belying of fair promise, and innocence, was
allowed. When the truth at last came
home to him, it quite changed him, and he
had done with chivalry for ever. Further,
though he scorned revenge, he secretly
longed for an opportunity when he could
strike some blow, take some step which
should commit him, as it were, and show
himself at least how he despised his former
chivalry. In his manner and behaviour
there was little changed: he affected to be
all politeness and graciousness, but he
was in a wary ambuscade, ready to welcome
the first opportunity. That done, he felt
that his soul would be more at rest. It was
in this temper that he found himself at St.
Arthur's, and in the humour also, that if he
found any girl likely to fancy him he would
enjoy tempting her to give him her heart,
and would then depart with as little mark
on his own as his yacht would leave on the
waters behind her.

The peer was crushed and overwhelmed.
Friends said, "he was utterly broken."
He moped, took no interest in life, was out
of gear, and then, to the surprise of no one,
married again. His son made no protest,
knowing that his father was "weak," as it
is called, and scarcely responsible, as
another would be. He saw, too, that his father
"wanted some one to take care of him."
But this new wife proved to be a lady of
almost frantic extravagance. The castle
was refitted and refurnished. She was
lavish in balls and entertainments, jewels
and dresses; and the Formanton estate,
already heavily encumbered, soon began to
creak and groan, as it were, like the great
dinner-table at one of their banquets, under
mortgages and even bills of sale. According
to the vulgar phrase, the Formantons
were "going it," almost galloping it
indeed.

Conway soon learned a great deal about
the two young heroines of St. Arthur's. He
heard their whole history, from the school
upwards, but in the shape of two different
stories. On one side he heard: she
saved her life at that place, watching
her, following her, like a dog, worshipping
her, "doing" every lesson for her.
The heiress, when she got money, threw
her slave over in the shabbiest, meanest
way. There was a good deal of jealousy,
too, at the bottom; for Miss Jessica
always came in Miss Panton's way, and
was most admired. From the aristocrats
of the place he heard: That parson's
daughter was a forward, self-sufficient girl,
always pushing herself to the front, preaching
radical stuff about the poor being as
good as the rich. When her friend got
rich, she determined to take possession of
her, to stick to her like a burr; which
plan the good sense of Miss Panton saw
through, and with very proper spirit
resented. The parson's daughter had never
forgotten this rebuff, and ever since had
been trying to revenge herself.

He knew perfectly how to translate
this stuff. The true version of the Panton
party should be something of this
sort: "Spoiled child, growing into a
spoiled woman, with quick passions and
humours. Much pride, which made her
fancy she detected a wish to make the
most of small obligations, the feeling of
being inferior in sense and intellect, though
so much superior in wealth." For the
ugly portrait of Jessica he substituted the
following: "A high-spirited girl, cast upon
a desert island. That vile windbag of a
father, everybody about her, below her in
wit and acuteness: full of trust and affection,
and having foolishly thought she had
found some pearl of price in a very ordinary
nature, had set her whole heart on
embellishing and beautifying the same. Bitter
disappointment at the fall, and shattering,
of what was only a plaster image—a protest
against the unfair and haughty advantage
so inferior a mind could take of her." Mr.
Conway was quite satisfied with this
analysis, which he flattered himself was
superior to the rude judgment of "the
rustics." So interesting indeed did he find
the process of observation, that though
there was a general flutter among the
yachts now that the racing was over, he
thought he would remain "a day or two"
longer—that india-rubber period which, in
the hands of the purposeless, can stretch
from hours to months

CHAPTER VIII. THE RIVALS.

PANTON CASTLE was exceedingly valuable
to the neighbourhood, either as a show
place for the rustics and tourists, or for the
gossips as something to talk about. The
house, pictures, gardens, &c., were nothing
remarkable; and the tourists, generally,
ought to have come away with a sense
of disappointment. Yet, when a number
are led about in a herd, and bidden to
admire this and that, it is surprising how
every one is more or less impressed.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Silvertop, had a
contemptuous severity of manner to the
sight-seers, conveying that she was