delighted in his delight, and, besides, was charmed
to remember that Miss Lamotte's mother had
been Sir Frank Holster's youngest sister, and
that, although her marriage had been disowned
by her family, as beneath her in rank, yet no one
could efface her name out of the Baronetage,
where Lettice, youngest daughter of Sir Mark
Holster, born 1772, married H. Lamotte 1799,
died 1810, was duly chronicled. She had
left two children, a boy and a girl, of whom
their uncle, Sir Frank, took charge, as their
father was worse than dead— an outlaw, whose
name was never mentioned. Mark Lamotte was
in the army; Lettice had a dependent position in
her uncle's family; not intentionally made more
dependent than was rendered necessary by
circumstances, but still dependent enough to grate
on the feelings of a sensitive girl, whose natural
susceptibility to slights was redoubled by the
constant recollection of her father's disgrace.
Sir Frank was considerably involved, as Mr.
Wilkins well knew; but it was with very mixed
feelings that he listened to the suit which would
provide his penniless niece with a comfortable,
not to say luxurious, home, and with a handsome,
accomplished young man of unblemished
character for a husband. He said one or two
bitter and insolent things to Mr. Wilkins, even
while he was giving his consent to the match;
that was his temper; his proud, evil temper; but
he really and permanently was satisfied by the
connexion, though he would occasionally turn
round on his nephew-in-law, and sting him with
a covert insult as to his want of birth, and the
inferior position which he held, forgetting, apparently,
that his own brother-in-law and Lettice's
father might be at any moment brought to the
bar of justice if he attempted to re-enter his
native country.

Edward was annoyed at all this; Lettice
resented it. She loved her husband dearly,
and was proud of him, for she had discernment
enough to see how superior he was in
every way to her cousins, the young Holsters,
who borrowed his horses, drank his wines,
and yet had caught their father's habit of
sneering at his profession. Lettice wished that
Edward would content himself with a purely
domestic life, would let himself drop out of the
company of the— shire squirearchy, and find
his relaxation with her, in their luxurious library,
or lovely drawing-room, so full of white-gleaming
statues, and gems of pictures. But, perhaps,
this was too much to expect of any man, especially
of one who felt himself fitted in many
ways to shine in society, and who was social by
nature. Sociality in that county at that time
meant conviviality. Edward did not care for
wine, and yet he was obliged to drink— and
by-and-by he grew to pique himself on his character
as a judge of wine. His father by this time was
dead; dead, happy old man, with a contented
heart— his affairs nourishing, his poorer neighbours
loving him, his richer respecting him, his
son and daughter-in-law the most affectionate
and devoted that ever man had, and his healthy
conscience at peace with his God.

Lettice could have lived to herself and her
husband and children. Edward daily required
more and more the stimulus of society. His
wife wondered how he could care to accept dinner
invitations from people who treated him as
"Wilkins the attorney, a very good sort of
fellow," as they introduced him to strangers, who
might be staying in the country, but who had no
power to appreciate the taste, the talents, the
impulsive artistic nature which she held so dear.
She forgot that by accepting such invitations
Edward was occasionally brought into contact
with people not merely of high conventional, but
of high intellectual rank; that when a certain
amount of wine had dissipated his sense of
inferiority of rank and position, he was a brilliant
talker, a man to be listened to and admired even
by wandering London statesmen, professional
diners-out, or any great authors who might find
themselves visitors in a—— shire country-house.
What she would have had him share from the
pride of her heart, she should have warned him to
avoid from the temptations to sinful extravagance
which it led him into. He had begun to spend
more than he ought, not in intellectual— though
that would have been wrong— but in purely
sensual things. His wines, his table, should be
such as no squire's purse or palate could command.
His dinner-parties— small in number, the
viands rare and delicate in quantity, and sent up
to table by an Italian cook— should be such as
even the London stars should notice with admiration.
He would have Lettice dressed in the
richest materials, the most delicate lace; jewellery,
he said, was beyond their means: glancing
with proud humility at the diamonds of the elder
ladies, and the alloyed gold of the younger. But
he managed to spend as much on his wife's lace
as would have bought many a set of inferior
jewellery. Lettice well became it all. If, as
people said, her father had been nothing but a
French adventurer, she bore traces of her nature
in her grace, her delicacy, her fascinating and
elegant ways of doing all things. She was made
for society; and yet she hated it. And one day
she went out of it altogether, and for evermore.
She had been well in the morning when Edward
went down to his office in Hamley. At noon he
was sent for by hurried trembling messengers.
When he got home, breathless and uncomprehending,
she was past speech. One glance from
her lovely loving black eyes showed that she
recognised him with the passionate yearning that
had been one of the characteristics of her love
through life. There was no word passed between
them. He could not speak, any more than could
she. He knelt down by her. She was dying;
she was dead; and he knelt on, immovable. They
brought him his eldest child, Ellinor, in utter
despair as to what to do to rouse him. They had
no thought as to the effect on her, hitherto shut
up in the nursery during this busy day of confusion
and alarm. The child had no idea of death,