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                            THE SORCERESS.




                            THE SORCERESS.

                               A Novel.

                                  BY

                            MRS. OLIPHANT,

                               AUTHOR OF
                   “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”
                       “THE CUCKOO IN THE NEST,”
                              ETC., ETC.

                          _IN THREE VOLUMES._

                                VOL. I.

                                LONDON:
                          F. V. WHITE & Co.,
                 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.
                                 1893.

                        (_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_)


                              PRINTED BY
                      TILLOTSON AND SON, BOLTON,
                     LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BERLIN.




THE SORCERESS.




CHAPTER I.


It was the most exciting event which had ever occurred in the family,
and everything was affected by it.

Imagine to yourselves such a young family, all in the very heyday of
life, parents and children alike. It is true that Mrs. Kingsward was
something of an invalid, but nobody believed that her illness was
anything very serious, only a reason why she should be taken abroad, to
one place after another, to the great enjoyment of the girls, who were
never so happy as when they were travelling and gaining, as they said,
experience of life. She was not yet forty, while Charlie was twenty-one
and Bee nineteen, so that virtually they were all of the same age, so to
speak, and enjoyed everything together--mamma by no means put aside into
the ranks of the dowagers, but going everywhere and doing everything
just like the rest, and as much admired as anyone.

To be sure she had not been able to walk about so much this time, and
had not danced once, except a single turn with Charlie, which brought on
a palpitation, so that she declared with a laugh that her dancing days
were over. Her dancing days over! Considering how fond she had always
been of dancing, the three young people laughed over this, and did not
take the least alarm. Mamma had always been the ringleader in
everything, even in the romps with the little ones at home. For you must
not think that these three were all of the family by any means.

Bee and Betty were the eldest of I can’t at this moment tell how many,
who were safe in the big nursery at Kingswarden under the charge (very
partial) of papa, and the strict and steady rule of nurse, who was a
personage of high authority in the house. Papa had but lately left “the
elder ones,” as he called them, including his pretty wife--and had gone
back to his work, which was that of an official at the Horse Guards, in
some military department of which I don’t even know the name, for I
doubt whether the Intelligence Department, which satisfies all the
necessities of description, had been invented in those days.

Colonel Kingsward was a distinguished officer, and the occasion of great
_éclat_ to the little group when he showed himself at their head,
drawing round him a sort of cloud of foreign officers wherever he went,
which Bee and Betty appreciated largely, and to which Mrs. Kingsward
herself did not object; for they all liked the clank of spurs, as was
natural, and the endless ranks of partners, attendants in the gardens,
and general escort and retinue thus provided. It was not, however, among
these officers, red, blue, green, and white--of all the colours in the
rainbow--that Bee had found her fate. For I need scarcely say it was a
proposal which had turned everything upside down and filled the little
party with excitement.

A proposal! The first in the family! Mamma’s head was as much turned by
it as Bee’s. She lay on the sofa in her white dressing gown, so flushed
with happiness and amusement and excitement, that you would have
supposed it was she who was to be the bride.

And then it was so satisfactory a thing all round. If ever Mrs.
Kingsward had held anyone at arm’s length in her life it was a certain
captain of Dragoons who had clanked about everywhere after her daughters
and herself for three weeks past. The moment they had appeared anywhere,
even at the springs, where she went to drink her morning glass of
disagreeable warm water, at the concert in the afternoon, in “the rooms”
at night, not to speak of every picnic and riding party, this tall
figure would jump up like a jack-in-a-box. And there was no doubt that
the girls were rather pleased than otherwise to see him jump up. He was
six foot two at least, with a moustache nearly a yard long, curling in a
tawny and powerful twist over his upper lip. He had half-a-dozen medals
on his breast; his uniform was a compound of white and silver, with a
helmet that literally blazed in the sun, and his spurs clanked louder
than any other spurs in the gardens. The only thing that was