pain was in his head, and the cool of the fields
seemed to relieve his moral sufferings. Luckless,
miserable, degraded, Fermor almost deserved
pity.

In a dull fashion, he began to "see it
all," as it is called: the whole course of later
events, with the secret of Miss Manuel's
calculating plans, which his own blind infatuation had
prevented him from comprehending. Beyond
that, too, his mind travelled back, and that
strange expression of hers, "taken away the life
of Violet," brought up the old Eastport times
again. The soft gentleness, the quiet suffering,
the grateful tender worship—these were things
that some one seemed to whisper to him for the
first time. Rough hands were levelling the rude
stone wall of stolid vanity—as iron as that stone
wall against which he had dashed on the Eastport
race-day, now so long ago—and he was
seeing things with wonder he had never seen
before.

A dull crash about his head—physical—and
really like that crash at the Eastport wall—a flash
of stars—a dull thunder in the ears—a fierce cry
like a threat, mixed up with a sound like " this
from Violet!"— and Fermor's humiliation and
degradation, his dreams of Eastport and of the past,
were battered into insensibility. He was on the
ground, with his back on the clayey soil, the white
face turned to the sky, and a figure over him,
fiercely beating and mashing; pounding that
white face with something held in its hands.
Some half-dozen terrible strokes in all. And
there would have been but one more to finish the
work, but for a strong man who came rushing
and shouting across the field, and who caught
the wild, frantic figure by the throat, and, after a
struggle, flung him to a distance.

Miserable Fermor was breathing still.

CHAPTER XLVII. AN OLD SOLDIER'S END.

AT Lady Laura Fermor's the entertainment
went forward. The carriages came and went.
From the street, the shadows of Captain
Vansittart and Miss Egerton of Rushley were seen
outlined on the illuminated balcony, as if
projected from a magic lantern. Sounds of
muffled music came from within; the stirring
horn and tinkling harp. The tableaux were
over now; the dancing had set in.

There had been unavoidable omissions in
the little show. Mr. Romaine had been seen
to go, but had never returned. His dress,
a rich one, was lying there. Mrs. Fermor had
not come at all. Here was the most effective
scene spoiled. The rest were, in truth, a little
halting. It came upon the actors and audience
with a surprise that there should have been so
small a result, after all the extraordinary cost,
and trouble, and expense. It was a relief
when "the decks were cleared," and Revel's
band began to wind out music, and the
company to float on the soft billows of a Strauss
valse.

Lady Laura, at the door, working the fan in
her pale fingers, still kept to her duty. At times,
during the night, Blanche had come to her
privately, in some little trouble about the absent
Spendlesham. The mother reassured her. "He
has missed a train. He will be here in the
morning to apologise. Go and dance now, dear,
and enjoy yourself." The well-trained Blanche
always reflected her mother's tone of mind, and
saw that there was not a cloud of doubt in the
air. With a smile she tripped away, and was
presently flying round, supported by Captain
Singleman's strong arm, to the celestial air of the
"Wien mein sinn" valse. The same strain had
drawn many more from their seats, and absorbed
them into the mêlée.

Lady Laura looked rather tired. She gave herself
no rest. She found partners for the destitute.
This night she did not care to receive any scandalous
stories from any of her favourite worldly old
men. It was a long and weary night. A young
destitute girl, sadly unprepossessing—for whom
she had provided—said to her gratefully, "Dear
Lady Laura, you should sit down. You are tiring
yourself." But she did not sit down. She worked
on, and looked for plenty of physical action. How
many spectres had she dancing before her eyes
that night, besides her company? Almost everything
there furnished her one: Blanche's silken
slip, the temporary stage and scenes, the hired
lustres, and Revel's fine Strauss music. There
was besides, up-stairs, and outside, Blanche's
trousseau, newly come home from that terrible
Madame Adelaide; and above all, indistinct, and
in the distance, but not less terrible, the rude and
furious job-master. No wonder that old heart
was chilled—chilled even to death.

By half-past two they were going. There was
the departing chorus of the "delightful
evening," and the "so pleasant." The ghosts of
the Strauss melodies still floated in the air.
The rooms were cleared with a rush, just as
they had filled with a rush. The waxed floor
shone and glittered under the lights—here and
there was a flower, a bit of swansdown, a bit
of lace—jetsam and flotsam of the wreck. Below,
they were long getting on their wraps. And
Lady Laura, leaning on the chimney-piece, heard
the hoarse cries in the street, and the hum of
voices in the hall, and the happy salutations of
lingering men.

"It was a delightful party," said Laura junior,
in great spirits. "They were all pleased."

"Yes, dear," said Lady Laura, in the new
soft tone which mystified her daughters. "I
am so glad you enjoyed yourself. Go up and go
to bed as quickly as you can. You look tired,
and we have to be out again to-morrow night."
Poor working soul, she could not forget duty!

The two girls went together, meaning to have
a short comparing of notes on the triumphs and
joys of the night. Lady Laura stayed behind,
her foot on the fender, with the job-master and
Madame Adelaide and the other spectres for
company.