to join the party, so the sociable was ordered, and Mrs. Penwyn and her sister retired to put on their hats.

‘She is not looking well,’ said Maurice.

‘No, she is not,’ answered Lady Cheshunt, with more earnestness than was common to that somewhat frivolous dowager. ‘She has never been quite the same since that burglar business.’

‘Indeed! The alarm caused her a great shock, I suppose.’

‘Well, she knew nothing about the attempt until it was all over; but I suppose the worry and excitement afterwards were too much for her. The man turned out to be a son of the lodge-keeper, and the woman came whining to Mrs. Penwyn to get him let off easily; and Madge, who is the most tender-hearted creature in the world, persuaded Churchill to use his influence with that good-natured Mr. Tresillian, whom he can wind round his finger,’ in a whi............