CHAPTER III.

A HEADACHE AND A MYSTERY.

AFTER that, Mr. Chichester seemed to have taken up his abode at Lansdowne House.

Miss Elliott soon became aware of the fact; his visit was a sad hindrance to Edith's studies. True, he never again invaded the school-room, but Edith was sent for perpetually to bear him company in all sorts of walking and driving expeditions. Edith must go with them to the Royal Academy, or to some water-color exhibition; she accompanied them to concerts or morning visits to the various studios of his artist friends. Cousin Guy would not hear an excuse or word of remonstrance; no party of pleasure was formed without her. Why should not the child be amused as well as they? The governess wondered what Miss Tressilian thought of it.

Miss Tressilian said very little to any one at this time. She swept past the governess once or twice, looking prouder and sterner than ever. Dym saw her once standing in the embrasure of one of the hall windows, looking out with a very dissatisfied face, just after Mr. Chichester had ridden away with his little cousin from the door. Edith looked back and waved her hand to her sister, but Beatrix vouchsafed no response. The child looked a pretty picture in her blue habit, with her fair hair streaming down in the sunlight. She laughed aloud with delight as her white pony curveted and champed at his bit.

"What wonderful manes you both have!" observed her cousin, smiling. "Does Miss Elliott groom yours?" "No; Caroline, of course. Is she not a beauty, my pretty Fanchette? Trichy, you had better have come with us, it is such a lovely day."

Beatrix turned away without vouchsafing an answer, and Miss Elliott was struck by the lowering look of discontent on her face as she slowly ascended the stairs.

Dym gained a curious insight into things by and by; the

child's artless prattle told her much-Cousin Guy and his wonderful sayings and doings were the constant theme of her conversation in the school-room. Dym tried to divert her mind into other channels, but soon gave up the attempt in despair. Edith would talk of nothing but her hero.

Cousin Guy had a great house; she had seen it once when she was a very, very little child. Mamma and Beatrix had taken her, and they had stayed a long time. Only Beatrix had quarreled with Aunt Constance.

Who was Aunt Constance? came involuntarily from Dym's lips.

Oh, she was Cousin Guy's mother. Cousin Guy lived with her. Edith could not remember the name of the place; they always spoke of it as the Happy Valley. Was it not Rasselas who lived with his brothers in the Happy Valley? Cousin Guy had a great black horse named Mahomet; he always had jokes about him, and said he had a great respect for the prophet; and he had called his beautiful Scotch collie Kelpie was that not a funny name? And one of these days, when Beatrix was married, they were all going to stay up at Ingleside that was the name of his house.

"Why not before?" asked Miss Elliott, rather curiously. She was growing a little weary of it, but somehow it interested her; was it because it took off her thoughts from her own sad life? she thought. Edith opened her eyes very widely at the question, and shook her head in a wise way.

Oh, Trichy wanted to go very much, but Cousin Guy had not asked her; they were not to come till she was married, and then Colonel Delaire would come too. Cousin Guy had told her a great secret-that Beatrix and Colonel Delaire were to marry each other. Did Miss Elliott know it; and was that the reason why Beatrix was never allowed to ride with any one else? She wanted to go with them the other day, but Cousin Guy would not allow it, and told her to wait for Frank. "I am sure," finished the child, thoughtfully, "that she likes Cousin Guy best."

"Hush, Edie; what a dreadful idea!" began Miss Elliott, reprovingly. "My dear child, do you know what you are saying?"

แ

But, Miss Elliott, I am sure of it. Trichy minds every word Cousin Guy tells her, and she is always contradicting

Colonel Delaire. Guy says she snubs him dreadfully-he made her cry once when he was scolding her and he will call her Undine before them all, and that makes her angry; she is always cross now when he is not in the room."

66

Really, Edith, I cannot allow you to go on talking in this manner. Get out your lesson-books; we are getting into dreadfully idle ways." And somewhat awed by her governess's unusually austere manner, Edith for once obeyed in silence.

But after all there were very few lessons done. Miss Elliott spent most of her time in solitude; she sat alone by one of the school-room windows the greater part of the day, busied over a heap of white drapery. The garret with its throne of boxes was forsaken. She preferred the long narrow window that looked down into the square; she used to watch them mount or dismount, or drive away gayly equipped for an afternoon in the park. Heaven knows what restless fancies filled the girl's head as the heavy barouche rolled from the door; in her vague way she was composing another sorrowful "Song of the Shirt;" she drew her needle out sometimes with an impatient sigh. "How dreadful it is to be young and to want things!" she would say to herself. "How can Will-how can any one understand? Is it wrong to have the want, I wonder? What was that he said? When women sit and dream, men go out and work.' I would rather be a man, of course; women have much the worst of it in everything; they cannot get away from themselves somehow."

Some one speaks of the divine hungers of the soul; there is surely a parching draught of thirst likewise. Young things crave hungrily to be satisfied, the bread and salt of life does not suffice them; they want the leeks and the cucumbers of Egypt they demand pleasure as a right, fruition as a recompense.

Existence without its complement of gratified wishes is but a bare crust, which they take thanklessly from the All-Father. Youth often looks at death fearlessly, while age quails at it. With what mighty mysteries and awful questionings it dares to concern itself, as a child plays in the sunshine at the edge of an abyss! The Unknown, the Terrible, the Imaginativethese are what fascinate the neophyte, while it shuns the real actual joys of the present.

Dym's better nature, her own rational self irrespective of cobwebs, was to be brought into play by and by.

Edith had talked a great deal about a grand picnic that was to be held in Beatrix's honor-the officers of the regiment. had got it up. They were to drive down to RichmondColonel Delaire in his four-in-hand, and the ladies in open carriages and there was to be luncheon in the park, and a grand dinner at the Star and Garter. A little daughter of one of the officers was to be there, and it was decreed by the reigning powers, Beatrix and Cousin Guy, that Edith should bear her company.

Edith was of course in a transport of delight from morning to night; she was to have a fresh toilette for the occasionMadame Laroche, Beatrix's dressmaker, was to furnish it. When the day arrived she came running into the school-room to show herself a little golden-haired princess all in rosecolored clouds.

Miss Elliott gave a heavy sigh when the little apparition vanished from the door. She had not the heart to take up her usual station by the window. The school-room looked

dark and close; outside the sun was shining, the birds sang in the garden of the square, the horses pranced gayly up and down before the house; there was plenty of light giddy laughter a band broke into thundering music-a party of happy equestrians cantered by.

66

"I wonder if I shall ever be allowed a little enjoyment?" murmured poor Dym with tears in her eyes as she moved away. "I suppose I ought to be glad to have a whole long day to myself undisturbed. How hard it is to be good and mind what Will says! my poor Will, who never has a day's enjoyment in his life. There, I will try to be good and do the first disagreeable thing that comes to hand."

And as Dym arrived at this laudable determination, she bethought herself how often Miss Tressilian had wanted her help in sorting and arranging her music, and resolved to do it this time unasked.

The great drawing-room was almost oppressive in its perfumed heat and stillness; the door leading to the conservatory was open, and the fragrance of the flowers was almost overpowering. In the bustle the servants had omitted to open the window, and the outer blinds were not closed; the sun streamed

.

in on the satin couches and gilded mirrors. Dym, in her dark gingham dress, looked the only speck of shadow as she moved noiselessly hither and thither, picking up here a geranium-leaf and there a pair of light gloves crumpled and thrown down; a pale-blue scarf lay on an ottoman, a white-lace parasol was tossed down on a distant table-relics of the gay party.

Dym took it up and examined it with almost childish pleasure. "How nice to use such beautiful things!" she thought; but she dropped it with a startled movement as slow uncertain steps came up from the conservatory, and to her astonishment Mr. Chichester's broad shoulders filled up the doorway.

Dym could not help a little cry of surprise.

"You here, Mr. Chichester! Have you not gone with the others ?"

"It appears not," he returned, dryly. "Miss Elliott, I am ashamed to trouble you; but would you mind pulling down some blind or other, and shutting out that horrible glare? I have the most confounded headache;" and he threw himself down on a couch that stood near him, with such an expression of suffering that Dym looked at him with some perplexity and trouble.

"Are you ill, Mr. Chichester?" she inquired, timidly, for the brown-bearded face had a livid look on it that frightened her.

Mr. Chichester opened his eyes impatiently at the question. Only this infernal-I beg your pardon, this horrible headache. I had a slight sunstroke once— —ugh!” the monosyllable evidently wrung from him by a fresh access of torture. "Oh, that glare!" he repeated, in a voice that quickened Dym into sudden activity.

Dym understood all about it now, and was ashamed of her needless question. She closed most of the outer blinds and threw open windows and doors till a refreshing current of air rewarded her efforts; she even moved away a vase of flowers that stood near him.

แ

"I know all about these headaches," she said very softly, but with some natural hesitation. "I have often treated them. I think I can give you a little relief, if you will let

me.

Probably Mr. Chichester was past answering, for he merely moved his lips in assent without opening his eyes.