Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 20.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, MAY 17, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]

SOME CURIOSITIES OF THE PEERAGE.

IN TWO PARTS.—PART I.

In a paper which appeared in this _Journal_ (January 12) headed ‘What is a Peer?’ it was sought to present within very narrow limits and in untechnical language a sketch of the institution generally known as the Peerage. We endeavoured to exhibit the difference between the peerage itself as a whole and that important section of it termed the House of Lords, the status of the peers of the United Kingdom, of Great Britain, of Scotland, and of Ireland, and the distinction between real titles of nobility and those permitted to be adopted by courtesy. In short, we dealt with the external and legal features of the peerage viewed as an element of the constitution. We now propose to, in some measure, fill up the previous outline of the subject, and this will be done by shortly examining some of the internal characteristics of this institution which are distinctly peculiar to it. These will include a reference to matters which may not inaptly be termed ‘curiosities,’ if we limit the sense of this word to matters which, though perhaps not exactly curiosities in themselves, are nevertheless such, from their being confined to the cognisance of comparatively few persons.

Adopting for present purposes this acceptation of the word ‘curiosities,’ it may safely be asserted that the peerage abounds with curiosities of all kinds. Probably the most interesting are those disclosed in the records of family vicissitudes; but then these are but chapters in human life with their interest enhanced by the exalted position of the actors in the various dramas presented. Then, again, there are the anecdotal curiosities, which are exceedingly amusing, especially those of a strictly personal character; and we might easily fill many pages with narrations of this kind, any one of which would abundantly confirm the saw, that truth is stranger than fiction. But we think that such curiosities as we have mentioned are not those which would most interest or arrest the attention of an uninitiated reader, and accordingly, we have culled a few which we consider calculated to instruct as well as amuse him. If we are asked to define the species of instruction likely to be conveyed by the study of a theme like the peerage and its peculiarities, we should reply, that considered as we now propose to consider it, the subject will unfold many facts of deep historical interest; and we should not hesitate to declare that no one can fully comprehend either the general or the constitutional history of this country without some acquaintance with the peerage and its workings.

In ‘What is a Peer?’ we dealt with the legal and the courtesy aspect of titles; we shall here consider the mode of limiting them, their devolution, &c.; and we shall have one word to say about etiquette—not that species of etiquette, however, dealt with in books which purport to be manuals of good manners, but what may be called the etiquette of bearing titles; and this we hope will not be deemed unworthy of attention.

And first, the reader is reminded that all hereditary titles of honour are known to the law by the name of incorporeal hereditaments, a term explained in ‘What is a Peer?’

A close analogy to the rules of real property law is observable in those which govern the creation, &c., of titles. Thus, we have heirs apparent and presumptive to honours as well as to estates; and this observation will introduce us to one feature in the etiquette of the peerage worthy of notice. We have shown how a peer may hold several titles of different grades; and we will now more fully consider a case of this kind. Suppose that the Marquis of A. is also Earl of B., Viscount C., and Baron D., and that he has several sons and daughters. His eldest son is his heir-apparent, and he may assume, according to his father’s pleasure, either of the other titles during his lifetime. It is usual, however, in such cases for the eldest son to take the earldom as a courtesy title. During the existence of the Marquis and his eldest son, none of the other sons would be permitted to adopt the remaining two titles; but all after the Earl would, as sons of a Marquis, be Lord John or Lord William So-and-so, &c.; and only the younger sons of Dukes and Marquises are so styled. The daughters, however, of all noblemen except Viscounts and Barons are styled ‘Ladies,’ with their Christian and surnames following the word ‘Lady;’ but they have no other style similar to that of an eldest son. (The position of daughters who claim a barony held by their father will be considered in a subsequent portion of the present paper.) Now, if the Earl of B. above mentioned were to die in his father’s lifetime, the second son would succeed to the courtesy title, and so on as to the rest, in the event of each son dying in his father’s lifetime. Thus, on the decease, in 1865, of Viscount Cranborne, eldest son of the then Marquis of Salisbury, Lord Robert Cecil—now Marquis of Salisbury—became Lord Cranborne. But the rule just mentioned is not absolute as to any of its features; for it may be remembered that the eldest son of the late Marquis—who, by the way, was also Earl—of Clanricarde, Viscount Burke, and Lord Dunkellin—was styled by the baronial title. On his death in the lifetime of the Marquis, the second son became Viscount Burke, and not Lord Dunkellin. Again, in 1879, when the Earl of Tankerville’s eldest son, Lord Ossulston, died, the latter’s brother, the Honourable G. M. Bennet, became eldest son, not, however, as Lord Ossulston, but as Lord Bennet; and instances of this might be multiplied. We believe, indeed, that the practice indicated under such circumstances to be the correct or fashionable one at the present day.

In the grant of a peerage the succession is generally limited in tail male—that is, entailed in the male line; but there are instances of special limitations in the grant to meet the want of heirs male of the body; and in such cases we may have a peerage as it were wandering about in all directions. Thus, a peerage may be limited in tail male, with a remainder over in tail male to some other person. This was the case with the barony of the great Lord Nelson. In 1798, he was created Baron Nelson of the Nile, and of Burnham-Thorpe in the county of Norfolk; and in 1801, Viscount Nelson. But these were entailed honours; and in the same year he was created Baron Nelson of the Nile, and of Hilborough in the county of Norfolk, with remainder—failing his own issue male—to his father and his issue male; failing which, to the issue male, severally and successively, of Lord Nelson’s sisters. At the death of the hero in 1805 at Trafalgar without issue, the first barony and the viscounty became extinct; but the second barony descended—the father being dead—to Lord Nelson’s brother. This nobleman was then elevated to the earldom, and the grant was again limited to him in tail male, with remainder over, failing his own issue, to the heirs male of his sister, Mrs Bolton; and failing them, to the issue of another sister, Mrs Matcham. The first earl having died without issue, was succeeded by his nephew, Mr T. Bolton, who thus became second Earl Nelson; and the present earl is his son, and has issue. Should all the male descendants of the latter eventually become extinct, the title will then go in remainder to the right heir of Mrs Matcham. If there be no such heir of that lady, then the title of Nelson will become extinct.

But of all the curiosities of the peerage, its ‘complications’ may justly be reckoned among the strongest and most interesting, and these complications are numerous, peculiar, and at the same time interesting in their way. They are attributable to various causes, of which the following may be accounted the chief: The failure of male issue in a family wherein exists a female peerage, the holder of which marries a commoner, who assumes her name; the absolute extinction of a title in one family by forfeiture or want of issue, and its subsequent assumption or revival in the person of a stranger in blood to the previous holders of the title; the failure of heirs to a title in tail male—that is, one limited to heirs male of the body, while perhaps another title held by the same person is in fee—that is, descendible to his heirs general. In such a case, the title in tail would of course become extinct, while the other would go to the right heir. Again, these complications are caused by the assumption of surnames other than those originally belonging to the persons assuming them, by the creation of special limitations in the grant of a title; by the confounding of names with titles, or those of peerage with those borne by courtesy; by the growth of peerages which, as it were, sprout from some great House already ennobled; and lastly, by the distinctions which exist with regard to peers of the United Kingdom, of Great Britain, of England, or of Ireland. We will endeavour to illustrate as informally as possible some of the foregoing statements, and this we think may be done by giving a short account of one well-known title and some of its family ramifications. This mode of treating the subject—on the principle of _ex uno disce omnes_—will be found to answer the object in view, and will also disclose other matters of interest connected therewith.

Some few years ago, there existed an amiable but weak young nobleman known to the world as the Marquis of Hastings, and to his intimates as Harry Hastings. Born in 1842, he succeeded his brother as fourth marquis at the early age of nine, was married when twenty-two under somewhat romantic circumstances, ‘plunged’ heavily on the turf, sustained enormous losses, and died at the age of twenty-six, when the marquisate of Hastings became extinct. It was a singularly fantastic display of the irony of fate which caused this man ‘of noble blood and high descent,’ the holder of a long string of proud titles, to become the associate and the victim of blacklegs and swindlers. Yet so it was; and when he died, society could not but heave a sigh of pity. In Burke’s _Peerage_ of the time, the Marquis of Hastings is thus described: ‘Sir Henry-Weysford-Charles-Plantagenet Rawdon-Hastings, Earl of Rawdon, and Viscount Loudoun in the peerage of the United Kingdom; Baron Rawdon of Rawdon, Co. York, in the peerage of Great Britain; Baron Grey de Ruthyn, Baron Hastings, Hungerford, Newmarch, Botreaux, Molines, and Moels, in the peerage of England; Earl of Loudoun and Baron Campbell of Loudoun, Tarrinyeane and Mauchline, in the peerage of Scotland; Earl of Moira and Baron Rawdon in the peerage of Ireland; a Baronet of England, and one of the co-heirs[1] to the barony of Montague.’

Now, from the extract just cited it will be seen that Hastings is not only a title but a name. As a matter of fact, however, Hastings is not the original patronymic of those who held the title as a marquisate. Their real name was Rawdon, and the Rawdons are an important Yorkshire family, established in that county at least since the Conquest. In 1665, one of them was created a Baronet; and we shall see that this was the baronetcy held by the late Marquis of Hastings. In 1750, a great-grandson of the Baronet was raised to the Irish peerage as Baron Rawdon; and in 1761 was promoted to an earldom, taking the title of Moira. This nobleman was thrice married, his last wife—by whom alone he had male issue—having been Lady Elizabeth Hastings, eldest daughter of the ninth Earl of Huntingdon.[2] Hastings, then, was the family name of the Earls of Huntingdon; and it is that of the present earl, who is the only peer entitled to it as an original surname. The eldest son of the above-mentioned marriage was Francis, second Earl of Moira, who achieved an historical reputation as a soldier, a statesman, and an accomplished gentleman. He is well remembered as an able governor-general of India; and he it was who became the first Marquis of Hastings; but we need hardly say that he was connected with his great predecessor, Warren Hastings of Daylesford, only by reason of the marriage above mentioned. It may be observed that during the suspension of the earldom of Huntingdon, the then proprietors of Daylesford claimed to represent the chief branch of the Hastings family.

Having traced the connection between the families of Rawdon and Hastings, it now remains to discover how the baronies of the latter became attached to the former family. The ninth Earl of Huntingdon, father of the first Countess of Moira, died in 1746, and was succeeded by his son, brother of the Lady Moira. The tenth earl, however, died without issue in 1789; whereupon the earldom became suspended, and so continued for thirty years, a fact involving matters of very deep interest, but of no importance so far as present purposes are concerned. The tenth Earl of Huntingdon’s heir was his sister, Lady Moira, and upon her descended the ancient baronies of the Huntingdon earldom—namely, Hastings, Hungerford, Botreaux, and Molines. Her husband, the first Earl of Moira, died in 1793, and, as just stated, was succeeded as such by his son Francis, who, in 1804, married Flora, Baroness Campbell and Countess of Loudoun in her own right. Elizabeth, Countess-Dowager of Moira, died in 1808; Francis, her son, was promoted to the English peerage so far as the barony of Rawdon was concerned. Then came his assumption of his mother’s maiden name of Hastings, his successful claims to the Huntingdon baronies, and lastly, in 1816 we find him Viscount Loudoun, Earl of Rawdon, &c., and Marquis of Hastings—all in the peerage of the United Kingdom. It is thus shown how a Rawdon was the founder of the Hastings marquisate; how Elizabeth Hastings brought the old baronies previously mentioned into the Rawdon family; and how the Scotch earldom of Loudoun and the United Kingdom viscounty were held by the same family.

There are two more titles to account for—the ancient baronies in fee of Hastings, created in 1264, and Grey de Ruthyn, created in 1324. These titles were originally in the De Hastings family, one of whom married, some time in the seventeenth century, Sir Henry Yelverton, Bart., of Norfolk, since which time, Yelverton—not to be confounded with Lord Avonmore’s family name—has been the patronymic of the Lords and Ladies Grey de Ruthyn. On the death of the nineteenth lord in 1831, the title descended to his daughter, who married the second Marquis of Hastings. This is how these two titles of Hastings, as a barony, and Grey de Ruthyn came to be held by the late marquis, whose mother was the twentieth holder of the latter title.

We have said that on his death in 1868 the marquisate became extinct; but what, it may be asked, became of the other titles? The answer to that question, though simple, will reveal yet further complications, caused by the assumption of surnames, &c. In the first place, all of what may be called the Rawdon honours necessarily became extinct. Not so, however, all those acquired by their marriages, &c. Thus, the Scotch earldom of Loudoun survived, and of this we will trace the devolution from the death of the last Marquis of Hastings. That nobleman left a sister, married to a commoner, Mr C. F. Clifton; and she, by her brother’s death without issue, became Countess of Loudoun in her own right, and succeeded to some of the family property. Mr Clifton took the family name of his wife; and at her death some time since, her son became Earl of Loudoun, Baron Hastings, Botreaux, &c., and by the last-named title now sits in the House of Lords. The other baronies transferred to the Rawdon family by the Lady Elizabeth Hastings, Grey de Ruthyn, &c., are in abeyance; but the Earl of Loudoun is the eldest co-heir to them. (The terms ‘abeyance’ and ‘co-heir’ will be explained later on.) Mr Clifton himself, the earl’s father, has been raised to the peerage as Lord Donington, the name of the Hastings’ seat in Leicestershire. We see that the Earl of Loudoun is also Baron Hastings, and by that title he may also vote; but, for the following reasons, Botreaux is a preferable title whereby to sit. The fact is, there is another Lord Hastings, whose family name is Astley. He is a peer of the United Kingdom, and his title is one of great antiquity, created in 1289. The present baron is the twenty-sixth in order of succession; but it will be found that this barony is not so ancient as the oldest of those which came to the Rawdons through Lady Elizabeth Hastings, daughter of the Earl of Huntingdon. Thus, while a higher title may absorb all those of a lower rank existing in the same family, the latter may nevertheless as it were attract the higher one to them, and a nobleman of the highest rank may be heir to a title of a less exalted character than his own. Thus, the Marquis of Lansdowne is heir to the titles of his mother, who is second Baroness Keith and seventh Baroness Nairne. It may be observed in passing that there are about ninety Scotch and Irish peers in parliament who sit and vote by titles other than those by which they are commonly known and addressed.

The story of the present great House of Northumberland also furnishes a remarkable instance of the vicissitudes of a peerage, and the strange results of changing or adopting surnames by titled families. The present name of the Dukes of Northumberland is Percy, and their table of lineage connects them with the family to which the renowned Harry Hotspur belonged. But supposing this connection to be real, which we do not dispute, such of the blood of that renowned soldier as now flows through the veins of the Percies of to-day must certainly be in an extremely diluted condition. Unless we are mistaken, the actual family name of the Northumberland family is Smithson, and that of Percy is an assumed name. Hence the following lines to a Duke of Northumberland, by no less a person than George Canning:

No drop of princely Percy’s blood
Through those cold veins doth run;
With Hotspur’s blazon, castles, arms,
I still am poor Smithson.

The fact is, the present Northumberlands are the issue[3] of a marriage which took place in 1657 between an heiress of the real Percies and one Sir Hugh Smithson, a Yorkshire baronet; and the whole narrative may be read in Burke’s _Peerage_ under the title of ‘Northumberland.’ It does not, however, mention the reply of George III. to one of the dukes of this house who complained to him that he was the first Duke of Northumberland who did not possess the Garter. ‘Quite so,’ said the king snappishly, ‘and the first Smithson who ever asked for it!’

It appears that the lady just alluded to was a daughter of Marmaduke, second Lord Langdale; and this fact introduces us to a notable curiosity of the peerage—namely, the extinction and resuscitation of titles. The latter circumstance may occur not only in the family originally holding the extinct title, but, as already intimated, in some other family in no way connected with the former. We will shortly give a few instances of this feature of the peerage, and the title of Langdale may first be noticed.

The first peer was a Mr Marmaduke Langdale, who in 1658 was created Baron Langdale, title and family name being the same. There were in all five holders of this title, all bearing the single Christian name of Marmaduke. The last died without issue in 1777, and the title became extinct. In the year 1836, an eminent King’s Counsel—still remembered by some persons—named Henry Bickersteth became Master of the Rolls, and was raised to the peerage as Lord Langdale, but so far as we know he was in no way connected with the Langdale family, and there is no Lord Langdale now. The wife of this peer, who was Master of the Rolls, was Lady Jane Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford; and this celebrated title will furnish another instance of the loss of titular honours by one family, and their resumption by another. The peerage of Oxford—an earldom from beginning to end—was originally held by the illustrious family of De Vere, one of whom was created Earl of Oxford by the Empress Maud, an honour confirmed by Henry II. in 1155. The ninth earl was Robert, who was created Marquis of Dublin in 1386 by Richard II., and, as stated in ‘What is a Peer?’ was the first marquis in the English peerage. He was banished and attainted in 1388, whereupon his honours became forfeited. Four years afterwards, however, the earldom was regranted to his uncle Aubrey, and subsequently the attainder of Robert was annulled. In 1464, we find the twelfth earl beheaded, and another attainder created; but after a lapse of three years, his son John is reinstated, only, however, to enjoy his honours for ten years, at the end of which period he also is attainted and suffers forfeiture. In 1513, all is right again; his nephew becomes the fourteenth earl; and from his time down to 1702, there is no break in the succession. But in that year, Aubrey, the twentieth earl, dies without male issue; and from that time to the present, we hear no more of the ancient and noble family of De Vere as Earls of Oxford. Perhaps the most distinguished of them was Edward, seventeenth earl (1540-1604); while another member of the family was Sir Francis de Vere, a celebrated soldier in the time of Queen Elizabeth. The title of Oxford was revived in 1711 by a stranger in blood to the De Veres—Robert Harley, Queen Anne’s celebrated Tory statesman, who in that year became Earl of Oxford and Mortimer. The second of these earls was the founder of the Harleian Library. The first earl had been a great collector of books, and it is said that he was so much attached to them, that although his library contained about one hundred thousand volumes, he knew the precise position of each on the shelves! The honours of the Harley family continued until 1853, when Alfred, the sixth earl, died without issue, and the earldom of Oxford once more ceased to exist.

These are but representative instances of the creation, forfeiture, extinction, and revival of titles. We could, of course, considerably increase the list of them, but to do so, would fill a volume. We will, however, just glance at five lines of the well-known speech of Henry V. to his soldiers in Shakspeare’s play of _Henry V._ (act iv., scene 3), and inquire how many of the great personages there mentioned are represented in blood at the present time by those who hold the very same titles:

Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words—
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo’ster—
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.

These words are supposed to be uttered on the eve of the battle of Agincourt, in 1415, and the Bedford of that day was John Plantagenet, third son of Henry IV. There were only three of these Dukes of Bedford, the last of whom died in 1495; and it was not until 1550 that the first Russell, the ancestor of the present Duke of Bedford, was ennobled. To him the existing great House owes its origin; and there has been an unbroken continuity in the succession from his time until now, according to the limitations in the grants of the various honours bestowed on the family of Russell.

The peerage of Exeter is extremely singular. Therein we find four dukes, starting from John Holland, the first of them, in 1397. Between the first and the last duke there were two forfeitures and one extinction of the title; moreover, only three of them were Hollands, the second having been a Beaufort, a natural son of John of Gaunt; and this must have been the Exeter mentioned by Shakspeare; but the poet and dates are not quite reconcilable here. Then came two Marquises of Exeter, both of whom were Courtenays; and the present Marquis is a Cecil, the originator of the now existing marquisate having been the second Lord Burleigh or Burghley, who became Earl of Exeter in 1605. The present marquisate of the title dates from 1793.

The history of the peerage or title of Warwick is one of the most extraordinary to be found on the rolls. It was commenced in the reign of the Conqueror, comprises, in the first place, fourteen earls, mostly of the name of De Newburgh and De Beauchamp, a duke, and a countess. It has been extinct four times, and forfeited five times; has been borne by royalty, by the noblest of the noble, by traitors, and by no less than thirty-three persons of various families. After becoming extinct in the family of Rich by the decease of the eighth earl without issue in 1759, it was revived in that of Greville, and the present earl is the fourth in succession since then. The first of these holders of the title was Francis Greville, a descendant of William de Beauchamp, the tenth of the first set of earls, who died in 1298. The fifth and last of the De Beauchamps as Earls of Warwick must have been Shakspeare’s Warwick; so that while clearly the Bedfords and Exeters of to-day are not the representatives of those mentioned in _Henry V._, the Earl of Warwick who fought at Agincourt has a living descendant. The same may be said as to Talbot. The person alluded to by Shakspeare was the sixth baron of that title, and was the greatest soldier of his time. He was created Earl of Shrewsbury in 1442, and the present earl—who is the twentieth from him, and premier Earl of England—is also Earl and Baron Talbot, and accordingly is a blood-relative of Shakspeare’s fourth hero. Salisbury comes next; but the present marquis being descended from Robert Cecil, created Earl of Salisbury in 1605, is therefore not connected with Henry V.th’s Salisbury, who was Thomas de Montacute. The Marquisate of Salisbury was created in 1780, every other previous holder of a Salisbury title having been an earl, and the honour first arose in the reign of Stephen.

With regard to the last of the personages introduced by Shakspeare, Glo’ster, it may be observed that the title of Gloucester appears from its very beginning to have been appropriated to personages of unusually exalted birth. It commenced with a natural son of Henry I., and went through eleven earldoms to 1337. From that time we have only dukes; and Shakspeare evidently alludes to Humphry Plantagenet, youngest son of Henry IV., and therefore brother of Henry V., whom the poet, with strict regard to the rules of courtesy, makes the last to be named by the gallant king. With him the dukedom of Gloucester became extinct; but it was revived in 1461, and conferred on Richard, brother of Edward IV., commonly known as ‘Crookback.’ At his death at Bosworth in 1485, the title merged in the Crown; and the last who held it was the uncle of our present gracious Queen, William-Frederick, Duke of Gloucester and Edinburgh. Seeing that Shakspeare’s Glo’ster was the son of Henry IV., and that our present royal family trace their descent through all the previous sovereigns of England, we may conclude that while the ‘Bedford and Exeter’ and Salisbury of Agincourt fame have no representatives at the present day connected with them by any ties of sanguinity, yet that ‘Harry the King,’ ‘Warwick and Talbot’ and Glo’ster are so represented, and in the manner just intimated.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This indicates that the barony mentioned is in abeyance, a term which will be explained afterwards.

[2] It may interest some readers to be reminded that the widow of this earl, Selina, was the founder of the religious body known as ‘Lady Huntingdon’s Connection.’

[3] It may be instructive to the non-legal reader to be told that the word ‘issue’ in law signifies lineal descendants _ad infinitum_, and therefore has a more extensive signification than ‘children.’ The two terms are often confounded; but while of course ‘issue’ will include children, it may include more than children.

BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER XXVIII.—‘THE LITTLE RIFT.’

Uncle Dick was for some time busy with his meal and with the details of the scare he had got in the morning.

‘I tell you, Philip, it a’most took away my appetite—and that’s saying something. Seemed to me that the bullock had nearly all the signs of foot-and-mouth; and the vet. thought so too; when along comes Beecham, and shows us it was nothing of the kind, but that the brute had somehow swallowed a poisonous herb. Clever chap that. Never thought he knew anything about cattle.... You see what it would have been to me? I would not have been allowed to exhibit at Smithfield at all this year—I, who have some of the finest stock in the county or in Norfolk either, and I won’t even bar that of His Royal Highness, although he has a prime breed—managed as well as my own too. I set my heart on getting a prize at the show this year; and it was hard lines to think that I was to be shut out at the last moment a’most, all owing to them foreigners bringing the disease amongst us.’

‘But you are at rest on that score now,’ said Philip, rousing himself to say something.

‘O yes; it’s right enough now; but it _was_ a scare; and if it had not been for Beecham, the vet. would have gone off and reported me. I couldn’t have said nay; for bad as it would be to get the disease amongst my own stock, I’d feel it a heap worse if I carried it to somebody else’s. Don’t know how to be thankful enough to Beecham.’

The repetition of the name awakened some association of sounds in Philip’s ears; and whilst one division of his thoughts was entirely occupied with Madge, there seemed to be another whispering the question: ‘Was not that voice I heard behind me at the “dancing beeches” like the stranger’s?’

Uncle Dick went on describing the merits of the cattle he was to exhibit at Smithfield; but when he had pushed away his plate, he suddenly became aware that he was speaking to an inattentive audience.

‘Got the toothache, Philip?—or lost anything?’ he asked.

‘No, no.—I beg your pardon, Uncle Dick,’ replied Philip, a little confused, but frankly admitting his inattention. ‘Madge did not seem to be quite well when she came in just now, and I was thinking about her.’

‘Wool-gathering,’ said Uncle Dick with a hearty laugh. ‘Well, never mind. I ought to have known better. What’s the use of talking about prime fat cattle to a lad when he is sweethearting! I forgive you.’

Philip made an attempt to respond to the laugh; but it was not very successful, and he was glad of the relief which the entrance of the dame afforded him. In her quiet eyes, he fancied that there were signs of disturbed thought.

‘What ails Madge?’ inquired Uncle Dick. ‘Here is Philip in a way about her. She was well enough at dinner-time.’

‘She is out of sorts a bit, and wants to see Philip in the other room.’

‘Go to her lad; and if you have been amusing yourselves with a tiff—why, buss and make it up.’

Philip scarcely heard the whole of this wise counsel, for he had darted off the moment he heard that Madge wanted him.

But she was not in the room yet. So he stood watching the door, and wondering what could be the meaning of this conduct, which would have been singular on the part of any girl, but was most singular in his eyes when it was the conduct of Madge. A headache was _not_ a sufficient explanation of that frightened look on her face, and it was still less a satisfactory explanation of her eager desire to get away from him, when he had expected to be chidden for his long absence. What could have happened, to account for it?

In all this wondering and questioning there was not the remotest shade of jealousy. He loved her. She loved him; he trusted her absolutely. His was the nature which gives absolute trust, and is incapable of thinking that it might be betrayed. But this absolute trust is in a keen-eyed, passionate nature a sort of windbag; and with the first pin-prick of suspicion it collapses: all trust changes to all doubt. He was still untouched by this demon. So he only wondered, and was sorry for her.

Then she came in, looking so pale—haggard almost—and quite unlike herself. She had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she had been crying. She closed the door, held out her hands to him, avoiding his eyes, and rested her head on his shoulder.

That was all right: she was not angry with him. He kissed the wet eyes gratefully, and the lips. But she did not look at him or speak; and although he wanted to say something soothing, he did not know how to begin.

Presently he was startled by a low sobbing, and words came to him: ‘For goodness’ sake, Madge, tell me what is the meaning of all this. Have I done anything to vex you?’

She pressed his hands, to assure him that he had not; but she did not speak.

‘Then what is it, my poor Madge? What can have upset you in this way? Uncle Dick and Aunt Hessy are all right: I am all right; but I shall be all wrong in a minute, if you will not show me how I am to make you all right, like the rest of us.’

She raised her head slowly, wiped her eyes, and went to a chair by the fire. No smile, no sign of relief, but a frown at the laughing flame which rose from the burning log of wood. (That was one of Madge’s own conceits, to have a homely log of wood for the evening fires.) Suddenly she lay back on the chair with hands clasped on the top of her head.

‘I don’t know what to say to you, Philip.’

‘What about?’

‘About being so foolish.’

‘Tell me why you are so foolish, and then maybe some good fairy will help me to tell you what you ought to say.’

He rested his elbow on the back of her chair and passed his hand tenderly over her hot brow. Her lips tightened, then relaxed, and she seemed to be on the point of crying again. With an effort, she overcame this hysterical emotion.

‘Sit down, Philip, there, where I can see your face,’ she said; and the voice was steady, although there were pauses between some of the words.

‘Will that do?’

He seated himself so that he could look at her face in the full light of the fire.

‘No; turn to the fire, so that I can see you.’

He drew a hassock close to her chair, sat down on it, and looked up to her so that the full reflection of the fire fell upon him.

‘Will that please you?’

She passed her hand timidly through his hair without looking at him.

‘I am half ashamed to tell you,’ she said huskily, ‘because I have done something that you will be angry about.’

‘Come on with it, then, and let us get the angry part over as quickly as possible, so that we may have the more time for enjoying ourselves.’

‘I always thought that I should never listen to anything which I might not repeat to you, Philip,’ she said hesitatingly.

‘Well?’

‘This afternoon, I have listened to something which I have ... I _have_ promised not to tell you—yet.’

That little word ‘yet’ seemed to come in as a peacemaker; and Philip felt that it was so. But he looked gravely at the merry fire for a few minutes before he answered, and she now gazed anxiously into his face.

Then, he:

‘I don’t like the idea, Madge, and it would be nonsense to pretend that I did. I should feel myself—well, we won’t say what; but my notion is that our lives should be so much one that our acts should be clear to each other, and our thoughts should be the same, as far as possible. I am not so stupid as to imagine that we can always control our thoughts, and think only what we _ought_ to think (what a weary world it would be if we could!); but I believe that a man and woman who love each other can, and ought to be honest in their thoughts, and should not keep one which cannot be confided to the twin—twin—what shall I call it?—twin spirit. There; that will do. Funny that I should be talking this way to you, Madge—you have taught it to me.’

His upturned face still wore the frank, boyish expression which it always assumed when he was with her.

Madge took her hand from his head and clasped it with the other round her knees, whilst she stared into the fire.

‘It is Aunt Hessy who has taught us both that rule. I, too, believe in it, and mean to follow it. But’——

She stopped, and the fright showed itself in her eyes again by the clear light of the cheerful fire.

‘Why don’t you go on?’ he asked, after a moment of thoughtful silence. ‘Why are you so distressed? Does this confidence, or secret, concern any of us?’

‘It concerns YOU—and I may not tell you what it is. That is why I am troubled.’

And again she clasped hands over her head, as if to subdue its throbbing.

He was thoughtful; and an expression appeared on his face, so like the one often seen on his father’s, that Madge, whose nerves were quickened by her pain, was startled. But he spoke kindly:

‘Have you told—or are you to tell—Aunt Hessy and Uncle Dick?’

‘No ... no ... no’ (this was like a moan). ‘I am not to tell them either—not now, that is. By-and-by, you shall all know—you first, Philip.... Don’t ask me any more questions. I wish I could have held my tongue altogether—it would have spared you pain, perhaps. But I could not do that. I thought you might blame me afterwards, and maybe misunderstand many things that I may do. There is no wrong meant to any one—no harm. You will see that, when it is explained.’

He rose slowly, and stood with his back to the fire, gazing at her.

‘Is not this foolish, Madge?’ he said sadly. ‘You see what a state you have got into already over a matter which I have no doubt appears to you innocent enough, and is very likely quite trifling in its consequences to me or any one, except yourself. I can see you are going to worry about it—I shall not—and I cannot guess why you should. At the same time, it does not please me to think that you should accept any confidence which you may not share with Aunt Hessy, if not with me.’

She looked at him with such sad eyes: no tears in them, but questioning him, as if inspired by some distant thought, as yet only half comprehended. Her voice, too, seemed to come from a distance.

‘I thought you would have trusted me, Philip. I hope you will, when you know that my mother has to do with this promise I have given.’

He placed his hands on her shoulders.

‘I did not need that assurance, but am glad that you have told me so much. I do trust you—so much, that if you had simply said you had a secret which was not to be told to me yet a while, I should have thought nothing about it. But when I see that this thing distresses you and makes you ill—come, now, confess you would not have liked me to be indifferent.’

She confessed:

‘No; I should not have liked you to be indifferent.’

‘Very well, then, you have heard—say, a riddle, about which you think it right to hold your tongue meanwhile. I am content; for I know that you would not hold your tongue if you thought that any harm was to come of it to anybody. So, let it be, until you are ready to give us the answer to this riddle.’

He stooped and kissed her.

‘Thank you, Philip. I am better now; but it did seem so terrible to have to tell you that there was something’——

He put his hand playfully on her mouth, stopping her.

‘We are not going to say anything more about that. I have a lot of things to tell you; and came here in fear and trembling that you would be scolding me roundly for my long absence. But I see you have not missed me so much.’

Something of her bright smile returned as she shook her head disapprovingly.

‘You know that I have missed you very much, or you would not have said that. But I knew that you were busy with the work which is to make your name a blessed one all over the world. How I should like to be by your side helping you!’

‘You can be, whenever you choose. Why not at once? Although Uncle Shield says he would prefer that I should not marry for a year, I refused to give any promise on that subject, and am free to please you and myself.’

‘No, no; I have told you that my ideas are the same as Mr Shield’s. You must be quite free to set your plans in good working order before you tie yourself down to me. For you know I shall require such a heap of attention and looking after!’

And the eyes which had been for a second clouded when he pleaded again for their early union, opened upon him with that gentle light which could lead him anywhere. And so he yielded, allowing the subject of greatest import to their future to be put aside once more for matters of the moment. He told her first with what forbearance his father had acted, and how wisely he had dealt with his fortune.

‘I did expect to have a bad time with him; but he was kinder to me than ever, and has done exactly what I should have asked him to do if he had consulted me beforehand. I am proud of him, and believe that he will be the first to hold out the hand of friendship, when I come to my grand scene of reconciliation between him and my uncle.—What is the matter with you? Why did you start?’

‘A chill—don’t mind it, please. I do hope you will manage to bring them together in friendship. You know I have as much interest in it as you now.’

‘That is as it ought to be. I am sure that the governor would give in; but Shield passes all my powers of understanding. He won’t speak like a sensible man to me, and yet he writes like a philosopher—at least as if he took real interest in what I am doing, and wished me to succeed.’

‘Why do you not write to him about your father?’

‘Because I am keeping that part of my work in hand until I can pounce upon both of them, and make them feel so ashamed, that they will not be able to say no when I say, and you say with me—Shake hands. We will manage it, you and I. Won’t we?’

‘I will try to do my part.’

She spoke low, and her thoughts seemed to reach into the future and the past farther than those of her lover. She seemed to feel that her part was a much heavier one than he imagined.

‘For that, of course, we must watch our opportunity, and be ready to seize it when it comes. I know you will not fail, and hope I shall not. But there is another thing I want you to do at once.’

‘What is that?’

‘To bring old Culver into a Christian frame of mind regarding Caleb Kersey. You will manage that by proving to him what a fortune Kersey is going to make as my foreman. I am sure he will do well, and sure too that Pansy will be a lucky woman to have such a husband.’

‘I think she would be; and for a time believed that she thought so too. But lately—I do not know why—I have had a suspicion that Pansy does not care so much for Caleb as she used to do.’

‘Oh—h,’ is the simplest representation of the long-drawn sound emitted by Philip, with many modulations before it passed into silence. It suggested surprise, curiosity, and suspicion, combined with a degree of uneasiness. ‘Surely it is not possible that Pansy, who has always appeared to me the model of an innocent country girl, has been only making fun of this sturdy fellow? Can she have taken any other man into her mind? If she has, it will turn the poor chap topsy-turvy.’

‘Has he said anything to you about her?’

‘No; but I could see the whole thing when we were working at the church decorations. If ever any man was ready to die for a woman, Caleb feels that way towards Pansy. I hope she is not a fool.’

The last phrase was uttered with an excess of energy which the occasion did not seem to demand.

‘How could you suppose that?’

‘Because she is a woman,’ he replied, with forced audacity and an awkward smile. ‘Why do you suppose that she is changed?’

‘You cannot have noticed her lately, or you would not require to ask. She has grown pale and nervous and forgets what she is told—blushes and grows white without any reason.’

‘All that fits in exactly with my suspicion,’ said Philip seriously; ‘she has seen somebody else who has caught her fancy more than Kersey, and she is either afraid or ashamed to own it.’

Madge looked surprised.

‘I never knew you to be so uncharitable, Philip. Can you not imagine any other cause for her unhappy state?’

‘No.’ He could not bring himself to say: ‘I have seen my brother Coutts talking to her in a way which I should call flirting if she had been a girl with a good dowry at her back. I know that he will require substantial compensation for the surrender of his bachelorhood.’

‘It might be so,’ said Madge reflectively; ‘but my idea was that she had been so worried by her father, that she had come to wish Caleb would keep away, and was too shy to tell him frankly.’

‘Perhaps it is so; and maybe it would be best that we should not interfere. At the same time, I think old Culver should have a hint that in standing in Kersey’s way he is doing his daughter an injury that he may be sorry for by-and-by. You might do that without risk of hurting anybody.’

‘Yes; and if Pansy gives me an opportunity, I shall tell her what you think about Caleb.’

‘And about his prospects—don’t forget that with both of them. I told her this afternoon, when passing, that there was good news coming to her, and there could be no better angel than you to carry it.’

‘Philip!’

‘I didn’t tell her that last bit, of course; but I thought it.’

She was not angry; and he sat down on the hassock again. Then they laid their heads together, and saw beautiful visions of the future in the bright fire. To him the path was like one long golden sunbeam; but she saw many motes in it—some of them big ones—although she said nothing at all about them to him.

She was striving hard to make him forget the opening part of their interview, and to send him away with a feeling of contentment in the belief that she was happy, so that he might go on with his great work undisturbed by any anxiety on her account. She felt that it was a great work, and that she must do everything in her power to lift the bars to its accomplishment out of the way. He had shown himself in two characters to-night—the loving, light-hearted boy and—when he stood up with that thoughtful face which reminded her of his father—the earnest and sharpsighted man.

She was not clear as to which side of his character she liked most; but they were both hers, and it was a relief to feel that if trial came to them, he could be resolute and considerate.

So she did her best to hide the fatigue which worry had brought upon her; and for a time she was completely successful.

Suddenly he jumped up.

‘How stupid I am, Madge!’ he exclaimed in irritation with himself.

‘What is the matter now?’

‘You—why, you are as tired as can be, and ought to have been off to bed long ago. I began by trying to get you to think of something pleasant, so as to drive off the blue fit that was on you, and then in my own enjoyment forgot how weary you must be. I am going away at once.’

She relieved him with a laugh; it was a delight to feel that they had been both inspired by the same good thought.

‘I am glad you did not go sooner, Philip,’ she said, standing up, her hands clasped round his neck. ‘Do you know that, to-night, you have made me feel what I thought was impossible?’

‘That must be worth knowing. What is it?’

‘That I care more for you than ever,’ she whispered, as she rested her brow on his shoulder.

A pause, as his arms tightened round her—his heart in his throat. Then, as people do in accepting the greatest benefactions, trying to hide with a laugh what they, from the hard teachings of stoic philosophers, have come to regard as the foolish weakness of tears of joy.

‘I was not sure for a minute whether to be glad or sorry for that, Madge. But of course it is right. What is it Othello says—or wishes? Something about love growing as years go on. That’s how it will be with us.’

‘I think so—I believe so. But you must not quote Othello. He killed his love because he had no true faith in it.’

‘But then he was a nigger, and I am not. All right. I won’t mention the gentleman again. I shall be here to-morrow.’

‘Very well. Go to Uncle Dick now and help him in my place. He has some papers to fill up, and I intended to do them to-night. He will be disappointed if they are not done.’

‘Now, there is a real good girl,’ said Philip, delighted. ‘I like you best when you are asking me to do something for you.’

* * * * *

When he entered the oak parlour, Aunt Hessy was at one side of the fire, knitting. Uncle Dick was at the other, puffing with the vigour of impatience unusually large clouds from his churchwarden, whilst he stared at a blue foolscap paper. On the table were a mass of other papers, which were tossed about as if somebody had been trying to get them into as confused a mass as possible.

‘Where’s Madge?’ he ejaculated as soon as Philip appeared. ‘You’ve kept her long enough for once in a way, Philip. I am getting into a regular passion with all these rules and restrictions.’

‘Let me fill a pipe, and I shall be ready to take Madge’s place.’

‘You!’ was the mirthfully contemptuous exclamation. ‘You don’t know anything about the things, and nobody can take her place.’

‘But she has sent me, and I’ll do my best to please you, sir,’ retorted Philip with mock humility.

‘Better let Philip do what’s wanted,’ said the dame, as she rose to leave the room; ‘Madge is not well to-night.’

Uncle Dick grumbled at the absence of his secretary, but good-naturedly resigned himself to the services of her substitute. Presently, he found that Philip was so apt in taking up his suggestions that he almost forgot Madge.

ERRATIC PENS.