260 [September 7, 1867.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [Conducted by
been toiling as a miserable curate on sixty pounds a year, until a relative died and left him well off. He would have gone on with his curacy, but the place did not agree with his wife, and he could not bring himself to what he thought the licensed simony of purchasing an advowson. But he had been promised the reversion of the village rectory—not on the death of the old incumbent, whom they all liked, but on his retirement, which was not far off. Here now was the day close at hand, and a pleasant night, the last but one though, yet still a little festival. When the passengers on the up-coach, going by about eight o'clock, saw the little "box" blazing cheerfully away like a bright lantern, to them it looked more than ever "snug," the very essence of snugness and warmth. If they could have drawn up the yellow blinds and peeped in, they would have seen two pictures of warmth, colour, happiness, and comfort. One was in the dining-room, with its sea-green walls, and where Mr. Trail, the grey-haired vicar, and Doctor Legge, the village doctor—who, it was said, knew more of the moon and stars than of physic—and Captain Hallam, and a chosen friend and brother-officer, Hillier, who was to be his "best man," and the host, were sitting round the fire taking claret.
The ladies had just gone, had crossed the hall, and were drawing in to their fire, which makes up the other picture of warmth and comfort. Mrs. Trail and her daughter, a darling friend of Lucy's, were staying in the house. They were all drawing in closer to the fire, to continue a little subject more confidentially, which had been just touched on as they left the dining-room.
"Oh, mamma," said Lucy, "he is certain to come. He promised."
"I am sure he will, dear," said her mamma, "and for a reason that I know."
"But what an interesting character," said Mrs. Trail. "The world is not so bad as my dear Trail preaches, when there are men with such deep feeling as that."
"My dear," said Mrs. Winter, "I could not describe it. I assure you it haunted me like a nightmare for months after. It was really terrible, his rage and grief mixed together. At times I thought his reason would go, or had gone. Men can love their wives, you see."
Lucy, all white muslin, and like a blooming flower, from some instinct glanced over at the glass, and perhaps coloured. Was she thinking how this affection was as nothing to that of her Captain Hallam?
"You know," went on Mrs. Winter, "I being Colonel Howard's cousin, and the only woman relative (and knowing each other as children), could do this, which I think no one could have courage to do. It was a dreadful business altogether, from beginning to end, and in fact, only for me—poor Edward, his brother, who really was innocent in the matter"
"He had a brother, then?" asked Mrs. Trail, getting interested.
"A dear fellow," broke in Lucy, impetuously; "a dear good fellow. Do you remember how he ran and stopped my horse, mamma?"
"Yes, indeed, dear. But for him I don't know what would have happened."
"That was the worst part. He talked of Edward as a criminal, and of pursuing him, and bringing him to justice; and this idea of vengeance took possession of him. So you may imagine what a duty I had. I never went through so much. But I soothed him at last."
"I still say," said Mrs. Trail, "there is something most interesting about him. It seems all so natural, even that fury and grief"
"Ah, but if you knew it all," said Mrs. Winter, stirring the fire, and drawing her low-cushioned chair closer. "It is no family secret"
"You never told me, mamma," Lucy said, standing up and looking in the glass.
"Because you were a child, dearest," said her mother, smiling; "now you are to be a lady, and are entitled to hear everything."
The answer to this compliment was Lucy's going over impetuously, and putting her arms about her mother's neck, and covering her with kisses. Her mass of hair all came tumbling down over both their faces like a mass of ivy that has been blown from its support. "Tell us," she whispered, "about Howard."
CHAPTER II. COLONEL HOWARD.
"They will be ten minutes at their wine yet," said Mrs. Winter, "and Howard's story won't take five. You know that my uncle Sir Philip and his wife were proud—in fact, were called 'the proud Howards'—and as their estate was a little encumbered, they made up their minds that William, our colonel, should make a splendid marriage—good blood and good money—and retire. When be was with his regiment in Ireland they had actually arranged it all—found out a rich plain girl, of the very highest family—I won't tell her name now, as it is all past and gone—and negotiated the marriage. They even got him six months' leave of absence, and wrote to him at Dublin to come over at once. What do you suppose was the answer they got?"
"I can guess, mamma," said Lucy, already absorbed, her fine eyes beginning to enlarge.
"So can I," said Mrs. Trail. "He was engaged to some one else."
"Not only engaged, but married; married to a handsome Irish girl who came out at Dublin Castle and the balls, and whose father was descended from a chieftain, I think: which, of course," added Mrs. Winter, without any sarcasm, "was all well in its way; but I believe the poor Mahoneys—that was the name had nothing to support the family but their daughter's face and flirting. His estate, such as it was, was in the Encumbered Estates Court at the time. He had been married some months. You may conceive all that took place. Sir Philip got a stroke of apoplexy from fury, and was near dying. It was not unnatural that they
