Miss Garscube was said to be clever—­she was certainly eccentric—­and she was no beauty, but community of tastes in the matter of horses and dogs drew her and Lord Arthur together.

On one of the choicest of October days, when she was following the hounds, and her horse had taken the fences like a creature with wings, he came to one which he also flew over, but fell on the other side, throwing off his rider—­on soft grass, luckily.  But almost before an exclamation of alarm could leave the mouths of the hunters behind, Miss Garscube was on her feet and in the saddle, and her horse away again, as if both had been ignorant of the little mishap that had occurred.  Lord Arthur was immediately behind, and witnessed this bit of presence of mind and pluck with unfeigned admiration:  it won his heart completely; and on her part she enjoyed the genuineness of his homage as she had never enjoyed anything before, and from that day things went on and prospered between them.

People who knew both parties regretted this, and shook their heads over it, prophesying that no good could come of it.  Miss Garscube’s will had never been crossed in her life, and she was a “clever” woman:  Lord Arthur would not submit to her domineering ways, and she would wince under and be ashamed of his want of intellect.  All this was foretold and thoroughly believed by people having the most perfect confidence in their own judgment, so that Lord Arthur and his wife ought to have been, in the very nature of things, a most wretched pair.  But, as it turned out, no happier couple existed in Great Britain.  Their qualities must have been complementary, for they dovetailed into each other as few people do; and the wise persons who had predicted the contrary were entirely thrown out in their calculations—­a fact which they speedily forgot; nor did it diminish their faith in their own wisdom, as, indeed, how could one slight mistake stand against an array of instances in which their predictions had been verified to the letter?

Lord Arthur might not have the intellect which fixes the attention of a nation, but he had plenty for his own fireside—­at least, his wife never discovered any want of it—­and as for her strong will, they had only one strong will between them, so that there could be no collision.  Being thus thoroughly attached and thoroughly happy, what could occur to break up this happiness?  A terrible thing came to pass.  Having had perfect health up to middle life, an acutely painful disease seized Lord Arthur, and after tormenting him for more than a year it changed his face and sent him away.

There is nothing more striking than the calmness and dignity with which people will meet death—­even people from whom this could not have been expected.  No one who did not know it would have guessed how Lord Arthur was suffering, and he never spoke of it, least of all to his wife; while she, acutely aware of it and vibrating with sympathy, never spoke of it to him; and they were happy as those are who know that they are drinking the last drops of earthly happiness.  He died with his wife’s hand in his grasp:  she gave the face—­dead, but with the appearance of life not vanished from it—­one long, passionate kiss, and left him, nor ever looked on it again.