"what a dream was here!

methought a serpent ate my heart,

and you sat smiling at his cruel prey."

—midsummer night's dream.

long, low terraces bathed in sunshine; a dripping, sobbing fountain; great masses of glaring flowers that mix their reds and yellows in hideous contrast and sicken the beholder with a desire for change; emerald lawns that grow and widen as the eye endeavors vainly to grasp them, thrown into bold relief by the rich foliage, all brown, and green, and red, and bronze-tinged, that spreads behind them; while beyond all these, as far as sight can reach, great swelling parks show here and there, alive with deer, that toss and fret their antlered heads, throwing yet another charm into the already glorious scene.

such is herst royal, as it stands, a very castle in its pride of birth. on one side the "new wing" holds prominence, so called, although fully a century has passed since mason's hand has touched it; on the other is a suspicion of heavy gothic art. behind, the taste of the elizabethan era holds full sway; in front (forgetful of time) uprears itself the ancient tower that holds the first stones in all its strength and stately dignity; while round it the sympathetic ivy clings, and, pressing it in its long arms, whispers, "courage."

upon the balcony the sleepy peacocks stand, too indolent to unfurl their gorgeous plumage, looking in their quiet like statues placed at intervals between the stone vases of scarlet geraniums and drooping ferns that go to adorn it.

there is a dead calm over all the house; no sound of life beyond the indistinct hum of irrepressible nature greets the ear; all is profoundly still.

the click of high-heeled shoes, the unmistakable rustle of silk, and the peacocks, with a quick flutter, raise their heads, as though to acknowledge the approach of their mistress.

stepping from one of the windows, thereby displaying to the unobservant air an instep large but exquisitely arched, marcia amherst comes slowly up to where the lazy fowl are dreaming. almost unconsciously (because her face is full of troubled thought), or perhaps a little vengefully, she flicks the one nearest to her with the handkerchief she carries loosely in her hand, until, with a discordant scream, it rouses itself, and, spreading its tail to its fullest, glances round with conscious pride.

"that is all you are good for," says marcia out loud, contemptuously.

her voice is singularly clear, but low and trainante. she is tall and very dark, with rich wavy black hair and eyes of the same hue, deep and soft as velvet. her nose is grecian; her lips a trifle thin. she is distinctly handsome, but does not so much as border on the beautiful.

as she turns from the showy bird with a little shrug of disdain at its vanity or of disgust at its odious cry, she finds herself face to face with a young man who has followed almost in her footsteps.

he, too, is tall and dark, and not altogether unlike her. but his face shows the passion that hers rather conceals than lacks, and, though sufficiently firm, is hardly as determined as hers. there is also a certain discontent about the lower part of the jaw in which she is wanting, and there are two or three wrinkles on his forehead, of which her broad, low brow is innocent.

"well, philip?" she says, anxiously, as he reaches her side.

"oh, it is of no use," he replies, with a quick frown, "i could not get up my courage to the sticking-point, and if i had i firmly believe it would only have smashed my cause the more completely. debt is his one abhorrence, or rather—he has so many—his deepest. to ask for that two thousand pounds would be my ruin."

"i wish i had it to give you," she says, gently, laying her hand—a very beautiful hand, but not small—upon his arm.

"thank you, my dear," replies he, lightly, "but your good wishes do not get me out of my hobble. money i must have within seven days, and money i have not. and if our grandfather discovers my delinquencies it will be all up with me. by the bye, marcia, i can hardly expect you to sympathize with me, as that would be so much the better for you, eh?"

"nothing the better," says marcia, calmly; "it would be always the same thing. i should share with you."

"what a stake it is to play for!" says the young man, wearily, with a distasteful gesture. "is even twenty thousand pounds a year worth it?—the perpetual paying court, every day, and all day long? sometimes i doubt it."

"it is well worth it," says marcia, firmly. "how can you doubt it? all the good this world contains might be written under the name of 'money.' there is no happiness without it."

"there is love, however, and contentment."

"don't believe it. love may be purchased; and as for contentment, there is no such thing. it is a dream, a fable, a pretty story that babes may swallow."

"yet they tell us money is the root of all evil."

"not money, but the love of it," replies she, quickly. "do not lose heart, philip; he cannot last forever; and this week how ill he has been!"

"so he has, poor old wretch," her companion interrupts her hastily. "well, i have just one clear week before me, and then,—i suppose i had better have recourse to my friends, the jews. that will be a risky thing, if you like, under the circumstances. should he find that out——"

"how can he? they are always so secret, so safe. better do it than eat your heart out. and who is to betray you?"

"you." with a laugh.

"ay, tremble!" says she, gayly; then softly, "if that is all you have to fear, philip, you are a happy man. and when you have got the two thousand pounds, will you be free?"

"no, but comparatively easy for awhile. and who knows, by that time——"

"he may die?"

"or something may turn up," exclaims he, hurriedly, not looking at her, and therefore unable to wonder at the stolidity and utter unconcern of her expression.

at this moment a querulous, broken voice comes to them from some inner room. "marcia, marcia!" it calls, with trembling impatience; and, with a last flick at the unoffending peacock, she turns to go, yet lingers, as though loath to leave her companion.

"good-bye,—for awhile," she says.

"good-bye," replies he, and, clasping her lightly round the waist, presses a kiss upon her cheek,—not upon her lips.

"you will be here when i return?" asks she, turning a face slightly flushed by his caress toward him as she stands with one foot placed upon the bow-window sill preparatory to entering the room beyond. there is hope fully expressed in her tone.

"no, i think not," replies he, carelessly. "the afternoon is fine; i want to ride into longley, for——" but to the peacocks alone is the excuse made known, as marcia has disappeared.

close to a fire, although the day is oppressively warm, and wrapped in a flannel dressing-gown, sits an old man,—old, and full of the snarling captiousness that makes some white hairs hideous. a tall man, with all the remains of great beauty, but a singularly long nose (as a rule one should always avoid a person with a long nose), that perhaps once might have added a charm to the bold, aristocratic face it adorned, but now in its last days is only suggestive of birds of prey, being peaky and astonishingly fine toward the point. indeed, looking at it from a side-view, one finds one's self instinctively wondering how much leaner it can get before kindly death steps in to put a stop to its growth. and yet it matches well with the lips, which, curving downward, and thin to a fault, either from pain or temper, denote only ill-will toward fellow-man, together with a certain cruelty that takes its keenest pleasure in another's mental suffering.

great piercing eyes gleam out from under heavy brows, and, looking straight at one, still withhold their inmost thoughts. intellect (wrongly directed, it may be, yet of no mean order) and a fatal desire for power sparkle in them; while the disappointment, the terrible self-accusing sadness that must belong to the closing of such a life as comes of such a temperament as his, lingers round his mouth. he is meagre, shrunken,—altogether unlovely.

now, as he glances up at marcia, a pettishness, born of the sickness that has been consuming him for the past week, is his all-prevailing expression. raising a hand fragile and white as a woman's, he beckons her to his side.

"how you dawdle!" he says, fretfully. "do you forget there are other people in the world besides yourself? where have you been?"

"have i been long, dear?" says marcia, evasively, with the tenderest air of solicitude, shaking up his pillows and smoothing the crumpled dressing-gown with careful fingers. "have you missed me? and yet only a few minutes have really passed."

"where have you been?" reiterates he, irritably, taking no notice of her comfortable pats and shakes.

"with philip."

"ay, 'with philip.' always philip. i doubt me the course of your love runs too smoothly to be true. and yet it was a happy thought to keep the old man's money well together." with a sneer.

"dear grandpapa, we did not think of money, but that we love each other."

"love—pish! do not talk to me of it. i thought you too shrewd, marcia, to be misled by a mirage. it is a myth,—no more,—a sickening, mawkish tale. had he no prospects, and were you penniless, i wonder how far 'love' would guide you?"

"to the end," says marcia, quickly. "what has money to do with it? it can neither be bought nor sold. it is a poor affection that would wither under poverty; at least it would have no fears for us."

"us,—us," returns this detestable old pagan, with a malicious chuckle. "how sure we are! how positive! ready to risk our all upon our lover's truth! yet, were i to question this faithful lover upon the same subject, i fear me that i should receive a widely different answer."

"i hope not, dear," says marcia, gently, speaking in her usual soft, low tone. yet a small cold finger has been laid upon her heart. a dim foreboding crushes her. only a little pallor, so slight as to be imperceptible to her tormentor, falls across the upper part of her face and tells how blood has been drawn. yet it is hardly the mere piercing of the skin that hurts us most; it is in the dark night hours when the wound rankles that our agony comes home to us.

"when is this girl coming?" asks the old man, presently, in a peevish tone, vexed that, as far as he can tell, his arrow has overshot the mark. "i might have known she would have caught at the invitation."

"on the twenty-seventh,—the day you mentioned. she must be anxious to make your acquaintance, as she has not lost an hour," says marcia, in a tone that might mean anything. "but"—sweetly—"why distress yourself, dear, by having her at all? if it disturbs your peace in the very least, why not write to put her off, at all events until you feel stronger? why upset yourself, now you are getting on so nicely?" as she speaks she lets her clear, calm eyes rest fully upon the hopeless wreck of what once was strong before her. no faintest tinge of insincerity mars the perfect kindliness of her tone. "why not let us three remain as we are, alone together?"

"what!" cries mr. amherst, angrily, and with excitement, raising himself in his chair, "am i to shut myself up within these four walls with nothing to interest me from day to day beyond your inane twaddle? no, i thank you. i will have the house full,—full—do you hear, marcia?—and that without delay? do you want me to die of ennui in this bare barrack of a place?"

"well, do not make yourself ill, dear," says marcia, with an admirably executed sigh. "it shall be as you wish, of course. i only spoke for your good,—because—i suppose (being the only near relative i have on earth besides my mother), i—love you."

"you are very good," replies the old man, grimly, utterly untouched by all this sweetness, "but i will have my own way. and don't you 'dear' me again. do you hear, marcia? i won't have it: it reminds me of my wife. pah!"

the days fade, the light wanes, and night's cold dewy mantle falls thickly on the longing earth.

marcia, throwing wide her casements, stretches out her arms to the moonlight and bathes her white face and whiter neck in the cool flood that drenches all the quiet garden.

there is peace everywhere, and rest, and happy sleep, but not for marcia; for days, for weeks, she has been haunted by the fear that philip's affection for her is but a momentary joy, that, swiftly as the minutes fly, so it dwindles. to-night this fear is strong upon her.

not by his word, not by his actions, but by the subtle nothings that, having no name, yet are, and go to make up the dreaded whole, has this thought been forced upon her. the cooling glance, the suppressed restlessness, the sudden lack of conversation, the kind but unloving touch, the total absence of a lover's jealousy,—all go to prove the hateful truth. and now her grandfather's sneer of the morning comes back to torture her and make assurance doubly sure. yet hardly three months have passed since philip shadwell asked her to be his wife.

"already his love wanes," she murmurs, turning up her troubled face and eyes, too sad for tears, to the starry vault above her, where the small luminous bodies blink and tremble and take no heed of a ridiculous love-tale, more or less. her tone is low and despairing; and as she speaks she beats her hands together slowly, noiselessly, yet none the less passionately.

in vain she tries to convince herself her doubts are groundless, to compel herself to believe her arms are full, when in her heart she knows she but presses to her bosom an empty, fleeting shadow. the night's dull vapors have closed upon her, and, while exaggerating her misery, still open her eyes with kind cruelty to the end that surely awaits her.

so she sits hugging her fears until the day breaks, and early morning, peeping in at her, wafts her a kiss as it flies over the lawn and field and brooklet. then, wearied by her watching, she flings herself upon her bed, and, gaining a short but dreamless sleep, wakens refreshed, to laugh at her misgivings of the night before,—at her grandfather's hints,—at aught that speaks to her of philip's falseness.

despair follows closely upon night. hope comes in the train of day. and marcia, standing erect before her glass, with her beautiful figure drawn to its full height and her handsome head erect, gazes long and earnestly at the reflection therein. at last the deep flush of satisfaction dyes her cheeks; all her natural self-reliance and determination return to her; with a little laugh at her own image (on which she builds her hopes), she defies fate, and, running down the staircase with winged feet, finds herself on the last step, almost in philip's arms.

"abroad so early!" he says, with a smile; and the kindliness of his tone, the more than kindness of his glance, confirm her hopes of the morning. she is looking very pretty, and philip likes pretty women, hence the kindly smile. and yet, though he might have done so without rebuke (perhaps because of that), he forgot to kiss her. "you are the early bird, and you have caught me," he says. "i can only hope you will not make your breakfast off me. see,"—holding out to her an unclosed letter,—"the deed is done. i have written to my solicitor to get me the money from lazarus and harty."

"oh, philip! i have been thinking," she says, following him into the library, "and now it seems to me a risk. you know his horror of jews,—you know how he speaks of your own father and his unfortunate dealings with them. yesterday i felt brave, and advised you, as i fear, wrongly; to-day——"

"i have been thinking it over too,"—lighting the taper on the table, and applying the sealing-wax to the flame,—"and now it seems to me the only course left open. and yet"—speaking gayly, but pausing as the wax falls upon the envelope—"perhaps—who knows?—i may be sealing my own fate."

"you make me superstitious. why imagine horrors? yet if you have any doubts, philip,"—laying one shapely white finger upon the letter,—"do not send it. something tells me to warn you. and, besides, are you quite sure they will lend you the money?"

"they will hardly refuse a paltry two thousand to the heir of herst royal."

"but you are not the heir."

"in the eyes of the world i am."

"and yet they know it can be left to any one else."

"to you, for instance."

"that would hardly alter your position, except that you would be then, not heir, but master," she says, smiling sweetly at him. "no, i was supposing myself also disinherited. this cousin that is coming,—eleanor massereene,—she, too, is his grandchild."

as a rule, when speaking of those we hate, quite as much as when speaking of those we love, we use the pronoun alone. mr. amherst is "he" always to his relatives.

"what! can you believe it possible a little uneducated country girl, with probably a snub nose, thick boots, and no manners to speak of, can cut you out? marcia, you grow modest. why, even i, a man, can see her in my mind's eye, with a freckled complexion (he hates freckles), and a frightened gasp between each word, and a wholesome horror of wine, and a general air of hoping the earth will open presently to swallow her up."

"but how if she is totally different from all this?"

"she won't be different. her father was a wild irishman. besides, i have seen her sort over and over again, and it is positive cruelty to animals to drag the poor creatures from their dull homes into the very centre of life and gayety. they never can make up their minds whether the butler that announces dinner is or is not the latest arrival; and they invariably say, 'no, thank you,' when asked to have anything. to them the fish-knife is a thing unknown and afternoon tea the wildest dissipation."

"well, i can only hope and trust she will turn out just what you say," says marcia, laughing.

four days later, meeting her on his way to the stables, he throws her a letter from his solicitor.

"it is all right," he says, and goes on a step or two, as though hurried, while she hastily runs her eyes over it.

"well, and now your mind is at rest," she calls after him, as she sees the distance widening between them.

"for the present, yes."

"well, here, take your letter."

"tear it up; i don't want it," he returns, and disappears round the angle of the house.

her fingers form themselves as though about to obey him and tear the note in two. then she pauses.

"he may want it," she says to herself, hesitating. "business letters are sometimes useful afterward. i will keep it for him."

she slips it into her pocket, and for the time being thinks no more of it. that night, as she undresses, finding it again, she throws it carelessly into a drawer, where it lies for many days forgotten.

it is the twentieth of august: in seven days more the "little country girl with freckles and a snub nose" will be at herst royal, longing "for the earth to open and swallow her up."

to philip her coming is a matter of the most perfect indifference. to marcia it is an event,—and an unpleasant one.

when, some three years previously, marcia amherst consented to leave the mother she so sincerely loved to tend an old and odious man, she did so at his request and with her mother's full sanction, through desire of the gold that was to be (it was tacitly understood) the reward of her devotion. there was, however, another condition imposed upon her before she might come to herst and take up permanent quarters there. this was the entire forsaking of her mother, her people, and the land of her birth.

to this also there was open agreement made: which agreement was in private broken. she was quite clever enough to manage a clandestine correspondence without fear of discovery; but letters, however frequent, hardly make up for enforced absence from those we love, and marcia's affection for her italian mother was the one pure sentiment in her rather scheming disposition. yet the love of riches, that is innate in all, was sufficiently strong in her to bear her through with her task.

but now the fear that this new-comer, this interloper, may, after all her detested labor, by some fell chance become a recipient of the spoil (no matter in how small a degree), causes her trouble.

of late, too, she has not been happy. philip's coldness has been on the increase. he himself, perhaps, is hardly aware of the change. but what woman loving but feels the want of love? and at times her heart is racked with passionate grief.

now, as she and her lip-love stand side by side in the oriel window that overlooks the graveled path leading into the gardens, the dislike to her cousin's coming burns hotly within her.

outside, in his bath chair, wheeled up and down by a long-suffering attendant, goes mr. amherst, in happy ignorance of the four eyes that watch his coming and going with such distaste.

up and down, up and down he goes, his weakly head bent upon his chest, his fierce eyes roving restlessly to and fro. he is still invalid enough to prefer the chair to the more treacherous aid of his stick.

"he reminds me of nothing so much as an egyptian mummy," says philip, presently: "he looks so hard, and shriveled, and unreal. toothless, too."

"he ought to die," says marcia, with perfect calmness, as though she had suggested the advisability of his going for a longer drive.

"die!" with a slight start, turning to look at her. "ah! yes, of course. but"—with a rather forced laugh—"he won't, take my word for it. old gentlemen with unlimited means and hungry heirs live forever."

"he has lived long enough," says marcia, still in the same slow, calculating tone. "of what use is he? who cares for him? what good does he do in each twenty-four hours? he is merely taking up valuable room,—keeping what should by right be yours and mine. and, philip," laying her hand upon his arm to insure his attention,—"i understand the mother of this girl who is coming was his favorite daughter."

"well," surprised at her look and tone, which have both grown intense,—"that is not my fault. you need not cast such an upbraiding glance on me."

"what if he should alter his will in her favor? more unlikely things have happened. i cannot divest myself of fear when i think of her. should he at this late hour repent him of his injustice toward his dead daughter, he might——" she pauses. "but rather than that——" here she pauses again; and her lids falling somewhat over her eyes, leave them small but wonderfully deep.

"what, marcia?" asks philip, with a sudden anxiety he would willingly suppress, were it not for his strong desire to learn what her thoughts may be.

for a full minute she makes him no reply, and then, as though hardly aware of his question, goes on meditatively.

"philip, how frail he is!" she says, almost in a whisper, as the chair goes creaking beneath the window. "yet what a hold he has on life! and it is i give him that hold,—i am the rope to which he clings. at night, when sleep is on him and lethargy succeeds to sleep, mine is the duty to rouse him and minister such medicines as charm him back to life. should i chance to forget, his dreams might end in death. last night, as i sat by his bedside, i thought, were i to forget,—what then?"

"ay, what then? of what are you thinking?" cries her companion, in a tone of suppressed horror, resisting by a passionate movement the spell she had almost cast upon him by the power of her low voice and deep, dark eyes. "would you kill the old man?"

"nay, it is but to forget," replies she, dreamily, her whole mind absorbed in her subject, unconscious of the effect she is producing. she has not turned her eyes upon him (else surely the terrible fear and shrinking in his must have warned her to go no further), but has her gaze fixed rather on the hills and woods and goodly plains for which she is not only willing but eager to sell all that is best of her. "to remain passive, and then"—straightening her hand in the direction of the glorious view that spreads itself before them—"all this would be ours."

"murderess!" cries the young man, in a low, concentrated tone, his voice vibrating with disgust and loathing as he falls back from her a step or two.

the word thrills her. with a start she brings herself back to the present moment, turns to look at him, and, looking slowly, learns the truth. the final crash has come, her fears are realized; she has lost him forever.

"what is it, philip? what word have you used?" she asks, with nervous vehemence, as though only half comprehending; "why do you look at me so strangely? i have said nothing,—nothing that should make you shrink from me."

"you have said enough,"—with a shiver, "too much; and your face said more. i desire you never to speak to me on the subject again."

"what! you will not even hear me?"

"no; i am only thankful i have found you out in time."

"say rather for this lucky chance i have afforded you of breaking off a detested engagement," cries she, with sudden bitterness. "hypocrite! how long have you been awaiting it?"

"you are talking folly, marcia. what reason have i ever given you that you should make me such a speech? but for what has just now happened,—but for your insinuations——"

"ay,"—slowly,—"you shrink from hearing your thoughts put into words."

"not my thoughts," protests he, vehemently.

"no?" searchingly, drawing a step nearer him. "are you sure? have you never wished our grandfather dead?"

"i may have wished it," confesses he, reluctantly, as though compelled to frankness, "but to compass my wish—to——"

"if you have wished it you have murdered," returns she, with conviction. "you have craved his death: what is that but unuttered crime? there is little difference; it is but one step the more in the same direction. and i,—in what way am i the greater sinner? i have but said aloud what you whisper to your heart."

"be silent," cries he, fiercely. "all your sophistry fails to make me a partner in your guilt."

"i am the honester of the two," she goes on, rapidly, unheeding his anger. "as long as the accursed thing is unspoken, you see no harm in it; once it makes itself heard, you start and sicken, because it hurts your tender susceptibilities. yet hear me, philip." suddenly changing her tone of passionate scorn to one of entreaty as passionate, "do not cast me off for a few idle words. they have done no harm. let us be as we were."

"impossible," replies he coldly, unloosing her fingers from his arm, all the dislike and loathing of which he is capable compressed into the word. "you have destroyed my trust in you."

a light that means despair flashes across marcia's face as she stands in all her dark but rather evil beauty before him; then suddenly she falls upon her knees.

"philip, have pity on me!" she cries painfully. "i love you,—i have only you. here in this house i am alone, a stranger in my own land. do not you too turn from me. ah! you should be the last to condemn, for if i dreamed of sin it was for your sake. and after all, what did i say? the thought that this girl's coming might upset the dream of years agitated me, and i spoke—i—but i meant nothing—nothing." she drags herself on her knees nearer to him and attempts to take his hand. "darling, do not be so stern. forgive me. if you cast me off, philip, you will kill not only my body, but all that is good in me."

"do not touch me," returns he, harshly, the vein of brutality in him coming to the surface as he pushes her from him and with slight violence unclasps her clinging fingers.

the action is in itself sufficient, but the look that accompanies it—betraying as it does even more disgust than hatred—stings her to self-control. slowly she rises to her feet. as she does so, a spasm, a contraction near her heart, causes her to place her hand involuntarily against her side, while a dull gray shadow covers her face.

"you mean," she says, speaking with the utmost difficulty, "that all—is at an end—between us."

"i do mean that," he answers, very white, but determined.

"then beware!" she murmurs, in a low, choked voice.