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    A MERE CHANCE.

    A NOVEL.

    BY ADA CAMBRIDGE,


    AUTHOR OF "IN TWO YEARS TIME," &c.

    IN THREE VOLUMES.

    VOL. II.


    LONDON:
    RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
    Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen,
    NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
    1882.
    _Right of Translation Reserved._




    CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.


    CHAPTER

       I.--Another Rash Promise
      II.--The Beginning of Troubles
     III.--"Where there was never Need of Vows."
      IV.--After the Ball
       V.--Rachel's First Visit in Melbourne
      VI.--In Mrs. Hardy's Store-room
     VII.--"He Has Come Back"
    VIII.--"The Light that never was on Sea or Land"
      IX.--Eleven p.m.
       X.--Mrs. Reade's Advice
      XI.--Until Christmas
     XII.--"The Ground-Whirl of the Perished Leaves of Hope"
    XIII.--Rachel on the Philosophy of Marriage




A MERE CHANCE.




CHAPTER I.

ANOTHER RASH PROMISE.


Mr. Kingston, as soon as he received Mrs. Thornley's invitation, sent a
telegram to her nearest post-town, to tell her he would start for
Adelonga on the following day, and await at the inn where he left the
railway the buggy she was kind enough to say should be sent to meet him.

There was much amusement at Adelonga over this unwonted promptitude on
the part of an idle and self-indulgent man, who had never been known to
hurry himself, or to go into the country willingly; and Rachel was
teased in fun and congratulated in earnest on the strong hold she had
gained upon his erewhile erratic affections.

The buggy was ordered at once--Mr. Thornley's own pet Abbott buggy, that
floated over the rough roads--and a pet pair of horses were harnessed
into it, and another pair sent forward to change with them on the way,
and Mr. Thornley himself set forth to meet his guest.

Next day Lucilla ordered one of her best rooms--usually reserved for
married ladies--to be prepared for him, and had great consultations
with her cook on his behalf; and at about five in the afternoon he
arrived, wrapped in a fur-collared overcoat, like a traveller in bleak
and barren regions, and had a royal welcome.

Lucilla, followed by her mother, went out to the verandah to meet her
old friend--though, indeed, she never willingly omitted that graceful
act of hospitality, whoever might be her guest--and was delighted to
receive again the same old compliment on her charming appearance that
had pleasantly befooled her in her maiden days. Mrs. Hardy was likewise
greeted with effusion, and responded cordially; and then they all looked
round.

"Where is Rachel?" inquired Mr. Kingston, with anxious solicitude;
"isn't she well?"

Rachel was found in the drawing-room, nervously rearranging the cups and
saucers that had just been brought in for tea. Lucilla ushered him in
with a smile, and discreetly retired with her mother, upon some utterly
unnecessary errand.

The lovers met in the middle of the room, and Rachel went through the
ordeal that she had been vaguely dreading all day. It was worse than she
had expected, for she felt, by some subtle, newly-developed sense, that
she had been greatly missed and ardently longed for, and that they were
truly lover's arms that folded her, trembling and shrinking, in that
apparently interminable embrace.

She had not yet come to realise the magnitude and the ignominy of the
wrong that she was doing him, but a pang of remorseful pity did hurt
her somewhere, through all her stony irresponsiveness, for the fate that
had driven him, the desired of so many women, to set his heart at last
upon one who did not want it.

For a brief intolerable moment she felt that she had it in her to
implore him to release her from her engagement, but--well, she was a
little coward, if the truth must be told.

And, moreover, she had not quite come to the point of giving up her pink
boudoir, and her diamond necklace, and all her other splendid
possessions in prospect, because she could not love the contingent
husband as was her duty to him to do.

She did not know as yet that she loved another man.

"And you never came to meet me?" said Mr. Kingston, with tender
reproach, as he led her by one reluctant hand to a sofa that was wheeled
up comfortably to the fireside. "And I was straining my eyes all across
the paddock, to see you on the verandah looking out."

"I was looking out," said Rachel; "I saw the buggy before it reached the
woolshed. But----"

"But you thought it would be nicer to have our meeting here, with no one
to look on? So it is, darling; you were quite right. I could not have
helped kissing you, if all the servants on the place had been standing
round; and one doesn't like to make a public exhibition of one's self.
Oh, my pet, I _am_ so glad to get you again! And how are you? Let me
have a good look at you. Oh, if you are going to blush, how am I to
tell whether you are looking well or not?"

"I am not going to blush," said Rachel; "and I am quite well. I never
was better. The country air is doing me ever so much good."

"I am not so sure of that," rejoined Mr. Kingston, rather gravely,
stroking her soft cheek. "You look fagged, as if you had been knocking
about too much. I didn't like your going to those rubbishy little
races--I told Thornley so. Have you been sitting up late at night?"

"No--I have been doing _nothing_," pleaded Rachel; "I am really as well
as possible. How is the house getting on?"

"The house is not doing much at present. They are still pottering at
the foundations, which seem to take a frightful lot of doing to. Not
that they have had time to make much progress since you were there--it
is not much over a fortnight yet, you know. Oh, but it has been a long
fortnight! Rachel, now I have got you, I don't mean to lose sight of you
again."

"How did you leave Beatrice?" inquired Rachel, hastily.

"Beatrice is quite well--as sprightly as ever. I told her I meant to
bring you back to town, by force of arms if necessary, and she said I
was quite right. We can't do without you in Melbourne--I can't, anyhow;
and what's more, I don't mean to try."

"How is Uncle Hardy?"

"Uncle Hardy? I'm sure I don't know--I was very nearly saying I don't
care. Of course he is quite well; he always is, I believe. Is there
anybody else you are particularly anxious about, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes," said Rachel, smiling and blushing; "I am anxious about Black
Agnes. How is my dear Black Agnes? _Does_ William attend to her
properly?"

"I don't leave her to William," said Mr. Kingston. "I have taken her
away to my own stables. And there she is eating her head off--wanting
you, like the rest of us. If you have no more questions to ask, I'll
begin; may I? I have some _really_ important inquiries to make."

Rachel gasped. But to her immense relief Lucilla was heard approaching,
talking at an unnecessarily high pitch of voice to her mother, who
responded with equal vigour; and the two ladies entered, followed by
Mr. Thornley, all wearing a more or less deprecatory aspect.

The men and the matrons grouped themselves round the fire, and plunged
into an animated discussion of the latest Melbourne news. Rachel poured
out the tea, and insisted on carrying it round to everybody, regardless
of polite protests; which charmed her lover very much.

He was rather cold, and a little stiff and tired after his unwonted
exertion; his seat was soft and restful; and he liked to see the slender
creature gliding about, with her sweet face and her deft hands, and
picture to himself with what meek dutifulness she would serve her lord
and master when the time came.

Rachel hoped they were in for a pleasant gossip till dinner time, but
she was much mistaken.

"I must go and see after my baby, Mr. Kingston, if you will excuse me,"
said Lucilla at the end of half-an-hour, setting down her empty but
still smoking teacup, and rising with an air that implied a pressing
duty postponed to the very last moment. Mr. Kingston expressed an ardent
desire to make the baby's acquaintance, which flattered the young mother
greatly, but otherwise led to nothing. Lucilla went out, promising to
introduce her son under favourable auspices in the morning; and as she
disappeared, Mrs. Hardy jumped up and followed her with apparently
anxious haste.

"Oh, Lucilla, I _quite_ forgot that aconite for Dolly's cold!" she
exclaimed; "shall I come and look for it now?"

Mr. Thornley, left behind, stood on the hearthrug, shifting uneasily
from one leg to the other. He cleared his throat, remarked that the days
were lengthening wonderfully, moved some ornaments on the chimney-piece,
and looked at his watch.

"Dear me," he muttered briskly, as if struck with a sudden thought, "a
quarter to six, I do declare! Excuse me a few minutes, Kingston."

"Certainly," replied Mr. Kingston. And then _he_ went out.

"How stupid they are!" cried poor Rachel to herself, almost stamping her
foot with vexation. But there was no help for it. The affianced couple
were once more left to themselves--as affianced couples should be, and
should like to be--in the pleasant firelight and no less pleasant
twilight shadows that were filling the quiet room.

Mr. Kingston rose, took his reluctant sweetheart's hand, and led her
back to the sofa by the hearth.

"What time do they have dinner here?" he asked.

"Seven o'clock," said Rachel, with a sinking heart.

"Then we shall have nearly an hour to ourselves, shan't we? Come then,
and let us have a good long talk. But first, I've got something for
you."

He began to fumble in his pockets, and presently drew forth a little
square packet, neatly sealed up in paper, which he laid on Rachel's
knee. Wise man! he had not had his long and varied experiences for
nothing.

The girl in smiling perplexity turned the mysterious parcel over and
over, broke first one seal and then another with much delicate
elaboration; cautiously stripped off the paper wrappings, and revealed,
as she expected, a morocco jewel-case.

"Oh, how kind!" she murmured, stroking it caressingly with her white
fingers.

"Open it before you say that," said he; "you don't know that there is
anything in it yet."

"Ah, but I know your ways," she rejoined; "I know it is sure to be
something lovely." And then she lifted the lid, and exclaimed "O-o-oh!"
with a long breath. There lay, on a bed of blue velvet, a beautiful
little watch, thickly set on one side of the case with tiny diamond
sparks, which on examination proved to illuminate the flourishes of a
big R; and a chain of proportionate value was coiled around it.

Rachel was in ecstacies. She had longed for a watch all her life, and
had never yet had one, except an old silver warming-pan of her father's,
which would not go into a lady's pocket.

It was only lately that Mr. Kingston had discovered this fact; and he
had immediately had one prepared for her, such as he considered would be
worthy of her future position in society, and of his own reputation for
good taste. He felt himself well repaid for his outlay at this moment.
Of her own accord she put up her soft lips and kissed him, pouring out
her childish gratitude for his thoughtfulness, and his kindness, and his
goodness, in broken exclamations which were charmingly naive and sweet.

"You are always giving me things," she murmured, shyly stroking his coat
sleeve.

"Dear little woman!" he responded, with ardent embraces, from which she
did not shrink--at least, not much; "it is my greatest pleasure in life
to give you things."

And from this substantial base of operations the astute lover opened the
campaign which was to deliver her, a helpless captive, into his hands.

"And now," he said, when the watch having been consigned to its pocket
in her pretty homespun gown, and the chain artistically festooned from a
button-hole at her waist, a suggestive silence fell upon them--"now I
want to know what you mean by saying you won't be married till next
year? Naughty child, you made me very miserable with that letter. Though
to be sure it was better than the other one, which was so horribly, so
really brutally, cold that I had to go to the fire to get warm after
reading it. Oh, Rachel, you are not _half_ in love yet, I fear!"

"Don't say that," she murmured, with tender compunction.

"And I believe that is why you wish to put off our marriage."

"Oh, don't say that!" she repeated, weakly anxious to re-assure and
conciliate him, and to postpone unpleasantness--woman-like, afraid of
the very opportunity that she wanted when she saw herself unexpectedly
confronted with it. "I don't wish to put it off--only for a little
while."

"Do you call till next year a little while? Because I don't."

"Of course it is. Why, here is August!"

"And there are five long months--double the time we have been engaged
already. And it wouldn't be comfortable to be travelling in the hot
season."

"You said spring would be a nice time," suggested Rachel. She was
touching his sleeve with timid, deprecatory caresses, and she was
desperately frightened and anxious.

"Yes; _this_ spring--not twelve months hence. Oh, my pet, _do_ let it be
this spring. There are three lovely months before us, and I should like
to get that Sydney house. I have the offer of it still for a few days; I
got them to keep it open till I could consult you. You _must_ remember
that I am not as young as you are, Rachel; a year one way or the other
may be of no account to you, but it is of very great importance to me."

There was a touch of impatience and irritation in his voice, which
helped her to pluck up courage to cling to her resolve.

At the same time she heard the soft ticking of that precious watch at
her side; her heart was touched and warmed by what she called his
"kindness;" and she was anxious to do anything that she _could_ do to
please him.

"Won't it do when the house is built?" she asked, in a wheedling,
cowardly, coaxing tone, as she laid her cheek for a moment on his
shoulder. "I will come back to Melbourne as soon as you like--I can stay
with Beatrice, if aunt likes to remain here. We can be together almost
as if we were married. We can ride together every day, and watch how the
house goes on; and you know aunt doesn't mind _how_ much you are with us
at Toorak. Only if you would consent to put off the wedding till then--"

"Will you promise to marry me then?" he asked quickly.

"Yes, I will, really," she replied, without any hesitation, thankful for
the reprieve, which she had been by no means sure of getting.

"As soon as the house is built?"

"As soon as the house is finished."

"No--not finished; that mayn't be next year, nor the year after. As soon
as the roof is on?"

Rachel paused.

"How long does that take?"

"Oh, a long time--ever so long."

She paused again, with a longer pause. And then,

"Very well," she sighed, resignedly.

"It is a bargain? You promise faithfully? On your solemn word of
honour?"

"Oh, don't make such a terrible thing of it!" she protested, with a
rather hysterical laugh, that showed signs of degenerating into a
whimper. "I _can_ only say I will."

"And that is enough, my sweet. I won't require you to reduce it to
writing. Your word shall be your bond. It is a long while to wait, but I
must try to be patient. At any rate, it is a comfort to be done with
uncertainty, and to have a fixed time to arrange for. And now, perhaps,
we ought to go and dress. Tell me how much it wants to seven, Rachel;
you have the correct Melbourne time."




CHAPTER II.

THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES.


It was in the afternoon that Lucilla again expected her guests, on the
day of the ball given at Adelonga in honour of the coming of age of her
absent stepson; and the hospitable arrangements characteristic of bush
households on such occasions, were made for their reception on the usual
Adelonga scale. All the visitors were to be "put up" of course; and from
the exhaustless piles of material stowed away in the ample store-rooms,
bed-rooms were improvised in every hole and corner, and beds made up
wherever beds could decently go--in the store-rooms themselves, in the
school-room, in the laundry, in the gardener's cottage, as well as in
the numerous guest-chambers with which this, in common with other
Australian "country seats," was regularly supplied.

Bright log fires burned on every hearth; bright spring flowers adorned
all the ladies' dressing-tables; stupendous viands piled the pantry
shelves and filled the spacious kitchens with delectable odours.

Servants bustled about with a festive air.

Mr. Thornley, in shirt sleeves, brought forth treasures from the remote
recesses of his cellar that no one but he was competent to meddle with.

Mrs. Thornley moved complacently about her extensive domain, regulating
all these exceptional arrangements with that housewifely good sense and
judgment which distinguished all Mrs. Hardy's daughters.

Rachel found her sphere of action in the ball-room, where with Miss
O'Hara and the children, a young gardener to supply material, the
station carpenter to do the rough work, and Mr. Kingston to look on and
criticise from an arm-chair by the fire, she worked all day at the
decorations, which had been designed in committee and partly prepared
the day before. The great Japanese screens had been carried away (to be
made very useful in the construction of bed and bath-rooms) and the
carpets taken up; and now she feathered the great empty room all about
with fern-tree fronds--hanging them from extemporised chandeliers, and
from wire netting stretched over the ceiling, and from doorless
doorways, rooted in masses of shrubs and blossoms that made a bower of
the whole place. It was just such a task as she delighted in, and she
was considered to have completed it successfully at four o'clock, when
she put her finishing touches to a trophy over the chimney-piece, which,
though rather complicated as to symbolism, being arranged on a
foundation of breech-loaders and riding-whips, had a bold and pleasing
effect.

At four o'clock the guests began to arrive. She was directing her
attendants to sweep up the last of her litters from the newly-polished
floor, when the Digbys' waggonette drove in at the wide-standing garden
gates, and rattled up to the house.

After them came other buggies in quick succession. Grooms and house
servants poured out to receive them; doors banged; confused voices and
laughter rose and fell in waves of pleasant sound through the maze of
passages intersecting the rabbit-warren of a house.

Rachel ran to a window and looked out in time to see Lucifer led off to
the stables blowing and panting, and jangling his bridle, but stepping
out still with unconquered spirit, as became a brave old horse of noble
lineage, whom such a master owned.

Mr. Kingston, the only other person just then in the room, came behind
her and laid his hands with the air of a proprietor on her shoulders.

"Whose hack is that?" he inquired, with languid curiosity. "Looks a good
sort of breed, something like your mare in colour, only much bigger."

"Mr. Dalrymple's," murmured Rachel.

"Dalrymple?--that brother of Mrs. Digby's you spoke of? I've heard of
that fellow. I was curious to know who he was, and I made inquiries at
the club. He is a rather considerable scamp, if all tales are true."

"All tales are not true," replied the girl, with majestic calmness.

"And pray how do _you_ know?" he retorted quickly, a little amused and
a great deal irritated by her highly indiscreet behaviour. "I don't
suppose that you have heard all that I have--at any rate, I _hope_ not."

"I know enough," she stammered hurriedly; "I know the worst anyone can
say against him."

"I hope not," repeated Mr. Kingston, with ominous gravity.

"And I know he has done wrong--done very wrong, indeed; but he has had
such terrible provocations--he has been, oh, so dreadfully unfortunate!"
she went on, wishing heartily that she had not undertaken her new
friend's defence, yet finding it easier to go through with it now than
to turn back and desert him. "And, whatever he may have been once, he
is doing nothing to harm anybody now; and it is cruel of people to be
always raking up the past, when it is done with and repented of, and
throwing it in his teeth. Any of us would think it hard and unfair--you
would yourself."

"Never mind me, my dear; my past is not being called in question that I
am aware of."

Mr. Kingston's not very placid temper was rising.

"He is doing nothing wrong now," she repeated, frightened but reckless;
"if he were, Mr. Thornley would not invite him here--he said so himself.
And Lucilla, though she does not like him--nobody likes him,
indeed--says he would never do a mean action, and that he has perfect
manners, and that he is a thorough gentleman every way. I think they
all agree about _that_."

"And yet don't like him. That is rather inconsistent. And what about
yourself, Rachel? If it is not a rude question--are you an exception in
this respect, or not?"

He had taken his hands from her shoulders, and was standing sideways in
the embrasure of the window, so that he could see her face; and he was
smiling in a most unpleasant manner.

Rachel had never seen him like this before, and the first seed of active
dislike was sown where as yet there had been nothing worse than
indifference. The familiar colour rose and flooded her white brow and
her whiter throat. She clenched her hands to still the flutter of her
heart. She shut her teeth and struggled in silence against an
ignominious impulse to cry.

But Mr. Kingston continued to watch her with that sardonic curiosity;
and presently, like the traditional worm, she turned on him.

"Yes," she said, "I am an exception. I like Mr. Dalrymple very
much--what little I know of him. I have seen no reason to do otherwise.
I do not pay any attention to vulgar gossip."

A timid woman, trying to be defiant, generally fails by overdoing it;
and so did she, poor child. Mr. Kingston heard the emphasis of strong
emotion, that she would have given worlds to keep back, vibrating
through her tremulous accents, and it drove him beyond those
considerations of policy and politeness which he made a boast of as his
rule of life and action--especially in his dealings with women. Rachel,
however, in the category of women, was exceptionally placed with respect
to him; and I suppose one must do him the justice to concede that this
was an exceptional emergency.

"I'll tell you what," he said, smiling no longer, and speaking with a
rough edge to his voice that betokened the original rude nature, usually
so carefully clothed, and that she instinctively resented as an
indignity, "Thornley can do as he likes about the people he brings here
to associate with his wife, but I won't have you making acquaintance
with a vagabond like that."

"I have already made his acquaintance," she said quietly.

"Then I beg you will break it off."

"How can I break it off while he is in the same house with me?"

She was surprised to find how strong she was to withstand this incipient
tyranny; and yet her heart contracted with a pain very like despair.

"There will be so many people that one--and he a man--may be easily
avoided, if you wish to avoid. And you _will_ wish to do what would
please me, wouldn't you, dear?" he demanded, perceiving that he was
bullying her, and trying to correct himself.

"Yes," she replied; "certainly. But I hope you will not ask me to be
rude to one of my cousin's guests. I don't mind what else I do to please
you. And when I am married, I will of course know nobody but the people
you like."

"You are as good as married to me already," he said, putting his arm
round her shoulder as she stood before him, with all sorts of changes
and revolutions going on within her. "And of course I don't want you to
be rude--I don't want you to be anything. Simply don't take any notice
of Dalrymple--he will quite understand it; don't dance with him, or have
anything to do with him."

"Not dance with him!" she broke out sharply.

Her evident dismay and disappointment, together with her unconscious
efforts to evade his embrace, exasperated his already ruffled temper
afresh.

"Certainly not," he said, with angry vehemence. "I shall be exceedingly
annoyed and vexed if I see you dancing with that man."

Rachel did not know until now how much she had secretly set her heart
upon doing this forbidden thing; as her exigent lover did not know until
now that he had it in him to be so horribly jealous.

"He will be sure to come and ask me," she said, with a despairing sigh.

"Very well. If he does, I beg you will refuse him."

"Then I must refuse everybody."

"Not at all. He will quite understand that there are reasons why he
should be exceptionally treated."

"And do you think I will make him understand _that_?" she burst out,
with pathetic indignation that filled her soft eyes with tears. "Do you
think I would be so--so infamously rude and cruel? Oh, Mr.
Kingston"--she never called him "Graham" except in her letters, though
he tried his best to make her--"you don't want to spoil all my pleasure
to-night, which was going to be such a happy night?"

"Your pleasure doesn't depend on dancing with Mr. Dalrymple, I _hope_."

"No--no; but may I not treat him like all the rest, for Lucilla's
sake--for common politeness' sake?"

"No, Rachel. I don't want to be unkind, my dear, but you must remember
your position, and that now you belong to me. A lady who understands
these matters can quite easily manage to get off dancing with a man if
she wishes, without being rude. You must learn those little social
accomplishments, and this is a very good time to begin. Now let us
change the subject. Kiss me, and don't look so miserable, or I shall
begin to think--but that it would be insulting you too much--that you
have fallen in love with this disreputable ruffian."

Mr. Kingston tried to assume a light and airy manner, but his badinage
had a menacing tone that was very chilling.

Rachel, strange to say, did not blush at all; she quietly excused
herself on the plea that she must go and arrange her dishevelled
costume, and (having no private bedroom to-night) went a long way down
the garden to a retired harbour for half an hour's meditation.




CHAPTER III.

"WHERE THERE WAS NEVER NEED OF VOWS."


When Rachel came back to the house it was nearly five o'clock.

There was to be a great high tea at six, for which no dressing was
required, in place of the ordinary dinner; and as she did not feel
inclined to meet the crowd of company that was assembling in the
drawing-room sooner than was necessary--to tell the truth, she had been
crying, and her eyes were red--she returned by a back way to the
ball-room, which she knew would be to all intents and purposes, empty.

As an excuse for doing so she carried in her arms some long wreaths of
spiraea which she had discovered on a bush at the bottom of the garden,
with which she intended to relieve the masses of box and laurestinus
that made the groundwork of her decorations.

Lightly flitting up a stone-flagged passage at the rear of the house,
she suddenly came upon Mr. Dalrymple. He emerged from the door of the
laundry, which had been assigned to him for sleeping quarters, just as
she was passing it.

"Oh!" she cried sharply, as if he had been a ghost; and then she caught
her breath, and dropped her eyes, and blushed her deepest blush, which
was by no means the conventional mode of salutation, but more than
satisfied the man who did not know until this moment how eagerly he had
looked for a welcome from her.

"How do you do?" he said, clothing the common formula with a new
significance, and holding her hand in a strong grasp; "I was wondering
where you were, and beginning to dread all kinds of disasters. Where are
you going? May I carry these for you?"

He saw by this time the traces of her recent tears, and the cheerful
cordiality of his greeting subsided to a rather stern but very tender
earnestness.

Silently he lifted the white wreaths from her arm, and began to saunter
beside her in the direction of the ball-room, much as he had led her
away into the conservatory on that memorable night, which was only a
week, but seemed a year ago.

All the time she was thinking of Mr. Kingston's prohibition, and
dutifully desiring to obey him; but she had no power in her to do more.

They passed through the servants' offices, meeting only Lucilla's maid,
who was in a ferment of excitement with so many ladies to attend to, and
had not a glance to spare for them; they heard voices and footsteps all
around them as they entered the house; but they reached the ball-room
unperceived and unmolested, and found themselves alone.

The great room, with its windows draped and garlanded, was dim and
silent; the gardener's steps stood in the middle ready for the lighting
of the lamps; nothing but this remained to be done, and no one came in
to disturb them.

For ten minutes they devoted themselves to business. Mr. Dalrymple
mounted the steps, and wove the spiraea into whatever green clusters
looked too thin or too dark; he touched up certain devices that seemed
to him to lack stability; he straightened some flags that were hanging
awry; and Rachel stood below and offered humble suggestions.

When they had done, and had picked up a few fallen leaves and petals,
they stood and looked round them to judge of the general effect.

"It is very pretty," said Mr. Dalrymple; "and it makes a capital
ball-room. I have not seen a better floor anywhere."

"It was laid down on purpose for dancing," said Rachel, who knew she
ought now to be making her appearance elsewhere, yet lingered because he
did.

"Are you fond of dancing?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes," she said; "very."

"Will you give me your first waltz to-night?"

He was leaning an elbow on the piano, near which he stood, and looking
down on her with that gentle but imperious inquiry in his eyes, which
made her feel as if she had taken a solemn affidavit to tell the truth.

"I--I cannot," she stammered, after a pause, during which she wondered
distractedly how she could best explain her refusal so as to spare him
unnecessary pain; "I am very sorry--I would, with pleasure, if I could."

"Thank you," he said, with a slight, grateful bow. "Well, I could hardly
hope for the first, I suppose. But I may have the