Rooms are said to bear the impress of their owner's character, Georgie Armstrong's bedroom was no exception to the rule; the walls hung with sporting pictures, a trophy of walking-sticks, fishing-rods, whips, and an alpenstock (which she used to leap ditches). A muddy Ulster and a Glengary cap laid on the floor, Wellington boots and dumb-bells reposed on the bed beside a blackand-tan terrier, and gaiters, dogcollars, and "Barker, on the Dog," were scattered on the table. "Oh, Georgie, what a dreadful mess your room is in! Why, don't you let your housemaid put it in order?" said Cicely, looking at her surroundings with dismay. "Bless my heart!" said Georgie, standing with her legs rather far apart, and looking round with great satisfaction. "Biess my heart! what would you have? You can't expect me to have a room like a neat old maid, smelling of lavender and with the pins arranged in a pattern on the cushion. No, a fellow of my habits. can't be expected to have a prim, poky room יי! "Will you lend me a brush? my hair is rough.' "What nonsense! you are all right; there you are!" And Georgie gave Cicely a rather bald brush, and watched with great impatience what she called "twiddling hair." The two girls went down stairs together, the strangest contrast in the face and manner that is possible to imagine. Georgie Armstrong had a face that would have been considered handsome in a man,-regular features, short black hair, tanned complexion, and a rather more than soupçon of a moustache on her upper lip. Cicely bane, looked more lovely and ladylike than ever by contrast. Only Mr. Armstrong and his sister-in-law were in the drawingroom as they entered. Madame, a dark, tiny creature, rushed forward and embraced Cicely with effusion-for she was fond of her pretty neighbours-in her impulsive French way, and often lamented her hard fate that "le bon Dieu," had willed that she, a Parisienne, should have a daughter like Georgie, when Cicely would have been just to her taste. Mrs. Armstrong-or Madame, as she preferred to be called-was French by birth and education; her husband a penniless, idle vaurien, with nothing but his good looks to recommend him, had spent every penny of his wife's fortune, and then died, leaving his wife and daughter to the care of his younger brother, George Armstrong, then, as now, with the magnificent income of £200 a year. Ten years had passed since his sister-in-law and daughter had entered his house, and Georgie Armstrong was now thirty-eight, with hair and beard already streaked with grey; but he never betrayed a sign of impatience at the burden laid upon him, and found comfort and consolation amongst his books and the manu script of poems which he hoped would bring him honour and wealth hereafter. Madame submitted calmly to the monotony of her existence, and gave herself up to dress and novel-reading; but, in spite of these weaknesses, she was far from being a heartless, emptyheaded woman. She devoted herself to Mr. Armstrong, and was more than a mother to him; and many a deed of kindness and charity was done by frivolous Adrienne Armstrong, née Basseur, with which the world would have never given her credit. "Ah, my pretty one," said Madame, holding Cicely's hand and softly patting it. "What a charming toilette you have made! How the blue suits you! N'est ce pas, Georges mon ami, Cicely is beautiful this evening!" George Armstrong had nervously shaken hands with Cicely, and then retreated to the window, pretending to watch Dent and Treherne knock croquet-balls about, and inwardly raging at his shyness, which prevented him from seating himself beside her, and beginning one of those long conversations which were the happiness of his life. "He is not adroit to make the compliments," and Madame laughed merrily. "He should have said, Mademoiselle is always beautiful! Every dress suits her; but, alas, he is English-he is triste !" "Mr. Armstrong and I are friends, and friends never compliment," said Cicely, with a smile. She little guessed how her words cut her friend's heart. Only a friend!" he thought; "nothing else for me, but patience, patience-I must trust to time." He seated himself by her, and tried to silence the loud beating of his heart. "How do you like the book I lent you?" he says, in a loud voice. The commonplace words are a strange contrast to the burning thoughts within. “I liked what I read, but I have been out rowing so much lately, that I have read very little." George Armstrong's little twinkling blue eyes are fixed on Cicely's face, and he rubs his straw-coloured hair off his broad forehead as he remarks "I think you will like the Earthly Paradise;' it is strange, that undercurrent of sadness which runs through all the joy, and yet only too true. I never read any more really melancholy lines than those in the Doom of King Acrisius,' because they are quite true-" "Love while ye may; if twain grow into one, No troubles break their hearts-and yet, and yet- We played old parts, we used old names—in vain, We go our ways, and twain once more are twain." Mr. Armstrong and Cicely soon became absorbed in their favourite subject, but the latter soon awoke, and started violently as two gentlemen entered the room. Dent made a few polite remarks to her, and then seated himself by Georgie, with whom he began an animated conversation in a low tone, the only words audible being, "Capital jump!-no end of a lark !—jolly good spin up the river!" Mr. Armstrong uttered the formula which polite society demands' and Mr. Lancelot Treherne and Miss Vane were made acquainted. Cicely did not dare to look up at her tall hero as he conveyed her into the dining-room, and only recovered her self-possession when she was seated opposite to Georgie and Dent, and her timid answers rendered only audible to Lancelot, by their neighbour's continual flow of loud conversation. "And so, Miss Vane, you have never been away from Marsh. lands in all your life?—I should never have guessed it.” "I have been away a few weeks," answers Cicely; " but I should not care to go away for a long time-it is very pleasant here." "But don't you find it rather dull sometimes? You cannot have much dancing or gaiety here, and that is not a natural life for a young lady." "Never dancing, but I have boating and croquet, and I sing and read. I think girls do not expect so much amusement in their lives as men do; and so they really enjoy their little pleasures far more. Still," said Cicely, laughing, "I don't pretend to be such a philosopher that I should not care to travel, or enjoy a London season; but I shall never have those pleasures, so I don't want to think of them." 'Ah, who knows? Miss Vane, I should not be surprised if you had a good many London seasons yet. The world is a very curious place, and many odd things happen." him. Lancelot smiled down at the innocently perplexed face beside "What nonsense! you are laughing at me. really find this place too dull, Mr. Treherne." I hope you won't "Dull! oh no, not now. I thought a few days ago that it would be rather slow here; but I changed my mind yesterday afternoon, and I am certain Marshlands will be an earthly Paradise." Cicely understood this very broad compliment, and believed in its truth with all the strength of her innocent heart; she knew that Marshlands was a changed place for her since she had seen Lancelot's face, and why should not he feel the same thing? so easy to persuade ourselves of the truth of what we wish. It is "You say you have never danced; surely you can dance though? Don't think me a very rude fellow, but I must say, I never saw a young lady look more as if she could dance well than you do." "I think you would laugh at Georgie and me if you' saw us waltzing together. She makes a capital gentleman; but I don't dance well." "I have no doubt, Miss Georgie would make no end of a gentleman; but I don't think I should laugh if I saw a fairy dance." A young lady in society accustomed to fade compliments would easily have made a little joke, and turned the silly flattery into ridicule; but Cicely had not been into society, so she only blushed and was silent for a minute, and then said hurriedly "Georgie says you sing, Mr. Treherne-what kind of voice have you?" "A very small tenor, but I am fond of singing. I was so awfully glad to hear that you sing; you must sing something for me this evening-won't you?" Yes, I will; but only if you will afterwards." "Do you know that song of Shelley's? I will sing you that if you like. It begins like this-" "I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night." Lancelot whispered these lines to Cicely as if they were a secret, and in the pause that followed their neighbour's conversation became distinct above the crackling of toast and the tinkling of teaspoons. "Tis such a jolly little terrier! Smith says it rabbits and rats capitally. You must take the animal; it would be a pity if you lost such a chance," says Dent, in a voice muffled by muffin. "Thanks, awfully!" says his beloved; "but I dare not have another dog,-uncle would be sure to turn crusty; besides, if I had two, I would rather have an animal that would swim after the boat." "I saw a boat fastened near to the Grange-is it yours?" says Lancelot to Cicely. "Yes, I often row in it; I am very fond of boating," answered Cicely. "Do you ever go out in the afternoon; it is the best time for rowing?" "Very often." "Ah, I always row then. I hope our boats will often meet." "That would be very pleasant! I hope they will," answers Cicely, from the bottom of her heart, with perfect innocence. "There, it is a compact," bending his handsome head to look at her. A little later Cicely is seated at the piano, and fills the room with her fresh, young voice; towards the end of her song her voice wavers, and she leaves the piano hurriedly, and seats herself by the open windows. Is it because she feels a pair of hazel eyes are looking at her furtively, as their owner stands near her and pretends to turn over the leaves of music. George Armstrong sat near to Madame, but he did not hear a word of her soliloquy on the present fashions; he was suffering intensely, as only a man can suffer who has passed his early youth without even a passing fancy, and now, in his ripe manhood, has given his love only to see it thrown aside. He sees Treherne's face bent towards Cicely with a tender look in his eyes; he notes the unusual flush on her cheeks, the expression on her face. "I ought to have guessed I was too old for her to love me," he thinks, already making his love a thing of the past. "It is only natural Treherne will love her, and she will be happy, and yet, I cannot bear it." * * * * * He hears Cicely sing a song he had often heard in the old happy days (which now seemed to be years ago), when he had hoped she would learn to love him; but now the refrain sounds in his ear like the dirge of his fading hopes "Oh, love, for a year, a week, a day, But alas for the love that loves away!" Madame stands on tiptoe before the mirror and arranges the artistic coiffure of lace and mauve ribbon which rests on her grey curls. "Georges !" she cries, in her little shrill voice, putting her head on one side like a canary. "Tell me, then, this coiffure, does it suit me? Have I the air of an Anglaise, or am I a Française perfectly well coiffée?" George answers in his usual loud, cheerful voice, and then Madame seizes on him, and pours into his patient ear her last ideas on the manufacture of her head-dresses. Yes, we must play our proper parts on the stage of life,-be cheerful, interested, lively, as the moment may require; it does not matter that the actor is faint with a deadly wound, let him only have a little patience until his role is over, then he can groan aloud behind the scenes, as a recompense for his self-restraint. |