"turn, fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud."

—idylls of the king.

the very next morning brings molly the news of her grandfather's death. he had died quietly in his chair the day before without a sign, and without one near him. as he had lived, so had he died—alone.

the news conveyed by mr. buscarlet shocks molly greatly, and causes her, if not actual sorrow, at least a keen regret. to have him die thus, without reconciliation or one word of forgiveness,—to have him go from this world to the next, hard of heart and unrelenting, saddens her for his soul's sake.

the funeral is to be on thursday, and this is tuesday. so mr. buscarlet writes, and adds that, by express desire of mr. amherst, the will is to be opened and read immediately after the funeral before all those who spent last autumn in his house. "your presence," writes the attorney, "is particularly desired."

in the afternoon lady stafford drops in, laden, as usual, with golden grain (like the argosy), in the shape of cakes and sweetmeats for the children, who look upon her with much reverence in the light of a modern and much-improved santa claus.

"i see you have heard of your grandfather's death by your face," she says, gravely. "here, children,"—throwing them their several packages,—"take your property and run away while i have a chat with mamma and auntie molly."

"teddy brought us such nice sugar cigars yesterday," says renee, who, in her black frock and white pinafore and golden locks, looks perfectly angelic: "only i was sorry they weren't real; the fire at the end didn't burn one bit."

"how do you know?"

"because"—with an enchanting smile—"i put it on daisy's hand, to see if it would, and it wouldn't; and wasn't it a pity?"

"it was, indeed. i am sure daisy sympathizes with your grief. there, go away, you blood-thirsty child; we are very busy."

while the children, in some remote corner of the house, are growing gradually happier and stickier, their elders discuss the last new topic.

"i received a letter this morning," cecil says, "summoning me to herst, to hear the will read. you, too, i suppose?"

"yes; though why i don't know."

"i am sure he has left you something. you are his grandchild. it would be unkind of him and most unjust to leave you out altogether, once having acknowledged you."

"you forget our estrangement."

"nevertheless, something tells me there is a legacy in store for you. i shall go down to-morrow night, and you had better come with me."

"very well," says molly, indifferently.

at herst, in spite of howling winds and drenching showers, nature is spreading abroad in haste its countless charms. earth, struggling disdainfully with its worn-out garb, is striving to change its brown garment for one of dazzling green. violets, primroses, all the myriad joys of spring, are sweetening the air with a thousand perfumes.

within the house everything is subdued and hushed, as must be when the master lies low. the servants walk on tiptoe; the common smile is checked; conversation dwindles into compressed whispers, as though they fear by ordinary noise to bring to life again the unloved departed. all is gloom and insincere melancholy.

cecil and molly, traveling down together, find mrs. darley, minus her husband, has arrived before them. she is as delicately afflicted, as properly distressed, as might be expected; indeed, so faithfully, and with such perfect belief in her own powers, does she perform the pensive rôle, that she fails not to create real admiration in the hearts of her beholders. molly is especially struck, and knows some natural regret that it is beyond her either to feel or look the part.

marcia, thinking it wisdom to keep herself invisible, maintains a strict seclusion. the hour of her triumph approaches; she hardly dares let others see the irrepressible exultation that her own heart knows.

philip has been absent since the morning; so molly and lady stafford dine in the latter's old sitting-room alone, and, confessing as the hours grow late to an unmistakable dread of the "uncanny," sleep together, with a view to self-support.

about one o'clock next day all is over. mr. amherst has been consigned to his last resting-place,—a tomb unstained by any tears. at three the will is to be read.

coming out of her room in the early part of the afternoon, cecil meets unexpectedly with mr. potts, who is meandering in a depressed and aimless fashion all over the house.

"you here, plantagenet! why, i thought you married to some fascinating damsel in the emerald isle," she cannot help saying in a low voice, giving him her hand. she is glad to see his ugly, good-humored, comical face in the gloomy house, although it is surmounted by his offending hair.

"so i was,—very near it," replies he, modestly, in the same suppressed whisper. "you never knew such a narrow escape as i had: they were determined to marry me——"

"'they'! you terrify me. how many of them? i had no idea they were so bad as that,—even in ireland."

"oh, i mean the girl and her father. it was as near a thing as possible; in fact, it took me all i knew to get out of it."

"i'm not surprised at that," says cecil, with a short but comprehensive glance at her companion's cheerful but rather indistinct features.

"i don't exactly mean it was my personal appearance was the attraction," he returns, feeling a strong inclination to explode with laughter, as is his habit on all occasions, but quickly suppressing the desire, as being wicked under the circumstances. the horror of death has not yet vanished from among them. "it was my family they were after,—birth, you know,—and that. fact is, she wasn't up to the mark,—wasn't good enough. not but that she was a nice-looking girl, and had a lovely brogue. she had money too—and she had a—father! such a father! i think i could have stood the brogue, but i could not stand the father."

"but why? was he a lunatic? or perhaps a home-ruler?"

"no,"—simply,—"he was a tailor. when first i met miss o'rourke she told me her paternal relative had some appointment in the castle. so he had. in his youthful days he had been appointed tailor to his excellency. it wasn't a bad appointment, i dare say; but i confess i didn't see it."

"it was a lucky escape. it would take a good deal of money to make me forget the broadcloth. are you coming down-stairs now? i dare say we ought to be assembling."

"it is rather too early, i am afraid. i wish it was all done with, and i a hundred miles away from the place. the whole affair has made me downright melancholy. i hate funerals: they don't agree with me."

"nor yet weddings, as it seems. well, i shall be as glad as you to quit herst once we have installed miss amherst as its mistress."

"why not shadwell as its master?"

"if i were a horrible betting-man," says cecil, "i should put all my money upon marcia. i do not think mr. amherst cared for philip. however, we shall see. and"—in a yet lower tone—"i hope he has not altogether forgotten molly."

"i hope not indeed. but he was a strange old man. to forget miss massereene——" here he breathes a profound sigh.

"don't sigh, plantagenet: think of miss o'rourke," says cecil, unkindly, leaving him.

one by one, and without so much as an ordinary "how d'ye do?" they have all slipped into the dining-room. the men have assumed a morose air, which they fondly believe to be indicative of melancholy; the women, being by nature more hypocritical, present a more natural and suitable appearance. all are seated in sombre garments and dead silence.

marcia, in crape and silk of elaborate design, is looking calm but full of decorous grief. philip—who has grown almost emaciated during these past months—is the only one who wears successfully an impression of the most stolid indifference. he is leaning against one of the windows, gazing out upon the rich lands and wooded fields which so soon will be either all his or nothing to him. after the first swift glance of recognition he has taken no notice of molly, nor she of him. a shuddering aversion fills her toward him, a distaste bordering on horror. his very pallor, the ill-disguised misery of his whole appearance,—which he seeks but vainly to conceal under a cold and sneering exterior,—only adds to her dislike.

a sickening remembrance of their last meeting in the wood at brooklyn makes her turn away from him with palpable meaning on his entrance, adding thereby one pang the more to the bitterness of his regret. the meeting is to her a trial,—to him an agony harder to endure than he had even imagined.

feeling strangely out of place and nervous, and saddened by memories of happy days spent in this very room so short a time ago, molly has taken a seat a little apart from the rest, and sits with loosely-folded hands upon her knees, her head bent slightly downward.

cecil, seeing the dejection of her attitude, leaves her own place, and, drawing a chair close to hers, takes one of her hands softly between her own.

then the door opens, and mr. buscarlet, with a sufficiently subdued though rather triumphant and consequential air, enters.

he bows obsequiously to marcia, who barely returns the salute. detestable little man! she finds some consolation in the thought that at all events his time is nearly over; that probably—nay, surely—he is now about to administer law for the last time at herst.

he bows in silence to the rest of the company,—with marked deference to miss massereene,—and then involuntarily each one stirs in his or her seat and settles down to hear the will read.

a will is a mighty thing, and requires nice handling. would that i were lawyer enough to give you this particular one in full, with all its many bequests and curious directions. but, alas! ignorance forbids. the sense lingers with me, but all the technicalities and running phrases and idiotic repetitions have escaped me.

to most of those present mr. amherst has left bequests; to lady stafford five thousand pounds; to plantagenet potts two thousand pounds; to mrs. darley's son the same; to all the servants handsome sums of money, together with a year's wages; to mrs. nesbit, the housekeeper, two hundred pounds a year for her life. and then the attorney pauses and assumes an important air, and every one knows the end is nigh.

all the rest of his property of which he died possessed—all the houses, lands, and moneys—all personal effects—"i give and bequeath to——"

here mr. buscarlet, either purposely or otherwise, stops short to cough and blow a sonorous note upon his nose. all eyes are fixed upon him; some, even more curious or eager than the others, are leaning forward in their chairs. even philip has turned from the window and is waiting breathlessly.

"to my beloved grandchild, eleanor massereene!"

not a sound follows this announcement, not a movement. then marcia half rises from her seat; and mr. buscarlet, putting up his hand, says, hurriedly, "there is a codicil," and every one prepares once more to listen.

but the codicil produces small effect. the old man at the last moment evidently relented so far in his matchless severity as to leave marcia amherst ten thousand pounds (and a sealed envelope, which mr. buscarlet hands her), on the condition that she lives out of england; and to philip shadwell ten thousand pounds more,—and another sealed envelope,—which the attorney also delivers on the spot.

as the reading ceases, another silence, even more profound than the first, falls upon the listeners. no one speaks, no one so much as glances at the other.

marcia, ghastly, rigid, rises from her seat.

"it is false," she says, in a clear, impassioned tone. "it is the will of an imbecile,—a madman. it shall not be." she has lost all self-restraint, and is trembling with fear and rage and a terrible certainty of defeat.

"pardon me, miss amherst," says mr. buscarlet, courteously, "but i fear you will find it unwise to lay any stress on such a thought. to dispute this will would be madness indeed: all the world knows my old friend, your grandfather, died in perfect possession of his senses, and this will was signed three months ago."

"you drew up this will, sir?" she asks in a low tone, only intended for him, drawing closer to him.

"certainly i did, madam."

"and during all these past months understood thoroughly how matters would be?"

"certainly, madam."

"and knowing, continued still—with a view to deceive me—to treat me as the future mistress of herst?"

"i trust, madam, i always treated you with proper respect. you would not surely have had me as rude to you as you invariably were to me? i may not be a gentleman, miss amherst, in your acceptation of that term, but i make it a rule never to be—offensive."

"it was a low—a mean revenge," says marcia, through her teeth, her eyes aflame, her lips colorless; "one worthy of you. i understand you, sir; but do not for an instant think you have crushed me." raising her head haughtily, she sweeps past him back to her original seat.

molly has risen to her feet. she is very pale and faint; her eyes, large and terrified, like a fawn's, are fixed, oddly enough, upon philip. the news has been too sudden, too unexpected, to cause her even the smallest joy as yet. on the contrary, she knows only pity for him who, but a few minutes before, she was reviling in her thoughts. perhaps the sweetness of her sympathy is the one thing that could have consoled philip just then.

"'farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness,'" he says, with a little sneering laugh, shrugging his shoulders. then, rousing himself, he draws a long breath, and goes straight up to molly.

"permit me to congratulate you," he says, with wonderful grace, considering all things. he is standing before her, with his handsome head well up, a certain pride of birth about him, strong enough to carry him successfully through this great and lasting disaster. "it is, after all, only natural that of the three you should inherit. surprise should lie in the fact that never did such a possibility occur to us. we might have known that even our grandfather's worn and stony heart could not be proof against such grace and sweetness as yours."

he bows over her hand courteously, and, turning away, walks back again to the window, standing with his face hidden from them all.

never has he appeared to such advantage. never has he been so thoroughly liked as at this moment. molly moves as though she would go to him; but cecil, laying her hand upon her arm, wisely restrains her. what can be said to comfort him, who has lost home, and love, and all?

"it is all a mistake; it cannot be true," says molly, piteously. "it is a mistake." she looks appealingly at cecil, who, wise woman that she is, only presses her arm again meaningly, and keeps a discreet silence. to express her joy at the turn events have taken at this time would be gross; though not to express it goes hard with cecil. she contents herself with glancing expressively at sir penthony every now and then, who is standing at the other end of the room.

"i also congratulate you," says luttrell, coming forward, and speaking for the first time. he is not nearly so composed as shadwell, and his voice has a strange and stilted sound. he speaks so that molly and cecil alone can hear him, delicacy forbidding any open expression of pleasure. "with all my heart," he adds; but his tone is strange. the whole speech is evidently a lie. his eyes meet hers with an expression in them she has never seen there before,—so carefully cold it is, so studiously unloving.

molly is too agitated to speak to him, but she lifts her head, and shows him a face full of the keenest reproach. her pleading look, however, is thrown away, as he refuses resolutely to meet her gaze. with an abrupt movement he turns away and leaves the room, and, as they afterward discover, the house.

meantime, marcia has torn open her envelope, and read its enclosure. a blotted sheet half covered with her own writing,—the very letter begun and lost in the library last october; that, being found, has condemned her. with a half-stifled groan she lets it flutter to the ground, where it lies humbled in the dust, an emblem of all her falsely-cherished hopes.

philip, too, having examined his packet, has brought to light that fatal letter of last summer that has so fully convicted him of unlawful dealings with jews. twice he reads it, slowly, thoughtfully, and then, casting one quick, withering glance at marcia (under which she cowers), he consigns it to his pocket without a word.

the play is played out. the new mistress of herst has been carried away by cecil stafford to her own room; the others have dispersed. philip and marcia amherst are alone.

marcia, waking from her reverie, makes a movement as though she, too, would quit the apartment, but shadwell, coming deliberately up to her, bars her exit. laying his hand gently but firmly on her wrist, he compels her to both hear and remain.

"you betrayed me?" he says, between his teeth. "you gave this letter"—producing it—"to my grandfather? i trusted you, and you betrayed me."

"i did," she answers, with forced calmness.

"why?"

"because—i loved you."

"you!" with a harsh grating laugh. it is with difficulty he restrains his passion. "you to love! and is it by ruining those upon whom you bestow your priceless affection you show the depth of your devotion? pah! tell me the truth. did you want all, and have you been justly punished?"

"i have told you the truth," she answers, vehemently. "i was mad enough to love you even then, when i saw against my will your wild infatuation for that designing——"

"hush!" he interrupts her, imperiously, in a low, dangerous tone. "if you are speaking of miss massereene, i warn you it is unsafe to proceed. do not mention her. do not utter her name. i forbid you."

"so be it! your punishment has been heavier than any i could inflict.—you want to know why i showed that letter to the old man, and i will tell you. i thought, could i but gain all herst, i might, through it, win you back to my side. i betrayed you for that alone. i debased myself in my own eyes for that sole purpose. i have failed in all things. my humiliation is complete. i do not ask your forgiveness, philip; i crave only—your forbearance. grant me that at least, for the old days' sake!"

but he will not. he scarcely heeds her words, so great is the fury that consumes him.

"you would have bought my love!" he says, with a bitter sneer. "know, then, that with a dozen hersts at your back, i loathe you too much ever to be more to you than i now am, and that is—nothing."

quietly but forcibly he puts her from him, and leaves the room. outside in the hall he encounters sir penthony, who has been lingering there with intent to waylay him. however rejoiced stafford may be at molly's luck, he is profoundly grieved for philip.

"i know it is scarcely form to express sympathy on such occasions," he says, with some hesitation, laying his hand on shadwell's shoulder. "but i must tell you how i regret, for your sake, all that has taken place."

"thank you, stafford. you are one of the very few whose sympathy is never oppressive. but do not be uneasy about me," with a short laugh. "i dare say i shall manage to exist. i have five hundred a year of my own, and my grandfather's thoughtfulness has made it a thousand. no doubt i shall keep body and soul together, though there is no disguising the fact that i feel keenly the difference between one thousand and twenty."

"my dear fellow, i am glad to see you take it so well. i don't believe there are a dozen men of my acquaintance who would be capable of showing such pluck as you have done."

"i have always had a fancy for exploring. i shall go abroad and see some life; the sooner the better. i thank you with all my heart, stafford, for your kindness. i thank you—and"—with a slight break in his voice—"good-bye!"

he presses stafford's hand warmly, and, before the other can reply, is gone.

half an hour later, marcia, sweeping into her room in a torrent of passion impossible to quell, summons her maid by a violent attack on her bell.

"take off this detested mourning," she says to the astonished girl. "remove it from my sight. and get me a colored gown and a bradshaw."

the maid, half frightened, obeys, and that night marcia amherst quits her english home forever.