CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER.
CHAPTER III. ONLY “THE HEART.”
CHAPTER IV. SIR RICHARD GAINS HIS POINT.
CHAPTER VI. THE RACING-STABLE.
CHAPTER VII. A BROKEN FRIENDSHIP.
CHAPTER VIII. AT THE WATERSMEET.
CHAPTER X. MISS ROSE AYNTON “COPIES OUT.”
CHAPTER XIII. AT SIR ROBERT'S GRAVE.
CHAPTER XIV. ONCE MORE IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER.
IT is an hour short of midnight, and the depth of winter. The morrow is Christmas Day. Mirk Abbey bears snow everywhere; inches thick upon its huge broad coping-stones; much even on its sloping roof, save on the side where the north wind makes fitful rushes, and, wolf-like, tears and worries the white fleeces. Mirk woods sway mournfully their naked arms, and grind and moan without; the ivy taps unceasingly against the pane, as though entreating shelter.
The whole earth lies cold and dead beneath its snow-shroud, and yet the snow falls and falls, flake by flake, soft and noiseless in its white malice, like a woman's hate upon her rival.
It hides the stars, it dims the moon, it dulls the murmur of the river to which the Park slopes down, and whose voice the frost has striven in vain to hush these three weeks. Only the Christmas-bells are heard, now faint, now full--that sound more laden with divine regret than any other that falls on human ear. Like one who, spurring from the battle-field, proclaims “The fight is ours, but our great chief is slain!” there is sorrow in that message of good tidings; and not only for pious Christian folk; in every bosom it stirs some sleeping memory, and reminds it of the days that are no more. No wonder, then, that such music should touch my Lady's heart--the widowed mistress of Mirk Abbey. Those Christmas-bells which are also wedding-bells, remind her doubtless of the hour when Sir Robert lifted her lace-veil aside, and kissed