Janet, in her surprise, made a step or two forward, but Lady Chillington waved her fiercely back. "Fool! fool! why don't you go away?" she cried. "Why do you stare at me so? Go away, and send Dance to me. You have spoilt my complexion for the day."
Janet left the room and sent Dance to her mistress, and then went off for a ramble in the grounds. The seal of desolation and decay was set upon everything. The garden, no longer the choice home of choice flowers, was weed-grown and neglected. The greenhouses were empty, and falling to pieces for lack of a few simple repairs. The shrubs and evergreens had all run wild for want of pruning, and in several places the dividing hedges were broken down, and through the breaches sheep had intruded themselves into the private grounds. Even the house itself had a shabby out-at-elbows air, like a gentleman fallen upon evil days. Several of the upper windows were shuttered, some of the others showed a broken pane or two. Here and there a shutter had fallen away, or was hanging by a solitary hinge, suggesting thoughts of ghostly flappings to and fro in the rough wind on winter nights. Doors and window frames were blistering and splitting for want of paint. Close by the sacred terrace itself lay the fragments of a broken chimney-pot, blown down during the last equinoctial gales and suffered to lie where it had fallen. Everywhere were visible tokens of that miserly thrift which, carried to excess, degenerates into unthrift of the worst and meanest kind, from which the transition to absolute ruin is both easy and certain.
For a full hour Janet trod the weed-grown walks with clasped hands and saddened eyes. At the end of that time Dance came in search of her. Lady Chillington wanted to see her again.
(To be continued.)
SPES.
"When we meet," she said. We never
Met again—the world is wide:
Leagues of sea, then Death did sever
Me from my betrothed Bride.
When we parted, long ago—
Long it seems in sorrow musing—
Fair she stood, with face aglow,
In my heart a hope infusing.
Now I linger at the grave,
While the winds of Winter rave.
"When we meet," the words are ringing
Clear as when they left her lips,
Clear as when her faith upspringing
Fronted life and life's eclipse—
Rest, dear heart, dear hands, dear feet,
Rest; in spite of Death's endeavour,
Thou art mine; we soon shall meet,
Ocean, Death be passed for ever.
Thus I linger by the grave,
Cherishing the hope she gave.
John Jervis Beresford, M.A.
(Author of "Last Year's Leaves.")