“Kurz ist der Schmerz und ewig ist die Freude.”

Captain Winstanley said no more about Lord Mallow; but Violet had to listen to much plaintive bemoaning from her mother, who could not understand how any well-brought-up young woman could refuse an Irish peer with a fine estate, and the delights of a trousseau made by the renowned Theodore. Upon this latter detail Mrs. Winstanley dwelt at more length than upon that minor circumstance in a marriage — the bridegroom.
“It would have been such a pleasure to me to plan your trousseau, darling,” she said; “such an occupation for my mind in these wretched winter afternoons when there is no possibility of driving or making calls. I should have attended to everything myself. Theodore’s general way is to make a list of what she thinks necessary, allowing her customer to correct it; but I should not have been satisfied with that, even from Theodore, though I admit that her taste is perfect. And then, you know, she is hand in glove with Worth, and that alone is a liberal education, as somebody says somewhere about something. No, dear, I would have done it all myself. I know the exact shades that suit your complexion, the dashes of colour that contrast with and light up your hair, the style that sets off your figure. Your trousseau should be talked about in society, and even described in the fashion magazines. And then Lord Mallow is really so very nice — and has such a charming baritone — what more can you want?”
“Only to love him, mamma dearest, which I do not, and never shall. That frank loud voice of his does not stir a fibre of my heart. I like him extremely, and so I do Mr. Scobel, and Bates the groom. Lord Mallow is no more to me than either of those. Indeed, Bates is much nearer and dearer, for he loved my father.”
“My dear Violet, you have the most republican ideas. Imagine anyone putting Bates on a level with Lord Mallow!”
“I don’t, mamma. I only say he is more to me than Lord Mallow could ever be.”
“Your travelling-dress,” murmured Mrs. Winstanley, her mind still dwelling on the trousseau; “that affords more scope for taste than the wedding-gown. Velvet suits your style, but is too heavy for your age. A soft clinging cashmere, now, one of those delicious neutral tints that have been so fashionable lately, over an underskirt of a warmer colour in poult de soie, a picturesque costume that would faintly recall Lely’s portraits at Hampton Court.”
“Dear mamma, what is the use of talking about dresses I am never going to require? Not for all the finery that Theodore ever made would I marry Lord Mallow, or anybody else. I am happy enough with you, and my horse, and my dog, and all the dear old things, animal and vegetable, that belong to this dear old place. I shall never leave you, or the Forest. Can you not be content to know this and let me alone?”
“You are a very wilful girl, Violet, and ridiculously blind to your own interests,” remarked Mrs. Winstanley, throwing herself back in her chair with a fretful look, “and you put me in an absurd position. The duchess quite congratulated me about your brilliant prospects, when we were chatting together on New Year’s Eve. Anybody could see how devoted Lord Mallow was, she said, and what a splendid match it would be for you.”
“Let the Duchess marry her own daughter, and leave me alone,” cried Vixen scornfully.
This was the kind of thing she had to endure continually during the chill winter months that followed Lord Mallow’s departure. Even her old friends the Scobels worried her about the Irish peer, and lamented her inability to perceive his merits. It was known throughout her particular circle that she had been idiotic enough to refuse Lord Mallow. Mrs. Winstanley had whispered the fact to all her friends, under the seal of strictest secrecy. Of all Vixen’s acquaintance, Roderick Vawdrey was the only one who said no word to her about Lord Mallow; but he was much kinder to her after the Irishman’s departure than he had shown himself during his visit.
Spring put on her green mantle; and when the woods were starred with primroses, and the banks lovely with heaven-hued dog-violets, everyone of any pretension to importance in the social scale began to flee from the Forest as from a loathsome place. Lord Ellangowan’s train of vans and waggons set out for the railway-station with their load of chests and baskets. Julius Caesar’s baggage was as nothing to the Saratoga trunks and bonnet-boxes of Lady Ellangowan. The departure of the Israelites from Egypt was hardly a mightier business than this emigration of the Ellangowan household. The Duke and Duchess, and Lady Mabel Ashbourne, left for the Queen Anne house at Kensington, whereat the fashionable London papers broke out in paragraphs of rejoicing, and the local journals bewailed the extinction of their sun.
The London season had begun, and only the nobodies stayed in the Forest to watch the rosy sunsets glow and fade behind the yellow oaks; to see the purple of the beech-boughs change mysteriously to brightest green; and the bluebells burst into blossom in the untrodden glades and bottoms. Captain Winstanley found a small house in Mayfair, which he hired for six weeks, at a rent which he pronounced exorbitant. He sacrificed his own ideas of prudence to the gratification of his wife; who had made up her mind that she had scarcely the right to exist until she had been presented to her sovereign in her new name. But when Mrs. Winstanley ventured to suggest the Duchess of Dovedale, as her sponsor on this solemn occasion, her husband sternly tabooed the notion.
“My aunt, Lady Susan Winstanley, is the proper person to present you,” he said authoritatively.
“But is she really your aunt, Conrad? You never mentioned her before we were married?”
“She is my father’s third cousin by marriage; but we have always called her Aunt. She is the widow or Major–General Winstanley, who distinguished himself in the last war with Tippoo Sa?b, and had a place at Court in the reign of William the Fourth.”
“She must be dreadfully old and dowdy,” sighed Mrs. Winstanley, whose only historical idea of the Sailor King’s reign was as a period of short waists and beaver bonnets.
“She is not a chicken, and she does not spend eight hundred a year on her dressmaker,” retorted the Captain. “But she is a very worthy woman, and highly respected by her friends. Why should you ask a favour o............