Mr. Guthrie had at that time no idea that his
new acquaintances had only arrived in Bordeaux
the day before; or that they had travelled direct
from England. He first learned these facts from
Miss Rivière. He was exceedingly surprised
when she further informed him that they were
about to proceed to New York by the next steamer
leaving Bordeaux. If Miss Rivière had not
spoken of their plans so simply, and been in such
profound sorrow for the loss of her mother, he
would have perhaps suspected a clandestine
match; but as it was, he only wondered en
passant at the oddity of their arrangements, and
then dismissed the subject from his mind. On
the Friday Mr. Forsyth came down to Drouay to
call upon Miss Rivière, and, at her desire,
postponed the marriage till Monday. It seemed to
Mr. Guthrie that Miss Rivière was perfectly
willing to become the wife of Mr. Forsyth. The
love was unquestionably on his side; but she
seemed to hold him in the highest possible
respect, and to look up to him in all things. Having
so recently lost her mother, however, it was
natural that the young lady should be anxious to
wait as long as might be practicable before
contracting this new tie. As the arrangement now
stood, Mr. Guthrie was to perform the ceremony
privately at the Château de Peyrolles on Monday
afternoon, and the newly-married pair were to
embark on board the American mail steam-packet
Washington for New York direct on Tuesday
morning. Mr. Guthrie added, that he had found
himself much interested in Miss Rivière. He
had lent her some books, called upon her several
times, and done what he could to alleviate the
monotony of her brief sojourn at Drouay. In the
mean while Mr. Forsyth, through respect for her
grief and her solitude, had with much delicacy
kept aloof from the Château de Peyrolles, and
had, in fact, only been down once from Bordeaux
since Miss Rivière's arrival there. Mr. Guthrie
believed that Mr. Forsyth had since then gone
upon business to Angoulême.

Here the clergyman's testimony ended.

CHAPTER XCIII. THE CHATEAU DE PEYROLLES.

A TINY white building in the French mediæval
style, with some six or eight glittering
extinguisher turrets, a wholly unreasonable number of
very small windows, and a weedy court-yard with
massive wooden gates, was the Château de
Peyrolles. The house was white; the jalousies
were white; the gates were white. In short, a
more comfortless and ghost-like dwelling it would
be difficult to find, even in the south of France.
Built upon a slight—a very slight—eminence, it
overlooked a wide district of vineyards, and
stood islanded, as it were, in the midst of an
endless green lake, which stretched away for miles
on every side. Here and there rose a cluster of
village roofs, surmounted by a landmark of
church-spire; here and there the peaked roof of
some stately château; but the villages were few,
and the châteaux far between. A long straight
road, bordered on each side by tall poplars, swept
through the heart of this district, passing close
beside the gates of the Château de Peyrolles, and
vanishing away into the extreme distance, like
an avenue in a perspective drawing.

Along this road—the vines, heavy with black
grapes, coming down in most places to the
wayside, with now and then a patch of coarse pasture
in between—Saxon drove from Bordeaux to
Drouay that memorable Sunday afternoon. He
had taken a light carriage and four good post-
horses from his hotel, and so went over the ground
at a brilliant pace. The Reverend Angus Guthrie,
having made his afternoon discourse of the very
briefest, accompanied him. They spoke but
seldom, exchanging now and then a word or two on
the coming vintage, or the weather, which had
become heavily overcast within the last two hours
and threatened a storm; but as the road lengthened
behind them, their observations became
fewer, and then altogether ceased.

"This is Drouay," said the clergyman, after a
silence of more than half an hour.

Saxon started and looked out of the window.

"And that little white building?

"The Château de Peyrolles."

A strange feeling of agitation and reluctance
came upon him.

"Now that it comes to the point," said he, "I
feel like a coward."

"I do not wonder at it," replied Mr. Guthrie;
"you have a painful duty before you."

"Still, you do not think she loves him?"

"I do not, indeed."

"I wish to Heaven I could be sure of that,"
said Saxon, earnestly—so earnestly, that the
young clergyman looked up at him like a man
who is suddenly enlightened.

"In any case, Mr. Trefalden," he replied,
"you could only do what you are now doing.
Mercy under these circumstances would be
cruel injustice. Shall we alight here? Perhaps it
would be better than driving up to the château."

The postilions had pulled up before the door
of the village auberge; so the travellers got
out, and went up the private road on foot.

"You don't think it would come better from
yourself, being a clergyman?" said Saxon, as
Mr. Guthrie rang for admission.

The clergyman shook his head.

"Certainly not. I could only repeat what I
have been told; you can tell what you know."

"True."

"But, if you prefer it, I will see Miss Rivière
first, and prepare her for your visit."

"Thanks—thanks a thousand times."

An elderly woman opened the door, smiling
and curtseying. Mam'selle, she said, was in the
grande salon "au premier;" so Mr. Guthrie
went up, while Saxon waited in a little
ante-room on the ground floor.

He was cruelly nervous. He tried to think
what he ought to say, and how he ought to
begin; but he could not put the words together
in his mind, and when the clergyman came back
at the end of ten minutes, it seemed to him as
if he had not been absent as many seconds.

"I have given her your card," said Mr.