From Macmillan's Magazine. MRS. DYMOND.

BY MRS. RITCHIE.

CHAPTER I.

BEACON FIRES.

ONE September evening a bonfire was burning high up near the summit of Tarndale Crag in the Lake Country. The fire burnt clear, with keen flames piercing the dying light. The smoke went spiring gently into the air, the fading sky was wide and tenderly serene above the moor and the lake below, where the waters, still flushed with sunset, came rippling from afar, washing against the rocks and the placid slopes of meadow land. All about Crowbeck Place the chestnuts and the ash trees had lit up their autumnal bonfire of yellow and russet flame, but it was for the marriage of summer and winter, and not in honor of Susanna's wedding-day, that they were flaring. Meanwhile, Crowbeck Place, the white house by the lake, was making ready for its new mistress; it stood with shining windows and newmown lawns, gleaming between gardens and meadows that slope to the water-side. Farther on was Bolsover Hall, wrapped in an ivy cowl, and also illumined, with many windows repeating the west; and then in the distant shadow rose Friars Tarndale, the fine old home of the lords of Tarndale, all shuttered and abandoned. The hills beyond Tarndale were already in purple and shadow; the upper end of the lake was still alight; a fisherman's boat was patiently bobbing up and down, and trying to complete its daily count of fish, doomed from their cool depths into the frying pans of the neighboring gentry. But the lights perhaps frightened the fish, for the fisherman pulled grumbling to shore before recrossing the water on his way home to the village.

The people living in the houses along the lake-side came to their cottage doors, and looked across the water towards the bonfire flaming on the opposite moor. 'Twould be for the colonel's wedding, they said, and they wondered "what sort the new leddy was like." Mrs. Barrow, the fisherman's wife, standing in her door way, with convolvulus hanging overhead and three curly-headed little urchins clinging to her knees, told Mrs. Tyson from the Lake Farm that she wondered to see the lights, for her master told her Miss Bolsover had sent orders from the Ha' to "do away wi' the bonfires. The squire himsel' had the faggots carted up, but

Miss Bolsover said she would na' ha' a bleeze."

Mrs. Tyson, a martial figure with a basket on either arm and a straw bonnet fiercely cocked, replied, with a laugh, "that it was na' to be wondered at if the family at the Ha' did na' favor the new wife, considering their relationship to the old one." And so the two voices chattered on, gossiping peacefully to a romantic accompaniment of evening, of distant echoes, to the rush of the stream under the little stone bridge hard by. Mrs. Tyson was a sturdy cynic; Mrs. Barrow, who was a peaceable woman, taking a friendly view of people and events, tried to find excuses for both. "Miss Bolsover might surely be a bit fashed; she who had been a mither so long to the colonel's two chil dren at the Place and to Mr. Charles at the Ha' as well; it was hard to gi' all up to another. - and Miss Bolsover hersel' such an uncommon spirited leddy."

"Mr. Josselin and Miss Tempy will be thinking they've had eno'o' mithers now," says Mrs. Tyson dryly, with a hitch at the baskets. "M'appen Tempy 'll be for taking a husband instead, now her father's bringing hoam a bride."

66

"Some fwolk do meak a fuss and a bodderment," says Mrs. Barrow; "Miss Tempy and the new Mrs. Dymond are gran' friends sure-ly. Mrs. Dymond is scarce older than Miss Tempy hersel." "More's the pity," says Mrs. Tyson sternly. Many a young lass will tak' an old man for his brass. My Jane would ha' wedded wi' old Roger Hathwaite if it had na' been for our warnings. Her feyther said he wad tak' the stick to her if she had onything to do wi' that old foxy chap."

"Eh! but the colonel is a good gentleman and Crowbeck is a pretty place," says Mrs. Barrow, "wi' flowers in the gardens and ripe fruit on the wa'. Eh! Tim!" And the mother proudly patted one of her curly heads.

"Miss Tempy gied us pearrn and ap plen out o' t' garrden," says shrilly Tim, grinning and joining in the conversation.

"And Miss Tempy's auntie cam oop and said we werrn't to have'n," cries curly Tom, at the pitch of his voice; "and Miss Tempy she bade us rin hoam quick wi' what we gotten."

"Ah! Miss Tempy is a Dymond, and na' niggard, like the Bolsovers," says Mrs. Tyson, with a last hoist of the baskets. "I should na' like Miss Bolsover o'er my head. My goodness! she will raise a rout to see the fire: I dinna ken

66

The squire stopped short, looked from Josselin to Tempy, buttoned himself up tightly. "Perhaps you had better let Tempy break it to her," says the cowardly Bolsover. "You-you might come with me for the doctor, Jo."

'No, I'll have it out," says Jo, setting off running up the sweep as hard as his long legs could carry him. He did not stop to ring, but hurried in by the back way and by the familiar passage to the door of Aunt Fanny's sitting-room. Charles Bolsover used to call his Aunt Fanny's boudoir the harem. The morning had been stormy, but the morning's discussions were as nothing compared to the evening's. The curtains were drawn to keep out the odious reflection of the lights without. Teapots, coffee-cups, liqueur-stands, salts, fans, eau-de-Cologne, every soothing appliance seemed scattered in disorder about the place. Miss Bolsover was lying back, with her sister-in-law, Mrs. Bolsover, and two ladies' maids in attendance.

"Who is it?-what is it? Are you Docter Jeffries?" screams the invalid wildly.

Jo walks in, half-penitent, half-defiant, and without further preamble confesses to his share of the catastrophe. Once more Miss Bolsover goes off into genuine hysterics; to be thwarted in any way always upsets her nerves, she says. All the cats and the dogs join the mêlée. For the second time that day Josselin Dymond rushes from the room, and as he opens the door gleams of the bonfires throw the shadows of the hall windows in great chequered squares upon the marble.

"Josselin !" says Mrs. Bolsover, following him from the room, "you had better go after your uncle, and tell him at once of your inopportune rejoicings. You have done enough to upset your aunt, even without the agitations of this ridiculous marriage, and do try and hurry up that Jeffries. He is never there when he is wanted," says Mrs. Bolsover, going back to her harassing duties, and smartly shutting the door.

Some very good people have a singular fancy for speaking severely of their neigh

bors, for whom, if the truth were known, they feel no very special dislike. Mrs. Bolsover generally, and upon principle, blamed every one and everything, and yet it was but a habit of speech; she was one of the meekest of women. Aunt Fanny used rarely to blame, but to praise with many adjectives and exclamations, and yet somehow she was not meek, and they were all afraid of her. Her fat hand ruled both Crowbeck Place and Bolsover Hall, where Mrs. Bolsover, who had married late in life, had never assumed the reins of management. At the Place, Colonel Dymond naturally turned to his late wife's sister for sympathy, companionship, and advice. He trusted Mrs. Bolsover, who was his own sister, but he was a little shy with her they were too much alike, both serious, sincere, reserved people, feeling much, but holding back where Miss Bolsover did not fear to rush in. As for the squire, the master of the house, the head of the Bolsover family, he was a fact rather than a person. He paid the bills, shot the pheasants, went on the box when it was convenient; he turned a lathe, and also steered a small steamer on the lake at one time, but this was not considered safe by the ladies, and the squire was made to return to the mainland again. He could photograph a little; be was passionately fond of waltzing, the young ladies were still glad of him as a partner in default of younger but not more active men. Mr. Bolsover liked dress, he twirled his moustachios, he walked with a curious, dancing step. He was called the squire by the country people, Uncle Bolsover by Jo and Tempy, Frederick by his wife and sister, Uncle Bol by Charlie Bolsover their nephew, who was supposed by many people to be the heir.

Jo and Charlie were the only members of the family who ever set Aunt Fanny at defiance. They used sometimes to suggest rebellion to their uncle, but a gentle squeak was the nearest apgroach to a remonstrance that had ever been heard from Uncle Bolsover. Perhaps few people in this world had ever given less trouble to others than this kind and friendly little man; many of us may have laughed at him, but all who ever knew him have had a kindly regard for the squire. And yet it must be confessed that he was a coward, that in the presence of the Vehmgericht in the boudoir he scarcely dared show his own amiable predilections, among which must surely be reckoned the good-will and admiration he felt for the pretty young bride now expected at Tarndale.

CHAPTER II.

A WEDDING PARTY.

WHILE the fires were burning away on Tarndale Crags, and the discussions also flaming up and dying away, as discussions do, while the people at the Hall and round about the lakeside were speculating as to her motives, the bride had turned to her mother with tears and many parting looks of love and farewell. She involuntarily shrunk away from her stepfather Mr. Marney's embrace, but she held her little brothers close in her kind arms with kisses and promises of happy things, of letters and gifts, of long summer holidays to be spent at Crowbeck Place, all together, with her husband the colonel's full sanction and approval.

was

The two little boys had been to the wedding in bran-new jackets and trousers the gift of their elderly brother-in-law. Except for this unusual magnificence all had been quiet enough. The colonel's family was in England, as we know, and Susanna had no one to invite. Her mother gave her away. The only other witness Madame du Parc, Mrs. Marney's faithful old confidante and landlady, looking like a picture out of a second-rate fashion-book, in her cachemire and chapeau à plumes and lemon kid gloves. After long years in France, Madame du Parc had grown to look more completely a French woman than if her British antecedents had never existed. There is some curious process of amalgamation which makes our adopted habits often seem more marked and individual than those we are naturally born to. Madame's French was more voluble, her English more broken, than if she had been born in the Faubourg, instead of at Pollok, N. B.; her clothes, chaussons, camisoles, were completely and entirely characteristic of a French bourgeoise. The chapeau à plumes was purchased for the occasion of Susanna's marriage; as for the famous cachemire, madame had worn it at her own wedding some thirty years before, when, as a governess, she had married the mathematical master of the school where she had taught so long. Susanna was not dressed out of a fashion-book, but she looked very charming. The little brothers opened their round eyes to see Sister Susy a grand lady. "Zat is 'ow I likes to see 'errr!" says Madame du Parc to the children "à la bonheur ! hein! hein!"

The children could hardly recognize their sister in the grand lady in the shining gown, with a carriage waiting and a

husband in attendance, who took leave of them in a feathery bonnet; but her kisses and her tears were the old ones all unchanged, and so were her smiles and her kind eyes. How much nicer she looked in her wedding dress than in the rusty black gown she had worn so long after she came from England! But she had put off her old clothes and her mourning on her wedding-day, and to please the colonel she had donned her silk attire. At Neuilly, as in Tarndale, it was thought a great match for Susanna, when it was known that she was marrying Colonel Dymond. The épicière, the washerwoman, the mercière, next door, were only translating Mrs. Barrow's gossip into French as they stood in the shady avenue waiting to see the carriage drive off with the bride and bridegroom. The difference between their ages was as great as that between their fortunes: she was twenty and penniless, he was within a year or two of sixty and rich enough to gratify all her fancies, as well as his own. One little back room at Madame du Parc's contained Susy's possessions - her workbox, and her desk, and the old hair trunk from her grandfather's rectory, which she had brought with her to Paris when he died and when she returned to her mother's home. But neither Crowbeck itself, nor the family mansion in Wimpole Street could hold the colonel's many belongings. It was natural that his relations should be vehement in their exclamations. Susanna had scarcely any relations to exclaim. There was her cousin, the country doctor, who was glad to hear of her comfortable prospects. As for her stepfather's cordialities, they were somewhat ominous; and the colonel, although a simple and unsuspicious person, instinctively felt that he should have to pay a good price for Mr. Marney's hearty congratulations. Susy's mother wept tears of mingled joy and sorrow for parting, and for happiness; and as for Susy herself, when she stood with her husband in the chapel, and put her hand into his, it was with grateful trust, it was with tender respect and admiration. The bitter experiences of the last year, during which she had been so unhappy in her stepfather's home, seemed condoned and forgotten. She felt that it was not for his money, it was for himself, for his goodness to herself, to her mother, to all of them, that she was marrying John Dymond, and she vowed to herself to be a good wife to him, to bring a true heart to him and his. A loving home, like that dear old home with her grandfather,

seemed hers once more. A happy life, a tender welcome, a good man's honor and love. Her love for her colonel was made up of many mingled feelings; gratitude, tenderness, glad submission-all had a part. He gave her peace and self-respect, the delight of helping those she loved, a society to which she was glad to suit herself more and more every day, conversation to which she and her mother listened with deep attention, and in perfect faith. Susy was leaving her mother's home; but Mrs. Marney and Susy herself felt that the secrets of that sad house were best borne unshared and unspoken. The poor girl, in her heart, had long since known that its martyrdom (for martyrdom it was) was made lighter, perhaps, by her absence. How many miserable days could she not count up when things went wrong, when Marney came home strange and excited, and Mrs. Marney anxiously hurried the children off to bed, and sent Susy out on long, distant expeditions, which would keep her away till nightfall. When he was at his best, in good humor, Marney was proud of his lovely stepdaughter, and would pay her compliments upon her beauty and high breeding, but he also instinctively guessed that she shrunk from him and had found him out, and she somehow felt that he hated her in return.

No flowers were scattered before the newly married people as they came away walking across the autumnal garden, followed by the little household of the villa; only the crisp fallen leaves rustled under their feet, a scent of September was in the air, some sudden dry soft breeze shook the branches overhead. Susy came with her hand in the colonel's arm. He already stooped a little, she walked erect and firm, trying to keep back her tears.

The horses in the carriage waiting out side in the road by the shabby green gates were already chafing when Susy got in, helped up the steps by Marney's officious hand. The little boys in their jackets waved their new caps and raised a sudden shrill shout. It was an unlucky shout, for it frightened some stray cock that had been perching on the branches of an old acacia tree overhanging the gate, the bird started up flapping its wings with a loud angry crow, the horses were frightened, and for a minute they were scarcely to be held in.

The colonel, who had lingered saying good-bye to Mrs. Marney, rushed forward greatly alarmed for his bride, but Susy was too much absorbed to be frightened even by the untoward little incident.

"Good-bye, good-bye," she said, leaning forward, with all her heart going out to the mother she was leaving behind forever-so it almost seemed to her.

Afterwards Susanna remembered that as the carriage was driving away, a branch from the acacia tree fell to the ground with a crash, again startling the restive horses almost into a gallop.

Mrs. Marney, who was superstitious, became very pale.

Marney shrugged his shoulders as he turned, away with an odd expression on his handsome face.

"Old branches have to rot and to fall when the time comes," says he, with his Irish accent. "Twill be a good thing for Susanna if she is left with a handsome jointure, Polly; I wish I could have got the colonel to sign a proper settlement. I suppose the old fellow was afraid of his family."

"Allons donc! It is not good to say such things at such moments. Oh, par exemple, non," cries Madame du Parc, indignant with Marney for his cold-blooded cynicism. Before resuming her usual domestic camisole and ordinary habits, the good lady carefully examined the acacia tree. The branch, so she observed, had been partially sawn through, and furthermore she ascertained from her son Max, the engraver, on the occasion of his next visit to his home at Neuilly, that he himself had occasioned the mischief.

"The branch was dead, and I began to cut it away," he said, "but I was called off to a friend and forgot all about it."

He

"Oh, zose frens, they interrups your work; they comes for no good; they stops, they smokes," says madame bitterly, speaking English as she usually did when she was excited; "that M. Jourde he was here again yesterday; he came with M. Caron. Does he not know I sees through 'im? M. Caron is different. is a good fellow for all his absurdities, but I wish he would not ensorcilate you with them as he did your poor papa. Why could you not give up conspirations for once and come to the wedding, Max? The old colonel he look well considering, and that dear child was pretty like everything. You are going to London on that business of the catalogue-you should pay a visit of felicitation to the new married."

"I have no wish to see the colonel look his best, or to felicitate any one," said Max drily. "And, listen, mamma," he added, with some emphasis, "if you go on talking like this about me and my