at least I don't think so," she cried, her | may's attention was distracted from the drawing and the artist, who, naturally, would have interested him most, by the gleam of hostility, the resentment and defiance in Cicely's eyes. soft face growing crimson at the thought, "but I would not mind going to any one, if it was the head of the college, or the lord chancellor, or even the queen!" "I wonder," said Mab, "if we met the queen driving in the forest- as one does sometimes whether we might not ask her, as people used to do long ago? I don't think she would mind. Why should she mind? She could not be frightened, or even angry, with two girls." Cicely shook her head. "The queen has nothing to do with Brentburn; and why should she be troubled with us any more than any other lady? No! that sort of thing has to be done in a business way," said the elder sister seriously. "If I could find out who was the chief man, the head of the college "Yes, papa," she said shortly; and with merely an inclination of her head to acknowledge his introduction to her, she took up the children, Charley in one arm, who was half dressed, Harry under the other, whose feet were bare, and carried them out of the room. She had divined the first moment she saw him, a dark figure against the light, who he was; and I cannot describe the bitterness that swelled like a flood through poor Cicely's heart. It was all over, then! There was no further hope, however fantastical, from college, or chancellor, or queen! Fantastic, indeed, the hope had been; but Cicely was young, and had been more buoyed up by this delusion, even in her despair, than she was aware of. She felt herself fall They had been so much absorbed that they had not heard any sound outside; and at this moment the door was suddenly thrown open, admitting a flood of cross-down, down into unspeakable depths, and light, and revealing suddenly the figures of the curate and some one who followed him. "My dears!" began Mr. St. John, surprised. "Oh, papa! you have woke them up. You have spoiled my light!” cried Mab, in despair. Cicely started to her feet, letting the account-books tumble on the floor; and the two little boys raised a simultaneous howl of sleepy woe. "Harry wants his tea," they both piped piteously. Mr. Mildmay, whom the curate had met at the gate, looked with a surprise I cannot describe on this extraordinary scene. The white babies in the light had seemed to him at first an exquisite little "composition," which went to his very heart; and the two other figures, half lit up by the stream of unwelcome light from the door, bewildered the young man. Who were they, or what? One indignant, holding her charcoal with artistic energy; the other, startled, gazing at himself with a hostile sentiment, which he could not understand, in her eyes. the very heart within her seemed to feel the physical pain of it, lying crushed and sore, throbbing all over with sudden suffering. The passionate force of the shock gave her strength, or I do not think she could have carried the two children away as she did, one in each arm, while the stranger looked on amazed. Little Charley, always peaceable, held her fast round the neck, with his head against her cheek; but Harry, whom she carried under her other arm, lifted his head a little from that horizontal position, and kept up his melancholy whine. She was not fond of the children; how could she be? and I think would gladly have "given them a shake " in the excitement and misery of her feelings. It was so hard upon the girl, that I think she might be forgiven for feeling that thus her young arms were to be hampered all her life; and, meanwhile, she felt that her father and sister would be perfectly amiable to the stranger, who was about to supplant them, and turn them out of their house. This, I am afraid, exasperated Cicely as much as anything else. "These two," would have no arrière pensée; they would be perfectly kind to him, as though he were acting the part of their best friend. And, indeed, this was how it turned "My love," said the gentle curate, "you should not make a studio of the drawing-room." Mr. St. John was not disturbed by the wailing of the little boys, to which, I suppose, he was used. "Cic-out. ely, this is Mr. Mildmay, from Oxford, who has come to look at the parish," he added with a gentle sigh. "Let us have When she went back, having dis.posed of the children, to make the tea, Cicely found Mab and Mr. Mildmay in great amity over the uncompleted drawing. He had been criticising, but he had Why did the girl look at him with that been praising as well; and Mab was paleness of anger in her face? Mr. Mild-flushed with pleasure and interest. She tea." girl look at himself with so much suppressed passion in her eyes? and where had the other been trained to draw so well? and what was the meaning of the two children, so unlike all the others, whom his young enemy had carried off impetuously, instead of ringing the bell for their nurse as any one else would have done? Mildmay felt a thrilling sensation of newness as he sat down at the tea-table, and looked on, an interested spectator of all that was proceeding under his eyes. This in its way was evidently life; there was no mistaking the passion that existed underneath this quiet surface, the something more than met the eye. Was it a skeleton in the closet, as the domestic cynic says? But these were not words that seemed to apply to this calm old man and these young girls. It was life, not the quiet of books, and learned talk, and superficial discussion, but a quiet full of possibilities, full of hidden struggle and feeling. Mildmay felt as if he had come out of his den in the dark like an owl, and half blinking in the unusual light, was placed as spectator of some strange drama, some episode full of interest, to the character of which he had as yet no clue. ran off laughing, to take off her blouse was this? The old man before him, so genand wash her hands, when Cicely came in, tle, so suave, so smiling, his own inferior in and the elder sister, who felt that her position, for was he not rector elect, while eyes were still red, felt at the same time Mr. St. John was but curate? yet so far that her ungenial and constrained recep- above him in years and experience, and tion of him had struck the new-comer. all that constitutes superiority among She went and gathered up the account- gentlemen of equal breeding. Why was books from the floor with a sigh. Despair he here as curate? And why did that was in her heart. How could she talk and smile as the others had been doing? As for Mr. St. John, he was as pleased with his visitor as if he had brought him something, instead of taking all hope from him. It was rarely the good man saw any but heavy parish people the rural souls, with whom indeed he was friendly, but who had nothing to say to him except about their crops and local gossip. The gossip of Oxford was much sweeter to his ears. He liked to tell of the aspect of things "in my time," as I suppose we all do; and how different this and that was nowadays. "I knew him when he was a curate like myself," he said, with a soft sigh, talking of the dean, that lofty dignitary. "We were at school together, and I used to be the better man; " and this was spoken of the vice-chancellor himself; and he enjoyed and wondered to hear of all their grandeurs. He had met Mildmay on the road, looking through the gate at the rectory, and had addressed him in his suave oldworld way as a stranger. Then they had talked of the church, that most natural of subjects between two clergymen ; and then, half reluctantly, half with a sense of compulsion, the stranger had told him who he was. Mr. St. John, though he was poor, had all the hospitable instincts of a prince. He insisted that his new acquaintance should come in and see the house, and hear about everything. He would have given the same invitation, he said afterwards, to any probable new resident in the parish, and why not to the new rector? for in Mr. St. John's mind there was gall. no But to describe Mildmay's feelings when he was suddenly introduced into this novel world is more difficult. He was taken entirely by surprise. He did not know anything about the curate in charge. If he thought of his predecessor at all it was the late rector he thought of, who had died on the shores of the Bay of Naples after a life-long banishment from England. He could understand all that; to go away altogether after art, antiquity, Pompeii, classic editings, and aesthetic delights was perfectly comprehensible to the young Oxford man. But this - what "You are looking at the furniture; it is not mine,” said Mr. St. John, “except the carpets, which, as you say, are much worn. The other things are all Mr. Chester's. I am expecting every day to hear what is to be done with them. Most likely they will sell it; if you wanted anything Mildmay made a gesture of horror in spite of himself, and Mab laughed. "You do not think Mr. Mildmay wants all that mahogany, papa? The catafalque there, Cicely and I agreed it was more like a tomb in Westminster Abbey than anything else." "What is amiss with it?" said Mr. St. John, "I always understood it was very good. I am told they don't make things nearly so strong or so substantial now. Poor Chester! He was a man of very fine taste, Mr. Mildmay. But why do you laugh, my dear? That was why he was so fond of Italy; shattered health, you know. Those men who are so fond of art are generally excitable; a little thing has an effect upon them. Cicely, give Mr. Mildmay some tea." "Yes, papa," said Cicely; and gave the stranger a look which made him think his tea might be poisoned. Mr. St. John went maundering kindly, "You said you were going to London, and had left your things at the station? Why shouldn't you stay all night here instead? There are a great many things that I would like to show you- the church and the school for instance, and I should like to take you to see some of my poor people. Cicely, we can give Mr. Mildmay a bed?” Cicely looked up at her father quickly. There was a half-entreaty, a pathetic wonder, mingled with anger in her eyes. "How can you?" she seemed to say. Then she answered hesitating, "There are plenty of beds, but I don't know if they are aired -if they are comfortable." Strangely enough, the more reluctant she was to have him, the more inclined Mildmay felt to stay. "It is very kind," he said. "I cannot think how it is possible that I can have had the assurance to thrust myself upon you like this. I am afraid Miss St. John thinks it would be very troublesome." "Troublesome! There is no trouble at all. Cicely is not so foolish and inhospitable," said the curate in full current of his open-heartedness. "My dear, it is fine warm weather, and Mr. Mildmay is a young man. He is not afraid of rheumatics like the old people in the parish. He and I will walk up to the station after tea and fetch his bag, and I will show him several things on the way. You will tell Betsy?" "I will see that everything is ready," she said, with so much more meaning in the words than was natural or necessary. Her eyes were a little dilated with crying, and slightly red at the edges; there was surprise and remonstrance in them, and she did not condescend by a single word to second her father's invitation. This settled the question. Had she asked him, Mildmay might have been indifferent; but as she did not ask him, he made up his mind it was quite necessary he should stay. "I shall perhaps see you finish that group," he said to Mab, who was interested and amused by the novelty of his appearance, as her father was. "Ah, but I shall never get them into the same pose! If papa had not come in so suddenly, waking them - besides spoiling my light "I am afraid it was partly my fault," he said; "but I did not expect to be brought into the presence of an artist." The colour rose on Mab's cheeks. "Please don't flatter me," she said. "I want so much to be an artist. Shall I ever be able to do anything, do you think? for you seem to know." Cicely looked at her sister, her eyes sparkling with offence and reproach. "The people who know you best think so,” she said. "It is not right to ask a stranger. How can Mr. Mildmay know?" How hostile she was! between her smiling pretty sister, who was ready to talk as much as he pleased, and her kind old suave father, what a rugged implacable young woman! What could he have done to her? Mildmay felt as much aggrieved when she called him a stranger, as if it had been a downright injury. I know a little about art," he said quite humbly; "enough to perceive that your sister has a great deal of real talent, Miss St. John." "Yes, yes, she is clever," said the curate. "I hope it will be of some use to you, my poor Mab. Now, Mr. Mildmay, let us go. I want to show you the rectory fields, and the real village, which is some way off. You must not think this cluster of houses is Brentburn. It is pleasant walking in the cool of the afternoon, and, my dears, a walk will be good for you too. Come down by the common and meet us. Cicely," he added in a half-whisper, standing aside to let his guest pass, "my dear, you are not so polite as I hoped. I wish you would look more kind and more pleased." "But I am not pleased. Oh, papa, why did you ask him? I cannot bear the sight of him," she cried. "My love!" said the astonished curate. He was so much surprised by this outburst that he did not know how to reply. Then he put his hand softly upon her forehead, and looked into her eyes. see what it is. You are a little feverish: you are not well. It is the hot weather, no doubt," he said. "Oh, papa! I am well enough; but I am very wretched. Let me speak to you when we have got rid of this man-before you go to bed." Surely, my dear," he said soothingly, and kissed her forehead. "I should advise you to lie down for a little, and keep quiet, and the fever may pass off. But I must not keep my guest waiting," | every semblance of even outward decency and with this Mr. St. John went away, was cast aside; it was the exultation of a talking cheerfully in the hall to his com- band of freebooters, who saw before them panion as he rejoined him. "It is trying weather," they heard him saying. "I stopped behind for a moment to speak to my eldest daughter. I do not think she is well." "Will papa discuss your health with this new man?" cried Mab. "How funny he is! But don't be so savage, Ciss. If it must be, let us make the best of it. Mr. Mildmay is very nice to talk to. Let us take whatever amusement is thrown in our way." "Oh, amusement!" said Cicely. "You are like papa; you don't think what is involved. This is an end of everything. What are we to do? Where are we to go to? His name is not Mildmay; it is Ruin and Destruction. It is all I can do not to burst out upon him and ask him, oh! how has he the heart - how has he the heart to come here!" a wealthy country, in which law was dead, laid open to pillage. Honest Sully was no companion for those vampires, and, with a heart bowed down with grief for the loss of his noble master, and even yet more so for the sorrow of seeing the labours of his life about to be destroyed, retired to his estate, and left them to wreak the ruin he was powerless to avert. The chief favourite of the queen regent was a Florentine named Concino Conchini, better known by his French title of Maréchal d'Ancre, an unscrupulous adventurer, whom she loaded with riches and dignities; he, his wife, the pope's nuncio, the Spanish ambassador, D'Epernon, and a few others, formed this privy council, of which the object was the total overthrow of that policy under which France had grown great and prosperous, the reopening of religious persecution, and the appropriation of the treasures amassed by the dead king for the execution of his great design. "If you did I think he would not come," said Mab calmly. "What a pity people cannot say exactly what they think. But if he gave it up, there would be some one The effects of this combination were else. We must make up our minds to it. soon fatally apparent. The genius and firm And how beautifully poor papa behaves hand of the great Henry repressed the through it all." power of the nobles and kept it within the "I wish he were not so beautiful!" boundaries of the law, but under the feecried Cicely, in her despair, almost grind-ble rule of a weak woman it again agitated ing her white teeth. "I think you will the State with factions and conspiracies. drive me mad between you - papa and Bribes and largesses to the amount of you." RICHELIEU. From Temple Bar. BY THE AUTHOR OF "MIRABEAU," ETC. THE death of the great Henry once more plunged unhappy France from the very pinnacle of prosperity to the lowest depths of turbulence and misery. Left to the guardianship of an infant king and an ambitious, weak, unworthy woman, what fate was in store for her? While in the streets and the dwellings of the citizens all was woe and mourning, while the public apartments of the palace presented one sombre aspect of unrelieved black, and faithful servants and honest men wandered through them in ghostly silence, with tearful faces and saddened hearts, Marie de Médicis and her Italian minions held secret conclave amongst gold, purple, and embroidery; from behind their closed doors came sounds of laughter and songs of gladness; forty million livres were scattered among the malcontents for the purpose of conciliating them. But, while they shamelessly accepted the money, their turbulence continued to increase; many withdrew to their domains, assembled their men-atarms, and prepared for civil war. The more honest, desirous to reform the abuses of the State, demanded the convocation of the States-General, and the government, powerless for all save evil, * Conchini and Leonora Galigaï, afterwards his wife, had come to France in the train of Marie de Médicis ; from the first they were the queen's most evil councillors, filling her ears with scandals and her heart with bitterness against her husband. If the assassination of the king was the result of a plot, and not simply of inthese Italians, as well as the Duc d'Epernon, were dividual fanaticism, there are reasons to suspect that concerned in it; indeed, were it possible to prove the existence of such a conspiracy, it might be difficult to exonerate the queen herself from participation. Her behaviour after the tragic event sufficiently warrants the assertion that Henry's death, far from being a source of grief, was regarded by her as a relief. The States-General, as it is known to every reader of French history, was an assemblage convoked by the king in any great crisis, and especially when the royal power was unequal to cope with the difficulties of the time. It was composed of the three orders, the nobles, the clergy, and the tiers-état. after a few futile preparations for an armed resistance and many more bribes, was compelled to submit. But little or nothing could be achieved by an assembly the interests of the different parts of which were so utterly opposing. And so after much talk, complaining, and disputing, it was dissolved, not to meet again for one hundred and seventy years. And then how different the result! And yet this gathering of vapid, purposeless talkers, that passed away and seemed to leave behind it no more trace of its existence than does a fleeting cloud upon the face of heaven, was pregnant with great results, since it brought into the light a man destined to remodel the political world of France. That man was Armand du Plessis, afterwards Cardinal Duc de Richelieu. Armand Jean du Plessis was born in the Château de Richelieu, in Touraine, on the 5th of September, 1585. His father was the Seigneur de Richelieu, and captain in Henry the Fourth's guards. There were three sons, the eldest, according to the custom of noble houses, followed the career of arms; the second entered the church; the third, Armand, created Marquis de Chillon, was likewise educated for the military profession, which he followed until his brother, who had been appointed to the bishopric of Luçon, turned ascetic and entered a Carthusian monastery. The bishopric having been for many years in the Richelieu family, so valuable an appanage could not be permitted to pass into the hands of a stranger, and the young marquis, then only eighteen, was called upon to take his brother's place. He does not appear to have offered any opposition to this sudden change of career. Eight hours a day for four years he is said to have devoted to the study of theology, and thereby to have permanently injured a constitution always frail and delicate. Not having attained the age prescribed for the episcopacy, he took a journey to Rome to solicit his institution. The Abbé Siri tells an anecdote of this time which foreshadows the future cardinal. He deceived the pope in his age, and after he had received consecration Legged absolution for the deceit. "This young bishop," said the pontiff, "is gifted with a rare genius, but he is subtle and crafty." Seven years passed away, and never was prelate more pious, more unassuming; theological studies and the conversion of heretics formed the sole objects of his life; but he had also gained a great repu tation as a preacher. Probably, his am bition at this time for there never could have been a time when Armand Richelieu was not ambitious-was confined within the pale of the Church. But the convocation of the States-General summoned him from his retirement. The clergy chose him as one of their representatives, and, on account of his before-mentioned priestly eloquence, selected him for their orator. No fierce denouncer, however, of corrupt power was the Bishop of Luçon; on the contrary, he introduced into his speech such adroit flatteries to the queenmother that, having already insinuated himself into the favour of the favourite, Leonora Galigaï, she appointed him to be her chaplain. So well did his fortunes progress that within two years we find him, thanks to Maréchal d'Ancre, secretary of state for war and foreign affairs. A not very noble figure does the future great cardinal cut at this period as the toady of the queen-mother and her minion. But the days of the latter were numbered. The boy-king was carefully secluded by the ambitious Marie from all State affairs, and passed his time in hunting and puerile amusements. Among his attendants was a gentleman named Albert de Luynes, whose ambition meditated no less a design than to destroy Conchini, subvert the power of the queen-mother, and rule in their place. To accomplish this, he irritated the pride of the young Louis to such an extent, by representing the condition of tutelage and almost imprisonment in which he was kept, a condition, he averred, that would continue as long as the maréchal lived, that he prevailed upon the boy to enter into a plot for his assassination. And on the 24th of April, 1617, Conchini was murdered in the broad daylight in the court of the Louvre, not by common hirelings, but by barons, officers, and "men of honour." After the murder followed a yet more revolting scene; each murderer, anxious to prove his share in the deed, fell upon the dead man and stripped him of his accoutrements and property; one seized upon his sword, another upon his ring, a third upon his scarf, a fourth upon his cloak, and rushed away eager and breathless, to lay these spoils at the feet of the king. Jean Baptiste d'Ornano, a Corsican colonel, had the honour to reach the royal presence first. Upon learning the success of the plot, Louis showed himself at the window of the grand salon, and to the shout of "Vive le roi !" which rose from the court |