spite of her youth she was a decided connoisseur in the delicacies of the table. Now, to tell the truth, he was not at all fond of children; but this one excited in him a positive horror. There seemed to be something in her weird and uncanny; and he found himself constantly speculating as to how he could ever become reconciled to her; or what changes future years could make in her; and whether the lapse of time could by any possibility develop this impish being into any sort of a presentable woman. From the moment that he saw her he felt that the question of beauty must be abandoned forever; it would be enough if she could prove to be one with whom a man might live with any degree of domestic comfort. But the prospect of taking her at some period in the future to preside over Chetwynde Castle filled him with complete dismay. He now began to realize what his father had faintly suggested--namely, that his part of the agreement might hereafter prove a sacrifice. The prospect certainly looked dark, and for a short time he felt somewhat downcast; but he was young and hopeful, and in the end he put all these thoughts from him as in some sort treacherous to his kind old friend, and made a resolute determination, in spite of fate, to keep his vow with him.
After anticipating the dessert, and preventing her father from taking cheese, on the ground that she did not like it, nature at last took pity on that much enduring and long suffering man, and threw over the daughter the mantle of sweet unconsciousness. Miss Pomeroy fell asleep. In that helpless condition she was quietly conveyed from her father's arms to bed, to the unspeakable relief of Guy, who felt, as the door closed, as if a fearful incubus had been removed.
On the following morning he started by an early train for Dublin, so that on this occasion he had no further opportunity of improving his acquaintance with his lovely bride. Need it be said that the loss was not regretted by the future husband?
[Illustration.] CHAPTER VI. TWO IMPORTANT CHARACTERS. About five years passed away since the events narrated in the last chapter. The General's household had left their London lodgings not long after Guy's visit, and had removed to the family seat at Pomeroy Court, where they had remained ever since. During these years Guy had been living the life common with young officers, moving about from place to place, going sometimes on a visit to his father, and, on the whole, extracting an uncommonly large amount of enjoyment out of life. The memory of his betrothal never troubled him; he fortunately escaped any affair of the heart more serious than an idle flirtation in a garrison town; the odd scene of his visit to General Pomeroy's lodgings soon faded into the remote past; and the projected marriage was banished in his mind to the dim shades of a remote future. As for the two old men, they only met once or twice in all these years. General Pomeroy could not manage very well to leave his daughter, and Lord Chetwynde's health did not allow him to visit Pomeroy. He often urged the General to bring Zillah with him to Chetwynde Castle, but this the young lady positively refused to consent to. Nor did the General himself care particularly about taking her there. Pomeroy Court was a fine old mansion, with no pretensions to grandeur, but full of that solid comfort which characterizes so many country houses of England. It was irregular in shape, and belonged to different periods; the main building being Elizabethan, from which there projected an addition in that stiff Dutch style which William and Mary introduced. A wide, well-timbered park surrounded it, beyond which lay the village of Pomeroy. One morning in June, 1856, a man came up the avenue and entered the hall. He was of medium size, with short light hair, low brow, light eyes, and thin face, and he carried a scroll of music in his hand. He entered the hall with the air of an habitué, and proceeded to the south parlor. Here his attention was at once arrested by a figure standing by one of the windows. It was a young girl, slender and graceful in form, dressed in black, with masses of heavy black hair coiled up behind her head. Her back was turned toward him, and he stood in silence for some time looking toward her. At last he spoke: "Miss Krieff--" The one called Miss Krieff turned and said, in an indifferent monotone: "Good-morning, Mr. Gualtier." Turning thus she showed a face which had in it nothing whatever of the English type--a dark olive complexion, almost swarthy, in fact; thick, luxuriant black hair, eyes intensely black and piercingly lustrous, retreating chin, and retreating narrow forehead. In that face, with its intense eyes, there was the possibility of rare charm and fascination, and beauty of a very unusual kind; but at the present moment, as she looked carelessly and almost sullenly at her visitor, there was something repellent. "Where is Miss Pomeroy?" asked Gualtier. "About, somewhere," answered Miss Krieff, shortly. "Will she not play to-day?" "I think not." "Why?" "The usual cause." "What?" "Tantrums," said Miss Krieff. "It is a pity," said Gualtier, dryly, "that she is so irregular in her lessons. She will never advance." "The idea of her ever pretending to take lessons of any body in any thing is absurd," said Miss Krieff. "Besides, it is as much as a teacher's life is worth. You will certainly leave the house some day with a broken head." Gualtier smiled, showing a set of large yellow teeth, and his small light eyes twinkled. "It is nothing for me, but I sometimes think it must be hard for you, Miss Krieff," said he, insinuatingly. "Hard!" she repeated, and her eyes flashed as she glanced at Gualtier; but in an instant it passed, and she answered in a soft, stealthy voice: "Oh yes, it is hard sometimes; but then dependents have no right to complain of the whims of their superiors and benefactors, you know." Gualtier said nothing, but seemed to wait further disclosures. After a time Miss Krieff looked up, and surveyed him with her penetrating gaze. "You must have a great deal to bear, I think," said he at last. "Have you observed it?" she asked. "Am I not Miss Pomeroy's tutor? How can I help observing it?" was the reply. "Have I ever acted as though I was dissatisfied or discontented, or did you ever see any thing in me which would lead you to suppose that I was otherwise than contented?" "You are generally regarded as a model of good-nature," said Gualtier, in a cautious, noncommittal tone. "Why should I think otherwise? They say that no one but you could live with Miss Pomeroy." Miss Krieff looked away, and a stealthy smile crept over her features. "Good-nature!" she murmured. A laugh that sounded almost like a sob escaped her. Silence followed, and Gualtier sat looking abstractedly at his sheet of music. "How do you like the General?" he asked, abruptly. "How could I help loving Miss Pomeroy's father?" replied Miss Krieff, with the old stealthy smile reappearing. "Is he not just and honorable?" "Both--more too--he is generous and tender. He is above all a fond father; so fond," she added, with something like a sneer, "that all his justice, his tenderness, and his generosity are exerted for the exclusive benefit of that darling child on whom he dotes. I assure you, you can have no idea how touching it is to see them together." "Do you often feel this tenderness toward them?" asked Gualtier, turning his thin sallow face toward her. "Always," said Miss Krieff, slowly. She rose from her chair, where she had taken her seat, and looked fixedly at him for some time without one word. "You appear to be interested in this family," said she at length. Gualtier looked at her for a moment--then his eyes fell. "How can I be otherwise than interested in one like you?" he murmured. "The General befriended you. He found you in London, and offered you a large salary to teach his daughter." "The General was very kind, and is so still." Miss Krieff paused, and looked at him with keen and vigilant scrutiny. "Would you be shocked," she asked at length, "if you were to hear that the General had an enemy?" "That would altogether depend upon who the enemy might be." "An enemy," continued Miss Krieff, with intense bitterness of tone--"in his own family?" "That would be strange," said Gualtier; "but I can imagine an enemy with whom I would not be offended." "What would you think," asked Miss Krieff, after another pause, during which her keen scrutinizing gaze was fixed on Gualtier, "if that enemy had for years been on the watch, and under a thin veil of good-nature had concealed the most vengeful feelings? What would you say if that enemy had grown so malignant that only one desire remained, and that was--to do some injury in some way to General Pomeroy?" "You must tell me more," said Gualtier, "before I answer. I am fully capable of understanding all that hate may desire or accomplish. But has this enemy of whom you speak _done_ any thing? Has she found out any thing? Has she ever discovered any way in which her hate may be gratified?" "You seem to take it for granted that his enemy is a woman!" "Of course." "Well, then, I will answer you. She _has_ found out something--or, rather, she is in the way toward finding out something--which may yet enable her to gratify her desires." "Have you any objections to tell what that may be?" asked Gualtier. Miss Krieff said nothing for some time, during which each looked earnestly at the other. "No," said
