April Shadows.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "QUEEN ISABEL."

HE said there was on earth no fairer sight
Than April shadows from the tall green flags;
We taunted him with overflows of light

From walls of sunrise upon Alpine crags;
Or pageantries of tropic flowers that swoon
In the vague, passionate atmosphere of noon;
Or ranks of crested tumult in the deep;
Or banners of broad tempest on the sky;

But he went murmuring like a man asleep
About those April shadows constantly;

And once I thought I heard him call them "grand."
I smiled, but scoffed not. Then he took my hand,
And, looking at me gravely, like a man
About to tell a secret, thus began:

"The great flags grow sedately. Down in glades
The riot and hurry of the rising Spring
Know them for rulers. All their emerald blades,
Threaded with fires of gold, stand near the shades,
Kept trimly ready for some fairy king;
A blossom hides in every guardian sheaf
Till Summer calls it. Each particular leaf,
Sharp as a spear and tender as a plume,
Lets fall its little breadth of crystal gloom
To wave and flutter on the windy grass,
Or to lie still, if not a sigh should pass

The lips of patient Evening. None can name
The colour of those shadows; for they keep

The tiny snow-stars and the cups of flame
Safe in their shelter; softened, yet the same,
Like sights we love remembered in our sleep.
On the fine limit of their lines of night
Grasses are gems, and lingering dewdrops sparks;

They are not Shadow, they are secret Light;
They are not Lights, but they are lustrous Darks—
Films which no force can rend, no skill hath wrought;
Impalpable and permanent as Thought.

I saw them first"-and here he dropped his voice,
As if he feared to lose a sight so choice

By talking of it rashly-" on a day

Of long delight-just at the brink of May.
Through this rich silence of the woods I heard

The young world growing. Aimless and at ease, Moving or pausing, like a joyful bird,

Who dips and poises on the swinging seas
For ten delicious hours, at last I found
These shadows making wonderful the ground
For none to see. A sentinel I stood

And watched. No louder footstep than a fay's
Touched the frail echoes, till with long delays
A slow soft sunset filled and flushed the wood,
And sank and left us."

Then I understood

How all the sweetness of this day of days
Had passed into the shadows, till they wore
(Like that enchanted ring which seals for good
The long Love-volume after and before)
Its glory in his heart for evermore.

The Trials of the Tredgolds.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "A PRODIGAL SON," &c.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

DISINTERESTEDNESS.

"REVENGE is rubbish," said the Honourable Alfred heartily, in his profoundest bass voice. There would seem to be something of a Christian savour about the sentence; but it is probable that the veteran arrived at his conclusion by rather a pagan process of thought. "I never knew revenge do any man any good. It's mere waste of time. I thought you were above talking such nonsense, Clem; that you knew better than to be going on like a man in a play. Nowadays, if any thing happens to you that you don't like, why, you have to grin and bear it as well as you can; and I'm not sure that it isn't a good plan. It's not pleasant; but it's very safe. Formerly, of course, it was different. If you felt aggrieved, why, you called your man out and winged him if you could, or got winged yourself, just as it might happen. I've been out myself more than once. My affair with Grimstone of the Buffs was in '18 or '19; or was it in '20? I forget the precise year; but it's of no consequence. I hit him in the knee. We were very good friends afterwards; but of course he was lamed for life. Nobody goes to Wimbledon or Wormwood Scrubbs in these times, however, and no one ever did go for revenge particularly; but much more because it was a social and proper sort of thing to do,-a gentlemanly method of settling a difference of opinion. However, you can't call a man out now whatever he does unless you want to be chaffed in all the papers and caricatured in Punch. You must go about and pretend not to mind; and by dint of long pretending you don't care, you won't really care a bit in time. And then, you know, in this case there's no one to fight; you can't call out the City gent just because his stepdaughter's thrown you over; nor his son either; it's quite absurd. This isn't the sort of thing to be settled in that way. You must get the whole thing out of your head, Clem, as 'quick as you can. You'll be better after dinner, if you are careful about your wine. Things always do seem ever so much worse before dinner." "I won't stand it; by Heaven, I won't! I'll pay her out for this somehow or other," Clem cried savagely.

:

"Drop it, Clem; drop it. It's absurd. You can't talk of a woman in that sort of way, you know; it won't do at all.”

"I won't be treated like this by man or woman. I'll let her know who she's got to deal with. I'm not a pitiful fool like that Herbert Gifford, to be wound round her finger, and unwound again, just as she may please. I'll teach her to trick me, the jilt!"

It will be noted that Clem Buckhurst was less courtly and refined out of Clare's presence than in it; but then he is not the only man

whose conduct varies considerably according to the society in which he finds himself. Indeed, some of the most delicate specimens of the dainty class known as "ladies' men" have been known to demean themselves not very nicely when removed from the influence of feminine looks and smiles, and relieved from the necessity of picking and choosing their phrases, and bringing only their prettiest thoughts to the surface. And then, in addition, it must be borne in mind that Clem had been from his cradle a spoilt child, pampered and cossetted in every way; and the notion of being crossed and thwarted made him furious, vindictive, and ungentlemanly even. He had lost his languid ease of manner; he was rocking to and fro, swinging about his limbs, petulantly disquiet. His uncle watched him with sorrowful surprise. He had overrated Clem's man-of-the-world wisdom; he had only seen him in comparatively fair weather; unquestionably he did not appear at all to advantage in a storm. He was beating about, apparently, without rudder or compass; and in his anger he looked almost ugly.

"Be reasonable, Clem, my dear boy; be reasonable," said his uncle gently.

"So I am reasonable, as she shall find. It isn't likely I could bear to be tricked like this, without saying a word, without resenting it. I've been made a fool of."

"You must remember that you gave me to understand some time ago that there was a degree of uncertainty about the issue of the affair."

"If I did, it wasn't because I really thought so. Haven't I been encouraged by her mother-by her stepfather? Wasn't Gifford always asking me to the house? Wasn't it looked upon as a settled thing by every body? And yet she allowed me to go on to the end, without the least hint of her intention to disappoint me; without one effort to spare me the mortification of rejection." This was not quite correct; but he was too wrathful to be particular about such a small matter as truth. "It's deuced hard; and I feel it, I can tell you. And I won't be beaten; I won't give in yet. I'll see Gifford about it; by Heaven, I will! I'll hear what he's got to say about it. Perhaps he can bring her to her senses."

"No, no, Clem, my dear boy; drop it, drop it. Take my advice. What is the good of putting yourself in a rage? It's a great pity; that's all one can say it's very unfortunate: but of course it can't be helped, and it might have been ever so much worse. There's no such great harm done, after all. These Giffords are not so very much in society; the thing won't be much known or talked about. It can't be, unless you go making a foolish uproar about it, which will be in the worst possible taste, and really imprudent. It will affect your future chances in other quarters seriously; it will damage your prestige. The match was a fairly advantageous one, all things considered, and especially if the title is to slip through your fingers; but it's not more than that. There is no real reason, as I've told you before, why a young fellow like you

shouldn't do better-a great deal better. I'm sure, with a little looking about, something quite as desirable might be found for you. Not this season, of course; it's too late for that; but you lie quiet for a few months, and you'll come out again as fresh as paint in the winter. Meanwhile drop all this Edmund-Kean sort of rant about revenge. It's rubbish, I tell you. And don't quarrel with these Gifford people. Why should you? It seems a good sort of a house for dinners and that kind of thing, and the man's lent you money; there can be no possible good in making him your enemy. You can't hurt him; and he may annoy you considerably. Come, Clem, old fellow, get these notions out of your head," the Colonel said kindly, tapping him on the shoulder. "Take a turn with me in the Park, and then we'll dine together. We'll have some of the best Burgundy the Club can give us; or I don't mind a run down to Greenwich to eat whitebait, if you like, though the fish are getting rather large. You'll be quite a new creature afterwards."

But Clem only shook his shoulder away from his uncle's playful tapping, and went on grinding his teeth, biting his nails, very angry indeed; still muttering menaces, and vowing to be avenged. And he didn't caress his light moustache now; he fairly tugged at its delicate points in a way that threatened to destroy them altogether.

The Colonel watched him for a few minutes with patient sadness. He was old and battered, ungodly and graceless, hard and heathen, and very selfish; yet in his padded, corrupt old bosom there existed some stray atoms of tenderness and regard for his brother's son. himself that he liked the boy; that he was handsome and clever above He avowed to others of his age and standing; a dunce at books, very likely, but still one to make his way in the world, to succeed with men and women, latter especially, and secure of attaining a position of some advantage at the last. He couldn't, he owned, see the lad so bent on going a mucker— so he phrased it—without an attempt at setting him right,-without stretching out a helping hand. He didn't understand Clem's state of mind; couldn't see any thing in a love disappointment to justify the wrath that led to the doing of foolish things; he thought the young fellow was talking and acting absurdly. Still he pitied him; was sorry for him; was anxious, if he could, to set him right.

"I fear I bore you, Clem," he said.

Clem did not contradict him. The Colonel began to march up and down heavily, with a sombre expression on his fleshy, red, wrinkled face. When he spoke again, there was a curious unevenness in his voice, which still possessed its cathedral-organ sort of tone; but with the addition, as it now seemed, that the tremolo stop was being made use of, imparting a pathetic character to the music of his speech.

"Look here, Clem," he said slowly; "I am an old fellow, you know. I can't expect to be knocking about many years more; and I don't feel that I am any thing like the man I was. I feel I've changed a good deal for the worse of late. One can never quite get over the effects of that