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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Duchess
of Rosemary Lane: A Novel
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Duchess of Rosemary Lane: A Novel

Author: B. L. Farjeon

Release date: November 19, 2016 [eBook #53558]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by

Google Books (Harvard University)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUCHESS OF

ROSEMARY LANE: A NOVEL ***
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
https://books.google.com/books?id=rSgNAAAAYAAJ
(Harvard University)

THE DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE.

THE

DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE.

 A Novel.

BY

B. L. FARJEON,
AUTHOR OF

"GREAT PORTER SQUARE," "DEVLIN THE BARBER,"

"GRIF," "THE SACRED NUGGET," &c., &c.

SECOND EDITION.

LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1893.
 PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO. LIMITED, GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS,
AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.

CONTENTS.

The Prologue.

Part The First.--Spring

Part The Second.--Summer

Part The Third.--Autumn

Part The Fourth.--Winter

Part The First.--The Child

CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
CHAPTER XVIII.
CHAPTER XIX.

Part The Second.--The Woman

CHAPTER XX.
CHAPTER XXI.
CHAPTER XXII.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHAPTER XXIV.
CHAPTER XXV.
CHAPTER XXVI.
CHAPTER XXVII.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
CHAPTER XXIX.

THE DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE,

 THE

DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE.

The Prologue.

"We see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose;
And on old Hymen's chin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set."

PART THE FIRST.

SPRING.

It is a lovely morning in April. The last drops of a radiant shower

have fallen, and Nature is smiling through her tears, as might a
happy maiden in the sparkling face of her lover, who, suddenly and
unexpectedly, has brought her joyful tidings. The titlark and the
whitethroat, and other feathered visitors of spring, are flying hither
and thither in glad delight, singing their blithest songs, and carrying
rays of sunlight on their wings to illumine the summer nests which
they are building. Joyously busy are these graceful citizens of the
woods, and proud of their work; they chirp, and twitter, and
exchange glad greetings, as they fly hither and thither, and when
they rest from their labour of love on the sprays of the common
beech, they seem to be sitting in bell-shaped thrones of emerald,
while the dew upon the flowers of the silver birch glitters like drops
of molten gold in the eye of the sun.

Surrounded by these and myriad other evidences of spring,

stands a fair and beautiful girl, herself in the spring of life. The name
of the place is appropriate to her and to the season. Springfield is an
enclosed park of forty acres, the beauties of which are jealously
hidden from vulgar gaze. It is the most picturesque portion of an
important estate, at present in the possession of Lady Josephine
Temple, who lies sick in the quaint old house yonder, built in the
Elizabethan style, the designs for which are said to have been
prepared by John of Padua. But John of Padua and all the historical
associations of the house are as dead letters to Lady Temple, who
has sufficient food for contemplation in her own immediate affairs
and condition. The blinds of the room in which she lies are drawn
down for the express purpose of shutting out the day, in accordance
with the ancient formula, which provided that the sick should be
depressed and weakened by dim light and silence, instead of
cheered and strengthened by sunlight and cheerfulness.

To beautiful Nelly Marston, as she stands by the quaint old

windows in the laughing sunlight, with diamond drops of rain
glistening in her bonny brown hair, and on her lashes,--

"The April in her eyes; it is love's spring,

And these the showers to bring it on,"--
to her comes, with a bashful air upon him, the son of the head
gardener of Springfield, a young man of twenty-five or thereabouts,
fairly handsome, fairly well-made, and, through the long services of
his father, fairly well-to-do in the world. He has in his hand some
loose flowers, and a small bouquet of lilies of the valley, arranged in
good taste, and looking, with their white petals and their
background of exquisitely green leaves, like turrets of ivory carved
out one above another, built up on emerald mountains. The young
man, with a world of admiration expressed in his manner, holds out
the lilies to Miss Nelly Marston, with a shyness that would have been
comical in one so strong had his earnestness allowed scope for any
quality less strong than itself.

"May I offer you these, miss?"

As though he were offering her his heart, which, indeed, he was

ready and eager to do, but lacked the courage.

"Thank you, John," she says, turning the flowers this way and
that, with as dainty a coquetting with man and flower--though she
does not look at him--as well could be. Then she selects two or
three of the lilies, and places them in her brown hair, where they
rest like white doves in an autumn forest. John's heart is full as he
sees his flowers thus disposed. Nelly, then, inhales the fresh air,
demonstratively, as though it were nectar. "What a lovely morning!
And yet it was blowing last night, almost like winter."

"Ah, you heard the wind, miss," responds the young gardener,
delighted at the opportunity of exchanging a few words with the girl
who had but lately come to Springfield, and who had taken his heart
captive the moment his eyes rested on her fair face. A thrill actually
runs through his foolish heart at the thought that he and she were
awake at the same moment listening to the wind. "It is a good sign,
miss, for harvest."
 "I have heard you are weather-wise, John," says Nelly Marston,
with a little laugh sweeter to the young fellow than the sweetest
chime of bells, or the sweetest music of birds. "Harvest-time is far
off. In what way is it a good sign?"

"When April blows his horn, it's good for hay and corn. An old
saying, miss."

"As old, I dare say, as that April showers make May flowers."
(Nelly Marston is almost as pleased as the young gardener himself at
the opportunity for conversation. She finds Springfield very dull.
Every soul in it, with the exception of the mistress, is a servant, and
Lady Temple, a childless widow, is not remarkable for cheerfulness
or lively manners. There is no one at Springfield with whom the girl
can associate.) "These lilies are very, very pretty, John! What is that
flower you have in your hand, that one with the spotted leaves?"

"This, miss? It isn't very handsome, but I can't resist picking a bit
when I first catch sight of it in the spring hedges, because it reminds
me of the time when I was a little un, and when me and the others
used to play at lords-and-ladies with it. It's almost a medicine flower,
too, miss, the cuckoo-pint."

"The cuckoo-pint! Is lords-and-ladies another name for it?"

"Not a proper name, miss, but that's what we used to call it. It's
come down to us in that way."

"And the cuckoo flower, too! I have heard of the cuckoo flower, of
course, but never of the cuckoo-pint. Lords-and-ladies! Give it to me,
John, will you?"

"With pleasure, miss," answers the delighted and palpitating John.

"I'll pick you a bunch of them, if you like, miss."

"Yes, do! But--I am a very curious person, John, always wanting

to know things--why is it called lords-and-ladies?"
 "I don't exactly know, miss, except, perhaps, that it changes more
than any other flower."

"And lords-and-ladies do that?"

"It isn't for me to say, miss. I only repeat what I have heard.
There's other names for it. If you'll allow me, miss." John's nerves
tingle as he takes the flower from the girl's hand, and in doing so,
touches her fingers. The contact of her soft flesh with his is a
concentrated bliss to him, and sets his sensitive soul on fire. "You
see, I pull down this hood"--(he suits the action to the word, and
turns down the outer leaf)--"and here's the Parson in his Pulpit. You
might fancy 'twas something like it, miss."

"You must not make fun of parsons, John. My father was one."

John, who is a staunch church-goer, and by no means irreverently

inclined, is instantly imbued with a deeper reverence than ever for
parsons, and says apologetically,

"Tis not making fun of them, miss, to liken them to flowers. If I

was to liken them to medicine bottles, now, with the white labels
tied round their necks, 'twould be different; but I wouldn't go so far
as that."

Nelly Marston laughs, the likeness of medicine bottles to the

clergy is so clearly apparent.

"It is a long stretch either way, John. I must go in now. Don't

forget to pick me a bunch of lords-and-ladies!"

"I'll not forget, miss."

The happy young gardener touches his cap, and walks away with
a blithe heart, to search at once among the hedges for this particular
species of the arum. Be sure that none but the very finest specimens
will meet with his approval. From this day forth the cuckoo-pint
holds a curiously-tender place in his memory, and the season

"When daisies pied, and violets blue,

And lady-smocks, all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight,"

never comes round without bringing with it a vision of himself and a

fair and beautiful girl by the old house at Springfield, she with white
lilies and cuckoo flowers in her hands, and he standing before her,
with a heart pulsing with love and adoration.

Nelly Marston would have stopped a longer time conversing with

him, had she not seen a maid approaching her from the house to
summon her to Lady Temple's room.

"I have been waiting for you, Miss Marston," says the sick lady, in
a peevish tone, as the girl enters, "and wondering where you were.
What have you in your hand? Flowers! Send them away. You know I
am expressly forbidden to have flowers about me. Stay. What are
they? Don't bring them too close."

"Only a few lilies of the valley, Lady Temple, that the gardener's
son gave me."

"And you have some in your hair, too--that the gardener's son
gave you! And those other flowers, the yellow ones?"

"This is the cuckoo flower--the cuckoo pint, rather. Lords-and-

ladies, he called it."

"And that's why you choose it, I suppose. So you have been
gossiping with the gardener's son! You are like your mother, I am
afraid."

"My mother, Lady Temple," says the girl proudly, straightening her
slight figure, "during her lifetime, always spoke of you with respect
and affection. I shall be glad if you will explain the meaning of your
words--if they have a meaning."

"There, there, don't worry me, Miss Marston. I am not strong

enough for scenes. It seems to be a bright morning."

"It is very fresh and lovely out of doors. Spring is come in real
earnest. The apple-blossoms look beautiful----"

"And I lie here," interrupts Lady Temple querulously, "shut out

from it all, shut out from it all! I have never had any happiness in my
life, never! Shall I never rise from this horrible bed?" She gazes at
Nelly Marston, envious of the girl's youth and brightness. "I suppose,
Miss Marston, if you were mistress of this house and grounds, you
think you could be very happy?"

"I think so, Lady Temple. I should not require much else."

"You would!" cried Lady Temple, fiercely. "One thing. Love! That is
what your mother sacrificed herself for, the fool!"

"Why speak of her in that way," asks the girl, in a quiet tone, but
with a bright colour in her face which shows how deeply she resents
the words of her mistress, "before her daughter? She was your
friend, remember. You say you have never had happiness in your
life. I am sorry for you, and I am glad to think that my mother had
much."

"There, there! Be still. Your mother was a good creature, and no

one's enemy but her own. What are those shadows on the blind?"

"Swallows, Lady Temple. I lay awake for a long time this morning,
watching them. They are building nests just outside my window."

"Never mind them," says Lady Temple, fretfully. "Listen to me,

Miss Marston. I am not quite alone in the world. I have relatives who
love me very much just now--oh, yes, very much just now, when
they think I have not long to live! But only one shall darken my
doors. My nephew, Mr. Temple, will be here in a few days; you must
see that his rooms are ready for him when he arrives. Give me his
letter. There it is, on my dressing-table. What have you dropped?
What are you looking at?"

"A portrait, Lady Temple. It slipped from the envelope. Is it Mr.

Temple's picture?"

"Yes, yes; give it to me. It is a handsome face, is it not, Miss

Marston? Now sit down, and do not annoy me any longer. When I
am asleep, go softly, and see to Mr. Temple's rooms. He will have
this house when I am gone, if he does not thwart me. But I will take
care--I will take care----"

The sentence is not finished, and there is silence in the sick room.
Lady Temple dozes, and Nelly Marston sits quietly by the window,
stealthily raising a corner of the blind now and then, to catch a
glimpse of the sun and the beautiful grounds upon which it shines.

PART THE SECOND.

SUMMER.

The moon shines on a rippling brook in Springfield, and the

summer flowers are sleeping. But even in sleep the foxglove lights
up the underwood, and the clover retains the sunset's crimson fire.
It is a beautiful and peaceful night; an odorous stillness is in the air,
and
 "the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."

The shadows of gently-undulating branches and the delicate

traceries of the feather-grass--so subtly sensitive that in the stillest
night its bells are tremulous; mayhap in response to fairy
whisperings--are reflected in the stream which reflects also the
shadow of Nelly Marston, who is bending low to look at her fair face
in the depths made luminous by stars. As with sparkling eyes she
stoops lower and lower in half-sportive, half-earnest admiration of
herself, her face rises in the water to greet her, until the smiling lips
of flesh almost kiss their shadow.

As she gazes, another shadow bends over hers, blotting the fairer
vision, and a strong arm is thrown around her waist.

"Why, Nelly--Miss Marston! Are you about to play Ophelia in my

aunt's pretty brook?"

The girl starts to her feet, and swiftly releases herself from his
embrace. Not far from them, but unseen by either, stands the
gardener's son, watching them. Their breasts are stirred by emotions
which bring an agitated pleasure to them; his is stirred by darker
passions.

"I was simply," replies Nelly, with burning blushes in her face,
"bending over the water to--to----"

And pauses for lack of words.

Mr. Temple assists her.

"To look at your pretty face, or perhaps to kiss yourself, as a spirit

might. Labour thrown away, Miss Marston, and most certainly
unprofitable, if what the poet says is true:

"Some there be that shadows kiss;

Such have but a shadow's bliss."

Nelly Marston regains her composure.

"We did not expect you to-night, Mr. Temple."

"Then I should be all the more welcome," he answers gaily. "I am

starving, Nelly----"

She checks him by a look.

"I beg your pardon. Miss Nelly Marston, I am starving with

hunger. I have not had a morsel of food in my mouth since the
morning."

"There will be no difficulty in reviving your fainting soul, Mr.

Temple," she says, with a desperate attempt to imitate his light
manner; "but Lady Temple must not know you are here. 'Miss
Marston,' she said to me this afternoon, my nephew will be absent
for some time. He will write to me regularly. Directly his letters
arrive, let me have them. If I am asleep place them at once by my
side.'"

Mr. Temple, a handsome, graceful man, not less than thirty-five

years of age, interposes with a merry laugh.

"I posted one to her ladyship three hours ago, twenty miles from
this spot."

"All the more reason," says Nelly Marston seriously, "why she
should not know you are in Springfield."
 He tries to stop her remonstrance by, "Now, my dear Mother
Hubbard!" but she will not listen to him.

"Lady Temple unfortunately magnifies the smallest trifles into

serious vexations. She is very, very fretful"--this with a little weary
sigh--"and the doctor says it is most important she should not be
annoyed in any way. Mr. Temple, if she suspects you are in the
house to-night, she will never forgive you."

"And houses, lands, and money," he rejoins, with a careless shrug

of his shoulders, "would melt away into such airy distances that,
though my limbs were quickened with mercury, I should never be
able to overtake them. But what are all these when weighed against
love----"

Flushed and palpitating, Nelly finds strength to interrupt him.

"Mr. Temple, I must not listen to you. I am not ignorant of the

reason why your aunt sent you away--for you were sent, you know!"
she adds, somewhat saucily.

"Oh, yes, I know I was sent away. I am sure I did not want to
go."

"Twice to-day Lady Temple has spoken seriously to me--I leave

you to guess upon what subject. Mr. Temple, you know what my
position is. I am a dependent, without parents, without friends,
without money. Sometimes when I look into the future, and think of
what would become of me if I were thrown upon the world, I
tremble with fear."

"And yet you have a strong will of your own," he mutters, not in
the most amiable tone; but in another instant he relapses into his
lighter mood.

There is a moment's hesitation on her part, as though her strong

will were about to desert her; but she, also, succeeds in controlling
herself.

"No, I am weak, very, very weak; but for my own sake I must
strive to be strong. And now I will leave you, please. No; do not
walk with me to the house. We shall be seen, and the servants will
talk."

"Let them talk!" he cries impetuously.

She looks him steadily in the face.

"If they do, Mr. Temple, who will suffer--you or I?"

"You don't understand me, Nelly--nay, I will call you Nelly when
no one is by to hear!--I will answer for their discretion; but indeed
and indeed, we shall not be seen!"

While he speaks, she is walking towards the house, and he is by

her side. After them, through the path where the shadows lie, steals
the gardener's son, quivering with excitement. If he could but hear
what these two were saying to each other! He loves Nelly Marston
with all the strength of his nature. He not only loves her; he respects
her. The very ground she walks upon is sacred in his eyes. Until
lately he had fed hopefully upon small crumbs of comfort which the
girl, wittingly or unwittingly, had given him. Nelly had spoken
pleasantly to him; Nelly had smiled upon him as she tripped past
him; Nelly wore a flower he gave her. But he had never found the
courage to open his heart to her, she being in his estimation so far
above him, and now he fears that a rival has stepped in, and that
what he yearns for with all his soul is slipping from him.

"Mr. Temple," says Nelly, when they are near the house, "you said
just now that you were starving of hunger. You had best bribe one of
the servants, and get something to eat. Then I should advise you to
quit Springfield, and not return till you are sent for."
 "Should you!" he replies, defiantly and yet beseechingly. "Advice
is a cheap gift. You would not send for me, I warrant."

"By what right should I?"

"Hungry for food I am," he says, "but I have another kind of

hunger upon me which makes me regardless of that."

"Indeed!" she exclaims, with a pretty gesture of surprise.

"Nelly, you are merciless. You see that I am starving of love for
you, and you systematically----"

She stays to hear no more, and gliding from him, passes into the
house. But he, stung by her avoidance of him, steps swiftly after her,
and before she is aware of his presence, stands with her in the sick
chamber, where Lady Temple lies sleeping.

Within this man is working the instinct of our common nature.

The more difficult to win becomes the prize--without question of its
worth: the measure of difficulty gauges that--the more ardent is he
in its pursuit, and the greater value it assumes. And being piqued in
this instance, all the forces of his intellect come to his aid.

And Nelly? Well, loving him already, she loves him the more
because of his persistence, and because of the value he by his
recklessness appears to place upon her.

"O Mr. Temple," she whispers, deeply agitated, "how can you so
compromise me? Go, for Heaven's sake, before she wakes!'

"On one condition," he answers, lowering his voice to the pitch of

hers; "that you meet me by the brook in an hour from this."

"Anything--anything!--but go!"

"You promise, then?"

 "Yes, yes--I promise."

He is about to seal the promise, she being at his mercy, when

Lady Temple moves restlessly, and opens her eyes. He has barely
time to slip behind the curtains at the head of the bed before the
sick lady speaks.

"Is that you, Miss Marston?"

"Yes, Lady Temple."

"I thought I heard voices!"

"I have this moment come in."

"I went to sleep without taking my medicine, Miss Marston. Why

did you let me go to sleep without it?"

"You fell asleep suddenly, Lady Temple, and I thought it best not
to wake you."

"Give it to me now."

Nelly takes a bottle from a table at the head of the bed, pours out
the medicine, and gives it to the sick lady. As she replaces the bottle,
Mr. Temple, with unthinking and cruel audacity, seizes her hand, and
kisses it. Lady Temple, with the medicine at her lips does not drink,
but gazes suspiciously at Nelly, who cannot keep the colour from her
cheeks.

"What sound is that?" asks Lady Temple. "What makes your face
so red, Miss Marston?"

Nelly busies herself--her hand being released--about the pillows,

and replies:

"You should not gaze at me so strangely. You are full of fancies

to-night, Lady Temple."
 "Maybe, maybe. Hold up the candle, so that I may see the room--
higher, higher!"

Her inquisitive eyes peer before her, but she sees nothing to verify
her suspicions, Mr. Temple being safely concealed behind the
curtains.

"That will do, Miss Marston. Put down the candle--the glare hurts
my eyes. Full of fancies!" she murmurs. "It is true I see shadows; I
hear voices: I am not certain at times whether I am awake or
asleep. But what I said to you to-day," she exclaims in a louder tone,
"is no fancy, Miss Marston."

"There is no occasion for you to repeat it, Lady Temple."

"I am the best judge of that, Miss Marston, and I do not intend to
be misunderstood. I tell you now, plainly, that I sent my nephew
away because I saw what was going on between you."

"Lady Temple!" cries Nelly indignantly.

"You must not agitate me, Miss Marston. Oblige me by holding

this glass while I speak. If you wish to leave the house, you may do
so."

"It is so generous and good of you to threaten me!" says the girl
scornfully; "knowing my position. If I had any shelter but this, I
would not stop with you another day."

"You are only showing your ingratitude, Miss Marston, I do not

threaten you, and I will not be contradicted. I promised your mother
before she died that you should have a home here while I live, and I
will not turn you away. If you go, you go of your own accord. I tell
you again I know perfectly well what is stirring within that busy head
of yours. You are like your mother, no better, and no worse, and I
knew her well enough; never content, never content unless every
man she saw was at her feet."
 "And yet," says Nelly more quietly, "you have spoken slightingly of
her more than once because she sacrificed herself, as you term it,
for love."

"Yes, she was caught at last, and was punished."

"It was a happy punishment, then. She would not have changed
her lot with yours, Lady Temple."

"She was punished, I tell you. As you will be, if you do not take
care. You will live to prove it, if you are not mindful of yourself. You
have a pretty face--psha! we are women and no one but ourselves
hears what I say. I had a pretty face once, and I knew its power, and
used it as you wish to do. But not with my nephew, Miss Marston,
mark that! You have all the world to choose from, with the exception
of my nephew. And you fancy you know him, I have no doubt--
simpleton! You know as much as a baby of the world and of men of
the world. Take an old woman's counsel--marry in your own station--
--"

"My mother was a lady," interrupts Nelly, with a curl of her lip,
"and I am one."

"Pooh! Nonsense! You have no money. You are a poor girl, and no
lady--as ladies go," she adds unconsciously uttering a truism in her
attempt to soften the effect of her words. "There's the gardener's
son. You can't do better than marry him. His father has been all his
life at Springfield, and has saved money I hear. He is continually
making you presents of flowers, and the housekeeper tells me----"

With a burning consciousness that these words are reaching other

ears than her own, Nelly again interrupts her mistress:

"When you have finished insulting me, Lady Temple, I shall be

glad to leave the room."
 "You shall not leave the room till I am asleep. Marry whom you
like except my nephew. If he marries you he is a beggar by it. I am
tired of talking. I will take my medicine."

She empties the glass, and sinks back on her pillow. The medicine
is an opiate, but even while she yields to its influence, she continues
to murmur, in a tone so low that only Nelly now can hear her.

"Marriage, indeed! As if he means it, and as if, meaning it even,

he dared to thwart me! A pair of fools! They will rue the day!"

Thus she mutters until sleep overpowers her, and she takes her
theme with her into the land of dreams.

Mr. Temple steals from his hiding-place.

"She is in a sweet temper," he says in a whisper, placing his hands

on Nelly's shoulders, and drawing her to him. "I was very nearly
coming forward and spoiling everything; but I couldn't afford to do
it. Nelly, I want to know about that gardener's son."

She yields to his embrace for a moment, then draws away.

"I can tell you nothing now. Go, for my sake, lest she should
awake."

"For your sake, then. Do not forget. In an hour, by the brook."

"I ought not to come."

"You have promised," he says, in a louder tone.

"Hush--hush!" she entreats. "Yes, I will come."

Before the hour has passed, he has appeased his hunger, and is
standing by the brook, waiting for Nelly. The night is most peaceful
and lovely, and Mr. Temple, as he smokes his cigar, pays homage to
it in an idle way, and derives a patronising pleasure from the
shadows in the starlit waters. His thoughts are not upon the graceful
shapes, although his eyes behold them. What, then, does he see in
their place? Do the floating reflections bear a deeper meaning to his
senses than they would convey under ordinary conditions? Does he
see any foreshadowing of the future there? No. His thoughts are all
upon the present, and what he beholds is merely tinged with such
poetry as springs from animal sentiment. He may trick himself into a
finer belief, but he cannot alter its complexion. He is in an ineffably
pleasant mood, and his pulses are stirred by just that feeling of
pleasurable excitement which sheds a brighter gloss on all
surrounding things. At the sound of a step behind him he smiles and
his heart beats faster. "It is Nelly," he whispers. But when he turns,
and confronts the gardener's son, the smile leaves his face.

"I ask your pardon, sir," says the young man, "can I have a word
with you?"

"Ah!" says Mr. Temple, with a look of curiosity at the young fellow,
"you are the gardener's son."

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Temple regards the intruder attentively, and says, rather

haughtily:

"You have selected a singular time for a conference."

"I must speak to you now, sir."

"Must?"

"If you please, sir."

"By-and-by will not do?"

"By-and-by may be too late, sir."

 Mr. Temple looks at the gardener's son still more earnestly.

"Attend to what I am about to say, young man. You have lived all
your life at Springfield, I believe?"

"I was born here, sir."

"Have you an idea as to who will be the next master of this

estate?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you wish to continue on it?"

"That's as it may be, sir."

These questions have been asked with a perfect consciousness of

the subject which the gardener's son wishes to approach, and have
been so worded as to have an indirect bearing upon it. The answer
to the last, spoken with manly independence, conveys to Mr. Temple
the knowledge that the gardener's son is not ignorant of their
bearing, and the tone in which it is given, although perfectly
respectful, does not please him.

"I must request you," he says, with a masterful wave of his hand,
"to choose some other time for your confidence."

"You expect some one, perhaps, sir."

Mr. Temple smiles complacently. In the few words that have

passed, the battle has been fairly opened. He determines that it shall
be short.

"As you seem resolved," he says, taking out his watch and
consulting it, "to force yourself upon me, I will give you just five
minutes. Now, what have you to say?"
 He is aware that he is taking the young fellow at a disadvantage
by his abrupt method; but, being a lawyer, he is not nice as to the
means of gaining an advantage.

"It is about Miss Marston," says the gardener's son, after a slight
pause.

"What of that young lady?"

"I don't know whether I have a right to speak----"

"That is candid of you."

The arrow misses its mark.

"But it may be," proceeds the young fellow, "that I have, for the
reason that I love her."

His voice trembles, but his earnestness imparts power to it.

"I am obliged to you for your confidence," observes Mr. Temple,

watching for Nelly Marston as he speaks, "unsolicited as it is. A
pretty young lady generally inspires that passion in many breasts."

"But not in all alike," quickly retorts the gardener's son.

"That is fair philosophy. Proceed."

"You speak lightly, sir, while I am serous. It stands in this way, sir.
People are beginning to talk----"

"People will talk," interrupts Mr. Temple, with malicious relish; "as
in the present instance."

"And Miss Marston's name and yours have got mixed up together
in a manner it would grieve her to know."
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