June

Chapter I. Tune

! June ! where are you ?' " ' I am here,' answers a charming voice, and the owner of it trips out from behind a rose-bush, holding a cluster of half-blown crimson blossoms of which she has despoiled it. June, the month, links spring to sum mer — in June the birds sing their sweet est, the senses are keenest — June bears the hope and promise of the year. June has VOL. I. B JUNE hot fits and cold fits, summer skies and angry tears, balmy airs and chilling winds. June is young and fresh, bright and hope ful, gay and careless in the faith of good days to come — June, when fair, is fairest of the fair, and June the month is a fit prototype of June the smiling maiden who answers so promptly to the cry, ' June ! June ! where are you ?' I shall not describe to you the form or features of my heroine.

I will but tell you that she is fair, and leave you to make her picture according to your fancy. She has the love of approbation, the keen desire to please, to be liked aud loved, without which a woman, beautiful as Venus, can never truthfully be called charming. This quality, indeed, is not, as a rule, possessed by actually beautiful women. Charming has become a cant JUNE phrase to-day, and is used to express a thousand things that it does not mean ; is applied to a thousand people whom it is furthest from describing. But June is charming because she de sires to charm — because she is eager for love and praise, and takes pains to win them. Though not from everyone ! — only from those she cares for. There is a certain proud wilfulness in her nature, and she likes, with the impetuousness of a young spirit, to be either friend or foe.

She does not want the liking of those to whom she is indifferent, and there is not a shadow of truckling or time-servingness in her disposition. As for her name, she was born in June, and her mother, from some quaint fancy, called her after the month, which then she thought the brightest, happiest in the b JUNE year. It might be a good augury — so she hoped and prayed. ' June ! June ! where are you ?' ' I am here,' answered June. ' What has happened, Madge ?' Madge, a hoyden of sixteen, pounced upon her cousin, thrust a vigorous hand through her arm, and cried, in jubilant accents, ' Tom has come. Of course he asked for you at once, and Aggie said she thought you had gone home, but I said I knew you hadn't, and that I would find you ; whereupon Tom beamed, and Aggie looked like thunder.' June smiled.

By this time they were half across the lawn, and a big, fair young man came striding out of the French windows to meet them. He looked, as Madge said, JUNE beaming. A joyous light shone in his blue eyes as he took June's hand in an eager clasp. No one, seeing the expression of his face, would have entertained a moment's doubt as to his feelings for the young lady whom he was greeting. And June ? She looked honestly pleased to see him ; smiled in his eyes ; returned the pressure of his hand, and said, kindly, ' I am so glad you have come back, Tom. It was so dull without you.' June did not blush, nor look coy or embarrassed, which was, perhaps, rather an unfavourable symptom for Tom. ' Was it ?' he cried eagerly. ' I'm awfully glad to hear you say that. I've been longing, longing, I can't tell you how, to get back.

And now I have come a week before the time was up.' JUNE Madge transferred her hand from June's arm to Tom's. ' Well !' she cried, for she never could bear to be left out of the conversation for a minute, ' has aunt found a Duke's daugh ter for you, and are we going to have a real swell cousin ?' ' They won't have me,' laughed Tom, his eyes beaming more than ever as they kept their hold on the face of which it seemed he could not have enough. ' I don't suit them. I am not their sort. Fashionable young ladies don't care for me. I can't dance, and I can't talk their jargon, and I can't make-believe to spoon them when I don't feel like it ; so they don't think me worth the trouble of noticing.' ' How disappointed aunt must be !' said Madge, laughing aloud. ' It must have JUNE been as bad as taking out a plain daughter.' ' Never mind, Tom,' uttered June, giving him a friendly glance. 'You have come back to people who appreciate you.

And I am sure you are happier here, are you not?' There was undoubtedly a shade of coquetry in her glance and manner as the young lady said this. ' 1 should think 1 am !' returned Tom, with an emphasis that would better be rendered by capitals than italics. ' Poor aunt !' remarked Madge again, mischievously, pretending to sigh: ' My mother had Dal,' answered Tom laughing, ' and he is exactly after her own heart.' ' But he is not her son,' said June. ' What is he like ?' asked Madge. JUNE 'He is "quite lovely!"' replied Tom. ' So I heard a lady say.' ' That means he's like a hairdresser's dummy, I suppose,' said Madge scornfully. ' It sounds like it, but he isn't a bit. He's a very good-looking young chap, and very manly and plucky. And he dances " like a seraph," as some other lady remarked, and looks at every pretty woman as if he loved her.' ' How delightful !' cried Madge. ' Oh !

Tom, I wish you would have him down here !' ' Do you suppose,' said June, with mock humility, ' that he would look at such country bumpkins as we are ?' Tom bestowed on her a gaze of adora tion, which implied that she was far supe rior to every other woman in the world. He would have said it in so many words JUNE. had they been alone, but he was afraid of Madge, whose chaff was merciless. ' He has promised to come. He is really tremendously fond of my mother. I feel quite an outsider when he is there.' And Tom laughed a frank, honest laugh, entirely devoid of envy or jealousy. June seemed to feel a touch of pique on her friend's behalf, and said, ' We will leave your mother to entertain this " lovely seraph" ' (with a scornful accent), ' and we will make all the more of you.' Tom answered her by a radiant glance.

At this moment Agnes came out of the window, smiling, yet scarcely looking pleased. ' Mamma says, Tom, will you stay and have high-tea with us ? She is afraid it will not be a very good substitute for your JUNE dinner, but we shall be delighted if you will.' Tom felt himself rather in a cleft-stick. If June were going to stay, he would accept joyfully — if not, he wanted to walk home with her, and he was not altogether indifferent to his dinner when there was no object to be gained by going without it. Yet he would not for the world be impolite to Agnes and Madge, though they were his cousins. He hesitated for an instant. 'June is not going to stay to-night,' interposed Madge, reading his thoughts with her sharp instinct. Tom flushed crimson through his fair skin : June tried to appear unconscious, and Agnes closed her thin lips tighter, and looked as if she would like to pinch her sister.

JUNE * Thanks, awfully,' said Tom, after a moment's pause, ' but there are one or two people I ought to see to-night, I daresay my aunt will let me come another night instead. Is she in the drawing room ? I will go in and see her,' and he marched off. ' I don't know whether you know it, Madge,' observed Agnes viciously, ' but your new waltz is on the floor, and Boz has torn it nearly to shreds.' ' Oh, the wretch !' cried Madge, darting towards the house. Agnes looked at her watch. ' It is ten minutes to seven,' she re marked to June, with an acidulated smile. ' Won't auntie be waiting tea for you ?' She wanted to get June away before Tom came out again. She was eternally trying to separate this pair, although she JUNE knew that Tom was deeply in love with her cousin. But she had heard that, when a woman is firmly purposed to marry a man, she not unfrequently succeeds, and she had long ago determined to marry Tom, if there was any truth in the saying.

June saw through this ruse, and was provoked by it. She was not in love with Tom ; but, when anyone attempted to put obstacles between him and her, her regard for him went up with amazing rapidity. She particularly wanted him to walk home with her to-night, but, as she was far too proud to seem to run after him, she answered, with a slightly heightened colour, ' Yes, I must be going. I did not know it was so late.' And she turned away in the direction of the gate. JUNE. ' Give my love to auntie,' Agnes called after her sweetly. June did not reply or so much as turn her head, which she held very straight up in the air. She would not condescend to linger even when she got into the road, being possessed of that strong instinct of self-respect which prevents a proud wo man from seeming to make the smallest advance to a man.

She had not, however gone three hundred yards before she heard rapid steps behind her, and in another moment Tom, flushed and breathless, was beside her. ' Why did you go without saying good bye to me?' he asked reproachfully. ' It is late, and Mamma will be waiting,' answered June ; not that she desired to screen Agnes from Tom's displeasure, but because her dignity forbade her to tell JUNE him how she had been hurried away. He accepted the explanation in perfect good faith. Now that he was not afraid of Madge's sharp eyes and tongue, he let his gaze dwell upon June to his heart's content. ' I can't tell you,' he said, with immense emphasis, ' how utterly delighted I am to get back. And you really have missed me ! you really are glad to see me again !' ' I am delighted,' answered June, smiling up in his face.

His eyes told how fain he was to snatch her to his heart at this confession, but he had the fear of her that pure love puts into the breast of a brave man. And June was not a girl to be kissed in a lane like a dairy-maid. ' Have you thought of me sometimes since I have been away ?' JUNE ' Every day.' ' And have you thought,' trying to check his eagerness — ' have you thought whether — whether you could give me any hope ?' ' You promised,' returned June, flushing a little and affecting an air of displeasure, ' not to say another word about that for at least six months.' ' But it's so hard,' almost groaned Tom 'you don't know how awfully hard it is!' ' Tell me about London,' said June im periously. ' I am sure you must have seen plenty of lovely and charming women there to make you forget all about me.' She gave him one of those dangerous glances as she spoke the last words to qualify their apparent humility. ' There was not one who could hold a candle to you !' swore Tom, with fervour.

JUNE ' What a goose you are !' said June, but she was by no means displeased with what she affected to consider her folly. ' It is gospel truth !' cried Tom, more fervently than before. By this time they had nearly reached the rose-covered cottage where June and her mother lived. ' May I come in and see Mrs. Rivers ?' he asked, and June gave permission. ' And, if I. call to-morrow about four, shall I find you in ? I've brought you a little present from town — just a trifle as a reminder.' ' How good of you !' said June. ' Yes, I shall be at home to-morrow.' Then they went into the house together. A lady rose from a low chair as they en tered the little drawing-room — a lady whom one had no difficulty in recognising JUNE. \l as June's mother, although her eyes and hair were several shades darker.

She was rather tall, with an almost girlish figure, but her face had a worn and suffering look. For the moment, as she greeted Tom, this died away in a smile, and, for his part, he looked almost as pleased to see her as he had looked at sight of June. ' Is it you, Tom ?' she asked, in a voice that was own mother to June's. ' What ! tired of London already?' ' Yes,' he answered heartily. ' I have come back, and I never was so glad in all my life to get away from a place.' ' But, my dear boy, what does your mother say?' ' She isn't extra pleased,' admitted Tom, ' but she saw I shouldn't do any good, however long I stayed. I'm not fit for vol. i. c JUNE London life — I hate it — it makes me feel like a bird in a cage.' ' Poor little bird !' said Mrs. Rivers smiling. ' You must tell us all about your visit.

You know, we women look upon London as a sort of Paradise.' ' Oh, yes,' said Tom — ' of course, it's quite different for women. It's only natu ral they should like it.' ' I don't know whether they would care for it if they had it all to themselves,' replied Mrs. Rivers. ' They would want some of your sex to keep them company.' ' Well, there are lots of fellows willing enough,' remarked Tom. ' I don't know what it is with me ' (reflectively) : ' whether it's the want of air or having to wear different clothes, but— but' (emphatically) ' I hate it.' ' But, Tom,' said June, with a shade of JUNE. regret in her voice, ' don't you like the theatres, or the opera, or balls, or the Park ?' ' No,' answered Tom resolutely. ' At least, I like the play — that is, if it makes me laugh. But,' with an inkling of the drift of her thoughts, ' I should like it all, I daresay, if I had anyone with me I cared about.' ' Yes,' and Mrs. Rivers gave a little sigh : ' what a difference that makes to everything !' ' It's getting late,' remarked Tom, though he was dreadfully loth to take his leave. ' I'm afraid I must be going.' ' I wish we could ask you to stay,' said Mrs. Rivers, ' but our modest little tea would be a very poor substitute for your dinner.' Tom did not say how fain he would c'_ JUNE even go without dinner to stay another hour in the company that he loved ; he had delicate instincts ; he was afraid of putting these dear women, of whom he was so heartily fond, out of the way. ' I am coming to-morrow afternoon,' he told Mrs. Rivers, and added, ' May I ?

I have brought you and June a little re minder from London.' ' Is it a mug with " For a good girl " on it?' asked June saucily. ' Perhaps Tom does not think that would be appropriate,' said Mrs. Rivers, putting a loving hand on the girl's shoulder. Tom only looked his answer. He was never ready with a pretty speech, though he would have given the world sometimes to be able to make one. But oftentimes the people who have the gift of saying pretty things have not the heart to feel JUNE. them, and those who have the heart, lack the ready tongue. Tom bade a lingering good-bye, and walked off with a buoyant step and a light heart. He was going to see his love to morrow — to have that long, uninterrupted talk with her which he had been unable, and had, indeed, hardly expected, to com pass to-day — to look into those eyes wherein his heaven lay ; at those rosy lips which dropped more pearls and diamonds than all Bond Street boasts — lips which some day he ardently hoped to kiss, yet half accused himself of grossness for the thought.

For his love of June was as pure and exalted as the love of a man can be ; he looked upon her as an angel with the divine failings which make the angel human, the humanized angel a woman. June was Tom's first, and last, and only JUNE love. When, at eighteen, he came home from Eton and found her and her mother established in the Rose Cottage, within ten minutes' walk of the Rectory and fif teen of the Hall, he, in the course of one fortnight, lost his heart to her. Miss June Rivers was then thirteen, but Miss June Rivers, though a child in years, had already something of the woman in her, and was by no means deficient in the knowledge of how to smile or to frown at a lover ; to send him up to Olympus or to cast him into abject despair. Her brightness, her cleverness, her quick wit were just the qualities to win the admiration of a youth not similarly gifted ; but June had the still greater charm of a natural soft ness and sympathy, without which Clevel and brilliant women are often hard.

Tom had physical strength and courage : June JUNE had the master mind. She played with him, was sometimes cruel, but more often kind ; she accepted his devotion — she liked him to be her slave. And Tom was the Squire, and Miss June was not indifferent to the prestige of having the great man of the place for her humble servant and captive. But' June had her own ideas about love and lovers, and Tom, good and devoted as he was, did not fulfil them. It was not enough that he loved her — not enough that she liked him — in day-dreams and twilight reveries she had instincts of some greater, diviner feeling — a yearning of her heart to another's. She had read in her romances how lovers felt one to another • when she came across those potent lines, ' And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips,' JUNE she knew there was something which to feel would be divine ; there was an emotion which never, never had come near her in Tom's presence.

Once, shyly, diffidently, he had attempted to clasp her in his arms, and it had been repulsive, hateful to her, and she had bidden him with flashing eyes never to presume thus again. Perhaps, ultimately, she thought, she might come to love him — she could con template the idea of marrying him some future day with great complacency. But it was always some future day — possibly two, or three, or four years hence. But Tom was beginning to feel that he could uot go in for an indefinite time in an indefinite position.

Chapter II

sTlOM was a trial to his mother, the -*- Honourable Mrs. Ellesmere. He had never told her a lie, never given her a moment's cause for anxiety or unhappi ness ; neither man, woman, nor child had ever brought a complaint against him since he had arrived at years of discretion. Yet he was a trial and a vexation to her. Most mothers would have gone on their knees daily and thanked God for such a son ; but Mrs. Ellesmere, though she ad mitted grudgingly that Tom was a very good fellow, did not at all appreciate the JUNE qualities he possessed, since he lacked others which in her eyes seemed more important. She was a very ambitious, a thoroughly worldly woman. If Tom had been a brilliant, dashing scapegrace, she would have idolised him, and could have forgiven him anything ; but Tom was honest and mediocre, and she had nothing to forgive.

He was not in any way what she wanted him to be, not even in appear ance. He was a fine young fellow, with frank blue eyes, a trifle blunt of feature ; he looked like a gentleman, but a country gentleman. He made a capital Squire, but amongst the gilded youth of cities he did not shine. And Mrs. Ellesmere was exceptionally weak about a handsome face. Tom had neither the grace, the languors, nor the effrontery of young men of fash ion ; he was shy and modest with women, JUNE he could not flatter or be seductively im pertinent to their faces, and tear their reputation to shreds (collectively, not in dividually) as soon as their backs were turned — all women were to him objects either of respect or pity. The good ones were angels, the others were weak, and, therefore, appealed to a man's chivalry and protective power.

Mrs. Ellesmere had longed to be proud of her son, but she wanted outward attain ments, not the secret virtues of heart and mind. Tom had never distinguished him self in any way that could send a thrill of satisfaction through her breast. He had done nothing to make himself talked about. At Eton and Oxford he had been one of the many. He did not learn, though for that Mrs. Ellesmere cared little. He played cricket, and football, JUNE and boated a bit, but his performances were all average — he was neither in the cricket nor the football eleven, nor the eight. And, as he was not clever, his mother thought she had every right to expect him to excel in athletics. His masters reported favourably of him as to conduct, but pronounced him no scholar, and rather inclined to be rough and noisy. His companions voted him a good chap — sometimes a rare good chap. A more liberal and good-natured lad than Tom never breathed.

At Oxford he was only got through ' smalls ' by a herculean effort — most of his time was spent in such sport as he could get. He became a fair shot, he was a plucky rider, but even in the hunting-field he had never done any thing to make his name notorious. In one art alone Tom excelled — he was a JUNE. first-rate fisherman. On that accomplish ment, however, his mother looked with utter scorn ; the world does not stand on the bank to see a man throw a fly or play a salmon, and Mrs. Ellesmere thought nothing of success unless it had spectators or an audience. Tom, having disappointed her in every other way, all she now asked or expected of him was to make a good marriage — a good marriage as she understood it : to choose a woman of high birth or large fortune. Here, as usual, Tom thwarted her by falling in love with June, who, though fairly connected, could lay no claim to greatness of ancestry, or to even a moderate fortune.

Personally, Mrs. Elles mere liked June, but she objected exceed ingly to have her for a daughter-in-law. But Tom, the most obedient and dutiful JUNE of sons, was firm on this one point. June was the only woman in the world for him, and, if he could win her, she and no other should be mistress at the Hall. Mrs. Ellesmere dropped the subject— there was no hurry for the present to oppose him, and she thought, when the time arrived, June would be her best ally. She saw exactly how matters stood between the young people ; if it became necessary, she would show June something of life, and throw her into the society of men who would be almost as attractive to the girl as they were to herself. It would not be a very motherly act to Tom, but his happiness was, as a matter of fact, not the first object of her existence.

On the day after his return from town, Tom came to call at the Rose Cottage punctually at the time appointed. But JUNE. June was not there. She had been sent for to the Rectory, as the singing-master had unexpectedly changed his day, and come over on the chance of its being con venient to his pupils. June was educated with her cousins. Mrs. Bryan Ellesmere, wife of Tom's uncle, the Reverend Bryan Ellesmere, was sister to Mrs. Rivers, and when Captain Rivers died, leaving his widow indiffer ently provided for, Mrs. Bryan at once suggested that her sister should come to the Rose Cottage, then vacant, and that June should have the benefit of her cousins' governess and masters. And for five years the programme had been successfully carried out with fewer differences, jealousies, and heart-burnings than might have been expected, considering that June so far outshone her companions in beauty and JUNE talent.

But Mrs. Bryan was a placid, easy-tempered woman, and Mrs. Rivers had an immense amount of tact, and was, besides, thoroughly conscious of and grate ful for the advantages which her sister's kindness gave June. Tom might have been a stumbling-block, but that Mrs. Bryan had a rooted aversion to marriage between first cousins ; a feeling which, as we know, was not shared by her elder daughter. Tom arrived at the Rose Cottage, and, finding Mrs. Rivers alone, was for a moment conscious of a pang of disappointment, when he suddenly bethought him self how a tete-a-tete might be turned to advantage. He had greeted Mrs. Rivers, had heard the explanation of June's absence, when the idea in question smote him, and caused JUNE. him to blush like a schoolgirl, and then turn sharply to the window to conceal his confusion.

Mrs. Rivers, whose instincts were re markably quick, knew in a moment what was coming, and was well pleased that he should speak. She loved Tom : she re cognised and valued those excellent quali ties in him which his mother made so light of — she knew that his was a heart of oak, on which a woman could safely lean ; and loving June more than all else in the world — having, indeed, no other thought but for her welfare — she would fain have given her into Tom's strong, safe keeping. If she loved him ! The best man in the world is a bad husband, a dangerous warder for the woman who loves him not. Tom came back and leaned against the VOL. I. d JUNE mantelshelf. He was very nervous and a little bit excited. ' I want to say something to you — may I ?' he asked, and Mrs. Rivers looked up at him with the sweet smile which made her sad face ten years younger all at once. ' You may say anything you like.' Then Tom broke into his discourse. ' You know — I'm sure you know how I love June.

Going away, and seeing all these other women of whom my mother thinks so much, has only made me love and admire her ten times more ; she is as far beyond them as — as anything can be.' ' That is indeed praise,' said Mrs. Rivers, who, in her heart of hearts, thought it no more than her darling's due. ' It's true — it's gospel true,' cried Tom, with energy. Then he faltered a bit, but, fighting with his diffidence, half conquered JUNE. it, and went on. ' I am getting so un settled. I did not feel it so much before I went away, but now I feel as if I must have something to go upon. Do you — do you,' imploringly, ' think she cares at all for me ? — do you think she will marry me some day ? I don't want to hurry her — I would wait a year — two years,' wistfully, * if she would only give me a little hope to live on ; but what I can't stand is thinking that I may go on month after month like this, and then, some day — Heaven knows how long hence ! — she may say she finds she doesn't really care for me.' Tom had the most sympathetic listener.

Mrs. Rivers felt for him, and knew what he felt, but she would not say a word more than she conscientiously could. ' My dear boy,' she answered him, not d __ JUNE without a certain amount of hesitation in her tone, ' I know exactly how you feel. What you say is perfectly just and fair. I don't think I need tell you how glad I should be to have you for a son — there is no man in the world to whom I would so gladly give my darling.' And she looked up at him with a glance of sincere affection, whilst her eyes filled with tears. 'God bless you !' cried Tom, whose own eyes were dim, and he took her fragile hand, and, with an impulse which gallantry would not have prompted him to show the fairest lady in the land, he kissed it twice. ' I wish I had a mother who gave me credit for being something better than a lout and a fool.' It was the first time that Mrs. Rivers had ever heard him express the least con- JUNE. sciousness of or bitterness about his mother's feeling towards him.