upon as evidence of fresh crime on the part of the
"pagan," who was accused of having, in some way or other, caused the
unfortunate lad's death. And the old farm-house on the pine-covered
knoll was shut up and silent,--its doors and windows safely barred
against wind and rain,--and only the doves, left to forage for
themselves, crooned upon its roof, all day, or strutting on the deserted
paths, ruffled their plumage in melancholy meditation, as though
wondering at the absence of the fair ruling spirit of the place, whose
smile had been brighter than the sunshine. The villagers avoided it as
though it were haunted--the roses drooped and died untended,--and by
degrees the old homestead grew to look like a quaint little picture of
forgotten joys, with its deserted porch and fading flowers.

Meanwhile, a thrill of amazement, incredulity, disappointment,
indignation, and horror, rushed like a violent electric shock through
the upper circles of London society, arousing the deepest disgust in the
breasts of match-making matrons, and seriously ruffling the pretty
feathers of certain bird-like beauties who had just began to try their
wings, and who "had expectations." The cause of the sensation was very
simple. It was an announcement in the _Times_--under the head of
"Marriages"--and ran as follows:

"At the English Consulate, Christiania, Sir Philip Bruce-Errington,
Bart., to Thelma, only daughter of Olaf Gueldmar, _bonde_, of the
Altenfjord, Norway. No cards."

BOOK II.

THE LAND OF MOCKERY

CHAPTER XVIII.

"There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys."
MACBETH.

"I think," said Mrs. Rush-Marvelle deliberately, laying down the
_Morning Post_ beside her breakfast-cup, "I think his conduct is
perfectly disgraceful!"

Mr. Rush-Marvelle, a lean gentleman with a sallow, clean-shaven face and
an apologetic, almost frightened manner, looked up hastily.

"Of whom are you speaking, my dear?" he inquired.

"Why, of that wretched young man Bruce-Errington! He ought to be ashamed
of himself!"

And Mrs. Marvelle fixed her glasses more firmly on her small nose, and
regarded her husband almost reproachfully. "Don't tell me, Montague,
that you've forgotten that scandal about him! He went off last year, in
the middle of the season, to Norway, in his yacht, with three of the
very fastest fellows he could pick out from his acquaintance--regular
re