CHAPTER I.

JOSIAH STUCKLEY MAKES A SERIOUS MIS

TAKE. ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS. A BRIGHT window looked out on a January night from amid a mass of dark foliage. Firelight and lamplight glowed through the closed red draperies; gay kughter and pleasant voices, and now and then the lively notes of a piano, came forth in strange contrast with the midnight-the midnight, that lay black and wet all around, and that was silent as brooding despair, save when, every few minutes, there was a heavy rush of wind through a multitude of groaning branches. On the dark gravel walk, close to that beaming, happy window, crouched a figure cloaked in black, waiting and watching stealthily. Once, when the wind rose up in its gigantic might, and shook even the house itself menacingly, the figure shrunk close to the wall under the semicircular stone oriel, and a shaking hand clutched hard the carved projecting head in which it terminated. Some strong human passion answered then to the raging wind.

The house where our story opens is situate in the middle of a village in Worcestershire. It has recently been purchased by a retired tradesman, whose wedding festivities are just now at their height. "The Retreat" stands on its own grounds, which are of no great pretensions, yet are pleasant, and afford good exercise for the new proprietor's restless foot. Never was there such a walker as Josiah Stuckley. He scarcely ever sits down except to his

meals or his books, for he is as great a reader as walker.

Stuckley is very pleased with his "little domain," as he styles it. His nine rooms are furnished to suit his own tastes-that is, "comfortably, nothing more." He is a great lover of comfort. "I prefer it above all things, even in a wife. I have chosen my home partner for her comfortable qualities, and without them, she should never have been Mrs. Stuckley, had she possessed a fortune of fifty thousand pounds." But Mrs. Stuckley had not fifty shillings, nor so much as the value of her wedding-dress, to call her own when she entered "The Retreat" as mistress. She had been a poor governess, but not quite as patient or as meek as poor governesses are usually assumed to be, or as Stuckley imagined. He had business dealings with the distinguished family that the fair Selina Neville served; he admired her graceful figure, always so neatly and modestly attired; her decidedly pretty face caught his fancy, and her friendly manners to himself, personally, when she called at his shop in the Highstreet to give orders for goods wanted, flattered his pride. Gradually a confidence sprang up between them, relative to the unkind usage she received at Foxley Hall. The governess could sigh so bewitchingly, and shed such very bright tears! Pensiveness suited her fair complexion. She played the martyr beautifully. Mr. Stuckley pitied her so much! The thought pressed upon him that it would be quite an act of charity to give

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her a comfortable home of her own. The fair Selina listened with great attention to Mr. Stuckley's plans for selling his business as it stood-draper's shop and goodwill-and retiring on his income, which had been recently enlarged from the will of a deceased uncle to whom he was heir. So Selina thought it best, on the whole, to waive the twenty years' difference in their ages, and try by little artistic suggestions, hints, and admissions, to convince him that she responded to all his tastes, opinions, and prepossessions that she was his "kindred spirit" -an enthusiastic lover of plain home comfort, longing for a peaceful and quiet fireside, where she might spend her time amid books, music, and needlework, and live retired from the noisy, garish world! What charming domestic pictures she drew! No wonder that Mr. Stuckley became impatient for their realisation. She expressed a boundless gratitude for the offer of his hand, and only delayed to accept it "out of consideration for his own interests." This unselfishness delighted him, and he proceeded, pending Selina's final decision of the case, to tear away the second string from his bow, or, in plain language, to inform one Widow Robinson, a well-to-do and worthy person to whom he had been half engaged during the last dozen years, that he had made up his mind to marry the governess of Foxley Hall, and buy "The Retreat," that very snug little freehold.

The widow looked decidedly downcast, handed him back a few score of his letters, hoped he might never repent his bargain, and bade him good morning.

She was a comely woman, was Widow Robinson, living economically upon a small independence derived from rents. "Perhaps I am acting wrongly, and making a fool of myself," thought Stuckley, as he shut the widow's door behind him. He walked, however, toward Foxley Hall, a stone mansion standing just without the village, and met the charming governess by the way.

All was soon settled, and Mr. Stuckley came into possession of the freehold at Christmas. The marriage was celebrated with a great deal more of fuss and publicity than Stuckley relished; but Selina

was young, and a little gayety to begin with did not matter much, as it was agreed that everything was to move on in a very quiet way after the new year had fairly commenced.

It did pain him, though, when the triumphant bride persisted in sending to the ill-used Widow Robinson a pair of fashionable cards, tied with white satin ribbon, aud an invitation to the wedding dinner. Note and cards were returned, without a word, to Stuckley's great chagrin. Perhaps other feelings prompted him in the tenderest way to reprove his bride. Of course he did not then see how heartless she was, but he remembered this little incident long after, and regretted that a deliberate insult had been offered to his old friend.

Stuckley had some fear of a suit for breach of promise. In the court of conscience that suit was already begun, nor was it likely to terminate as long as he lived. Except in the matter of the widow, Stuckley had lived blamelessly. There was not a better or a kinder man breathing. His intellect, too, had risen far above the level of his counter, thanks to newspapers and a good library that he had formed for himself. He uniformly led a temperate and active life.

But Stuckley had his notions about things particular and general, as most men of forty have, and he expected his wife never to contradict his notions, unless in a respectful, submissive sort of way; and as Mrs. Stuckley had so much reason to be grateful to him, he expected from her implicit forbearance and sympathy. Alas! poor Stuckley.

One act of hers touched him to the quick. Stuckley was particularly attentive to the comforts of the animals about him. There was in his stable an old horse, called Jack, on which Stuckley had often ridden when a boy. A dead brother of his had also been very fond of Jack, and the animal was particularly affectionate and intelligent. But, ere the first bridal week was spent, Mrs. Stuckley, without a word to her lord, sent a servant with old Jack, to sell him for anything he would fetch at the horse fair; and when Stuckley looked into the stable one afternoon, his