Beckworth for a day or two—when these came
and went, and Mrs. Cartaret was still
ungladdened by the sight of her son, she
began to feel very heavy at heart. Not even
the satisfaction of learning that his life was
reformed could compensate for this: the
cloud which had arisen as a man's hand
was consolidating itself into a compact
mass, till it threatened to darken the whole
sky overhead. For a while her pride kept
her from asking him to come. At last, she
could stand it no longer, and broke out
thus in one of her letters: "Your favourite
hautboys are now ripe, and will be all
over, if you do not pay them a visit soon."
But the hautboys passed; and other fruits
succeeded them; and still he came not.
"If you should be ill, send for me. Otherwise
I am not coming to Beckworth," he
wrote; and the old lady was furious. She
indited a piebald letter, in which French
and English expletives vied for
predominance: declaring that a monster of
ingratitude had been born unto her, that she
had nourished a viper in her bosom, that
he was sans coeur, sans entrailles, and that
he would come to no good end, that was
clear. After despatching this, she had a
comfortable fit of hysterics, and poured her
woes into the sympathising breast of Mrs.
Rouse.

"It's the undutifullest thing as ever I
heerd of!" cries the artful prime-minister;
"after Mr. Lowndes's conduct, his writing
like that, instead of going down on his
bended knees! Can't say much for his
reform, if this is the fruits—he don't place
much account by the fifth commandment.
Them as practises law forgets their religion,
it seems to me. I never did hold much by
law. He'll only come here, ma'am, if you're
ill. Wants to see, I suppose, as your will
is properly made!"

By which specimen it will be seen that
Mrs. Rouse's ascendancy, and the license
of tongue permitted to her, were increased
rather than diminished. In short, the
episode of Maud's short career at
Beckworth had, no doubt, strengthened the
housekeeper's position. The vacant post
had been filled by a dull girl who could in
no way be a companion to the old lady.
But then she was Mrs. Rouse's devoted
slave; and if Mrs. Cartaret complained of
the girl's stupidity, she was met by the
retort, "Perhaps you'd like to find a young
lady again as has run away from her home?
A hussy as tries to entrap your son,
ma'am?" To which there was no reply;
but in the inmost recesses of her heart, I
fear Mrs. Cartaret was at times almost
tempted to wish for such another runaway.
Of this particular one she could not, of
course, think without some bitterness—she
had wrought so much mischief. "The
devil himself must have made the girl," as
she wrote to one of her old friends. "Such a
fascination had she—such a power to
impression you with a sense of straightness!
And yet, my friend, she was a liar! . . . I
actually cried, old fool that I am, when
I had to turn her out of the house, I had
got to love the little wretch so, in the
course of that month! Ah, my friend,
what a world! Was there such deceit,
such treachery in the old times? I think
not."

The yoke of Rouse and Dapper grew
more galling every day. Mrs. Cartaret's
life was as solitary and cheerless as that of
the Pope in the Vatican, without such
consolations as may belong to supremacy.
The shadow and insignia of royalty were
still hers; but the substance had passed
from her. She grew more inert, and with
less energy for discussion or command
daily, for her heart was sorely troubled.
Heretofore Lowndes had exercised a
certain restraint over the arrogant ministry
which no opposition had ever been able to
put out of office. Now, they did absolutely
as they liked. And thus the summer wore
away.

In August an unprecedented thing befel
John Miles: he went to London for a month.
A curate friend, who had been ill and
required country air, asked if he would
exchange duties with him, and he did so.
John's journey up was marked by a small
incident. In a corner of the same
carriage with himself sat a rigid-looking man,
whose age it was impossible to tell, but
whose creaseless face seemed not quite
unfamiliar to Miles. The rigid man's memory
was the better of the two.

"Mr. Miles. I believe?" he said, without
a smile, or the derangement of one
unnecessary muscle: "I think we met at dinner
at Mortlands. You are the curate? My
name is Durborough."

Then, after the exchange of a few words,
he continued:

"Sir Andrew and Lady Herriesson are
at Wiesbaden, are they not?"

"Yes: they are gone for Sir Andrew's
gout."

"And where is that unfortunate young
lady, Miss Pomeroy?"

"I am not aware that she is unfortunate,"
replied John, sternly. "She is at