'I am so glad!' he responded. 'You like her better than Clara, then?'

'Ever so much,' I said.

He looked more pleased than annoyed, I thought--certainly neither the one nor the other entirely. His eyes sparkled, but there was a flicker of darkness about his forehead.

'I am very glad,' he said again, after a moment's pause. 'I thought--I was afraid--I had fancied sometimes--you were still a little in love with Clara.'

'Not one atom,' I returned. 'She cured me of that quite. There is no danger of that any more,' I added--foolishly, seeing I intended no explanation.

'How do you mean?' he asked, a little uneasily.

I had no answer ready, and a brief silence followed. The subject was not resumed.

It may well seem strange to my reader that I had never yet informed him of the part Clara had had in the matter of the sword. But, as I have already said, when anything moved me very deeply I was never ready to talk about it. Somehow, perhaps from something of the cat-nature in me, I never liked to let go my hold of it without good reason. Especially I shrank from imparting what I only half comprehended; and besides, in the present case, the thought of Clara's behaviour was so painful to me still that I recoiled from any talk about it--the more that Charley had a kind and good opinion of her, and would, I knew, only start objections and explanations defensive, as he had done before on a similar occasion, and this I should have no patience with. I had, therefore, hitherto held my tongue. There was, of course, likewise the fear of betraying his sister, only the danger of that was small, now that the communication between the two girls seemed at an end for the time; and if it had not been that a certain amount of mutual reticence had arisen between us, first on Charley's part and afterwards on mine, I doubt much whether, after all, I should not by this time have told him the whole story. But the moment I had spoken as above, the strangeness of his look, which seemed to indicate that he would gladly request me to explain myself but for some hidden reason, flashed upon me the suspicion that he was himself in love with Clara. The moment the suspicion entered, a host of circ.u.mstances crystallized around it. Fact after fact flashed out of my memory, from the first meeting of the two in Switzerland down to this last time I had seen them together, and in the same moment I was convinced that the lady I saw him with in the Regent's Park was no other than Clara. But, if it were so, why had he shut me out from his confidence? Of the possible reasons which suggested themselves, the only one which approached the satisfactory was that he had dreaded hurting me by the confession of his love for her, and preferred leaving it to Clara to cure me of a pa.s.sion to which my doubtful opinion of her gave a probability of weakness and ultimate evanescence.

A great conflict awoke in me. What ought I to do? How could I leave him in ignorance of the falsehood of the woman he loved? But I could not make the disclosure now. I must think about the how and the how much to tell him. I returned to the subject which had led up to the discovery.

'Does your father keep horses, Charley?'

'He has a horse for his parish work, and my mother has an old pony for her carriage.'

'Is the rectory a nice place?'

'I believe it is, but I have such painful a.s.sociations with it that I hardly know.'

The Arab loves the desert sand where he was born; the thief loves the court where he used to play in the gutter. How miserable Charley's childhood must have been! How _could_ I tell him of Clara's falsehood?

'Why doesn't he give Mary a pony to ride?' I asked. 'But I suppose he hasn't room for another?'

'Oh! yes, there's plenty of room. His predecessor was rather a big fellow. In fact, the stables are on much too large a scale for a clergyman. I dare say he never thought of it. I must do my father the justice to say there's nothing stingy about him, and I believe he loves my sister even more than my mother. It certainly would be the best thing he could do for her to give her a pony. But she will die of religion--young, and be sainted in a twopenny tract, and that is better than a pony. Her hair doesn't curl--that's the only objection. Some one has remarked that all the good children who die have curly hair.'

Poor Charley! Was his mind more healthy, then? Was he less likely to come to an early death? Was his want of faith more life-giving than what he considered her false faith?

'I see no reason to fear it,' I said, with a tremor at my heart as I thought of my dream.

That night I was sleepless--but about Charley--not about Mary. What could I do?--what ought I to do? Might there be some mistake in my judgment of Clara? I searched, and I believe searched honestly, for any possible mode of accounting for her conduct that might save her uprightness, or mitigate the severity of the condemnation I had pa.s.sed upon her. I could find none. At the same time, what I was really seeking was an excuse for saying nothing to Charley. I suspect now that, had I searched after justification or excuse for her from love to herself, I might have succeeded in constructing a theory capable of sheltering her; but, as it was, I failed utterly, and, turning at last from the effort, I brooded instead upon the Quixotic idea already adverted to, grown the more attractive as offering a good excuse for leaving Charley for a little.

CHAPTER LII.

LILITH MEETS WITH A MISFORTUNE.

The next day, leaving a note to inform Charley that I had run home for a week, I set out for the Moat, carrying with me the best side-saddle I could find in London.

As I left the inn at Minstercombe in a gig, I saw Clara coming out of a shop. I could not stop and speak to her, for, not to mention the opinion I had of her, and the treachery of which I accused her, was I not at that very moment meditating how best to let her lover know that she was not to be depended upon? I touched the horse with the whip, and drove rapidly past. Involuntarily, however, I glanced behind, and saw a white face staring after me. Our looks encountering thus, I lifted my hat, but held on my course.

I could not help feeling very sorry for her. The more falsely she had behaved, she was the more to be pitied. She looked very beautiful with that white face. But how different was her beauty from that of my Athanasia!

Having tried the side-saddle upon Lilith, and found all it wanted was a little change in the stuffing about the withers, I told Styles to take it and the mare to Minstercombe the next morning, and have it properly fitted.

What trifles I am lingering upon! Lilith is gone to the worms--no, that I _do not_ believe: amongst the things most people believe, and I cannot, that is one; but at all events she is dead, and the saddle gone to worms; and yet, for reasons which will want no explanation to my one reader, I care to linger even on the fringes of this part of the web of my story.

I wandered about the field and house, building and demolishing many an airy abode, until Styles came back. I had told him to get the job done at once, and not return without the saddle.

'Can I trust you, Styles?' I said abruptly.

'I hope so, sir. If I may make so bold, I don't think I was altogether to blame about that book--'

'Of course not. I told you so. Never think of it again. Can you keep a secret?'

'I can try, sir. You've been a good master to me, I'm sure, sir.'

'That I mean to be still, if I can. Do you know the parish of Spurdene?'

'I was born there, sir.'

'Ah! that's not so convenient. Do you know the rectory?'

'Every stone of it, I may say, sir.'

'And do they know you?'

'Well, it's some years since I left--a mere boy, sir.'

'I want you, then--if it be possible--you can tell best--to set out with Lilith to-morrow night--I hope it will be a warm night. You must groom her thoroughly, put on the side-saddle and her new bridle, and lead her--you're not to ride her, mind--I don't want her to get hot--lead her to the rectory of Spurdene--and-now here is the point--if it be possible, take her up to the stable, and fasten her by this silver chain to the ring at the door of it--as near morning as you safely can to avoid discovery, for she mustn't stand longer at this season of the year than can be helped. I will tell you all.--I mean her for a present to Miss...o...b..rne; but I do not want any one to know where she comes from. None of them, I believe, have ever seen her. I will write something on a card, which you will fasten to one of the pommels, throwing over all this horsecloth.'

I gave him a fine bear-skin I had bought for the purpose. He smiled, and, with evident enjoyment of the spirit of the thing, promised to do his best.

Lilith looked lovely as he set out with her late the following night.

When he returned the next morning, he reported that everything had succeeded admirably. He had carried out my instructions to the letter; and my white Lilith had by that time, I hoped, been caressed, possibly fed, by the hands of Mary Osborne herself.

I may just mention that on the card I had written, or rather printed, the words: 'To Mary Osborne, from a friend.'

In a day or two I went back to London, but said nothing to Charley of what I had done--waiting to hear from him first what they said about it.

'I say, Wilfrid!' he cried, as he came into my room with his usual hurried step, the next morning but one, carrying an open letter in his hand, 'what's this you've been doing--you sly old fellow? You ought to have been a prince, by Jove!'

'What do you accuse me of? I must know that first, else I might confess to more than necessary. One must be on one's guard with such as you.'

'Read that,' he said, putting the letter into my hand.

It was from his sister. One pa.s.sage was as follows:

'A strange thing has happened. A few mornings ago the loveliest white horse was found tied to the stable door, with a side-saddle, and a card on it directed to _me_. I went to look at the creature. It was like the witch-lady in Christabel, 'beautiful exceedingly.' I ran to my father, and told him. He asked me who had sent it, but I knew no more than he did. He said I couldn't keep it unless we found out who had sent it, and probably not then, for the proceeding was as suspicious as absurd.

To-day he has put an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the paper to the effect that, if the animal is not claimed before, it will be sold at the horse-fair next week, and the money given to the new school fund. I feel as if I couldn't bear parting with it, but of course I can't accept a present without knowing where it comes from. Have you any idea who sent it? I am sure papa is right about it, as indeed, dear Charley, he always is.'