And had he heard before from Mr Hesketh what he learned from the letter on his return, that the manor-house and park were unlikely to be soon let, or to bring any profitable addition to the rents at present, from a fresh and growing rumour that they were haunted, it would have startled him with a superstitious feeling far more oppressive than any at Stoke. But, as it was, with a sober return to accustomed thoughts, calmed by his unwonted self-scrutiny, for him so deep—and soothed by gentle presence—Sir Godfrey slipped from his practical, matter-of-fact English newspaper to repose; though with the melancholy conviction that his brother’s understanding had indeed partially given way. They had not latterly seen very much of each other: John was now at peace; his fruitless life had come to an end. The baronet was awoke only by the rustling entrance of Mrs Mason to pour out the chocolate—Mr Thorpe’s awkward haste to set her chair—the bringing in of wax-lights—the pause before grace was said, with the tutor’s devout formality. The evening talk was as duly closed by Mr Thorpe’s reading of the appointed prayers—another advantage never gained by Lady Willoughby till their departure abroad required a tutor. As if there were not strange noises dying far and wide through the city, till across the river could be heard the great clock of the Invalides. As if the atmosphere of the world were not at that hour infected with inscrutable sympathies and mysterious desires; which gathered in Paris, as after long heat that malady of the air, felt keenly by the lower creatures: so that it might have been working vaguely even with Sir Godfrey. And as if, though clouded and stagnant, even well-nigh lost, the judgment of the departed might not have exercised some acute thought—deeper even than the sharpest lawyer could track it. So quiet, after prayers, was the outer night over the bare roofs, and lights, and distant pinnacles of the city—the glimpse of the river, the lamps on the bridge, the trees of the Champ de Mars—and so wide with its floating films of fair May-cloud, softening the few stars—that Rose Willoughby shaded her candle to peep out at it, lifting the blind, and putting her face close to the window-glass, after she had said her prayers, and was half ready to go to bed. Listening to Mrs Mason’s steps in the next room, extinguisher in hand, lest her door should suddenly be opened to that lady’s most indignant surprise—Rose thought still of to-morrow’s drive toward Versailles. CHAPTER V.—FALLING FLEUR-DE-LYS. “Quel triste abaissement! Quelle immortelle gloire! Que de cris de douleur! Que de chants de victoire! Cessons de nous troubler; notre Dieu, quelque jour, Devoilera ce grand mystère. Révérons sa colère; Espérons en son amour.” _Athalie._