CHAPTER IV.

When on the eve of glory, whilst brooding over the prospects of a bright

and happy future, whilst meditating upon the risky right of justice,

there we remain, wanderers on the cloudy surface of mental woe,

disappointment and danger, inhabitants of the grim sphere of anticipated

imagery, partakers of the poisonous dregs of concocted injustice. Yet

such is life.

Sir John's visits began now to be numerous at Dilworth Castle, each

visit serving further to strengthen the link of relationship, and bury,

in the heaving breast of seeking solace, the dull delight of the weary

past. As the weeks wore on, he reckoned them only as days, when

comparing their loving length with those of the bleak years he tried to

enjoy alone, before taking such steps--yes, serious steps--as those

fancied by the would-be bachelor.

At first he was careless and indifferent to the flowery harangues of

mothers who paid him periodical visits, with their daughters, of

apology, and firmly retained the obstinate qualities of an autocratic

ruler, until softened in the presence of one he found he was learning to

steadily love. He believed now that the chief stripes,

viz.--observation, inclination, advancement and accomplishment, in the

well-spun web of matrimony, must harmonise with the groundwork of

happiness, without which our lives are not worth an unstamped coin.

Love's path, on which Sir John was known now to tread with the step of

intensity, seemed smooth as the ice of Inglewood. There were no

obstacles in his way of which he was yet aware, save imagination; this,

also, was chased from his mind by the evident and ample return of

Irene's polished affection, the foul gloss of which he failed to notice,

and whose pretentions were so cleverly carried out as to defy detection.

Irene was an accomplished and clever girl, and well able to sustain her

hidden regard throughout for one who for years previous had been

endeavouring to remove the great barrier of position which blocked his

path of approach towards her affection. As yet her parentage was totally

unknown to Sir John; still, he felt it must not have belonged to the

rude and ridiculous, since she possessed all the qualities, outwardly,

and features, of a highly refined race. And when only a girl of eleven

summers, when the worthy hand of benevolence, friendship, and love

clutched the tiny fingers of absolute want, there visibly seemed nothing

lacking in appearance, manner, or education to solicit the pity or

suspicion of her charitable guardian and protector.

Sir John Dunfern's many visits of late to Dilworth Castle had been

creating quite a sensation throughout the quiet corners of costly

curiosity, until an announcement appeared in _Mack's Society Journal_ to

the following effect:--

"A marriage is arranged to take place in August between Sir John

Dunfern, of Dunfern Mansion, County Kent, and Irene Iddesleigh, adopted

daughter of Lord and Lady Dilworth, of Dilworth Castle, in same county."

This notice, no doubt, caused the partakers in drawing-room

_tete-a-tetes_ to share in the pangs of jealousy, with silent

resentment. Perplexity, a little, would find refuge within the homes of

many who led Society by the string of superficial show and pompous

importance; and during the interval that elapsed between such an

announcement and its important celebration, many and infamous were the

charges poured forth against Irene Iddesleigh.

The month preceding Irene's wedding was one of merriment at Dilworth

Castle, Lord and Lady Dilworth extending the social hand of fashionable

folly on four different occasions. They seemed drunk with delight that

Irene, whom they looked upon as their own daughter, should carry off the

palm of purity, whilst affluence, position, and title were for years

waiting with restless pride to triumph at its grasp.

It was at the second of these social gatherings that the first seed of

jealousy was sown within the breast of Sir John Dunfern, and which had a

tendency to remain until it gradually grew to such a rapid state of

maturity as to be rooted, if possible, for ever from its dusty bed of

ambush.

Yes, when the merriment was at its height, and the heat too oppressive

to allow much comfort to the corpulent, the espoused of Irene dropped

unexpectedly out of the midst of the aristocratic throng, and being

passionately an ardent admirer of the fairy-like fruits of the efforts

of the horticulturist, directed his footsteps towards the well-filled

conservatory at the south wing of the building.

The different-shaded lights which dangled from its roof bestowed a look

of Indian exquisiteness on the many quaint and delicate productions of

nature that rested daintily in their beds of terra-cotta tint.

But before leaving the room he vaguely scanned the throng to catch a

glimpse of Irene, and failed to notice her amongst the many who danced

so gaily to the well-timed tunes of the celebrated pianist, Charles

Wohden, whose musical touch was always capable of melting the most

hardened sinner into moods of mellow softness, or cheering the most

downcast and raising their drooping look of sadness to that of

high-strung hilarity.

Sir John wandered in and out through the numerous windings of sweetest

fragrance, until arriving at the farthest corner, of rather darkened

shade, and on a wire couch beheld the object of his pursuit, in closest

conversation with her tutor, whose name he had altogether failed to

remember, only having had the pleasure of his acquaintance a few hours

before.

"Can it be possible?" exclaimed Sir John, in profound astonishment.

"Why, I have been searching for you for some time past, and have

accidentally found you at last!" Irene, rising to her feet in a second,

was utterly dazed, and had the dim lights shewed her proud face to

advantage, the ruddy glow of deepest crimson guilt would have manifested

itself to a much greater degree. Making multitudinous apologies, etc.,

she at once joined Sir John, who led her back, in apparent triumph, to

share the next waltz.

How the true heart beat with growing passion during the remainder of the

merry festivity, and as the final announcement of separation was

whispered from ear to ear, the gradual wane of Love's lofty right would

fain have dwindled into pompous nothing as the thought kept tickling his

warm enthusiasm with the nimble fingers of jealousy. That she whom he

had ardently hoped should share his future with sheer and loving

caresses of constant companionship and wife-like wisdom should be

trapped in probably vowing to another her great devotion for him!

But better allow the sickening thought to die on the eve of insult

rather than live in the breast of him who, at no distant date, would

hear the merry peals of wedding bells ring with gladness, and naturally

rejoice at the object of their origin.