of Phil Ransford's? Beware of him! My whole nature joins in pronouncing him a villain. And why? Is jealousy the cause of it? I cannot say. Oh! jealousy, thou bane of pleasing friendship, True, true! But I shall never be jealous of you, my sweet Clytie; and if there be any truth in this idle rumour that old Waller intends to shut out the light here in Dunelm, why I will at once sue thee at thy feet to be my wife, and ask thy grandfather to let thee stay." The sunlight which had been obscured by a passing cloud fell full and golden upon Clytie's head. "I accept the omen," said Tom, "happy is the bride that the sun shines on. I shall propose for thee at once. They think Ransford is the favourite, do they! He is a scoundrel and a coward. He is certainly not a gentleman; he neither kept his appointment, nor explained his absence. Why did he not come, I wonder? Let me see, it was last Sunday night when he said we must have a serious conversation. I fixed Monday for it; he never came. What else could Mrs. Wilding have told me if she had liked? Pooh, I do not care; I will not listen to tales, my Clytie. But you shall listen to me, my darling-you must; life is nothing without you; take me for thy love, and thou shalt never have cause to doubt me. They say, base men being in love, have then A nobility in their natures more Than is native to them. But he is not in love; he only desires to add another to what he calls his conquests. Love is full of self-denial; it takes no count of wealth, nor time, nor place; it is lowly and gentle, meek and confiding; yet brave as lions are, and will not be restrained." Tom Mayfield smoked and mused-smoked and talked to the Parian bust; while Clytie herself was sitting at her grandfather's knee, listening to the sad story of her mother's life and being warned against Phil Ransford. She had had a miserable time since that unhappy meeting on the terrace. Her grandfather had watched her every movement. The servant was also a spy upon her. She had not been outside the house alone. On this anniversary of her mother's death, Luke Waller had coloured the well-known story with the deepest shadows, and talked to his trembling grandchild as if she were indeed on the brink of ruin, if she had not already fallen. This not only hurt the girl, but offended her ; it bruised her heart and wounded her pride; it made her tears hot and scalding, it seared her better nature, it degraded and humiliated her; she felt that her grandfather would no longer believe in her. And he, poor old man, in his remembrance of the past, exaggerated the incident which had brought such misery upon the house, and felt all the wretchedness of a calamity which only existed in his imagination. Phil Ransford was in London. The season was in full swing, and it was therefore necessary that he should air himself in the Row. He had written a letter of explanation to Mr. Waller; and had contrived to get a letter into the hands of Clytie, in spite of all her grandfather's vigilance. CHAPTER VII. BEHIND THE SUNSHINE AND BENEATH THE FLOWERS. It was not until some weeks after the unfortunate meeting between Luke Waller and Phil Ransford in the summer-house that Clytie regained anything like the accustomed confidence of her grandfather. She had led a miserable life with the old man during this interval. He had watched her with a jealous care that had become almost unbearable. One bright June morning, however, Clytie resolved to sue for freedom, and at the same time, in her own weak way, she made up her mind to be worthy of it. "I wish to go out this morning, grandfather," she said, “to take a walk alone as I used to do." "Yes," said the old man, looking at her inquiringly. "You must trust me, dear; my life will be a burden to me if you do not," said the girl, with a firmness of manner that seemed strange and foreign to her nature. "Trust you, my dear? Would to God I could!" exclaimed Luke, raising his eyes, and shaking his head with a solemn doubtfulness. "Do trust me! It is "You may, dear-you may,” said the girl. such a lovely morning. I should like to go and gather some flowers, and have a long walk. It will do me good." "I will go with you," said Luke. "No, not now. It is the common talk of the city that I am not allowed to go out alone; that either you or cook must always be with me." "Who says so?" "I believe it is common gossip." "How do you know?" "I only surmise; but, of course, if you trust cook in preference to your own grandchild, she is sure to talk.” "You have heard nothing positively, then ?" "No; but you know what Dunelm is. We are like gold fish in a bowl; everybody can see each other." "You wish to go for a walk alone to show that I trust you?" "Yes, dear; and because it is such a lovely morning." "You may go." "Oh, thank you, dear!" exclaimed the girl, flinging her arms round her grandfather's neck and kissing him. "But if you deceive me again, Mary, I will believe you no more. Oh, my darling, if you only knew how it wrings my heart to speak to you in this cold, suspicious way! Be true to your poor old grandfather." "I will, I will," said the girl, kissing him again, and leaving the room to put her bonnet on her head, and the diamond necklace into her pocket. The moment she had left the house, Mr. Waller's servant entered the room quickly and without ceremony. "My young lady's took something out of her drawer and put it in her pocket." "Go away-go away," said the old man, raising his hands to prevent her from saying any more. "Well, you forced me to promise as I'd tell you everything, so you can do as you likes, that's all. If I was you I should follow my young lady." "Curse you, go! and I give you warning to leave in a month. I'm tired of you. Half the mischief that is done comes through you." "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" burst out the young woman, commencing to cry; "and now you blames me for coming to tell you as Mr. Ransford was in the summer-house-oh, dear!" "There, that will do. Go away, I tell you." When he was once more alone, Luke shuffled irresolutely about the room, and finally put on his hat and sauntered into the Bailey. Clytie had gone out with the full intention of being in every way worthy of her freedom, and her first thought towards it was to get rid of the jewels which she had many times been on the point of flinging into the Wear. She had not replied to Phil's letters, though she had been tempted once or twice to do so; and even now she acknowledged to herself that it would be far better to be Mrs. Ransford, without caring very much for her husband, than to live the life she was living at Dunelm. However, it seemed to her that the diamond necklace had caused all her trouble, and she was in continual fear that some day her grandfather might ask for the keys of her drawers and discover it. She was therefore determined to get the worry of this thing off her mind. Once it had occurred to her that she would return the gift to Mr. Ransford; but she did not wish to offend him. No, there was no other way but to get rid of the string of jewels, and this morning there should be an end of them. : As she passed over Prebend's Bridge, accustomed as she was to the beauties of the place, she could not help saying to herself that the view before her was very lovely. The old Cathedral and Castle towered up above her out of a bank of giant trees that seemed to be climbing after the grey towers which touched the sky. The amber leaves of the oak; delicate sprays of ash; the sycamore and the maple; the great hand-screens of chesnut, with crowds of white waxen flowers—all these made a groundwork for the dreams in stone above the whole looked like a bit of glorious imagination in landscape, while the murmur of the river falling over the mill weir filled the air with an accompaniment of music which seemed to steal into Clytie's heart and whisper a gentle endorsement of her good resolutions. Oh, the dear old city, with its peaceful ways! What a pity that backbiting and scandalising, false pride and uncharitableness, lurked in the heart of the dreamy resting-place! Even Clytie, with all the vanity and frivolity of her nature, found some such thought as this in her mind. It was not clear to her what she did think; but if the same shadowy idea had been in her grandfather's mind he would have played it out in one of his extempore pieces, and it would have meant surprise and sorrow and wonder that the Church in this dear old city should have set up the unsocial sign of exclusiveness; that the man who claimed the power and authority of the apostles should not have walked meekly and humbly in their Master's footsteps. The proudest and most arrogant of Dunelm's inhabitants were Dunelm's parsons; but they preached humility, meekness, and self-denial to the poor every Sunday with professional earnestness. With a silent but sincere prayer for guidance and help, Clytie looked around her upon the exquisite picture. Not a soul was in sight, which was in nowise unusual; you might walk alone for hours in the Banks. Taking the little jewel case from her pocket, and without venturing upon a parting glance at the contents, lest she should be tempted againby their sparkling beauty, she dropped Phil Ransford's present over the bridge into the deep water. A circle of eddying waves spread round and round the spot until they were broken by the abutments of the bridge, and then they scattered themselves into groups of wavelets, and went in a hurry to tell the sedgy banks what had occurred. Clytie, feeling happier than she had felt for months, went on her way rejoicing. As she disappeared among the trees on the other side of the river old Luke Waller came out from the shadow of the fading lilacs in the archway and hurried to the spot where the girl had been standing. He looked over the bridge, and counting the balustrades on either side of the spot, made a note of them on the back of a letter; he next marked with his pencil the coping-stone of the bridge, and then went to consult a boatman down the river upon the best mode of recovering a small parcel which he had accidentally let fall into the water. Meanwhile, Clytie skipped joyously along-down leafy lanes, over rustic stiles, across fields, disfigured here and there by an occasional coal-pit, and at last entered one of the numerous woods which lie out in the open country about Dunelm, looking from distant heights like dark soft clumps of impenetrable foliage. The perfume of millions of bluebells filled the air, and the dog-rose and wild briony had made bowers here and there in which myriads of birds were twittering. Clytie was in this blue-bell world in a moment, already, in imagination, decorating the Hermitage mantel-shelves with bouquets of wild flowers. It was purely accidental that Tom Mayfield, who had been to the Observatory connected with Dunelm University to see the master there on a College question, took advantage of the time at his disposal to return to College by a roundabout route. Skirting the wood in which Clytie was so busily engaged, Tom looked into the leafy valley and saw his goddess up to her neck in ferns and flowers. He sat upon the stile through which the wood was entered and watched her. His heart beat wildly; he longed to go and throw himself at her feet. He had never seen anything so lovely, he thought. She was humming a pretty old English song, and making a bouquet of roses and bluebells. Tom felt that it was mean to watch her. He took off his College cap and approached her. She heard him the moment he moved among the brushwood, which lay about thickly, with thousands of green spikes VOL. X., N.S. 1873. D D |