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WOOED AND MARRIED.

CHAPTER I.

CONCERNING COBWEBS.

ONCE upon a time there was a little old woman who essayed
to sweep the sky free from cobwebs.

One dandles the children on one's knee with a laugh at the
sing-song rhyme of the oft-repeated story, "Old woman, old
woman, whither so high ?"

After all, there is an odd sort of pathos, a parabolic excel-
lence in these nursery stories. The cobwebs are nearer earth,
to be sure; young brains get entangled in them; the old
brooms will not sweep clean; the fine filmy threads intersect
everything to some eyes even the sky itself is not clear.

If Dymphna Elliott could have had her way there would
be nothing unpleasant in life-sunshine without clouds, roses
without thorns, cobwebs nowhere. This is how she would
arrange matters: plenty of loving-kindness, no stint of sym-
pathy, a new system of largesse and almsgiving.

Impracticable, absurd!

Tangled among the cobwebs, indeed!

Of all visionaries, youth is the most fallacious; its very
genius is abrupt, destructive, erratic. It moves in a cycle of
its own devising-fixed orbits are its detestation; broken-up
by-ways, forbidden thoroughfares, audacious short-cuts are
better than the old paths. If it had its way, it would rather
flash as a meteor through space than be dragged at the chariot-
wheels of steady old Time.

Here are cobwebs enough!

Here is a young brain crying scorn on an old worn-out
world, just tottering on to its six thousand years of sin and

pain and weariness; youthful impatience and petulance striving to stamp out ancient landmarks, to obliterate old proverbs, to bring in the sunshine of a new creation.

Futile labor of a Sisyphus!

Ludicrous, but sad.

A thing out of its proper niche is always a pitiful sight. Young birds in strange nests, a drone in a hive of busy workers, a young face on the outskirts of a crowd, seeking kindness and protection in a world of staring sight-seers, impotent childish pride opposed to cold shrugs and dignified repression these are as sad as the rich gleaning of beautiful thoughts and warm affections scattered over an empty harvest-field. Misunderstood!

What a whole world of pain and slow torture there is in that one word! One pronounces its syllables slowly and with reluctance. Dym once declared, in one of her reckless moments, that the word would be found engraven on her heart, as Calais was on the heart of an embittered queen.

Calais and Mary-misunderstood and Dymphna Elliott. Somebody else says, with a wise shake of the head, nothing but Temper-written in italics and with a big capital. Some people cannot see their own cobwebs.

After all, one may have different opinions.

The little tribunal at present sitting on the Dymphna case are arriving at an adverse verdict; the jury are agreed, every man of them, and the poor old judge is beginning to settle his black cap with trembling hands.

It goes hard with some natures to arrive at any decision. Mrs. Tressilian was one of these.

With her, procrastination was a reprieve. She loved to defer action, to live for ever in a region of possibilities and uncertainty. For one thing, she was never certain of anything but her own symptoms.

A foe to impulse, large and lymphatic of disposition, one read "hypochondriac" written legibly on her fair apathetic features, which were just now disturbed from their ordinary placidity.

She was deep in an argument with her daughter. And, as usual, having the worst of it.

Beatrix Tressilian was plaintiff, jury, and counsel in her own person.

"Temper, my dear mother-temper, every bit of it." "So you have said before, Beatrix. You know it makes me nervous to hear a thing repeated over and over again, as you have been doing for the last half-hour; and Dr. Richter only just gone, and my composing-draught not taken;" and Mrs. Tressilian, in real agitation, had recourse to her vinaigrette.

"My dear mother, we shall never arrive at any decision if you do not keep calm," replied her daughter, coldly.

The scene was a sunshiny drawing-room somewhere in the region of Belgravia. A room unique as a triumph of upholstery, and tropical in temperature; a perfect miracle of satin, ormolu, and bric-a-brac; faint perfumes of rare Indian Woods blending oddly with the cool fresh scent of roses and heliotrope; the centre figure of the whole, the tall girl in the riding-habit, who stands toying somewhat impatiently with her whip.

Take them all in all-irregularities, defects, and such small errata of Nature—in looking at Beatrix Tressilian you are looking at a lovely woman; but you must rest satisfied with this knowledge-there is little beyond.

Beatrix Tressilian is the centre figure of many a picture; a young goddess, whom few men would dare to elect as their household divinity.

A splendid young figure, too; yellow-haired as a Venus, and glowing with health and vigor; gray-eyed, and as erect as an Amazon, with small white hands that can grip with a man's strength, with a mouth that can set itself closely in an immovable curve even when the lips smile. Such is Beatrix Tressilian.

In fairy tales the evil genius of the story is always some witch or hag or hideous old fairy, wizened of face and malevolent in temper. In the nursery, sin and ugliness always go together; it is only the grown-up children that can read that verse aright about "the angel of light." Dym was ever ready to aver that Beatrix Tressilian was the evil genius of her story. There were times, doubtless, when she thought the fiery oven or the red-hot shoes would be insufficient punishment. witch was yellow-haired and gray-eyed, but she was the cross old fairy godmother for all that.

Her

"And you really think, my dear," began Mrs. Tressilian

hesitatingly, in a slow full voice which had grown slower and riper with age-a voice which always seemed to flow on with sleepy modulation-" you really think, my dear, that we ought to reprimand Miss Elliott severely for such conduct?''

What a contrast between mother and daughter! Perfection of health and hypochondria-youthful severity opposed to the pitying leniency of age.

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"Think? I am sure of it," returned Beatrix, quickly. "I think it is our duty for Edith's sake to take decided steps at once at once," with a meaning pause on the repetition. Very well," replied her mother, fretfully; "but it is very unfortunate, just as Dr. Richter says I am to avoid unnecessary agitation; and I am sure it will agitate me dreadfully to send that poor girl away."

"Yes, it is unfortunate," assented Beatrix, coldly; "but you ought to have taken my advice, mother, in the first instance. I told you Miss Elliott would never do for Edith; she is too much a spoilt child herself."

"I am sure I do not know why I should always be guided by you, Beatrix," returned Mrs. Tressilian, with an attempt at dignity, but failing lamentably, and relapsing into her fretful state. "I think it very hard that you can never get on with Edith's governesses; this is the seventh we have tried, and each one worse than the last. I am sure it must be your fault somehow; for she seems a harmless little thing enough, and very prettily spoken, too. I shall never forget how nicely she attended to me in my last nervous attack.'

A scornful smile passed over Miss Tressilian's fine fea

tures.

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Always the same thing, mother. Because she acquitted herself handily in your sick-room she must prove an excellent governess for Edith, and all her sullenness and bad humors are to be forgiven."

"But she is never sullen with me, Beatrix-at least when you are not in the room; though I cannot deny she is a little abrupt and off-hand in her manner sometimes. But we must remember how young she is, Trichy."

"That is what I mean, mother; she is so absurdly youngnot eighteen, I believe. Look at her and Edith together: why, they go on just like a couple of children, romping and laughing; but the moment I go into the room there is that

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