CHAPTER XXII.

WOMEN AND MEN.

Lady d'Abernon with her coach and eight and her daughter was come to town, to the common distress of her daughter, the coach, and the eight. For the roads were very grievous in that wet summer, and Mistress Nelly d'Abernon protested that town gentlemen were harder to bear than the dampest countryside.

Lady d'Abernon, tight clad in crimson, was consoling herself with a sermon by Dr. South; Mistress Nell, in drooping robes of pale blue, embroidered a sampler, till: "La, ma'am I cannot bear another stitch," she cried, and put down the silk with a bang and sprang up, her brown curls adance in the light. Lady d'Abernon lifted pained eyes from Dr. South and sighed with ostentation. "I wonder that Jack does not come, do not you?" said Nelly with her head on one side to regard her mother.

Lady d'Abernon drew down the corners of her mouth. "Even Mr. Dane would scarce dare do that," said she severely.

"Indeed, are we so i thought on, ma'am?"

"I mean, child," Lady d'Abernon kindly explained, "that a youth whose vicious courses constrained his father to cut him off

"Oh faith, I have heard 'twas he cut off his father."

"You are foolish and pert, Helen. How could a son cut off his father? Will you never learn that 'tis not witty to be ludicrous?"

"Indeed, ma'am," said Nell with a demure curtsey, "'tis often I tell myself so. I think I have need."

"Persons of breeding," said Lady d'Abernon didactically, "may choose to laugh. But they will despise you."

"Oh nay, I trust, ma'am."

"I say that it is so, child. I think that I am old enough to know. I may tell you that a man in such ill fame as Mr. Dane is not like to dare present himself to a lady of reputation."

"Perhaps, ma'am, he does not know that we are that," said Nell in a small child's voice.

"Helen!" said her mother fiercely. "He does not know us very well, you know."

"You may be assured that he is not like to know us better. I do not receive Mr. Dane. I have not informed him that we are come to town."

"I was afraid you'd forget it, ma'am. So I did."

Lady d'Abernon threw up her plump white hands." "Helen!" she cried and turned her eyes to the ceiling. "You wrote to him?" "Why, yes, ma'am.

read."

I know he can

"Yes, ma'am, they

darker. were horrible and I choose not believe one word of all. Not one word!" She stamped her foot.

"I had never thought the like of my lord Sherborne," said Lady d'Abernon tearfully. "He is in the best favor at Court. Sure, you must have mistook him, child."

"Am I a fool, ma'am?" said Nell sharply.

"I wish you were more like me." Lady d'Abernon was plaintive and wiping her eyes. "Ah, when I was a girl we had not dared speak so to our mothers nor to think of such things."

"La,

Nell's little red mouth quivered; she succumbed to the temptation. "As mothers?" she inquired naïvely. ma'am, they are innocent creatures." "Helen!" Lady d'Abernon endeavored to stare her daughter into shame. But Nell laughed gaily. "Alas, poor Jack! I wonder he dare live with such enemies. I think I will be his friend, ma'am, for charity."

Lady d'Abernon made a curious noise in her chest, "Be silent, child!" she said hoarsely. She was crimson of face.

"I had done, indeed," said Nell, and sat down, and with some ostentation began to write a billet. Lady d'Abernon glared at her over the top of the sermon by Dr. South.

At the same hour my lord Sherborne stood under the passion-flower by the door of the little house beyond St. Martin's. To the garden gate behind him came a light coach. The house door was open wide enough to display the red face of a maid; from the coach door issued my lady Sunderland in pink.

"Please you, my lord, my mistress will not receive you," said the maid. "Thou impudent wench!" cried my lord, and put his shoulder against the door. The plump maid withstood him.

And my lady Sunderland was coming through the garden. My lady lifted

her ebony staff and tapped my lord on the shoulder from afar. "Holà, rogue," says she. My lord turned hastily, crimson of face, and glared. "Lud, I am abashed," laughed my lady and swept on. "Your mistress will receive me, girl," says she in another tone, and the maid opened the door. My lord was for following her in when my lady swept round upon him. "I leave my lacqueys without, my lord," said she; and then turning again, "Shut the door, girl."

So my lady came alone and magnificent, to the little green room. Mistress Charlbury fell before her in a low curtsey of ceremony. But my lady laughed: "La, child, I am neither the queen nor your grandmother," and put her hand in Rose's arm and drew her to a settle. "Sure, you know I have no reverence for reverences."

"You are kind, my lady."

"I am 'my lady' to my enemies, Rose. Let me rest from it here, at least." She looked into the girl's dark eyes. "Faith, tis a respite to find two eyes that look at me fairly." And with that excuse for staring my lady discovered that the eyes were duller, the dainty features marked in sharper line than of old. "But what is't that dims this. child?" and my lady tapped the pale cheek. "Are you sick of love or other matters?" The pale cheek was swiftly aflame. My lady let her wrist fall on Rose's shoulder; her fingers hung down, and the girl's uneasy bosom beat against them.

"No. I am not ill," said Rose.

"Nay, then, 'tis the pure romantic pallor!" my lady laughed, and she drooped her lashes. Rose was leaning forward a little, looking straight before her. My lady remarked how large, how dark were her eyes. Her bosom still stirred my lady's finger-tips. "I'll engage 'tis a lover's quarrel," my lady drawled.

Rose turned upon her. "Since I have

"Now to see my lord Sherborne's face I would say you had both," my lady murmured, unmoved.

"I'll thank you, my lady, not to name my lord Sherborne to me," cried Rose flushing.

"La, you child! Now 'tis a fine

gentleman and they say he has some youthful vigor left yet and I know he has still a crown or two- and (faith, 'tis the crowning miracle of him) I think he means you honestly."

"And I am to love him for that?" said Rose quietly, and her lip curled.

"Oh, lud, I never bade woman love man yet. So 'tis M. de Beaujeu is the favored swain, Rose? Who is he, this M. de Beaujeu?" My lady's delicate finger-tips marked the girl's bosom rest still.

"Faith, my lady, I engage the French gentleman thinks even less of me than I of him."

"It is possible," my lady murmured, looking from under her eyelashes. "But I have an interest in the gentleman, child. Who is he?"

"You, my lady?" cried Rose. "Why, then?"

"Why perhaps he has made his addresses to me, Rose. Who knows?"

Rose turned to stare. My lady met her with a benevolent smile. Then Rose laughed: "Indeed if he had I think you would be alone among women, my lady."

"Is it so chaste a soul, in faith?" my lady drawled. "Lud, are you so sure of him?" and she paused to laugh. "But, faith, 'tis a curst mysterious gentleman, child. Whence did he come, or why?"

""Tis a Huguenot gentleman of Auvergne, exiled for his faith," said Rose glibly.

"You think so? Do you know they have never heard of this exile in Paris?" My lady's finger-tips felt the

a little. "Mark me now, child," says she. "Do you recall an old flame of yours before you were the talk of the town -a Tom Dane? Ah, I see that you do. 'Twas a rogue that bolted from the tipstaffs

"Sure, I am little like to forget him!" cried Rose. "He called me 'Delila'!" "A venomous cub, faith! Thinking you had betrayed him?”

"Yes," said Rose blushing, then caught my lady's hand. "But indeed, indeed I had not," she cried.

"La, should I doubt you! But this true lover did, it seems? Cast you off at the first trouble? Reviled you before the tipstaffs? Lud, a dainty fine gentleman!”

"You can guess how I hate him," said Rose in a low voice.

"Poor child," says my lady patting her shoulder, "poor child. A mean rogue, faith. "Twould be my delight to see him hanged. Now child, do you know 'tis whispered this same rascal has dared to come back to England in the body of M. de Beaujeu?"

"M. de Beaujeu?" cried Rose. "M. de Beaujeu is Mr. Dane? La, they are no more like than my lord Sherborne and my lord Sunderland, than than the King and yourself."

"Thank God, 'tis a reasonable unlikeness, that!" cried my lady laughing. Bien, 'tis pity. I would rejoice to hang Mr. Dane for your sake - and not grieve to hang this Beaujeu for his own."

"Faith, I resign you Mr. Dane gladly, my lady. But I protest I have found M. de Beaujeu an honest gentleman."

"Now have you?" said Lady Sunderland sharply, and then yawned. "Heigho-give me some tea in charity. I must needs go see Mistress Evelyn, who will give it me with religion watery both."

So my lady having had her entertainment, had her tea, and departed.

Mistress Rose attended her to the door of the coach, and my lady looked at her curiously and long. My lady was reflecting that she had probably met love that day. The acquaintance was novel and interesting.

And at the same hour M. de Beaujeu devoted himself to reflection and tobacco. All was going well and very well. The great gentlemen had been admirably scared by the King, and they suffered themselves to be manoeuvred as readily as his own regiment of Irish. His schemes were fulfilled easily, precisely as if he were playing chess. M. de Beaujeu conceived that Providence -himself-might for a moment turn its gaze aside. He desired to consider his private affairs.

The mind of M. de Beaujeu, if not equal to my lord Sunderland's in subtlety, had a turn for the discovery of motive. That mind was much exercised by the last word of my lady Sunderland: "Ay, sir, 'tis your hour. But at least we had ours when we made your love false."

Why this eagerness to remind him? Sure he had shown them well enough (he smiled) that he had not forgotten their kindness. My lady could scarce hope or desire to magnify his hate. But being a woman desiring only to wound, she might strike madly. "In effect she is not so much a woman," muttered Beaujeu with a grin, and then frowned.

There was one way to explain my lady. M. de Beaujeu, seeing it very clearly, for long declined to confess that he saw it all. At last (he wriggled in his chair) he put it fairly. My lady would have him believe Rose was false because Rose was true. That-that would be entirely like Sunderland or his lady. To lead him of his own sole deed to damn himself to unhappiness (M. de Beaujeu thinking of himself became eloquent) what triumph for them! Suppose for one brief instant that Sun

derland had not bought Rose-that the girl (oh, miracle!) was true-that M. de Beaujeu might yet learn it, and so come to content in her embraces. Why, then was there plentiful cause for my lady Sunderland (who must hate him vastly) to do her possible to convince him the girl was false. If false she were indeed, my lady was more like to declare her true. My lady would laugh to see him embrace a wench that had sold him. Also my lady would laugh to see him spurn a girl that loved him truly. My lady had desired him to spurn the girl. Then—- -?

So M. de Beaujeu, conceiving he had quite sounded the profundity of my lady, who had intended him to think just that.

But, faith, how could man believe the girl was aught but a cheat? Beaujeu lived over again that seven-yearsold afternoon, had attained to his final glory, "Delila, good-night," when intruded suddenly an echo of Mr. Healy's voice: "I doubt you were mightily like your cousin."

It was not in the least agreeable to Beaujeu to be mightily like his cub of a cousin. But in fact they had said the same thing. With vastly different cause though, begad! Without the girl's lure he had not been easily taken: without her letter there had been no evidence. No. There was no likeness at all. No man in his place but would have thought her false. Jack was a vain and surly cub, and quite precisely the effects of his vanity and surliness had been calculated. There was the whole world of difference.

But to consider the matter abstractly -to judge it without passion. Slowly -very slowly-M. de Beaujeu (whose pipe went out on the way) came to admit a theoretical possibility that he had been wrong. It was (in theory) to be conceived that Rose had been true. But if so, begad, the chance and change of the afternoon had been most marvel

lous unlucky. No man could be blamed for judging her false. Sure, if true she was, she was the most unfortunate wench alive 'twas the most damnable appearance of guilt that ever deceived an honest man.

An honest man? Eh, if the honest man had in fact been deceived, he had done some curious things, this same honest man. It must be confessed the wench had cause of complaint, poor soul. Bah, why not be honest? Why not confess that if she were true he had been a knave to her, a very foul

There came a tap at the door, and at once the dainty grace of Mistress Leigh. M. de Beaujeu put down his pipe and started up to stand before her stiff and soldierly. Mistress Leigh acknowledged his politeness in a curtsey so long and low that it seemed she was never to rise again.

"I trust I can serve you?" said Beaujeu.

"Oh, faith! I'd not presume to dare to trouble you," Mistress Leigh murmured, with downcast eyes.

"Pray believe that it will be my pleasure to do whatever you desire of me."

"It will be so, indeed. For I desire nothing of you," and Mistress Leigh exalted her little chin in the air. "I had hoped that I would find Mr. Healy."

"May I hope to hear what is your quarrel with me?" Beaujeu inquired gravely.

"Would one in your power dare quarrel with you? Oh, monsieur, with you! Nay, indeed, we must crawl before you!"

Beaujeu stood stiffer still. "If I have been discourteous I pray your pardon. With the baseness of your taunt I do not reproach myself."

It was a vastly irritating gentleman who had not a temper to lose. So Mistress Leigh broke out upon him with flashing eyes and flaming cheeks.

"Reproach yourself? Did I dream that you would, monsieur? Not with any baseness till you esteem something besides your own magnificence." Mistress Leigh had the unhoped-for pleasure of seeing a shade of color pass to his thin cheeks. He stared at her.

The door opened and Mr. Healy entered whistling. Beaujeu glanced round, then bowed to Mistress Leigh, and: "Mademoiselle requires you, Healy," said he, and went out.

"And do you that now?" said Healy, smiling at her red face.

Mistress Leigh tossed her little head. "The French gentleman is pleased to be witty," says she in a small contemptuous voice.

"Why, would he not quarrel with you, neither? Sure we will break your heart between us."

"Quarrel? La no! He'd but insult me, knowing I dare not answer him lest he should give us up."

Mr. Healy's smile vanished. Mr. Healy approached her, looking into the fierce bright eyes and laid his hand on her shoulder. "My dear lass," says he, "why will you lower yourself to talk so?"

In a moment her eyes fell, a darker blush than anger's flooded her face. "II pray your pardon, Mr. Healy," she stammered.

"I would like your hand on it," said Healey smiling.

It was given timidly, then surrounded by his long sinewy fingers. The girl looked up "I have talked just to hurt," she said, blushing still, but meeting his eyes.

""Tis a truculent maid that you are, indeed. You should cultivate gillyflowers. 'Tis calming to the passions. Did you ever note the placidity of a pipkin, now?" So Mr. Healy, smiling at her, and the girl pressed his hand. "I am," said she, "horrible."

At which Mr. Healey burst out laughing. "Sure, you are a Gorgon entirely,"