e, lying a little back from it, was a
moderate-sized, red brick house, standing in the midst of lands, and
called Deerham Court. It had once been an extensive farm; but the
present tenant, Lionel's mother, rented the house, but only very little
of the land. The land was let to a neighbouring farmer. Nearly a mile
beyond--you could see its towers and its chimneys from the Court--rose
the stately old mansion, called Deerham Hall, Deerham Court, and a great
deal of the land and property on that side of the village, belonged to
Sir Rufus Hautley, a proud, unsociable man. He lived at the Hall; and
his only son, between whom and himself it was conjectured there existed
some estrangement, had purchased into an Indian regiment, where he was
now serving.

Lionel Verner passed the village, branched off to the right, and entered
the great iron gates which enclosed the courtyard of Deerham Court. A
very unpretending entrance admitted him into a spacious hall, the hall
being the largest and best part of the house. Those great iron gates and
the hall would have done honour to a large mansion; and they gave an
appearance of pretension to Deerham Court which it did not deserve.

Lionel opened a door on the left, and entered a small ante-room. This
led him into the only really good room the house contained. It was
elegantly furnished and fitted up, and its two large windows looked
towards the open country, and to Deerham Hall. Seated by the fire, in a
rich violet dress, a costly white lace cap shading her delicate face,
that must have been so beautiful, indeed, that was beautiful still, was
a lady of middle age. Her seat was low--one of those chairs we are
pleased to call, commonly and irreverently, a prie-dieu. Its back was
carved in arabesque foliage, and its seat was of rich violet velvet. On
a small inlaid table, whose carvings were as beautiful, and its top
inlaid with mosaic-work, lay a dainty handkerchief of lace, a bottle of
smelling-salts, and a book turned with its face downwards, all close at
the lady's elbow. She was sitting in idleness just then--she always did
sit in idleness--her face bent on the fire, her small hands, cased in
white gloves, lying motionless on her lap--ay, a beautiful face once,
though it had grown habitually peevish and discontented now. She turned
her head when the door opened, and a flush of bloom rose to her cheeks
when she saw Lionel.

He went up and kissed her. He loved her much. She loved him, t