A Daughter of Israel by Fred M. White — Read

Along the bold outline of the North-East Coast it would be hard to find a more perfect residence than The Moat. Down a barricade of steepening rock lay the wide-spreading sands; behind uprose a sweeping woodland, and in the basin thus formed the house lay. Once it had been a grim castle, the walls of which still stood, though the great dining-hall, once resonant with the clank of mail and clatter of arms, now did duty for the stables. The house was cunningly built in the ruins, so that from a distance it was hard to distinguish the place of habitation, as the ancient walls hid the more modern structure from view. Internally the place was modern enough, giving it a peculiarly incongruous look, which was anything but unpleasing. Now, as night had fallen, and the sloping woods cast deep shadows downward, it was easy to perceive the place was inhabited, for lights gleamed out far across the sea, making a beacon and a guide for the fisherboats out upon the German Ocean. There was an air of festivity in these lights, glowing ruddy in every window; a show of plate upon the oaken sideboard in the large dining-room, racing cups and salvers, trophies of prowess by flood and field of Decies long dead and gone. The branching antlers upon the walls gleamed in the soft light of tapers, the claret stood warming in the fender, and the table glittered with china and silver and fragile glass. In the drawing-room, with windows barred and shuttered, as if to keep out the low sob of the tide, was still warmth and brightness. Standing before the fire--for the night was chill--in the typical British attitude, stood Sir Percival. He had aged but little since we saw him last; a little stouter, perhaps, a little more polished about the temples, but prosperity sits easily upon us, and defies, as naught else can do, the onslaught of Time's artillery.

There was another figure, too, half-shaded from the light, seated in a deep armchair, with legs crossed in a comfortable abandonment. Like Sir Percival, he was in evening dress, which set off a fine figure and pleasing face to advantage. Victor Decie was not precisely handsome, but he had an honest, pleasant face, and that peculiar expression, half natural, half educated, which stamps the cast of Vere De Vere. It is hard, says someone, to be mistaken for a gentleman; it would have been harder for Victor to have been confounded with anything else.