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diff --git a/40936.txt b/40936.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 600a4e5..0000000 --- a/40936.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,21205 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Johnny Ludlow, Third Series, by Mrs. Henry -Wood - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - - - - -Title: Johnny Ludlow, Third Series - - -Author: Mrs. Henry Wood - - - -Release Date: October 4, 2012 [eBook #40936] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHNNY LUDLOW, THIRD SERIES*** - - -E-text prepared by David Edwards, eagkw, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - http://archive.org/details/johnnyludlowthir00wood - - -Transcriber's note: - - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - - Text enclosed by plus signs is in Old English font - (+Old English+). - - Small capitals were changed to all capitals. - - A list of corrections is at the end of the book. - - - - - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -THIRD SERIES - -[Illustration] - - -JOHNNY LUDLOW - -by - -MRS. HENRY WOOD - -Author of -"East Lynne," "The Channings," etc. - -THIRD SERIES. - - - - - - - -+Twenty-Third Thousand+ - -+London:+ -Macmillan and Co., Limited. -New York: the Macmillan Company. -1899. - -London: -Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Limited, -Stamford Street and Charing Cross. - - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE - - THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE 1 - - CRABB RAVINE 43 - - OUR VISIT 87 - - JANET CAREY 112 - - DR. KNOX 135 - - HELEN WHITNEY'S WEDDING 158 - - HELEN'S CURATE 180 - - JELLICO'S PACK 203 - - CAROMEL'S FARM 223 - - CHARLOTTE AND CHARLOTTE 244 - - THE LAST OF THE CAROMELS 267 - - A DAY IN BRIAR WOOD 290 - - THE STORY OF DOROTHY GRAPE: DISAPPEARANCE 313 - - THE STORY OF DOROTHY GRAPE: IN AFTER YEARS 335 - - LADY JENKINS: MINA 359 - - LADY JENKINS: DOUBT 382 - - LADY JENKINS: MADAME 406 - - LADY JENKINS: LIGHT 429 - - THE ANGELS' MUSIC 452 - - - - - "God sent his Singers upon earth - With songs of sadness and of mirth, - That they might touch the hearts of men, - And bring them back to heaven again." - LONGFELLOW. - - - - -JOHNNY LUDLOW - - - - -THE MYSTERY OF JESSY PAGE. - - -I. - -Our old grey church at Church Dykely stood in a solitary spot. Servant -maids (two of ours once, Hannah and Molly), and silly village girls went -there sometimes to watch for the "shadows" on St. Mark's Eve, and owls -had a habit of darting out of the belfry at night. Within view of the -church, though at some distance from it, stood the lonely, red-brick, -angular dwelling-house belonging to Copse Farm. It was inhabited by Mr. -Page, a plain worthy widower, getting in years; his three daughters -and little son. Abigail and Susan Page, two experienced, sensible, -industrious young women, with sallow faces and bunches of short dark -curls, were at this period, about midway between twenty and thirty: -Jessy, very much younger, was gone out to get two years' "finishing" at -a plain boarding-school; Charles, the lad, had bad health and went to -school by day at Church Dykely. - -Mr. Page fell ill. He would never again be able to get about much. His -two daughters, so far as indoor work and management went, were hosts in -themselves, Miss Abigail especially; but they could not mount a horse to -superintend out-of-doors. Other arrangements were made. The second son -of Mr. Drench, a neighbouring farmer and friend, came to the Copse -Farm by day as overlooker. He was paid for his services, and he gained -experience. - -No sooner had John Drench, a silent, bashful young farmer, good-looking -and fairly-well educated, been installed in his new post, than he began -to show a decided admiration for Miss Susan Page--who was a few months -younger than himself. The slight advances he made were favourably -received; and it was tacitly looked upon that they were "as good as -engaged." Things went on pleasantly through the spring, and might have -continued to go on so, but for the coming home at Midsummer of the -youngest daughter, Jessy. That led to no end of complications and -contrariety. - -She was the sweetest flower you ever saw; a fair, delicate lily, with a -mild countenance, blue eyes, and golden hair. Jessy had never been very -strong; she had always been very pretty; and the consequence was that -whilst her sisters had grown up to be useful, not to be idle a minute -throughout the long day, Jessy had been petted and indulged, and -was little except being ornamental. The two years' schooling had not -improved her taste for domestic occupation. To tell the truth, Jessy was -given to being uncommonly idle. - -To John Drench, who had not seen her since her early girlhood, she -appeared as a vision of beauty. "It was like an angel coming in at the -door," he said of the day she first came home, when telling the tale to -a stranger in after years. "My eyes were fairly dazzled." - -Like an angel! And unfortunately for John Drench, his heart was dazzled -as well as his eyes. He fell desperately in love with her. It taught -him that what he had felt for Miss Susan was not love at all; only -esteem, and the liking that so often arises from companionship. He was -well-meaning, but inexperienced. As he had never spoken to Susan, the -utmost sign he had given being a look or a warmer handshake than usual, -he thought there would be no difficulty in transferring his homage to -the younger sister. Susan Page, who really loved him, and perhaps looked -on with the keen eyes of jealousy, grew at last to see how matters were. -She would have liked to put him in a corn-sack and give him a good -shaking by way of cure. Thus the summer months went over in some silent -discomfort, and September came in warm and fine. - -Jessy Page stood at the open parlour window in her airy summer muslin, -twirling a rose in her hand, blue ribbons falling from her hair: for -Jessy liked to set herself off in little adornments. She was laughing at -John Drench outside, who had appeared covered with mud from the pond, -into which he had contrived partially to slip when they were dragging -for eels. - -"I think your picture ought to be taken, just as you look now, Mr. -John." - -He thought _hers_ ought to be: the bright fair face, the laughing blue -eyes, the parted lips and the pretty white teeth presented a picture -that, to him, had never had its equal. - -"Do you, Miss Jessy? That's a fine rose," he shyly added. He was always -shy with her. - -She held it out. She had not the least objection to be admired, even by -John Drench in an unpresentable state. In their hearts, women have all -desired men's flattery, from Eve downwards. - -"These large roses are the sweetest of any," she went on. "I plucked it -from the tree beyond the grass-plat." - -"You are fond of flowers, I've noticed, Miss Jessy." - -"Yes, I am. Both for themselves and for the language they symbolise." - -"What language is it?" - -"Don't you know? I learnt it at school. Each flower possesses its own -meaning, Mr. John Drench. This, the rose, is true love." - -"True love, is it, Miss Jessy!" - -She was lightly flirting it before his face. It was too much for him, -and he took it gently from her. "Will you give it me?" he asked below -his breath. - -"Oh, with great pleasure." And then she lightly added, as if to damp the -eager look on his face: "There are plenty more on the same tree." - -"An emblem of true love," he softly repeated. "It's a pretty thought. I -wonder who invented----" - -"Now then, John Drench, do you know that tea's waiting. Are you going to -sit down in those muddy boots and leggings?" - -The sharp words came from Susan Page. Jessy turned and saw her sister's -pale, angry face. John Drench disappeared, and Miss Susan went out -again, and banged the door. - -"It is high time Jessy was put to some regular employment," cried -Susan, bursting into the room where Miss Page sat making the tea. "She -idles away her time in the most frivolous and wasteful manner, never -doing an earthly thing. It is quite sinful." - -"So it is," acquiesced Miss Page. "Have you a headache, Susan? You look -pale." - -"Never mind my looks," wrathfully retorted Susan. "We will portion out -some share of work for her from to-day. She might make up the butter, -and undertake the pies and puddings, and do the plain sewing." - -William Page, a grey-haired man, sitting with a stick by his side, -looked up. "Pretty creature!" he said, for he passionately loved his -youngest daughter. "I'll not have her hard-worked, Susan." - -"But you'd not have her sit with her hands before her from Monday -morning till Saturday night, I suppose, father!" sharply returned Miss -Susan. "She'll soon be nineteen." - -"No, no; idleness brings nothing but evil in its train. I didn't mean -that, Susan. Let the child do what is suitable for her. Where's John -Drench?" - -"In a fine mess--up to his middle in mud," was Miss Susan's tart answer. -"One would think he had been trying to see how great an object he could -make of himself." - -John Drench came in, somewhat improved, his coat changed and the rose in -his button-hole. He took his seat at the tea-table, and was more shy and -silent than ever. Jessy sat by her father, chattering gaily, her blue -ribbons flickering before his loving eyes. - -But the butter-making and the other light work was fated not to be -inaugurated yet for Jessy. Charles Page, a tiresome, indulged lad of -twelve, became ill again: he was subject to attacks of low fever and -ague. Mr. Duffham, peering at the boy over his gold-headed cane, said -there was nothing for it but a dose of good seaside air. Mr. Page, -anxious for his boy, began to consult with his daughters as to how it -might be obtained. They had some very distant connections named Allen, -living at Aberystwith. To them Miss Page wrote, asking if they could -take in Charles and one of his sisters to live with them for a month or -so. Mrs. Allen replied that she would be glad to have them; since her -husband's death she had eked out a scanty income by letting lodgings. - -It was Jessy who went with him. The house and farm could not have spared -Abigail; Susan said neither should it spare her. Jessy, the idle and -useless one had to go. Miss Susan thought she and John Drench were well -rid of the young lady. - -September was in its second week when they went; November was at its -close when they returned. The improvement in Charles had been so marked -and wonderful--as Mrs. Allen and Jessy both wrote to say--that Mr. -Duffham had strongly urged his staying as long as the weather remained -fine. It was a remarkably fine late autumn that year, and they stayed -until the end of November. - -Charles came home well and strong. Jessy was more beautiful than ever. -But there was some change in her. The light-hearted, talking, laughing -girl had grown rather silent: she was often heard singing snatches of -love songs to herself in a low voice, and there was a light in her eyes -as of some intense, secret happiness that might not be told. John -Drench, who had begun to show signs of returning to his old allegiance -(at least, Miss Susan so flattered herself), fell a willing captive -again forthwith, and had certainly neither eyes nor ears for any one but -Jessy. Susan Page came to the conclusion that a shaking in a sack would -be far too good for him. - - * * * * * - -The way of dressing the churches for Christmas in those past days was -quite different from the new style of "decoration" obtaining now. Sprays -of holly with their red berries, of ivy with its brown clusters, were -stuck, each alternately into the holes on the top of the pews. It was a -better way than the present one, far more effective--though I, Johnny -Ludlow, shall be no doubt laughed at for saying so. Your woven wreaths -tied round the pulpit and reading-desk; your lettered scrolls; your -artificial flowers, may be talked of as "artistic," but for effect they -all stand absolutely as nothing, in comparison with the more simple and -natural way, and they are, perhaps, the least bit tawdry. If you don't -believe me, pay a visit to some rural church next Christmas morning--for -the old fashion is observed in many a country district still--and judge -for yourselves. With many another custom that has been changed by the -folly and fashion of these later days of pretension, and not changed for -the better, lies this one. That is my opinion, and I hold to it. - -The dressing in our church was always done by the clerk, old Bumford. -The sexton (called familiarly with us the grave-digger) helped him when -his health permitted, but he was nearly always ill, and then Bumford -himself had to be grave-digger. It was not much trouble, this manner of -decoration, and it took very little time. They had only to cut off the -sprays almost of the same size, trim the ends, and lodge them in the -holes. In the last century when a new country church was rebuilt (though -that did not happen often), the drilling of these holes in the woodwork -of the pews, for the reception of the "Christmas," was as much a matter -of course as were the pews themselves. Our Christmas was supplied by Mr. -Page with a liberal hand; the Copse Farm abounded with trees of holly -and ivy; one of his men, Leek, would help Bumford to cut it, and to cart -it in a hand-truck to the church. It took a good deal to do all the -pews. - -On this Christmas that I am telling you of, it fell out that Clerk -Bumford and the sexton were both disabled. Bumford had rheumatic gout so -badly that getting him into church for the morning service the past -three Sundays had been a marvel of dexterity--while the sexton was in -bed with what he called catarrh. At first it seemed that we should -not get the church dressed at all: but the Miss Pages, ever ready and -active in a good work, came to the rescue, and said they would do it -themselves, with John Drench's help. The Squire was not going to be -behind-hand, and said we boys, for Tod and I were just home for the -holidays, should help too. - -And when Christmas Eve came, and Leek had wheeled up the holly, and we -were all in the cold church (not I think that any of us cared whether it -was cold or warm), we enjoyed the work amazingly, and decided that old -Bumford should never be let do it again, gout or no gout. - -Jessy Page was a picture to look at. The two elder ladies had on tight -dark cloth dresses, like a riding-habit cut short, at the ankles: Jessy -was in a bright blue mantle edged with swans-down, and a blue bonnet on -her pretty head. She came in a little late, and Miss Susan blew her up -sharply, for putting on that "best Sunday cape" to dress a church in: -but Jessy only laughed good-naturedly, and answered that she would take -care not to harm it. Susan Page, trimming the branches, had seen John -Drench's eyes fixed on the girl: and her knife worked away like mad in -her vexation. - -"Look here," said Jessy: "we have never had any Christmas over the -pulpit; I think old Bumford was afraid to get up to do it; let us put -some. It would hide that ugly nail in the wall." - -"There are no holes up in the wall," snapped Miss Susan. - -"I meant a large bunch; a bunch of holly and ivy mixed, Susan. John -Drench could tie it to the nail: it would look well." - -"I'll do it, too," said John. "I've some string in my pocket. The parson -won't know himself. It will be as good as a canopy over him." - -Miss Page turned round: she and Charley had their arms full of the -branches we had been cutting. - -"Put a bunch there, if you like, but let us finish the pews first," she -said. "If we go from one thing to another we shall not finish while it's -daylight." - -It was good sense: she rarely spoke anything else. Once let darkness -overtake us, and the dressing would be done for. The church knew nothing -about evening service, and had never felt the want of means to light -itself up. - -"I shall pick out the best sprays in readiness," whispered Jessy to me, -as we sat together on the bench by the big christening bowl, she -choosing branches, I trimming them. "Look at this one! you could not -count the berries on it." - -"Did you enjoy your visit to Aberystwith, Jessy?" - -I wondered what there was in my simple question to move her. The branch -of holly went anywhere; her hands met in a silent clasp; the expression -of her face changed to one of curious happiness. In answering, her voice -fell to a whisper. - -"Yes, I enjoyed it." - -"What a long time you stayed away! An age, Mrs. Todhetley says." - -"It was nearly eleven weeks." - -"Eleven weeks! How tedious!" - -Her face was glowing, her eyes had a soft light in them. She caught up -some holly, and began scattering its berries. - -"What did you do with yourself, Jessy?" - -"I used to sit by the sea--and to walk about. It was very fine. They -don't often have it like that in November, Mrs. Allen said." - -"Did Mrs. Allen sit and walk with you?" - -"No. She had enough to do with the house and her lodgers. We only saw -her at meal times." - -"The Miss Allens, perhaps?" - -"There are no Miss Allens. Only one little boy." - -"Why, then, you had no one but Charley!" - -"Charley? Oh, he used to be always about with little Tom Allen--in a -boat, or something of that sort. Mrs. Allen thought the sea breezes must -be so good for him." - -"Well, you must have been very dull!" - -Jessy looked rather foolish. She was a simple-minded girl at the best. -The two elder sisters had all the strong sense of the family, she the -simplicity. Some people called Jessy Page "soft": perhaps, contrasted -with her sisters, she was so: and she was very inexperienced. - -The dusk was gathering, and Charley had gone out tired, when John Drench -got into the pulpit to tie the bunch of holly to the wall above it. Tod -was with him. Drench had his hands stretched out, and we stood watching -them in a group in the aisle below, when the porch-door was burst open, -and in leaped Charles. - -"Jessy! I say! Where's Jessy?" - -"I am here," said Jessy, looking round. "What do you want?" - -"Here's Mr. Marcus Allen." - -Who Mr. Marcus Allen might be, Charles did not say. Jessy knew: there -was no doubt of that. Her face, just then close to mine, had flushed as -red as a June rose. - -A tall, dark, imposing man came looming out of the dusk. His handsome, -furred great-coat was open, his waistcoat was of crimson velvet; he wore -two chains, three rings, and an eye-glass. And I'll leave you to judge -of the effect this vision of grandeur made, dropping down on us plain -church-dressers in our every-day clothes. John Drench leaned over the -pulpit cushion, string in hand; the two Miss Pages stood staring; Jessy -turned white and red with the unexpected amazement. It was to her he -approached, and spoke. - -"How do you do, Miss Jessy?" - -She put her hand out in answer to his; but seemed to have been struck as -dumb as the old stone image on the monument against the wall. - -"These are your sisters, I presume, Miss Jessy? Will you do me the -honour of introducing me to them?" - -"Mr. Marcus Allen," murmured Jessy. "My sister Abigail; my sister -Susan." - -Mr. Marcus Allen, bowing over his hat, said something about the pleasure -it gave him to make their acquaintance personally, after hearing so much -of them from Miss Jessy at Aberystwith, and begged to be allowed to -shake their hands. Miss Page, when the hand-shaking was over, said in -her straightforward way that she did not know who he was, her young -sister never having mentioned him. Jessy, standing like a little -simpleton, her eyes bent down on the aisle bricks, murmured in confusion -that she "forgot it." John Drench had his face over the cushion all that -time, and Tod's arms began to ache, holding up the bunch of green. - -Mr. Marcus Allen, it turned out, was related in some way to the Allens -of Aberystwith: he happened to go to the town soon after Jessy Page and -her brother went there, and he stayed until they left it. Not at the -Allens' house: he had lodgings elsewhere. Mrs. Allen spoke of him to -Jessy as a "grand gentleman, quite above them." An idea came over me, as -we all now stood together, that he had been Jessy's companion in the -walking and the sitting by the sea. - -"I told Miss Jessy that I should be running down some day to renew my -acquaintanceship with her and make that of her family," said Mr. Marcus -Allen to Miss Page. "Having no particular engagement on my hands this -Christmas time, I came." - -He spoke in the most easy manner conceivable: his accent and manner were -certainly those of a gentleman. As to the fashionable attire and the -rings and chains, rather startling though they looked to us in the -dark church on that dark and busy evening, they were all the rage for -dandies in the great world then. - -Noticing the intimation that he had come purposely to see them, Miss -Page supposed that she ought, in hospitably good manners, to invite him -to stay a day or two at the farm, but doubted whether so imposing a -gentleman would condescend to do so. She said nothing about it then, and -we all went out of the church together; except John Drench, who stayed -behind with Leek to help clear up the litter for the man to carry away. -It was light outside, and I took a good look at the stranger: a handsome -man of seven-or-eight-and-twenty, with hard eyes, and black whiskers -curled to perfection. - -"In what way is he related to the Allens of Aberystwith, Jessy?" -questioned Miss Page, drawing her sister away, as we went through the -coppice. - -"I don't quite know, Abigail. He is some distant cousin." - -"How came you never to speak of him?" - -"I--I did not remember to do so." - -"Very careless of you, child. Especially if he gave you cause to suppose -he might come here. I don't like to be taken by surprise by strangers; -it is not always convenient." - -Jessy walked along in silence, meek as a lamb. - -"What is he?--in any profession, or trade?" - -"Trade? Oh, I don't think he does anything of that kind, Abigail. That -branch of the family would be above it, Mrs. Allen said. He has a large -income, she says; plenty of money." - -"I take it, then, that he is above _us_," reasoned Miss Page. - -"Oh dear, yes: in station. Ever so much." - -"Then I'm sure I don't care to entertain him." - -Miss Page went straight into the best kitchen on arriving at home. Her -father sat in the large hearth corner, smoking his pipe. She told him -about the stranger, and said she supposed they must ask him to stay over -the morrow--Christmas-Day. - -"Why shouldn't we?" asked Mr. Page. - -"Well, father, he seems very grand and great." - -"Does he? Give him the best bedroom." - -"And our ways are plain and simple, you know," she added. - -"He must take us as he finds us, Abigail. Any friend of Mrs. Allen's is -welcome: she was downright kind to the children." - -We had a jolly tea. Tod and I had been asked to it beforehand. -Pork-pies, Miss Susan's making, hot buttered batch-cakes, and lemon -cake and jams. Mr. Marcus Allen was charmed with everything: he was a -pleasant man to talk to. When we left, he and Mr. Page had gone to the -best kitchen again, to smoke together in the wide chimney corner. - - * * * * * - -You Londoners, who go in for your artistic scrolls and crosses, should -have seen the church on Christmas morning. It greeted our sight, as we -entered from the porch, like a capacious grove of green, on which the -sun streamed through the south windows. Old Bumford's dressing had never -been as full and handsome as this of ours, for we had rejected all -niggardly sprays. The Squire even allowed that much. Shaking hands with -Miss Page in the porch after service, he told her that it cut Clerk -Bumford out and out. Mr. Marcus Allen, in fashionable coat, with the -furred over-coat flung back, light gloves, and big white wristbands, was -in the Pages' pew, sitting between old Page and Jessy. He found all the -places for her in her Prayer-book (a shabby red one, some of the leaves -loose); bowing slightly every time he handed her the book, as if she had -been a princess of the blood royal. Such gallantry was new in our parts: -and the congregation were rather taken off their devotions watching it. -As to Jessy, she kept flushing like a rose. - -Mr. Marcus Allen remained more than a week, staying over New-Year's Day. -He made himself popular with them all, and enjoyed what Miss Abigail -called their plain ways, just as though he had been reared to them. He -smoked his pipe in the kitchen with the farmer; he drove Miss Susan to -Alcester in the tax-cart; he presented Miss Abigail with a handsome -work-box; and gave Charley a bright half-sovereign for bullseyes. As to -Jessy, he paid her no more attention than he did her sisters; hardly as -much: so that if Miss Susan had been entertaining any faint hope that -his object in coming to the Copse was Jessy, and that in consequence -John Drench might escape from bewitching wiles, she found the hope -fallacious. Mr. Marcus Allen had apparently no more thought of Jessy -than he had of Sally, the red-armed serving-girl. "But what in the world -brought the man here at all?" questioned Miss Susan of her sister. "He -wanted a bit of country holiday," answered Miss Page with her common -sense. - -One day during the week the Squire met them abroad, and gave an -impromptu invitation to the Manor for the evening. Only the three Miss -Pages came. Mr. Marcus Allen sent his compliments, and begged to be -excused on the score of headache. - -One evening at dusk we met him and Jessy. She had been out on some -errand, and he overtook her in the little coppice path between the -church and the farm. Tod, dashing through it to get home for dinner, I -after him, nearly dashed right upon them. Mr. Marcus Allen had his face -inside her bonnet, as if he were speaking in the ear of a deaf old lady -of seventy. Tod burst out laughing when we got on. - -"That fellow was stealing a sly kiss in the dark, Johnny." - -"Like his impudence." - -"Rubbish," retorted Tod. "It's Christmas-tide, and all fair. Didn't you -see the bit of mistletoe he was holding up?" And Tod ran on, whistling a -line of a song that the Squire used to sing in his young days: - - "We all love a pretty girl, under the rose." - -Mr. Marcus Allen left the Copse Farm with hearty thanks for its -hospitality. He promised to come again in the summer, when the fields -should be sweet with hay and the golden corn was ripening. - -No sooner had he gone than John Drench asked Jessy to promise to be his -wife. Whether he had felt any secret jealousy of Mr. Marcus Allen and -his attractions, and deemed it well to secure Jessy as soon as the coast -was clear, he spoke out. Jessy did not receive the honour kindly. She -tossed her pretty head in a violent rage: the idea, she said, of her -marrying _him_. Jessy had never flirted with John Drench since the -Aberystwith journey, or encouraged him in any way--that was certain. -Unpleasantness ensued at the farm. Mr. Page decidedly approved of the -suitor: he alone had perceived nothing of Susan's hopes: and, perhaps -for the first time in his life, he spoke sharply to Jessy. John Drench -was not to be despised, he told her; his father was a wealthy man, and -John would have a substantial portion; more than double enough to put -him into the largest and best farm in the county: Mr. Drench was only -waiting for a good one to fall in, to take it for him. No: Jessy would -not listen. And as the days went on and John Drench, _as she said_, -strove to further his suit on every opportunity, she conceived, or -professed, a downright aversion to him. Sadly miserable indeed she -seemed, crying often; and saying she would rather go out as lady's-maid -to some well-born lady than stay at home to be persecuted. Miss Susan -was in as high a state of rapture as the iniquity of false John Drench -permitted; and said it served the man right for making an oaf of -himself. - -"Let be," cried old Page of Jessy. "She'll come to her senses in time." -But Miss Abigail, regarding Jessy in silence with her critical eyes, -took up the notion that the girl had some secret source of discomfort, -with which John Drench had nothing to do. - -It was close upon this, scarcely beyond the middle of January, when one -Monday evening Duffham trudged over from Church Dykely for a game at -chess with the Squire. Hard weather had set in; ice and snow lay on -the ground. Mrs. Todhetley nursed her face by the fire, for she had -toothache as usual; Tod watched the chess; I was reading. In the midst -of a silence, the door opened, and old Thomas ushered in John Drench, a -huge red comforter round his neck, his hat in his hand. - -"Good-evening, Squire; good-evening, ma'am," said he in his shy way, -nodding separately to the rest of us, as he unwound the comforter. "I've -come for Miss Jessy, please." - -"Come for Miss Jessy!" was the Squire's surprised echo. "Miss Jessy's -not here. Take a seat, Mr. John." - -"Not here?" cried Drench, opening his eyes in something like fear, and -disregarding the invitation to sit down. "Not here! Why where can she -have got to? Surely she has not fallen down in the snow and ice, and -disabled herself?" - -"Why did you think she was here?" - -"I don't know," he replied, after a pause, during which he seemed to be -lost. "Miss Jessy was not at home at tea: later, when I was leaving for -the night, Miss Abigail asked me if I would come over here first and -fetch Jessy. I asked no questions, but came off at once." - -"She has not been here," said Mrs. Todhetley. "I have not seen Jessy -Page since yesterday afternoon, when I spoke to her coming out of -church." - -John Drench looked mystified. That there must have been some -misapprehension on Miss Page's part; or else on his, and he had come to -the wrong house; or that poor Jessy had come to grief in the snow on her -way to us, seemed certain. He drank a glass of ale, and went away. - -They were over again at breakfast time in the morning, John Drench and -Miss Abigail herself, bringing strange news. The latter's face turned -white as she told it. Jessy Page had not been found. John Drench and two -of the men had been out all night in the fields and lanes, searching for -her. Miss Abigail gave us her reasons for thinking Jessy had come to -Dyke Manor. - -On the Sunday afternoon, when the Miss Pages went home from church, -Jessy, instead of turning indoors with them, continued her way onwards -to the cottage of a poor old woman named Matt, saying Mrs. Todhetley had -told her the old granny was very ill. At six o'clock, when they had -tea--tea was always late on Sunday evenings, as Sally had leave to stay -out gossiping for a good hour after service--it was discovered that -Jessy had not come in. Charley was sent out after her, and met her at -the gate. She had a scolding from her sister for staying out after dark -had fallen; but all she said in excuse was, that the old granny was -so very ill. That passed. On the Monday, soon after dinner, she came -downstairs with her things on, saying she was going over to Dyke Manor, -having promised Mrs. Todhetley to let her know the real state of Granny -Matt. "Don't thee get slipping in the snow, Jessy," said Mr. Page to -her, half jokingly. "No danger, father," she replied: and went up and -kissed him. As she did not return by tea-time, Miss Page took it for -granted she was spending the evening with us. Since that, she had not -been seen. - -It seemed very odd. Mrs. Todhetley said that in talking with Jessy in -the porch, she had incidentally mentioned the sickness of Granny Matt. -Jessy immediately said she would go there and see her; and if she found -her very ill would send word to Dyke Manor. Talk as they would, there -was no more to be made of it than that: Jessy had left home to come to -us, and was lost by the way. - -Lost to her friends, at any rate, if not to herself. John Drench and -Miss Page departed; and all day long the search after Jessy and the -speculation as to what had become of her continued. At first, no one had -glanced at anything except some untoward accident as the sole cause, but -gradually opinions veered round to a different fear. They began to think -she might have run away! - -Run away to escape Mr. John Drench's persevering attentions; and to seek -the post of lady's-maid--which she had been expressing a wish for. John -stated, however, that he had _not_ persecuted her; that he had resolved -to let a little time go by in silence, and then try his luck again. -Granny Matt was questioned, and declared most positively that the young -lady had not stayed ten minutes with her; that it was only "duskish" -when she went away. "Duskish" at that season, in the broad open country, -with the white snow on the ground, would mean about five o'clock. What -had Jessy done with herself during the other hour--for it was past six -when she reached home,--and why should she have excused her tardiness by -implying that Granny Matt's illness had kept her? - -No one could fathom it. No one ever knew. Before that first day of -trouble was over, John Drench suggested worse. Deeply mortified at its -being said that she might have run away from him, he breathed a hasty -retort--that it was more likely she had been run away with by Mr. Marcus -Allen. Had William Page been strong enough he had certainly knocked him -down for the aspersion. Susan heard it with a scared face: practical -Miss Abigail sternly demanded upon what grounds he spoke. Upon no -grounds in particular, Drench honestly answered: it was a thought that -came into his mind and he spoke it on the spur of the moment. Any way, -it was most unjust to say he had sent her. - -The post-mistress at the general shop, Mrs. Smail, came forward with -some testimony. Miss Jessy had been no less than twice to the shop -during the past fortnight, nay, three times, she thought, to inquire -after letters addressed J. P. The last time she received one. Had she -been negotiating privately for the lady's-maid's situation, wondered -Abigail: had she been corresponding with Mr. Marcus Allen, retorted -Susan, in her ill-nature; for she did not just now hold Jessy in any -favour. Mrs. Smail was asked whether she had observed, amongst the -letters dropped into the box, any directed to Mr. Marcus Allen. But -this had to be left an open question: there might have been plenty -directed to him, or there might not have been a single one, was the -unsatisfactory answer: she had "no 'call' to examine the directions, -and as often did up the bag without her spectacles as with 'em." - -All this, put together, certainly did not tend to show that Mr. Marcus -Allen had anything to do with the disappearance. Jessy had now and -then received letters from her former schoolfellows addressed to the -post-office--for her sisters, who considered her but a child, had an -inconvenient habit of looking over her shoulder while she read them. The -whole family, John Drench included, were up to their ears in agony: they -did not know in what direction to look for her; were just in that state -of mind when straws are caught at. Tod, knowing it could do no harm, -told Miss Abigail about the kiss in the coppice. Miss Abigail quite -laughed at it: kisses under the mistletoe were as common as blackberries -with us, and just as innocent. She wrote to Aberystwith, asking -questions about Marcus Allen, especially as to where he might be found. -In answer, Mrs. Allen said she had not heard from him since he left -Aberystwith, early in December, but had no doubt he was in London at his -own home: she did not know exactly where that was, except that it was -"somewhere at the West End." - -This letter was not more satisfactory than anything else. Everything -seemed vague and doubtful. Miss Page read it to her father when he was -in bed: Susan had just brought up his breakfast, and he sat up with the -tray before him, his face nearly as white as the pillow behind him. They -could not help seeing how ill and how shrunken he looked: Jessy's loss -had told upon him. - -"I think, father, I had better go to London, and see if anything's to be -learnt there," said Miss Page. "We cannot live on, in this suspense." - -"Ay; best go," answered he, "_I_ can't live in it, either. I've had -another sleepless night: and I wish that I was strong to travel. I -should have been away long ago searching for the child----." - -"You see, father, we don't know where to seek her; we've no clue," -interrupted Abigail. - -"I'd have gone from place to place till I found her. But now, I'll tell -ye, Abigail, where you must go first--the thought has been in my mind -all night. And that is to Madame Caron's." - -"To Madame Caron's!" echoed both the sisters at once. "Madame Caron's!" - -"Don't either of you remember how your mother used to talk of her? She -was Ann Dicker. She knows a sight of great folks now--and it may be that -Jessy's gone to her. Bond Street, or somewhere near to it, is where she -lives." - -In truth they had almost forgotten the person mentioned. Madame Caron -had once been plain Ann Dicker, of Church Dykely, intimate with William -Page and his wife. She went to London when a young woman to learn the -millinery and dress-making; married a Frenchman, and rose by degrees to -be a fashionable court-milliner. It struck Mr. Page, during the past -night-watch, that Jessy might have applied to Madame Caron to help her -in getting a place as lady's-maid. - -"It's the likeliest thing she'd do," he urged, "if her mind was bent -that way. How was she to find such a place of herself?--and I wish we -had all been smothered before we'd made her home here unhappy, and put -her on to think of such a thing." - -"Father, I don't think her home was made unhappy," said Miss Page. - -To resolve and to do were one with prompt Abigail Page. Not a moment -lost she, now that some sort of clue was given to act upon. That same -morning she was on her way to London, attended by John Drench. - - * * * * * - -A large handsome double show-room. Brass hooks on the walls and slender -bonnet-stands on the tables, garnished with gowns and mantles and -head-gear and fal-lals; wide pier-glasses; sofas and chairs covered -with chintz. Except for these articles, the room was empty. In a small -apartment opening from it, called "the trying-on room," sat Madame Caron -herself, taking a comfortable cup of tea and a toasted muffin, after the -labours of the day were over. Not that the labours were great at that -season: people who require court millinery being for the most part out -of town. - -"You are wanted, if you please, madame, in the show-room," said a page -in buttons, coming in to disturb the tea. - -"Wanted!--at this hour!" cried Madame Caron, as she glanced at the -clock, and saw it was on the stroke of six. "Who is it?" - -"It's a lady and gentleman, madame. They look like travellers." - -"Go in and light the gas," said madame. - -"Passing through London and requiring things in a hurry," thought she, -mentally running through a list of some of her most fashionable -customers. - -She went in with a swimming curtsy--quite that of a Frenchwoman--and the -parties, visitors and visited, gazed at each other in the gaslight. -_They_ saw a very stylish lady in rich black satin that stood on end, -and lappets of point lace: _she_ saw two homely country people, the one -in a red comforter, muffled about his ears, the other in an antiquated -fur tippet that must originally have come out of Noah's ark. - -"Is it--Madame Caron?" questioned Miss Abigail, in hesitation. For, -you see, she doubted whether it might not be one of Madame Caron's -duchesses. - -"I have the honour to be Madame Caron," replied the lady with her -grandest air. - -Thus put at ease in regard to identity, Miss Page introduced -herself--and John Drench, son of Mr. Drench of the Upland Farm. Madame -Caron--who had a good heart, and retained amidst her grandeur a vivid -remembrance of home and early friends--came down from her stilts on the -instant, took off with her own hands the objectionable tippet, on the -plea of heat, conducted them into the little room, and rang for a fresh -supply of tea and muffins. - -"I remember you so well when you were a little thing, Abigail," she -said, her heart warming to the old days. "We always said you would grow -up like your mother, and so you have. Ah, dear! that's something like a -quarter-of-a-century ago. As to you, Mr. John, your father and I were -boy and girl sweethearts." - -Over the refreshing tea and the muffins, Abigail Page told her tale. The -whole of it. Her father had warned her not to hint a word against Jessy; -but there was something in the face before her that spoke of truth -and trust; and, besides, she did not see her way clear _not_ to speak -of Marcus Allen. To leave him out altogether would have been like -bargaining for a spring calf in the dark, as she said later to John -Drench. - -"I have never had a line from Jessy in all my life: I have neither seen -her nor heard of her," said madame. "As to Mr. Marcus Allen, I don't -know him personally myself, but Miss Connaway, my head dressmaker, does: -for I have heard her speak of him. I can soon find out for you where he -lives." - -Miss Page thought she should like to see the head dressmaker, and a -message was sent up for her. A neat little middle-aged woman came down, -and was invited to the tea-table. Madame turned the conversation on Mr. -Marcus Allen; telling Miss Connaway that these country friends of hers -knew him slightly, and would be glad to get his address to call upon -him; but she did not say a syllable about Jessy. - -Mr. Marcus Allen had about two hundred a year of his own, and was an -artist in water-colours. The certain income made him idle; and he played -just as much as he worked. The few pictures he completed were good, and -sold well. He shared a large painting-room somewhere with a brother -artist, but lived in chambers. All this Miss Connaway told readily; she -had known him since he was a child. - -Late though it was, Miss Abigail and her cavalier proceeded to Marcus -Allen's lodgings; or "chambers," as they were ostentatiously called, and -found him seated at dinner. He rose in the utmost astonishment at seeing -them; an astonishment that looked thoroughly genuine. - -Jessy missing! Jessy left her home! He could but reiterate the words in -wondering disbelief. Abigail Page felt reassured from that moment; even -jealous John Drench in his heart acquitted him. He had not written to -Jessy, he said; he had nothing to write to her about, therefore it could -not have been his letter she went to receive at the post-office; and -most certainly she had not written to him. Miss Abigail--willing perhaps -to offer some excuse for coming to him--said they had thought it -possible Jessy might have consulted him about getting a lady's-maid's -place. She never had consulted him, he answered, but had once told him -that she intended to go out as one. He should imagine, he added, it was -what she had done. - -Mr. Marcus Allen pressed them to sit down and partake of his dinner, -such as it was; he poured out glasses of wine; he was altogether -hospitable. But they declined all. He then asked how he could assist -them; he was most anxious they should find her, and would help in any -way that lay in his power. - -"He knows no more about her than we know," said John Drench as they -turned out into the lighted streets, on their way back to the inn they -had put up at, which had been recommended to them by Mr. Page. "I'm -sorry I misjudged him." - -"I am sorry too, John Drench," was Miss Abigail's sorrowful answer. "But -for listening to the words you said, we should never have had such a -wicked thought about her, poor child, and been spared many a bitter -moment. Where in the wide world are we to look for her now?" - -The wide world did not give any answer. London, with its teeming -millions, was an enormous arena--and there was no especial cause for -supposing Jessy Page had come to it. - -"I am afraid it will be of no use to stay here any longer," said Miss -Abigail to John Drench, after another unsatisfactory day had gone by, -during which Marcus Allen called upon them at the inn and said he had -spoken to the police. It was John Drench's own opinion. - -"Why, you see, Miss Abigail, that to look for her here, not knowing -where or how, is like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay," said -John. - -They reached home none too soon. Two unexpected events were there to -greet them. The one was Mr. Page who was lying low in an attack of -paralysis; the other was a letter from Jessy. - -It gave no clue to where she was. All she said in it was that she had -found a situation, and hoped to suit and be happy in it; and she sent -her love to all. - -And the weeks and the months went on. - - -II. - -Snow was falling. At one of the windows of the parlour at Copse Farm, -stood Susan Page, her bunch of short dark curls fastened back with a -comb on both sides of her thin face, her trim figure neat in a fine -crimson merino gown. Her own portion of household-work was already done, -though it was not yet mid-day, and she was about to sit down, dressed -for the day, to some sewing that lay on the work-table. - -"I was hoping the snow was over: the morning looked so clear and -bright," she said to herself, watching the large flakes. "Leek will have -a job to get the truck to the church." - -It was a long, narrow room. At the other end, by the fire, sat Mr. Page -in his arm-chair. He had dropped asleep, his cheek leaning on his hand. -As Miss Susan sat down and took up her work, a large pair of scissors -fell to the ground with a crash. She glanced round at her father, but he -did not wake. That stroke of a year ago had dulled his faculties. - -"I should uncommonly like to know who did this--whether Sally or the -woman," she exclaimed, examining the work she had to do. One of Mr. -Page's new shirts had been torn in the washing, and she was about to -mend the rent. "That woman has a heavy hand: and Sally a careless one. -It ought not to have been ironed." - -The door opened, and John Drench came in. When he saw that Mr. Page -was asleep, he walked up the room towards Miss Susan. In the past -twelvemonth--for that amount of time had rolled on since the trouble -about Jessy and her mysterious disappearance--John Drench had had time -to return to his first allegiance (or, as Miss Susan mentally put it, -get over his folly); and he had decidedly done it. - -"Did you want anything?" asked Susan in a cold tone. For she made a -point of being short with him--for his own benefit. - -"I wanted to ask the master whether he'd have that ditch made, that he -was talking about," was the answer. "There's no hurry about it: not much -to be done anywhere while this weather lasts." - -She made no reply. John Drench stood, waiting for Mr. Page to wake, -looking alternately at the snow and at Miss Susan's steel thimble and -nimble fingers. Very deftly was she doing the work, holding the linen -gingerly, that the well-ironed bosom and wristbands might not get -creased and unfit the shirt for wear. He was thinking what a good wife -she would make: for there was nothing, in the shape of usefulness, that -Susan Page could not put her hand to, and put it well. - -"Miss Susan, I was going to ask you a question," he began, standing -uncomfortably on one leg. "I've been wanting to do it for a good bit -now, but----" - -"Pick up my cotton," said Miss Susan tartly, dropping a reel purposely. - -"But I believe I have wanted courage," resumed he after doing as he was -bid. "It _is_ a puzzling task to know how to do it for the best, and -what to say. If you----" - -Open flew the door, and in came Miss Page, in her white kitchen apron. -Her sleeves were rolled above her elbows, her floured hands were lightly -wiped. John Drench, interrupted, thought he should never have pluck to -speak again. - -"Susan, do you know where that old red receipt-book is?" she asked, in a -low tone, glancing at her sleeping father. "I am not certain about the -proportions for the lemon cake." - -"The red receipt-book?" repeated Susan. "I have not seen it for ever so -long." - -"Nor I. I don't think I have had occasion to use it since last -Christmas-Eve. I know I had to look at it then for the lemon-cake. Sally -says she's sure it is somewhere in this room." - -"Then you had better send Sally to find it, Abigail." - -Instead of that, Miss Page began searching herself. On the book-shelves; -on the side-board; in all the nooks and corners. It was found in the -drawer of an unused table that stood against the wall. - -"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, as she drew it out. "I wonder who put -it in here?" - -In turning over the leaves to look for what she wanted, a piece of -paper, loosely folded, fell to the ground. John Drench picked it up. - -"Why!" he said, "it is a note from Jessy." - -It was the letter written to them by Jessy, saying she had found a -situation and hoped to suit and be happy in it. The _one_ letter: for no -other had ever come. Abigail, missing the letter months ago, supposed it -had got burnt. - -"Yes," she said with a sigh, as she glanced over the few lines now, -standing by Susan's work-table, "it is Jessy's letter. She might have -written again. Every morning of my life for weeks and weeks, I kept -looking for the letter-man to bring another. But the hope died out at -last, for it never came." - -"She is a heartless baggage!" cried Miss Susan. "In her grand -lady's-maid's place, amongst her high people, she is content to forget -and abandon us. I'd never have believed it of her." - -A pause ensued. The subject was a painful one. Mortifying too: for no -one likes to be set at nought and forgotten by one that they have loved -and cherished and brought up from a little child. Abigail Page had tears -in her eyes. - -"It's just a year ago to-day that she came into the church to help us to -dress it," said John Drench, his tender tone of regret grating on Miss -Susan's ear. "In her blue mantle she looked sweeter and brighter than a -fairy." - -"Did you ever see a fairy, pray?" asked Miss Susan, sharply taking him -up. "She acted like a fairy, didn't she?" - -"Best to forget her," interposed Abigail, suppressing a sigh. "As -Susan says, she is heartless. Almost wicked: for what is worse than -ingratitude? Never to write: never to let us know where her situation is -and with what people: never to ask or care whether her poor father, who -had nothing but love for her, is living or dead? It's best to forget -her." - -She went out of the room with the note and receipt-book as she spoke, -softly closing the door behind her, as one does who is feeling trouble. -Miss Susan worked on with rapid and angry stitches; John Drench looked -out on the low-lying snow. The storm had passed: the sky was blue again. - -Yes. Christmas-Eve had come round, making it just a year since Jessy in -her pretty blue mantle had chosen the sprays of holly in the church. -They had never had from her but that one first unsatisfactory letter: -they knew no more how she went, or why she went, or where she was, than -they had known then. Within a week or two of the unsatisfactory journey -to London of Miss Abigail and John Drench, a letter came to the farm -from Mr. Marcus Allen, inquiring after Jessy, expressing hopes that she -had been found and was at home again. It was not answered: Miss Page, -busy with her father's illness, neglected it at first, and then thought -it did not matter. - -Mr. Page had recovered from his stroke: but he would never be good for -anything again. He was very much changed; would sit for hours and never -speak: at times his daughters thought him a little silly, as if his -intellect were failing. Miss Page, with John Drench's help, managed the -farm: though she always made it a point of duty to consult her father -and ask for his orders. In the month of June they heard again from Mr. -Marcus Allen. He wrote to say that he was sorry not to fulfil his -promise (made in the winter's visit) of coming to stay with them during -the time of hay-making, but he was busy finishing a painting and could -not leave it: he hoped to come at some other time. And this was now -December. - -Susan Page worked on: John Drench looked out of the window. The young -lady was determined not to break the silence. - -"The Dunn Farm is to let," said he suddenly. - -"Is it?" slightingly returned Miss Susan. - -"My father has some thoughts of taking it for me. It's good land." - -"No better than other land about here." - -"It's very good, Susan. And just the place I should like. There's an -excellent house too, on it." - -Susan Page began rummaging in the deep drawer of the work-table for her -box of buttons. She had a great mind to hum a tune. - -"But I couldn't take it, or let father take it for me, unless you'd -promise to go to it with me, Susan." - -"Promise to go to it with you, John Drench!" - -"I'd make you as good a husband as I know how. Perhaps you'll think of -it." - -No answer. She was doubling her thread to sew on the button. - -"_Will_ you think of it, Miss Susan?" - -"Well--yes, I will," she said in a softer tone, "And if I decide to -bring my mind to have you, John Drench, I'll hope to make you a good and -faithful wife." - -He held out his hand to shake hers upon the bargain. Their eyes met in -kindliness: and John Drench knew that the Dunn Farm would have its -mistress. - - * * * * * - -We were going to dress the church this year as we did the last. Clerk -Bumford's cough was bad, and the old sexton was laid by as usual. Tod -and I got to the church early in the afternoon, and saw the Miss Pages -wading their way through the coppice, over their ankles in snow: the one -lady having finished her cake-making and the other her shirt-mending. - -"Is Leek not here yet?" cried they in surprise. "We need not have made -so much haste." - -Leek with his large truck of holly was somewhere on the road. He had -started, as Miss Page said, while they were at dinner. And he was not to -be seen! - -"It is all through his obstinacy," cried Susan. "I told him he had -better take the highway, though it was a little further round; but he -said he knew he could well get through the little valley. That's where -he has stuck, truck and all." - -John Drench came up as she was speaking. He had been on some errand to -Church Dykely; and gave a bad account of the snow on the roads. This was -the third day of it. The skies just now were blue as in spring; the sun, -drawing towards the west, was without a cloud. After waiting a few -minutes, John Drench started to meet Leek and help him on; and we cooled -our heels in the church-porch, unable to get inside. As it was supposed -Leek would be there sooner than any one else, the key of the church had -been given to him that he might get the holly in. There we waited in the -cold. At last, out of patience, Tod went off in John Drench's wake, and -I after him. - -It was as Miss Susan surmised. Leek and his truck had stuck fast in the -valley: a low, narrow neck of land connecting a byeway to the farm with -the lane. The snow was above the wheels: Leek could neither get on nor -turn back. He and John Drench were hard at work, pulling and pushing; -and the obstinate truck refusing to move an inch. With the help of our -strength--if mine was not worth much, Tod's _was_--we got it on. But -all this caused ever so much delay: and the dressing was begun when it -ought to have been nearly finished. I could not help thinking of the -other Christmas-Eve; and of pretty Jessy who had helped--and of Miss -Susan scolding her for coming in her best blue mantle--and of the sudden -looming upon us of the stranger, Marcus Allen. Perhaps the rest were -thinking about it as I was. One thing was certain--that there was no -liveliness in this year's dressing; we were all as silent as mutes and -as dull as ditch-water. Charley Page, who had made enough noise last -year, was away this. He went to school at Worcester now, and had gone to -spend the Christmas with some people in Gloucestershire, instead of -coming home. - -The work was in progress, when who should look in upon us but Duffham. -He was passing by to visit some one ill in the cottages. "Rather late, -shan't you be?" cried he, seeing that there was hardly any green up yet. -And we told him about the truck sticking in the snow. - -"What possessed Leek to take it through the valley?" returned Duffham. - -"Because he is fonder of having his own way than a mule," called out -Miss Susan from the aisle. - -Duffham laughed. "Don't forget the gala bunch over the parson's head; it -looked well last year," said he, turning to go out. And we told him -there was no danger of forgetting it: it was one of our improvements on -old Bumford's dressing. - -Darkness overtook us before half the work was done. There was nothing -for it but to get candles from the Copse Farm to finish by. No one -volunteered to fetch them: a walk through the snow did not look lively -in prospective to any one of us, and Leek had gone off somewhere. "I -suppose it must be me," said John Drench, coming out from the holly to -start: when Miss Page suddenly bethought herself of what the rest of -us were forgetting--that there might be candles in the church. On a -winter's afternoon, when it grew dark early and the parson could not see -through his spectacles to finish his sermon, Clerk Bumford would go -stumping into the place under the belfry, and re-appear with a lighted -candle and hand it up to the pulpit. He ought to have a stock of candles -in store. - -John Drench struck some matches, and we went to explore Bumford's -den--a place dimly lighted by the open slits in the belfry above. The -first thing seen was his black gown hanging up, next a horn lantern on -the floor and the grave-digging tools, then an iron candlestick with a -candle end in it, then a stick half-a-mile long that he menaced the boys -with if they laughed in church; and next a round tin candlebox on a nail -in the wall. It was a prize. - -There were ten candles in it. Leaving one, in case it should be wanted -on the morrow afternoon, the nine others were lighted. One was put -into the iron candlestick, the rest we stuck upright in melted tallow, -wherever one was wanted: how else could they be set up? It was a grand -illumination: and we laughed over Clerk Bumford's dismay when he should -find his store of candles gone. - -_That_ took time: finding the candles, and dropping the tallow, and -talking and laughing. In the midst of it the clock struck five. Upon -that, Miss Abigail told us to hinder no more time, or the work would not -be done by midnight. So we set to with a will. In a couple of hours all -the dressing was finished, and the branches were ready to be hung over -the pulpit. John Drench felt for the string. He seemed to take his time -over it. - -"Where on earth is it?" cried he, searching his pockets. "I'm sure I -brought some." - -He might have brought it; but it was certain he had not got it then. -Miss Abigail, who had no patience with carelessness, told him rather -sharply that if he had put it in his pockets at all, there it would be -now. - -"Well, I did," he answered, in his quiet way. "I put it in on purpose. -I'm sure I don't know where it can have got to." - -And there we were: at a standstill for a bit of string. Looking at one -another like so many helpless noodles, and the flaring candles coming to -an end! Tod said, tear a strip off the tail of Bumford's gown; he'd -never miss it: for which Miss Abigail gave it him as sharply as if he -had proposed to tear it off the parson's. - -"I might get a bit of string at old Bumford's," I said. "In a few -minutes I'll be back with it." - -It was one of the lightest nights ever seen: the air clear, the moon -bright, the ground white with snow. Rushing round the north and -unfrequented side of the church, where the grass on the graves was long -and no one ever walked, excepting old Bumford when he wanted to cut -across the near way to his cottage, I saw something stirring against the -church wall. Something dark: that seemed to have been looking in at -the window, and now crouched down with a sudden movement behind the -buttress, as if afraid of being seen. - -"Is that you, Leek?" I called out. - -There was no answer: no movement: nothing but a dark heap lying low. I -thought it might be a fox; and crossed over to look. - -Well--I had had surprises in my life, but never one that so struck upon -me as this. Foxes don't wear women's clothes: this thing did. I pulled -aside the dark cloak, and a face stood out white and cold in the -moonlight--the face of Jessy Page. - -You may fancy it is a slice of romance this; made up for effect out of -my imagination: but it is the real truth, as every one about the place -can testify to, and its strangeness is talked of still. Yet there are -stranger coincidences in life than this. On Christmas-Eve, a year -before, Jessy Page had been helping to dress the church, in her fine -blue mantle, in her beauty, in her light-hearted happiness: on this -Christmas-Eve when we were dressing it again, she re-appeared. But how -changed! Wan, white, faint, wasted! I am not sure that I should have -known her but for her voice. Shrinking, as it struck me, with shame and -fear, she put up her trembling hands in supplication. - -"Don't betray me!--don't call!" she implored in weak, feverish, anxious -tones. "Go away and leave me. Let me lie here unsuspected until they -have all gone away." - -What ought I to do? I was just as bewildered as it's possible for a -fellow to be. It's no exaggeration to say that I thought her dying: and -it would never do to leave her there to die. - -The stillness was broken by a commotion. While she lay with her thin -hands raised, and I was gazing down on her poor face, wondering what to -say, and how to act, Miss Susan came flying round the corner after me. - -"Johnny Ludlow! Master Johnny! Don't go. We have found the string under -the unused holly. Why!--what's that?" - -No chance of concealment for Jessy now. Susan Page made for the -buttress, and saw the white face in the moonlight. - -"It's Jessy," I whispered. - -With a shriek that might have scared away all the ghosts in the -churchyard, Susan Page called for Abigail. They heard it through the -window, and came rushing out, thinking Susan must have fallen at least -into the clutches of a winter wolf. Miss Susan's voice trembled as she -spoke in a whisper. - -"Here's Jessy--come back at last!" - -Unbelieving Abigail Page went down on her knees in the snow to trace the -features, and convince herself. Yes, it was Jessy. She had fainted now, -and lay motionless. Leek came up then, and stood staring. - -Where had she come from?--how had she got there? It was just as though -she had dropped from the skies with the snow. And what was to be done -with her? - -"She must--come home," said Abigail. - -But she spoke hesitatingly, as though some impediment might lie in the -way: and she looked round in a dreamy manner on the open country, all so -white and dreary in the moonlight. - -"Yes, there's no other place--of course it must be the farm," she added. -"Perhaps you can bring her between you. But I'll go on and speak to my -father first." - -It was easy for one to carry her, she was so thin and light. John Drench -lifted her and they all went off: leaving me and Leek to finish up in -the church, and put out the candles. - -William Page was sitting in his favourite place, the wide chimney-corner -of the kitchen, quietly smoking his pipe, when his daughter broke in -upon him with the strange news. Just in the same way that, a year -before, she had broken in upon him with that other news--that a -gentleman had arrived, uninvited, on a visit to the farm. This news -was more startling than that. - -"Are they bringing her home?--how long will they be?" cried the old man -with feverish eagerness, as he let fall his long churchwarden pipe, and -broke it. "Abigail, will they be long?" - -"Father, I want to say something: I came on to say it," returned Miss -Page, and she was trembling too. "I don't like her face: it is wan, and -thin, and full of suffering: but there's a look in it that--that seems -to tell of shame." - -"To tell of what?" he asked, not catching the word. - -"May Heaven forgive me if I misjudge her! The fear crossed me, as I saw -her lying there, that her life may not have been innocent since she left -us: why else should she come back in this most strange way? Must we take -her in all the same, father?" - -"Take her in!" he repeated in amazement. "YES. What are you thinking of, -child, to ask it?" - -"It's the home of myself and Susan, father: it has been always an honest -one in the sight of the neighbours. Maybe, they'll be hard upon us for -receiving her into it." - -He stared as one who does not understand, and then made a movement with -his hands, as if warding off her words and the neighbours' hardness -together. - -"Let her come, Abigail! Let her come, poor stray lamb. Christ wouldn't -turn away a little one that had strayed from the fold: should her own -father do it?" - -And when they brought her in, and put her in an easy-chair by the -sitting-room fire, stirring it into a blaze, and gave her hot tea and -brandy in it, William Page sat down by her side, and shed fast tears -over her, as he fondly stroked her hand. - - * * * * * - -Gay and green looked the church on Christmas morning, the sun shining -in upon us as brightly as it shone a year before. The news of Jessy -Page's return and the curious manner of it, had spread; causing the -congregation to turn their eyes instinctively on the Pages' pew. Perhaps -not one but recalled the last Christmas--and the gallant stranger who -had sat in it, and found the places in the Prayer-book for Jessy. Only -Mr. Page was there to-day. He came slowly in with his thick stick--for -he walked badly since his illness, and dragged one leg behind the other. -Before the thanksgiving prayer the parson opened a paper and read out a -notice. Such things were uncommon in our church, and it caused a stir. - -"William Page desires to return thanks to Almighty God for a great mercy -vouchsafed to him." - -We walked to the Copse Farm with him after service. Considering that he -had been returning thanks, he seemed dreadfully subdued. He didn't know -how it was yet; where she had been, or why she had come home in the -manner she did, he told the Squire; but, anyway, she had come. Come to -die, it might be; but _come home_, and that was enough. - -Mrs. Todhetley went upstairs to see her. They had given her the best -bed, the one they had given to Marcus Allen. She lay in it like a lily. -It was what Mrs. Todhetley said when she came down: "like a lily, so -white and delicate." There was no talking. Jessy for the most part kept -her eyes shut and her face turned away. Miss Page whispered that they -had not questioned her yet; she seemed too weak to bear it. "But what do -you _think_?" asked Mrs. Todhetley in return. "I am afraid to think," -was all the answer. In coming away, Mrs. Todhetley stooped over the bed -to kiss her. - -"Oh don't, don't!" said Jessy faintly: "you might not if you knew all. I -am not worth it." - -"Perhaps I should kiss you all the more, my poor child," answered Mrs. -Todhetley. And she came downstairs with red eyes. - -But Miss Susan Page was burning with impatience to know the ins and outs -of the strange affair. Naturally so. It had brought more scandal and -gossip on the Copse Farm than even the running away of the year before. -That was bad enough: this was worse. Altogether Jessy was the home's -heartsore. Mr. Page spoke of her as a lamb, a wanderer returned to the -fold, and Susan heard it with compressed lips: in her private opinion, -she had more justly been called an ungrateful girl. - -"Now, then, Jessy; you must let us know a little about yourself," began -Susan on this same afternoon when she was with her alone, and Jessy lay -apparently stronger, refreshed with the dinner and the long rest. -Abigail had gone to church with Mr. Page. Susan could not remember that -any of them had gone to church before on Christmas-Day after the morning -service: but there was no festive gathering to keep them at home to-day. -Unconsciously, perhaps, Susan resented the fact. Even John Drench was -dining at his father's. "Where have you been all this while in London?" - -Jessy suddenly lifted her arm to shade her eyes; and remained silent. - -"It _is_ in London, I conclude, that you have been? Come: answer me." - -"Yes," said Jessy faintly. - -"And _where_ have you been? In what part of it?--who with?" - -"Don't ask me," was the low reply, given with a suppressed sob. - -"Not ask you! But we must ask you. And you must answer. Where have you -been, and what have you been doing?" - -"I--can't tell," sobbed Jessy. "The story is too long." - -"Story too long!" echoed Susan quickly, "you might say in half-a-dozen -words--and leave explanations until to-morrow. Did you find a place in -town?" - -"Yes, I found a place." - -"A lady's-maid's place?--as you said." - -Jessy turned her face to the wall, and never spoke. - -"Now, this won't do," cried Miss Susan, not choosing to be thwarted: and -no doubt Jessy, hearing the determined tone, felt something like a reed -in her hands. "Just you tell me a little." - -"I am very ill, Susan; I can't talk much," was the pleading excuse. "If -you'd only let me be quiet." - -"It will no more hurt you to say in a few words where you have been than -to make excuses," persisted Miss Susan, giving a flick to the skirt -of her new puce silk gown. "Your conduct altogether has been most -extraordinary, quite baffling to us at home, and I must hear some -explanation of it." - -"The place I went to was too hard for me," said Jessy after a pause, -speaking out of the pillow. - -"Too hard!" - -"Yes; too hard. My heart was breaking with its hardness, and I couldn't -stop in it. Oh, be merciful to me, Susan! don't ask any more." - -Susan Page thought that when mysterious answers like these were creeping -out, there was all the greater need that she should ask for more. - -"Who found you the place at first, Jessy?" - -Not a word. Susan asked again. - -"I--got it through an advertisement," said Jessy at length. - -Advertisements in those days, down in our rural district, were looked -upon as wonderful things, and Miss Susan opened her eyes in surprise. A -faint idea was upon her that Jessy could not be telling the truth. - -"In that letter that you wrote to us; the only one you did write; you -asserted that you liked the place." - -"Yes. That was at first. But afterwards--oh, afterwards it got cruelly -hard." - -"Why did you not change it for another?" - -Jessy made no answer. Susan heard the sobs in her throat. - -"Now, Jessy, don't be silly. I ask why you did not get another place, if -you were unable to stay in that one?" - -"I couldn't have got another, Susan. I would never have got another." - -"Why not?" persisted Susan. - -"I--I--don't you see how weak I am?" she asked with some energy, lifting -her face for a moment to Susan. - -And its wan pain, its depth of anguish, disarmed Susan. Jessy looked -like a once fair blossom on which a blight had passed. - -"Well, Jessy, we will leave these matters until later. But there's one -thing you must answer. What induced you to take this disreputable mode -of coming back?" - -A dead silence. - -"Could you not have written to say you were coming, as any sensible girl -would, that you might have been properly met and received? Instead of -appearing like a vagabond, to be picked up by anybody." - -"I never meant to come home--to the house." - -"But _why_?" asked Susan. - -"Oh, because--because of my ingratitude in running away--and never -writing--and--and all that." - -"That is, you were ashamed to come and face us." - -"Yes, I was ashamed," said Jessy, shivering. - -"And no wonder. Why did you go?" - -Jessy gave a despairing sigh. Leaving that question in abeyance, Susan -returned to the former one. - -"If you did not mean to come home, what brought you down here at all?" - -"It didn't matter where I went. And my heart was yearning for a look at -the old place--and so I came." - -"And if we had not found you under the church wall--and we never should -but for Johnny Ludlow's running out to get some string--where should you -have gone, pray?" - -"Crawled under some haystack, and let the cold and hunger kill me." - -"Don't be a simpleton," reproved Susan. - -"I wish it had been so," returned Jessy. "I'd rather be dying there in -quiet. Oh, Susan, I am ill; I am indeed! Let me be at peace!" - -The appeal shut up Susan Page. She did not want to be too hard upon her. - -Mr. Duffham came in after church. Abigail had told him that she did not -like Jessy's looks; nor yet her cough. He went up alone, and was at the -bedside before Jessy was aware. She put up her hand to hide her face, -but not in time: Duffham had seen it. Doctors don't get shocks in a -general way: they are too familiar with appearances that frighten other -people: but he started a little. If ever he saw coming death in a face, -he thought he saw it in that of Jessy Page. - -He drew away the shading hand, and looked at her. Duffham was pompous on -the whole and thought a good deal of his gold-headed cane, but he was a -tender man with the sad and sick. After that, he sat down and began -asking her a few things--where she had been, and what she had done. Not -out of curiosity, or quite with the same motive that Miss Susan had just -asked; but because he wished to find out whether her illness was more on -the body or the mind. She would not answer. Only cried softly. - -"My dear," said Duffham, "I must have you tell me a little of the past. -Don't be afraid: it shall go no further. If you only knew the strange -confidences that are sometimes placed in me, Jessy, you would not -hesitate." - -No, she would not speak of her own accord, so he began to pump her. -Doing it very kindly and soothingly: had Jessy spent her year in London -robbing all the banks, one might have thought she could only have -yielded to his wish to come to the bottom of it. Duffham listened to her -answers, and sat with a puzzled face. She told him what she had told -Susan: that her post of lady's-maid had been too hard for her and worn -her to what she was; that she had shrunk from returning home on account -of her ingratitude, and should not have returned ever of her own will. -But she had yearned for a sight of the old place, and so came down by -rail, and walked over after dark. In passing the church she saw it -lighted up; and lingered, peeping in. She never meant to be seen; she -should have gone away somewhere before morning. Nothing more. - -Nothing more! Duffham sat listening to her. He pushed back the pretty -golden hair (no more blue ribbons in it now), lost in thought. - -"_Nothing_ more, Jessy? There must have been something more, I think, to -have brought you into this state. What was it?" - -"No," she faintly said: "only the hard work I had to do; and the thought -of how I left my home; and--and my unhappiness. I was unhappy always, -nearly from my first entering. The work was hard." - -"What was the work?" - -"It was----" - -A long pause. Mr. Duffham, always looking at her, waited. - -"It was sewing; dress-making. And--there was sitting up at nights." - -"Who was the lady you served? What was her name?" - -"I can't tell it," answered Jessy, her cheeks flushing to a wild hectic. - -The surgeon suddenly turned the left hand towards him, and looked at the -forefinger. It was smooth as ivory. - -"Not much sign of sewing there, Jessy." - -She drew it under the clothes. "It is some little time since I did any; -I was too ill," she answered. "Mr. Duffham, I have told you all there is -to tell. The place was too hard for me, and it made me ill." - -It was all she told. Duffham wondered whether it was, in substance, all -she had to tell. He went down and entered the parlour with a grave face: -Mr. Page, his daughters, and John Drench were there. The doctor said -Jessy must have perfect rest, tranquillity, and the best of nourishment; -and he would send some medicine. Abigail put a shawl over her head, and -walked with him across the garden. - -"You will tell _me_ what your opinion is, Mr. Duffham." - -"Ay. It is no good one, Miss Abigail." - -"Is she very ill?" - -"Very. I do not think she will materially rally. Her chest and lungs are -both weak." - -"Her mother's were before her. As I told you, Jessy looks to me just as -my mother used to look in her last illness." - -Mr. Duffham went through the gate without saying more. The snow was -sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight. - -"I think I gather what you mean," resumed Abigail. "That she is, in -point of fact, dying." - -"That's it. As I truly believe." - -They looked at each other in the clear light air. "But not--surely, Mr. -Duffham, not immediately?" - -"Not immediately. It may be weeks off yet. Mind--I don't assert that she -is absolutely past hope; I only think it. It is possible that she may -rally, and recover." - -"It might not be the happier for her," said Abigail, under her breath. -"She is in a curiously miserable state of mind--as you no doubt saw. Mr. -Duffham, did she tell you anything?" - -"She says she took a place as lady's-maid; that the work proved too hard -for her; and that, with the remorse for her ingratitude towards her -home, made her ill." - -"She said the same to Susan this afternoon. Well, we must wait for more. -Good-night, Mr. Duffham: I am sure you will do all you can." - -Of course Duffham meant to do all he could; and from that time he began -to attend her regularly. - -Jessy Page's coming home, with, as Miss Susan had put it, the vagabond -manner of it, was a nine days' wonder. The neighbours went making calls -at the Copse Farm, to talk about it and to see her. In the latter hope -they failed. Jessy showed a great fear of seeing any one of them; would -put her head under the bed-clothes and lie there shaking till the house -was clear; and Duffham said she was not to be crossed. - -Her sisters got to know no more of the past. Not a syllable. They -questioned and cross-questioned her; but she only stuck to her text. It -was the work that had been too much for her; the people she served were -cruelly hard. - -"I really think it must be so; that she has nothing else to tell," -remarked Abigail to Susan one morning, as they sat alone at breakfast, -"But she must have been a downright simpleton to stay." - -"I can't make her out," returned Susan, hard of belief. "Why should -she not say where it was, and who the people are? Here comes the -letter-man." - -The letter-man--as he was called--was bringing a letter for Miss Page. -Letters at the Copse Farm were rare, and she opened it with curiosity. -It proved to be from Mrs. Allen of Aberystwith; and out of it dropped -two cards, tied together with silver cord. - -Mrs. Allen wrote to say that her distant relative, Marcus, was married. -He had been married on Christmas-Eve to a Miss Mary Goldbeater, a great -heiress, and they had sent her cards. Thinking the Miss Pages might like -to see the cards (as they knew something of him) she had forwarded them. - -Abigail took the cards up. "Mr. Marcus Allen. Mrs. Marcus Allen." And on -hers was the address: "Gipsy Villas, Montgomery Road, Brompton." "I -think he might have been polite enough to send us cards also," observed -Abigail. - -Susan put the cards on the waiter when she went upstairs with her -sister's tea. Jessy, looking rather more feverish than usual in a -morning, turned the cards about in her slender hands. - -"I have heard of her, this Mary Goldbeater," said Jessy, biting her -parched lips. "They say she's pretty, and--and very rich." - -"Where did you hear of her?" asked Susan. - -"Oh, in--let me think. In the work-room." - -"Now what do you mean by that?" cried Miss Susan. "A work-room implies a -dressmaker's establishment, and you tell us you were a lady's-maid." - -Jessy seemed unable to answer. - -"I don't believe you were at either the one place or the other. You are -deceiving us, Jessy." - -"No," gasped Jessy. - -"Did you ever see Mr. Marcus Allen when you were in town?" - -"Mr. Marcus Allen?" repeated Jessy after a pause, just as if she were -unable to recall who Mr. Marcus Allen was. - -"The Mr. Marcus Allen you knew at Aberystwith; he who came here -afterwards," went on Susan impatiently. "Are you losing your memory, -Jessy?" - -"No, I never saw the Marcus Allen I knew here--and there," was Jessy's -answer, her face white and still as death. - -"Why!--Did you know any other Marcus Allen, then?" questioned Susan, in -surprise. For the words had seemed to imply it. - -"No," replied Jessy. "No." - -"She seems queerer than usual--I hope her mind's not going," thought -Susan. "Did you ever go to see Madame Caron, Jessy, while you were in -London?" - -"Never. Why should I? I didn't know Madame Caron." - -"When Marcus Allen wrote to excuse himself from visiting us in the -summer, he said he would be sure to come later," resumed Susan. "I -wonder if he will keep his promise." - -"No--never," answered Jessy. - -"How do you know?" - -"Oh--I don't think it. He wouldn't care to come. Especially now he's -married." - -"And you never saw him in town, Jessy? Never even met him by chance?" - -"I've told you--No. Do you suppose I should be likely to call upon -Marcus Allen? As to meeting him by chance, it is not often I went out, I -can tell you." - -"Well, sit up and take your breakfast," concluded Susan. - -A thought had crossed Susan Page's mind--whether this marriage of Marcus -Allen's on Christmas-Eve could have had anything to do with Jessy's -return and her miserable unhappiness. It was only a thought; and she -drove it away again. As Abigail said, she had been inclined throughout -to judge hardly of Jessy. - - * * * * * - -The winter snow lay on the ground still, when it became a question not -of how many weeks Jessy would live, but of days. And then she confessed -to a secret that pretty nearly changed the sober Miss Pages' hair from -black to grey. Jessy had turned Roman Catholic. - -It came out through her persistent refusal to see the parson, Mr. -Holland, a little man with shaky legs. He'd go trotting up to the Copse -Farm once or twice a-week; all in vain. Miss Abigail would console him -with a good hot jorum of sweet elder wine, and then he'd trot back -again. One day Jessy, brought to bay, confessed that she was a Roman -Catholic. - -There was grand commotion. John Drench went about, his hands lifted in -the frosty air; Abigail and Susan Page sat in the bedroom with -(metaphorically speaking) ashes on their heads. - -People have their prejudices. It was not so much that these ladies -wished to cast reflection on good Catholics born and bred, as that Jessy -should have abandoned her own religion, just as though it had been an -insufficient faith. It was the slight on it that they could not bear. - -"Miserable girl!" exclaimed Miss Susan, looking upon Jessy as a -turncoat, and therefore next door to lost. And Jessy told, through her -sobs, how it had come to pass. - -Wandering about one evening in London when she was very unhappy, she -entered a Catholic place of worship styled an "Oratory."--The Miss -Pages caught up the word as "oratorio," and never called it anything -else.--There a priest got into conversation with Jessy. He had a -pleasant, kindly manner that won upon her and drew from her the fact -that she was unhappy. Become a Catholic, he said to her; it would bring -her back to happiness: and he asked her to go and see him again. She -went again; again and again. And so, going and listening to him, she at -length _did_ turn, and was received by him into his church. - -"Are you the happier for it?" sharply asked Miss Abigail. - -"No," answered Jessy with distressed eyes. "Only--only----" - -"Only what, pray?" - -"Well, they can absolve me from all sin." - -"Oh, you poor foolish misguided child!" cried Abigail in anguish; "you -must take your sins to the Saviour: He can absolve you, and He alone. -Do you want any third person to stand between you and Him?" - -Jessy gave a sobbing sigh. "It's best as it is, Abigail. Anyway, it is -too late now." - -"Stop a bit," cried sharp Miss Susan. "I should like to have one thing -answered, Jessy. You have told us how hard you were kept to work: if -that was so, pray how did you find leisure to be dancing abroad to -Oratorios? Come?" - -Jessy could not, or would not, answer. - -"Can you explain that!" said Miss Susan, some sarcasm in her tone. - -"I went out sometimes in an evening," faltered Jessy. And more than that -could not be drawn from her. - -They did not tell Mr. Page: it would have distressed him too much. In a -day or two Jessy asked to see a priest. Miss Abigail flatly refused, on -account of the scandal. As if their minister was not good enough! - -One afternoon I was standing by Jessy's bed--for Miss Abigail had let me -go up to see her. Mrs. Todhetley, that first day, had said she looked -like a lily: she was more like one now. A faded lily that has had all -its beauty washed out of it. - -"Good-bye, Johnny Ludlow," she said, opening her eyes, and putting out -her feeble hand. "I shall not see you again." - -"I hope you will, Jessy. I'll come over to-morrow." - -"Never again in this world." And I had to lean over to catch the words, -and my eyes were full. - -"In the next world there'll be no parting, Jessy. We shall see each -other there." - -"I don't know," she said. "You will be there, Johnny; I can't tell -whether I shall be. I turned Roman Catholic, you see; and Abigail won't -let a priest come. And so--I don't know how it will be." - -The words struck upon me. The Miss Pages had kept the secret too closely -for news of it to have come abroad. It seemed worse to me to hear -it than to her to say it. But she had grown too weak to feel things -strongly. - -"Good-bye, Johnny." - -"Good-bye, Jessy dear," I whispered. "Don't fear: God will be sure to -take you to heaven if you ask Him." - -Miss Abigail got it out of me--what she had said about the priest. In -fact, I told. She was very cross. - -"There; let it drop, Johnny Ludlow. John Drench is gone off in the gig -to Coughton to bring one. All I hope and trust is, that they'll not be -back until the shades of night have fallen upon the earth! I shouldn't -like a priest to be seen coming into _this_ door. Such a reproach on -good Mr. Holland! I'm sure I trust it will never get about!" - -We all have our prejudices, I repeat. And not a soul amongst us for -miles round had found it necessary to change religions since the -Reformation. - -Evening was well on when John Drench brought him in. A mild-faced man, -wearing a skull-cap under his broad-brimmed hat. He saw Jessy alone. -Miss Page would not have made a third at the interview though they had -bribed her to it--and of course they wouldn't have had her. It was quite -late when he came down. Miss Page stopped him as he was going out, after -declining refreshment. - -"I presume, sir, she has told you all about this past year--that has -been so mysterious to us?" - -"Yes; I think all," replied the priest. - -"Will you tell me the particulars?" - -"I cannot do that," he said. "They have been given to me under the seal -of confession." - -"Only to me and to her sister Susan," pleaded Abigail. "We will not even -disclose it to our father. Sir, it would be a true kindness to us, and -it can do her no harm. You do not know what our past doubts and distress -have been." - -But the priest shook his head. He was very sorry to refuse, he said, but -the tenets of his Church forbade his speaking. And Miss Page thought he -_was_ sorry, for he had a benevolent face. - -"Best let the past lie," he gently added. "Suffice it to know that she -is happy now, poor child, and will die in peace." - - * * * * * - -They buried her in the churchyard beside her mother. When the secret got -about, some said it was not right--that she ought to have been taken -elsewhere, to a graveyard devoted to the other faith. Which would just -have put the finishing stroke on old Page--broken all that was left of -his heart to break. The Squire said he didn't suppose it mattered in -the sight of God: or would make much difference at the Last Day. - -And that ended the life of Jessy Page: and, in one sense, its episode of -mystery. Nothing more was ever heard or known of where she had been or -what she had done. Years have gone by since then; and William Page is -lying beside her. Miss Page and Charley live on at the Copse Farm; Susan -became Mrs. John Drench ages ago. Her husband, a man of substance now, -was driving her into Alcester last Tuesday (market-day) in his -four-wheeled chaise, two buxom daughters in the back seat. I nodded to -them from Mr. Brandon's window. - -The mystery of Jessy Page (as we grew to call it) remained a mystery. It -remains one to this day. What the secret was--if there was a secret--why -she went in the way she did, and came back in what looked like shame and -fear and trembling, a dying girl--has not been solved. It never will be -in this world. Some old women put it all down to her having changed her -religion and been afraid to tell: while Miss Abigail and Miss Susan have -never got rid of a vague doubt, touching Marcus Allen. But it may be -only their fancy; they admit that, and say to one another when talking -of it privately, that it is not right to judge a man without cause. He -keeps a carriage-and-pair now; and gives dinners, and has handsome -daughters growing up; and is altogether quite up to the present style of -expensive life in London. - -And I never go into church on a Christmas morning--whether it may be -decorated in our simple country fashion, or in accordance with your new -"artistic" achievements--but I think of Jessy Page. Of her sweet face, -her simplicity, and her want of guile: and of the poor wreck that came -back, broken-hearted, to die. - - - - -CRABB RAVINE. - - -I. - -"Yes! Halloa! What is it?" - -To be wakened up short by a knocking, or some other noise, in the night, -is enough to make you start up in bed, and stare round in confusion. The -room was dark, barring the light that always glimmers in at the window -on a summer's night, and I listened and waited for more. Nothing came: -it was all as silent as the grave. - -We were staying at Crabb Cot. I had gone to bed at half-past nine, dead -tired after a day's fishing. The Squire and Tod were away: Mrs. -Todhetley went over to the Coneys' after tea, and did not seem in a -hurry to come back. They fried one of the fish I had caught for my -supper; and after that, there being no one to speak to, I went to bed. - -It was a knocking that had wakened me out of my sleep: I was sure of -that. And it sounded exactly as though it were at the window--which was -very improbable. Calling out again to know who was there, and what -was wanted--though not very loudly, for the children slept within -earshot--and getting no answer, I lay down again, and was all but asleep -when the noise came a second time. - -It was at the dining-room window, right underneath mine. There could be -no mistake about it. The ceilings of the old-fashioned house were low; -the windows were very near each other, and mine was down at the top. I -thought it time to jump out of bed, and take a look out. - -Well, I was surprised! Instead of its being the middle of the night, -it must be quite early still; for the lamp was yet alight in the -dining-room. It was a cosy kind of room, with a bow window jutting on to -the garden, of which the middle compartment opened to the ground, as -French windows do. My window was a bow also, and close above the other. -Throwing it up, I looked out. - -There was not a soul to be seen. Yet the knocking could not have been -from within, for the inside shutters were closed: they did not reach to -the top panes, and the lamplight shone through them on the mulberry -tree. As I leaned out, wondering, the crazy old clock at North Crabb -Church began to tell the hour. I counted the strokes, one by one--ten of -them. Only ten o'clock! And I thought I had been asleep half the night. - -All in a moment I caught sight of some one moving slowly away. He was -keeping in the shade; close to the shrubs that encircled the lawn, as if -not caring to be seen. A short, thin man, in dark clothes and round -black felt hat. Who he was, and what he wanted, was more than I could -imagine. It could not be a robber. Robbers don't come knocking at houses -before people have gone to bed. - -The small side-gate opened, and Mrs. Todhetley came in. Old Coney's farm -was only a stone's-throw off, and she had run home alone. We people -in the country think nothing of being abroad alone at night. The man -emerged from the shade, and placed himself right in her path, on the -gravel walk. They stood there together. I could see him better now: -there was no moon, but the night was light; and it flashed into my mind -that he was the same man I had seen Mrs. Todhetley with in the morning, -as I went across the fields, with my rod and line. She was at the stile, -about to descend into the Ravine, when he came up from it, and accosted -her. He was a stranger; wearing a seedy, shabby black coat; and I had -wondered what he wanted. They were still talking together when I got out -of sight, for I turned to look. - -Not long did they stand now. The gentleman went away; she came hastening -on with her head down, a soft wool kerchief thrown over her cap. In all -North Crabb, no one was so fearful of catching face-ache as Mrs. -Todhetley. - -"Who was it?" I called out, when she was under the window: which seemed -to startle her considerably, for she gave a spring back, right on to the -grass. - -"Johnny! how you frightened me! What are you looking out at?" - -"At that fellow who has just taken himself off. Who is he?" - -"I do believe you have on nothing but your nightshirt! You'll be sure to -take cold. Shut the window down, and get into bed." - -Four times over, in all, had I to ask about the man before I got an -answer. Now it was the nightshirt, now catching cold, now the open -window and the damp air. She always wanted to be as tender with us as -though we were chickens. - -"The man that met me in the path?" she got to, at length. "He made some -excuse for being here: was not sure whose house it was, I think he said: -had turned in by mistake to the wrong one." - -"That's all very fine; but, not being sure, he ought to mind his -manners. He came rapping at the dining-room window like anything, and it -woke me up. Had you been at home, sitting there, good mother, you might -have been startled out of your seven senses." - -"So I should, Johnny. The Coneys would not let me come away: they had -friends with them. Good-night, dear. Shut down that window." - -She went on to the side-door. I put down the window, opened it at the -top, and let the white curtain drop before it. It was an hour or two -before I got to sleep again, and I had the man and the knocking in my -thoughts all the time. - -"Don't say anything about it in the house, Johnny," Mrs. Todhetley said -to me, in the morning. "It might alarm the children." So I promised her -I would not. - -Tod came home at mid-day, not the Squire: and the first thing I did was -to tell him. I wouldn't have broken faith with the mother for the world; -not even for Tod; but it never entered my mind that she wished me to -keep it a close secret, excepting from those, servants or others, who -might be likely to repeat it before Hugh and Lena. I cautioned Tod. - -"Confound his impudence!" cried Tod. "Could he not be satisfied with -disturbing the house at the door at night, but he must make for the -window? I wish I had been at home." - -Crabb Ravine lay to the side of our house, beyond the wide field. It -was a regular wilderness. The sharp descent began in that three-cornered -grove, of which you've heard before, for it was where Daniel Ferrar -hanged himself; and the wild, deep, mossy dell, about as wide as an -ordinary road, went running along below, soft, green and damp. Towering -banks, sloping backwards, rose on either side; a mass of verdure in -summer; of briars, brown and tangled, in winter. Dwarf shrubs, tall -trees, blackberry and nut bushes, sweet-briar and broom clustered there -in wild profusion. Primroses and violets peeped up when spring came in; -blue bells and cowslips, dog-roses, woodbine, and other sweet flowers, -came later. Few people would descend except by the stile opposite our -house and the proper zigzag path leading down the side bank, for a fall -might have broken limbs, besides bringing one's clothes to grief. -No houses stood near it, except ours and old Coney's; and the field -bordering it just here on this side belonged to Squire Todhetley. If you -went down the zigzag path, turned to the right, walked along the Ravine -some way, and then up another zigzag on the opposite side, you soon came -to Timberdale, a small place in itself, but our nearest post-town. The -high-road to Timberdale, winding past our house from South Crabb, was -twice the distance, so that people might sometimes be seen in the Ravine -by day; but no one cared to go near it in the evening, as it had the -reputation of being haunted. A mysterious light might sometimes be -observed there at night, dodging about the banks, where it would be -rather difficult for ordinary human beings to walk: some said it was a -will-o'-the-wisp, and some said a ghost. It was difficult to get even a -farm-servant to go the near way to Timberdale after dark. - -One morning, when I was running through the Ravine with Tod in search of -Tom Coney, we came slap against a man, who seemed to be sneaking there, -for he turned short off, into the underwood, to hide himself. I knew him -by his hat. - -"Tod, that's the man," I whispered. - -"What man, Johnny?" - -"The one who came knocking at the window three nights ago." - -"Oh!" said Tod, carelessly. "He looks like a fellow who comes out with -begging petitions." - -It might have been an hour after that. We had come up from the Ravine, -on our side of it, not having seen or spoken to a soul, except Luke -Mackintosh. Tod told me to stay and waylay Coney if he made his -appearance, whilst he went again to the farm in search of him. -Accordingly, I was sitting on the fence (put there to hinder the cattle -and sheep from getting over the brink of the Ravine), throwing stones -and whistling, when I saw Mrs. Todhetley cross the stile to go down the -zigzag. She did not see me: the fence could hardly be gained for trees, -and I was hidden. - -Just because I had nothing to do, I watched her as she went; tall, thin, -and light in figure, she could spin along nearly as quick as we. The -zigzag path went in and out, sloping along the bank until it brought -itself to the dell at a spot a good bit beyond me as I looked down, -finishing there with a high, rough step. Mrs. Todhetley took it with a -spring. - -What next! In one moment the man with the black coat and hat had -appeared from somewhere, and placed himself in front of her parasol. -Before I could quit the place, and leap down after her, a conviction -came over me that the meeting was not accidental: and I rubbed my eyes -in wonder, and thought I must be dreaming. - -The summer air was clear as crystal; not a bee's hum just then disturbed -its stillness. Detached words ascended from where they stood; and now -and again a whole sentence. She kept looking each way as if afraid to be -seen; and so did he, for that matter. The colloquy seemed to be about -money. I caught the word two or three times; and Mrs. Todhetley said it -was "impossible." "I must, and I will have it," came up distinctly from -him in answer. - -"What's _that_, Johnny?" - -The interruption came from Tod. All my attention absorbed in them, he -stood at my elbow before I knew he was near. When I would have answered, -he suddenly put his hand upon my mouth for silence. His face had a proud -anger on it as he looked down. - -Mrs. Todhetley seemed to be using entreaty to the man, for she clasped -her hands in a piteous manner, and then turned to ascend the zigzag. He -followed her, talking very fast. As to me, I was in a regular sea of -marvel, understanding nothing. Our heads were hardly to be distinguished -from the bushes, even if she had looked up. - -"No," she said, turning round upon him; and they were near us then, half -way up the path, so that every word was audible. "You must not venture -to come to the house, or near the house. I would not have Mr. Todhetley -know of this for the world: for your sake as well as for his." - -"Todhetley's not at home," was the man's answer: and Tod gave a growl as -he heard it. - -"If he is not, his son is," said Mrs. Todhetley. "It would be all the -same; or worse." - -"His son's here," roared out passionate Tod. "What the deuce is the -meaning of this, sir?" - -The man shot down the path like an arrow. Mrs. Todhetley--who had been -walking on, seeming not to have caught the words, or to know whose the -voice was, or where it came from--gazed round in all directions, her -countenance curiously helpless. She ran up the rest of the zigzag, and -went swiftly home across the field. Tod disentangled himself from the -brambles, and drew a long breath. - -"I think it's time we went now, Johnny." It was not often he spoke in -that tone. He had always been at war tacitly with Mrs. Todhetley, and -was not likely to favour her now. Generous though he was by nature, -there could be no denying that he took up awful prejudices. - -"It is something about money, Tod." - -"I don't care what it is about--the fellow has no business to be -prowling here, on my father's grounds; and he _shan't_ be, without my -knowing what it's for. I'll watch madam's movements." - -"What do you think it can mean?" - -"Mean! Why, that the individual is some poor relation of hers, come to -drain as much of my father's money out of her as he can. _She_ is the -one to blame. I wonder how she dare encourage him!" - -"Perhaps she can't help herself." - -"Not help herself? Don't show yourself a fool, Johnny. An honest-minded, -straightforward woman would appeal to my father in any annoyance of -this sort, or to me, in his absence, and say 'Here's So-and-so come down -upon us, asking for help, can we give it him?'--and there's no doubt the -Squire _would_ give it him; he's soft enough for anything." - -It was of no use contending. I did not see it quite in that light, but -Tod liked his own opinion. He threw up his head with a haughty jerk. - -"You have tried to defend Mrs. Todhetley before, in trifling matters, -Johnny; don't attempt it now. Would any good woman, say any _lady_, if -you will, subject herself to this kind of thing?--hold private meetings -with a man--allow him to come tapping at her sitting-room window at -night? No; not though he were her own brother." - -"Tod, it may be her brother. She would never do anything wrong -willingly." - -"Shut up, Johnny. She never had a brother." - -Of course I shut up forthwith, and went across the field by Tod's side -in silence, his strides wide and indignant, his head up in the air. Mrs. -Todhetley was hearing Lena read when we got in, and looked as if she had -never been out that morning. - - * * * * * - -Some days went on. The man remained near, for he was seen occasionally, -and the servants began to talk. One remarked upon him, wondering who he -was; another remarked upon him, speculating on what he did there. In a -quiet country place, a dodging stranger excites curiosity, and this one -dodged about as much as ever the ghostly light did. If you caught sight -of him in the three-cornered plantation, he vanished forthwith to appear -next in the Ravine; if he stood peering out from the trees on the bank, -and found himself observed, the next minute he'd be crouching amongst -the broom on the other side. - -This came to be observed, and was thought strange, naturally; Hannah, -who was often out with Hugh and Lena, often saw him, and talked to the -other servants. One evening, when we were finishing dinner, the glass -doors of the bow-window being open, Hannah came back with the children. -They ran across the grass-plat after the fawn--one we had, just -then--and Hannah sat down in the porch of the side-door to wait. Old -Thomas had just drawn the slips from the table, and went through the -passage to the side-door to shake them. - -"I say," cried Hannah's voice, "I saw that man again." - -"Where?" asked Thomas, between his shakes of the linen. - -"In the old place--the Ravine. He was sitting on the stile at the top of -the zigzag, as cool as might be." - -"Did you speak to him? I should, if I came across the man; and ask what -his business might be in these parts." - -"I didn't speak to him," returned Hannah. "I'd rather not. There's no -knowing the answer one might get, Thomas, or what he's looking after. He -spoke to the children." - -"What did he say to them?" - -"Asked if they'd go away with him to some beautiful coral islands over -the sea, and catch pretty birds, and parrots, and monkeys. He called -them by their names, too--'Hugh' and 'Lena.' I should like to know how -he got hold of _them_." - -"I can't help thinking that he belongs to them engineering folk who come -spying for no good on people's land: the Squire won't like it if they -cut a railroad through here," said Thomas; and the supposition did not -appear to please Hannah. - -"Why you must be as silly as a turkey, old Thomas! Engineers have no -need to hide themselves as if they were afraid of being took up for -murder. He has about as much the cut of an engineer as you have, and no -more: they don't go about looking like Methodist parsons run to seed. -_My_ opinion is that he's something of that sort." - -"A Methodist parson!" - -"No; not anything half so respectable. If I spoke out my thoughts, -though, I dare say you'd laugh at me." - -"Not I," said Thomas. "Make haste. I forgot to put the claret jug on the -table." - -"Then I've got it in my head that he is one of them seducing Mormons. -They appear in neighbourhoods without the smallest warning, lie partly -concealed by day, and go abroad at night, persuading all the likely -women and girls to join their sect. My sister told me about it in a -letter she wrote me only three days ago. There has been a Mormon down -there; he called himself a saint, she says; and when he went finally -away he took fifteen young women with him. Fifteen, Thomas! and after -only three weeks' persuasion! It's as true as that you've got that -damask cloth in your hand." - -Nothing further was heard for a minute. Then Thomas spoke. "Has the man -here been seen talking with young women?" - -"Who is to know? They take care _not_ to be seen; that's their craft. -And so you see, Thomas, I'd rather steer clear of the man, and not give -him the opportunity of trying his arts on me. I can tell him it's not -Hannah Baber that would be cajoled off to a barbarous desert by a man -who had fifteen other wives beside! Lord help the women for geese! Miss -Lena" (raising her voice), "don't you tear about after the fawn like -that; you'll put yourself into a pretty heat." - -"I'd look him up when I came home, if I were the Squire," said Thomas, -who evidently took it all gravely in. "We don't want a Mormon on the -place." - -"If he were not a Mormon, which I'm pretty sure he is, I should say he -was a kidnapper of children," went on Hannah. "After we had got past him -over so far, he managed to 'tice Hugh back to the stile, gave him a -sugar-stick, and said he'd take him away if he'd go. It struck me he'd -like to kidnap him." - -Tod, sitting at the foot of the table in the Squire's place, had -listened to all this deliberately. Mrs. Todhetley, opposite to him, her -back to the light, had tried, in a feeble manner, once or twice, to -drown the sounds by saying something. But when urgently wanting to -speak, we often can't do so; and her efforts died away helplessly. She -looked miserably uncomfortable, and seemed conscious of Tod's feeling in -the matter; and when Hannah wound up with the bold assertion touching -the kidnapping of Hugh, she gave a start of alarm, which left her face -white. - -"Who is this man that shows himself in the neighbourhood?" asked Tod, -putting the question to her in a slow, marked manner, his dark eyes, -stern then, fixed on hers. - -"Johnny, those cherries don't look ripe. Try the summer apples." - -It was of no use at any time trying to put aside Tod. Before I had -answered her that the cherries were ripe enough for me, Tod began at her -again. - -"Can you tell me who he is?" - -"Dear me, no," she faintly said. "I can't tell you anything about it." - -"Nor what he wants?" - -"No. Won't you take some wine, Joseph?" - -"I shall make it my business to inquire, then," said Tod, disregarding -the wine and everything else. "The first time I come across the man, -unless he gives me a perfectly satisfactory answer as to what he may be -doing here on our land, I'll horse-whip him." - -Mrs. Todhetley put the trembling fingers of her left hand into the -finger-glass, and dried them. I don't believe she knew what she was -about more than a baby. - -"The man is nothing to you, Joseph. Why should you interfere with him?" - -"I shall interfere because my father is not here to do it," he answered, -in his least compromising of tones. "An ill-looking stranger has no -right to be prowling mysteriously amongst us at all. But when it comes -to knocking at windows at night, to waylaying--people--in solitary -places, and to exciting comments from the servants, it is time some one -interfered to know the reason of it." - -I am sure he had been going to say _you_; but with all his prejudice -he never was insolent to Mrs. Todhetley, when face to face; and he -substituted "people." Her pale blue eyes had the saddest light in them -you can well conceive, and yet she tried to look as though the matter -did not concern her. Old Thomas came in with the folded damask slips, -little thinking he and Hannah had been overheard, put them in the -drawer, and set things straight on the sideboard. - -"What time tea, ma'am?" he asked. - -"Any time," answered Mrs. Todhetley. "I am going over to Mr. Coney's, -but not to stay. Or perhaps you'll go for me presently, Johnny, and ask -whether Mrs. Coney has come home," she added, as Thomas left the room. - -I said I'd go. And it struck me that she must want Mrs. Coney very -particularly, for this would make the fifth time I had gone on the same -errand within a week. On the morning following that rapping at the -window, Mrs. Coney had news that Mrs. West, her married daughter, was -ill, and she started at once by the rail to Worcester to visit her. - -"I think I'll go and look for the fellow now," exclaimed Tod, rising -from his seat and making for the window. But Mrs. Todhetley rose too, as -one in mortal fright, and put herself in his way. - -"Joseph," she said, "I have no authority over you; you know that I have -never attempted to exercise any since I came home to your father's -house; but I must ask you to respect my wishes now." - -"What wishes?" - -"That you will refrain from seeking this stranger: that you will not -speak to or accost him in any way, should you and he by chance meet. I -have good reasons for asking it." Tod stood stock-still, neither saying -Yes nor No; only biting his lips in the anger he strove to keep down. - -"Oh, very well," said he, going back to his seat. "Of course, as you put -it in this light, I have no alternative. A night's delay cannot make -much difference, and my father will be home to-morrow to act for -himself." - -"You must not mention it to your father, Joseph. You must keep it _from_ -him." - -"I shall tell him as soon as he comes home." - -"Tell him what? What is it that you suspect? What would you tell him?" - -Tod hesitated. He had spoken in random heat; and found, on -consideration, he was without a case. He could not complain to his -father of _her_: in spite of his hasty temper, he was honourable as the -day. Her apparent intimacy with the man would also tie his tongue as to -_him_, whomsoever he might be. - -"You must be quite aware that it is not a pleasant thing, or a proper -thing, to have this mysterious individual encouraged here," he said, -looking at her. - -"And you think I encourage him, Joseph?" - -"Well, it seems that you--that you must know who he is. I saw you -talking with him one day in the Ravine," continued Tod, disdaining not -to be perfectly open, now it had come to an explanation. "Johnny was -with me. If he is a relative of yours, why, of course----" - -"He is no relative of mine, Joseph." And Tod opened his eyes wide to -hear the denial. It was the view he had taken all along. - -"Then why do you suffer him to annoy you?--and I am sure he does do it. -Let me deal with him. I'll soon ascertain what his business may be." - -"But that is just what you must not do," she said, seeming to speak out -the truth in very helplessness, like a frightened child. "You must leave -him in my hands, Joseph: I shall be able, I dare say, to--to--get rid of -him shortly." - -"_You_ know what he wants?" - -"Yes, I am afraid I do. It is quite my affair; and you must take no more -notice of it: above all, you must not say anything to your father." - -How much Tod was condemning her in his heart perhaps he would not have -cared to tell; but he could but be generous, even to his step-mother. - -"I suppose I must understand that you are in some sort of trouble?" - -"Indeed I am." - -"If it is anything in which I can help you, you have only to ask me to -do it," he said. But his manner was lofty as he spoke, his voice had a -hard ring in it. - -"Thank you very much, Joseph," was the meek, grateful answer. "If you -will only take no further notice, and say nothing to your father when he -comes home, it will be helping me sufficiently." - -Tod strolled out; just as angry as he could be; and I ran over to the -farm. Jane Coney had received a letter from her mother by the afternoon -post, saying she might not be home for some days to come. - -"Tell Mrs. Todhetley that I am sorry to have to send her bad news over -and over again," said Jane Coney, who was sitting in the best kitchen, -with her muslin sleeves turned up, and a big apron on, stripping fruit -for jam. The Coneys had brought up their girls sensibly, not to be -ashamed to make themselves thoroughly useful, in spite of their -education, and the fair fortune they would have. Mary was married; Jane -engaged to be. I sat on the table by her, eating away at the fruit. - -"What is it Mrs. Todhetley wants with my mother, Johnny?" - -"As if I knew!" - -"I think it must be something urgent. When she came in, that morning, -only five minutes after mamma had driven off, she was so terribly -disappointed, saying she would give a great deal to have spoken to her -first. My sister is not quite so well again; that's why mamma is staying -longer." - -"I'll tell her, Jane." - -"By the way, Johnny, what's this they are saying--about some strange man -being seen here? A special constable, peeping after bad characters?" - -"A special constable?" - -Jane Coney laughed. "Or a police-officer in disguise. It is what one of -our maids told me." - -"Oh," I answered, carelessly, for somehow I did not like the words; "you -must mean a man that is looking at the land; an engineer." - -"Is that all?" cried Jane Coney. "How foolish people are!" - -It was a sort of untruth, no doubt; but I should have told a worse in -the necessity. I did not like the aspect of things; and they puzzled my -brain unpleasantly all the way home. - -Mrs. Todhetley was at work by the window when I got there. Tod had not -made his re-appearance; Hugh and Lena were in bed. She dropped her work -when I gave the message. - -"Not for some days to come yet! Oh, Johnny!" - -"But what do you want with her?" - -"Well, I do want her. I want a friend just now, Johnny, that's the -truth; and I think Mrs. Coney would be one." - -"Joe asked if he could help you; and you said 'No.' Can I?" - -"Johnny, if you could, there's no one in the world I'd rather ask. But -you cannot." - -"Why?" - -"Because"--she smiled for a moment--"you are not old enough. If you -were--of age, say--why then I would." - -I had hold of the window-frame, looking at her, and an idea struck me. -"Do you mean that I should be able then to command money?" - -"Yes, that's it, Johnny." - -"But, perhaps--if I were to write to Mr. Brandon----" - -"Hush!" she exclaimed in a sort of fright. "You must not talk of this, -Johnny; you don't know the sad mischief you might do. Oh, if I can only -keep it from you all! Here comes Joseph," she added in a whisper; and -gathering up her work, went out of the room. - -"Did I not make a sign to you to come after me?" began Tod, in one of -his tempers. - -"But I had to go over to the Coneys'. I've only just got back again." - -He looked into the room and saw that it was empty. "Where's madam gone? -To the Ravine after her friend?" - -"She was here sewing not a minute ago." - -"Johnny, she told a lie. Did you notice the sound of her voice when she -said the fellow was no relative of hers?" - -"Not particularly." - -"I did, then. At the moment the denial took me by surprise; but I -remembered the tone later. It had an untrue ring in it. Madam told a -lie, Johnny, as sure as that we are here. I'd lay my life he _is_ a -relative of hers, or a connection in some way. I don't think now it -is money he wants; if it were only that, she'd get it, and send him -packing. It's worse than that: disgrace, perhaps." - -"What sort of disgrace can it be?" - -"I don't know. But if something of the sort is not looming, never trust -me again. And here am I, with my hands tied, forbidden to unravel it. -Johnny, I feel just like a wild beast barred up in a cage." - -Had he been a real wild beast he could not have given the window-frame a -much worse shake, as he passed through in his anger to the bench under -the mulberry-tree. - -When you have to look far back to things, recollection sometimes gets -puzzled as to the order in which they happened. How it came about I am -by no means clear, but an uncomfortable feeling grew up in my mind about -Hugh. About both the children, in fact, but Hugh more than Lena. Mrs. -Todhetley seemed to dread Hugh's being abroad--and I'm sure I was not -mistaken in thinking it. I heard her order Hannah to keep the children -within view of the house, and not to allow Hugh to stray away from her. -Had it been winter weather I suppose she'd have kept them indoors -altogether; there could be no plea for it under the blue sky and the hot -summer sun. - -The Squire came home; he had been staying some time with friends in -Gloucestershire; but Mrs. Coney did not come--although Mrs. Todhetley -kept sending me for news. Twice I saw her talking to the strange man; -who I believed made his abode in the Ravine. Tod watched, as he had -threatened to do; and would often appear with in-drawn lips. There was -active warfare between him and his step-mother: at least if you can say -that when both kept silence. As to the Squire, he observed nothing, and -knew nothing: and no one enlightened him. It seems a long time, I dare -say, when reading of this, as if it had extended over a month of -Sundays; but I don't think it lasted much more than a fortnight in all. - -One evening, quite late, when the sun was setting, and the Squire was -smoking his pipe on the lawn, talking to me and Tod, Lena and her mother -came in at the gate. In spite of the red rays lighting up Mrs. -Todhetley's face, it struck me that I had never seen it look more -careworn. Lena put her arms on Tod's knee, and began telling about a -fright she had had: of a big toad that leaped out of the grass, and made -her scream and cry. She cried "because nobody was with her." - -"Where was mamma?" asked Tod; but I am sure he spoke without any -ulterior thought. - -"Mamma had gone to the zigzag stile to talk to the man. She told me to -wait for her." - -"What man?" cried the Squire. - -"Why, the man," said Lena logically. "He asks Hugh to go with him over -the sea to see the birds and the red coral." - -If any one face ever turned whiter than another, Mrs. Todhetley's did -then. Tod looked at her, sternly, ungenerously; and her eyes fell. She -laid hold of Lena's hand, saying it was bed-time. - -"What man is the child talking about?" the Squire asked her. - -"She talks about so many people," rather faintly answered Mrs. -Todhetley. "Come, Lena dear; Hannah's waiting for you. Say good-night." - -The Squire, quite unsuspicious, thought no more. He got up and walked -over to the beds to look at the flowers, holding his long churchwarden -pipe in his mouth. Tod put his back against the tree. - -"It is getting complicated, Johnny." - -"What is?" - -"What is! Why, madam's drama. She is afraid of that hinted scheme of her -friend's--the carrying-off Master Hugh beyond the seas." - -He spoke in satire. "Do you think so?" I returned. - -"Upon my honour I do. She must be an idiot! I should like to give her a -good fright." - -"Tod, I think she is frightened enough without our giving her one." - -"I think she is. She must have caught up the idea from overhearing -Hannah's gossip with old Thomas. This afternoon Hugh was running through -the little gate with me; madam came flying over the lawn and begged me -not let him out of my hand, or else to leave him indoors. But for being -my father's wife, I should have asked her if her common-sense had gone -wool-gathering." - -"I suppose it has, Tod. Fancy a kidnapper in these days! The curious -thing is, that she should fear anything of the sort." - -"If she really does fear it. I tell you, Johnny, the performance is -growing complicated; somewhat puzzling. But I'll see it played out if I -live." - -The week went on to Friday. But the afternoon was over, and evening set -in, before the shock fell upon us: _Hugh was missing_. - -The Squire had been out in the gig, taking me; and it seems they had -supposed at home that Hugh was with us. The particulars of Hugh's -disappearance, and what had happened in the day, I will relate further -on. - -The Squire thought nothing: he said Hugh must have got into Coney's -house or some other neighbour's house: and sat down to dinner, wondering -why so much to-do was made. Mrs. Todhetley looked scared to death; and -Tod tore about as if he were wild. The servants were sent here, the -outdoor men there: it was like a second edition of that day in -Warwickshire when we lost Lena: like it, only worse, more commotion. -Hannah boldly said to her mistress that the strange man must have -carried off the boy. - -Hour after hour the search continued. With no result. Night came on, -with a bright moon to light it up. But it did not light up Hugh. - -Mrs. Todhetley, a dark shawl over her head, and I dare say a darker fear -upon her heart, went out for the second or third time towards the -Ravine. I ran after her. We had nearly reached the stile at the zigzag, -when Tod came bounding over it. - -"Has not the time for shielding this man gone by, think you?" he asked, -placing himself in Mrs. Todhetley's path, and speaking as coolly as he -was able for the agitation that shook him. And why Tod, with his known -carelessness, should be so moved, I could not fathom. - -"Joseph, I do not suppose or think the man knows anything of Hugh; I -have my reasons for it," she answered, bearing on for the stile, and -leaning over it to look down into the dark Ravine. - -"Will you give me permission to inquire that of himself?" - -"You will not find the man. He is gone." - -"Leave the finding him to me," persisted Tod. "Will you withdraw the -embargo you laid upon me?" - -"No, no," she whispered, "I cannot do it." - -The trees had an uncommonly damp feel in the night-air, and the -place altogether looked as weird as could be. I was away then in the -underwood; she looked down always into the Ravine and called Hugh's name -aloud. Nothing but an echo answered. - -"It has appeared to me for several days that you have feared something -of this," Tod said, trying to get a full view of her face. "It might -have been better for--for all of us--if you had allowed me at first to -take the affair in hand." - -"Perhaps I ought; perhaps I ought," she said, bursting into tears. -"Heaven knows, though, that I acted from a good motive. It was not to -screen myself that I've tried to keep the matter secret." - -"Oh!" The sarcasm of Tod's short comment was like nothing I ever heard. -"To screen me, perhaps?" said he. - -"Well, yes--in a measure, Joseph," she patiently answered. "I only -wished to spare you vexation. Oh, Joseph! if--if Hugh cannot be found, -and--and all has to come out--who he is and what he wants here--remember -that I wished nothing but to spare others pain." - -Tod's eyes were blazing with angry, haughty light. Spare _him_! He -thought she was miserably equivocating; he had some such idea as that -she sought (in words) to make him a scape-goat for her relative's sins. -What he answered I hardly know; except that he civilly dared her to -speak. - -"Do not spare _me_: I particularly request you will not," he scornfully -retorted. "Yourself as much as you will, but not me." - -"I have done it for the best," she pleaded. "Joseph, I have done it all -for the best." - -"Where is this man to be found? I have been looking for him these -several hours past, as I should think no man was ever looked for yet." - -"I have said that I think he is not to be found. I think he is gone." - -"Gone!" shouted Tod. "Gone!" - -"I think he must be. I--I saw him just before dinner-time, here at this -very stile; I gave him something that I had to give, and I think he left -at once, to make the best of his way from the place." - -"And Hugh?" asked Tod savagely. - -"I did not know then that Hugh was missing. Oh, Joseph, I can't tell -what to think. When I said to him one day that he ought not to talk -nonsense to the children about corals and animals--in fact, should not -speak to them at all--he answered that if I did not get him the money he -wanted he'd take the boy off with him. I knew it was a jest; but I could -not help thinking of it when the days went on and on, and I had no money -to give him." - -"_Of course_ he has taken the boy," said Tod, stamping his foot. And the -words sent Mrs. Todhetley into a tremor. - -"Joseph! Do you think so?" - -"Heaven help you, Mrs. Todhetley, for a--a simple woman! We may never -see Hugh again." - -He caught up the word he had been going to say--fool. Mrs. Todhetley -clasped her hands together piteously, and the shawl slipped from her -shoulders. - -"I think, madam, you must tell what you can," he resumed, scarcely -knowing which to bring uppermost, his anxiety for Hugh or his lofty, -scornful anger. "_Is_ the man a relative of yours?" - -"No, not of mine. Oh, Joseph, please don't be angry with me! Not of -mine, but of yours." - -"Of mine!" cried proud Tod. "Thank you, Mrs. Todhetley." - -"His name is Arne," she whispered. - -"What!" shouted Tod. - -"Joseph, indeed it is. Alfred Arne." - -Had Tod been shot by a cannon-ball, he could hardly have been more -completely struck into himself; doubled up, so to say. His mother had -been an Arne; and he well remembered to have heard of an ill-doing -mauvais sujet of a half-brother of hers, called Alfred, who brought -nothing but trouble and disgrace on all connected with him. There ensued -a silence, interrupted only by Mrs. Todhetley's tears. Tod was looking -white in the moonlight. - -"So it seems it _is_ my affair!" he suddenly said; but though he drew up -his head, all his fierce spirit seemed to have gone out of him. "You can -have no objection to speak fully now." - -And Mrs. Todhetley, partly because of her unresisting nature, partly in -her fear for Hugh, obeyed him. - -"I had seen Mr. Arne once before," she began. "It was the year that I -first went home to Dyke Manor. He made his appearance there, not openly, -but just as he has made it here now. His object was to get money from -the Squire to go abroad with. And at length he did get it. But it put -your father very much out; made him ill, in fact; and I believe he took -a sort of vow, in his haste and vexation, to give Alfred Arne into -custody if he ever came within reach of him again. I think--I fear--he -always has something or other hanging over his head worse than debt; and -for that reason can never show himself by daylight without danger." - -"Go on," said Tod, quite calmly. - -"One morning recently I suddenly met him. He stepped right into my -path, here at this same spot, as I was about to descend the Ravine, and -asked if I knew him again. I was afraid I did. I was afraid he had come -on the same errand as before: and oh, Joseph, how thankful I felt that -you and your father were away! He told me a long and pitiful tale, and I -thought I ought to try and help him to the money he needed. He was -impatient for it, and the same evening, supposing no one was at home but -myself, he came to the dining-room window, wishing to ask if I had -already procured the money. Johnny heard him knock." - -"It might have been better that we had been here," repeated Tod. "Better -that we should have dealt with him than you." - -"Your father was so thankful that you were at school before, Joseph; so -thankful! He said he would not have you know anything about Alfred Arne -for the world. And so--I tried to keep it this time from both you and -him, and, but for this fear about Hugh, I should have done it." - -Tod did not answer. He looked at her keenly in the twilight of the -summer's night, apparently waiting for more. She continued her -explanation; not enlarging upon things, suffering, rather, inferences -to be drawn. The following was its substance:-- - -Alfred Arne asked for fifty pounds. He had returned to England only a -few months before, had got into some fresh danger, and had to leave it -again, and to hide himself until he did so. The fifty pounds--to get him -off, he said, and start him afresh in the colonies--he demanded not as a -gift, but a matter of right: the Todhetleys, being his near relatives, -must help him. Mrs. Todhetley knew but of one person she could borrow -it from privately--Mrs. Coney--and _she_ had gone from home just as she -was about to be asked for it. Only this afternoon had Mrs. Todhetley -received the money from her and paid it to Alfred Arne. - -"I would not have told you this, but for being obliged, Joseph," she -pleaded meekly, when the brief explanation was ended. "We can still keep -it from your father; better, perhaps, that you should know it than he: -you are young and he is not." - -"A great deal better," assented Tod. "You have made yourself responsible -to Mrs. Coney for the fifty pounds?" - -"Don't think of that, Joseph. She is in no hurry for repayment, and will -get it from me by degrees. I have a little trifle of my own, you know, -that I get half-yearly, and I can economize in my dress. I did so hope -to keep it from you as well as from your father." - -I wondered if Tod saw all the patient, generous, self-sacrificing -spirit. I wondered if he was growing to think that he had been always on -the wrong tack in judging harshly of his stepmother. She turned away, -thinking perhaps that time was being lost. I said something about Hugh. - -"Hugh is all right, Johnny; he'll be found now," Tod answered in a -dreamy tone, as he looked after her with a dreamy look. The next moment -he strode forward, and was up with Mrs. Todhetley. - -"I beg your pardon for the past, mother; I beg it with shame and -contrition. Can you forgive me?" - -"Oh, pray don't, dear Joseph! I have nothing to forgive," she answered, -bursting into fresh tears as she took his offered hand. And that was the -first time in all his life that Tod, prejudiced Tod, had allowed himself -to call her "mother." - - -II. - -I never saw anything plainer in my life. It was not just opposite to -where I stood, but lower down towards the end of the Ravine. Amongst the -dark thick underwood of the rising bank it dodged about, just as if some -one who was walking carried it in his hand lifted up in front of him. A -round white light, exactly as the ghost's light was described to be. One -might have fancied it the light of a wax-candle, only that a candle -would flicker itself dim and bright by turns in the air, and this was -steady and did not. - -If a ghost was carrying it, he must have been pacing backwards and -forwards; for the light confined itself to the range of a few yards. -Beginning at the environs of the black old yew-tree, it would come on -amidst the broom and shrubs to the group of alders, and then go back -again Timberdale way, sometimes lost to sight for a minute, as if hidden -behind a thicker mass of underwood, and then gleaming out afresh further -on in its path. Now up, now down; backwards and forwards; here, there, -everywhere; it was about as unaccountable a sight as any veritable ghost -ever displayed, or I, Johnny Ludlow, had chanced to come upon. - -The early part of the night had been bright. It was the same night, -spoken of in the last chapter, when Hugh was being searched for. Up to -eleven o'clock the moon had shone radiantly. Since then a curious sort -of darkness had come creeping along the heavens, and now, close upon -twelve, it overshadowed the earth like a pall. A dark, black canopy, -which the slight wind, getting up, never stirred, though it sighed and -moaned with a weird unpleasant sound down the Ravine. I did not mind -the light myself; don't think I should much have minded the ghost: but -Luke Mackintosh, standing by me, did. Considering that he was a good -five-and-twenty years of age, and had led an out-of-door life, it may -sound queer to say it, but he seemed timid as a hare. - -"I don't like it, Master Johnny," he whispered, as he grasped the fence -with an unsteady hand, and followed the light with his eyes. What with -the trees around us, and the pall overhead, it was dark enough, but I -could see his face, and knew it had turned white. - -"I believe you are afraid, Luke!" - -"Well, sir, so might you be if you knowed as much of that there light -as I do. It never comes but it bodes trouble." - -"Who brings the light?" - -"It's more than I can say, sir. They call it here the ghost's light. -And folks say, Master Johnny, that when it's seen, there's sure to be -some trouble in the air." - -"I think we have trouble enough just now without the light, Luke; and -our trouble was with us before we saw that." - -The Ravine lay beneath us, stretching out on either hand, weird, -lonesome, dreary, the bottom hidden in gloom. The towering banks, -whether we looked down the one we leaned over, or to the other opposite, -presented nothing to the eye but darkness: we knew the masses of trees, -bushes, underwood were there, but could not see them: and the spot -favoured by the restless light was too wild and steep to be safe for the -foot of man. Of course it was a curious speculation what it could be. - -"Did you ever see the light before, Mackintosh?" - -"Yes," he answered, "half-a-dozen times. Do you mind, Master Johnny, my -getting that there bad cut in the leg with my reaping-hook awhile agone? -Seven weeks I lay in Worcester Infirmary: they carried me there on a -mattress shoved down in the cart." - -"I remember hearing of it. We were at Dyke Manor." - -Before Luke went on, he turned his face to me and dropped his voice to -a deeper whisper. - -"Master Ludlow, as true as us two be a-standing here, I saw the ghost's -light the very night afore I got the hurt. I was working for Mr. Coney -then, it was before I came into the Squire's service. Young Master -Tom, he came out of the kitchen with a letter when we was at our -seven-o'clock supper, and said I were to cut off to Timberdale with it -and to look sharp, or the letter-box 'ud be shut. So I had to do it, -sir, and I came through this here Ravine, a-whistling and a-holding my -head down, though I'd rather ha' went ten mile round. When I got out of -it on t'other side, on top of the zigzag, I chanced to look back over -the stile, and there I see the light. It were opposite then, on _this_ -side, sir, and moving about in the same see-saw way it be now, for I -stood and watched it." - -"I wonder you plucked up the courage to stand and watch it, Luke?" - -"I were took aback, sir, all in a maze like: and then I started off full -pelt, as quick as my heels 'ud carry me. That was the very blessed night -afore I got the hurt. When the doctors was a-talking round me at the -infirmary, and I think they was arguing whether or not my leg must come -off, I telled 'em that I was afeared it wouldn't much matter neither -way, for I'd seen the ghost's light the past night and knowed my fate. -One of them, a young man he was, burst out laughing above my face as I -lay, and t'other next him, a grave gentleman with white hair, turned -round and hushed at him. Master Ludlow, it's all gospel true." - -"But you got well, Luke." - -"But I didn't think to," argued Luke. "And I see the light." - -As he turned his face again, the old church clock at Timberdale struck -twelve. It seemed to come booming over the Ravine with quite a warning -sound, and Luke gave himself a shake. As for me, I could only wish one -thing--that Hugh was found. - -Tod came up the zigzag path, a lantern in his hand; I whistled to let -him know I was near. He had been to look in the unused little shed-place -nearly at the other end of the Ravine; not for Hugh, but for the man, -Alfred Arne. Tod came up to us, and his face, as the lantern flashed -upon it, was whiter and graver than that of Luke Mackintosh. - -"Did you see that, sir?" asked Luke. - -"See what?" cried Tod, turning sharply. He thought it might be some -trace of Hugh. - -"That there ghost light, sir. It's showing itself to-night." - -Angry, perplexed, nearly out of his mind with remorse and fear, Tod gave -Luke a word of a sort, ordering him to be silent for an idiot, and put -the lantern down. He then saw the moving light, and let his eyes rest on -it in momentary curiosity. - -"It's the ghost light, sir," repeated Luke, for the man seemed as if he -and all other interests were lost in that. - -"The deuce take the ghost's light, and you with it," said Tod -passionately. "Is this a time to be staring at ghosts' lights? Get you -into Timberdale, Mackintosh, and see whether the police have news of the -child." - -"Sir, I'd not go through the Ravine to-night," was Luke's answer. "No, -not though I knowed I was to be killed at to-morrow's dawn for -disobeying the order." - -"Man, what are you afraid of?" - -"Of that," said Luke, nodding at the light. "But I don't like the Ravine -in the night at no time." - -"Why, that's nothing but a will-o'-the-wisp," returned Tod, -condescending to reason with him. - -Luke shook his head. There was the light; and neither his faith in it -nor his fear could be shaken. Tod had his arms on the fence now, and was -staring at the light as fixedly as Luke had done. - -"Johnny." - -"What?" - -"That light is carried by some one. It's being lifted about." - -"How could any one carry it _there_?" I returned. "He'd pitch head over -heels down the Ravine. No fellow could get to the place, Tod, let alone -keep his footing. It's where the bushes are thickest." - -Tod caught up the lantern. As its light flashed on his face, I could see -it working with new eagerness. He was taking up the notion that Hugh -might have fallen on that very spot, and that some one was waving a -light to attract attention. As to ghosts, Tod would have met an army of -them without the smallest fear. - -He went back down the Ravine, and we heard him go crashing through the -underwood. Luke never spoke a word. Suddenly, long before Tod could get -to it, the light disappeared. We waited and watched, but it did not come -again. - -"It have been like that always, Master Johnny," whispered Luke, taking -his arms off the fence. "Folks may look as long as they will at that -there light; but as soon as they go off, a-trying to get to see what it -is, it takes itself away. It will be seen no more to-night, sir." - -He turned off across the meadow for the high-road, to go and do Tod's -bidding at Timberdale, walking at a sharp pace. Any amount of exertion -would have been welcome to Mackintosh, as an alternative to passing -through the Ravine. - -It may be remembered that for some days we had been vaguely uneasy about -Hugh, and the uneasiness had penetrated to Mrs. Todhetley. Tod had made -private mockery of it to me, thinking she must be three parts a fool to -entertain any such fear. "I should like to give madam a fright," he said -to me one day--meaning that he would like to hide little Hugh for a -time. But I never supposed he would really do it. And it was only -to-night--hours and hours after Hugh disappeared, that Tod avowed to me -the part he had taken in the loss. To make it clear to the reader, we -must go back to the morning of this same day--Friday. - -After breakfast I was shut up with my books, paying no attention to -anything that might be going on, inside the house or out of it. Old -Frost gave us a woeful lot to do in the holidays. The voices of the -children, playing at the swing, came wafting in through the open window; -but they died away to quietness as the morning went on. About twelve -o'clock Mrs. Todhetley looked in. - -"Are the children here, Johnny?" - -She saw they were not, and went away without waiting for an answer. Lena -ran up the passage, and I heard her say papa had taken Hugh out in the -pony-gig. The interruption served as an excuse for putting up the books -for the day, and I went out. - -Of all young ragamuffins, the worst came running after me as I went -through the fold-yard gate. Master Hugh! Whether he had been in the -green pond again or over the house-roof, he was in a wonderful state; -his blue eyes not to be seen for mud, his straw-hat bent, his brown -holland blouse all tatters and slime, and the pretty fair curls that -Hannah was proud of and wasted her time over, a regular mass of tangle. - -"Take me with you, Johnny!" - -"I should think I would, like that! What have you been doing with -yourself?" - -"Playing with the puppy. We fell down in the mud amongst the ducks. -Joe says I am to stop in the barn and hide myself. I am afraid to go -indoors." - -"You'll catch it, and no mistake. Come, be off back again." - -But he'd not go back, and kept running by my side under the high hedge. -When we came to the gate at the end of the field, I stood and ordered -him to go. He began to cry a little. - -"Now, Hugh, you know you cannot go with me in that plight. Walk yourself -straight off to Hannah and get her to change the things before your -mamma sees you. There; you may have the biscuit: I don't much care for -it." - -It was a big captain's biscuit that I had caught up in going through the -dining-room. He took that readily enough, the young cormorant, but he -wouldn't stir any the more for it: and I might have had the small object -with me till now, but for the appearance of the Squire's gig in the -lane. The moment Hugh caught sight of his papa, he turned tail and -scampered away like a young wild animal. Remembering Mrs. Todhetley's -foolish fear, I mounted the gate and watched him turn safely in at the -other. - -"What are you looking at, Johnny?" asked the Squire, as he drove -leisurely up. - -"At Hugh, sir. I've sent him indoors." - -"I'm going over to Massock's, Johnny, about the bricks for that cottage. -You can get up, if you like to come with me." - -I got into the gig at once, and we drove to South Crabb, to Massock's -place. He was not to be seen; his people thought he had gone out for the -day. Upon that, the Squire went on to see old Cartwright, and they made -us stop there and put up the pony. When we reached home it was past -dinner-time. Mrs. Todhetley came running out. - -"Couldn't get here before: the Cartwrights kept us," called out the -Squire. "We are going to catch it, Johnny," he whispered to me, with a -laugh: "we've let the dinner spoil." - -But it was not the dinner. "Where's Hugh?" asked Mrs. Todhetley. - -"I've not seen Hugh," said the Squire, flinging the reins to Luke -Mackintosh, who had come up. Luke did all kinds of odd jobs about the -place, and sometimes helped the groom. - -"But you took Hugh out with you," she said. - -"Not I," answered the Squire. - -Mrs. Todhetley's face turned white. She looked from one to the other of -us in a helpless kind of manner. "Lena said you did," she returned, and -her voice seemed to fear its own sound. The Squire talking with -Mackintosh about the pony, noticed nothing particular. - -"Lena did? Oh, ay, I remember. I let Hugh get up at the door and drove -him round to the fold-yard gate. I dropped him there." - -He went in as he spoke: Mrs. Todhetley seemed undecided whether to -follow him. Tod had his back against the door-post, listening. - -"What are you alarmed at?" he asked her, not even attempting to suppress -his mocking tone. - -"Oh, Johnny!" she said, "have _you_ not seen him?" - -"Yes; and a fine pickle he was in," I answered, telling her about it. -"I dare say Hannah has put him to bed for punishment." - -"But Hannah has not," said Mrs. Todhetley. "She came down at four -o'clock to inquire if he had come in." - -However, thinking that it might possibly turn out to be so, she ran in -to ascertain. Tod put his hand on my shoulder, and walked me further -off. - -"Johnny, did Hugh really not go with you?" - -"Why, of course he did not. Should I deny it if he did?" - -"Where the dickens can the young idiot have got to?" mused Tod. -"Jeffries vowed he saw him go off with you down the field, Johnny." - -"But I sent him back. I watched him in at the fold-yard gate. You don't -suppose I could take him further in that pickle!" - -Tod laughed a little at the remembrance. Mrs. Todhetley returned, saying -Hugh was not to be found anywhere. She looked ready to die. Tod was -inwardly enjoying her fright beyond everything: it was better than a -play to him. His particularly easy aspect struck her. - -"Oh, Joseph!" she implored, "if you know where he is, pray tell me." - -"How should I know?" returned Tod. "I protest on my honour I have not -set eyes on him since before luncheon to-day." - -"_Do_ you know where he is, Tod?" I asked him, as she turned indoors. - -"No; but I can guess. He's not far off. And I really did think he was -with you, Johnny. I suppose I must go and bring him in, now; but I'd -give every individual thing my pockets contain if madam had had a few -hours' fright of it, instead of a few minutes'." - -The dinner-bell was ringing, but Tod went off in an opposite direction. -And I must explain here what he knew of it, though he did not tell me -then. Walking through the fold-yard that morning, he had come upon -Master Hugh, just emerging from the bed of green mud, crying his eyes -out, and a piteous object. Hannah had promised Hugh that the next time -he got into this state she would carry him to the Squire. Hugh knew -she'd be sure to keep her word, and that the upshot would probably be -a whipping. Tod, after gratifying his eyes with the choice spectacle, -and listening to the fears of the whipping, calmly assured the young -gentleman that he was "in for it," at which Hugh only howled the more. -All in a moment it occurred to Tod to make use of this opportunity to -frighten Mrs. Todhetley. He took Hugh off to the barn, and told him -that if he'd hide himself there until the evening, he'd not only get him -off his whipping, but give him all sorts of good things besides. Hugh -was willing to promise, but said he wanted his dinner, upon which Tod -went and brought him a plate of bread-and-butter, telling Molly, who -cut it, that it was for himself. Tod left him devouring it in the dark -corner behind the waggon, particularly impressing upon him the fact -that he was to keep close and make no sign if his mamma, or Hannah, or -anybody else, came to look for him. One of the men, Jeffries, was at -work in the barn, and Tod, so to say, took him into confidence, ordering -him to know nothing if Master Hugh were inquired for. As Hannah and -Jeffries were at daggers drawn, and the man supposed this hiding was to -spite her, he entered into it with interest. - -There were two barns at Crabb Cot. One some way down the road in front -of the house was the store barn, and you've heard of it before in -connection with something seen by Maria Lease. It was called the yellow -barn from the colour of its outer walls. The other, of red brick, was -right at the back of the fold-yard, and it was in this last that Tod -left Hugh, all safe and secure, as he thought, until told he might come -out again. - -But now, when Tod went into the dining-room to luncheon at half-past -twelve--we country people breakfast early--at which meal he expected the -hue and cry after Hugh to set in, for it was the children's dinner, -he found there was a hitch in the programme. Mrs. Todhetley appeared -perfectly easy on the score of Hugh's absence, and presently casually -mentioned that he had gone out with his papa in the pony-gig. Tod's -lips parted to say that Hugh was not in the pony-gig, but in a state -of pickle instead. Prudence caused him to close them again. Hannah, -standing behind Lena's chair, openly gave thanks that the child was got -rid of for a bit, and said he was "getting a'most beyond her." Tod bit -his lips with vexation: the gilt was taken off the gingerbread. He went -to the barn again presently, and then found that Hugh had left it. -Jeffries said he saw him going towards the lane with Master Ludlow, and -supposed that the little lad had taken the opportunity to slip out of -the barn when he (Jeffries) went to dinner, at twelve o'clock. And thus -the whole afternoon had gone peaceably and unsuspiciously on; Mrs. -Todhetley and Hannah supposing Hugh was with the Squire, Tod supposing -he must be somewhere with me. - -And when we both appeared at home without him, Tod took it for granted -that Hugh had gone back to his hiding-place in the barn, and a qualm of -conscience shot through him for leaving the lad there so many hours -unlooked after. He rushed off to it at once, while the dinner-bell was -ringing. But when he got there, Jeffries declared Hugh had not been back -to it at all. Tod, in his hot way, retorted on Jeffries for saying so; -but the man persisted that he could not be mistaken, as he had never -been away from the barn since coming back from dinner. - -And then arose the commotion. Tod came back with a stern face, almost as -anxious as Mrs. Todhetley's. Hugh had not been seen, so far as could be -ascertained, since I watched him in at the fold-yard gate soon after -twelve. That was nearly seven hours ago. Tod felt himself responsible -for the loss, and sent the men to look about. But the worst he thought -then was, that the boy, whose fears of showing himself in his state of -dilapidation Tod himself had mischievously augmented, had lain down -somewhere or other and dropped asleep. - -It had gone on, and on, and on, until late at night, and then had -occurred that explanation between Tod and his step-mother told of in the -other paper. Tod was all impulse, and pride, and heat, and passion; but -his heart was made of sterling gold, just like the Squire's. Holding -himself aloof from her in haughty condemnation, in the matter of the -mysterious stranger, to find now that the stranger was a man called -Alfred Arne, _his_ relative, and that Mrs. Todhetley had been generously -taking the trouble upon herself for the sake of sparing him and his -father pain, completely turned Tod and his pride over. - -He had grown desperately frightened as the hours went on. The moon-lit -night had become dark, as I've already said, and the men could not -pursue their search to much effect. Tod did not cease his. He got a -lantern, and went rushing about as if he were crazy. You saw him come up -with it from the Ravine, and now he had gone back on a wild-goose chase -after the ghost light. Where was Hugh? Where could he be? It was not -likely Alfred Arne had taken him, because he had that afternoon got from -Mrs. Todhetley the fifty pounds he worried for, and she thought he had -gone finally off with it. It stood to reason that the child would be -an encumbrance to him. On the other hand, Tod's theory, that Hugh had -dropped asleep somewhere, seemed, as the hours crept on, less and less -likely to hold water, for he would have wakened up and come home long -ago. As to the Ravine, in spite of Tod's suspicions that he might be -there, I was sure the little fellow would not have ventured into it. - -I stood on, in the dark night, waiting for Tod to come back again. It -felt awfully desolate now Luke Mackintosh had gone. The ghost light -did not show again. I rather wished it would, for company. He came at -last--Tod, not the ghost. I had heard him shouting, and nothing answered -but the echoes. A piece of his coat was torn, and some brambles were -sticking to him, and the lantern was broken; what dangerous places he -had pushed himself into could never be told. - -"I wonder you've come out with whole limbs, Tod." - -"Hold your peace, Johnny," was all the retort I got; and his voice rose -nearly to a shout in its desperate sorrow. - - * * * * * - -Morning came, but no news with it, no Hugh. Tod had been about all -night. With daylight, the fields, and all other seemingly possible -places, were searched. Tom Coney went knocking at every house in North -and South Crabb, and burst into cottages, and turned over, so to say, -all the dwellings in that savoury locality, Crabb Lane, but with no -result. The Squire was getting anxious; but none of us had ventured to -tell him of our especial cause for anxiety, or to speak of Alfred Arne. - -It appeared nearly certain now, to us, that he had gone with Alfred -Arne, and, after a private consultation with Mrs. Todhetley, Tod and I -set out in search of the man. She still wished to spare the knowledge of -his visit to the Squire, if possible. - -We had not far to go. Mrs. Todhetley's fears went ranging abroad to -London, or Liverpool, or the Coral Islands beyond the sea, of which Arne -had talked to Hugh: but Arne was found at Timberdale. In an obscure -lodging in the further outskirts of the place, the landlord of which, a -man named Cookum, was a bad character, and very shy of the police, Arne -was found. We might have searched for him to the month's end, but for -Luke Mackintosh. When Luke arrived at Timberdale in the middle of the -night, ordered there by Tod to make inquiries at the police-station, he -saw a tipsy man slink into Cookum's house, and recognized him for the -one who had recently been exciting speculation at home. Luke happened to -mention this to Tod, not connecting Hugh with it at all, simply as a bit -of gossip: of course it was not known who Arne was, or his name, or what -he had been waiting for. - -We had a fight to get in. Cookum came leaping down the crazy stairs, and -put himself in our way in the passage, swearing we should not go on. Tod -lifted his strong arm. - -"I mean to go on, Cookum," he said, in a slow, quiet voice that had -determination in every tone of it. "I have come to see a man named Arne. -I don't want to do him any ill, or you either; but, see him, I will. If -you do not move out of my way I'll knock you down." - -Cookum stood his ground. He was short, slight, and sickly, with a puffy -face and red hair; a very reed beside Tod. - -"There ain't no man here of that name. There ain't no man here at all." - -"Very well. Then you can't object to letting me see that there is not." - -"I swear that you shan't see, master. There!" - -Tod flung him aside. Cookum, something like an eel, slipped under Tod's -arm, and was in front of him again. - -"I don't care to damage you, Cookum, as you must see I could do, and -force my way in over your disabled body; you look too weak for it. But -I'll either go in _so_, or the police shall clear an entrance for me." - -The mention of the police scared the man; I saw it in his face. Tod kept -pushing on and the man backing, just a little. - -"I won't have no police here. What is it you want?" - -"I have told you once. A man named Arne." - -"I swear then that I never knowed a man o' that name; let alone having -him in my place." - -And he spoke with such passionate fervour that it struck me Arne did not -go by his own name: which was more than probable. They were past the -stairs now, and Cookum did not seem to care to guard them. The nasty -passage, long and narrow, had a door at the end. Tod thought that must -be the fortress. - -"You are a great fool, Cookum. I've told you that I mean no harm to you -or to any one in the place; so to make this fuss is needless. You may -have a band of felons concealed here, or a cart-load of stolen goods; -they are all safe for me. But if you force me to bring in the police it -might be a different matter." - -Perhaps the argument told on the man; perhaps the tone of reason it was -spoken in; but he certainly seemed to hesitate. - -"You can't prove that to me, sir: not that there's any felons or things -in here. Show me that you don't mean harm, and you shall go on." - -"Have you a stolen child here?" - -Cookum's mouth opened with genuine surprise. "A stolen child!" - -"We have lost a little boy. I have reason to think that a man who was -seen to enter this passage in the middle of the night knows something of -him, and I have come to ask and see. Now you know all. Let me go on." - -The relief on the man's face was great. "Honour bright, sir." - -"Don't stand quibbling, man," roared Tod passionately. "YES!" - -"I've got but one man in all the place. He have no boy with him, he -haven't." - -"But he may know something of one. What's his name?" - -"All the name he've given me is Jack." - -"I dare say it's the same. Come! you are wasting time." - -But Cookum, doubtful still, never moved. They were close to the door -now, and he had his back against it. Tod turned his head. - -"Go for the two policemen, Johnny. They are both in readiness, Cookum. -I looked in at the station as I came by, to say I might want them." - -Before I could get out, Cookum howled out to me _not_ to go, as one in -mortal fear. He took a latch-key from his pocket, and put it into the -latch of the door, which had no other fastening outside, not even a -handle. "You can open it yourself," said he to Tod, and slipped away. - -It might have been a sort of kitchen but that it looked more like a -den, with nothing to light it but a dirty sky-light above. The floor -was of red brick; a tea-kettle boiled on the fire; there was a smell -of coffee. Alfred Arne stood on the defensive against the opposite -wall, a life-preserver in his hand, and his thin hair on end with -fright. - -"I am here on a peaceable errand, if you will allow it to be so," said -Tod, shutting us in. "Is your name Arne?" - -Arne dropped the life-preserver into the breast-pocket of his coat, and -came forward with something of a gentleman's courtesy. - -"Yes, my name is Arne, Joseph Todhetley. And your mother--as I make no -doubt you know--was a very near relative of mine. If you damage me, you -will bring her name unpleasantly before the public, as well as your own -and your father's." - -That he thought our errand was to demand back the fifty pounds, there -could be no doubt: perhaps to hand him into custody if he refused to -give it up. - -"I have not come to damage you in any way," said Tod in answer. "Where's -Hugh?" - -Arne looked as surprised as the other man had. "Hugh!" - -"Yes, Hugh: my little brother. Where is he?" - -"How can I tell?" - -Tod glanced round the place; there was not any nook or corner capable -of affording concealment. Arne gazed at him. He stood on that side the -dirty deal table, we on this. - -"We have lost Hugh since mid-day yesterday. Do you know anything of -him?" - -"Certainly _not_," was the emphatic answer, and I at least saw that it -was a true one. "Is it to ask that, that you have come here?" - -"For that, and nothing else. We have been up all night searching for -him." - -"But why do you come after him here? I am not likely to know where he -is." - -"I think you are likely." - -"Why?" - -"You have been talking to the boy about carrying him off with you to see -coral islands. You hinted, I believe, to Mrs. Todhetley that you might -really take him, if your demands were not complied with." - -Arne slightly laughed. "I talked to the boy about the Coral Islands -because it pleased him. As to Mrs. Todhetley, if she has the sense of a -goose, she must have known I meant nothing. Take off a child with me! -Why, if he were made a present to me, I should only drop him at his own -door at Crabb Cot, as they drop the foundlings at the gate of the Maison -Dieu in Paris. Joseph Todhetley, I _could not_ be encumbered with a -child: the life of shifts and concealment I have to lead would debar -it." - -I think Tod saw he was in earnest. But he stood in indecision: this -dashed out his great hope. - -"I should have been away from here last night, but that I got a drop too -much and must wait till dark again," resumed Arne. "The last time I saw -Hugh was on Thursday afternoon. He was in the meadow with _you_." - -"I did not see you," remarked Tod. - -"I saw you, though. And that is the last time I saw him. Don't you -believe me? You may. I like the little lad, and would find him for you -if I could, rather than help to lose him. I'd say take my honour upon -this, Joseph Todhetley, only you might retort that it has not been worth -anything this many a year." - -"And with justice," said Tod, boldly. - -"True. The world has been against me and I against the world. But it has -not come yet with me to stealing children. With the loan of the money -now safe in my pocket, I shall make a fresh start in life. A precious -long time your step-mother kept me waiting for it." - -"She did her best. You ought not to have applied to her at all." - -"I know that: it should have been to the other side of the house. She -prevented me: wanting, she said, to spare you and your father." - -"The knowledge of the disgrace. Yes." - -"There's no need to have recourse to hard names, Joseph Todhetley. What -I am, I am, but you have not much cause to grumble, for I don't trouble -you often. As many thousand miles away as the seas can put between me -and England, I'm going now: and it's nearly as many chances to one -against your ever seeing me again." - -Tod turned to depart: the intensely haughty look his face wore at odd -moments had been upon it throughout the interview. Had he been a woman -he might have stood with his skirts picked up, as if to save them -contamination from some kind of reptile. He stayed for a final word. - -"Then I may take your answer in good faith--that you know nothing of -Hugh?" - -"Take it, or not, as you please. If I knew that I was going to stand -next minute in the presence of Heaven, I could not give it more -truthfully. For the child's own sake, I hope he will be found. Why -don't you ask the man who owns the rooms?--he can tell you I have had -no boy here. If you choose to watch me away to-night, do so; you'll -see I go alone. A child with me! I might about as well give myself up -to the law at once, for I shouldn't long remain out of its clutches, -Joseph Todhetley." - -"Good-morning," said Tod shortly. I echoed the words, and we were -civilly answered. As we went out, Arne shut the door behind us. In the -middle of the passage stood Cookum. - -"Have you found he was who you wanted, sir?" - -"Yes," answered Tod, not vouchsafing to explain. "Another time when I -say I do not wish to harm you, perhaps you'll take my word." - -Mrs. Todhetley, pale and anxious, was standing under the mulberry-tree -when we got back. She came across the grass. - -"Any news?" cried Tod. As if the sight of her was not enough, that he -need have asked! - -"No, no, Joseph. Did you see him?" - -"Yes, he had not left. He knows nothing of Hugh." - -"I had no hope that he did," moaned poor Mrs. Todhetley. "All he wanted -was the money." - -We turned into the dining-room by the glass-doors, and it seemed to -strike out a gloomy chill. On the wall near the window, there was a -chalk drawing of Hugh in colours, hung up by a bit of common string. It -was only a rough sketch that Jane Coney had done half in sport; but it -was like him, especially in the blue eyes and the pretty light hair. - -"Where's my father?" asked Tod. - -"Gone riding over to the brick-fields again," she answered: "he cannot -get it out of his mind that Hugh must be there. Joseph, as Mr. Arne -has nothing to do with the loss, we can still spare your father the -knowledge that he has been here. Spare it, I mean, for good." - -"Yes. Thank you." - -Hugh was uncommonly fond of old Massock's brick-fields; he would go -there on any occasion that offered, had once or twice strayed there a -truant; sending Hannah, for the time being, into a state of mortal -fright. The Squire's opinion was that Hugh must have decamped there some -time in the course of the Friday afternoon, perhaps followed the gig; -and was staying there, afraid to come home. - -"He might have hung on to the tail of the gig itself, and I and Johnny -never have seen him, the 'cute Turk," argued the Squire. - -Which I knew was just as likely as that he had, unseen, hung on to the -moon. In the state he had brought his clothes to, he wouldn't have gone -to the brick-fields at all. The Squire did not seem so uneasy as he -might have been. Hugh would be sure to turn up, he said, and should get -the soundest whipping any young rascal ever had. - -But he came riding back from the brick-fields as before--without him. -Tod, awfully impatient, met him in the road by the yellow barn. The -Squire got off his horse there, for Luke Mackintosh was at hand to take -it. - -"Father, I cannot think of any other place he can have got to: we have -searched everywhere. Can you?" - -"Not I, Joe. Don't be down-hearted. He'll turn up; he'll turn up. -Halloa!" broke off the Squire as an idea struck him, "has this barn been -searched?" - -"He can't be in there, sir; it's just a moral impossibility that he -could be," spoke up Mackintosh. "The place was empty, which I can be -upon my oath, when I locked it up yesterday afternoon, after getting -some corn out; and the key have never been out o' my trousers' pocket -since. Mr. Joseph, he was inside with me at the time, and knows it." - -Tod nodded assent, and the Squire walked away. As there was no other -accessible entrance to the front barn, and the windows were ever so -many yards from the ground, they felt that it must be, as the man said, -a "moral impossibility." - -The day went on, it was Saturday, remember, and the miserable hours went -on, and there came no trace of the child. The Ravine was again searched -thoroughly: that is, as thoroughly as its overgrown state permitted. It -was like waste of time; for Hugh would not have hidden himself in it; -and if he had fallen over the fence he would have been found before from -the traces that must have been left in the bushes. The searchers would -come in, one after another, now a farm-servant, now one of the police, -bringing no news, except of defeat, but hoping some one else had brought -it. Every time that Tod looked at the poor mild face of Mrs. Todhetley, -always meek and patient, striving ever to hide the anguish that each -fresh disappointment brought, I know he felt ready to hang himself. It -was getting dusk when Maria Lease came up with a piece of straw hat that -she had found in the withy walk. But both Mrs. Todhetley and Hannah, -upon looking at it, decided that the straw was of finer grain than -Hugh's. - -That afternoon they dragged the pond, but there was nothing found in it. -We could get no traces anywhere. No one had seen him, no one heard of -him. From the moment when I had watched him into the fold-yard gate, it -seemed that he had altogether vanished from above ground. Since then all -scent of him was missing. It was very strange: just as though the boy -had been spirited away. - -Sunday morning rose. As lovely a Sunday as ever this world saw, but all -sad for us. Tod had flung himself back in the pater's easy-chair, pretty -near done over. Two nights, and he had not been to bed. In spite of his -faith in Alfred Arne's denial, he had chosen to watch him away in the -night from Timberdale; and he saw the man steal off in the darkness on -foot and alone. The incessant hunting about was bringing its reaction on -Tod, and the fatigue of body and mind began to show itself. But as to -giving in, he'd never do that, and would be as likely as not to walk and -worry himself into a fever. - -The day was warm and beautiful; the glass-doors stood open to the sweet -summer air. Light fleecy clouds floated over the blue sky, the sun shone -on the green grass of the lawn and sparkled amidst the leaves of the -great mulberry-tree. Butterflies flitted past in pairs, chasing each -other; bees sent forth their hum as they sipped the honey-dew from the -flowers; the birds sang their love-songs on the boughs: all seemed -happiness outside, as if to mock our care within. - -Tod lay back with his eyes closed: I sat on the arm of the old red sofa. -The bells of North Crabb Church rang out for morning service. It was -rather a cracked old peal, but on great occasions the ringers assembled -and did their best. The Bishop of Worcester was coming over to-day to -preach a charity sermon: and North Crabb never had anything greater than -that. Tod opened his eyes and listened in silence. - -"Tod, do you know what it puts me in mind of?" - -"Don't bother. It's because of the bishop, I suppose." - -"I don't mean the bells. It's like the old fable, told of in 'The -Mistletoe Bough,' enacted in real life. If there were any deep chest -about the premises----" - -"Hold your peace, Johnny!--unless you want to drive me mad. If we come -upon the child like _that_, I'll--I'll----" - -I think he was going to say shoot himself, or something of that sort, -for he was given to random speech when put to it. But at that moment -Lena ran in dressed for church, in her white frock and straw hat with -blue ribbons. She threw her hands on Tod's knee and burst out crying. - -"Joe, I don't want to go to church; I want Hugh." - -Quite a spasm of pain shot across his face, but he was very tender with -her. In all my life I had never seen Tod so gentle as he had been at -moments during the last two days. - -"Don't cry, pretty one," he said, pushing the fair curls from her face. -"Go to church like a good little girl; perhaps we shall have found him -by the time you come home." - -"Hannah says he's lying dead somewhere." - -"Hannah's nothing but a wicked woman," savagely answered Tod. "Don't you -mind her." - -But Lena would not be pacified, and kept on sobbing and crying, "I want -Hugh; I want Hugh." - -Mrs. Todhetley, who had come in then, drew her away and sat down with -the child on her knee, talking to her in low, soothing tones. - -"Lena, dear, you know I wish you to go with Hannah to church this -morning. And you will put papa's money into the plate. See: it is a -golden sovereign. Hannah must carry it, and you shall put it in." - -"Oh, mamma! will Hugh never come home again? Will he die?" - -"Hush, Lena," she said, as Tod bit his lip and gave his hair a dash -backwards. "Shall I tell you something that sounds like a pretty story?" - -Lena was always ready for a story, pretty or ugly, and her blue eyes -were lifted to her mother's brightly through the tears. At that moment -she looked wonderfully like the portrait on the wall. - -"Just now, dear, I was in my room upstairs, feeling very, very unhappy; -I'm not sure but I was sobbing nearly as much as you were just now. 'He -will never come back,' I said to myself; 'he is lost to us for ever.' -At that moment those sweet bells broke out, calling people to Heaven's -service, and I don't know why, Lena, but they seemed to whisper a great -comfort to me. They seemed to say that God was over us all, and saw our -trouble, and would heal it in His good time." - -Lena stared a little, digesting what she could of the words. The tears -were nowhere. - -"Will He send Hugh back?" - -"I can't tell, darling. He can take care of Hugh, and bless him, and -keep him, wherever he may be, and I know He _will_. If He should have -taken him to heaven above the blue sky--oh then, Hugh must be very -happy. He will be with the angels. He will see Jesus face to face; and -you know how _He_ loved little children. The bells seemed to say all -this to me as I listened to them, Lena." - -Lena went off contented: we saw her skipping along by Hannah's side, -who had on a new purple gown and staring red and green trimmings to her -bonnet. Children are as changeable as a chameleon, sobbing one minute, -laughing the next. Tod was standing now with his back to the window, and -Mrs. Todhetley sat by the table, her long thin fingers supporting her -cheek; very meek, very, very patient. Tod was thinking so as he glanced -at her. - -"How you must hate me for this!" he said. - -"Oh, Joseph! Hate you?" - -"The thing is all my fault. A great deal has been my fault for a long -while; all the unpleasantness and the misunderstanding." - -She got up and took his hand timidly, as if she feared he might think -it too great a liberty. "If you can only understand me for the future, -Joseph; understand how I wish and try to make things pleasant to you, I -shall be fully repaid: to you most especially in all the house, after -your father. I have ever striven and prayed for it." - -He answered nothing for the moment; his face was working a little, and -he gave her fingers a grip that must have caused pain. - -"If the worst comes of this, and Hugh never is amongst us again, I will -go over the seas in the wake of the villain Arne," he said in a low, -firm tone, "and spare you the sight of me." - -Tears began to trickle down her face. "Joseph, my dear--if you will let -me call you so--this shall draw us near to each other, as we never might -have been drawn without it. You shall not hear a word of reproach from -us, or any word but love; there shall never be a thought of reproach in -my heart. I have had a great deal of sorrow in my life, Joseph, and have -learnt patiently to bear, leaving all things to Heaven." - -"And if Hugh is dead?" - -"What I said to Lena, I meant," she softly whispered. "If God has taken -him he is with the angels, far happier than he could be in this world of -care, though his lot were of the brightest." - -The tears were running down her cheeks as she went out of the room. Tod -stood still as a stone. - -"She is made of gold," I whispered. - -"No, Johnny. Of something better." - -The sound of the bells died away. None of us went to church; in the -present excitement it would have been a farce. The Squire had gone -riding about the roads, sending his groom the opposite way. He -telegraphed to the police at Worcester; saying, in the message, that -these country officers were no better than dummies; and openly lamented -at home that it had not happened at Dyke Manor, within the range of old -Jones the constable. - -Tod disappeared with the last sound of the bells. Just as the pater's -head was full of the brick-fields, his was of the Ravine; that he had -gone off to beat it again I was sure. In a trouble such as this you want -incessantly to be up and doing. Lena and Hannah came back from church, -the child calling for Hugh: she wanted to tell him about the gentleman -who had preached in big white sleeves and pretty frills on his wrists. - -Two o'clock was the Sunday dinner-hour. Tod came in when it was -striking. He looked dead-beat as he sat down to carve in his father's -place. The sirloin of beef was as good as usual, but only Lena seemed to -think so. The little gobbler ate two servings, and a heap of raspberry -pie and cream. - -How it happened, I don't know. I was just as anxious as any of them, -and yet, in sitting under the mulberry-tree, I fell fast asleep, never -waking till five. Mrs. Todhetley, always finding excuses for us, said it -was worry and want of proper rest. She was sitting close to the window, -her head leaning against it. The Squire had not come home. Tod was -somewhere about, she did not know where. - -I found him in the yard. Luke Mackintosh was harnessing the pony to -the gig, Tod helping him in a state of excitement. Some man had come in -with a tale that a tribe of gipsies was discovered, encamped beyond the -brick-fields, who seemed to have been there for a week past. Tod jumped -to the conclusion that Hugh was concealed with them, and was about to go -off in search. - -"Will you come with me, Johnny? Luke must remain in case the Squire -rides in." - -"Of course I will. I'll run and tell Mrs. Todhetley." - -"Stay where you are, you stupid muff. To excite her hopes, in the -uncertainty, would be cruel. Get up." - -Tod need not have talked about excited hopes. He was just three parts -mad. Fancy his great strong hands shaking as he took the reins! The pony -dashed off in a fright with the cut he gave it, and brought us cleverly -against the post of the gate, breaking the near shaft. Over _that_, but -for the delay, Tod would have been cool as an orange. - -"The phaeton now, single horse," he called out to Mackintosh. - -"Yes, sir. Bob, or Blister?" - -Tod stamped his foot in a passion. "As if it mattered! Blister; he is -the more fiery of the two." - -"I must get the harness," said Mackintosh. "It is in the yellow barn." - -Mackintosh went round on the run to gain the front barn; the harness, -least used, was kept there, hung on the walls. Tod unharnessed the pony, -left me to lead him to the stable, and went after the man. In his state -of impatience and his strength, he could have done the work of ten men. -He met Mackintosh coming out of the barn, without the harness, but with -a white face. Since he saw the ghost's light on Friday night the man had -been scared at shadows. - -"There's sum'at in there, master," said he, his teeth chattering. - -"What?" roared Tod, in desperate anger. - -"There _is_, master. It's like a faint tapping." - -Tod dashed in, controlling his hands, lest they might take French leave -and strike Luke for a coward. He was seeking the proper set of harness, -when a knocking, faint and irregular, smote his ear. Tod turned to look, -and thought it came from the staircase-door. He went forward and opened -it. - -Lying at the foot of the stairs was Hugh. Hugh! Low, and weak, and -faint, there he lay, his blue eyes only half opened, and his pretty -curls mingling with the dust. - -"Hugh! is it you, my darling?" - -Tod's gasp was like a great cry. Hugh put up his little feeble hand, and -a smile parted his lips. - -"Yes, it's me, Joe." - -The riddle is easily solved. When sent back by me, Hugh saw Hannah in -the fold-yard; she was, in point of fact, looking after him. In his -fear, he stole round to hide in the shrubbery, and thence got to the -front of the house, and ran away down the road. Seeing the front -barn-door open, for it was when Luke Mackintosh was getting the corn, -Hugh slipped in and hid behind the door. Luke went out with the first -lot of corn, and the senseless child, hearing Tod's voice outside, got -into the place leading to the stairs, and shut the door. Luke, talking -to Tod, who had stepped inside the barn, saw the door was shut and -slipped the big outside bolt, _never remembering that it was not he who -had shut it_. Poor little Hugh, when their voices had died away, ran -upstairs to get to the upper granary, and found its door fastened. -And there the child was shut up beyond reach of call and hearing. The -skylight in the roof, miles, as it seemed, above him, had its ventilator -open. He had called and called; but his voice must have been lost amidst -the space of the barn. It was too weak to disturb a rat now. - -Tod took him up in his arms, tenderly as if he had been a new-born baby -that he was hushing to the rest of death. - -"Were you frightened, child?" - -"I was till I heard the church-bells," whispered Hugh. "I don't know how -long it was--oh, a great while--and I had ate the biscuit Johnny gave me -and been asleep. I was not frightened then, Joe; I thought they'd come -to me when church was over." - -I met the procession. What the dirty object might be in Tod's arms was -quite a mystery at first. Tod's eyes were dropping tears upon it, and -his breath seemed laboured. Luke brought up the rear a few yards behind, -looking as if he'd never find his senses again. - -"Oh, Tod! will he get over it?" - -"Yes. Please God." - -"Is he injured?" - -"No, no. Get out of my way, Johnny. Go to the mother now, if you like. -Tell her he has only been shut up in the barn and I'm coming in with -him. The dirt's nothing: it was on him before." - -Just as meek and gentle she stood as ever, the tears rolling down her -face, and a quiet joy in it. Tod brought him in, laying him across her -knee as she sat on the sofa. - -"There," he said. "He'll be all right when he has been washed and had -something to eat." - -"God bless you, Joseph!" she whispered. - -Tod could say no more. He bent to kiss Hugh; lifted his face, and kissed -the mother. And then he went rushing out with a burst of emotion. - - - - -OUR VISIT. - - -I. - -We went down from Oxford together, I and Tod and William Whitney; -accompanying Miss Deveen and Helen and Anna Whitney, who had been there -for a few days. Miss Deveen's carriage was waiting at the Paddington -Station; they got into it with Tod, and William and I followed in a cab -with the luggage. Miss Deveen had invited us all to stay with her. - -Miss Cattledon, the companion, with her tall, thin figure, her -pinched-in waist and her creaking stays, stood ready to receive us when -we reached the house. Miss Deveen held out her hand. - -"How have you been, Jemima? Taking care of yourself, I hope?" - -"Quite well, thank you, Miss Deveen; and very glad to see you at home -again," returned Cattledon. "This is my niece, Janet Carey." - -A slight, small girl, with smooth brown hair and a quiet face that -looked as if it had just come out of some wasting illness, was hiding -herself behind Cattledon. Miss Deveen said a few pleasant words of -welcome, and took her hand. The girl looked as shy and frightened as -though we had all been a pack of gorillas. - -"Thank you, ma'am; you are very kind," she said in a tremble; and her -voice, I noticed, was low and pleasant. I like nice voices, whether in -man or woman. - -"It wants but half-an-hour to dinner-time," said Miss Deveen, untying -the strings of her bonnet. "Miss Cattledon, will you show these young -friends of ours the rooms you have appropriated to them." - -My room and Tod's--two beds in it--was on the second floor; Helen and -Anna had the best company room below, near Miss Deveen's; Bill had a -little one lower still, half-way up the first flight of stairs. Miss -Cattledon's room, we found out, was next to ours, and her niece slept -with her. - -Tod threw himself full length on his counterpane--tired out, he said. -Certain matters had not gone very smoothly for him at Oxford, and the -smart remained. - -"You'll be late, Tod," I said when I was ready. - -"Plenty of time, Johnny. I don't suppose I shall keep dinner waiting." - -Miss Deveen stood at the door of the blue room when I went down: that -pretty sitting-room, exclusively hers, that I remembered so well. She -had on a purple silk gown, with studs of pale yellow topaz in its white -lace front, studs every whit as beautiful as the emeralds made free with -by Sophie Chalk. - -"Come in here, Johnny." - -She was beginning to talk to me as we stood by the fire, when some one -was heard to enter the inner room; Miss Deveen's bed-chamber, which -opened from this room as well as from the landing. She crossed over into -it, and I heard Cattledon's voice. - -"It is so very kind of you, Miss Deveen, to have allowed me to bring my -niece here! Under the circumstances--with such a cloud upon her----" - -"She is quite welcome," interrupted Miss Deveen's voice. - -"Yes, I know that; I know it: and I could not go down without thanking -you. I have told Lettice to take some tea up to her while we dine. She -can come to the drawing-room afterwards if you have no objection." - -"Why can't she dine with us?" asked Miss Deveen. - -"Better not," said Cattledon. "She does not expect it; and with so many -at table----" - -"Nonsense!" came Miss Deveen's quick, decisive interruption. "Many at -table! There are sufficient servants to wait on us, and I suppose you -have sufficient dinner. Go and bring her down." - -Miss Deveen came back, holding out her hand to me as she crossed the -room. The gong sounded as we went down to the drawing-room. They all -came crowding in, Tod last; and we went in to dinner. - -Miss Deveen, with her fresh, handsome face and her snow-white hair, took -the head of the table. Cattledon, at the foot, a green velvet ribbon -round her genteel throat, helped the soup. William Whitney sat on Miss -Deveen's right, I on her left. Janet Carey sat next to him--and this -brought her nearly opposite me. - -She had an old black silk on, with a white frill at the throat--very -poor and plain as contrasted with the light gleaming silks of Helen -and Anna. But she had nice eyes; their colour a light hazel, their -expression honest and sweet. It was a pity she could not get some colour -into her wan face, and a little courage into her manner. - -After coffee we sat down in the drawing-room to a round game at cards, -and then had some music; Helen playing first. Janet Carey was at the -table, looking at a view in an album. I went up to her. - -Had I caught her staring at some native Indians tarred and feathered, -she could not have given a worse jump. It might have been fancy, but I -thought her face turned white. - -"Did I startle you, Miss Carey? I am very sorry." - -"Oh, thank you--no. Every one is very kind. The truth is"--pausing a -moment and looking at the view--"I knew the place in early life, and was -lost in old memories. Past times and events connected with it came back -to me. I recognized the place at once, though I was only ten years old -when I left it." - -"Places do linger on the memory in a singularly vivid manner sometimes. -Especially those we have known when young." - -"I can recognize every spot in this," she said, gazing still at the -album. "And I have not seen it for fifteen years." - -"Fifteen. I--I understood you to say you were ten years old when you -left it." - -"So I was. I am twenty-five now." - -So much as that! So much older than any of us! I could hardly believe -it. - -"I should not have taken you for more than seventeen, Miss Carey." - -"At seventeen I went out to earn my own living," she said, in a sad -tone, but with a candour that I liked. "That is eight years ago." - -Helen's music ceased with a crash. Miss Deveen came up to Janet Carey. - -"My dear, I hear you can sing: your aunt tells me so. Will you sing a -song, to please me?" - -She was like a startled fawn: looking here, looking there, and turning -white and red. But she rose at once. - -"I will sing if you wish it, madam. But my singing is only plain -singing: just a few old songs. I have never learnt to sing." - -"The old songs are the best," said Miss Deveen. "Can you sing that sweet -song of all songs--'Blow, blow, thou wintry wind'?" - -She went to the piano, struck the chords quietly, without any flourish -or prelude, and began the first note. - -Oh the soft, sweet, musical voice that broke upon us! Not a powerful -voice, that astounds the nerves like an electric machine; but one of -that intense, thrilling, plaintive harmony which brings a mist to the -eye and a throb to the heart. Tod backed against the wall to look at -her; Bill, who had taken up the cat, let it drop through his knees. - -You might have heard a pin drop when the last words died away: "As -friends remembering not." Miss Deveen broke the silence: praising her -and telling her to go on again. The girl did not seem to have the least -notion of refusing: she appeared to have lived under submission. I think -Miss Deveen would have liked her to go on for ever. - -"The wonder to me is that you can remember the accompaniment to so many -songs without your notes," cried Helen Whitney. - -"I do not know my notes. I cannot play." - -"Not know your notes!" - -"I never learnt them. I never learnt music. I just play some few chords -by ear that will harmonize with the songs. That is why my singing is so -poor, so different from other people's. Where I have been living they -say it is not worth listening to." - -She spoke in a meek, deprecating manner. I had heard of -self-depreciation: this was an instance of it. Janet Carey was one of -the humble ones. - -The next day was Good Friday. We went to church under lowering clouds, -and came home again to luncheon. Cattledon's face was all vinegar when -we sat down to it. - -"There's that woman downstairs again!--that Ness!" she exclaimed with -acrimony. "Making herself at home with the servants!" - -"I'm glad to hear it," smiled Miss Deveen. "She'll get some dinner, poor -thing." - -Cattledon sniffed. "It's not a month since she was here before." - -"And I'm sure if she came every week she'd be welcome to a meal," spoke -Miss Deveen. "Ah now, young ladies," she went on in a joking tone, "if -you wanted your fortunes told, Mrs. Ness is the one to do it." - -"Does she tell truth?" asked Helen eagerly. - -"Oh, very true, of course," laughed Miss Deveen. "She'll promise you -a rich husband apiece. Dame Ness is a good woman, and has had many -misfortunes. I have known her through all of them." - -"And helped her too," resentfully put in Cattledon. - -"But does she _really_ tell fortunes?" pursued Helen. - -"She thinks she does," laughed Miss Deveen. "She told mine once--many a -year ago." - -"And did it come true?" - -"Well, as far as I remember, she candidly confessed that there was not -much to tell--that my life would be prosperous but uneventful." - -"I _don't_ think, begging your pardon, Miss Deveen, that it is quite a -proper subject for young people," struck in Cattledon, drawing up her -thin red neck. - -"Dear me, no," replied Miss Deveen, still laughing a little. And the -subject dropped, and we finished luncheon. - -The rain had come on, a regular downpour. We went into the -breakfast-room: though why it was called that, I don't know, since -breakfast was never taken there. It was a fair-sized, square room, built -out at the back, and gained by a few stairs down from the hall and a -passage. Somehow people prefer plain rooms to grand ones for everyday -use: perhaps that was why we all took a liking to this room, for it was -plain enough. An old carpet on the floor, chairs covered with tumbled -chintz, and always a good blazing fire in the grate. Miss Deveen would -go in there to write her business letters--when she had any to write; or -to cut out sewing with Cattledon for the housemaids. An old-fashioned -secretary stood against the wall, in which receipts and other papers -were kept. The French window opened to the garden. - -"Pour, pour, pour! It's going to be wet for the rest of the day," said -Tod gloomily. - -Cattledon came in, equipped for church in a long brown cloak, a pair -of clogs in her hand. Did none of us intend to go, she asked. Nobody -answered. The weather outside was not tempting. - -"You must come, Janet Carey," she said very tartly, angry with us all, -I expect. "Go and put on your things." - -"No," interposed Miss Deveen. "It would not be prudent for your niece -to venture out in this rain, Jemima." - -"The church is only over the way." - -"But consider the illness she has only just recovered from. Let her stay -indoors." - -Cattledon went off without further opposition, Janet kneeling down -unasked, to put on her clogs, and then opening her umbrella for her in -the hall. Janet did not come in again. Miss Deveen went out to sit with -a sick neighbour: so we were alone. - -"What a cranky old thing that Cattledon is!" cried Bill, throwing down -his newspaper. "She'd have walked that girl off in the wet, you see." - -"How old is Cattledon?" asked Tod. "Sixty?" - -"Oh, you stupid fellow!" exclaimed Helen, looking up from the stool on -the hearthrug, where she was sitting, nursing her knees. "Cattledon -sixty! Why, she can't be above forty-five." - -It was disrespectful no doubt, but we all called her plain "Cattledon" -behind her back. - -"That's rather a queer girl, that niece," said Tod. "She won't speak to -one: she's like a frightened hare." - -"I like her," said Anna. "I feel very sorry for her. She gives one the -idea of having been always put upon: and she looks dreadfully ill." - -"I should say she has been kept in some Blue Beard's cupboard, amongst a -lot of hanging wives that have permanently scared her," remarked Bill. - -"It's Cattledon," said Tod; "it's not the wives. She puts upon the -girl and frightens her senses out of her. Cattledon's a cross-grained, -two-edged----" - -He had to shut up: Janet Carey was coming in again. For about five -minutes no one spoke. There seemed to be nothing to say. Bill played -at ball with Miss Deveen's red penwiper: Anna began turning over the -periodicals: Helen gave the cat a box when it would have jumped on her -knee. - -"Well, this is lively!" cried Tod. "Nothing on earth to do; I wonder why -the rain couldn't have kept off till to-morrow?" - -"I say," whispered Helen, treason sparkling from her bright eyes, "let -us have up that old fortune-teller! I'll go and ask Lettice." - -She whirled out of the room, shutting the tail of her black silk dress -in the door, and called Lettice. A few minutes, and Mrs. Ness came in, -curtsying. A stout old lady in a cotton shawl and broad-bordered cap -with a big red bow tied in front. - -"I say, Mrs. Ness, can you tell our fortunes?" cried Bill. - -"Bless you, young gentlefolks, I've told a many in my time. I'll tell -yours, if you like to bid me, sir." - -"Do the cards tell true?" - -"I believe they does, sir. I've knowed 'em to tell over true now and -again--more's the pity!" - -"Why do you say more's the pity?" asked Anna. - -"When they've fortelled bad things, my sweet, pretty young lady. Death, -and what not." - -"But how it must frighten the people who are having them told!" cried -Anna. - -"Well, to speak the truth, young gentlefolks, when it's very bad, I -generally softens it over to 'em--say the cards is cloudy, or some'at -o' that," was the old woman's candid answer. "It don't do to make -folks uneasy." - -"Look here," said Helen, who had been to find the cards, "I should not -like to hear it if it's anything bad." - -"Ah, my dear young lady, I don't think _you_ need fear any but a -good fortune, with that handsome face and them bright eyes of yours," -returned the old dame--who really seemed to speak, not in flattery, but -from the bottom of her heart. "I don't know what the young lords 'ud be -about, to pass _you_ by." - -Helen liked that; she was just as vain as a peacock, and thought no -little of herself. "Who'll begin?" asked she. - -"Begin yourself, Helen," said Tod. "It's sure to be something good." - -So she shuffled and cut the cards as directed: and the old woman, -sitting at the table, spread them out before her, talking a little bit -to herself, and pointing with her finger here and there. - -"You've been upon a journey lately," she said, "and you'll soon be going -upon another." I give only the substance of what the old lady said, -but it was interspersed freely with her own remarks. "You'll have a -present before many days is gone; and you'll--stay, there's that black -card--you'll hear of somebody that's sick. And--dear me! there's an -offer for you--an offer of marriage,--but it won't come to anything. -Well, now, shuffle and cut again, please." - -Helen did so. This was repeated three times in all. But, so far as we -could understand it, her future seemed to be very uneventful--to have -nothing in it--something like Miss Deveen's. - -"It's a brave fortune, as I thought, young lady," cried Mrs. Ness. "No -trouble or care in store for you." - -"But there's _nothing_," said Helen, too intently earnest to mind any of -us. "When am I to be married?" - -"Well, my dear, the cards haven't told so much this time. There'll be an -offer, as I said--and I think a bit of trouble over it; but----" - -"But you said it would not come to anything," interrupted Helen. - -"Well, and no more it won't: leastways, it seemed so by the cards; and -it seemed to bring a bother with it--old folks pulling one way maybe, -and young 'uns the other. You'll have to wait a bit for the right -gentleman, my pretty miss." - -"What stupid cards they are!" cried Helen, in dudgeon. "I dare say it's -all rubbish." - -"Any ways, you've had nothing bad," said the old woman. "And that's a -priceless consolation." - -"It's your turn now, Anna." - -"I won't have mine told," said Anna. "I'm afraid." - -"Oh, you senseless donkey!" cried Bill. "Afraid of a pack of cards!" So -Anna laughed, and began. - -"Ah, there's more here," said the old woman as she laid them out. "You -are going through some great ceremony not long first. See here--crowds -of people--and show. Is it a great ball, I wonder?" - -"It may be my presentation," said Anna. - -"And here's the wedding-ring!--and there's the gentleman! See! he's -turning towards you; a dark man it is; and he'll be very fond of you, -too!--and----" - -"Oh, don't go on," cried Anna, in terrible confusion as she heard all -this, and caught Tod's eye, and saw Bill on the broad laugh. "Don't, -pray don't; it must be all nonsense," she went on, blushing redder than -a rose. - -"But it's true," steadily urged the old lady. "There the wedding is. I -don't say it'll be soon; perhaps not for some years; but come it will -in its proper time. And you'll live in a fine big house; and--stay a -bit--you'll----" - -Anna, half laughing, half crying, pushed the cards together. "I won't be -told any more," she said; "it must be all a pack of nonsense." - -"Of course it is," added Helen decisively. "And why couldn't you have -told me all that, Mrs. Ness?" - -"Why, my dear, sweet young lady, it isn't me that tells; it's the -cards." - -"I don't believe it. But it does to while away a wet and wretched -afternoon. Now, Miss Carey." - -Miss Carey looked up from her book with a start. "Oh, not me! Please, -not me!" - -"Not you!--the idea!" cried Helen. "Why, of course you must. I and my -sister have had our turn, and you must take yours." - -As if further objection were out of the question, Miss Carey stood -timidly up by the table and shuffled the cards that Dame Ness handed to -her. When they were spread out, the old woman looked at the cards longer -than she had looked for either Helen or Anna, then at the girl, then at -the cards again. - -"There has been sickness and trouble;--and distress," she said at -length, "And--and--'tain't over yet. I see a dark lady and a fair man: -they've been in it, somehow. Seems to ha' been a great trouble"--putting -the tips of her forefingers upon two cards. "Here you are, you see, -right among it,"--pointing to the Queen of Hearts. "I don't like the -look of it. And there's money mixed up in the sorrow----" - -A low, shuddering cry. I happened to be looking from the window at the -moment, and turned to see Janet Carey with hands uplifted and a face of -imploring terror. The cry came from her. - -"Oh don't, don't! don't tell any more!" she implored. -"I--was--not--guilty." - -Down went her voice by little and little, down fell her hands; and down -dropped she on the chair behind her. The next moment she was crying and -sobbing. We stood round like so many helpless simpletons, quite put down -by this unexpected interlude. Old Dame Ness stared, slowly shuffling the -cards from hand to hand, and could not make it out. - -"Here, I'll have my fortune told next, Mother Ness," said Bill Whitney, -really out of good nature to the girl, that she might be left unobserved -to recover herself. "Mind you promise me a good one." - -"And so I will then, young gentleman, if the cards 'll let me," was the -hearty answer. "Please shuffle 'em well, sir, and then cut 'em into -three." - -Bill was shuffling with all his might when we heard the front-door open, -and Cattledon's voice in the hall. "Oh, by George, I say, what's to be -done?" cried he. "She'll be fit to smother us. That old parson can't -have given them a sermon." - -Fortunately she stayed on the door-mat to take off her clogs. Dame Ness -was smuggled down the kitchen stairs, and Bill hid the cards away in his -pocket. - -And until then it had not occurred to us that it might not be quite the -right thing to go in for fortune-telling on Good Friday. - - -II. - -On Easter Tuesday William Whitney and Tod went off to Whitney Hall for -a few days: Sir John wrote for them. In the afternoon Miss Deveen took -Helen in the carriage to make calls; and the rest of us went to the -Colosseum, in the Regent's Park. Cattledon rather fought against the -expedition, but Miss Deveen did not listen to her. None of us--except -herself--had seen it before: and I know that I, for one, was delighted -with it. - -The last scene of the performance was over. If I remember rightly, at -this distance of time, it was the representation of the falling of an -avalanche on a Swiss village, to bury it for ever in the snow; and we -saw the little lighted church to which the terrified inhabitants were -flying for succour, and heard the tinkling of its alarm bell. As we -pushed out with the crowd, a policeman appeared in our way, facing us, -a tall, big, fierce-looking man; not to impede the advance of the -throng, but to direct its movements. Janet Carey seized my arm, and I -turned to look at her. She stood something like a block of stone; her -face white with terror, her eyes fixed on the policeman. I could not -get her on, and we were stopping those behind. Naturally the man's -eyes fell on her; and with evident recognition. - -"Oh, it's you here, is it, Miss Carey!" - -The tone was not exactly insolent: but it was cool and significant, -wanting in respect. When I would have asked him how he dared so to -address a young lady, the words were arrested by Janet. I thought she -had gone mad. - -"Oh, get me away, Mr. Ludlow, for Heaven's sake! Don't let him take me! -Oh what shall I do? what shall I do?" - -"What you've got to do is to get for'ard out o' this here passage and -not block up the way," struck in the policeman. "I bain't after you now; -so you've no call to be afeared this time. Pass on that way, sir." - -I drew her onwards, and in half-a-minute we were in the open air, clear -of the throng. Cattledon, who seemed to have understood nothing, except -that we had stopped the way, shook Janet by the arm in anger, and asked -what had come to her. - -"It was the same man, aunt, that Mrs. Knox called in," she gasped. "I -thought he had come to London to look for me." - -Miss Cattledon's answer was to keep hold of her arm, and whirl her along -towards the outer gates. Anna and I followed in wonder. - -"What is it all, Johnny?" she whispered. - -"Goodness knows, Anna. I----" - -Cattledon turned her head, asking me to go on and secure a cab. Janet -was helped into it and sat back with her eyes closed, a shiver taking -her every now and then. - -Janet appeared at dinner, and seemed as well as usual. In the evening -Helen tore the skirt of her thin dress: and before she was aware, the -girl was kneeling by the side of her chair with a needle and thread, -beginning to mend it. - -"You are very kind," said Helen heartily, when she saw what Janet was -doing. - -"Oh no," answered Janet, with an upward, humble glance from her nice -eyes. - -But soon after that, when we were describing to Helen and Miss Deveen -the sights at the Colosseum, and the silence of the buried village after -the avalanche had fallen, Janet was taken with an ague fit. The very -chair shook; it seemed that she must fall out of it. Anna ran to hold -her. Miss Deveen got up in consternation. - -"That Colosseum has been too much for her: there's nothing so fatiguing -as sightseeing. I did wrong in letting Janet go, as she is still weak -from her illness. Perhaps she has taken cold." - -Ringing the bell, Miss Deveen told George to make some hot wine and -water. When it was brought in, she made Janet drink it, and sent her -upstairs to bed, marshalled by Cattledon. - -The next morning, Wednesday, I was dressing in the sunshine that -streamed in at the bedroom windows, when a loud hulla-balloo was set up -below, enough to startle the king and all his men. - -"Thieves! robbers! murder!" - -Dashing to the door, I looked over the balustrades. The shrieks and -calls came from Lettice Lane, who was stumbling up the stairs from the -hall. Cattledon opened her door in her night-cap, saw me, and shut it -again with a bang. - -"Murder! robbers! thieves!" shrieked Lettice. - -"But what is it, Lettice?" I cried, leaping down. - -"Oh, Mr. Johnny, the house is robbed!--and we might just as well all -have been murdered in our beds!" - -Every one was appearing on the scene. Miss Deveen came fully -dressed--she was often up before other people; Cattledon arrived in -a white petticoat and shawl. The servants were running up from the -kitchen. - -Thieves had broken in during the night. The (so-called) breakfast-room -at the back presented a scene of indescribable confusion. Everything -in it was turned topsy-turvy, the secretary had been ransacked; the -glass-doors stood open to the garden. - -It seemed that Lettice, in pursuance of her morning's duties, had gone -to the room, and found it in this state. Lettice was of the excitable -order, and went into shrieks. She stood now, sobbing and shaking, as she -gave her explanation. - -"When I opened the door and saw the room in this pickle, the window -standing open, my very blood seemed to curdle within me. For all I knew -the thieves might have done murder. Just look at the place, ma'am!--look -at your secretary!" - -It's what we were all looking at. The sight was as good as moving house. -Chairs and footstools lay upside down, their chintz covers untied -and flung off; the hearthrug was under the table; books were open, -periodicals scattered about; two pictures had been taken from the wall -and lay face downwards; every ornament was moved from the mantelpiece. -The secretary stood open; all its papers had been taken out, opened, and -lay in a heap on the floor; and Janet Carey's well-stocked work-box was -turned bottom upwards, its contents having rolled anywhere. - -"This must be your work, George," said Miss Cattledon, turning on the -servant-man with a grim frown. - -"Mine, ma'am!" he answered, amazed at the charge. - -"Yes, yours," repeated Cattledon. "You could not have fastened the -shutters last night; and that is how the thieves have got in." - -"But I did, ma'am. I fastened them just as usual." - -"Couldn't be," said Cattledon decisively, who had been making her way -over the _debris_ to examine the shutters. "They have not been forced in -any way: they have simply been opened. The window also." - -"And neither window nor shutters could be opened from the outside -without force," remarked Miss Deveen. "I fear, George, you must have -forgotten this room when you shut up last night." - -"Indeed, ma'am, I did not forget it," was the respectful answer. "I -assure you I bolted the window and barred the shutters as I always do." - -Janet Carey, standing in mute wonder like the rest of us, testified to -this. "When I came in here last night to get a needle and thread to mend -Miss Whitney's dress, I am sure the shutters were shut: I noticed that -they were." - -Cattledon would not listen. She had taken up her own opinion of George's -neglect, and sharply told Janet not to be so positive. Janet looked -frightfully white and wan this morning, worse than a ghost. - -"Oh, goodness!" cried Helen Whitney, appearing on the scene. "If ever I -saw such a thing!" - -"I never did--in all my life," cried Cattledon. - -"Have you lost any valuables from the secretary, Miss Deveen?" - -"My dear Helen, there were no valuables in the secretary to lose," was -Miss Deveen's answer. "Sometimes I keep money in it--a little: but last -night there happened to be none. Of course the thieves could not know -that, and must have been greatly disappointed. If they did not come in -through the window--why, they must have got in elsewhere." - -Miss Deveen spoke in a dubious tone, that too plainly showed her own -doubts on the point. George felt himself and his word reflected upon. - -"If I had indeed forgotten this window last night, ma'am--though for me -to do such a thing seems next door to impossible--I would confess to it -at once. I can be upon my oath, ma'am, if put to it, that I made all -secure here at dusk." - -"Then, George, you had better look to your other doors and windows," was -the reply of his mistress. - -The other doors and windows were looked to: but no trace could be found -of how the thieves got in. After breakfast, we succeeded in putting the -room tolerably straight. The letters and bills took most time, for every -one was lying open. And after it was all done, Miss Deveen came to the -conclusion that nothing had been taken. - -"Their object must have been money," she observed. "It is a good thing I -happened to carry my cash-box upstairs yesterday. Sometimes I leave it -here in the secretary." - -"And was much in it?" one of us asked. - -"Not very much. More, though, than one cares to lose: a little gold and -a bank-note." - -"A bank-note!" echoed Janet, repeating the words quickly. "_Is_ it -safe?--are you sure, ma'am, the note is safe?" - -"Well, I conclude it is," answered Miss Deveen with composure. "I saw -the cash-box before I came down this morning. I did not look inside it." - -"Oh, but you had better look," urged Janet, betraying some excitement. -"Suppose it should be gone! Can _I_ look, ma'am?" - -"What nonsense!" exclaimed Helen. "If the cash-box is safe, the money -must be safe inside it. The thieves did not go into Miss Deveen's room, -Janet Carey." - -The servants wanted the police called in; but their mistress saw no -necessity for it. Nothing had been carried off, she said, and therefore -she should take no further trouble. Her private opinion was that George, -in spite of his assertions, must have forgotten the window. - -It seemed a curious thing that the thieves had not visited other rooms. -Unless, indeed, the door of this one had been locked on the outside, and -they were afraid to risk the noise of forcing it: and no one could tell -whether the key had been turned, or not. George had the plate-basket in -his bed-chamber; but on the sideboard in the dining-room stood a silver -tea-caddy and a small silver waiter: how was it they had not walked off -with these two articles? Or, as the cook said, why didn't they rifle her -larder? She had various tempting things in it, including a fresh-boiled -ham. - -"Janet Carey has been ill all the afternoon," observed Anna, when I and -Helen got home before dinner, for we had been out with Miss Deveen. "I -think she feels frightened about the thieves, for one thing." - -"Ill for nothing!" returned Helen slightingly. "Why should she be -frightened any more than we are? The thieves did not hurt her. I might -just as well say I am ill." - -"But she has been really ill, Helen. She has a shivering-fit one -minute and is sick the next. Cattledon says she must have caught cold -yesterday, and is cross with her for catching it." - -"Listen," said Helen, lowering her voice. "I can't get it out of my head -that that old fortune-teller must have had to do with it. She must have -seen the secretary and may have taken note of the window fastenings. I -am in a state over it: as you both know, it was I who had her up." - -Janet did not come down until after dinner. She was pale and quiet, but -not less ready than ever to do what she could for every one. Helen had -brought home some ferns to--transfer, I think she called it. Janet at -once offered to help her. The process involved a large hand-basin full -of water, and Miss Deveen sent the two girls into the breakfast-parlour, -not to make a mess in the drawing-room. - -"Well, my dears," said Miss Deveen, when she had read the chapter before -bed-time, "I hope you will all sleep well to-night, and that we shall -be undisturbed by thieves. Not that they disturbed us last night," she -added, laughing. "Considering all things, I'm sure they were as polite -and considerate thieves as we could wish to have to do with." - -Whether the others slept well I cannot say: I know I did. So well that I -never woke at all until the same cries from Lettice disturbed the house -as on the previous morning. The thieves had been in again. - -Downstairs we went, as quickly as some degree of dressing allowed, and -found the breakfast-room all confusion, the servants all consternation: -the window open as before; the furniture turned about, the ornaments and -pictures moved from their places, the books scattered, the papers of -the secretary lying unfolded in a heap on the carpet, and a pair of -embroidered slippers of Helen Whitney's lying in the basin of water. - -"What an extraordinary thing!" exclaimed Miss Deveen, while the rest of -us stood in silent amazement. - -Lettice's tale was the same as the previous one. Upon proceeding to -the room to put it to rights, she found it thus, and its shutters and -glass-doors wide open. There was no trace, except here, of the possible -entrance or exit of thieves: all other fastenings were secure as they -had been left over-night; other rooms had not been disturbed; and, more -singular than all, nothing appeared to have been taken. What could the -thieves be seeking? - -"Shall you call in the police now, ma'am?" asked Cattledon, her tone -implying that they ought to have been called in before. - -"Yes, I shall," emphatically replied Miss Deveen. - -"Oh!" shrieked Helen, darting in, after making a hasty and impromptu -toilet, "look at my new slippers!" - -After finishing the ferns last night they had neglected to send the -basin away. The slippers were rose-coloured, worked with white flowers -in floss silk; and the bits of loose green from the ferns floated over -them like green weeds on a pond. Helen had bought them when we were out -yesterday. - -"My beautiful slippers!" lamented Helen. "I wish to goodness I had not -forgotten to take them upstairs. What wicked thieves they must be! They -ought to be hung." - -"It's to know, mum, whether it _was_ thieves," spoke the cook. - -"Why, what else can it have been, cook?" asked Miss Deveen. - -"Mum, I don't pretend to say. I've knowed cats do queer things. We've -two on 'em--the old cat and her kitten." - -"Did you ever know cats unlock a secretary and take out the papers, -cook?" returned Miss Deveen. - -"Well, no, mum. But, on the other hand, I never knowed thieves break -into a house two nights running, and both times go away empty-handed." - -The argument was unanswerable. Unless the thieves had been disturbed on -each night, how was it they had taken nothing? - -Miss Deveen locked the door upon the room just as it was; and after -breakfast sent George to the nearest police-station. Whilst he was gone -I was alone in the dining-room, stooping down to hunt for a book in the -lowest shelf of the book-case, when Janet Carey came in followed by -Cattledon. I suppose the table-cover hid me from them, for Cattledon -began to blow her up. - -"One would think you were a troubled ghost, shaking and shivering in -that way, first upstairs and then down! The police coming!--what if they -are? They are not coming after you this time. There's no money missing -now." - -Janet burst into tears. "Oh, aunt, why do you speak so to me? It is as -though you believe me guilty!" - -"Don't be a simpleton, Janet," rebuked Cattledon, in softer tones. "If -I did not know you were not, and could not, be guilty, should I have -brought you here under Miss Deveen's roof? What vexes me so much is to -see you look as though you were guilty--with your white face, and your -hysterics, and your trembling hands and lips. Get a little spirit into -yourself, child: the police won't harm you." - -Catching up the keys from the table, she went out again, leaving Janet -sobbing. I stood forward. She started when she saw me, and tried to dry -her eyes. - -"I am sorry, Miss Carey, that all this bother is affecting you. Why are -you so sad?" - -"I--have gone through a great deal of trouble lately;--and been ill," -she answered, with hesitation, arresting her tears. - -"Can I do anything for you?--help you in any way?" - -"You are very kind, Mr. Ludlow; you have been kind to me all along. -There's nothing any one can do. Sometimes I wish I could die." - -"Die!" - -"There is so much unhappiness in the world!" - -George's voice was heard in the hall with the policeman. Janet vanished. -But whether it was through the floor or out at the door, I declare I did -not see then, and don't quite know to this day. - -I and Cattledon were allowed to assist at the conference between Miss -Deveen and the policeman: a dark man with a double chin and stripes on -his coat-sleeve. After hearing particulars, and examining the room and -the mess it was in, he inquired how many servants were kept, and whether -Miss Deveen had confidence in them. She told him the number, and said -she had confidence in all. - -He went into the kitchen, put what questions he pleased to the servants, -looked at the fastenings of the doors generally, examined the outside -of the window and walked about the garden. George called him Mr. -Stone--which appeared to be his name. Mr. Stone had nothing of a report -to bring Miss Deveen. - -"It's one of two things, ma'am," he said. "Either this has been done by -somebody in your own house; or else the neighbours are playing tricks -upon you. I can't come to any other conclusion. The case is peculiar, -you see, in-so-far as that nothing has been stolen." - -"It is very peculiar indeed," returned Miss Deveen. - -"I should have said--I should feel inclined to say--that the culprit is -some one in the house----" - -"It's the most unlikely thing in the world, that it should have been any -one in the house," struck in Miss Deveen, not allowing him to go on. "To -suspect any of the young people who are visiting me, would be simply an -insult. And my servants would no more play the trick than I or Miss -Cattledon would play it." - -"Failing indoors then, we must look out," said Mr. Stone, after -listening patiently. "And that brings up more difficulty, ma'am. For -I confess I don't see how they could get the windows and shutters open -from the outside, and leave no marks of damage." - -"The fact of the window and shutters being wide open each morning, shows -how they got out." - -"Just so," said Mr. Stone; "but it does not show how they got in. Of -course there's the possibility that they managed to secrete themselves -in the house beforehand." - -"Yesterday I thought that might have been the case," remarked Miss -Deveen; "to-day I do not think so. It seems that, after what occurred, -my servants were especially cautious to keep their doors and windows not -only closed, but bolted all day yesterday, quite barring the possibility -of any one's stealing in. Except, of course, down the chimneys." - -Mr. Stone laughed. "They'd bring a lot of soot with 'em that way." - -"And spoil my hearthrugs. No; that was not the way of entrance." - -"Then we come to the question--did one of the servants get up and admit -'em?" - -"But that would be doubting my servants still, you see. It really seems, -Mr. Stone, as though you could not help me." - -"Before saying whether I can or I can't, I should be glad, ma'am, to -have a conversation with you alone," was the unexpected answer. - -So we left him with Miss Deveen. Cattledon's stays appeared to resent -it, for they creaked alarmingly in the hall, and her voice was tart. - -"Perhaps the man wants to accuse you or me, Mr. Johnny!" - -We knew later, after the upshot came, what it was he did want; and I may -as well state it at once. Stone had made up his mind to watch that night -in the garden; but he wished it kept secret from every one, except Miss -Deveen herself, and he charged her strictly not to mention it. "How will -it serve you, if, as you say, they do not come in that way?" she had -asked. "But the probability is they come out that way," he answered. "At -any rate, they fling the doors open, and I shall be there to drop upon -them." - -Janet Carey grew very ill as the day went on. Lettice offered to sit up -with her, in case she wanted anything in the night. Janet had just the -appearance of somebody worn out. - -We went to bed at the usual time, quite unconscious that Mr. Stone had -taken up his night watch in the summer-house at the end of the garden. -The nights were very bright just then; the moon at about the full. -Nothing came of it: neither the room nor the window was disturbed. - -"They scented my watch," remarked the officer in private next morning -to Miss Deveen. "However, ma'am, I don't think it likely you will be -troubled again. Seeing you've put it into our hands, they'll not dare to -risk further annoyance." - -"I suppose not--if they know it," dubiously spoke Miss Deveen. - -He shook his head. "They know as much as that, ma'am. Depend upon it -their little game is over." - -Mr. Stone was mistaken. On the following morning, the breakfast-room was -found by Lettice in exactly the same state of confusion. The furniture -dragged about, the ornaments moved from the mantelpiece, the bills and -papers opened, as before. Miss Deveen was very silent over it, and -said in the hearing of the servants that she should have to carry the -grievance to Scotland Yard. - -And I'm sure I thought she set out to do it. The carriage came to the -door in the course of the morning. Miss Deveen, who was ready dressed, -passed over the others, and asked me to go with her. - -"Do you know what I'm going to do, Johnny?" she questioned, as George -took his place on the box and the fat old coachman gave the word to his -horses. - -"I think I do, Miss Deveen. We are going to Scotland Yard." - -"Not a bit of it, Johnny," she said. "My opinion has come round to Mr. -Policeman Stone's--that we must look indoors for the disturber. I have -brought you out with me to talk about it. It is a great mystery--for I -thought I could have trusted the servants and all the rest of you with -my life." - -It was a mystery--and no mistake. - -"A great mystery," repeated Miss Deveen; "a puzzle; and I want you -to help me to unravel it, Johnny. I intend to sit up to-night in the -breakfast-room. But not being assured of my nerves while watching in -solitude for thieves, or ghosts, or what not, I wish you to sit up with -me." - -"Oh, I shall like it, Miss Deveen." - -"I have heard of houses being disturbed before in a similar manner," she -continued. "There was a story in the old days of the Cock-Lane ghost: I -think that was something of the same kind, but my memory is rather -cloudy on the point. Other cases I know have been traced to the sudden -mania, solely mischievous or otherwise, of some female inmate. I hope it -will not turn out to have been Lettice herself." - -"Shall I watch without you, Miss Deveen?" - -"No, no; you will bear me company. We will make our arrangements now, -Johnny--for I do not intend that any soul shall know of this; not even -Miss Cattledon. You will keep counsel, mind, like the true and loyal -knight you are." - - * * * * * - -The house had gone to rest. In the dark breakfast-room sat Miss Deveen -and I, side by side. The fire was dying away, and it gave scarcely any -light. We sat back against the wall between the fireplace and the door, -she in one armchair, I in another. The secretary was opposite the fire, -the key in the lock as usual; the window, closed and barred, lay to the -left, the door to the right, a table in the middle. An outline of the -objects was just discernible in the fading light. - -"Do you leave the key in the secretary as a rule, Miss Deveen?" I asked -in a whisper. - -"Yes. There's nothing in it that any one would care to look at," she -replied in the same cautious tone. "My cash-box is generally there, but -that is always locked. But I think we had better not talk, Johnny." - -So we sat on in silence. The faint light of the fire died away, giving -place to total darkness. It was weary watching there, hour after hour, -each hour seeming an age. Twelve o'clock struck; one; two! I'd have -given something to be able to fall asleep. Just to speak a word to Miss -Deveen would be a relief, and I forgot her injunctions. - -"Are you thinking of ghosts, Miss Deveen?" - -"Just then I was thinking of God, Johnny. How good it is to know that He -is with us in the dark as in the light." - -Almost with the last word, my ears, younger and quicker than Miss -Deveen's, caught the sound of a faint movement outside--as though steps -were descending the stairs. I touched Miss Deveen's arm and breathed a -caution. - -"I hear something. I think it is coming now." - -The door softly opened. Some white figure was standing there--as might -be seen by the glimmer of light that came in through the passage window. -Who or what it was, we could not gather. It closed the door behind it, -and came slowly gliding along the room on the other side the table, -evidently feeling its way as it went, and making for the window. We sat -in breathless silence. Miss Deveen had caught my hand and was holding it -in hers. - -Next, the shutters were unfastened and slowly folded back; then the -window was unbolted and its doors were flung wide. This let in a flood -of moonlight: after the darkness the room seemed bright as day. And the -white figure doing all this was--Janet Carey in her nightgown, her feet -bare. - -Whether Miss Deveen held my hand the tighter, or I hers, I dare say -neither of us could tell. Janet's eyes turned on us, as we sat: and I -fully expected her to go into a succession of shrieks. - -But no. She took no manner of notice. It was just as though she did not -see us. Steadily, methodically as it seemed, she proceeded to search the -room, apparently looking for something. First, she took the chintz cover -off the nearest chair, and shook it out; turned over the chair and felt -it all over; a small round stand was served the same; a blotting-case -that happened to lie on the table she carried to the window, knelt down, -and examined it on the floor by the moonlight, passing her fingers over -its few pages, unfolding a letter that was inside and shaking it out -to the air. Then all that was left on the floor, and she turned over -another chair, and so went on. - -I felt as cold as charity. Was it her ghost that was doing this? How was -it she did not see us sitting there? Her eyes were open enough to see -anything! - -Coming to the secretary, she turned the key, and began her search in it. -Pulling out one drawer first, she opened every paper it contained, shook -them one by one, and let them drop on the floor. As she was commencing -at the next drawer, her back towards us, Miss Deveen whispered to me. - -"We will get away, Johnny. You go on first. No noise, mind." - -We got out without being seen or heard. At least, there was no outcry; -no sign to tell we had been. Miss Deveen drew me into the dining-room; -her face, as it caught the glimmer, entering by the fan-light over the -hall-door, looked deadly pale. - -"I understand it all, Johnny. She is doing it in her sleep." - -"In her sleep?" - -"Yes. She is unconscious. It was better to come away. As she came round -to search our part of the room, she might have found us, and awoke. That -would have been dangerous." - -"But, Miss Deveen, what is she searching for?" - -"I know. I see it all perfectly. It is for a bank-note." - -"But--if she is really asleep, how can she go about the search in that -systematic way? Her eyes are wide open: she seems to examine things as -though she _saw_ them." - -"I cannot tell you how it is, Johnny. They do seem to see things, -though they are asleep. What's more, when they awake there remains no -consciousness of what they have done. This is not the first case of -somnambulism I have been an eye-witness to. She throws the window and -shutters open to admit the light." - -"How can she have sense to know in her sleep that opening them will -admit it?" - -"Johnny, though these things _are_, I cannot explain them. Go up to your -bed now and get to sleep. As I shall go to mine. You shall know about -Janet in the morning. She will take no harm if left alone: she has taken -none hitherto. Say nothing to any one." - -It was the solution of the great puzzle. Janet Carey had done it all in -her sleep. And what she had been searching for was a bank-note. - -In the situation where Janet had been living as nursery-governess, a -bank-note had disappeared. Janet was suspected and _accused_ of taking -it. Constitutionally timid and nervous, her spirits long depressed by -circumstances, the accusation had a grave effect upon her. She searched -the house for it incessantly, almost night and day, just as we had seen -her searching the parlour at Miss Deveen's in her sleep, and then fell -into a fever--which was only saved by great care from settling on the -brain. When well enough, Miss Cattledon had her removed to London to -Miss Deveen's; but the stigma still clung to her, and the incipient -fever seemed still to hover about her. The day William Whitney left, she -moved from Miss Cattledon's chamber to the one he had occupied: and that -night, being unrestrained, she went down in her sleep to search. The -situation of the room in which the note had been lost was precisely -similar to this breakfast-room at Miss Deveen's--in her troubled sleep, -poor girl, she must have taken it for the same room, and crept down, -still asleep, to renew the endless search she had formerly made when -awake. The night the policeman was watching in the summer-house, -Lettice sat up with Janet; so that night nothing occurred. Lettice said -afterwards that Miss Carey twice got out of bed in her sleep and seemed -to be making for the door, but Lettice guided her back to bed again. And -so there was the elucidation: and Janet was just as unconscious of what -she had done as the bed-post. - -Miss Deveen's medical man was called in, for brain-fever, escaped, -appeared to be fastening on Janet in earnest now. He gave it as his -opinion that she was no natural sleep-walker, but that the mind's -disturbance had so acted on the brain and system, coupled with her -fright at meeting the policeman at the Colosseum, as to have induced the -result. At any rate, whatever may have caused it, and strange though it -was, I have only given facts. And in the next paper we shall hear more -about the bank-note. - - - - -JANET CAREY. - - -I. - -It was a summer's evening, some two years or so previous to the events -told of in the last chapter, and the sun was setting in clouds of -crimson and gold. On the green lawn at the back of Rose Villa--a pretty -detached house, about twenty minutes' walk from the town of Lefford--sat -a lady in a gay dress. She was dark and plain, with crinkled black hair, -and a rough voice. A girl of twelve, fair, pretty, and not in the least -like her, sat on the same bench. Three younger girls were scampering -about at some noisy play; and a boy, the youngest of all, lay on the -grass, whistling, and knotting a whip-cord. The sun's slanting rays -tinted all with a warm hue. - -"Get up, Dicky," said the lady to the boy. - -Dicky, aged five, whistled on, without taking any notice. - -"Did you hear mamma tell you to get up, Dicky?" spoke the fair girl by -her mother's side. "Get up, sir." - -"Shan't," said Dicky. - -"_You_ go in for me, Mina," said Mrs. Knox. "I want to know the time. -Arnold took my watch into town this morning to have the spring mended." - -Mina seemed in no more hurry to obey than Dicky was. Just then a low -pony-chaise, driven by a boy-groom, rattled out from the stable-yard at -the side of the house. Mina looked across at it. - -"It must be about a quarter-past eight," she said. "You told James not -to be later than that in going to the station." - -"You might go and see," spoke Mrs. Knox: "James is not sure to be to -time. How _glad_ I shall be when that governess is here to take the -trouble of you children off me!" she added, fretfully. Mina did not take -the hint about going in: she made off to her sisters instead. - -This house had once been a doctor's residence. Soon after Thomas -Knox, surgeon and apothecary, set up in practice at Lefford, now -five-and-twenty years ago, he married Mary Arnold. Rose Villa was hers, -and some money besides, and they came to live at it, Mr. Knox keeping on -his surgery in Lefford. They had one son, who was named Arnold. When -Arnold was ten years old, his mother died. A year later his father -married a second wife, Miss Amelia Carey: after which these five other -young ones came to town. Arnold was to be a doctor like his father. His -studies were in progress, when one morning a letter came to him in -London--where he was walking Bartholomew's Hospital under that clever -man, William Lawrence--saying that his father was alarmingly ill. Arnold -reached Lefford just in time to see him die. The little one, Dicky, was -a baby then in long-clothes. Arnold was only nineteen. No chance that he -could set up in, and keep together the practice, which fell through. -So he went back to London to study on, and pass, and what not; and -by-and-by he came down again Dr. Knox: for he had followed the fashion -just then getting common, of taking the M.D. degree. Arnold Knox had -his share of good plain sense, and of earnestness too; but example is -catching, and he only followed that of his fellow-students in going in -thus early for the degree. He arrived at Lefford "Dr. Knox." Mr. Tamlyn -laughed at him, before his face and behind his back, asking him what -experience he had had that he should hasten to tack on M.D. to his name: -why, not more experience than a country apothecary's apprentice. Arnold, -feeling half ashamed of himself, for he was very modest, pleaded the new -custom. Custom! returned old Tamlyn; in _his_ days medical men had -_worked_ for their honours before taking them. Arnold engaged himself as -assistant to Mr. Tamlyn, who had dropped into the best part of Dr. -Knox's practice since that gentleman's death, in addition to his own. - -Meanwhile, Mrs. Knox, the widow, had continued to live at Rose Villa. -It belonged to Arnold, having descended to him in right of his mother. -Mr. Knox had bequeathed by will five hundred pounds to Arnold for the -completion of his studies; and all the rest of his money to his wife and -second family. Lefford talked of it resentfully, saying it was an unjust -will: for a good portion of the money had been Mary Arnold's and ought -to have gone to her son. It was about three hundred and fifty pounds -a-year in all; and Mrs. Knox bewailed and bemoaned her hard fate at -having to bring up her children upon so little. She was one of those who -_must_ spend; and her extravagance had kept her husband poor, in spite -of his good practice. - -Never a hint did she offer her step-son of paying him rent for his -house; never a word of thanks did she tender for the use of it. - -Arnold said nothing: he was thoroughly warm-hearted and generous, -considering every one before himself, and he would not have hurt her -feelings or cramped her pocket for the world. As long as he did not want -the house, she and his half-sisters and brother were welcome to it. When -he came back from London he naturally went to it; it was his home; and -Mrs. Knox did not at all like the addition he made to her housekeeping -expenses: which could not be very much amongst the nine others to -provide for. The very day after Arnold's bargain was made with Mr. -Tamlyn, she asked him how much he was going to pay her for his board. -Half his salary, Arnold promptly replied; seventy-five pounds a-year. -And Mrs. Knox would have liked to say it was not enough. - -"Seventy-five pounds a-year!" cackled Lefford, when it got hold of the -news. "Why, it won't cost her half that. And she using his house and -enjoying all the money that was his poor mother's! Well, she has a -conscience, that Widow Knox!" - -The arrangement had continued until now. Three years had elapsed since -then, and Arnold was four-and-twenty. Mrs. Knox found herself often in -money difficulties; when she would borrow from Arnold, and never think -of repaying him. She was now going to increase expenses by taking a -nursery-governess. Awfully tiresome those children were, and Mrs. Knox -said they wore her out. She should have managed the little brats better: -not indulged and neglected them by turns. One hour she'd let them -run wild, the next hour was shrieking at them in words next door to -swearing. - -The governess engaged was a distant relative of her own, a Miss Janet -Carey. She was an orphan, and had for a year or two been teacher in a -boys' preparatory school, limited to thirty pupils. Mrs. Knox wrote to -offer her twelve pounds a-year and a "very comfortable home at Rose -Villa; to be as one of the family." It must have sounded tempting to -Miss Carey after the thirty little boys, and she gratefully accepted it. -Mrs. Knox had never seen her; she pictured to herself a tall, bony young -woman with weak eyes, for that had been the portrait of her second -cousin, Miss Carey's father. - -"Crack! crack! Tally-ho! tally-ho!" shouted Dicky, who had completed his -whip, and got up to stamp and smack it. "Yo-ho! Tally-ho, tally-ho!" - -"Oh, do for goodness' sake be quiet, Dick!" screamed Mrs. Knox. "I can't -have that noise now: I told you I had a headache. Do you hear me, then! -Mina, come and take away this horrible whip." - -Mina came running at the call. Master Dicky was so much given way to as -a general rule, that to thwart him seemed to his sisters something -delightful. Dicky dodged out of harm's way amongst the shrubs; and -Mina was about to go after him, when some one came through the open -glass-doors of what was called the garden-room. - -"Here's Arnold," she cried. - -Dr. Knox was a tall, strongly built, fair man, looking older than his -four-and-twenty years. Nobody could help liking his thin face, for it -was a _good_ face, full of sense and thought, but it was not a handsome -one. His complexion was sallow, and his light hair had a habit of -standing up wild. - -"You are home betimes," remarked Mrs. Knox. - -"Yes; there was nothing more to do," he answered, sitting down in a -rustic garden-chair. "I met James in the pony-chaise: where's he gone?" - -"Why, Arnold, don't you know that the governess is coming this evening?" -cried the second girl, Lotty, who was fanning her hot face with a -cabbage-leaf. "James has gone to the station for her." - -"I forgot all about the governess," said Dr. Knox. "Lotty, what a heat -you are in!" - -"We have been running races," said the child; "and the sun was blazing." - -Dicky came tearing up. Something had happened to the whip. - -"Look at it, Arnold," he said, throwing his arms and the whip on the -doctor's knees. "The lash won't stay on." - -"And you want me to mend it, I suppose." - -"Yes. Do it now." - -"Is that the way to ask?" - -"Please do it now, Arnold." - -"If I can. But I fear I can't, Dicky." - -"No! You can mend arms and legs." - -"Sometimes. Have you a strip of leather? Or some twine?" - -Dicky pulled a piece of string out of some unfathomable pocket. He was -not promoted to trousers yet, but wore white drawers reaching to the -knee and a purple velvet tunic. Dr. Knox took out his penknife. - -"What's the matter with that young Tamlyn again?" asked Mrs. Knox in a -fretful tone. - -"With Bertie?" returned Dr. Knox, rather carelessly, for he was intent -on the whip. "It is one of the old attacks." - -"Of course! I knew it was nothing more," spoke Mrs Knox in resentment. -"There was to have been a party at Mrs. Green's this evening. Just as I -was ready to start for it, her footman came to say it was put off on -account of Miss Tamlyn, who could not come because Master Albert was -ill." - -"Miss Tamlyn would not leave Bertie when he is ill for all the parties -in Christendom, mother." - -"Miss Tamlyn is welcome to stay with him. But that's no reason why Mrs. -Green should have put the rest of us off. Who's Bessy Tamlyn, that she -should be considered before every one?--stupid old maid!" - -Mrs. Knox pushed up her lace sleeves in wrath, and jingled her -bracelets. Evening parties made the solace of her life. - -The wheels of the returning chaise were heard, and the children went -rushing round to the front of the house to look at the new governess. -They brought Janet Carey back to the lawn. Mrs. Knox saw a small, slight -young girl with a quiet, nice face and very simple manners. Dr. Knox -rose. Mrs. Knox did not rise. Expecting to see a kind of dark strong -giantess, she was struck with astonishment and remained sitting. - -"You are surely not Matthew Carey's daughter?" - -"Yes, madam, I am," was the young lady's answer, as a blush stole into -the clear, meek face. - -"Dear me! I should never have thought it. Mat Carey was as tall and big -as a lamp-post. And--why!--you told me you were twenty-three!" - -"I was twenty-three last March." - -"Well, I trust you will be found competent to manage my children. I had -no idea you were so young-looking." - -The tone expressed a huge doubt of it. The ill-trained youngsters stood -staring rudely into Miss Carey's face. Dr. Knox, pushing some of them -aside, held out his hand with a smile of welcome. - -"I hope you will be able to feel at home here, Miss Carey," he said: -"the children must not be allowed to give you too much trouble. Have you -had a pleasant journey?" - -"Take Miss Carey to her room, Mina," sharply struck in Mrs. Knox, not at -all pleased that her step-son should presume to say so much: as if -the house were his. And Mina, followed by the shy and shrinking young -governess, went indoors and up to the roof, and showed her a little -comfortless chamber there. - - * * * * * - -(But the reader must understand that in writing this paper, I, Johnny -Ludlow, am at a disadvantage. Not having been present myself at Lefford, -I can only relate at second hand what happened at Mrs. Knox's.) - - * * * * * - -The time went on. Janet Carey proved herself equal to her work: although -Mrs. Knox, judging by her young look and gentle manners, had been struck -by a doubt of her capacity, and politely expressed it aloud. Janet's -duties were something like the labours of Hercules: at least, as varied. -Teaching was only one of them. She helped to dress and undress the -children, or did it entirely if Sally the housemaid forgot to attend; -she kept all the wardrobes and mended the clothes and the socks. She had -to be in all places at once. Helping Mrs. Knox in the parlour, taking -messages to the kitchen, hearing the girls' lessons, and rushing out to -the field to see that Dicky was not worrying the pony or milking the cow -on his own account. It was not an orderly household; two maids were kept -and James. Mrs. Knox had no talent for management, and was frightfully -lazy besides; and Janet, little foreseeing what additional labour -she would bring on herself, took to remedy as far as she could the -shortcomings and confusion. Mrs. Knox saw her value, and actually -thanked her. As a reward, she made Janet her own attendant, her -secretary, and partly her housekeeper. Mrs. Knox's hair, coarse and -stiff, was rather difficult hair to manage; in the morning it was let go -anyhow, and Janet dressed it in the afternoon. Janet wrote Mrs. Knox's -letters; kept her accounts; paid the bills--paid them, that is, when she -could get the money. Janet, you perceive, was made Jack-of-all-trades at -Rose Villa. She was conscious that it was hardly fair, but she did it -cheerfully; and, as Mrs. Knox would say, it was all in the day's work. - -The only one who showed consideration for Miss Carey was Dr. Knox. He -lectured the children about giving her so much unnecessary trouble: he -bribed Dicky with lozenges and liquorice from the surgery drawers not to -kick or spit at her; and he was, himself, ever kind and considerate to -her. They only met at dinner and tea, for Dr. Knox snatched a scrambling -breakfast (the servants never got it ready for him in time), and went -off betimes to Lefford. Now and then he would come home tolerably early -in the evening, but he had a great deal to do, and it did not happen -often. Mr. Tamlyn was the parish doctor, and it gave Dr. Knox an -incessant round of tramping: for the less pleasant division of the daily -professional work was turned over to him. - -They got to have a fellow-feeling for one another--Janet and Dr. Knox--a -kind of mutual, inward sympathy. Both of them were overworked; in -the lot of each was less of comfort than might have been. Dr. Knox -compassionated Janet's hard place and the want of poetry in her life. -Janet felt hurt to see him made so little of at home, and she knew about -the house being his property, and the seventy-five pounds a-year he paid -for the liberty of living in it,--and she knew that most of the income -enjoyed by Mrs. Knox ought to have been Arnold's income. His breakfast -was scanty; a cup of coffee, taken standing, and some bread-and-butter, -hurriedly eaten. Or he would be off by cockcrow without chance of -breakfast, unless he cut a slice of bread in the pantry: or perhaps -would have to be out all night. Sometimes he would get home to dinner; -one o'clock; more often it was two o-clock, or half-past, or three. -In that case, Sally would bring in a plate of half-cold scraps for -him--anything that happened to be left. Once, when Janet was carving a -leg of mutton, she asked leave to cut off a slice or two that they might -be kept warm for the doctor; but Mrs. Knox blew her up--a fine trouble -_that_ would be! As to tea, the chances were, if he came in to it at -all, that the teapot would be drained: upon which, some lukewarm water -would be dashed in, and the loaf and butter put before him. Dr. Knox -took it all quietly: perhaps he saw how useless complaint would be. - -Mr. Tamlyn's was a large, handsome, red-brick house, standing in a -beautiful garden, in the best and widest street of Lefford. The surgery, -built on the side of the house, consisted of two rooms: one containing -the drugs and the scales, and so on; the other where the better class of -patients waited. Mr. Tamlyn's wife was dead, and he had one son, who was -a cripple. Poor Bertie was thrown down by his nurse when he was a child; -he had hardly ever been out of pain since; sometimes the attacks were -very bad. It made him more cross and fractious than a stranger would -believe; rude, in fact, and self-willed. Mr. Tamlyn just worshipped -Bertie. He only lived to one end--that of making money for Bertie, after -he, himself, should be gone. Miss Bessy, Mr. Tamlyn's half-sister, kept -his house, and she was the only one who tried to keep down Bertie's -temper. Lefford thought it odd that Mr. Tamlyn did not raise Dr. Knox's -salary: but it was known he wanted to put by what he could for Bertie. - -The afternoon sun streamed full on the surgery-window, and Dr. Knox, who -had just pelted back from dinner, stood behind the counter, making up -bottles of physic. Mr. Tamlyn had an apprentice, a young fellow named -Dockett, but he could not be trusted with the physic department yet, as -he was apt to serve out calomel powder for camomile flowers. Of the -three poor parish patients, waiting for their medicine, two sat and one -stood, as there was not a third chair. The doctor spoke very kindly to -them about their ailments; he always did that; but he did not seem well -himself, and often put his hand to his throat and chest. - -The physic and the parish patients done with, he went into the other -room, and threw himself into the easy-chair. "I wonder what's the matter -with me?" he said to himself: and then he got up again, for Mr. Tamlyn -was coming in. He was a short man with a grey face, and iron grey hair. - -"Arnold," said he, "I wish you'd take my round this afternoon. There are -only three or four people who need be seen, and the carriage is at the -door." - -"Is Bertie worse than usual?" asked Arnold; who knew that every -impediment in Mr. Tamlyn's way was caused by Bertie. - -"He is in a great deal of pain. I really don't care to leave him." - -"Oh, I'll go with pleasure," replied Arnold, passing into the surgery to -get his hat. - -Mr. Tamlyn walked with him across the flagged court to the gate, talking -of the sick people he was going to see. Arnold got into the brougham and -was driven away. When he returned, Mr. Tamlyn was upstairs in Bertie's -sitting-room. Arnold went there. - -"Anything more come in?" he asked. "Or can the brougham be put up?" - -"Dear me, yes; here's a note from Mrs. Stephenson," said Mr. Tamlyn, -replying to the first question. And he spoke testily: for Mrs. -Stephenson was a lady of seventy, who always insisted on his own -attendance, objecting to Dr. Knox on the score of his youth. "Well, you -must go for once, Arnold. If she grumbles, tell her I was out." - -On a sofa in the room lay Albert Tamlyn; a lad of sixteen with a fretful -countenance and rumpled hair. Miss Tamlyn, a pleasant-looking lady of -thirty-five, sat by the sofa at work. Arnold Knox went up to the boy, -speaking with the utmost gentleness. - -"Bertie, my boy, I am sorry you are in pain to-day." - -"Who said I was in pain?" retorted Bertie, ungraciously, his voice as -squeaky as a penny trumpet. - -"Why, Bertie, you know you are in great pain: it was I who told Dr. Knox -so," interposed the father. - -"Then you had no business to tell him so," shrieked Bertie, with a -hideous grin of resentment. "What is it to him?--or to you?--or to -anybody?" - -"Oh, Bertie, Bertie!" whispered Miss Tamlyn. "Oh, my boy, you should not -give way like this." - -"You just give your tongue a holiday, Aunt Bessy," fired Bertie. "I -can't be bothered by you all in this way." - -Dr. Knox, looking down at him, saw something wrong in the position he -was lying in. He stooped, lifted him quietly in his strong arms, and -altered it. - -"There, Bertie, you will be better now." - -"No, I'm not better, and why d'you interfere?" retorted Bertie in his -temper, and burst out crying. It was weary work, waiting on that lad; -the house had a daily benefit of it. He had always been given way to: -his whims were studied, his tempers went unreproved, and no patience was -taught him. - -Dr. Knox drove to Mrs. Stephenson's. He dismissed the carriage when he -came out; for he had some patients to see on his own score amongst the -poor, and went on to them. They were at tea at Mr. Tamlyn's when he got -back. He looked very ill, and sat down at once. - -"Are you tired, Arnold?" asked the surgeon. - -"Not very; but I feel out of sorts. My throat is rather painful." - -"What's the matter with it?" - -"Not much, I dare say. A little ulcerated perhaps." - -"I'll have a look at it presently. Bessy, give Dr. Knox a cup of tea." - -"Thank you, I shall be glad of it," interposed the doctor. It was not -often he took a meal in the house, not liking to intrude on them. When -he went up this evening he had thought tea was over. - -"We are later than usual," said Miss Tamlyn, in answer to some remark he -made. "Bertie dropped asleep." - -Bertie was awake, and eating relays of bread-and-butter as he lay, -speaking to no one. The handsome sitting-rooms downstairs were nearly -deserted: Mr. Tamlyn could not bear even to take his meals away from -Bertie. - -It was growing dusk when Dr. Knox went home. Mr. Tamlyn told him to take -a cooling draught and to go to bed early. Mrs. Knox was out for the -evening. Janet Carey sat at the old piano in the schoolroom, singing -songs to the children to keep them quiet. They were crowding round her, -and no one saw him enter the room. - -Janet happened to be singing the very song she sang later to us that -night at Miss Deveen's--"Blow, blow, thou wintry wind." Although she had -now been at Rose Villa nearly a twelvemonth, for early summer had come -round again, Dr. Knox had never heard her sing. Mrs. Knox hated singing -altogether, and especially despised Janet's: it was only when Janet was -alone with the children that she ventured on it, hoping to keep them -still. Arnold Knox sat in utter silence; entranced; just as we were at -Miss Deveen's. - -"You sing 'I've been roaming,' now," called out Dicky, before the song -was well over. - -"No, not that thing," dissented Mina. "Sing 'Pray, Goody,' Janet." They -had long since called her by her Christian name. - -The whole five (the other three taking sides), not being able to agree, -plunged at once into a hot dispute. Janet in vain tried to make peace by -saying she would sing both songs, one after the other: they did not -listen to her. In the midst of the noise, Sally looked in to say James -had caught a magpie; and the lot scampered off. - -Janet Carey heaved a sad sigh, and passed her hand over her weary brow. -She had had a tiring day: there were times when she thought her duties -would get beyond her. Rising to follow the rebellious flock, she caught -sight of Dr. Knox, seated back in the wide old cane chair. - -"Oh! I--I beg your pardon. I had no idea any one was here." - -He came forward smiling; Janet had sat down again in her surprise. - -"And though I am here? Why should you beg my pardon, Miss Carey?" - -"For singing before you. I did not know--I am very sorry." - -"Perhaps you fancy I don't like singing?" - -"Mine is such poor singing, sir. And the songs are so old. I can't play: -I often only play to them with one hand." - -"The singing is so poor--and the songs are so old, that I was going to -ask of you--to beg of you--to sing one of them again for me." - -She stood glancing up at him with her nice eyes, as shy as could be, -uncertain whether he was mocking her. - -"Do you know, Miss Carey, that I never ask a young lady for a song now. -I don't care to hear the new songs, they are so poor and frivolous: the -old ones are worth a king's ransom. _Won't_ you oblige me?" - -"What shall I sing?" - -"The one you have just sung. 'Blow, blow, thou wintry wind.'" - -He drew a chair close, and listened; and seemed lost in thought when it -was over. Janet could not conveniently get up without pushing the stool -against him, and so sat in silence. - -"My mother used to sing that song," he said, looking up. "I can recall -her every note as well as though I had heard her yesterday. 'As friends -remembering not'! Ay: it's a harsh world--and it grows more harsh and -selfish day by day. I don't think it treats _you_ any too well, Miss -Carey." - -"Me, sir?" - -"Who remembers you?" - -"Not many people. But I have never had any friends to speak of." - -"Will you give me another song? The one I heard Mina ask you for--'Pray, -Goody.' My mother used to sing that also." - -"I don't know whether I must stay. The children will be getting into -mischief." - -"Never mind the children. I'll take the responsibility." - -Janet sang the song. Before it was finished the flock came in again. -Dicky had tried to pull the magpie's feathers out, so James had let it -fly. - -After this evening, it somehow happened that Dr. Knox often came home -early, although his throat was well again. He liked to make Miss Carey -sing; and to talk to her; and to linger in the garden with her and the -children in the twilight. Mrs. Knox was rarely at home, and had no idea -how sociable her step-son was becoming. Lefford and its neighbourhood -followed the unfashionable custom of giving early soirees: tea at six, -supper at nine, at home by eleven. James used to go for his mistress; on -dark nights he took a lighted lantern. Mrs. Knox would arrive at home, -her gown well pinned up, and innocent of any treasonable lingerings -out-of-doors or in. It was beyond Janet's power to get Mina and Lotty to -bed one minute before they chose to go: though her orders from Mrs. Knox -on the point were strict. As soon as their mother's step was heard they -would make a rush for the stairs. Janet had to follow them, as that -formed part of her duty: and by the time Mrs. Knox was indoors, the -rooms were free, and Arnold was shut up in his study with his medical -books and a skeleton. - -For any treason that met the eye or the ear, Mrs. Knox might have -assisted at all the interviews. The children might have repeated every -word said to one another by the doctor and Janet, and welcome. The -talk was all legitimate: of their own individual, ordinary interests, -perhaps; of their lost parents; their past lives; the present daily -doings; or, as the Vicar of Wakefield has it, of pictures, taste, -Shakespeare, and the musical glasses. Dr. Knox never said such a thing -to her as, miss, I am in love with you; Janet was the essence of -respectful shyness, and called him sir. - -One evening something or other caused one of the soirees to break up -midway, and Mrs. Knox came home by twilight in her pink gauze gown. -Instead of ringing at the front-door, she came round the garden to the -lawn, knowing quite well the elder children were not gone to bed, and -would probably be in the garden-room. Very softly went she, intending to -surprise them. The moon shone full on the glass-doors. - -The doors were shut. And she could see no children. Only Janet Carey -sitting at the piano, and Dr. Knox sitting close by her, his eyes -resting on her face, and an unmistakable look of--say friendship--in -them. Mrs. Knox took in the whole scene by the light of the one candle -standing on the table. - -She let go the pink skirt and burst open the doors. Imagination is apt -to conjure up skeletons of the future; a whole army of skeletons rushed -into hers, any one of them ten times more ugly than that real skeleton -in the doctor's study. A vision of his marrying Janet and taking -possession of the house, and wanting all his money for himself instead -of paying the family bills with it, was the worst. - -Before a great and real dread, passion has to be silent. Mrs. Knox felt -that she should very much like to buffet both of them with hands and -tongue: but policy restrained her. - -"Where are the children?" she began, as snappish as a fox; but that was -only usual. - -Janet had turned round on the music-stool; her meek hands dropping on -her lap, her face turning all the colours of the rainbow. Dr. Knox just -sat back in his chair and carelessly hummed to himself the tune Janet -had been singing. - -"Mina and Lotty are at Mrs. Hampshire's, ma'am," answered Janet. "She -came to fetch them just after you left, and said I might send in for -them at half-past nine. The little ones are in bed." - -"Oh," said Mrs. Knox. "It's rather early for you to be at home; is it -not, Arnold?" - -"Not particularly, I think. My time for coming home is always uncertain, -you know." - -He rose, and went to his room as he spoke. Janet got out the basket of -stockings; and Mrs. Knox sat buried in a brown study. - -After this evening things grew bad for Miss Carey. Mrs. Knox watched. -She noted her step-son's manner to Janet, and saw that he liked her ever -so much more than was expedient. What to do, or how to stop it, she did -not know, and was at her wits' end. To begin with, there was nothing to -stop. Had she put together a whole week's looks and words of Arnold's, -directed to Janet, she could not have squeezed one decent iota of -complaint out of the whole. Neither dared she risk offending Arnold. -What with the perpetual soirees out, and the general daily improvidence -at home, Mrs. Knox was never in funds, and Arnold found oceans of -household bills coming in to him. Tradesmen were beginning, as a rule -now, to address their accounts to Dr. Knox. Arnold paid them; he was -good-natured, and sensitively averse to complaining to his step-mother; -but he thought it was hardly fair. What on earth she did with her income -he could not imagine: rather than live in this chronic state of begging, -she might have laid down the pony-carriage. - -Not being able to attack the doctor, Mrs. Knox vented all her venom on -Miss Carey. Janet was the dray horse of the family, and therefore could -not be turned away: she was too useful to Mrs. Knox to be parted with. -Real venom it was; and hard to be borne. Her work grew harder, and she -was snubbed from morning till night. The children's insolence to her was -not reproved; Mina took to ordering her about. Weary and heart-sick grew -she: her life was no better than Cinderella's: the only ray of comfort -in it being the rare snatches of intercourse with Dr. Knox. He was like -a true friend to her, and ever kind. He might have been kinder had -he known what sort of a life she really led. But Mrs. Knox was a -diplomatist, and the young fry did not dare to worry people very much, -or to call names before their big brother Arnold. - - -II. - -"Has Dr. Knox come in, Mr. Dockett?" - -Mr. Dockett, lounging over the counter to tease the dog, brought himself -straight with a jerk, and faced his master, Mr. Tamlyn. - -"Not yet, sir." - -"When he comes in, ask him if he'll be so kind as step to me in the -dining-room." - -Mr. Tamlyn shut the surgery-door, and the apprentice whistled to the -dog, which had made its escape. Presently Dr. Knox came across the -court-yard and received the message. - -"Mr. Tamlyn wants you, sir, please. He is in the dining-room." - -"Have you nothing to do, Dockett? Just set on and clean those scales." - -The dining-room looked out on the garden and on the playing fountain. It -was one of the prettiest rooms in Lefford; with white-and-gold papered -walls, and mirrors, and a new carpet. Mr. Tamlyn liked to have things -nice at home, and screwed the money out of the capital put by for -Bertie. He sat at the table before some account-books. - -"Sit down, Arnold," he said, taking off his spectacles. "I have some -news for you: I hope it won't put you out too much." - -It did put Dr. Knox out very considerably, and it surprised him -even more. For some time past now he had been cherishing a private -expectation that Mr. Tamlyn would be taking him into partnership, giving -him probably a small share only at first. Of all things it seemed the -most likely to Dr. Knox: and, wanting in self-assertion though he was, -it seemed to him that it would be a _right_ thing to do. Mr. Tamlyn -had no one to succeed him: and all the best part of his practice was -formerly Mr. Knox's. Had Arnold only been a little older when his father -died, he should have succeeded to it himself: there would have been -little chance of Mr. Tamlyn's getting any of it. In justice, then, if -Mr. Tamlyn now, or later, took a partner at all, it ought to be Arnold. -But for looking forward to this, Dr. Knox had never stayed on all this -time at the paltry salary paid him, and worked himself nearly to a -skeleton. As old Tamlyn talked, he listened as one in a dream, and he -learnt that his own day-dream was over. - -Old Tamlyn was about to take a partner: some gentleman from London, a -Mr. Shuttleworth. Mr. Shuttleworth was seeking a country practice, and -would bring in three thousand pounds. Arnold's services would only be -required to the end of the year, as Mr. Shuttleworth would join on the -first of January. - -"There won't be room for three of us, Arnold--and Dockett will be coming -on," said Mr. Tamlyn. "Besides, at your age, and with your talents, you -ought to be doing something better for yourself. Don't you see that you -ought?" - -"I have seen it for some time. But--the truth is," added Arnold, "though -I hardly like to own to it now, I have been cherishing a hope of this -kind for myself. I thought, Mr. Tamlyn, you might some time offer it to -me." - -"And so I would, Arnold, and there's no one I should like to take as -partner half so well as yourself, but you have not the necessary funds," -said the surgeon with eagerness. "I see what you are thinking, -Arnold--that I might have taken you without premium: but I must think of -my poor boy. Shuttleworth brings in three thousand: I would have taken -you with two." - -"I could not bring in two hundred, let alone two thousand," said Dr. -Knox. - -"There's where it is. To tell you the truth, Arnold, I am getting tired -of work; don't seem so much up to it as I was. Whoever comes in will -have to do more even than you have done, and of course will expect to -take at least a half-share of the yearly profits. I should not put by -much then: I could not alter my style of living, you know, or put down -the carriages and horses, or anything of that sort: and I must save for -poor Bertie. A sum of three thousand pounds means three thousand to me." - -"Are the arrangements fully made?" asked Dr. Knox. - -"Yes. Mr. Shuttleworth came down to Lefford yesterday, and has been -going into the books with me this morning. And, by the way, Arnold, I -hope you will meet him here at dinner to-night. I should not a bit -wonder, either, but he might tell you of some opening for yourself: he -seems to know most of the chief medical men in London. He is selling a -good practice of his own. It is his health that obliges him to come to -the country." - -"I hope you will suit one another," said Dr. Knox; for he knew that it -was not every one who could get on with fidgety old Tamlyn. - -"We are to give it a six months' trial," said Tamlyn. "He would not bind -himself without that. At the end of the six months, if both parties are -not satisfied, we cancel the agreement: he withdraws his money, and I am -at liberty to take a fresh partner. For that half-year's services he -will receive his half-share of profits: which of course is only fair. -You see I tell you all, Arnold." - -Dr. Knox dined with them, and found the new man a very pleasant fellow, -but quite as old as Tamlyn. He could not help wondering how he would -relish the parish work, and said so in a whisper to Mr. Tamlyn while -Shuttleworth was talking to Bertie. - -"Oh, he thinks it will be exercise for him," replied the surgeon. "And -Dockett will be coming on, you know." - -It was a dark night, the beginning of November, wet and splashy. Mrs. -Knox had a soiree at Rose Villa; and when the doctor reached home he -met the company coming forth with cloaks and lanterns and clogs. - -"Oh, it's you, Arnold, is it!" cried Mrs. Knox. "Could you not have come -home for my evening? Two of the whist-tables had to play dummy: we had -some disappointments." - -"I stayed to dine with Mr. Tamlyn," said Arnold. - -Sitting together over the fire, he and she alone, Mrs. Knox asked him -whether he would not give her a hundred pounds a-year for his board, -instead of seventy-five. Which was uncommonly cool, considering what he -paid for her besides in housekeeping bills. Upon which, Arnold told her -he should not be with her beyond the close of the year: he was going to -leave Lefford. For a minute, it struck her dumb. - -"Good Heavens, Arnold, how am I to keep the house on without your help? -I must say you have no consideration. Leave Lefford!" - -"Mr. Tamlyn has given me notice," replied Arnold. "He is taking a -partner." - -"But--I just ask you--how am I to pay my way?" - -"It seems to me that your income is quite sufficient for that, mother. -If not--perhaps--if I may suggest it--you might put down the -pony-chaise." - -Mrs. Knox shrieked out that he was a cruel man. Arnold, who never cared -to stand scenes, lighted his candle and went up to bed. - -Shuttleworth had taken rather a fancy to Dr. Knox; perhaps he -remembered, too, that he was turning him adrift. Anyway, he bestirred -himself, and got him appointed to a medical post in London, where Arnold -would receive two hundred a-year, and his board. - -"I presume you know that I am about to run away, Miss Carey," said Dr. -Knox, hastening up to join her one Sunday evening when they were coming -out of church at Lefford. - -"As if every one did not know that!" cried Mina. "Where's mamma, Arnold? -and Lotty?" - -"They are behind, talking to the Parkers." - -The Parkers were great friends of Mina's, so she ran back. The doctor -and Janet walked slowly on. - -"You will be glad to leave, sir," said Janet, in her humble fashion. -"Things have not been very comfortable for you at home--and I hear you -are taking a much better post." - -"I shall be sorry to leave for one thing--that is, because I fear things -may be more uncomfortable for you," he spoke out bravely. "What Rose -Villa will be when all restraint is taken from the children, and with -other undesirable things, I don't like to imagine." - -"I shall do very well," said Janet, meekly. - -"I wonder you put up with it," he exclaimed. "You might be ten thousand -times better and happier elsewhere." - -"But I fear to change: I have no one to recommend me or to look out for -me, you know." - -"There's that lady I've heard you speak of--your aunt, Miss Cattledon." - -"I could not think of troubling her. My mother's family do not care to -take much notice of me. They thought my father was not my mother's equal -in point of family, and when she married him, they turned her off, as it -were. No, sir, I have only myself to look to." - -"A great many of us are in the same case," he said. "Myself, for -instance. I have been indulging I don't know what day-dreams for some -time past: one of them that Mr. Tamlyn would give me a share in his -practice: and--and there were others to follow in due course. Vain -dreams all, and knocked on the head now." - -"You will be sure to get on," said Janet. - -"Do you think so?" he asked very softly, looking down into Janet's nice -eyes by the gaslight in the road. - -"At least, I hope you will." - -"Well, I shall try for it." - -"Arnold!--come back, Arnold; I want you to give me your arm up the -hill," called out Mrs. Knox. - -Dr. Knox had to enter on his new situation at quarter-day, the -twenty-fifth of December; so he went up to London on Christmas-Eve. -Which was no end of a blow to old Tamlyn, as it left all the work on his -own shoulders for a week. - - -III. - -From two to three months passed on. One windy March day, Mrs. Knox sat -alone in the garden-room, worrying over her money matters. The table, -drawn near the fire, was strewed with bills and tradesmen's books; the -sun shone on the closed glass-doors. - -Mrs. Knox's affairs had been getting into an extremely hopeless -condition. It seemed, by the accumulation of present debts, that -Arnold's money must have paid for everything. Her own income, which came -in quarterly, appeared to dwindle away, she knew not how or where. A -piteous appeal had gone up a week ago to Arnold, saying she should be in -prison unless he assisted her, for the creditors were threatening to -take steps. Arnold's answer, delivered this morning, was a fifty-pound -note enclosed in a very plain letter. It had inconvenienced him to send -the money, he said, and he begged her fully to understand that it was -the _last_ he should ever send. - -So there sat Mrs. Knox before the table in an old dressing-gown, and her -black hair more dishevelled than a mop. The bills, oceans of them, and -the fifty-pound note lay in a heap together. Master Dicky had been -cutting animals out of a picture-book, leaving the scraps on the cloth -and the old carpet. Lotty had distributed there a few sets of dolls' -clothes. Gerty had been tearing up a newspaper for a kite-tail. The -fifty pounds would pay about a third of the debts, and Mrs. Knox was -trying to apportion a sum to each of them accordingly. - -It bothered her finely, for she was no accountant. She could manage -to add up without making very many mistakes; but when it came to -subtraction, her brain went into a hopeless maze. Janet might have -done it, but Mrs. Knox was furious with Janet and would not ask her. -Ill-treated, over-worked, Janet had plucked up courage to give notice, -and was looking out for a situation in Lefford. Just now, Janet was in -the kitchen, ironing Dick's frilled collars. - -"Take fifty-three from fourteen, and how much _does_ remain?" groaned -Mrs. Knox over the shillings. At that moment there was a sound of -carriage-wheels, and a tremendous ring at the door. Sally darted in. - -"Oh, ma'am, it's my Lady Jenkins! I knew her carriage at a distance. It -have got red wheels!" - -"Oh, my goodness!" cried Mrs. Knox, starting up. "Don't open the door -yet, Sally: let me get upstairs first. Her ladyship's come to take me a -drive, I suppose. Go and call Miss Carey--or stay, I'll go to her." - -Mrs. Knox opened one of the glass-doors, and whisked round to the -kitchen. She bade Janet leave the ironing and go to do her books and -bills: hastily explaining that she wanted to know how far fifty pounds -would go towards paying a fair proportion off each debt. Janet was to -make it all out in figures. - -"Be sure and take care of the note--I've left it somewhere," called back -Mrs. Knox as she escaped to the stairs in hurry and confusion; for my -Lady Jenkins's footman was working both bell and knocker alarmingly. - -Janet only half comprehended. She went round to the garden-room, shut -the glass-doors, and began upon the bills and books. But first of all, -she looked out for the letters that were lying about, never supposing -that the special charge had reference to anything else: at least, she -said so afterwards: and put them inside Mrs. Knox's desk. From first to -last, then and later, Janet Carey maintained that she did not see any -bank-note. - - * * * * * - -Mrs. Knox dressed herself with Sally's help, and went out with my Lady -Jenkins--the ex-Mayor of Lefford's wife. The bills and the calculations -made a long job, and Janet's mind was buried in it, when a startling -disturbance suddenly arose in the garden: Dicky had climbed into the -mulberry-tree and fallen out of it. The girls came, dashing open the -glass-doors, saying he was _dead_. Janet ran out, herself nearly -frightened to death. - -Very true. If Dicky was not dead, he looked like it. He lay white and -cold under the tree, blood trickling down his face. James galloped off -for Mr. Tamlyn. The two maids and Janet carried Dicky into the kitchen, -and put him on the ironing-board, with his head on an old cushion. That -revived him; and when Mr. Shuttleworth arrived, for Tamlyn was out, -Dicky was demanding bread-and-treacle. Shuttleworth put some diachylon -plaster on his head, ordered him to bed, and told him not to get into -trees again. - -Their fears relieved, the maids had time to remember common affairs. -Sally found all the sitting-room fires out, and hastened to light them. -As soon as Janet could leave Dicky, who had persisted in going to bed in -his boots, she went back to the accounts. Mrs. Knox came in before they -were done. She blew up Janet for not being quicker, and when she had -recovered the shock of Dicky's accident, she blew her up for that. - -"Where's the note?" she snapped. - -"What note, ma'am?" asked Janet. - -"The bank-note. The bank-note for fifty pounds that I told you to take -care of." - -"I have not seen any bank-note," said Janet. - -Well, that began the trouble. The bank-note was searched for, and there -was neither sign nor symptom of it to be found. Mrs. Knox accused Janet -Carey of stealing it, and called in a policeman. Mrs. Knox made her tale -good to the man, representing Janet as a very black girl indeed; but the -man said he could not take her into custody unless Mrs. Knox would -charge her formally with the theft. - -And that, Mrs. Knox hesitated to do. She told the policeman she would -take until the morrow to consider of it. The whole of that evening, the -whole of the night, the whole of the next morning till midday, Janet -spent searching the garden-room. At midday the policeman appeared again, -and Janet went into a sort of fit. - -When Mr. Shuttleworth was sent for to her, he said it was caused by -fright, and that she had received a shock to the nervous system. For -some days she was delirious, on and off; and when she could escape -Sally's notice, who waited on her, they'd find her down in the -garden-room, searching for the note, just as we afterwards saw her -searching for it in her sleep at Miss Deveen's. It chanced that the two -rooms resembled each other remarkably: in their situation in the houses, -in their shape and size and building arrangements, and in their opening -by glass-doors to the garden. Janet subsided into a sort of wasting -fever; and Mrs. Knox thought it time to send for Miss Cattledon. The -criminal proceedings might wait, she told Janet: like the heartless -woman that she was! Not but that the loss of the money had thrown her -flat on her beam-ends. - -Miss Cattledon came. Janet solemnly declared, not only that she had not -the bank-note, but that she had never seen the note: never at all. Mrs. -Knox said no one but Janet could have taken it, and but for her illness, -she would be already in prison. Miss Cattledon told Mrs. Knox she ought -to be ashamed of herself for suspecting Janet Carey, and took Janet off -by train to Miss Deveen's. Janet arrived there in a shivering-fit, fully -persuaded that the Lefford policemen were following her by the orders of -Mrs. Knox. - -And for the result of it all we must go on to the next paper. - - - - -DR. KNOX. - - - "MY DEAR ARNOLD, - - "Come down to Lefford without delay if you can: I want to see you - particularly. I am in a peck of trouble. - - "Ever your friend, - "RICHARD TAMLYN." - -The above letter reached Dr. Knox in London one morning in April. He -made it right with the authorities to whom he was subject, and reached -Lefford the same afternoon. - -Leaving his bag at the station, he went straight to Mr. Tamlyn's house; -every other person he met halting to shake hands with him. Entering the -iron gates, he looked up at the windows, but saw no one. The sun shone -on the pillared portico, the drawing-room blinds beside it were down. -Dr. Knox crossed the flagged courtyard, and passed off to enter by the -route most familiar to him, the surgery, trodden by him so often in the -days not long gone by. Mr. Dockett stood behind the counter, compounding -medicines, with his coat-cuffs and wristbands turned up. - -"Well, I never!" exclaimed the young gentleman, dropping a bottle in his -astonishment as he stared at Dr. Knox. "You are about the last person I -should have expected to see, sir." - -By which remark the doctor found that Mr. Tamlyn had not taken his -apprentice into his confidence. "Are you all well here?" he asked, -shaking hands. - -"All as jolly as circumstances will let us be," said Mr. Dockett. "Young -Bertie has taken a turn for the worse." - -"Has he? I am sorry to hear that. Is Mr. Tamlyn at home? If so, I'll in -and see him." - -"Oh, he's at home," was the answer. "He has hardly stirred out-of-doors -for a week, and Shuttleworth says he's done to death with the work." - -Going in as readily as though he had not left the house for a day, Dr. -Knox found Mr. Tamlyn in the dining-room: the pretty room that looked -to the garden and the fountain. He was sitting by the fire, his hand -rumpling his grey hair: a sure sign that he was in some bother or -tribulation. In the not quite four months that had passed since Dr. Knox -left him, he had changed considerably: his hair was greyer, his face -thinner. - -"Is it you, Arnold? I am glad. I thought you'd come if you could." - -Dr. Knox drew a chair near the fire, and sat down. "Your letter gave me -concern," he said. "And what do you mean by talking about a peck of -trouble?" - -"A peck of trouble!" echoed Mr. Tamlyn. "I might have said a bushel. I -might have said a ton. There's trouble on all sides, Arnold." - -"Can I help you out of it in any way?" - -"With some of it, I hope you can: it's why I sent for you. But not with -all: not with the worst. Bertie's dying, Arnold." - -"I hope not!" - -"As truly as that we are here talking to one another, I believe him to -be literally dying," repeated the surgeon, solemnly, his eyes filling -and his voice quivering with pain. "He has dropped asleep, and Bessy -sent me out of the room: my sighs wake him, she says. I can't help -sighing, Arnold: and sometimes the sigh ends with a groan, and I can't -help that." - -Dr. Knox didn't see his way clear to making much answer just here. - -"I've detected the change in him for a month past; in my inward heart I -felt sure he could not live. Do you know what your father used to say, -Arnold? He always said that if Bertie lived over his sixteenth or -seventeenth year, he'd do; but the battle would be just about that time. -Heaven knows, I attached no importance to the opinion: I have hardly -thought of it: but he was right, you see. Bertie would be seventeen next -July, if he were to live." - -"I'm sure I am very grieved to hear this--and to see your sorrow," spoke -Arnold. - -"He is _so_ changed!" resumed Mr. Tamlyn, in a low voice. "You remember -how irritable he was, poor fellow?--well, all that has gone, and he is -like an angel. So afraid of giving trouble; so humble and considerate to -every one! It was this change that first alarmed me." - -"When did it come on?" - -"Oh, weeks ago. Long before there was much change for the worse -to be _seen_ in him. Only this morning he held my hand, poor lad, -and--and----" Mr. Tamlyn faltered, coughed, and then went on again more -bravely. "He held my hand between his, Arnold, and said he thought God -had forgiven him, and how happy it would all be when we met in heaven. -For a long while now not a day has passed but he has asked us to -forgive him for his wicked tempers--that's his word for it, wicked--the -servants, and all." - -"Is he in much pain?" - -"Not much now. He has been in a great deal at times. But it made no -difference, pain or no pain, to his sweetness of temper. He will lie -resigned and quiet, the drops pouring down his face with the agony, -never an impatient word escaping him. One day I heard him tell Bessy -that angels were around him, helping him to bear it. We may be sure, -Arnold, when so extraordinary a change as that takes place in the -temperament, the close of life is not far off." - -"Very true--as an ordinary rule," acquiesced Dr. Knox. "And now, how can -I help you in this trouble?" - -"In this trouble?--not at all," returned Mr. Tamlyn, rousing himself, -and speaking energetically, as if he meant to put the thought behind -him. "_This_ trouble no earthly being can aid me in, Arnold; and I don't -think there's any one but yourself I'd speak to of it: it lies too deep, -you see; it wrings the soul. I could die of this trouble: I only fret at -the other." - -"And what is the other?" - -"Shuttleworth won't stay." - -"Won't he!" - -"Shuttleworth says the kind of practice is not what he has been -accustomed to, and the work's too hard, and he does not care how soon he -leaves it. And yet Dockett has come on surprisingly, and takes his share -now. The fact is, Arnold, Shuttleworth is just as lazy as he can hang -together: he'd like to treat a dozen rose-water patients a-day, and go -through life easily. My belief is, he means to do it." - -"But that will scarcely bring grist to his mill, will it?" cried Dr. -Knox. - -"His mill doesn't want grist; there's the worst of it," said Tamlyn. -"The man was not badly off when he came here: but since then his only -brother must go and die, and Shuttleworth has come into all his money. -A thousand a-year, if it's a penny." - -"Then, I certainly don't wonder at his wanting to give up the practice," -returned the doctor, with a smile. - -"That's not all," grumbled old Tamlyn. "He wants to take away Bessy." - -"To take away Bessy!" - -"The two have determined to make themselves into one, I believe. Bessy -only hesitated because of leaving poor Bertie. That impediment will not -be in her way long." - -He sighed as he spoke. Dr. Knox did not yet see what he was wanted for: -and asked again. - -"I've been leading up to it," said Mr. Tamlyn. "You must come back to -me, Arnold." - -"On the same terms as before?" inquired the doctor, after a pause. - -"Nonsense. You'd say 'No,' off-hand, if I proposed _them_. In -Shuttleworth's place." - -"Of course, Mr. Tamlyn, I could not come--I would not come unless it -were made worth my while. If it were, I should like it of all things." - -"Yes, just so; that's what I mean. Don't you like your post in London?" - -"I like it very well, indeed. And I have had no doubt that it will lead -to something better. But, if I saw a fair prospect before me here, I -should prefer to come back to Lefford." - -"_That_ shall be made fair enough. Things have changed with me, Arnold: -and I shouldn't wonder but you will some time, perhaps not very far -distant, have all my practice in your own hands. I feel to be getting -old: spirits and health are alike broken." - -"Nay, not old yet, Mr. Tamlyn. You may wait a good twenty years for -that." - -"Well, well, we'll talk further at another interview. My mind's at rest -now, and that's a great thing. If you had refused, Arnold, I should have -sold my practice for an old song, and gone clean away: I never could -have stood being associated with another stranger. You are going up -home, I conclude. Will you come in this evening?" - -"Very well," said Dr. Knox, rising. "Can I go up and see Bertie?" - -"Not now; I'd not have him awakened for the world; and I assure you the -turning of a straw seems to do it. You shall see him this evening: he is -always awake and restless then." - -Calling for his bag at the station, Dr. Knox went on to Rose Villa. They -were at tea. The children rose up with a shout: his step-mother looked -as though she could not believe her eyesight. - -"Why, Arnold! Have you come home to stay?" - -"Only for a day or two," he answered. "I thought I should surprise you, -but I had not time to write." - -Shaking hands with her, kissing the children, he turned to some one -else, who was seated at the tea-table and had not stirred. His hand was -already out, when she turned her head, and he drew back his hand and -himself together. - -"Miss Mack, my new governess," spoke Mrs. Knox. - -"I beg your pardon," said Dr. Knox to Miss Mack, who turned out to be -a young person in green, with stout legs and slippers down at heel. "I -thought it was Miss Carey," he added to his step-mother. "Where is Miss -Carey?" - -Which of the company, Miss Mack excepted, talked the fastest, and which -the loudest, could not have been decided though a thousand-pound wager -rested on it. It was a dreadful tale to tell. Janet Carey had turned out -to be a thief; Janet Carey had gone out of her mind nearly with fever -and fear when she knew she was to be taken to prison and tried: tried -for stealing the money; and Janet's aunt had come down and carried her -away out of the reach of the policemen. Dr. Knox gazed and listened, and -felt his blood turning cold with righteous horror. - -"Be silent," he sternly said. "There must have been some strange -mistake. Miss Carey was good and upright as the day." - -"She stole my fifty pounds," said Mrs. Knox. - -"_What?_" - -"She stole my fifty-pound note. It was the one you sent me, Arnold." - -His face reddened a little. "That note? Well, I do not know the -circumstances that led you to accuse Miss Carey; but I know they were -mistaken ones. I will answer for Janet Carey with my life." - -"She took that note; it could not have gone in any other manner," -steadily persisted Mrs. Knox. "You'll say so yourself, Arnold, when you -know all. The commotion it has caused in the place, and the worry it has -caused me are beyond everything. Every day some tradesman or other comes -here to ask whether the money has been replaced--for of course they know -I can't pay them under such a loss, until it is; and I must say they -have behaved very well. I never liked Janet Carey. Deceitful minx!" - -With so many talking together, Dr. Knox did not gather a very clear -account of the details. Mrs. Knox mixed up surmises with facts in a -manner to render the whole incomprehensible. He said no more then. -Later, Mrs. Knox saw that he was preparing to go out. She resented it. - -"I think, Arnold, you might have passed this one evening at home: I want -to have a talk with you about money matters. What I am to do is more -than I know, unless Janet Carey or her friends can be made to return the -money." - -"I am going down to Tamlyn's, to see Bertie." - -Dr. Knox let himself out at the street-door, and was walking down the -garden-path, when he found somebody come flying past. It was Sally the -housemaid, on her way to open the gate for him. Such an act of attention -was unusual and quite unnecessary; the doctor thanked her, but told her -she need not have taken the trouble. - -"I--I thought I'd like to ask you, sir, how that--that poor Miss Carey -is," said Sally, in a whisper, as she held the gate back, and her breath -was so short as to hinder her words. "It was London she was took to, -sir; and, as you live in the same town, I've wondered whether you might -not have come across her." - -"London is a large place," observed Dr. Knox. "I did not even know Miss -Carey was there." - -"It was a dreadful thing, sir, poor young lady. Everybody so harsh, too, -over it. And I--I--I _can't_ believe but she was innocent." - -"It is simply an insult on Miss Carey to suppose otherwise," said Dr. -Knox. "Are you well, Sally? What's the matter with your breath?" - -"Oh, it's nothing but a stitch that takes me, thank you, sir," returned -Sally, as she shut the gate after him and flew back again. - -But Dr. Knox saw it was no "stitch" that had stopped Sally's breath and -checked her utterance, but genuine agitation. It set him thinking. - - * * * * * - -No longer any sitting up for poor Bertie Tamlyn in this world! It was -about eight o'clock when Dr. Knox entered the sick-chamber. Bertie lay -in bed; his arms thrown outside the counterpane beside him, as though -they were too warm. The fire gave out its heat; two lamps were burning, -one on the mantelpiece, one on the drawers at the far end of the room. -Bertie had always liked a great deal of light, and he liked it still. -Miss Tamlyn met Dr. Knox at the door, and silently shook hands with him. - -Bertie's wide-open eyes turned to look, and the doctor approached the -bed; but he halted for one imperceptible moment in his course. When Mr. -Tamlyn had said Bertie was dying, Arnold Knox had assumed it to mean, -not that he was actually dying at that present time, but that he would -not recover! But as he gazed at Bertie now in the bright light, he -saw something in the face that his experienced medical eye could not -mistake. - -He took the wasted, fevered hand in his, and laid his soothing fingers -on the damp brow. Miss Tamlyn went away for a minute's respite from the -sick-room. - -"Bertie, my boy!" - -"Why didn't you come before, Arnold?" was the low, weak answer; and the -breath was laboured and the voice down nowhere. "I have wanted you. Aunt -Bessy would not write; and papa thought you would not care to come down -from London, just for me." - -"But I would, Bertie--had I known you were as ill as this." - -Bertie's hands were restless. The white quilt had knots in it as big as -peas, and he was picking at them. Dr. Knox sat down by the low bed. - -"Do you think I am dying?" suddenly asked Bertie. - -It took the doctor by surprise. One does not always know how to answer -such home questions. - -"I'll tell you more about it when I've seen you by daylight, Bertie. Are -you in any pain?" - -"Not a bit now: that's gone. But I'm weak, and I can't stir about -in bed, and--and--they all look at me so. This morning papa and -Shuttleworth brought in Dr. Green. Any way, you must know that I shall -not get to be as well as I used to be." - -"What with one ailment and another, with care, and pain, and sorrow, and -wrong, it seems to me, Bertie, that very few of us are well for long -together. There's always something in this world: it is only when we go -to the next that we can hope for rest and peace." - -Bertie lifted his restless hands and caught one of Dr. Knox's between -them. He had a yearning, imploring look that quite pained the doctor. - -"I want you to forgive me, Arnold," he said, the tears running down. -"When I remember how wicked I was, my heart just faints with shame. -Calling all of you hideous names!--returning bitter words for kind ones. -When we are going to die the past comes back to us. Such a little while -it seems to have been now, Arnold! Why, if I had endured ten times as -much pain, it would be over now. You were all so gentle and patient with -me, and I never cared what trouble I gave, or what ill words I returned. -And now the time is gone! Arnold, I want you to forgive me." - -"My dear boy, there's nothing to forgive. If you think there is, why -then I forgive you with all my heart." - -"Will God ever forgive me, do you think?" - -"Oh, my boy, yes," said the doctor, in a husky tone. "If we, poor -sinful mortals, can forgive one another, how much more readily will He -forgive--the good Father in heaven of us all!" - -Bertie sighed. "It would have been so easy for me to have tried for a -little patience! Instead of that, I took pleasure in being cross and -obstinate and wicked! If the time would but come over again! Arnold, do -you think we shall be able to do one another good in the next world?--or -will the opportunity be lost with this?" - -"Ah, Bertie, I cannot tell," said Dr. Knox. "Sometimes I think that just -because so few of us make use of our opportunities here, God will, -perhaps, give us a chance once again. I have not been at very many -death-beds yet, but of some of those the recollection of opportunities -wasted has made the chief sting. It is only when life is closing that we -see what we might have been, what we might have done." - -"Perhaps He'll remember what my pain has been, Arnold, and how hard it -was to bear. I was not like other boys. They can run, and climb, and -leap, and ride on horseback, and do anything. When I've gone out, it has -been in a hand-carriage, you know; and I've had to lie and lie on the -sofa, and just look up at the blue sky, or on the street that tired me -so: or else in bed, where it was worse, and always hot. I hope He will -recollect how hard it was for me." - -"He saw how hard it was for you at the time, Bertie; saw it always." - -"And Jesus Christ forgave all who went to Him, you know, Arnold; every -one; just for the asking." - -"Why, yes, of course He did. As He does now." - -Mr. Tamlyn came into the room presently: he had been out to a patient. -Seeing that Bertie was half asleep, he and Dr. Knox stood talking -together on the hearthrug. - -"What's that?" cried the surgeon, suddenly catching sight of the -movement of the restless fingers picking at the counterpane. - -Dr. Knox did not answer. - -"A trick he always had," said the surgeon, breaking the silence, and -trying to make believe to cheat himself still. "The maids say he wears -out all his quilts." - -Bertie opened his eyes. "Is that you, papa? Is tea over?" - -"Why, yes, my boy; two or three hours ago," said the father, going -forward. "Why? Do you wish for some tea?" - -"Oh, I--I thought Arnold would have liked some." - -He closed his eyes again directly. Dr. Knox took leave in silence, -promising to be there again in the morning. As he was passing the -dining-room downstairs, he saw Mr. Shuttleworth, who had just looked in. -They shook hands, began to chat, and Dr. Knox sat down. - -"I hear you do not like Lefford," he said. - -"I don't dislike Lefford: it's a pretty and healthy place," was Mr. -Shuttleworth's answer. "What I dislike is my position in it as Tamlyn's -partner. The practice won't do for me." - -"A doubt lay on my mind whether it would suit you when you came down to -make the engagement," said Dr. Knox. "Parish work is not to every one's -taste. And there's a great deal of practice besides. But the returns -from that must be good." - -"I wouldn't stay in it if it were worth a million a-year," cried Mr. -Shuttleworth. "Dockett takes the parish; I make him; but he is not up to -much yet, and of course I feel that I am responsible. As to the town -practice, why, I assure you nearly all of it has lain on me. Tamlyn, -poor fellow, can think of nothing but his boy." - -"He will not have him here long to think of, I fear." - -"Not very long; no. I hear, doctor, he is going to offer a partnership -to you." - -"He has said something about it. I shall take it, if he does. Lefford is -my native place, and I would rather live here than anywhere. Besides, I -don't mind work," he added, with a smile. - -"Ah, you are younger than I am. But I'd advise you, as I have advised -Tamlyn, to give up the parish. For goodness' sake do, Knox. Tamlyn -says that at one time he had not much else _but_ the parish, but it's -different now. Your father had all the better practice then." - -"Shall you set up elsewhere?" - -"Not at present," said Mr. Shuttleworth. "We--I--perhaps you have heard, -though--that I and Bessy are going to make a match of it? We shall -travel for a few months, or so, and then come home and pitch our tent in -some pleasant sea-side place. If a little easy practice drops in to me -there, well and good: if not, we can do without it. Stay and smoke a -cigar with me?" - -Arnold looked at his watch, and sat down again. He wanted to ask Mr. -Shuttleworth about Miss Carey's illness. - -"The cause of her illness was the loss of that bank-note," said the -surgeon. "They accused her of stealing it, and wanted to give her into -custody. A little more, and she'd have had brain-fever. She was a timid, -inexperienced girl, and the fright gave her system a shock." - -"Miss Carey would no more steal a bank-note than you or I would steal -one, Shuttleworth." - -"Not she. I told Mrs. Knox so: but she scoffed at me." - -"That Miss Carey is innocent as the day, that she is an upright, gentle, -Christian girl, I will stake my life upon," said Dr. Knox. "How the note -can have gone is another matter." - -"Are you at all interested in finding it out?" questioned Mr. -Shuttleworth. - -"Certainly I am. Every one ought to be, I think." - -The surgeon took his cigar from his mouth. "I'll tell you my opinion, if -you care to know it," he said. "The note was burnt." - -"Burnt!" - -"Well, it is the most likely solution of the matter that I can come to. -Either burnt, or else was blown away." - -"But why do you say this?" questioned Dr. Knox. - -"It was a particularly windy day. The glass-doors of the room were left -open while the house ran about in a fright, attending to the child, -young Dick. A flimsy bit of bank-paper, lying on the table, would get -blown about like a feather in a gale. Whether it got into the fire, -caught by the current of the chimney, or whether it sailed out-of-doors -and disappeared in the air, is a question I can't undertake to solve. -Rely upon it, Knox, it was one of the two: and I should bet upon the -fire." - -It was just the clue Dr. Knox had been wishing for. But he did not think -the whole fault lay with the wind: he had another idea. - - * * * * * - -Lefford had a shock in the morning. Bertie Tamlyn was dead. The news -came to Dr. Knox in a note from Mr. Tamlyn, which was delivered whilst -he was dressing. "You will stay for the funeral, Arnold," were the -concluding words. And as Dr. Knox wanted to be at home a little longer -on his own account, he wrote to London to say that business was -temporarily detaining him. He then went to see what he could do for Mr. -Tamlyn, and got back to Rose Villa for dinner. - -Watching for an opportunity--which did not occur until late in the -afternoon--Dr. Knox startled the servants by walking into the kitchen, -and sitting down. Mrs. Knox had gone off in the pony-chaise; the -children were out with the new governess. The kitchen and the servants -were alike smartened-up for the rest of the day. Eliza, the cook, was -making a new pudding-cloth; Sally was ironing. - -"I wish to ask you both a few questions," said Dr. Knox, taking out his -note-book and pencil. "It is not possible that Miss Carey can be allowed -to lie under the disgraceful accusation that was brought against her, -and I am about to try and discover what became of the bank-note. Mrs. -Knox was not in the house at the time, and therefore cannot give me the -details." - -Eliza, who had risen and stood, work in hand, simply stared at the -doctor in surprise. Sally dropped her iron on the blanket. - -"_We_ didn't take the note, sir," said Eliza, after a pause. "We'd not -do such a thing." - -"I'm sure I didn't; I'd burn my hands off first," broke in Sally, with -a burst of tears. - -"Of course you would not," returned Dr. Knox in a pleasant tone. "The -children would not. Mrs. Knox would not. But as the note undoubtedly -disappeared, and without hands, we must try and discover where the -mystery lies and how it went. I dare say you would like Miss Carey to be -cleared." - -"Miss Carey was a downright nice young lady," pronounced the cook. -"Quite another sort from this one we've got now." - -"Well, give me all the particulars as correctly as you can remember," -said the doctor. "We may get some notion or other out of them." - -Eliza plunged into the narration. She was fond of talking. Sally stood -over her ironing, sniffing and sighing. Dr. Knox listened. - -"Mrs. Knox left the note on the table--which was much strewed with -papers--when she went out with Lady Jenkins, and Miss Carey took her -place at the accounts," repeated Dr. Knox, summing up the profuse -history in a few concise words. "While----" - -"And Miss Carey declared, sir, that she never saw the note; never -noticed it lying there at all," came Eliza's interruption. - -"Yes, just so. While Miss Carey was at the table, the alarm came that -Master Dick had fallen out of the tree, and she ran to him----" - -"And a fine fright that fall put us into, sir! We thought he was dead. -Jim went galloping off for the doctor, and me and Sally and Miss Carey -stayed bathing his head on that there very ironing-board, a-trying to -find out what the damage was." - -"And the children: where were they?" - -"All round us here in the kitchen, sir, sobbing and staring." - -"Meanwhile the garden-room was deserted. No one went into it, as far as -you know." - -"Nobody at all, sir. When Sally ran in to look at the fire, she found it -had gone clean out. The doctor had been there then, and Master Richard -was in bed. A fine pickle Sally found the room in, with the scraps of -paper, and that, blown about the floor. The glass-doors was standing -stark staring open to the wind." - -"And, I presume, you gathered up some of these scraps of paper, and -lighted the fire with them, Sally?" - -Dr. Knox did not appear to look at Sally as he spoke, but he saw and -noted every movement. He saw that her hand shook so that she could -scarcely hold the iron. - -"Has it never struck you, Sally, that you might have put the bank-note -into the grate with these scraps of paper, and burnt it?" he continued. -"Innocently, of course. That is how I think the note must have -disappeared. Had the wind taken it into the garden, it would most -probably have been found." - -Sally flung her apron over her face and herself on to a chair, and burst -into a howl. Eliza looked at her. - -"If you think there is a probability that this was the case, Sally, you -must say so," continued Dr. Knox. "You will never be blamed, except for -not having spoken." - -"'Twas only yesterday I asked Sally whether she didn't think this was -the way it might have been," said the cook in a low tone to Dr. Knox. -"She have seemed so put out, sir, for a week past." - -"I vow to goodness that I never knew I did it," sobbed Sally. "All the -while the bother was about, and Miss Carey, poor young lady, was off her -head, it never once struck me. What Eliza and me thought was, that some -tramps must have come round the side of the house and got in at the open -glass-doors, and stole it. The night after Miss Carey left with her -aunt, I was thinking about her as I lay in bed, and wondering whether -the mistress would send the police after her or not, when all of a -sudden the thought flashed across me that it might have gone into the -fire with the other pieces of paper. Oh mercy, I wish I was somewhere!" - -"What became of the ashes out of the grate?--the cinders?" asked Dr. -Knox. - -"They're all in the ash-place, sir, waiting till the garden's ready for -them," sobbed Sally. - - * * * * * - -With as little delay as possible, Dr. Knox had the cinders carefully -sifted and examined, when the traces of what had once undoubtedly been -a bank-note were discovered. The greater portion of the note had been -reduced to tinder, but a small part of it remained, enough to show what -it had been, and--by singular good fortune--its number. It must have -fallen out of the grate partly consumed, while the fire was lighting up, -and been swept underneath by Sally with other remnants, where it had -lain quietly until morning and been taken away with the ashes. - -The traces gathered carefully into a small box and sealed up, Dr. Knox -went into the presence of his step-mother. - -"I think," he said, just showing the box as it lay in his hand, "that -this proof will be accepted by the Bank of England; in that case they -will make good the money to me. One question, mother, I wish to ask you: -how could you possibly suspect Miss Carey?" - -"There was no one else for me to suspect," replied Mrs. Knox in fretful -tones; for she did not at all like this turn in the affair. - -"Did you _really_ suspect her?" - -"Why, of course I did. How can you ask such foolish questions?" - -"It was a great mistake in any case to take it up as you did. I am not -alluding to the suspicion now; but to your harsh and cruel treatment." - -"Just mind your own business, Arnold. It's nothing to you." - -"For my own part, I regard it as a matter that we must ever look back -upon with shame." - -"There, that's enough," said Mrs. Knox. "The thing is done with, and it -cannot be recalled. Janet Carey won't die of it." - -Dr. Knox went about Lefford with the box in his hand, making things -right. He called in at the police-station; he caused a minute account to -be put in the _Lefford News_; he related the details to his private -friends. Not once did he allude to Janet Carey, or mention her name: it -was as though he would proudly ignore the stigma cast on her and assume -that the world did the same. The world did: but it gave some hard words -to Mrs. Knox. - -Mr. Tamlyn had not much sympathy for wonders of any kind just then. Poor -Bertie, lying cold and still in the chamber above, took up all his -thoughts and his grief. Arnold spent a good deal of time with him, and -took his round of patients. - -It was the night before the funeral, and they were sitting together at -twilight in the dining-room. Dr. Knox was looking through the large -window at the fountain in the middle of the grass-plat: Mr. Tamlyn had -his face buried; he had not looked up for the last half-hour. - -"When is the very earliest time that you can come, Arnold?" he began -abruptly. - -"As soon as ever they will release me in London. Perhaps that will be in -a month; perhaps not until the end of June, when the six months will be -up." - -Mr. Tamlyn groaned. "I want you at once, Arnold. You are all I have -now." - -"Shuttleworth must stay until I come." - -"Shuttleworth's not you. You must live with me, Arnold?" - -"Live with you?" - -"Why, of course you must. What am I to do in this large house by myself -now _he_ is gone? Bessy will be gone too. I couldn't stand it." - -"It would be much more convenient for me to be here, as far as the -practice is concerned," remarked Dr. Knox, after reflection. - -"And more sociable. Do you never think of marriage, Arnold?" - -Dr. Knox turned a little red. "It has been of no use for me to think of -it hitherto, you know, sir." - -"I wish you would. Some nice, steady girl, who would make things -pleasant here for us in Bessy's place. There's room for a wife as well -as for you, Arnold. Think of these empty rooms: no one but you and me in -them! And you know people like a married medical man better than a -single one." - -The doctor opened his lips to speak, but his courage failed him; he -would leave it to the last thing before he left on the morrow, or else -write from London. Tamlyn mistook his silence. - -"You'll be well enough off to keep two wives, if the law allowed it, let -alone one. From the day you join me, Arnold, half the profits shall be -yours--I'll have the deed made out--and the whole practice at my death. -I've no one to save for, now Bertie's gone." - -"He is better off; he is in happiness," said Dr. Knox, his voice a -little husky. - -"Ay. I try to let it console me. But I've no one but you now, Arnold. -And I don't suppose I shall forget you in my will. To confess the truth, -turning you away to make room for Shuttleworth has lain on my -conscience." - -When Arnold reached home that night, Mrs. Knox and her eldest daughter -were alone; she reading, Mina dressing a doll. Lefford was a place that -went in for propriety, and no one gave soirees while Bertie Tamlyn lay -dead. Arnold told Mrs. Knox of the new arrangement. - -"Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "Coming back to Lefford! Well, I shall -be glad to have you at home again," she added, thinking of the household -bills. - -"Mr. Tamlyn proposes that I shall live with him," said Dr. Knox. - -"But you will never be so stupid as to do that!" - -"I have promised to do it. It will be much more convenient." - -Mrs. Knox looked sullen, and bit her lips. "How large a share are you to -have?" - -"I go in as full partner." - -"Oh, I am so glad!" cried out Miss Mina--for they all liked their -good-natured brother. "Arnold, perhaps you'll go and get married now!" - -"Perhaps I may," he answered. - -Mrs. Knox dropped her book in the sudden fright. If Arnold married, he -might want his house--and turn her out of it! He read the fear in her -face. - -"We may make some arrangement," said he quietly. "You shall still occupy -it and pay me a small nominal rent--five pounds a-year, say--which I -shall probably return in toys for the children." - -The thought of his marriage had always lain upon her with a dread. "Who -is the lady?" she asked. - -"The lady? Oh, I can't tell you, I'm sure. I have not asked any one -yet." - -"Is that all!" - -"Quite all--at present." - -"I think," said Mrs. Knox slowly, as if deliberating the point with -herself, and in the most affectionate of tones, "that you would be -happier in a single life, Arnold. One never knows what a wife is till -she's tried." - -"Do you think so? Well, we must leave it to the future. What will be, -will be." - - -IV. - -And now I am taking up the story for myself; I, Johnny Ludlow. Had I -gone straight on with it after that last night of Janet's sleep-walking -at Miss Deveen's, you would never have understood. - -It was on the Saturday night that Janet was found out--as any one must -remember who took the trouble to count up the nights and days. On the -Sunday morning early, Miss Deveen's doctor was sent for. Dr. Galliard -happened to be out of town, so Mr. Black attended for him. Cattledon was -like vinegar. She looked upon Janet's proceedings as a regular scandal, -and begged Miss Deveen's pardon for having brought her niece into the -house. Upon which she was requested not to be silly. - -Miss Deveen told the whole tale of the lost bank-note, to me and to -Helen and Anna Whitney: at least, as much as she knew of it herself. -Janet was innocent as a child; she felt sure of that, she said, and -much to be pitied; and that Mrs. Knox, of Lefford, seemed to be a most -undesirable sort of person. To us it sounded like a romance, or a story -out of a newspaper police-report. - -Monday came in; a warm, bright April day. I was returning to Oxford in -the evening--and why I had not returned in the past week, as ought to -have been the case, there's no space to tell here. Miss Deveen said we -might go for a walk if we liked. But Helen and Anna did not seem to care -about it; neither did I, to say the truth. A house with a marvel in it -has attractions; and we would by far rather have gone upstairs to see -Janet. Janet was better, quite composed, but weak, they said: she was up -and dressed, and in Miss Deveen's own blue-room. - -"Well, do you mean to go out, or not, you young people?" asked Miss -Deveen. "Dear me, here are visitors!" - -George came in bringing a card. "Dr. Knox." - -"Why!--it must be some one from that woman at Lefford!" exclaimed Miss -Deveen, in an undertone to me. "Oh no; I remember now, Johnny; Dr. Knox -was the step-son; _he_ was away, and had nothing to do with it. Show Dr. -Knox in, George." - -A tall man in black, whom one might have taken anywhere for a doctor, -with a grave, nice face, came in. He said his visit was to Miss Carey, -as he took the chair George placed near his mistress. Just a few words, -and then we knew the whole, and saw a small sealed-up box in his hand, -which contained the remains of the bank-note. - -"I am more glad than if you brought Janet a purse of gold!" cried Miss -Deveen, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Not that I think any one -could have doubted her, Dr. Knox--not even your step-mother, in her -heart,--but it is satisfactory to have it cleared up. It has made Miss -Carey very ill; but this will set her at rest." - -"Your servant told me Miss Carey was ill," he said. "It was for her I -asked." - -With a face of concern, he listened to what Miss Deveen had to say of -the illness. When she spoke of Janet's fright at seeing the policeman at -the Colosseum, his brow went red and he bit his lips. Next came the -sleep-walking: she told it all. - -"Her brain and nerves must have been overstrained to an alarming -degree," he observed, after a short silence. "Mr. Shuttleworth, who -attended her at the time, spoke to me of the shock to the system. But I -hoped she had recovered." - -"She would never have recovered, Dr. Knox, as long as the dread lay -upon her that she was to be criminally prosecuted: at least, that is my -opinion," said Miss Deveen. "I believe the chief thing that ails her is -_fright_. Not a knock at the door, not the marching past the house of a -policeman, not the sudden entrance of a servant into the room, but has -brought to her a shock of agonizing fear. It is a mercy that she has -escaped brain-fever. After all, she must possess a good constitution. -The sight of that Lefford man at the Colosseum did great mischief." - -"It was unfortunate that he should happen to be there," said Dr. Knox: -"and that the man should have dared to accost her with his insolence! -But I shall inquire into it." - -"What you have in that box will be the best medicine for her," said Miss -Deveen. "It will speedily effect a cure--or call me an untrue prophet. -Dear me! how strangely things come out!" - -"May I be allowed to see Miss Carey?" asked Dr. Knox. "And to--to tell -her the story of her clearance in my own way?" - -Miss Deveen made no reply. She looked at Dr. Knox, and seemed to -hesitate. - -"I think it may be better for Miss Carey that I should, madam. For more -reasons than one." - -"And really I don't see why you should not," said Miss Deveen, -heartily. "I hesitated because Mr. Black forbade the admission of -strangers. But--perhaps you are not a stranger to her?" - -"Oh dear, no: I and Miss Carey are old friends," he answered, a curious -smile lighting up his face. "And I should also wish to see her in my -medical capacity." - -But the one to put in her word against this, was Cattledon. She came -down looking green, and protesting in Miss Deveen's ear that no male -subject in her Majesty's dominions, save and except Mr. Black, ought to -be admitted to the blue-room. Janet had no full dress on; nothing but -skirts and a shawl. - -"Oh, nonsense!" cried Miss Deveen. "Why, Dr. Knox might have seen her -had she been in bed: he is a physician." And she took him up herself to -the blue-room. - -"Of all old maids that Cattledon's the worst!" nodded Helen Whitney. - -Miss Deveen went in alone, leaving him outside the door. Janet sat in an -armchair by the fire, muffled in an old brown shawl of Cattledon's. - -"And how do you feel now, my dear?" said Miss Deveen, quietly. "Better, -I see. And oh, I have such pleasant news for you: an old friend of yours -has called to see you; and I think--I think--he will be able to cure you -sooner than Mr. Black. It is Dr. Knox, my dear: not of Lefford now, you -know: of London." - -She called the doctor in, and Janet's pale cheeks took a tint of -crimson. Janet's face had never been big: but as he stood looking at -her, her hand in his, he was shocked to see how small it had become. -Miss Deveen shut the door upon them. She hoped with all her heart he was -not going to spare that woman at Lefford. - -"Janet, my dear," he said in a fatherly kind of way as he drew a chair -near her and kept her hand, "when that trouble happened at home, how was -it you did not write to me?" - -"Write to _you_! Oh, sir, I could not do such a thing," answered Janet, -beginning to tremble. - -"But you might have known I should be your friend. You might also have -known that I should have been able to clear you." - -"I did once think of writing to you, Dr. Knox: just to tell you that I -had not indeed touched the bank-note," faltered Janet. "As the money -came from you, I should have liked to write so much. But I did not -dare." - -"And you preferred to suffer all these weeks of pain, and the fright -brought upon you by Mrs. Knox--for which," said he deliberately, "I -shall never forgive her--rather than drop me a few lines! You must never -be so foolish again, Janet. I should have gone to Lefford at once and -searched out the mystery of the note--and found it." - -Janet moved her lips and shook her head, as much as to say that he could -never have done that. - -"But I have done it," said he. "I have been down to Lefford and found it -all out, and have brought the bank-note up with me--what remains of it. -Sally was the culprit." - -"Sally!" gasped Janet, going from red to white. - -"Sally--but not intentionally. She lighted the fire that afternoon with -the note and some more scraps. The note fell out, only partly burnt; and -I am going to take it to the bank that they may exchange it for a whole -one." - -"And--will--they?" panted Janet. - -"Of course they will; it is in the regular course of business that they -should," affirmed Dr. Knox, deeming it best to be positive for her sake. -"Now, Janet, if you are to tremble like this, I shall go away and send -up Miss Cattledon--and she does not look as if she had a very amiable -temper. Why, my dear child, you ought to be glad." - -"Oh, so I am, so I am!" she said, breaking into sobs. "And--and does -every one in Lefford know that I was innocent?" - -"No one in Lefford believed you guilty. Of course, it is all known, and -in the newspapers too--how Sally lighted the fire with a fifty-pound -bank-note, and the remains were fished out of the ashes." - -"Mrs. Knox--Mrs. Knox----" She could not go on for agitation. - -"As to Mrs. Knox, I am not sure but we might prosecute her. Rely upon -one thing, Janet: that she will not be very well welcomed at her beloved -soirees for some long time to come." - -Janet looked at the fire and thought. Dr. Knox kept silence, that she -might recover herself after the news. - -"I shall get well now," she said in a half-whisper. "I shall -soon"--turning to him--"be able to take another situation. Do you think -Mrs. Knox will give me a recommendation?" - -"Yes, that she will--when it's wanted," said he, with a queer smile. - -She sat in silence again, a tinge of colour in her face, and seeing -fortunes in the fire. "Oh, the relief, the relief!" she murmured, -slightly lifting her hands. "To feel that I may be at peace and fear -nothing! I am very thankful to you, Dr. Knox, for all things." - -"Do you know what I think would do you good?" said Dr. Knox suddenly. -"A drive. The day is so fine, the air so balmy: I am sure it would -strengthen you. Will you go?" - -"If you please, sir. I do feel stronger, since you told me this." - -He went down and spoke to Miss Deveen. She heartily agreed: anything -that would benefit the poor girl, she said; and the carriage was coming -round to the door, for she had been thinking of going out herself. -Cattledon could not oppose them, for she had stepped over to the -curate's. - -"Would you very much mind--would you pardon me if I asked to be allowed -to accompany her alone?" said Dr. Knox, hurriedly to Miss Deveen, as -Janet was coming downstairs on Lettice's arm, dressed for the drive. - -Miss Deveen was taken by surprise. He spoke as though he were flurried, -and she saw the red look on his face. - -"I can take care of her as perhaps no one else could," he added with a -smile. "And I--I want to ask her a question, Miss Deveen." - -"I--think--I--understand you," she said, smiling back at him. "Well, you -shall go. Miss Cattledon will talk of propriety, though, when she comes -home, and be ready to snap us all up." - -And Cattledon was so. When she found Janet had been let go for a slow -and easy drive, with no escort but Dr. Knox inside and the fat coachman -on the box, she conjectured that Miss Deveen must have taken leave of -her senses. Cattledon took up her station at the window to wait for -their return, firing out words of temper every other second. - -The air must have done Janet good. She came in from the carriage on Dr. -Knox's arm, her cheeks bright, her pretty eyes cast down, and looking -quite another girl. - -"Have you put your question, Dr. Knox?" asked Miss Deveen, meeting him -in the hall, while Janet came on. - -"Yes, and had it answered," he said brightly. "Thank you, dear Miss -Deveen; I see we have your sympathies." - -She just took his hand in hers and squeezed it. It was the first day she -had seen him, but she liked his face. - -Cattledon began upon Janet at once. If she felt well enough to start off -on promiscuous drives, she must be well enough to see about a situation. - -"I have been speaking to her of one, Miss Cattledon," said Dr. Knox, -catching the words as he came in. "I think she will accept it." - -"Where is it?" asked Cattledon. - -"At Lefford." - -"She shall never go back to Rose Villa with my consent, sir. And I think -you ought to know better than to propose it to her." - -"To Rose Villa! Certainly not: at least at present. Rose Villa will be -hers, though; the only little settlement that can be made upon her." - -The words struck Cattledon silent. But she could see through a brick -wall. - -"Perhaps _you_ want her, young man?" - -"Yes, I do. I should have wanted her before this, but that I had no home -to offer her. I have one now; and good prospects too. Janet has had it -all explained to her. Perhaps you will allow me to explain it to you, -Miss Cattledon." - -"I'm sure it's more than Janet Carey could have expected," said -Cattledon, growing pacified as she listened. "She's a poor thing. I -hope she will make a good wife." - -"I will risk it, Miss Cattledon." - -"And she shall be married from my house," struck in Miss Deveen. -"Johnny, if you young Oxford blades can get here for it, I will have you -all to the wedding." - -And we did get there for it: I, and Tod, and William Whitney, and saw -the end, so far, of Janet Carey. - - - - -HELEN WHITNEY'S WEDDING. - - -I. - -"What a hot day it is going to be!" cried the Squire, flinging back his -thin light coat, and catching the corner of the breakfast-cloth with it, -so that he upset the salt-cellar. "Yesterday was about the hottest day -_I_ ever felt, but to-day will be worse." - -"And all the jam-making about!" added Mrs. Todhetley. - -"You need not go near the jam-making." - -"I must to-day. Last year Molly made a mistake in the quantity of sugar: -and never could be brought to acknowledge it." - -"Molly---- There's the letter-man," broke off the Squire. "Run, lad." - -I went through the open glass-doors with all speed. Letters were not -everyday events with us. In these fast and busy days a hundred letters -are written where one used to be in those. It was one only that the man -handed me now. - -"That's all this morning, Mr. Johnny." - -I put it beside the Squire's plate, telling him it was from Sir John -Whitney. There was no mistaking Sir John's handwriting: the popular -belief was that he used a skewer. - -"From Whitney, is it," cried he. "Where are my spectacles? What's the -postmark! Malvern? Oh, then, they are there still." - - "_Belle Vue Hotel, Malvern._ - - "DEAR TODHETLEY, - - "Do take compassion upon a weary man, and come over for a day or - two. A whole blessed week this day have I been here with never a - friend to speak to, or to make up a rubber in the evening. - Featherston's a bad player, as you know, but I wish I had him here. - I and my wife might take double dummy, for all the players we can - get. Helen is engaged to be married to Captain Foliott, Lord - Riverside's nephew; and nobody has any time to think of me and my - whist-table. Bring the boys with you: Bill is as moped as I am. We - are at the Belle Vue, you see. The girls wanted to stand out for the - Foley Arms: it's bigger and grander: but I like a place that I have - been used to. - - "From your old friend, - "JOHN WHITNEY." - -The little Whitneys had caught scarlatina, all the fry of them. -Recovered now, they had been sent to a cottage on the estate for change; -and Sir John, his wife, William, Helen, and Anna went for a week to -Malvern while the Hall was cleaned. This news, though, of Helen's -engagement, took us by surprise. - -"How very sudden!" cried the mater. - -Tod was leaning back in his chair, laughing. "I _told_ her I knew there -was something up between her and that Captain Foliott!" - -"Has she known him before?" asked the mater. - -"Known him, yes," cried Tod. "She saw a good deal of him at Cheltenham. -As if she would engage herself to any one after only a week's -acquaintanceship!" - -"As if Sir John would let her!" put in the Squire. "I can't answer for -what Miss Helen would do." And Tod laughed again. - -When the children were taken ill, Helen and Anna, though they had had -the malady, were packed off to Sir John's sister, Miss Whitney, who -lived at Cheltenham, and they stayed there for some weeks. After that, -they came to us at Dyke Manor for three days, and then went with their -father and mother to Malvern. Helen was then full of Captain Foliott, -and talked of him to us in private from morning till night. She had met -him at Cheltenham, and he had paid her no end of attention. Now, as it -appeared, he had followed her to Malvern, and asked for her of Sir John. - -"It seems to be a good match--a nephew of Lord Riverside's," observed -the Squire. "Is he rich, I wonder?--and is the girl over head and ears -in love with him?" - -"Rich he may be: but in love with him she certainly is not," cried Tod. -"She was too ready to talk of him for that." - -The remark was amusing, coming from Tod. How had he learnt to be so -worldly-wise? - -"Shall you go to Malvern, father?" - -"_Shall I go!_" repeated the Squire, astonished at the superfluous -question. "Yes. And start as soon as ever I have finished my breakfast -and changed my coat. You two may go also, as you are invited." - -We reached Malvern in the afternoon. Sir John and Lady Whitney were -alone, in one of the pleasant sitting-rooms of the Belle Vue Hotel, and -welcomed us with outstretched hands. - -"The girls and William?" cried Sir John, in answer to inquiries. "Oh, -they are out somewhere--with Foliott, I conclude; for I'm sure he sticks -to Helen like her shadow. Congratulate me, you say? Well, I don't know, -Todhetley. It's the fashion, of course, to do it; but I'm not sure but -we should rather be condoled with. No sooner do our girls grow up and -become companionable, and learn not to revoke at whist when they can be -tempted into taking a hand, than they want to leave us! Henceforth they -must belong to others, not to us; and we, perhaps, see them no oftener -than we see any other stranger. It's one of the crosses of life." - -Sir John blew his old red nose, so like the Squire's, and my lady rubbed -her eyes. Both felt keenly the prospect of parting with Helen. - -"But you like him, don't you?" asked the Squire. - -"As to liking him," cried Sir John, and I thought there was some -hesitation in his tone; "I am not in love with him: I leave that to -Helen. We don't all see with our children's eyes. He is well enough, I -suppose, as Helen thinks so. But the fellow does not care for whist." - -"I think we play too slow a game for him," put in Lady Whitney. "He -chanced to say one evening that Lord Riverside is one of the first hands -at whist; and I expect Captain Foliott has been in the habit of playing -with him." - -"Anyway, you are satisfied with the match, as a match, I take it?" -observed the Squire. - -"I don't say but that I am," said Sir John. "It might be better, of -course; and at present their means will not be large. Foliott offers to -settle an estate of his, worth about ten thousand pounds, upon Helen; -and his allowance from his uncle Foliott is twelve hundred a-year. They -will have to get along on that at present." - -"And the captain proposes," added Lady Whitney, "that the three thousand -pounds, which will come to Helen when she marries, shall be invested in -a house: and we think it would be wise to do it. But he feels quite -certain that Mr. Foliott will increase his allowance when he marries; -probably double it." - -"It's not Lord Riverside, then, who allows him the income?" - -"Bless you, Todhetley, no!" spoke Sir John in a hurry. "He says -Riverside's as poor as a church mouse, and vegetates from year's end to -year's end at his place in Scotland. It is Foliott the mine-owner down -in the North. Stay: which is it, Betsy?--mine-owner, or mill-owner?" - -"Mill-owner, I think," said Lady Whitney. "He is wonderfully rich, -whichever it is; and Captain Foliott will come into at least a hundred -thousand pounds at his death." - -Listening to all this as I stood on the balcony, looking at the -beautiful panorama stretched out below and beyond, for they were talking -at the open window, I dreamily thought what a good thing Helen was going -to make of it. Later on, all this was confirmed, and we learnt a few -additional particulars. - -Mr. Foliott, mill-owner and millionaire, was a very great man in -the North; employing thousands of hands. He was a good man, full of -benevolence, always doing something or other to benefit his townspeople -and his dependents. But his health had been failing of late, and he had -now gone to the Cape, a sea-voyage having been advised by his doctors. -He had never married, and Captain Foliott was his favourite nephew. - -"It's not so bad, after all, is it, Johnny?" - -The words were whispered over my shoulder, and I started back to see -Helen's radiant face. She and Anna had come in unheard by me, and had -caught the thread of conversation in the room. - -"I call it very good, Helen. I hope he is good too." - -"You shall see," she answered. "He is coming up with William." - -Her dark brown eyes were sparkling, a bright colour glowed on her -cheeks. Miss Helen Whitney was satisfied with her future bridegroom, and -no mistake. She had forgotten all about her incipient liking for poor -Slingsby Temple. - -"What regiment is Captain Foliott in, Helen?" - -"Not in any. He has sold out." - -"Sold out!" - -"His mother and his uncle made him do it. The detachment was ordered to -India, and they would not let him go; would not part with him; begged -and prayed of him to sell out. Nothing ever vexed him so much in his -life, he says; but what could he do? His mother has only him: and on Mr. -Foliott he is dependent for riches." - -"Entirely dependent?" - -"For _riches_, I said, Johnny. He has himself a small competence. Ten -thousand pounds nearly comprises it. And that is to be settled on me." - -A slight bustle in the room, and we both looked round. Bill Whitney was -noisily greeting Tod. Some one else had followed Bill through the door. - -A rather tall man, with reddish hair and drooping, reddish whiskers, -bold handsome features, and a look I did not like in his red-brown eyes. -Stepping over the window-sill from the balcony, they introduced me to -him, Captain Richard Foliott. - -"I have heard much of Johnny Ludlow," said he, holding out his hand with -a cordial smile, "and I am glad to know him. I hope we shall soon be -better acquainted." - -I shook his hand and answered in kind. But I was not drawn to him; not a -bit; rather repelled. The eyes were not nice: or the voice, either. It -had not a true ring in it. Undeniably handsome he was, and I thought -that was the best that could be said. - -"Look here: we are going for a stroll," said Sir John; "you young people -can come, or not, as you please. But if you go up the hill, remember -that we dine at six o'clock. Once you get scampering about up there, you -forget the time." - -He went out with the Squire. Lady Whitney had a letter to write and sat -down to do it; the rest of us stood, some on the balcony, some in the -room. Helen, Tod, and Captain Foliott were apparently trying which could -talk the fastest. - -"Why do you look at me so earnestly?" suddenly demanded the latter. - -It was to me he spoke. I laughed, and apologized; saying that his face -put me in mind of some other face I had seen, but I could not remember -whose. This was true. It was true also that I had been looking at him -more fixedly than the strict rules of etiquette might require: but I had -not an idea that he was observing me. - -"I thought you might be wishing to take my portrait," said the captain, -turning away to whisper to Helen. - -"More likely to take your _character_," jestingly struck in Bill, with -more zeal than discretion. "Johnny Ludlow sees through everybody; reads -faces off like a book." - -Captain Foliott wheeled sharply round at the words, and stood before me, -his eyes gazing straight into mine. - -"Can you read my face?" he asked. "What do you see there?" - -"I see that you have been a soldier: your movements tell me that: -right-about, face; quick march," answered I, turning the matter off with -a jest. Tod opportunely struck in. - -"How _could_ you leave the army?" he asked with emphasis. "I only wish I -had the chance of joining it." Though he knew that he had better not let -the Squire hear him say so. - -"It was a blow," acknowledged Foliott. "One does meet with raps in this -world. But, you see, it was a case of--of the indulgence of my own -gratification weighed in the scale against that of my mother: and I let -my side go up. My uncle also came down upon me with his arguments and -his opposition, and altogether I found myself nowhere. I believe he and -she are equally persuaded that nobody ever comes out of India alive." - -"Who will take my letter to the post?" called out Lady Whitney. All of -us volunteered to do it, and went out together. We met Sir John and the -Squire strolling about the village rubbing their red faces, and saying -how intensely hot it was. - -They left us to regale ourselves at the pastry-cook's, and sauntered on -towards the dark trees shading that deep descent on which the hotel -windows looked out. We found them sitting on one of the benches there. - -"Well, Foliott!" cried Sir John. "You'd not have found it hotter than -this in India." - -"Not so hot, Sir John. But I like heat." - -"How do-you-do?" struck in a big, portly gentleman, who was sitting on -the same bench as the Squire and Sir John, and whose face was even -redder than theirs. "Did not expect to meet you here." - -Captain Foliott, who was the one addressed, wheeled round to the speaker -in that sharp way of his, and was evidently taken by surprise. His -manner was cold; never a smile sat on his face as he answered-- - -"Oh, is it you, Mr. Crane! Are you quite well? Staying at Malvern?" - -"For an hour or two. I am passing a few days at Worcester, and my -friends there would not let me go on without first bringing me to see -Malvern." - -The stranger spoke like a gentleman and looked like one, looked like -a man of substance also (though Foliott did draw down his lips that -same evening and speak of him as "nobody"); and Sir John, in his -old-fashioned cordiality, begged of Captain Foliott to introduce his -friend. Captain Foliott did it with a not very ready grace. "Mr. Crane, -Sir John Whitney; Mr. Todhetley." - -"A beautiful place this, sirs," cried he. - -"Yes, only it's too hot to walk about to-day," answered they. "Have you -been up the hill?" - -"No, I can't manage that: but my friends are gone up. Have you heard -lately from your uncle, Captain Foliott?" added Mr. Crane. - -"Not very lately." - -"I hear the outward voyage did him a world of good." - -"I believe it did." - -As if the questions of the stranger worried him, Captain Foliott -strolled away towards the abbey: the two girls, Tod, and William -following him. I stayed where I was: not liking the heat much more than -the Squire did. - -"You know Mr. Foliott of Milltown?" observed Sir John to the stranger. - -"I know him very well indeed, sir. I am a mill-owner myself in the same -place: but not as large a one as he is." - -"He is uncommonly rich, we hear." - -"Ay, he is. Could buy up pretty well half the world." - -"And a good man into the bargain?" - -"Downright good. Honest, upright, liberal; a true Christian. He does an -immense deal for his fellow-men. Nobody ever asks him to put his hand in -his pocket in vain." - -"When is he expected home?" - -"I am not sure when. That will depend, I expect, upon how he feels. But -we hear the outward voyage has quite set him up." - -"Captain Foliott often talks of his uncle. He seems to think there's -nobody like him." - -"He has cause to think it. Yes, I assure you, sirs, few men in the -world can come up to George Foliott, the mill-owner, for probity and -goodness." - -How much more he might have said in Mr. Foliott's praise was cut short -by the hasty appearance of two young men, evidently the friends of Mr. -Crane. They laughed at the speed they had made down the hill, told him -the carriage was ready, and that they ought to start at once to reach -Worcester by dinner-time. So the portly old gentleman wished us good-day -and departed. Running up the bank, I saw them drive off from the Crown -in a handsome two-horse phaeton. - -It was on the day following this, that matters were finally settled with -regard to Helen's marriage. Captain Foliott made good his wish--which, -as it appeared, he had been harping upon ever since the proposal was -first made: namely, that they should be married immediately, and not -wait for the return of Mr. Foliott to England. Sir John had held out -against it, asking where the hurry was. To this Captain Foliott had -rejoined by inquiring what they had to wait for, and where was the need -of waiting, and the chances were that his uncle would stay away for a -year. So at last, Sir John, who was a simple-minded man, and as easily -persuaded as a duck is to water, gave in; and the wedding was fixed to -take place the next month, September, at Whitney. - -We made the most of this, our one entire day at Malvern, for we should -disperse the next. The Whitneys to Whitney Hall, the house now being in -apple-pie order for them; ourselves back to Dyke Manor; Captain Foliott -to get the marriage-settlement prepared. Helen's three thousand pounds, -all she would have at present, was not to be settled at all, but -invested in some snug little house that they would fix upon together -after the marriage, so that Captain Foliott's lawyers took the -preparation of the deeds of settlement on themselves, saving trouble to -Sir John. Three parts of the day we spent roaming the hill: and I must -say Foliott made himself as delightful as sun in harvest, and I told -myself that I must have misjudged his eyes in thinking they were not -nice ones. - -But the next morning we received a shock. How swimmingly the world would -go on without such things, I leave those who have experienced them to -judge. It came when we were at the breakfast-table, in the shape of a -letter to Lady Whitney. Scarlatina--which was supposed to have been -cleaned and scrubbed out--had come into the Hall again, and the -kitchen-maid was laid up with it. - -Here was a pretty kettle of fish! Whether Sir John or my lady looked the -most helplessly bewildered, might have puzzled a juror to decide. Back -to the Hall they could not go; and what was to be done? The Squire, -open-handed and open-hearted, pressed them to accompany us and take up -their quarters at Dyke Manor; and for a minute or two I thought they -would have done it; but somebody, Helen, I think, suggested a furnished -house in London, and that was finally decided upon. So to London they -would go, hire the first suitable house that offered, and the marriage -would take place there instead of at home. Captain Foliott, coming in -after breakfast from his hotel, the Foley Arms, stared at the change of -programme. - -"I wouldn't go to London," said he, emphatically. "London at this season -of the year is the most wretched wilderness on the face of the whole -earth. Not a soul in it." - -"The more room for us, Foliott," cried Sir John. "What will it matter to -us whether the town is empty or full?" - -"I would strongly advise you, Sir John, not to go. Lady Whitney will not -like it, I am certain. As Mr. Todhetley has been good enough to offer -you his hospitality----" - -"Put, bless my heart," interrupted Sir John in a heat, "you don't -suppose, do you, that I could trespass upon an old friend for weeks and -weeks--a regular army of us! Were it a matter of a few days, I wouldn't -say nay; but who is to foresee how long it may be before we can get into -our own house? You've not a bit of thought, Foliott." - -"Why not go to your sister's at Cheltenham, sir?" was all the captain -said to this. - -"Because I don't choose to go to my sister's at Cheltenham," retorted -Sir John, who could be as obstinate as the Squire when he liked. "And -why should we go to Cheltenham more than to London? Come?" - -"I thought it would be less trouble for you, sir. Cheltenham is close at -hand." - -"And London is not far off. As to its being empty, I say that's so much -the better: we shall more readily find a furnished house in it. To -London we go to-day." - -With Sir John in this resolute mood, there was no more to be said. And -the notion became quite agreeable, now that they were growing reconciled -to it. - -"All things are directed for the best," concluded Lady Whitney in -her simple faith. "I hardly see how we should have procured Helen's -trousseau down at Whitney: there will be no difficulty in London." - -"You are right, my dear lady, and I am wrong," conceded Captain Foliott, -with a good-natured smile. "To us young men of fashion," he added, the -smile deepening to a laugh, "London between August and April is looked -upon as a nightmare. But circumstances alter cases; and I see that it -will be the best and most convenient place for you." - -Drawing Helen aside as he spoke, and taking a small morocco case from -his pocket, he slipped upon her finger his first and parting gift: a -magnificent hoop of diamonds. - -"I should like you to wear it always, my love," he whispered. "As -the pledge of your engagement now; later, as the guard of your -wedding-ring." - - -II. - -"I shall go up in the smoking-carriage, Johnny." - -"Shall you! You'll smell finely of smoke when we get there." - -"Not I. I'll give my coat a shake at the end of the journey. By Jove! -I shall be left behind, if I don't take care." - -Tod was right. The train was already on the move. He dashed into the -smoking-compartment; the porter closed the doors, and we were off. - -Off to London. He and I were going up to Helen Whitney's wedding, to -which we had been invited when staying at Malvern some weeks ago. The -Squire declined for himself, though Sir John had wanted him also. This -was Monday; the wedding was to be on Thursday; and on the Saturday Anna -and William were to go back with us to Dyke Manor. - -It was September weather, and a glorious day. Now, as the train steamed -away on its windings and turnings, the Malvern Hills would glide into -view; and now be lost again. But the beautiful landscape was always to -be seen, with its woods and dales and fertile plains; and there was not -a cloud in the deep blue sky to obscure the sun. - -I had the carriage to myself; and pictured Tod one of a crowd of -smokers. At Oxford he came back to the carriage, and got in. - -"Had enough smoke, Tod?" - -"Just for now, lad," he shortly answered; and began to whistle softly -and pull at his whiskers. By which I knew he had something on his mind. - -"I say, Johnny, I am in a dilemma," he began abruptly, when we were -going on again, bending towards me from the opposite seat till his face -nearly touched mine. - -"What about? What is it?" - -"Look here. When I got into the smoking-carriage it was full, all but -one seat, which I took--and that was a corner one, which they had been -polite enough to leave. The carriage was dark with smoke: pipes had been -going, I expect, all the way from Worcester. I lighted mine, saying -nothing, and nobody said anything to me. The man opposite to me and the -one next me had a hot discussion on hand, touching a racehorse; not -quarrelling, but talking loudly, so that they made a tolerable noise. At -the other end of the carriage sat two men facing one another, just as -you and I sit now; and one of them I'll vow was an Oxford man: I could -tell him by his cut. They were talking together also, but rather in an -undertone. All at once, when we were nearing Oxford, there was a lull at -my end, and I heard a bit of what they were saying. The first word that -particularly caught my ear was Foliott. 'What plant is Foliott up to -now, I wonder?' cried one. 'Don't know,' said the other; 'nothing good, -we may be sure of. A rumour reached me that he was going to be married.' -'What a chance for the girl!' cried the first. 'Poor thing! But it may -not be true,' he went on, knocking the ashes out of his pipe: 'who would -marry such a scamp as that?' Now, Johnny," broke off Tod, "the question -is, were they speaking of this Foliott? This man that we are now on our -way to see married to Helen?" - -"Was that all you heard, Tod?" - -"Every word. The train began to slacken speed then for the Oxford -station, and the two men stood up to reach their overcoats and -hand-bags, for they got out there. I had half a mind to stop them and -ask what Foliott they had been speaking of; but I did not much like to, -and while I hesitated they disappeared. They might just have told me to -mind my own business if I had spoken; so perhaps it comes to the same." - -"Foliott is not an absolutely uncommon name, Tod. There may be plenty of -Foliotts about." - -"Just so, lad. But, on the other hand, it may be the one we know of, -Richard Foliott. One point coincides--he is going to be married." - -I sat back on the seat, revolving probabilities, and thinking of many -things. That instinctive dislike I had taken to Captain Foliott's eyes, -or to himself, or to both, flashed over me with vivid force. The fine -scenery we were just then whirling past, and on which my eyes seemed to -be fixed, might have been a sandy desert, for all I saw of it. - -"The worst is, the dilemma it puts one in," continued Tod. "To speak -of this to the Whitneys, or not to speak?--that's the question. If it -should turn out to be another Foliott, they might never forgive me. -_He_ never would." - -"But then--Helen's whole future may be at stake. It may be in peril." - -Tod pulled at his whiskers again. I read the name of the station we were -flashing past. - -"I hate a doubt of this sort," cried Tod impatiently, "where one can't -see how one's duty lies. It bothers the mind. I think I'll let it go, -Johnny." - -"But, if it should turn out, when too late, that he is a scamp: and, for -the want of a word, you have let him--let him make havoc of Helen's -life!" - -"What could I say?" he asked irritably. "That I overheard two fellows, -in the smoking-compartment of a railway train, saying that one Foliott -was a scamp. Sir John would naturally ask me what grounds I had for -assuming that it was their Foliott. Well, I have no grounds. And how -small I should look!" - -"There are slight grounds, at any rate, Tod. The name is his, Foliott; -and both are going to be married." - -"All the same, I don't see that I can speak." - -"Put it in this light, Tod," I said. "You don't speak; and they get -married; and then something or other bad turns up about Foliott; and Sir -John finds out that it was in your power to warn him in time, and you -did not. What will he say then?" - -"I'm sure I don't know," grunted Tod. "I wish I could see on which side -land lies." - -All the rest of the way to London we continued to discuss it by fits -and starts, and at last hit upon a good thought--to tell the whole to -William Whitney. It was the best thing to do, so far as we could see. -It might all end in smoke, or--it might not. - -The Whitneys had found a furnished house in Gloucester Place, near -Portman Square. The maid who had taken the illness was soon well again, -and the Hall was being regularly fumigated now, preparatory to their -return. In Gloucester Place they were within a short drive of Miss -Deveen's, a fact which had guided them to the locality. Indeed, it was -only a walk for the younger of us. - -Not until night did we get any chance of a private talk with William. -Our bedrooms opened into one another; and after we went up for good, he -sat down in our room. - -"You won't be affronted, Bill, at something I am about to say?" struck -in Tod, by way of prelude. - -"Affronted!" cried Bill. "I! What on earth do you ask that stupid -question for?" - -"In coming up to-day, I heard a few words in the train," went on Tod. -"Two fellows were talking, and they brought up a man's name in a -disparaging manner. It is a friend of yours, Bill; and Johnny and I -had a precious discussion, I can tell you, as to whether we should -repeat it to you or not." - -"Was it my name?" asked Bill. "What could they have to say against me?" - -"No, no; they'd have got an answer from me had it been yours. First of -all, we thought of mentioning it to Sir John; but I did not like to, and -that's the truth. So we just concluded to put it before you, as one of -ourselves, and you can tell him if you like." - -"All right," said Bill. "Go ahead." - -Tod told him all from beginning to end. Not that it was very much to -tell: but he brought in our own conversation; the delicacy we felt in -speaking at all, and the arguments for and against. Bill was not in the -least put out; rather wondered, I thought, that we should be. - -"It can't be Dick Foliott, you know," said he. "There's not anything -against him; impossible that there should be." - -"I am glad you say so," cried Tod, relieved. "It was only for Helen's -sake we gave a thought to it." - -"The name was the same, you see--Foliott," I put in. "And that man is -going to be married as well as this one." - -"True," answered Bill, slowly. "Still I feel sure it is quite impossible -that it can be Foliott. If--if you think I had better mention it, I -will. I'll mention it to himself." - -"I should," said I eagerly, for somehow my doubts of the man were -growing larger. "Better be on the safe side. You don't know much about -him, after all, Bill." - -"Not know much about him! What do you mean, Johnny? We know enough. He -is Riverside's nephew, a very respectable old Scotch peer, and he is -Foliott the mill-owner's nephew; and I'm sure _he_ is to be respected, -if it's only for the money he has made. And Dick has a very fair income -of his own, and settles ten thousand pounds upon Helen, and will come -into a hundred thousand by-and-by, or more. What would you have?" - -I could not say what I would have; but the uneasiness lay on my mind. -Tod spoke. - -"The men alluded to conduct, I expect, Bill; not to means. They spoke of -that Foliott as an out-and-out scamp, and called the girl he was going -to marry 'Poor thing,' in a piteous tone. You wouldn't like that applied -to Helen." - -"By Jove, no. Better be on the safe side, as Johnny says. We'll say -nothing to my father at present; but you and I, Tod, will quietly repeat -to Foliott what you heard, and we'll put it to him, as man to man, to -tell us in all honour whether the words could have related to himself. -Of course the idea is altogether absurd; we will tell him that, and beg -his pardon." - -So that was resolved upon. And a great relief it was. To decide upon a -course of action, in any unpleasant difficulty, takes away half its -discomfort. - -Captain Foliott had come to London but once since they met at Malvern. -His stay was short; three days; and during those days he was so busy -that Gloucester Place only saw him in the evenings. He had a great deal -to do down in the North against his marriage, arranging his property -preparatory to settling it on Helen, and seeing to other business -matters. But the zeal he lacked in personal attention, he made up by -letter. Helen had one every morning as regularly as the post came in. - -He was expected in town on the morrow, Tuesday: indeed, Helen had -thought he might perhaps have come to-day. Twelve o'clock on Wednesday, -at Gloucester Place, was the hour fixed for signing the deeds of -settlement: and by twelve o'clock on Thursday, the following day, all -going well, he and Helen would be man and wife. - -Amidst the letters waiting on the breakfast-table on Tuesday morning was -one for Helen. Its red seal and crest told whence it came. - -"Foliott always seals his letters to Helen," announced Bill for our -information. "And what ill news has that one inside it?" continued he to -his sister. "You look as cross as two sticks, Nelly." - -"Just mind your own business," said Helen. - -"What time will Captain Foliott be here to-day, my dear?" questioned her -mother. - -"He will not be here at all to-day," answered Helen, fractiously. "It's -too bad. He says it is impossible for him to get away by any train, in -time to see us to-night; but he will be here the first thing in the -morning. His mother is worse, and he is anxious about her. People always -fall ill at the wrong time." - -"Is Mrs. Foliott coming up to the wedding?" I asked. - -"No," said Lady Whitney. "I of course invited her, and she accepted the -invitation; but a week ago she wrote me word she was not well enough to -come. And now, children, what shall we set about first? Oh dear! there -is such a great deal to do and to think of to-day!" - -But we had another arrival that day, if we had not Captain Foliott. That -was Mary Seabright, who was to act as bridesmaid with Anna. Brides did -not have a string of maids in those days, as some have in these. Leaving -them to get through their multiplicity of work--which must be connected, -Bill thought, with bonnets and wedding-cake--we went up with Sir John in -a boat to Richmond. - -That evening we all dined at Miss Deveen's. It was to be one of the -quietest of weddings; partly by Captain Foliott's express wish, chiefly -because they were not at home at the Hall. Miss Deveen and Miss -Cattledon were to be the only guests besides ourselves and Mary -Seabright, and a Major White who would go to the church with Foliott. -Just twelve of us, all told. - -"But where's the bridegroom?" asked Miss Deveen, when we reached her -house. - -"He can't get up until late to-night; perhaps not until to-morrow -morning," pouted Helen. - -The dinner-table was a downright merry one, and we did not seem -to miss Captain Foliott. Afterwards, when Sir John had made up his -whist-table--with my lady, Miss Deveen, and the grey-haired curate, Mr. -Lake, who had dropped in--we amused ourselves with music and games in -the other room. - -"What do you think of the bridegroom, Johnny Ludlow?" suddenly demanded -Miss Cattledon, who had sat down by me. "I hear you saw him at -Malvern." - -"Think of him! Oh, he--he is a very fine man; good-looking, and all -that." - -"That I have seen for myself," retorted Cattledon, pinching her hands -round her thin waist. "When he was staying in London, two or three weeks -ago, we spent an evening in Gloucester Place. Do you _like_ him?" - -She put the "like" so very pointedly, staring into my face at the time, -that I was rather taken aback. I did _not_ like Captain Foliott: but -there was no particular necessity for telling her so. - -"I like him--pretty well, Miss Cattledon." - -"Well, I do not, Johnny Ludlow. I fancy he has a temper; I'm sure he is -not good-natured; and I--I don't think he'll make a very good husband." - -"That will be a pity. Helen is fond of him." - -Miss Cattledon coughed significantly. "Is she? Helen is fond of him -in-so-far as that she is eager to be married--all girls are--and the -match with Captain Foliott is an advantageous one. But if you think she -cares for him in any other way, Johnny Ludlow, you are quite mistaken. -Helen Whitney is no more in love with Captain Foliott than you are in -love with me." - -At which I laughed. - -"Very few girls marry for love," she went on. "They fall in love, -generally speaking, with the wrong person." - -"Then what do they marry for?" - -"For the sake of being married. With the fear of old-maidism staring -them in the face, they are ready, silly things, to snap at almost any -offer they receive. Go up to Helen Whitney now, tell her she is destined -to live in single blessedness, and she would be ready to fret herself -into a fever. Every girl would not be, mind you: but there are girls and -girls." - -Well, perhaps Miss Cattledon was not far wrong. I did not think as she -did then, and laughed again in answer: but I have learned more of the -world and its ways since. - -In every corner of the house went Helen's eyes when we got back to -Gloucester Place, but they could not see Captain Foliott. She had been -hoping against hope. - - -III. - -Wednesday. Young women, bringing in huge band-boxes, were perpetually -ringing at the door, and by-and-by we were treated to a sight of the -finery. Sufficient gowns and bonnets to set up a shop were spread out in -Helen's room. The wedding-dress lay on the bed: a glistening white silk, -with a veil and wreath beside it. Near to it was the dress she would go -away in to Dover, the first halting-place on their trip to Paris: a -quiet shot-silk, Lady Whitney called it, blue one way, pink another. -Shot, or not shot, it was uncommonly pretty. Straw bonnets were the mode -in those days, and Helen's, perched above her travelling-dress, had -white ribbons on it and a white veil--which was the mode for brides -also. I am sure Helen, in her vanity, thought more of the things than -of the bridegroom. - -But she thought of him also. Especially when the morning went on and did -not bring him. Twelve o'clock struck, and Sir John Whitney's solicitor, -Mr. Hill, who had come up on purpose, was punctual to his appointment. -Sir John had thought it right that his own solicitor should be present -at the reading and signing of the settlements, to see that they were -drawn up properly. - -So there they sat in the back-parlour, which had been converted into -a business room for the occasion, waiting for Captain Foliott and the -deed with what patience they had. At one o'clock, when they came in to -luncheon, Sir John was looking a little blue; and he remarked that -Captain Foliott, however busy he might have been, should have stretched -a point to get off in time. Appointments, especially important ones, -ought to be kept. - -For it was conclusively thought that the delay was caused by the -captain's having been unable to leave the previous day, and that he was -travelling up now. - -So Mr. Hill waited, and Sir John waited, and the rest of us waited, -Helen especially; and thus the afternoon passed in waiting. Helen was -more fidgety than a hen with one chick: darting to the window every -instant, peeping down the staircase at the sound of every ring. - -Dinner-time; and no appearance of Captain Foliott. After dinner; and -still the same. Mary Seabright, a merry girl, told Helen that her lover -was like the knight in the old ballad--he loved and he rode away. There -was a good deal of laughing, and somebody called for the song, "The -Mistletoe Bough." Of course it was all in jest: as each minute passed, -we expected the next would bring Captain Foliott. - -Not until ten o'clock did Mr. Hill leave, with the understanding that -he should return the next morning at the same hour. The servants were -beginning to lay the breakfast-table in the dining-room, for a lot of -sweet dishes had been brought in from the pastry-cook's, and Lady -Whitney thought they had better be put on the table at once. In the -afternoon we had tied the cards together--"Mr. and Mrs. Richard -Foliott"--with white satin ribbon, sealed them up in their envelopes -with white wax, and directed them ready for the post on the morrow. - -At twelve o'clock a move was made to go upstairs to bed; and until that -hour we had still been expecting Captain Foliott. - -"I feel positive some dreadful accident has happened," whispered Helen -to me as she said good-night, her usually bright colour faded to -paleness. "If I thought it was carelessness that is causing the delay, -as they are cruelly saying, I--I should never forgive him." - -"Wait a minute," said Bill to me aside, touching Tod also. "Let them go -on." - -"Are you not coming, William?" said Lady Whitney. - -"In two minutes, mother." - -"I don't like this," began Bill, speaking to us both over our -bed-candles, for the other lights were out. "I'll be hanged if I think -he means to turn up at all!" - -"But why should he not?" - -"Who is to know? Why has he not turned up already? I can tell you that -it seems to me uncommonly strange. Half-a-dozen times to-night I had a -great mind to call my father out and tell him about what you heard in -the train, Tod. It is so extraordinary for a man, coming up to his -wedding, not to appear: especially when he is bringing the settlements -with him." - -Neither of us spoke. What, indeed, could we say to so unpleasant a -topic? Bill went on again. - -"If he were a man in business, as his uncle, old Foliott, is, I could -readily understand that interests connected with it might detain him -till the last moment. But he is not; he has not an earthly thing to do." - -"Perhaps his lawyers are in fault," cried Tod. "If they are backward -with the deeds of settlement----" - -"The deeds were ready a week ago. Foliott said so in writing to my -father." - -A silence ensued, rendering the street noises more audible. Suddenly -there came a sound of a horse and cab dashing along, and it pulled up -at our door. Foliott, of course. - -Down we went, helter-skelter, out on the pavement. The servants, busy in -the dining-room still, came running to the steps. A gentleman, getting -out of the cab with a portmanteau, stared, first at us, then at the -house. - -"This is not right," said he to the driver, after looking about him. -"It's next door but one." - -"This is the number you told me, sir." - -"Ah, yes. Made a mistake." - -But so sure did it seem to us that this late and hurried traveller must -be, at least, some one connected with Captain Foliott, if not himself, -that it was only when he and his luggage had disappeared within the next -house but one, and the door was shut, and the cab gone away, that we -realized the disappointment, and the vague feeling of discomfort it left -behind. The servants went in. We strolled to the opposite side of the -street, unconsciously hoping that luck might bring another cab with the -right man in it. - -"Look there!" whispered Bill, pointing upwards. - -The room over the drawing-room was Lady Whitney's; the room above that, -the girls'. Leaning out at the window, gazing now up the street, now -down, was Helen, her eyes restless, her face pale and woe-begone in the -bright moonlight. - -It was a sad night for Helen Whitney. She did not attempt to undress, -as we knew later, but kept her post at that weary window. Every cab or -carriage that rattled into view was watched by her with eager, feverish -anxiety. But not one halted at the house, not one contained Captain -Foliott. Helen Whitney will never forget that unhappy night of -tumultuous feeling and its intolerable suspense. - -But here was the wedding-morning come, and no bridegroom. The -confectioners were rushing in with more dishes, and the dressmakers -appearing to put the finishing touches to Helen. Lady Whitney was just -off her head: doubtful whether to order all the paraphernalia away, -or whether Captain Foliott might not come yet. In the midst of the -confusion a little gentleman arrived at the house and asked for Sir -John. Sir John and he had a long conference, shut in alone: and when -they at length came out Sir John's nose was a dark purple. The visitor -was George Foliott, the mill-owner: returned since some days from the -Cape. - -And the tale he unfolded would have struck dismay to the nose of many -a wiser man than was poor Sir John. The scamp spoken of in the train -was Richard Foliott; and a nice scamp he turned out to be. Upon Mr. -Foliott's return to Milltown the prospective wedding had come to his -ears, with all the villainy encompassing it; he had at once taken -means to prevent Mr. Richard's carrying it out, and had now come up to -enlighten Sir John Whitney. - -Richard Foliott had been a scamp at heart from his boyhood; but he had -contrived to keep well before the world. Over and over again had Mr. -Foliott paid his debts and set him on his legs again. Captain Foliott -had told the Whitneys that he quitted the army by the wish of his -friends: he quitted it because he dared not stay in. Before Mr. Foliott -departed for the Cape he had thrown Richard off; had been obliged to do -it. His fond foolish mother had reduced herself to poverty for him. The -estate, once worth ten thousand pounds, which he had made a pretence of -settling upon Helen, belonged to his mother, and was mortgaged about a -dozen deep. He dared not go much abroad for fear of arrest, especially -in London. This, and a great deal more, was disclosed by Mr. Foliott to -Sir John; who sat and gasped, and rubbed his face, and wished his old -friend Todhetley was at hand, and thanked God for Helen's escape. - -"He will never be any better," affirmed Mr. Foliott, "be very sure of -that. He is innately bad, and the pain he has inflicted upon me for -years has made me old before my time. But--forgive me, Sir John, for -saying so--I cannot think you exercised discretion in accepting him so -easily for your daughter." - -"I had no suspicion, you see," returned poor Sir John. "How could I have -any? Being your nephew, and Lord Riverside's nephew--" - -"Riverside's nephew he called himself, did he! The old man is ninety, as -I dare say you know, and never stirs from his home in the extreme north -of Scotland. Some twenty years ago, he fell in with the sister of -Richard's mother (she was a governess in a family up there), and married -her; but she died within the year. That's how he comes to be Lord -Riverside's 'nephew.' But they have never met in their lives." - -"Oh dear!" bemoaned Sir John. "What a villain! and what a blessed -escape! He made a great point of Helen's bit of money, three thousand -pounds, not being tied up before the marriage. I suppose he wanted to -get it into his own hands." - -"Of course he did." - -"And to pay his debts with it; as far as it would go." - -"_Pay his debts with it!_" exclaimed Mr. Foliott. "Why, my good sir, it -would take thirty thousand to pay them. He would just have squandered it -away in Paris, at his gaming-tables, and what not; and then have asked -you to keep him. Miss Whitney is well quit of him: and I'm thankful I -came back in time to save her." - -Great news to disclose to Helen! Deeply mortifying to have ordered -a wedding-breakfast and wedding things in general when there was no -wedding to be celebrated! The tears were running down Lady Whitney's -homely cheeks, as Miss Deveen drove up. - -Mr. Foliott asked to see Helen. All he said to her we never knew--but -there's no doubt he was as kind as a father. - -"He is a wicked, despicable man," sobbed Helen. - -"He is all that, and more," assented Mr. Foliott. "You may be thankful -your whole life long for having escaped him. And, my dear, if it will at -all help you to bear the smart, I may tell you that you are not the -first young lady by two or three he has served, or tried to serve, in -precisely the same way. And to one of them he behaved more wickedly than -I care to repeat to you." - -"But," ruefully answered poor Helen, quietly sobbing, "I don't suppose -it came so near with any of them as the very morning." - -And that was the end of Helen Whitney's wedding. - - - - -HELEN'S CURATE. - - -I. - -A summons from Mr. Brandon meant a summons. And I don't think I should -have dared to disobey one any more than I should those other summonses -issued by the law courts. He was my guardian, and he let me know it. - -But I was hardly pleased that the mandate should have come for me just -this one particular day. We were at Crabb Cot: Helen, Anna, and William -Whitney had come to it for a week's visit; and I did not care to lose a -day with them. It had to be lost, however. Mr. Brandon had ordered me to -be with him as early as possible in the morning: so that I must be off -betimes to catch the first train. - -It was a cold bleak day towards the end of February: sleet falling now -and then, the east wind blowing like mad, and cutting me in two as I -stood at the hall-door. Nobody else was down yet, and I had swallowed my -breakfast standing. - -Shutting the door after me, and making a rush down the walk between the -evergreens for the gate, I ran against Lee, the Timberdale postman, who -was coming in, with the letters, on his shaky legs. His face, shaded by -its grey locks, straggling and scanty, had a queer kind of fear upon it. - -"Mr. Johnny, I'm thankful to meet you; I was thinking what luck it would -be if I could," said he, trembling. "Perhaps you will stand my friend, -sir. Look here." - -Of the two letters he handed to me, one was addressed to Mrs. Todhetley; -the other to Helen Whitney. And this last had its envelope pretty nearly -burnt off. The letter inside could be opened by anybody, and some of the -scorched writing lay exposed. - -"If the young lady would only forgive me--and hush it up, Mr. Johnny!" -he pleaded, his poor worn face taking a piteous hue. "The Miss Whitneys -are both very nice and kind young ladies; and perhaps she will." - -"How was it done, Lee?" - -"Well, sir, I was lighting my pipe. It is a smart journey here, all the -way from Timberdale--and I had to take the long round to-day instead of -the Ravine, because there was a newspaper for the Stone House. The east -wind was blowing right through me, Mr. Johnny; and I thought if I had -a bit of a smoke I might get along better. A spark must have fallen on -the letter while I was lighting my pipe, and I did not see it till the -letter was aflame in my hand. If--if you could but stand my friend, sir, -and--and perhaps give the letter to the young lady yourself, so that the -Squire does not see it--and ask her to forgive me." - -One could only pity him, poor worn man. Lee had had pecks of trouble, -and it had told upon him, making him old before his time. Now and then, -when it was a bad winter's morning, and the Squire caught sight of him, -he would tell him to go into the kitchen and get a cup of hot coffee. -Taking the two letters from him to do what I could, I carried them -indoors. - -Putting Helen's with its tindered cover into an envelope, I wrote a line -in pencil, and slipped it in also. - - "DEAR HELEN, - - "Poor old Lee has had a mishap and burnt your letter in lighting his - pipe. He wants you to forgive it and not to tell the Squire. No real - damage is done, so please be kind. - - "J. L." - -Directing this to her, I sent it to her room by Hannah, and made a final -start for the train. - -And this was what happened afterwards. - -Hannah took the letter to Helen, who was in the last stage of dressing, -just putting the finishing touches to her hair. Staring at the state her -letter was in, she read the few words I had written, and then went into -a passion at what Lee had done. Helen Whitney was as good-hearted a girl -as ever lived, but hot and hasty in temper, saying anything that came -uppermost when put out. She, by the help of time, had got over the -smart left by the summary collapse of her marriage, and had ceased to -abuse Mr. Richard Foliott. All that was now a thing of the past. And, -not having had a spark of love for him, he was the more easily -forgotten. - -"The wicked old sinner!" she burst out: and with emphasis so startling, -that Anna, reading by the window, dropped her Prayer-book. - -"Helen! What is the matter?" - -"_That's_ the matter," flashed Helen, showing the half-burnt envelope -and scorched letter, and flinging on the table the piece of paper I had -slipped inside. Anna took the letter up and read it. - -"Poor old man! It was only an accident, Helen; and, I suppose, as Johnny -says, no real damage is done. You must not say anything about it." - -"Must I not!" was Helen's tart retort. - -"Who is the letter from?" - -"Never you mind." - -"But is it from home?" - -"It is from Mr. Leafchild, if you must know." - -"Oh," said Anna shortly. For that a flirtation, or something of the -kind, had been going on between Helen and the curate, Leafchild, and -that it would not be likely to find favour at Whitney Hall, she was -quite aware of. - -"Mr. Leafchild writes about the school," added Helen, after reading the -letter; perhaps tendering the information as an apology for its having -come at all. "Those two impudent girls, Kate and Judith Dill, have been -setting Miss Barn at defiance, and creating no end of insubordination." - -With the last word, she was leaving the room; the letter in her pocket, -the burnt envelope in her hand. Anna stopped her. - -"You are not going to show that, are you, Helen? Please don't." - -"Mr. Todhetley ought to see it--and call Lee to account for his -carelessness. Why, he might have altogether burnt the letter!" - -"Yes; of course it was careless. But I dare say it will be a lesson to -him. He is very poor and old, Helen. Pray don't tell the Squire; he -might make so much commotion over it, and then you would be sorry. -Johnny asks you not." - -Helen knitted her brow, but put the envelope into her pocket with the -letter: not conceding with at all a good grace, and went down nodding -her head in semi-defiance. The cream of the sting lay no doubt in the -fact that the letter was Mr. Leafchild's, and that other eyes than her -own might have seen it. - -She did not say anything at the breakfast-table, though Anna sat upon -thorns lest she should: Helen was so apt to speak upon impulse. The -Squire talked of riding out; Whitney said he would go with him: Tod -seemed undecided what he should do. Mrs. Todhetley read to them the -contents of her letter--which was from Mary Blair. - -"I shall go for a walk," announced Helen, when the rest had dispersed. -"Come and get your things on, Anna." - -"But I don't care to go out," said Anna. "It is a very disagreeable day. -And I meant to help Mrs. Todhetley with the frock she is making for -Lena." - -"You can help her when you come back. I am not going through that Crabb -Ravine by myself." - -"Through Crabb Ravine!" - -"Yes. I want to go to Timberdale." - -It never occurred to Anna that the errand to Timberdale could have any -connection with the morning's mishap. She put her things on without more -ado--Helen always domineered over her, just as Tod did over me--and the -two girls went out together. - -"Halloa!" cried Tod, who was standing by the pigeon-house. "Where are -you off to?" - -"Timberdale," replied Helen. And Tod turned and walked with them. - -They were well through the Ravine, and close on to the entrance of -Timberdale, before Helen said a word of what she had in her mind. -Pulling the burnt envelope and the letter out then, she showed them to -Tod. - -"What do you think of that for a piece of carelessness!" she asked: and -forthwith told him the whole story. Tod, hasty and impulsive, took the -matter up as warmly as she had done. - -"Lee ought to be reported for this--and punished. There might have been -a bank-note in the letter." - -"Of course there might," assented Helen. "And for Johnny Ludlow to want -to excuse him, and ask me to hush it up!" - -"Just like Johnny! In such things he is an out-and-out muff. How would -the world go on, I wonder, if Johnny ruled it? You ought to have shown -it to the Squire at once, Helen." - -"So I should but for Johnny and Anna. As they had asked me not to, I did -not quite like to fly in their faces. But I am going to show it to your -postmaster at Timberdale." - -"Oh, Helen!" involuntarily breathed Anna. And Tod looked up. - -"Don't mind her," said Helen. "She and Johnny are just alike--making -excuses for every one. Rymer the chemist is postmaster, is he not?" - -"Rymer's dead--don't you remember that, Helen? Before he died, he gave -up the post-office business. Salmon, the grocer opposite, took to it." - -This Salmon was brother to the Salmon (grocer and draper) at South -Crabb. Both were long-headed men, and flourishing tradesmen in their -small way. - -"Poor old Lee!" cried Tod, with a shade of pity. "He is too ailing and -feeble; we have often said it. But of course he must be taught not to -set fire to the letters." - -Anna's eyelashes were wet. "Suppose, by your complaining, you should get -him turned out of his post?" she suggested, with the timid deference she -might have observed to a royal duke--but in the presence of those two -she always lost her courage. Tod answered her gently. When he was gentle -to any one, it was to her. - -"No fear of that, Anna. Salmon will blow old Lee up, and there'll be an -end of it. Whose letter was it, Helen?" - -"It was from Mr. Leafchild--about our schools," answered Helen, turning -her face away that he might not see its sudden rush of colour. - -Well, they made their complaint to Salmon; who was properly indignant -and said he would look into it, Tod putting in a word for the offender, -Lee. "We don't want him reported to headquarters, or anything of that -kind, you know, Salmon. Just give him a reprimand, and warn him to be -cautious in future." - -"I'll see to him, sir," nodded Salmon. - -(The final result of the burning of this letter of Helen Whitney's, and -of another person's letter that got burnt later, was recorded in the -last Series, in a paper called "Lee the Letter-Man." - -It may be as well to remind the reader that these stories told by -"Johnny Ludlow" are not always placed consecutively as regards the time -of their occurrence, but go backwards or forwards indiscriminately.) - -Being so near, Helen and Anna thought they would call on Herbert -Tanerton and Grace at the Rectory; next, they just looked in at -Timberdale Court--Robert Ashton's. Altogether, what with one delay and -another, they arrived at home when lunch was nearly over. And who should -be sitting there, but Sir John Whitney! He had come over unexpectedly to -pass an hour or two. - -Helen Whitney was very clever in her way: but she was apt to be -forgetful at times, as all the rest of us are. One thing she had totally -and entirely forgotten to-day--and that was to ask Tod not to speak of -the letter. So that when the Squire assailed them with reproaches for -being late, Tod, unconscious that he was doing wrong, blurted out the -truth. A letter from Mr. Leafchild to Helen had been partly burnt by old -Lee, and they had been to Timberdale to complain to Salmon. - -"A letter from Leafchild to Helen!" cried Sir John. "That must be a -mistake. Leafchild would not presume to write to Helen." - -She grew white as snow. Sir John had turned from the table to face her, -and she dared not run away. The Squire was staring and frowning at the -news of old Lee's sin, denouncing him hotly, and demanding to see the -letter. - -"Yes, where is this letter?" asked Sir John. "Let me see it, Helen." - -"It--it was about the schools, papa." - -"About the schools! Like his impudence! What have you to do with the -schools? Give me the letter." - -"My gracious me, burn a letter!" cried the Squire. "Lee must be in his -dotage. The letter, my dear, the letter; we must see it." - -Between them both, Helen was in a corner. She might have been capable of -telling a white fib and saying she had not the letter, rather than let -her father see it. Anna, who knew she had it in her pocket, went for -nobody; but Tod knew it also. Tod suspecting no complications, was -holding out his hand for her to produce it. With trembling lips, and -fingers that shook in terror, she slowly drew it forth. Sir John took -the letter from her, the Squire caught hold of the burnt envelope. - -There was not a friendly hole in the floor for Helen to drop through. -She escaped by the door to hide herself and her hot cheeks. For this was -neither more nor less than a love-letter from the curate, and Sir John -had taken it to the window to read it in the stronger light. - -"Bless my heart and mind!" cried he when he had mastered its contents, -just such an exclamation as the Squire would have made. "He--he--I -believe the fellow means to make love to her! What a false-hearted -parson he must be! Come here, Todhetley." - -To see the two old heads poring over the letter together through their -spectacles was something good, Tod said, when he told me all this later. -It was just a love-letter and nothing less, but without a word of love -in it. But not a bad love-letter of its kind; rather a sensible one. -After telling Helen about the tracasserie in the parish school (which -must have afforded him just the excuse for writing that he may have -wanted), the curate went on to say a little bit about their mutual -"friendship," and finished up by begging Helen to allow him to speak -to Sir John and Lady Whitney, for he could not bear to think that by -keeping silent they were deceiving them. "As honourable a letter in -its way as you could wish to hear read," observed Tod; for Sir John -and the Squire had read it aloud between them for the benefit of the -dining-room. - -"This comes of having grown-up daughters," bewailed poor Sir John. -"Leafchild ought to be put in the pillory. And where's Helen got to? -Where is that audacious girl?" - -Poor Helen caught it hot and strong--Sir John demanding of her, for one -thing, whether she had not had enough of encouraging disreputable young -sparks with that Richard Foliott. Poor Helen sobbed and hid her head, -and finally took courage to say that Mr. Leafchild was a saint on -earth--not to be as much as named in the same sentence with Richard -Foliott. And when I got home at night, everybody, from Helen downwards, -was in the dumps, and Sir John had gone home to make mincemeat of the -curate. - -Buttermead was one of those straggling parishes that are often found in -rural districts. Whitney Hall was situated in it, also the small village -of Whitney, also that famous school of ours, Dr. Frost's, and there was -a sprinkling of other good houses. Some farm homesteads lay scattered -about; and the village boasted of a street and a half. - -The incumbent of Buttermead, or Whitney, was the Reverend Matthew -Singleton: his present curate was Charles Leafchild. Mr. Leafchild, -though eight-and-twenty years of age, was only now ordained deacon, and -this year was his first in the ministry. At eighteen he had gone out to -the West Indies, a post having been found for him there. He did not go -by choice. Being a steady-minded young fellow, religiously inclined, he -had always wished to be a parson; but his father, Dr. Leafchild, a great -light among Church dignitaries, and canon residentiary of a cathedral in -the North, had set his face against the wish. The eldest son was a -clergyman, and of his preferment Dr. Leafchild could take tolerable -care, but he did not know that he could do much in that way for his -younger sons, and so Charles's hopes had to go to the wall. Spiritual -earnestness, however, at length made itself heard within him to -some purpose; and he resolved, come what might, that he would quit -money-making for piety. The West Indian climate did not agree with -him; he had to leave it for home, and then it was that he made the -change. "You would have been rich in time had you stuck to your post," -remonstrated the Reverend Doctor to him: "now you may be nothing but a -curate all your life." "True, father," was the answer, "but I shall hope -to do my duty as one." So Charles Leafchild made himself into a parson, -and here he was at Buttermead, reading through his first year, partially -tabooed by his family, and especially by that flourishing divine, the -head of it. - -He was a good-looking young man, as men go. Rather tall than not, with -a pale, calm face, brown hair that he wore long, and mild brown eyes -that had no end of earnestness in their depths. A more self-denying man -could not be found; though as a rule young men are not famous for great -self-denial. The small stipend given by Mr. Singleton had to suffice for -all his wants. Leafchild had never said what this stipend was; except -that he admitted one day it was not _more_ than seventy pounds: how much -less than that, he did not state. - -Just a few roods out of the village stood a small dwelling called -Marigold Cottage. A tidy woman named Bean lived in it with her -two daughters, one of whom was the paid mistress of the national -girls'-school. Mr. Leafchild lodged here, as the late curate had before -him, occupying the spare sitting-room and bedroom. And if Mrs. Bean was -to be believed--and she had been a veracious woman all her life--three -days out of the seven, at least, Mr. Leafchild went without meat at -his dinner, having given it away to some sick or poor creature, who -wanted it, he considered, more than he did. A self-denying, earnest, -gentle-minded man; that's what he was: and perhaps it may be forgiven -to Helen Whitney that she fell in love with him. - -When Helen went home from London, carrying with her the mortification -that came of her interrupted marriage and Captain Foliott's delinquency, -she began to do what she had never done in her life before, busy herself -a little in the parish: perhaps as a safety-valve to carry off her -superfluous anger. The curate was a middle-aged man with a middle-aged -wife and two babies, and Helen had no scruple in going about with him, -here, there, and everywhere. To the schools, to the church, to practise -the boys, to visit the poor, went she. But when in a few months that -curate's heart was made glad by a living--two hundred a-year and a -five-roomed Vicarage--and Mr. Leafchild came in his place, it was a -little different. She did not run about with the new curate as she had -with the old, but she did see a good deal of him, and he of her. The -result was they fell in love with one another. For the first time in her -life the uncertain god, Cupid, had pierced the somewhat invulnerable -heart of Helen Whitney. - -But now, could anything be so inappropriate, or look more hopeless? -Charles Leafchild, B.A., curate of Buttermead, positively only yet -reading for his full title, scantily paid, no prospect of anything -better, lacking patronage; and Miss Helen Whitney, daughter of Sir John -Whitney, baronet! Looking at it from a practical point of view, it -seemed that he might just as well have expected to woo and wed one of -the stars in the sky. - -On the bleak February morning that followed Helen's expedition to -Timberdale, Mr. Leafchild came down from his chamber and entered his -sitting-room. The fire, a small one, for Mrs. Bean had received a -general caution to be sparing of his coal, burnt brightly in the grate. -He stood over it for a minute or two, rubbing his slender hands at the -blaze: since he left the West Indies he had felt the cold more keenly -than formerly. Then he turned to the breakfast-table, and saw upon it, -a small portion of cold neck of mutton, an uncut loaf, and a pat of -butter. His tea stood there, already made. - -"If I leave the meat, it will do for dinner," he thought: and proceeded -to make his meal of bread-and-butter. Letty Bean, who chiefly waited on -him, came in. - -"A letter for you, sir," she said, handing him a note. - -He took it, looked at the handwriting, which was thick and sprawly and -not familiar to him, and laid it beside his plate. - -"Sir John Whitney's footman brought it, sir," continued Letty, -volunteering the information: and a hot colour flushed the curate's face -as he heard it. He opened it then. Short and peremptory, it merely -requested the Reverend Charles Leafchild to call upon Sir John Whitney -that morning at Whitney Hall. - -"Is the man waiting for an answer, Letty?" - -"No, sir. He went away as soon as he gave it me." - -Mr. Leafchild half suspected what had occurred--that Sir John must, in -some way, have become acquainted with the state of affairs. He judged -so by the cold, haughty tone of the note: hitherto Sir John had always -shown himself friendly. Far from being put out, Mr. Leafchild hoped it -was so, and went on with his breakfast. - -Another interruption. Mrs. Bean this time. She wore a mob cap and had -lost her teeth. - -"Here's that tipsy Jones come to the door, sir. He says you told him to -come." - -"Ah yes, I did; let him come in," said the curate. "Is he tipsy this -morning?" - -"No, sir, only shaky. And what shall I order you for dinner, sir, -to-day? I may as well ask, as I am here." - -"That will do," he answered, pointing to the cold meat. "And please mash -the potatoes." - -Jones came in. The man was not an incorrigibly bad doer, but weak and -irresolute. If he worked two days, he idled and drank three, and his -wife and children suffered. Mr. Leafchild, who felt more sorrow for him -than anger, invited him to a seat by the fire, and talked to him long -and persuasively, almost as one brother might talk to another, and gave -him a hot cup of tea. Jones went away great in promises and penitence: -and about eleven o'clock the curate betook himself to the Hall. - -Of all men living, the Squire perhaps excepted, Sir John was about the -worst to carry out any troublesome negotiation. He was good-hearted, -irresolute, and quick-tempered. - -When Mr. Leafchild was shown in, Sir John utterly forgot certain -speeches he had conned over in his mind, broke down, went into a -passion, and told the curate he was a designing, impudent villain. - -Though his love for Helen, and that was intense, caused him to feel -somewhat agitated in the presence of Helen's father, Mr. Leafchild's -manner was quiet and calm, a very contrast to that of Sir John. After a -little while, when the baronet had talked himself cool, Mr. Leafchild -entered into a history of the affair: telling how he and Miss Whitney -had met without any intention of any kind, except of that which might be -connected with the parish interests, and how with as little intention, -a mutual liking--nay, a _love_--had sprung up. - -"Yes, that's all very fine," said Sir John, shuffling about his steel -spectacles that were perched on his old red nose. "You knew she was my -daughter; you knew well what you were about." - -The young man reddened at the reproach. - -"Sir, indeed you misjudge me. I never thought of such a thing as falling -in love with Miss Whitney until the love had come. Had she been the most -obscure of young women, it would have been all the same." - -"Then you are an idiot for your pains," retorted Sir John. "Why, -goodness gracious me! have you not _one_ single atom of common sense? -Can't you see how unfitting it is?" - -"My family is a very good one; in point of fact, as good as yours, Sir -John--if you will pardon me for saying so thus pointedly," urged the -curate in his gentle voice. "And though----" - -"Oh, bother!" interrupted Sir John, having no counter argument -particularly at hand. "That goes for nothing. What are your prospects?" - -"They are not great. Perhaps I ought to say that I have no prospects as -yet. But, sir----" - -"Now come! that's honest. No prospects! And yet you must go making love -to my daughter." - -"I have not done that, sir, in one sense--'made love.' Hardly a word, -I think, has passed between myself and Miss Whitney that you might not -have heard. But we have, notwithstanding, been fully aware of the state -of each other's heart----" - -"The state of each other's fiddlestick," spluttered Sir John. "A nice -pair of you, I must say! And pray, what did you think it would come to?" - -"What Miss Whitney may have thought I have not presumed to ask. For -myself, I confess I am cherishing hopes for the future. It is some -little time now since I have been wishing to speak to you, Sir John: and -I intended, if you were so kind as not to entirely reject me, to write -to my father, Dr. Leafchild, and lay the whole case before him. I think -he can help me later if he will; and I certainly believe he will be only -too glad to do it." - -"Help you to what?" - -"To a living." - -"And, bless my heart and mind, how long do you suppose you might have to -wait? A dozen years. Twenty years, for all you know. The curate who was -here before you, poor Bell, had been waiting more than twenty years for -one. It came to him last year, and he was forty-seven years old." - -Mr. Leafchild could say nothing to this. - -"And a fine living it is, now he has it!" went on Sir John. "No, no, -sir: Helen Whitney cannot be dragged into that kind of fate." - -"I should be the last to drag her, or wish to drag her into it. Believe -that, Sir John. But, if I had a good living given to me, then I should -like her to share it. And I think that my father would perhaps allow me -some private means also, for Helen's sake. He has money, and could do -it." - -"But all those fancies and notions are just so many vapours, clouds up -in the sky, and no better, don't you see! You young men are sanguine and -foolish; you lose sight of facts in fallacies. We must look at what is, -not at what might be. Why, you are not yet even a priest!" - -"No. I shall be ordained to that in a few months' time." - -"And then, I suppose, you will either remain here, or get a curacy -elsewhere. And your income will be that of a curate--a hundred pounds -a-year, all told. Some curates get but fifty." - -"True. We are poorly paid." - -"And that may go on till you are forty or fifty years of age! And yet, -in the face of it, you ask me to let you have my daughter. Now, Mr. -Leafchild, you are either a simpleton yourself, or you must think I am -one," added Sir John, rising to end the interview, which had been to him -one of thorough discomfort. "And I'm sure I hope you'll pick up a little -common sense, young man, and I shall order Miss Helen to pick some up -too. There, that's all." - -"I trust you are not angry with me, sir," said the curate mildly, for -Sir John was holding out his hand to be shaken. - -"Well, yes, I am. Anything like this causes one such worry, you know. -I'm sure I and my wife have had no sleep all night. You must not think -any more of Helen. And now good-morning." - -As Mr. Leafchild walked back to his lodgings at Dame Bean's, his hopes -seemed to be about as dull as the wintry sky on which his nice brown -eyes were fixed. His whole happiness, socially speaking, lay in Helen; -hers lay with him; but only separation seemed to be looming in the air. -Suddenly, when he was close to Marigold Cottage, a little rift broke in -the leaden clouds, and a bit of pale blue sky shone forth. - -"I will take that as an omen for good; pray God it may be so!" spoke the -curate gladly and reverently, as he lifted his hat. "And--come what may, -in storm and in tempest, God is over all." - -Helen went home in the dumps and to sundry edifying lectures. An embargo -was laid on her parish work, and she only saw the curate at church. One -month, two months passed over thus, and she grew pale and thin. Sir John -was cross, Lady Whitney uncomfortable; they were both simple-minded -people, caring more for their children's happiness than for their -grandeur. The former told the Squire in confidence that if the young -fellow could get a decent living, he was not sure but he'd give in, and -that he liked him ten thousand times better than he had ever liked that -Foliott. - -They met one day by accident. Helen was out moping in the long broad -walk: which was beginning to be shady now, for May was all but in, and -the trees were putting on their foliage. At the end of it she came to -a standstill, leaning on the gate. The waters of the lake, out yonder, -were blue as the unruffled sky. With a faint cry, she started aside, for -Charles Leafchild stood before her. - -Being a parson, and tacitly on honour to Sir John, he might have been -expected to pass on his way without stopping; but Helen's hand was -already stretched out over the gate. He could but shake it. - -"You are not looking well," he said after a moment's silence. "I am -sorry to see it." - -What with his unexpected presence, and what with her mind's general -discomfort, Helen burst into tears. Mr. Leafchild kept her hand in his. - -"I have a bad headache to-day," said Helen, by way of excuse for her -tears. "It has been gloomy weather lately." - -"Gloomy within and without," he assented, giving a meaning to her words -that she had not meant to imply. "But in every cloud, you know, however -dark it may be, there is always a silver lining." - -"We can't always see it," returned Helen, drying her tears. - -"No; we very often cannot. But we may trust that it is there--and be -patient." - -"I think it sometimes happens that we never see it--that all is gloomy -to the end, the end of life. What then?" - -"Then we may be sure that it is best for us it should be so. God directs -all things." - -Helen sighed: she had not learnt the love and faith and submission that -made up the sum of Mr. Leafchild's life, bringing into it so strange a -peace. - -"Is it true that you are going to leave?" she asked. "We heard it -mentioned." - -"Yes: when I shall be fully ordained. Mr. Singleton has to take his -nephew. It was an old promise--that he should come to him for his first -year, just as I have. I think I shall go to Worcester." - -"To Worcester?" - -"I have been offered a curacy there by one of the minor canons whose -living is in the town, and I feel inclined to take it. The parish is -large and has a good many of the very poor in it." - -Helen made a face. "But would you like that? You might be frightfully -overworked." - -"It is what I should like. As to the work--it is done for our Master." - -He shook hands with her again, and left, the cheery smile still on his -face, the thoughtful light in his steadfast eyes. And never a word of -love, you see, had passed. - -It was, I take it, about a fortnight after this, that there went walking -one afternoon to Whitney Hall, a tall, portly, defiant-looking gentleman -in gold-rimmed spectacles and a laced-up clerical hat. By the way he -turned his head here and there, and threw his shoulders about as he -strode along, you might have taken him for a bishop at least, instead of -a canon--but canons in those days were a great deal more self-important -than bishops are in these. It was the Reverend Dr. Leafchild. A real -canon was he, a great man in his own cathedral, and growing rich on his -share of its substantial revenues: your honorary canons with their empty -title and non-stipends had not sprung into fashion then. In his pompous -manner, and he had been born pompous, Dr. Leafchild asked to see Sir -John Whitney. - -After Mr. Leafchild's interview with Sir John in February, he had -written to his father and told him all about it, asking him whether he -thought he could not help him later to a living, so that he might have a -chance of winning Helen. But for Helen's being a baronet's daughter and -the connection one that even the canon might be proud of, he would have -turned a deaf ear: as it was, he listened. But Dr. Leafchild never did -things in a hurry; and after some correspondence with his son (and a -great deal of grumbling, meant for his good), he had now come into -Worcestershire for the purpose of talking over the affair with Sir John. - -The upshot was, that Sir John gave in, and sanctioned the engagement. -There was an excellent living somewhere down in the North--eight hundred -pounds a-year, a handsome house, and some land--the next presentation to -which the canon could command. He had intended it for his eldest son; -but he, by some lucky chance, had just obtained a better preferment, and -the doctor could promise it to Charles. The present incumbent was old -and ailing; therefore, in all probability, it would very speedily fall -in. The canon added that he might settle on the young people a small sum -at their marriage, say a hundred a-year, or so; and he also hinted that -Charles might stand a chance of better preferment later--say a snug -canonry. So Sir John shook hands heartily upon the bargain, invited the -canon to stay dinner, and sent for Charles. - -For the next six weeks who so happy as the curate and Helen? They came -over to us at Dyke Manor (for we had gone back there) for a day or two, -and we learnt to like him with our whole hearts. What a good, earnest, -warm-natured man he was; and oh, how unselfish! - -I remember one evening in particular when they were out together, pacing -the field-path. Helen had his arm, and he was talking to her in what -seemed an uncommonly solemn manner: for his hand was lifted now and then -in earnestness, and both were gazing upwards. It was a beautiful sky: -the sun had set in splendour, leaving crimson and gold clouds behind it, -the evening star twinkled in the deepening canopy. Mrs. Todhetley sent -me to them. A poor woman had come up for broth for her sick son, one of -our labourers. She was in great distress: a change had taken place in -him for the worse, he was calling for the clergyman to come to him -before he died: but Mr. Holland was out that evening--gone to Evesham. - -"Johnny, I--I think Mr. Leafchild would go," said the mater. "Do you -mind asking him?" - -Hardly any need to ask. At the first word he was hastening to the woman -and walking away with her. Helen's eyes, gazing at the sky still, were -wet with tears. - -"Is it not beautiful, Johnny?" - -"Very." It was a glorious sunset. - -"But I never saw it as I see it now. He is teaching me many things. I -cannot hope to be ever as he is, Johnny, not half as good; but I think -in time he will make me a little like him." - -"You have a happy life before you." - -"Yes--I hope so," she said hesitatingly. "But sometimes a feeling makes -itself heard within me--that one who is so entirely fitted for the next -world may not long be left in this." - - -II. - -It was autumn weather--October. A lot of us were steaming over to -Worcester in the train. Miss Whitney from Cheltenham, and a friend -of hers--a maiden lady as ancient as herself, one Miss Conaway, of -Devonshire--were staying at the Hall. Miss Conaway did not know -Worcester, and was now being taken to see it--especially the cathedral. -Lady Whitney, Helen, Anna, and I made up the party, and we filled -the carriage. My being with them arose from chance: I had come over -accidentally that morning to Whitney Hall. Of course Helen hoped to see -something besides the cathedral her curate. For in June Mr. Leafchild, -then in priest's orders, entered on his new curacy at Worcester, there -to stay until the expected living should fall in. - -"How is he?" I asked Helen, bending over the arm of the seat that -divided us. - -"Working himself to death," she whispered back to me, her tone a cross -one. - -"He said he was glad there would be plenty of work, you know. And it is -a large parish." - -"But he need not let it put _everything_ else out of his head." - -"Meaning you?" - -"I have not heard from him for more than a week. Papa had a letter from -Dr. Leafchild this morning. He said in it that Charles, when he last -wrote, complained of being poorly." - -"A great many curates do get very overtaxed." - -"Oh, and what do you think?" went on Helen. "He is actually beginning to -have scruples about taking that living, on the score that there'll be -hardly any work to do." - -"But--he will take it!" - -"Yes, I suppose he _will_, because of me; but it will go against the -grain, I fancy. I do think one may have too strict a conscience." - -It was past one o'clock when we reached Worcester. Lady Whitney -complained in the train of having started too late. First of all there -was luncheon to be taken at the Star: that brought it to past two. Then -various other things had to be done: see the cathedral, and stay the -afternoon service, go over the china works at Diglis, and buy a bundle -of articles at the linen-draper's. All these duties over, they meant to -invade Mr. Leafchild's lodgings in Paradise Row. - -They took the draper's to begin with, the whole of them trooping in, one -after another, like sheep into a pen: and I vow that they only came out -again when the bell was going for three-o'clock service. Helen was not -in a genial mood: at this rate there would not be much time left for -visiting the curate. - -"It was Aunt Ann's fault," she grumbled to me--"and mamma's. They were -a good half-hour looking at the stuff for the children's winter frocks. -Aunt Ann maintained that cashmere was best, mamma held to merino. All -the shelves they had taken down! I would not be a linen-draper's shopman -for the world." - -Just in time, were we, to get into our seats before the procession of -clergy and choristers came in. The chanter that afternoon was Mr. -Leafchild's rector: I knew him to speak to. But there's no space to -linger upon details. - -A small knot of people, ourselves and others, had collected in the -transept after service, waiting for one of the old bedesmen to do the -honours of the cathedral, when the chanter came down the steps of the -south aisle, after disrobing in the vestry. - -"Do you know who he is?" I said to Helen, who was standing with me a -little apart. - -"No--how should I know? Except that he must be one of the minor canons." - -"He is Mr. Leafchild's rector." - -"Is he?" she eagerly cried, the colour coming into her face. And just -then he chanced to look our way, and nodded to me. I went up to him to -speak. - -"This is a terrible thing about Leafchild," he exclaimed in a minute or -two. - -"What is it?" I asked, my breath stopping. - -Helen, who had slowly paced after me on the white flags, stood stock -still and turned as pale as you please. - -"Have you not heard of his illness? Perhaps not, though: it has been so -sudden. A few days ago he was apparently as well as I am now. But it was -only last night that the doctors began to apprehend danger." - -"Is it fever?" - -"Yes. A species of typhoid, I believe. Whether caught in his -ministrations or not, I don't know. Though I suppose it must have been. -He is lying at his lodgings in Paradise Row. Leafchild has not seemed in -good condition lately," continued the clergyman. "He is most unremitting -in his work, fags himself from morning till night, and lives anyhow: so -perhaps he was not fortified to resist the attack of an enemy. He is -very ill: and since last night he has been unconscious." - -"He is _dangerously_ ill, did you say?" spoke poor Helen, biting her -lips to hide their tremor. - -"Almost more than dangerous: I fear there is little hope left," he -answered, never of course suspecting who Helen was. "Good-afternoon." - -She followed him with her eyes as he turned to the cloister-door: and -then moved away towards the north entrance, looking as one dazed. - -"Helen, where are you going?" - -"To see him." - -"Oh, but it won't do. It won't, indeed, Helen." - -"_I am going to see him_," she answered, in her most wilful tone. "Don't -you hear that he is dying? I know he is; I feel it instinctively as a -sure and certain fact. If you have a spark of goodness you'll come with -me, Johnny Ludlow. It's all the same--whether you do or not." - -I looked around for our party. They had disappeared up the other aisle -under convoy of the bedesman, leaving Helen and myself to follow at our -leisure; or perhaps not noticing our absence. Helen, marching away with -quick steps, passed out at the grand entrance. - -"It is not _safe_ for you to go, Helen," I remonstrated, as we went -round the graveyard and so up High Street. "You would catch the fever -from him." - -"_I_ shall catch no fever." - -"He caught it." - -"I wish you'd be quiet. Can't you _see_ what I am suffering?" - -The sweetest sight to me just then would have been Lady Whitney, or any -one else holding authority over Helen. I seemed responsible for any ill -that might ensue: and yet, what could I do? - -"Helen, pray listen to a word of reason! See the position you put me in. -A fever is not a light thing to risk." - -"I don't believe that typhoid fever is catching. He did not say typhus." - -"Of course it's catching." - -"Are you afraid of it?" - -"I don't know that I am afraid. But I should not run into it by choice. -And I'm sure you ought not to." - -We were just then passing that large druggist's shop that the Squire -always called Featherstonhaugh's--just because Mr. Featherstonhaugh once -kept it. Helen darted across the street and into it. - -"A pound of camphor," said she, to the young man behind the right-hand -counter. - -"A pound of camphor!" he echoed. "Did you say _a pound_, ma'am?" - -"Is it too much?" asked Helen. "I want some to put about me: I am going -to see some one who is ill." - -It ended in his giving her two ounces. As we left the shop she handed -part of it to me, stowing the rest about herself. And whether it was -thanks to the camphor, I don't know, but neither of us took any harm. - -"There. You can't grumble now, Johnny Ludlow." - -Paradise Row, as every one knows, is right at the other end of the town, -past the Tything. We had nearly reached the house when a gentleman, who -looked like a doctor, came out of it. - -"I beg your pardon," said Helen, accosting him as he met us, and -coughing to hide her agitation, "but we think--seeing you come out of -the house--that you may be attending Mr. Leafchild. Is he better?" - -The doctor looked at us both, and shook his head as he answered-- - -"Better in one sense of the word, in so far as that he is now conscious; -worse in another. He is sinking fast." - -A tremor shook Helen from head to foot. She turned away to hide it. I -spoke. - -"Do you mean--dying?" - -"I fear so." - -"Are his friends with him?" - -"Not any of them. His father was sent to yesterday, but he has not yet -come. We did not write before, not having anticipated danger." - -"Why don't they have Henry Carden to him?" cried Helen in passionate -agitation as the doctor walked away. "_He_ could have cured him." - -"No, no, Helen; don't think that. Other men are just as clever as Henry -Carden. They have only one treatment for fever." - -A servant-girl answered the door, and asked us into the parlour. She -took us for the relations from the north. Mr. Leafchild was lying in a -room near--a comfortable bed-chamber. Three doctors were attending him, -she said; but just now the nurse was alone with him. Would we like to go -in? she added: we had been expected all day. - -"Come with me, Johnny," whispered Helen. - -He was lying in bed, white and still, his eyes wide open. The nurse, a -stout old woman in light print gown and full white apron, stood at a -round table in the corner, noiselessly washing a wine-glass. She turned -her head, curtsied, and bustled out of the room. - -But wasn't he weak, as his poor thin hands clasped Helen's! His voice -was hollow as he tried to speak to her. The bitter tears, running down -her checks, were dropping on to the bed-clothes. - -"You should not have come", he managed to say. "My love, my love!" - -"Is there no hope?" she sobbed. "Oh, Charles, is there _no_ hope?" - -"May God soothe it to you! May He have you always in His good keeping!" - -"And is it no trouble to you to die?" she went on, reproach in her -anguished tone. "Have you no regret for the world, and--and for those -you leave behind?" - -"It is God's will," he breathed. "To myself it is no trouble, for He has -mercifully taken the trouble from me. I regret you, my Helen, I regret -the world. Or, rather, I should regret it, but that I know I am going to -one brighter and better. You will come to me there, my dear one, and we -shall live together for ever." - -Helen knelt down by the bed; he was lying close on the edge of it; and -laid her wet face against his. He held her to him for a moment, kissed -her fervently, and then motioned to me to take her away. - -"For your own sake, my dear," he whispered. "You are in danger here. -Give my dear love to them all." - -Helen just waved her hand back at me, as much as to say, Don't _you_ -interfere. But at that moment the fat old nurse bustled in again, with -the announcement that two of the doctors and Mr. Leafchild's rector were -crossing the road. That aroused Helen. - -One minute's close embrace, her tears bedewing his dying cheeks, one -lingering hand-clasp of pain, and they parted. Parted for all time. But -not for eternity. - -"God be with you ever!" he breathed, giving her his solemn blessing. -"Farewell, dear Johnny Ludlow!" - -"I am so sorry! If you could but get well!" I cried, my eyes not much -dryer than Helen's. - -"I shall soon be well: soon," he answered with a sweet faint smile, his -feeble clasp releasing my hand, which he had taken. "But not here. Fare -you well." - -Helen hid herself in a turn of the passage till the doctors had gone in, -and then we walked down the street together, she crying softly. Just -opposite Salt Lane, a fly passed at a gallop. Dr. Leafchild sat in it -muffled in coats, a cloud of sorrow on his generally pompous face. - - * * * * * - -And that was the abrupt end of poor Charles Leafchild, for he died at -midnight, full of peace. God's ways are not as our ways; or we might -feel tempted to ask why so good and useful a servant should have been -taken. - -And so, you perceive, there was another marriage of Helen Whitney -frustrated. Fortune seemed to be against her. - - - - -JELLICO'S PACK. - - -I. - -The shop was not at all in a good part of Evesham. The street was narrow -and dirty, the shop the same. Over the door might be seen written -"Tobias Jellico, Linen-draper and Huckster." One Monday--which is -market-day at Evesham, as the world knows--in going past it with Tod and -little Hugh, the child trod on his bootlace and broke it, and we turned -in to get another. It was a stuffy shop, filled with bundles as well as -wares, and behind the counter stood Mr. Jellico himself, a good-looking, -dark man of forty, with deep-set blue eyes, that seemed to meet at the -nose, so close were they together. - -The lace was a penny, he said, and Tod laid down sixpence. Jellico -handed the sixpence to a younger man who was serving lower down, and -began showing us all kinds of articles--neckties, handkerchiefs, -fishing-lines, cigar-lights, for he seemed to deal in varieties. Hugh -had put in his bootlace, but we could not get away. - -"I tell you we don't want anything of this," said Tod, in his haughty -way, for the persistent fellow had tired him out. "Give me my change." - -The other man brought the change wrapped up in paper, and we went on to -the inn. Tod had ordered the pony to be put in the chaise, and it stood -ready in the yard. Just then a white-haired, feeble old man came into -the yard, and begged. Tod opened the paper of half-pence. - -"The miserable cheat," he called out. "If you'll believe me, Johnny, -that fellow has only given me fourpence in change. If I had time I'd go -back to him. Sam, do you know anything of one Jellico, who keeps a fancy -shop?" asked he of the ostler. - -"A fancy shop, sir?" echoed Sam, considering. - -"Sells calico and lucifer-matches." - -"Oh, I know Mr. Jellico!" broke forth Sam, his recollection coming to -him. "He has got a cousin with him, sir." - -"No doubt. It was the cousin that cheated me. Mistakes are mistakes, and -the best of us are liable to them; but if that was a mistake, I'll eat -the lot." - -"It's as much of a leaving-shop as a draper's, sir. Leastways, it's said -that women can take things in and borrow money on them." - -"Oh!" said Tod. "Borrow a shilling on a Dutch oven to-day, and pay two -shillings to-morrow to get it out." - -"Anyway, Mr. Jellico does a fine trade, for he gives credit," concluded -Sam. - -But the wrong change might have been a mistake. - -In driving home, Tod pulled up at George Reed's cottage. Every one must -remember hearing where that was, and of Reed's being put into prison by -Major Parrifer. "Get down, Johnny," said he, "and see if Reed's there. -He must have left work." - -I went up the path where Reed's children were playing, and opened the -cottage door. Mrs. Reed and two neighbours stood holding out something -that looked like a gown-piece. With a start and a grab, Mrs. Reed caught -the stuff, and hid it under her apron, and the two others looked round -at me with scared faces. - -"Reed here? No, sir," she answered, in a sort of flurry. "He had to go -over to Alcester after work. I don't expect him home much afore ten -to-night." - -I shut the door, thinking nothing. Reed was a handy man at many things, -and Tod wanted him to help with some alteration in the pheasantry at the -Manor. It was Tod who had set it up--a long, narrow place enclosed with -green trellised work, and some gold and silver pheasants running about -in it. The Squire had been against it at first, and told Tod he wouldn't -have workmen bothering about the place. So Tod got Reed to come in of an -evening after his day's work, and in a fortnight the thing was up. Now -he wanted him again to alter it: he had found out it was too narrow. -That was one of Tod's failings. If he took a thing into his head it -must be done off-hand. The Squire railed at him for his hot-headed -impatience: but in point of fact he was of just the same impatient turn -himself. Tod had been over to Bill Whitney's and found their pheasantry -was twice as wide as his. - -"Confound Alcester," cried Tod in his vexation, as he drove on home. "If -Reed could have come up now and seen what it is I want done, he might -have begun upon it to-morrow evening." - -"The pater says it is quite wide enough as it is, Tod." - -"You shut up, Johnny. If I pay Reed out of my own pocket, it's nothing -to anybody." - -On Tuesday he sent me to Reed's again. It was a nice spring afternoon, -but I'm not sure that I thanked him for giving me that walk. Especially -when upon lifting the latch of the cottage door, I found it fastened. -Down I sat on the low bench outside the open window to wait--where Cathy -had sat many a time in the days gone by, making believe to nurse the -children, and that foolish young Parrifer would be leaning against the -pear-tree on the other side the path. I had to leave my message with -Mrs. Reed; I supposed she had only stepped into a neighbour's, and might -be back directly, for the two little girls were playing at "shop" in the -garden. - -Buzz, buzz: hum, hum. Why, those voices were in the kitchen! The lower -part of the casement was level with the top of my head; I turned round -and raised my eyes to look. - -Well! surprises, it is said, are the lot of man. It _was_ his face, -unless my sight deceived itself. The same blue eyes that were in the -shop at Evesham the day before, were inside Mrs. Reed's kitchen now: Mr. -Tobias Jellico's. The place seemed to be crowded with women. He was -smiling and talking to them in the most persuasive manner imaginable, -his hands waving an accompaniment, on one of which glittered a ring with -a yellow stone in it, a persuasive look on his rather well-featured -face. - -They were a great deal too agreeably engrossed to see me, and I looked -on at leisure. A sort of pack, open, rested on the floor; the table was -covered with all kinds of things for women's dress; silks, cottons, -ribbons, mantles; which Mrs. Reed and the others were leaning over and -fingering. - -"Silks ain't for the like of us; I'd never have the cheek to put one -on," cried a voice that I knew at once for shrill Peggy Dickon's. Next -to her stood Ann Dovey, the blacksmith's wife; who was very pretty, and -vain accordingly. - -"What kind o' stuff d'ye call this, master?" Ann Dovey asked. - -"That's called laine," answered Jellico. "It's all pure wool." - -"It's a'most as shiny as silk. I say, Mrs. Reed, d'ye think this 'ud -wear?" - -"It would wear for ever," put in Jellico. "Ten yards of it would make as -good a gown as ever went on a lady's back; and the cost is but two -shillings a yard." - -"Two shillings! Let's see--what 'ud that come to? Why, twenty, wouldn't -it? My patience, I shouldn't never dare to run up that score for one -gownd." - -Jellico laughed pleasantly. "You take it, Mrs. Dovey. It just suits your -bright cheeks. Pay me when you can, and how you can: sixpence a-week, or -a shilling a-week, or two shillings, as you can make it easy. It's like -getting a gown for nothing." - -"So it is," cried Ann Dovey, in a glow of delight. And by the tone, Mr. -Jellico no doubt knew that she had as good as yielded to the temptation. -He got out his yard measure. - -"Ten yards?" said he. - -"I'm a'most afeard. Will you promise, sir, not to bother me for the -money faster than I can pay it?" - -"You needn't fear no bothering from me; only just keep up the trifle -you've got to pay off weekly." - -He measured off the necessary length. "You'll want some ribbon to trim -it with, won't you?" said he. - -"Ribbin--well, I dun know. Dovey might say ribbin were too smart for -me." - -"Not a bit on't, Ann Dovey," spoke up another woman--and _she_ was our -carter's wife, Susan Potter. "It wouldn't look nothing without some -ribbin. That there narrer grass-green satin 'ud be nice upon't." - -"And that grass-green ribbon's dirt cheap," said Jellico. "You'd get -four or five yards of it for a shilling or two. Won't _you_ be tempted -now?" he added to Susan Potter. She laughed. - -"Not with them things. I shouldn't never hear the last on't if Potter -found out I went on tick for finery. He's rough, sir, and might beat me. -I'd like a check apron, and a yard o' calico." - -"Perhaps I might take a apron or two, sir, if you made it easy," said -Mrs. Dickon. - -"Of course I'll make it easy; and a gown too if you'll have it. Let me -cut you off the fellow to this of Mrs. Dovey's." - -Peggy Dickon shook her head. "It ain't o' no good asking me, Mr. -Jellico. Ann Dovey can buy gownds; she haven't got no children; I've -a bushel on 'em. No; I don't dare. I wish I might! Last year, up at -Cookhill Wake, I see a sweet gownd, not unlike this, what had got green -ribbins upon it," added the woman longingly. - -Being (I suppose) a kind of Mephistopheles in his line, Mr. Tobias -Jellico accomplished his wish and cut off a gown against her judgment. -He sold other gowns, and "ribbins," and trumpery; the yard measure had -nearly as little rest as the women's tongues. Mrs. Reed's turn to be -served seemed to come last; after the manner of her betters, she yielded -precedence to her guests. - -"Now for me, sir," she said. "You've done a good stroke o' business here -to-day, Mr. Jellico, and I hope you won't objec' to change that there -gownd piece as I bought last Monday for some'at a trifle stronger. Me -and some others have been a-looking at it, and we don't think it'll -wear." - -"Oh, I'll change it," readily answered Jellico. "You should put a few -more shillings on, Mrs. Reed: better have a good thing when you're about -it. It's always cheaper in the end." - -"Well, I suppose it is," she said. "But I'm a'most frightened at the -score that'll be running up." - -"It's easily wiped off," answered the man, pleasantly. "Just a shilling -or two weekly." - -There was more chaffering and talking; and after that came the chink of -money. The women had each a book, and Jellico had his book, and they -were compared with his, and made straight. As he came out with the pack -on his back, he saw me sitting on the bench, and looked hard at me: -whether he knew me again, I can't say. - -Just then Frank Stirling ran by, turning down Piefinch Lane. I went -after him: the women's tongues inside were working like so many -steam-engines, and it was as well to let them run down before speaking -to Mrs. Reed. - -Half-way down Piefinch Lane on the left, there was a turning, called -Piefinch Cut. It had grown into a street. All kinds of shops had been -opened, dealing in small wares: and two public-houses. A pawnbroker from -Alcester had opened a branch establishment here--which had set the world -gaping more than they would at a wild-beast show. It was managed by a -Mr. Figg. The three gilt balls stood out in the middle of the Cut; and -the blacksmith's forge, to which Stirling was bound, was next door. He -wanted something done to a piece of iron. While we were standing amidst -the sparks, who should go into the house the other side the way but -Jellico and his pack! - -"Yes, he should come into mine, he should, that fellow," ironically -observed John Dovey: who was a good-natured, dark-eyed little man, with -a tolerable share of sense. "I'd be after trundling him out again, feet -foremost." - -"Is he a travelling hawker?" asked Stirling. - -"He's a sight worse, sir," answered Dovey. "If you buy wares off a -hawker you must pay for 'em at the time: no money, no goods. But this -fellow seduces the women to buy his things on tick, he does: Tuesday -arter Tuesday he comes prowling into this here Cut, and does a roaring -trade. His pack'll walk out o' that house a bit lighter nor it goes in. -Stubbs's wife lives over there; Tanken's wife, she lives there; and -there be others. If I hadn't learnt that nobody gets no good by -interfering atween men and their wives, I'd ha' telled Stubbs and Tanken -long ago what was going on." - -It had been on the tip of my tongue to say where I had just seen -Jellico, and the trade he was doing. Remembering in time that Mrs. Dovey -had been one of the larger purchasers, I kept the news in. - -"His name's Jellico," continued Dovey, as he hammered away at Stirling's -iron. "He have got a fine shop somewhere over at Evesham. It's twelve or -fifteen months now, Master Johnny, since he took to come here. When -first I see him I wondered where the deuce the hawker's round could be, -appearing in the Cut so quick and reg'lar; but I soon found he was no -reg'lar hawker. Says I to my wife, 'Don't you go and have no dealings -with that there pest, for I'll not stand it, and I might be tempted to -stop it summary.' 'All right, Jack,' says she; 'when I want things I'll -deal at the old shop at Alcester.' But there's other wives round about -us doing strokes and strokes o' trade with him; 'tain't all of 'em, -Master Ludlow, as is so sensible as our Ann." - -Considering the stroke of trade I had just seen done by Ann Dovey, it -was as well not to hear this. - -"If he's not a hawker, what is he?" asked Stirling, swaying himself on -a beam in the roof; and I'm sure I did not know either. - -"It's a cursed system," hotly returned John Dovey; "and I say that afore -your faces, young gents. It may do for the towns, if they chooses to -have it--that's their business; but it don't do for us. What do our -women here want o' fine shawls and gay gownds?--decking theirselves out -as if they was so many Jezebels? But 'tain't that. Let 'em deck, if -they've got no sense to see how ill it looks on their sun-freckled faces -and hands hard wi' work; it's the ruin it brings. Just you move on -t'other side, Master Ludlow, sir; you be right in the way o' the sparks. -There's a iron pot over there as does for sitting on." - -"I'm all right, Dovey. Tell us about Jellico." - -Jellico's system, to give Dovey's explanation in brief, was this: He -brought over a huge pack of goods every Tuesday afternoon in a pony-gig -from his shop at Evesham. He put up the pony, and carried the pack on -his round, tempting the women right and left to buy. Husbands away at -work, and children at school, the field was open. _He asked for no -ready money down._ The purchases were entered in a book, to be paid off -by weekly instalments. The payments had to be kept up; Jellico saw to -that. However short the household had to run of the weekly necessaries, -Jellico's money had to be ready for him. It was an awful tax, just as -Dovey described it, and drifted into at first by the women without -thought of ill. The debt in itself was bad enough; but the fear lest it -should come to their husbands' ears was almost worse. As Dovey described -all this in his homely, but rather flowery language, it put me in -mind of those pleasure-seekers that sail too far over a sunny sea in -thoughtlessness, and suspect no danger till their vessel is right upon -the breakers. - -"There haven't been no blow-ups yet to speak of," said the blacksmith. -"But they be coming. I could just put my finger upon half-a-dozen women -at this blessed minute what's wearing theirselves to shadders with the -trouble. They come here to Figg's in the dusk o' evening wi' things hid -under their aprons. The longer Jellico lets it go on, the worse it gets, -for they _will_ be tempted, the she-creatures, buying made flowers for -their best bonnets to-day, and ribbuns for their Sunday caps to-morrow. -If Jellico lets 'em, that is. He knows pretty sure where he may trust -and where he mayn't. 'Tain't he as will let his pocket suffer in the -long run. He knows another thing--that the further he staves off any big -noise the profitabler it'll be for him. Once let that come, and Master -Jellico might get hunted out o' the Cut, and his pack and its finery -kicked to shreds." - -"But why are the women such simpletons, Dovey?" asked Frank Stirling. - -"You might as well ask why folks eats and drinks, sir," retorted Dovey, -his begrimed eyes lighted with the flame. "A love o' their faces is just -born with the women, and it goes with 'em to the grave. Set a parcel o' -finery before 'em and the best'll find their eyes a-longing, and their -mouths a-watering. It's said Eve used to do up her hair looking into a -clear pool." - -"Putting it in that light, Dovey, I wonder all the women here don't go -in for Mr. Jellico's temptations." - -"Some on 'em has better sense; and some has husbands what's up to the -thing, and keeps the reins tight in their own hands," complacently -answered the unconscious Dovey. - -"Up to the thing!" repeated Stirling; "I should think all the men are up -to it, if Jellico is here so constantly." - -"No, sir, they're not. Most of 'em are at work when he comes. They may -know some'at about him, but the women contrives to deceive 'em, and they -suspects nothing. The fellow with the pack don't concern them or their -folk at home, as they supposes, an' so they never bothers theirselves -about him or his doings. I'd like to drop a hint to some of 'em to go -home unexpected some Tuesday afternoon; but maybe it's best let alone." - -"I suppose your wife is one of the sensible ones, Dovey?" And I kept my -countenance as I said it. - -"She daredn't be nothing else, Master Johnny. I be a trifle loud if I'm -put out. Not she," emphatically added Dovey, his strong, bared arm -dealing a heavy blow on the anvil, and sending up a whole cloud of -sparks. "I'd never get put in jail for her, as she knows; I'd shave her -hair off first. Run up a score with that there Jellico? No, she'd not -be such a idiot as that. You should hear how she goes on again her -neighbours that does run it, and the names she calls 'em." - -Poor John Dovey! Where ignorance is bliss---- - -"Why, if I thought my wife could hoodwink me as some of 'em does their -men, I'd never hold up my head of one while, for shame; no, not in my -own forge," continued Dovey. "Ann's temper's a bit trying sometimes, and -wants keeping in order; but she'd be above deceit o' that paltry sort. -She don't need to act it, neither; I give her a whole ten shillings -t'other day, and she went and laid it out at Alcester." - -No doubt. Any amount of shillings would soon be sacrificed to Ann's -vanity. - -"How much longer is that thing going to take, Dovey?" interposed -Stirling. - -"Just about two minutes, sir. 'Twere a cranky---- There he goes." - -The break in Dovey's answer was caused by the appearance of Jellico. He -came out, shouldering his pack. The blacksmith looked after him down the -Cut, and saw him turn in elsewhere. - -"I thought 'twas where he was going," said he; "'tain't often he passes -that there dwelling. Other houses seem to have their days, turn and turn -about; but that 'un gets him constant." - -"It's where Bird's wife lives, is it not, Dovey?" - -"It's where she lives, fast enough, sir. And Bird, he be safe at his -over-looking work, five miles off, without fear of his popping in home -to hinder the dealing and chaffering. But she'd better mind--though Bird -do get a'most three pound a-week, he have got means for every sixpence -of it, with his peck o' childern, six young 'uns of her'n, and six -of his first wife's, and no more'n one on 'em yet able to earn a -penny-piece. If Bird thought she was running up a score with Jellico, -he'd give her two black eyes as soon as look at her." - -"Bird's wife never seems to have any good clothes at all; she looks as -if she hadn't a decent gown to her back," said Frank. - -"What she buys is mostly things for the little 'uns: shimmys and -pinafores, and that," replied Dovey. "Letty Bird's one o' them that's -more improvidenter than a body of any sense 'ud believe, Master -Stirling; she never has a coin by the Wednesday night, she hasn't. The -little 'uns 'ud be a-rolling naked in the gutter, but for what she gets -on tick off Jellico; and Bird, seeing 'em naked, might beat her for -that. That don't mend the system; the score's a-being run up, and it'll -bring trouble sometime as sure as a gun. Beside that, if there was no -Jellico to serve her with his poison, she'd _have_ to save enough for -decent clothes. Don't you see how the thing works, sir?" - -"Oh, I see," carelessly answered Stirling. "D'ye call the pack's wares -poison, Dovey?" - -"Yes, I do," said Dovey, stoutly, as he handed Frank his iron. "They'll -poison the peace o' many a household in this here Cut. You two young -gents just look out else, and see." - -We came away with the iron. At the end of Piefinch Lane, Frank Stirling -took the road to the Court, and I turned into Reed's. The wife was by -herself then, giving the children their early tea. - -"Reed shall come up to the Manor as soon as he gets home, sir," she -said, in answer to Tod's message. - -"I was here before this afternoon, Mrs. Reed, and couldn't get in. You -were too busy to hear me at the door." - -The knife halted in the bread she was cutting, and she glanced up for a -moment; but seemed to think nothing, and finished the slice. - -"I've been very busy, Master Ludlow. I'm sorry you've had to come twice, -sir." - -"Busy enough, I should say, with Jellico's pack emptied on the table, -and you and the rest buying up at steam pace." - -The words were out of my lips before I saw her startled gesture of -caution, pointing to the children: it was plain they were not to know -anything about Jellico. She had an honest face, but it turned scarlet. - -"Do you think it is a good plan, Mrs. Reed, to get things upon trust, -and have to make up money for them weekly?" I could not help saying to -her as she came to the door. - -"I'm beginning to doubt whether it is, sir." - -"If Reed thought he had a debt hanging over him, that might fall at any -moment----" - -"For the love of mercy, sir, don't say nothing to Reed!" came the -startled interruption. "You won't, will you, Master Johnny?" - -"Not I. Don't fear. But if I were you, Mrs. Reed, for my own sake I -should cut all connection with Jellico. Better deal at a fair shop." - -She nodded her head as I went through the gate; but her face had now -turned to a sickly whiteness that spoke of terror. Was the woman so deep -in the dangerous books already? - -Reed came up in the evening, and Tod showed him what he wanted done. As -the man was measuring the trellis-work, Hannah happened to pass. She -asked him how he was getting on. - -"Amongst the middlings," answered Reed, shortly. "I was a bit put out -just now." - -"What by?" asked Hannah, who said anything she chose before me without -the smallest ceremony: and Tod had gone away. - -"As I was coming up here, Ingram stops me, and asks if I couldn't let -him have the bit of money I owed him. I stared at the man: what money -was I likely to owe him----" - -"Ingram the cow-keeper?" interrupted Hannah. - -"Ingram the cow-keeper. So, talking a bit, I found there was a matter of -six shillings due to him for the children's milk: it was ever so long -since my wife had paid. Back I went to her at once to know the reason -why--and it was that made me late in coming up here, Master Johnny." - -"I suppose he had sold her skim milk for new, and she thought she'd make -him wait for his money," returned Hannah. - -"All she said to me was that she didn't think it had been running so -long; Ingram had said to me that she always told him she was short of -money and couldn't pay," answered Reed. "Anyway, I don't think she'll -let it run on again. It put me out, though. I'd rather go off into the -workhouse, or die of starvation, than I'd let it be said in the place my -wife didn't pay as she went on." - -_I_ saw through the difficulty, and should have liked to give Reed a -hint touching Jellico. - -Now it was rather strange that, all in two days, Jellico and the -mischief he was working should be thus brought before me in three or -four ways, considering that I had never in my life before heard of the -man. But it chanced to be so. I don't want to say anything about the man -personally, good or bad; the mischief lay in the system. That Jellico -sold his goods at a nice rate for dearness, and used persuasion with the -women to buy them, was as plain as the sun at noonday; but in these -respects he was no worse than are many other people in trade. He went -to the houses in turn, and the women met him; it might be several weeks -before the meeting was held at Mrs. Reed's again. Ann Dovey could not -enjoy the hospitality of receiving him at hers, as her husband's work -lay at home. But she was a constant visitor to the other places. - -And the time went on; and Mr. Jellico's trade flourished. But we heard -nothing more about it at Dyke Manor, and I naturally forgot it. - - -II. - -"Just six shillings on it, Mr. Figg! That's all I want to-day, but I -can't do without that." - -That so well-conducted and tidy a woman as George Reed's wife should be -in what the Cut called familiarly the "pawnshop," would have surprised -every one not in the secret. But she it was. Mr. Figg, a little man with -weak eyes and a few scattered locks of light hair, turned over the -offered loan with his finger and thumb. A grey gown of some kind of -woollen stuff. - -"How many times have this here gownd been brought here, Mrs. Reed?" -asked he. - -"I haven't counted 'em," she sighed. "Why? What's that got to do with -it?" - -"'Cause it's a proof as it must be getting the worse for wear," was the -answer, given disparagingly. - -"It's just as good as it was the day I had it out o' Jellico's pack," -said Mrs. Reed, sadly subdued, as of late she had always seemed. - -Mr. Figg held up the gown to the light, seeking for the parts in it most -likely to be worn. "Look here," said he. "What d'ye call that?" - -There was a little fraying certainly in places. Mrs. Reed had eyes and -could see it. She did not answer. - -"It don't stand to reason as a gownd will wear for ever and show no -marks. You puts this here gownd in of a Wednesday morning, or so, and -gets it out of a Saturday night to wear Sundays. Wear and tear _is_ wear -and tear." - -Mrs. Reed could not deny the accusation. All the available articles her -home contained; that is, the few her husband was not likely to observe -the absence of; together with as much of her own wardrobe as she could -by any shift do without, were already on a visit to Mr. Figg; which -visit, according to the present look-out, promised to be permanent. This -gown was obliged to be taken out periodically. Had she not appeared -decent on Sundays, her husband would have demanded the reason why. - -"You've gave me six shillings on it before," she argued. - -"Can't again. Don't mind lending five; next week it'll be but four. It -wasn't never worth more nor ten new," added Mr. Figg loudly, to drown -remonstrances. - -"Why, I gave Jellico double that for it! Where's the use of you running -things down?" - -As Jellico was in one sense a friend of Mr. Figg's--for he was certainly -the cause of three parts of his pledges being brought to him--the -pawnbroker let the question pass. Mrs. Reed went home with her five -shillings, her eyes taking quite a wild look of distress and glancing -cornerwise on all sides, as if she feared an ambush. - -It had not been a favourable year; weather had been bad, strikes were -prevalent, money was dear, labour scarce. Men were ready to snatch the -work out of each other's hands; some were quite unemployed, others less -than they used to be. Of course the homes in Piefinch Cut, and similar -small homes not in the Cut, went on short-commons. And if the women had -been scarcely able to get on before and stave off exposure, any one may -see that that was a feat impracticable now. One of them, Hester Reed, -thought the doubt and difficulty and remorse and dread would kill her. - -Dread of her husband's discovering the truth, and dread of his being -called upon to answer for the debt. Unable to keep up her weekly -interest and payments to Mr. Jellico for some time now, the main debt -had only accumulated. She owed him two pounds nineteen shillings. And -two pounds nineteen shillings to a labourer's wife seems as a wide gulf -that can never be bridged over while life shall last. Besides this, -she had been obliged to go into debt at the general shop; _that_ had -added itself up now to eight-and-twenty shillings, and the shop was -threatening procedure. There were other little odds and ends of -liabilities less urgent, a few shillings in all. To those not acquainted -with the simple living of a rural district, this may not sound so very -overwhelming: those who are, know what it means, and how awful was the -strait to which Mrs. Reed (with other wives) had reduced herself. - -She had grown so thin as hardly to be able to keep her clothes upon her. -Sleeping and waking, a dead wall crowded with figures, as a huge sum, -seemed to be before her eyes. Lately she had taken to dreaming of -hanging feet downwards over a precipice, held up only by the grasp of -her hands on the edge. Nearly always she awoke with the horror: and it -would seem to her that it was worse to wake up to life and its cares, -than to fall down to death and be at rest from them. Her husband, -perceiving that she appeared very ill, told her she had better speak to -Dr. Duffham. - -Carrying home the five shillings in her hand, Mrs. Reed sat down in her -kitchen and wiped her face, damp with pallor. She had begun to ask--not -so much what the ending would be, but how soon it would come. With the -five shillings in her hand she must find food and necessaries until -Saturday night; there was no more credit to be had. And this was only -Wednesday morning. With credit stopped and supplies stopped, her husband -would naturally make inquiries, and all must come out. Hester Reed -wondered whether she should die of the shame--if she had to stay and -face it. Three of the shillings must be paid that afternoon to Ingram -the milkman; he would not be quiet any longer: and the woman cast her -aching eyes round her room, and saw nothing that it was possible to take -away and raise money on. - -She had the potatoes on the fire when the children ran in, little -toddling things, from school. Some rashers of bacon lay on the table -ready to be toasted. Reed, earning pretty good wages, had been -accustomed to live well: with careful management he knew they might do -so still. Little did he suspect the state things had got into. - -"Tatty dere, mov'er," began the eldest, who was extremely backward in -speaking. - -"Tatty dere" meant "Cathy's there;" and the mother looked up from the -bacon. Cathy Parrifer (though nobody called her by her new name, but -Cathy Reed still) stood at the outer gate, in tatters as usual, talking -to some man who had a paper in his hand. Mrs. Reed's heart leaped into -her mouth: she lived in dread of everything. A stranger approaching the -place turned her sick. And now the terror, whose shadow had been so long -looming, was come in reality. Catherine came bounding up the garden to -tell the tale: the man, standing at the gate, was waiting to see her -father come home to dinner to serve him with a summons for the county -court. Mrs. Reed knew at once what it was for: the eight-and-twenty -shillings owing at the general shop. Her face grew white as she sank -into a chair. - -"Couldn't you get him to leave the paper with me, Cathy?" she whispered, -insane ideas of getting up the money somehow floating into her brain. - -"He won't," answered Cathy. "He means to give that to father personally, -he says, if he stays till night." - -Just as many another has felt, in some apparently insurmountable -obstacle, that seemed to be turning their hair grey in the little space -of time that you can peel an apple, felt Mrs. Reed. Light seemed to be -closing, shame and misery and blackness to be opening. Her hands seemed -powerless to put the bacon into the Dutch oven. - -But there ensued a respite. A very short one, but still a respite. While -the summons-server was loitering outside, Reed came in through the -back-garden, having got over the stile in Piefinch Lane. It was not -often he chose that way; accident caused him to do it to-day. Mrs. Reed, -really not knowing what she did or said, told Cathy there'd be a morsel -of dinner for her if she liked to stop and eat it. As Cathy was not in -the luck of such offers every day, she remained: and in her good-nature -talked and laughed to divert any suspicion. - -But the man at the gate began to smell a rat; perhaps the bacon as well. -Dinner-hour almost over, and no George Reed had come home! He suddenly -thought of the back-entrance, and walked up the front-path to see. Paper -in hand, he gave a thump at the house-door. Reed was about to leave -then: and he went down the path by the man's side, opening the paper. -Mrs. Reed, more like a ghost than a woman, took a glance through the -window. - -"I can't face it, Catherine. When I'm gone, you'd better come home here -and do what you can for the children. Tell him all; it's of no good -trying to hide it any longer." - -She took her worn old shawl from a press and put her bonnet on; and then -stooped to kiss her children, saying good-bye with a burst of grief. - -"But where are you going?" cried the wondering Cathy. - -"Anywhere. If I am tempted to do anything desperate, Cathy, tell father -not to think too bad of me, as he might if I was living." - -She escaped by the back-door. Catherine let her go, uncertain what to -be at for the best. Her father was striding back to the house up the -garden-path, and the storm was coming. As a preliminary van-guard, -Cathy snatched up the youngest girl and held her on her lap. The -summons-server was calling after Reed, apparently giving some -instructions, and that took up another minute or two; but he came in at -last. - -Cathy told as much of the truth as she dared; her father was too angry -for her to venture on all. In his passion he said his wife might go and -be hanged. Cathy answered that she had as good as said it was something -of that she meant to go and do. - -But talking and acting are two things; and when it came to be put to -the test, Hester Reed found herself no more capable of entering upon -any desperate course than the rest of us are. And, just as I had been -brought in accidentally to see the beginning, so was I accidentally -brought in at the ending. - -We were at home again for the holidays, and I had been over for an -afternoon to the Stirlings'. Events in this world happen very strangely. -Upon setting out to walk back in the cool of the late summer's evening, -I took the way by Dyke Brook instead of either of the two ordinary -roads. Why I chose it I did not know then; I do not now; I never shall -know. When fairly launched into the fields, I asked myself why on earth -I had come that way, for it was the loneliest to be found in the two -counties. - -Turning sharp round the dark clump of trees by Dyke Brook (which just -there is wide enough for a pond and as deep as one), I came upon -somebody in a shabby grey straw bonnet, standing on its brink and -looking down into the water. - -"Halloa, Mrs. Reed! Is that you?" - -Before I forget the woe-stricken face she turned upon me, the start she -gave, I must lose memory. Down she sat on the stump of a tree, and burst -into sobs. - -"What is it?" I asked, standing before her. - -"Master Johnny, I've been for hours round it, round and round, wanting -the courage to throw myself in; and I haven't done it." - -"Just tell me all about the trouble," I said, from the opposite stump, -upon which I took my seat. - -And she did tell me. Alone there for so many hours, battling with -herself and Death (it's not wrong to say so), my coming seemed to unlock -all the gates of reticence, and she disclosed to me what I've written -above. - -"God knows I never thought to bring it to such a pass as this," she -sobbed. "I went into it without any sense of doing harm. One day, when -I happened to be at Miles Dickon's, Jellico came in with his pack, and -I was tempted to buy some ribbon. I said he might come and show me his -things the next week, and he did, and I bought a gownd and a shawl. I -know now how wrong and blind I was: but it seemed so easy, just to pay -a shilling or two a-week; like having the things for nothing. And from -that time it went on; a'most every Tuesday I took some trifle of him, -maybe a bit o' print for the little ones, or holland for pinafores; and -I gave Cathy a cotton gownd, for she hadn't one to her back. I didn't -buy as some of 'em did, for the sake of show and bedeckings, but useful -things, Master Johnny," she added, sobbing bitterly. "And this has come -of it! and I wish I was at rest in that there blessed water." - -"Now, Mrs. Reed! Do you suppose you would be at _rest_?" - -"Heaven have mercy on me! It's the thought o' the sin, and of what might -come after, that makes me hold back from it." - -Looking at her, shading her eyes with her hand, her elbow on her lap, -and her face one of the saddest for despair I ever saw, I thought of the -strange contrasts there are in the world. For the want of about five -pounds this woman was seeking to end her life; some have done as much -for five-and-twenty thousand. - -"I've not a friend in the whole world that could help me," she said. -"But it's not that, Master Johnny; it's the shame on me for having -brought things to such a pass. If the Lord would but be pleased to take -me, and save me from the sin of lifting a hand against my own life!" - -"Look here, Mrs. Reed. As to what you call the shame, I suppose we all -have to go in for some sort or another of that kind of thing as we jog -along. As you are _not_ taken, and don't seem likely to be taken, I -should look on that as an intimation that you must live and make the -best of things." - -"Live! how, sir? I can't never show myself at home. Reed, he'll have to -go to jail; the law will put him there. I'd not face the world, sir, -knowing it was all for my thoughtless debts." - -Could I help her? Ought I to help her? If I went to old Brandon and -begged to have five pounds, why, old Brandon in the end would give it -me, after he had gone on rather hotly for an hour. If I did not help -her, and any harm came to her, what should I---- - -"You promise me never to think about pools again, Mrs. Reed, except in -the way of eels, and I'll promise to see you through this." - -She looked up, more helpless than before. "There ain't nothing to be -done for me, Master Johnny. There's the shame, and the talkin' o' the -neighbours----" - -"Yes, you need mind _that_. Why, the neighbours are all in the same -boat!" - -"And there's Reed, sir; he'd never forgive me. He'd----" - -Of all cries, she interrupted herself with about the worst: something -she saw behind me had frightened her. In another moment she had darted -to the pond, and Reed was holding her back from it. - -"Be thee a born fool?" roared Reed. "Dost think thee'st not done enough -harm as it is, but thee must want to cap it by putting theeself in -there? That would mend it, that would!" - -She released herself from him, and slipped on the grass, Reed standing -between her and the pond. But he seemed to think better of it, and -stepped aside. - -"Jump in, an' thee likes to," said he, continuing to speak in the -familiar home manner. "I once see a woman ducked in the Severn for -pocket-picking, at Worcester races, and she came out all the cooler and -better for't." - -"I never thought to bring trouble on you or anybody, George," she -sobbed. "It seems to have come on and on, like a great monster growing -bigger and bigger as you look at him, till I couldn't get away from it." - -"Couldn't or wouldn't, which d'ye mean?" retorted Reed. "Why you women -were ever created to bother us, hangs me. I hope you'll find you can -keep the children when I and a dozen more of us are in jail. 'Twon't be -my first visit there." - -"Look here, Reed; I've promised to set it right for her. Don't worry -over it." - -"I'll not accept help from anybody; not even from you, Master Johnny. -What she has done she must abide by." - -"The bargain's made, Reed; you can't break it if you would. Perhaps a -great trouble may come to me some time in my life that I may be glad to -be helped out of. Mrs. Reed will get the money to-morrow, only she need -not tell the parish where she found it." - -"Oh, George, let it be so!" she implored through her tears. "If Master -Johnny's good enough to do this, let him. I might save up by little and -little to repay him in time. If you went to jail through me!--I'd rather -die!" - -"Will you let it be a lesson to you--and keep out of Jellico's clutches -in future?" he asked, sternly. - -"It's a lesson that'll last me to the end of my days," she said, with a -shiver. "Please God, you let Master Johnny get me out o' this trouble, -I'll not fall into another like it." - -"Then come along home to the children," said he, his voice softening a -little. "And leave that pond and your folly behind you." - -I was, of course, obliged to tell the whole to Mr. Brandon and the -Squire, and they both pitched into me as fiercely as tongues could -pitch. But neither of them was really angry; I saw that. As to the -five pounds, I only wish as much relief could be oftener given with as -little money. - - - - -CAROMEL'S FARM. - - -I. - -You will be slow to believe what I am about to write, and say it savours -of romance instead of reality. Every word of it is true. Here truth was -stranger than fiction. - -Lying midway between our house, Dyke Manor, and Church Dykely, was a -substantial farm belonging to the Caromels. It stood well back from the -road a quarter-of-a-mile or so, and was nearly hidden by the trees -that surrounded it. An avenue led to the house; which was a rambling, -spacious, very old-fashioned building, so full of queer angles inside, -nooks and corners and passages, that you might lose your way in them and -never find it again. The Caromels were gentlemen by descent; but their -means had dwindled with years, so that they had little left besides this -property. The last Caromel who died, generally distinguished as "Old -Caromel" by all the parish, left two sons, Miles and Nash. The property -was willed to the elder, Miles: but Nash continued to have his home with -him. As to the house, it had no particular name, but was familiarly -called "Caromel's Farm." - -Squire Todhetley had been always intimate with them; more like a brother -than anything else. Not but that he was considerably their senior. I -think he liked Nash the best: Nash was so yielding and easy. Some said -Nash was not very steady in private life, and that his brother, Miles, -stern and moral, read him a lecture twice a-week. But whether it was so -no one knew; people don't go prying into their neighbours' closets to -look up their skeletons. - -At the time I am beginning to tell of, old Caromel had been dead about -ten years; Nash was now five-and-thirty, Miles forty. Miles had married -a lady with a good fortune, which was settled upon herself and her -children; the four of them were girls, and there was no son. - -At the other end of Church Dykely, ever so far past Chavasse Grange, -lived a widow lady named Tinkle. And when the world had quite done -wondering whether Nash Caromel meant to marry (though, indeed, what -had he to marry upon?), it was suddenly found out that he wanted Mrs. -Tinkle's daughter, Charlotte. The Tinkles were respectable people, but -not equal to the Caromels. Mrs. Tinkle and her son farmed a little land, -she had also a small private income. The son had married well. Just now -he was away; having gone abroad with his wife, whose health was failing. - -Charlotte Tinkle was getting on towards thirty. You would not have -thought it, to look at her. She had a gentle face, a gentle voice, and -a young, slender figure; her light brown hair was always neat; and she -possessed one of those inoffensive natures that would like to be at -peace with the whole world. It was natural that Mrs. Tinkle should wish -her daughter to marry, if a suitable person presented himself--all -mothers do, I suppose--but to find it was Nash Caromel took her aback. - -"You think it will not do," observed the Squire, when Mrs. Tinkle was -enlarging on the grievance to him one day that they met in a two-acre -field. - -"How can it do?" returned poor Mrs. Tinkle, in a tone between wailing -and crying. "Nash Caromel has nothing to keep her on, sir, and no -prospects." - -"That's true," said the pater. "At present he has thoughts of taking a -farm." - -"But he has no money to stock a farm. And look at that tale, sir, that -was talked of--about that Jenny Lake. Other things have been said also." - -"Oh, one must not believe all one hears. For myself, I assure you, Mrs. -Tinkle, I know no harm of Nash. As to the money to stock a farm, I -expect his brother could help him to it, if he chose." - -"But, sir, you would surely not advise them to marry upon an -uncertainty!" - -"I don't advise them to marry at all; understand that, my good lady; I -think it would be the height of imprudence. But I can't prevent it." - -"Mr. Todhetley," she answered, a tear rolling down her thin cheeks, on -which there was a chronic redness, "I am unable to describe to you how -much my mind is set against the match: I seem to foresee, by some subtle -instinct, that no good would ever come of it; nothing but misery for -Charlotte. And she has had so peaceful a home all her life." - -"Tell Charlotte she can't have him--if you think so strongly about it." - -"She won't listen--at least to any purpose," groaned Mrs. Tinkle. "When -I talk to her she says, 'Yes, dear mother; no, dear mother,' in her -dutiful way: and the same evening she'll be listening to Nash Caromel's -courting words. Her uncle, Ralph Tinkle, rode over from Inkberrow to -talk to her, for I wrote to him: but it seems to have made no permanent -impression on her. What I am afraid of is that Nash Caromel will marry -her in spite of us." - -"I should like to see my children marry in spite of me!" cried the -Squire, giving way to one of his hot fits. "I'd 'marry' them! Nash can't -take her against her will, my dear friend: it takes two people, you -know, to complete a bargain of that sort. Promise Charlotte to shake her -unless she listens to reason. Why should she not listen! She is meek and -tractable." - -"She always has been. But, once let a girl be enthralled by a -sweetheart, there's no answering for her. Duty to parents is often -forgotten then." - -"If---- Why, mercy upon us, there _is_ Charlotte!" broke off the Squire, -happening to lift his eyes to the stile. "And Nash too." - -Yes, there they were: standing on the other side the stile in the -cross-way path. "Halloa!" called out Mr. Todhetley. - -"I can't stay a moment," answered Nash Caromel, turning his good-looking -face to speak: and it cannot be denied it was a good-looking face, or -that he was an attractive man. "Miles has sent me to that cattle sale up -yonder, and I am full late." - -With a smile and a nod, he stepped lightly onwards, his slender supple -figure, of middle height, upright as a dart; his fair hair waving -in the breeze. Charlotte Tinkle glanced shyly after him, her cheeks -blushing like a peony. - -"What's this I hear, young lady?--that you and Mr. Nash yonder want to -make a match of it, in spite of pastors and masters?" began the Squire. -"Is it true?" - -Charlotte stood like a goose, making marks on the dusty path with the -end of her large grass-green parasol. Parasols were made for use then, -not show. - -"Nash has nothing, you know," went on the Squire. "No money, no house, -no anything. There wouldn't be common sense in it, Charlotte." - -"I tell him so, sir," answered Charlotte, lifting her shy brown eyes for -a moment. - -"To be sure; that's right. Here's your mother fretting herself into -fiddlestrings for fear of--of--I hardly know what." - -"Lest you should be tempted to forget your duty to me, Lottie," struck -in the mother. "Ah, my dear! you young people little think what trouble -and anxiety you bring upon us." - -Charlotte Tinkle suddenly burst into tears, to the surprise of her -beholders. Drying them up as soon as she could, she spoke with a sigh. - -"I hope I shall never bring trouble upon you, mother, never; I wouldn't -do it willingly for the world. But----" - -"But what, child?" cried the mother, for Charlotte had come to a -standstill. - -"I--I am afraid that parents and children see with different eyes--just -as though things were for each a totally opposite aspect," she went on -timidly. "The difficulty is how to reconcile that view and this." - -"And do you know what my father used to say to me in my young days?" put -in the Squire. "'Young folks think old folks fools, but old folks know -the young ones to be so.' There was never a truer saying than that, Miss -Charlotte." - -Miss Charlotte only sighed in answer. The wind, high that day, was -taking her muslin petticoats, and she had some trouble to keep them -down. Mrs. Tinkle got over the stile, and the Squire turned back towards -home. - -A fortnight or so had passed by after this, when Church Dykely woke one -morning to an electric shock; Nash Caromel and Charlotte had gone and -got married. They did it without the consent of (as the Squire had put -it) pastors and masters. Nash had none to consult, for he could not be -expected to yield obedience to his brother; and Charlotte had asked Mrs. -Tinkle, and Mrs. Tinkle had refused to countenance the ceremony, though -she did not actually walk into the church to forbid it. - -Taking a three weeks' trip by way of honeymoon, the bride and bridegroom -came back to Church Dykely. Caromel's Farm refused to take them in; and -Miles Caromel, indignant to a degree, told his brother that "as he -had made his bed, so must he lie upon it," which is a very convenient -reproach, and often used. - -"Nash is worse than a child," grumbled Miles to the Squire, his tones -harder than usual, and his manner colder. "He has gone and married this -young woman--who is not his equal--and now he has no home to give her. -Did he suppose that we should receive him back here?--and take her in as -well? He has acted like an idiot." - -"Mrs. Tinkle will not have anything to do with them, I hear," returned -the Squire: "and Tinkle, of Inkberrow, is furious." - -"Tinkle of Inkberrow's no fool. Being a man of substance, he thinks they -may be falling back upon him." - -Which was the precise fear that lay upon Miles himself. Meanwhile Nash -engaged sumptuous lodgings (if such a word could be justly applied -to any rooms at Church Dykely), and drove his wife out daily in the -pony-gig that was always looked upon as his at Caromel's Farm. - -Nash was flush of money now, for he had saved some; but he could not go -on living upon it for ever. After sundry interviews with his brother, -Miles agreed to hand him over a thousand pounds: not at all too large -a sum, considering that Nash had given him his services, such as they -were, for a number of years for just his keep as a gentleman and a bonus -for pocket-money. A thousand pounds would not go far with such a farm -as Nash had been used to and would like to take, and he resolved to -emigrate to America. - -Mrs. Tinkle (the Squire called her simple at times) was nearly wild when -she heard of it. It brought her out of her temper with a leap. -Condoning the rebellious marriage, she went off to remonstrate with -Nash. - -"But now, why need you put yourself into this unhappy state?" asked -Nash, when he had heard what she had to say. "Dear Mrs. Tinkle, do admit -some common sense into your mind. I am not taking Charlotte to the -'other end of the world,' as you put it, but to America. It is only a -few days' passage. Outlandish foreigners! Not a bit of it. The people -are, so to speak, our own countrymen. Their language is ours; their laws -are, I believe, much as ours are." - -"You may as well be millions of miles away, practically speaking," -bewailed Mrs. Tinkle. "Charlotte will be as much lost to me there as she -would be at the North Pole. She is my only daughter, Nash Caromel, she -has never been away from me: to part with her will be like parting with -life." - -"I am very sorry," said poor Nash, who was just a woman when any appeal -was made to his feelings. "Live with you? No, that would not do: but, -thank you all the same for offering it. Nothing would induce me to -spunge upon you in that way: and, were I capable of it, your son Henry -would speedily turn us out when he returned. I must get a home of my -own, for Charlotte's sake as well as for mine: and I know I can do that -in America. Land, there, may be had for an old song; fortunes are made -in no time. The probability is that before half-a-dozen years have gone -over our heads, I shall bring you Charlotte home a rich woman, and we -shall settle down here for life." - -There isn't space to pursue the arguments--which lasted for a week or -two. But they brought forth no result. Nash might have turned a post -sooner than the opinions of Mrs. Tinkle, and she might as well have -tried to turn the sun as to stop his emigrating. The parish looked upon -it as not at all a bad scheme. Nash might get on well over there if he -would put off his besetting sin, indolence, and not allow the Yankees to -take him in. - -So Nash Caromel and Charlotte his wife set sail for New York; Mrs. -Tinkle bitterly resenting the step, and wholly refusing to be -reconciled. - - -II. - -About five years went by. Henry Tinkle's wife had died, leaving him a -little girl, and he was back with the child at his mother's: but that -has nothing to do with us. A letter came from the travellers now and -then, but not often, during the first three years. Nash wrote to -Caromel's Farm; Charlotte to the parson's wife, Mrs. Holland, with -whom she had been very friendly. But none of the letters gave much -information as to personal matters; they were chiefly filled with -descriptions of the new country, its manners and customs, and especially -its mosquitoes, which at first nearly drove Mrs. Nash Caromel mad. It -was gathered that Nash _did not prosper_. They seemed to move about from -place to place, making New York a sort of standing point to return to -occasionally. For the past two years no letters at all had come, and it -was questioned whether poor Nash and his wife had not dropped out of the -world. - -In the midst of this uncertainty, Miles Caromel, who had been seriously -ailing for some months, died. And to Nash, if he were still in -existence, lapsed the Caromel property. - -Old Mr. Caromel's will had been a curious one. He bequeathed Caromel -Farm, with all its belongings, the live stock, the standing ricks, the -crops, the furniture, and all else that might be in or upon it, to his -son Miles, and to Miles's eldest son after him. If Miles left no son, -then it was to go to Nash (with all that might then be upon it, just as -before), and so on to Nash's son. But if neither of them had a son, -and Nash died during Miles's lifetime--in short, if there was no male -inheritor living, then Miles could dispose of the property as he -pleased. As could Nash also under similar circumstances. - -The result of this odd will was, that Nash, if living, came into the -farm and all that was upon it. If Nash had, or should have, a son, -it must descend to said son; if he had not, the property was his -absolutely. But it was not known whether Nash was living; and, in the -uncertainty, Miles made a will conditionally, bequeathing it to his wife -and daughters. It was said that possessing no son had long been a thorn -in the shoes of Miles Caromel; that he had prayed for one, summer and -winter. - -But now, who was to find Nash? How could the executors let him know of -his good luck? The Squire, who was one of them, talked of nothing else. -A letter was despatched to Nash's agents in New York, Abraham B. Whitter -and Co., and no more could be done. - -In a shorter time than you would have supposed possible, Nash arrived at -Church Dykely. He chanced to be at these same agents' house in New York, -when the letter got there, and he came off at full speed. So the will -made by Miles went for nothing. - -Nash Caromel was a good bit altered--looked thinner and older: but he -was evidently just as easy and persuadable as he used to be: people -often wondered whether Nash had ever said No in his whole life. He did -not tell us much about himself, only that he had roamed over the world, -hither and thither, from country to country, and had been lately for -some time in California. Charlotte was at San Francisco. When Nash took -ship from thence for New York, she was not well enough to undertake the -voyage, and had to stay behind. Mrs. Tinkle, who had had time, and to -spare, to get over her anger, went into a way at this last item of news; -and caught up the notion that Charlotte was dead. For which she had no -grounds whatever. - -Charlotte had no children; had not had any; consequently there was every -probability that Caromel's Farm would be Nash's absolutely, to will away -as he should please. He found Mrs. Caromel (his brother's widow) and -her daughters in it; they had not bestirred themselves to look out -for another residence. Being very well off, Mrs. Caromel having had -several substantial windfalls in the shape of legacies from rich -uncles and aunts, they professed to be glad that Nash should have the -property--whatever they might have privately felt. Nash, out of a -good-natured wish not to disturb them too soon, bade them choose their -own time for moving, and took up his abode at Nave, the lawyer's. - -There are lawyers and lawyers. I am a great deal older now than I was -when these events were enacted, and have gained my share of worldly -wisdom; and I, Johnny Ludlow, say that there are good and honest lawyers -as well as bad and dishonest. My experience has lain more amidst the -former class than the latter. Though I have, to my cost, been brought -into contact with one or two bad ones in my time; fearful rogues. - -One of these was Andrew Nave: who had recently, so to say, come, a -stranger, to settle at Church Dykely. His name might have had a "K" -prefixed, and been all the better for it. Of fair outward show, indeed -rather a good-looking man, he was not fair within. He managed to hold -his own in the parish estimation, as a rule: it was only when some -crafty deed or other struggled to the surface that people would say, -"What a sharper that man is!" - -The family lawyer of the Caromels, Crow, of Evesham, chanced to be ill -at this time, and gone away for change of air, and Nave rushed up to -greet Nash on his return, and to offer his services. And the fellow was -so warm and hearty, so fair-speaking, so much the gentleman, that easy -Nash, to whom the man was an entire stranger, and who knew nothing of -him, bad or good, clasped the hand held out to him, and promised Knave -his patronage forthwith. If I've made a mistake in spelling the name, -it can go. - -To begin with, Nave took him home. He lived a door or two past -Duffham's: a nice house, well kept up in paint. Some five years before, -the sleepy old lawyer, Wilkinson, died in that house, and Nave came down -from London and took to the concern. Nave thought that he was doing a -first-rate stroke of business now by securing Nash Caromel as an inmate, -the solicitorship to the Caromel property being worth trying for: though -he might not have been so eager to admit Nash had he foreseen all that -was to come of it. - -Not caring to trouble Mrs. Caromel with his company, Nash accepted -Nave's hospitality; but, liking to be independent, he insisted upon -paying for it, and mentioned a handsome weekly sum. Nave made a show of -resistance--which was all put on, for he was as fond of shillings as he -was of pounds--and then gave in. So Nash, feeling free, stayed on at his -ease. - -When Nave had first come to settle at Church Dykely with his daughter -Charlotte, he was taken for a widower. It turned out, however, that -there was a Mrs. Nave living somewhere with the rest of the children, -she and her husband having agreed to what was called an amicable -separation, for their tempers did not agree. This eldest daughter, -Charlotte, a gay, dashing girl of two-and-twenty then, was the only -creature in the world, it was said, for whom Nave cared. - -Mrs. Caromel did not appear readily to find a place to her liking. -People are particular when about to purchase a residence. She made -repeated apologies to Nash for keeping him out of his home, but he -assured her that he was in no hurry to leave his present quarters. - -And that was true. For Charlotte Nave was casting her glamour over him. -She liked to cast that over men; and tales had gone about respecting -her. Nothing very tangible: and perhaps they would not have held water. -She was a little, fair, dashing woman, swaying about her flounces as she -walked, with a great heap of beautiful hair, bright as gold. Her blue -eyes had a way of looking into yours rather too freely, and her voice -was soft as a summer wind. A dangerous companion was Miss Nave. - -Well, they fell in love with one another, as was said; she and Nash. -Nash forgot his wife, and she her old lovers. Being now on the road to -her twenty-eighth year, she had had her share of them. Once she had been -mysteriously absent from home for two weeks, and Church Dykely somehow -took up the idea that she and one of her lovers (a young gentleman who -was reading law with Nave) were taking a fraternal tour together as far -as London to see the lions. But it turned out to be a mistake, and no -one laughed at the notion more than Charlotte when she returned. She -wished she had been on a tour--and seeing lions, she said, instead of -moping away the whole two weeks at her aunt's, who had a perpetual -asthma, and lived in a damp old house at Chelsea. - -But that is of the past, and Nash is back again. The weeks went on. -Autumn weather came in. Mrs. Caromel found a place to suit her at -Kempsey--one of the prettiest of the villages that lie under the wing -of Worcester. She bought it; and removed to it with her private goods -and chattels. Nash, even now, made no haste to quit the lawyer's house -for his own. Some said it was he who could not tear himself away from -Charlotte; others said Miss Charlotte would not let him go; that she -held him fast by a silken cord. Anyhow, they were always together, -out-of-doors and in; she seemed to like to parade their friendship -before the world, as some girls like to lead about a pet monkey. -Perhaps Nash first took to her from her name being the same as his -wife's. - -One day in September, Nash walked over to the Manor and had a long talk -in private with the Squire. He wanted to borrow twelve hundred pounds. -No ready money had come to him from his brother, and it was not a -favourable time for selling produce. The Squire cheerfully agreed to -lend it him: there was no risk. - -"But I'd counsel you to remember one thing, Nash Caromel--that you have -a wife," said he, as they came out of the room when Nash was going away. -"It's time you left off dallying with that other young woman." - -Nash laughed a laugh that had an uneasy sound in it. "It is nothing, -Todhetley." - -"Glad to hear you say so," said the pater. "She has the reputation of -being a dangerous flirt. _You_ are not the first man she has entangled, -if all tales be true. Get out of Nave's house and into your own." - -"I will," acquiesced Nash. - -Perhaps that was easier said than done. It happened that the same -evening I overheard a few words between the lawyer and Nash. They were -not obliged to apply to Miss Nave: but, the chances were that they did. - -The Squire sent me to Nave's when dinner was over, to take a note -to Nash. Nave's smart waiting-maid, in a muslin apron and cherry -cap-strings, was standing at the door talking and laughing with some -young man, under cover of the twilight. She was as fond of finery as -her mistress; perhaps as fond of sweethearts. - -"Mr. Caromel? Yes, sir, he is at home. Please to walk in." - -Showing me to a sitting-room on the left of the passage--the lawyer's -offices were on the right--she shut me in, and went, as I supposed, to -tell Caromel. At the back of this room was the dining-room. I heard the -rattle of glasses on the table through the unlatched folding-doors, and, -next, the buzz of voices. The lawyer and Nash were sitting over their -wine. - -"You must marry her," said Nave, concisely. - -"I wish I could," returned Nash; and his wavering, irresolute tone was -just a contrast to the other's keen one. "I want to. But how can I? I'm -heartily sorry." - -"And as soon as may be. _You must._ Attentions paid to young ladies -cannot be allowed to end in smoke. And you will find her thousand pounds -useful." - -"But how _can_ I, I say?" cried Nash ruefully. "You know how -impracticable it is--the impediment that exists." - -"Stuff and nonsense, Caromel! Where there's a will there's a way. -Impediments only exist to be got over." - -"It would take a cunning man to get over the one that lies between me -and her. I assure you, and you may know I say it in all good faith, that -I should ask nothing better than to be a free man to-morrow--for this -one sole cause." - -"Leave things to me. For all you know, you are free now." - -The opening of their door by the maid, who had taken her own time to do -it, and the announcement that I waited to see Mr. Caromel, stopped the -rest. Nash came in, and I gave him the note. - -"Wants to see me before twelve to-morrow, does he?--something he forgot -to say," cried he, running his eyes over it. "Tell the Squire I will be -there, Johnny." - -Caromel was very busy after that, getting into his house--for he took -the Squire's advice, and did not linger much longer at Nave's. And I -think two or three weeks only had passed, after he was in it, when news -reached him of his wife's death. - -It came from his agent in New York, Abraham B. Whitter, who had received -the information from San Francisco. Mr. Whitter enclosed the San -Francisco letters. They were written by a Mr. Munn: one letter to -himself, the other (which was not as yet unsealed) to Nash Caromel. - -We read them both: Nash brought them to the Squire before sending them -to Mrs. Tinkle--considerate as ever, he would not let her see them until -she had been prepared. The letters did not say much. Mrs. Nash Caromel -had grown weaker and weaker after Nash departed from San Francisco for -New York, and she finally sank under low fever. A diary, which she had -kept the last few weeks of her life, meant only for her husband's own -eye, together with a few letters and sundry other personal trifles, -would be forwarded the first opportunity to Abraham B. Whitter and Co., -who would hold the box at Mr. Caromel's disposal. - -"Who is he, this Francis Munn, who writes to you?" asked the Squire. -"A friend of your wife's?--she appears to have died at his house." - -"A true friend of hers and of mine," answered Nash. "It was with Mr. and -Mrs. Munn that I left Charlotte, when I was obliged to go to New York. -She was not well enough to travel with me." - -"Well--look here, Caromel--don't go and marry that other Charlotte," -advised the Squire. "She is as different from your wife as chalk is from -cheese. Poor thing! it was a hard fate--dying over there away from -everybody!" - -But now--would any one believe it?--instead of taking the Squire's -advice and not marrying her at all, instead even of allowing a decent -time to elapse, in less than a week Nash went to church with Charlotte -the Second. Shame, said Parson Holland under his breath; shame, said the -parish aloud; but Nash Caromel heeded them not. - -We only knew it on the day before the wedding was to be. On Wednesday -morning, a fine, crisp, October day, a shooting party was to meet at old -Appleton's, who lived over beyond Church Dykely. The Squire and Tod -started for it after an early breakfast, and they let me go part of the -way with them. Just after passing Caromel's Farm, we met Pettipher the -postman. - -"Anything for the Manor?" asked the pater. - -"Yes, sir," answered the man; and, diving into his bundle, he handed a -letter. - -"This is not mine," said the Squire, looking at the address; "this is -for Mr. Caromel." - -"Oh! I beg your pardon, sir; I took out the wrong letter. This is -yours." - -"What a thin letter!--come from foreign parts," remarked the pater, -reading the address, "Nash Caromel, Esq." "I seem to know the -handwriting: fancy I've seen it before. Here, take it, Pettipher." - -In passing the letter to Pettipher, which was a ship's letter, I looked -at the said writing. Very small poor writing indeed, with long angular -tails to the letters up and down, especially the capitals. The Squire -handed me his gun and was turning to walk on, opening his letter as he -did so; when Pettipher spoke and arrested him. - -"Have you heard what's coming off yonder, to-morrow, sir?" asked he, -pointing with his thumb to Caromel's Farm. - -"Why no," said the Squire, wondering what Pettipher meant to be at. -"What should be coming off!" - -"Mr. Caromel's going to bring a wife home. Leastways, going to get -married." - -"I don't believe it," burst forth the pater, after staring angrily at -the man. "You'd better take care what you say, Pettipher." - -"But it's true, sir," reasoned Pettipher, "though it's not generally -known. My niece is apprentice to Mrs. King the dressmaker, as perhaps -you know, sir, and they are making Miss Nave's wedding-dress and bonnet. -They are to be married quite early, sir, nine o'clock, before folks are -about. Well yes, sir, it is _not_ seemly, seeing he has but now heard of -his wife's death, poor Miss Charlotte Tinkle, that grew up among us--but -you'll find it's true." - -Whether the Squire gave more hot words to Nash Caromel, or to Charlotte -the Second, or to Pettipher for telling it, I can't say now. Pettipher -touched his hat, said good-morning, and turned up the avenue to -Caromel's Farm to leave the letter for Nash. - -And, married they were on the following morning, amidst a score or two -of spectators. What was agate had slipped out to others as well as -ourselves. Old Clerk Bumford looked more fierce than a raven when he saw -us flocking into the church, after Nash had fee'd him to keep it quiet. - -As the clock struck nine, the party came up. The bride and one of her -sisters, both in white silk; Nave and some strange gentleman, who might -be a friend of his; and Caromel, pale as a ghost. Charlotte the Second -was pale too, but uncommonly pretty, her mass of beautiful hair shining -like threads of gold. - -The ceremony over, they filed out into the porch; Nash leading his -bride, and Nave bringing up the rear alone; when an anxious-looking -little woman with a chronic redness of face was seen coming across the -churchyard. It was Mrs. Tinkle, wearing the deep mourning she had put on -for Charlotte. Some one had carried her the tidings, and she had come -running forth to see whether they _could_ be true. - -And, to watch her, poor thing, with her scared face raised to Nash, and -her poor hands clasped in pain, as he and his bride passed her on the -pathway, was something sad. Nash Caromel's face had grown white again; -but he never looked at her; never turned his eyes, fixed straight out -before him, a hair's point to the right or left. - -"May Heaven have mercy upon them--for surely they'll need it!" cried the -poor woman. "No luck can come of such a wedding as this." - - -III. - -The months went on. Mrs. Nash was ruling the roast at Caromel's Farm, -being unquestionably both mistress and master. Nash Caromel's old easy -indolence had grown now to apathy. It almost seemed as though the farm -might go as it liked for him; but his wife was energetic, and she kept -servants of all kinds to their work. - -Nash excused himself for his hasty wedding when people reproached -him--and a few had done that on his return from the honeymoon. His first -wife had been dead for some months, he said, and the farm wanted a -mistress. She had only been dead to him a week, was the answer he -received to this: and, as to the farm, he was quite as competent to -manage that himself without a mistress as with one. After all, where was -the use of bothering about it when the thing was done?--and the offence -concerned himself, not his neighbours. So the matter was condoned at -length; Nash was taken into favour again, and the past was dropped. - -But Nash, as I have told you, grew apathetic. His spirits were low; the -Squire remarked one day that he was like a man who had some inward care -upon him. Mrs. Nash, on the contrary, was cheerful as a summer's day; -she filled the farm with visitors, and made the money fly. - -All too soon, a baby arrived. It was in May, and he must have travelled -at railroad speed. Nurse Picker, called in hastily on the occasion, -could not find anything the matter with him. A beautiful boy, she said, -as like his father, Master Nash (she had known Nash as a boy), as one -pea was like another. Mrs. Nash told a tale of having been run after by -a cow; Duffham, when attacked by the parish on the point, shut his lips, -and would say never a word, good or bad. Anyway, here he was; a fine -little boy and the son and heir: and if he had mistaken the proper time -to appear, why, clearly it must be his own fault or the cow's: other -people were not to be blamed for it. Mrs. Nash Caromel, frantic with -delight at its being a boy, sent an order to old Bumford to set the -bells a-ringing. - -But now, it was a singular thing that the Squire should chance to -be present at the delivery of another of those letters that bore -the handwriting with the angular tails. Not but that very singular -coincidences do take place in this life, and I often think it would not -hurt us if we paid more heed to them. Caromel's Farm was getting rather -behind-hand with its payments. Whether through its master's apathy or -its mistress's extravagance, ready money grew inconveniently short, and -the Squire could not get his interest paid on the twelve hundred pounds. - -"I'll go over and jog his memory," said he one morning, as we got up -from breakfast. "Put on your cap, Johnny." - -There was a pathway to Caromel's across the fields, and that was the way -we took. It was a hot, lovely day, early in July. Some wheat on the -Caromel land was already down. - -"Splendid weather it has been for the corn," cried the Squire, turning -himself about, "and we shall have a splendid harvest. Somehow I always -fancy the crops ripen on this land sooner than on any other about here, -Johnny." - -"So they do, sir." - -"Fine rich land it is; shouldn't grumble if it were mine. We'll go in at -this gate, lad." - -"This gate" was the side-gate. It opened on a path that led direct to -the sitting-room with glass-doors. Nash was standing just inside the -room, and of all the uncomfortable expressions that can sit on a man's -face, the worst sat on his. The Squire noticed it, and spoke in a -whisper. - -"Johnny, lad, he looks just as though he had seen a ghost." - -It's just what he did look like--a ghost that frightened him. We were -close up before he noticed us. Giving a great start, he smoothed his -face, smiled, and held out his hand. - -"You don't look well," said the Squire, as he sat down. "What's amiss?" - -"Nothing at all," answered Nash. "The heat pothers me, as usual: can't -sleep at night for it. Why, here's the postman! What makes him so late, -I wonder?" - -Pettipher was coming straight down to the window, letters in hand. -Something in his free, onward step seemed to say that he must be in the -habit of delivering the letters to Nash at that same window. - -"Two, sir, this morning," said Pettipher, handing them in. - -As Nash was taking the letters, one of them fell, either by his own -awkwardness or by Pettipher's. I picked it up and gave it to him, -address upwards. The Squire saw it. - -"Why, that's the same handwriting that puzzled me," cried he, speaking -on the impulse of the moment. "It seemed familiar to me, but I could not -remember where I had seen it. It's a ship letter, as was the other." - -Nash laughed--a lame kind of laugh--and put both letters into his -pocket. "It comes from a chum of mine that I picked up over yonder," -said he to the Squire, nodding his head towards where the sea might be -supposed to lie. "I don't think you could ever have been familiar with -it." - -They went away to talk of business, leaving me alone. Mrs. Nash Caromel -came in with her baby. She wore a white dress and light green ribbons, a -lace cap half shading her bright hair. Uncommonly pretty she looked--but -I did not like her. - -"Is it you, Johnny Ludlow?" said she, pausing a moment at the door, and -then holding out her hand. "I thought my husband was here alone." - -"He is gone into the library with the Squire." - -"Sit down. Have you seen my baby before? Is he not a beauty?" - -It was a nice little fellow, with fat arms and blue knitted shoes, a -good deal like Nash. They had named him Duncan, after some relative of -hers, and the result was that he was never called anything but "Dun." -Mrs. Caromel was telling me that she had "short-coated" him early, as it -was hot weather, when the others appeared, and the Squire marched me -off. - -"Johnny," said he, thoughtfully, as we went along, "how curiously Nash -Caromel is altered!" - -"He seems rather--_down_, sir," I answered, hesitating for a word. - -"Down!" echoed the Squire, slightingly; "it's more than that. He seems -lost." - -"Lost, sir?" - -"His mind does. When I told him what I had come about: that it was time, -and long ago, too, that my interest was paid, he stared at me more like -a lunatic than a farmer--as if he had forgotten all about it, interest, -and money, and all. When his wits came to him, he said it ought to have -been paid, and he'd see Nave about it. Nave's his father-in-law, Johnny, -and I suppose will take care of his interests; but I know I'd as soon -entrust my affairs to Old Scratch as to him." - -The Squire had his interest paid. The next news we heard was that -Caromel's Farm was about to give an entertainment on a grand scale; an -afternoon fete out-of-doors, with a sumptuous cold collation that you -might call by what name you liked--dinner, tea, or supper--in the -evening. An invitation printed on a square card came to us, which we all -crowded round Mrs. Todhetley to look at. Cards had not come much into -fashion then, except for public ceremonies, such as the Mayor's Feast at -Worcester. In our part of the world we were still content to write our -invitations on note-paper. - -The mother would not go. She did not care for fetes, she said to us. In -point of fact she did not like Mrs. Nash Caromel any better than she had -liked Charlotte Nave, and she had never believed in the cow. So she sent -a civil note of excuse for herself. The Squire accepted, after some -hesitation. He and the Caromels had been friends for so many years that -he did not care to put the slight of a refusal upon Nash; besides, he -liked parties, if they were jolly. - -But now, would any rational being believe that Mrs. Nash had the cheek -to send an invitation to Mrs. Tinkle and her son Henry? It was what -Harry Tinkle called it--cheek. When poor Mrs. Tinkle broke the red seal -of the huge envelope, and read the card of invitation, from Mr. and Mrs. -Caromel, her eyes were dim. - -"I think they must have sent it as a cruel joke," remarked Mrs. Tinkle, -meeting the Squire a day or two before the fete. "She has never spoken -to me in her life. When we pass each other she picks up her skirts as if -they were too good to touch mine. Once she laughed at me, rudely." - -"Don't believe she knows any better," cried the Squire in his hot -partisanship. "Her skirts were not fit to touch your own Charlotte's." - -"Oh, Charlotte! poor Charlotte!" cried Mrs. Tinkle, losing her -equanimity. "I wish I could hear the particulars of her last moments," -she went on, brushing away the tears. "If Mr. Caromel has had -details--and that letter, telling of her death, promised them, you -know--he does not disclose them to me." - -"Why don't you write a note and ask him, Mrs. Tinkle?" - -"I hardly know why," she answered. "I think he cannot have heard, or he -would surely tell me; he is not bad-hearted." - -"No, only too easy; swayed by anybody that may be at his elbow for the -time being," concluded the Squire. "Nash Caromel is one of those people -who need to be kept in leading-strings all their lives. Good-morning." - -It was a fete worth going to. The afternoon as sunny a one as ever -August turned out, and the company gay, if not numerous. Only a -sprinkling of ladies could be seen; but amongst them was Miles Caromel's -widow, with her four daughters. Being women of consideration, deserving -the respect of the world, their presence went for much, and Mrs. Nash -had reason to thank them. They scorned and despised her in their hearts, -but they countenanced her for the sake of the honour of the Caromels. - -Archery, dancing, promenading, and talking took up the afternoon, and -then came the banquet. Altogether it must have cost Caromel's Farm a -tidy sum. - -"It is well for you to be able to afford this," cried the Squire -confidentially to Nash, as they stood together in one of the shady -paths beyond the light of the coloured lanterns, when the evening was -drawing to an end. "Miles would never have done it." - -"Oh, I don't know--it's no harm once in a way," answered Nash, who had -exerted himself wonderfully, and finished up by drinking his share of -wine. "Miles had his ways, and I have mine." - -"All right: it is your own affair. But I wouldn't have done one thing, -my good friend--sent an invitation to your mother-in-law." - -"What mother-in-law?" asked Nash, staring. - -"Your ex-mother-in-law, I ought to have said--Mrs. Tinkle. I wouldn't -have done it, Caromel, under the circumstances. It pained her." - -"But who did send her an invitation? Is it likely? I don't know what you -are talking about, Squire." - -"Oh, that's it, is it?" returned the Squire, perceiving that the act was -madam's and not his. "Have you ever had those particulars of Charlotte's -death?" - -Nash Caromel's face changed from red to a deadly pallor: the question -unnerved him--took his wits out of him. - -"The particulars of Charlotte's death," he stammered, looking all -abroad. "What particulars?" - -"Why, those promised you by the man who wrote from San Francisco--Munn, -was his name? Charlotte's diary, and letters, and things, that he was -sending off to New York." - -"Oh--ay--I remember," answered Nash, pulling his senses together. "No, -they have not come." - -"Been lost on the way, do you suppose? What a pity!" - -"They may have been. I have not had them." - -Nash Caromel walked straight away with the last words. Either to get rid -of the subject, or to join some people who had just then crossed the top -of the path. - -"Caromel does not like talking of her: I can see that, Johnny," remarked -the Squire to me later. "I don't believe he'd have done as he did, but -for this second Charlotte throwing her wiles across his path. He fell -into the snare and his conscience pricks him." - -"I dare say, sir, it will come right with time. She is very pretty." - -"Yes, most crooked things come straight with time," assented the Squire. -"Perhaps this one will." - -Would it, though! - -The weeks and the months went on. Caromel's Farm seemed to prosper, its -mistress being a most active manager, ruling with an apparently soft -will, but one firm as iron; and little Dun grew to be about fifteen -months old. The cow might have behaved ungenteelly to him, as Miss -Bailey's ghost says to Captain Smith, but it had not hurt the little -fellow, or his stout legs either, which began now to be running him into -all kinds of mischief. And so the time came round again to August--just -a year after the fete, and nearly twenty-two months after Nash's second -marriage. - -One evening, Tod being out and Mrs. Todhetley in the nursery, I was -alone with the Squire in the twilight. The great harvest moon was rising -behind the trees; and the Squire, talking of some parish grievance that -he had heard of from old Jones the constable, let it rise: while I was -wishing he would call for lights that I might get on with "The Old -English Baron," which I was reading for about the seventeenth time. - -"And you see, Johnny, if Jones had been firm, as I told him this -afternoon, and taken the fellow up, instead of letting him slope off and -be lost, the poachers---- Who's this coming in, lad?" - -The Squire had caught sight of some one turning to the door from the -covered path. I saw the fag-end of a petticoat. - -"I think it must be Mrs. Scott, sir. The mother said she had promised to -come over one of these first evenings." - -"Ay," said the Squire. "Open the door for her, Johnny." - -I had the front-door open in a twinkling, and saw a lady with a -travelling-cloak on her arm. But she bore no resemblance to Mrs. Scott. - -"Is Mr. Todhetley at home?" - -The soft voice gave me a thrill and a shock, though years had elapsed -since I heard it. A confused doubt came rushing over me; a perplexing -question well-nigh passed my lips: "Is it a living woman or a dead one?" -For there, before me, stood Nash Caromel's dead wife, Charlotte the -First. - - - - -CHARLOTTE AND CHARLOTTE. - - -I. - -People are apt to say, when telling of a surprise, that a feather would -have knocked them down. I nearly fell without the feather and without -the touch. To see a dead woman standing straight up before me, and to -hear her say "How are you, and is the Squire at home?" might have upset -the balance of a giant. - -But I could not be mistaken. There, waiting at the front-door to come -in, her face within an inch of mine, was Nash Caromel's first wife, -Charlotte Tinkle; who for some two years now had been looked upon as -dead and buried over in California. - -"Is Mr. Todhetley at home!" she repeated. "And can I see him?" - -"Yes," I answered, coming partially out of my bewilderment. "Do you mind -staying here just a minute, while I tell him?" - -For, to hand in a dead woman, might take him aback, as it had taken me. -The pater stood bolt upright, waiting for Mrs. Scott (as he had supposed -it to be) to enter. - -"It is not Mrs. Scott," I whispered, shutting the door and going close -up to him. "It--it is some one else. I hardly like to tell you, sir; she -may give you a fright." - -"Why, what does the lad mean?--what are you making a mystery of now, -Johnny?" cried he, staring at me. "Give me a fright! I should like to -see any woman give me that. Is it Mrs. Scott, or is it not?" - -"It is some one we thought dead, sir." - -"Now, Johnny, don't be a muff. Somebody you thought dead! What on -earth's come to you, lad? Speak out!" - -"It is Nash Caromel's first wife, sir: Charlotte Tinkle." - -The pater gazed at me as a man bereft of reason. I don't believe he -knew whether he stood on his head or his heels. "Charlotte Tinkle!" he -exclaimed, backing against the curtain. "What, come to life, Johnny?" - -"Yes, sir, and she wants to see you. Perhaps she has never been dead." - -"Bless my heart and mind! Bring her in." - -The first thing Charlotte the First did when she came in and the Squire -clasped her by her two hands, was to burst into a fit of sobbing. Some -wine stood on the sideboard; the Squire poured her out a glass, and she -untied the strings of her bonnet as she sat down. - -"If I might take it off for a minute?" she said. "I have had it on all -the way from Liverpool." - -"Do so, my dear. Goodness me! I think I must be in a dream. And so you -are not dead!" - -"Yes, I knew it was what you must have all been thinking," she answered, -stifling her sobs. "Poor Nash!--what a dreadful thing it is! I cannot -imagine how the misconception can have arisen." - -"What misconception?" asked the pater, whose wits, once gone a -wool-gathering, rarely came back in a hurry. - -"That I had died." - -"Why, that friend of yours with whom you were staying--Bunn--Munn--which -was it, Johnny?--wrote to tell your husband so." - -Mrs. Nash Caromel, sitting there in the twilight, her brown hair as -smooth as ever and her eyes as meek, looked at the Squire in surprise. - -"Oh no, that could not have been; Mr. Munn would not be likely to write -anything of the sort. Impossible." - -"But, my dear lady, I read the letter. Your husband brought it to me as -soon as it reached him. You remained at San Francisco, very ill after -Nash's departure, and you got no better, and died at last of low fever." - -She shook her head. "I was very poorly indeed when Nash left, but I grew -better shortly. I had no low fever, and I certainly did not die." - -"Then why did Munn write it?" - -"He did not write it. He could not have written it. I am quite certain -of that. He and his wife are my very good and dear friends, and most -estimable people." - -"The letter certainly came to your husband," persisted the Squire. "I -read it with my own eyes. It was dated San Francisco, and signed Francis -Munn." - -"Then it was a forgery. But why any one should have written it, or -troubled themselves about me and my husband at all, I cannot imagine." - -"And then, Nash--Nash---- Good gracious, what a complication!" cried the -Squire, breaking off what he meant to say, as the thought of Charlotte -Nave crossed his mind. - -"I know," she quietly put in: "Nash has married again." - -It was a complication, and no mistake, all things considered. The Squire -rubbed up his hair and deliberated, and then bethought himself that it -might be as well to keep the servants out of the room. So I went to tell -old Thomas that the master was particularly engaged with a friend, and -no one was to come in unless rung for. Then I ran upstairs to whisper -the news to the mother--and it pretty nearly sent her into a fit of -hysterics. - -Charlotte Caromel was entering on her history to the Squire when I got -back. "Yes," she said, "I and my husband went to California, having -found little luck in America. Nash made one or two ventures there also, -but nothing seemed to succeed; not as well even as it did in America, -and he resolved to go back there, and try at something or other again. -He sailed for New York, leaving me in San Francisco with Francis Munn -and his wife; for I had been ill, and was not strong enough for the -tedious voyage. The Munns kept a dry-goods store at San Francisco, -and----" - -"A dry-goods store!" interrupted the Squire. - -"Yes. You cannot afford to be fastidious over there; and to be in trade -is looked upon as an honour, rather than the contrary. Francis Munn -was the youngest son of a country gentleman in England; he went to -California to make his fortune at anything that might turn up; and it -ended in his marrying and keeping a store. They made plenty of money, -and were very kind to me and Nash. Well, Nash started for New York, -leaving me with them, and he wrote to me soon after his arrival there. -Things were looking gloomy in the States, he said, and he felt inclined -to take a run over to England, and ask his brother Miles to help him -with some money. I wrote back a letter in duplicate, addressing one to -the agents' in New York, the other to Caromel's Farm--not knowing, you -perceive, in which place he might be. No answer reached me--but people -think little of the safety of letters out there, so many seem to -miscarry. We fancied Nash might be coming back to San Francisco and did -not trouble himself to write: like me, he is not much of a scribe. But -the months went on, and he did not come; he neither came nor wrote." - -"What did you think hindered him?" - -"We did not know what to think--except, as I say, that the letters had -miscarried. One day Mr. Munn brought in a file of English newspapers for -me and his wife to read: and in one of them I saw an announcement that -puzzled me greatly--the marriage of one Nash Caromel, of Caromel's Farm, -to Charlotte Nave. Just at first it startled me; I own that; but I -felt so sure it could not be my Nash, my husband, that I remained only -puzzled to know what Nash Caromel it could be." - -"There is only one Nash Caromel," growled the Squire, half inclined to -tell her she was a simpleton--taking things in this equable way. - -"I only knew of him; but I thought he must have some relative, a cousin -perhaps, of the same name, of whom I had not heard. However," continued -Charlotte, "I wrote then to Caromel's Farm, telling Nash what we had -read, and asking him what it meant, and where he was. But that letter -shared the fate of the former one, and obtained no reply. In the course -of time we saw another announcement--The wife of Nash Caromel of a son. -Still I did not believe it could be my Nash, but I could see that Mr. -Munn did believe it was. At least he thought there was something strange -about it all, especially our not hearing from Nash: and at length I -determined to come home and see about it." - -"You must have been a long time coming," remarked the Squire. "The child -is fifteen months old." - -"But you must remember that often we did not get news until six months -after its date. And I chose a most unfortunate route--overland from -California to New York." - -"What on earth---- Why, people are sometimes a twelvemonth or so doing -that!" cried the Squire. "There are rocky mountains to scale, as I've -heard and read, and Red Indians to encounter, and all sorts of horrors. -Those who undertake it travel in bands, do they not? and are called -pilgrims, and some of them don't get to the end of the journey alive." - -"True," she sighed. "I would never have attempted it had I known what it -would be: but I did so dread the sea. Several of us were laid up midway, -and had to be left behind at a small settlement: one or two died. It was -a long, long time, and only after surmounting great discomforts and -difficulties, we reached New York." - -"Well?" said the Squire. It must be remembered that they were speaking -of days now gone by, when the journey was just what she described it. - -"I could hear nothing of my husband in New York," she resumed, "except -that Abraham Whitter believed him to be at home here. I took the steamer -for Liverpool, landed at dawn this morning, and came on by rail. And I -find it is my husband who is married. And what am I to do?" - -She melted away into tears again. The Squire told her that she must -present herself at the farm; she was its legal mistress, and Nash -Caromel's true wife. But she shook her head at this: she wouldn't bring -any such trouble upon Nash for the world, as to show him suddenly that -she was living. What he had done he must have done unwittingly, she -said, believing her to be dead, and he ought not to suffer for it more -than could be helped. Which was a lenient way of reasoning that put the -Squire's temper up. - -"He deserves no quarter, ma'am, and _I_ will not give it him if you do. -Within a week of the time he heard of your death he went and took that -Charlotte Nave. Though I expect it was she who took him--brazen hussy! -And I am glad you have come to put her out!" - -But, nothing would induce Charlotte the First to assume this view, or to -admit that blame could attach to Nash. Once he had lost her by death, he -had a right to marry again, she contended. As to the haste--well, she -had been dead (as he supposed) a great many months when he heard of it, -and that should be considered. The Squire exploded, and walked about -the room, and rubbed his hair the wrong way, and thought her no better -than an imbecile. - -Mrs. Todhetley came in, and there was a little scene. Charlotte declined -our offer of a bed and refreshment, saying she would like to go to her -mother's for the night: she felt that she should be received gladly, -though they had parted in anger and had held no communication with one -another since. - -Gladly? ay, joyfully. Little doubt of that. So the Squire put on his -hat, and she her bonnet, and away they started, and I with them. - -We took the lonely path across the fields: her appearance might have -raised a stir in the highway. Charlotte was but little altered, and -would have been recognized at once. And I have no space to tell of the -scene at Mrs. Tinkle's, which was as good as a play, or of the way they -rushed into one another's arms. - -"Johnny, there's something on my mind," said the Squire in a low tone as -we were going back towards home: and he was looking grave and silent as -a judge. "Do you remember those two foreign letters we chanced to see of -Nash Caromel's, with the odd handwriting, all quavers and tails?" - -"Yes, I do, sir. They were ship letters." - -"Well, lad, a very ugly suspicion has come into my head, and I can't -drive it away. I believe those two letters were from Charlotte--the two -she speaks of--I believe the handwriting which puzzled me was hers. Now, -if so, Nash went to the altar with that other Charlotte, knowing this -one was alive: for the first letter came the day before the marriage." - -I did not answer. But I remembered what I had overheard Nave the lawyer -say to Nash Caromel: "You must marry her: where there's a will there's -a way"--or words to that effect. Had Nave concocted the letters which -pretended to tell of Mrs. Nash Caromel's death, and got them posted to -Nash from New York? - -With the morning, the Squire was at Caromel's Farm. The old-fashioned -low house, the sun shining on its quaint windows, looked still and quiet -as he walked up to the front-door across the grass-plat, in the middle -of which grew a fine mulberry-tree. The news of Charlotte's return, as -he was soon to find, had travelled to it already; had spread to the -village. For she had been recognized the night before on her arrival; -and her boxes, left in charge of a porter, bore her full name, Mrs. Nash -Caromel. - -Nash stood in that little library of his in a state of agitation not to -be described; he as good as confessed, when the Squire tackled him, that -he _had_ known his wife might have been alive, and that it was all -Nave's doings. At least he suspected that the letter, telling of her -death, might be a forgery. - -"Anyway, you had a letter from her the day before you married, so you -must have known it by that," cried the Squire; who had so much to do -always with the Caromel family that he deemed it his duty to interfere. -"What on earth could have possessed you?" - -"I--was driven into a corner," gasped Nash. - -"I'd be driven into fifty corners before I'd marry two wives," retorted -the Squire. "And now, sir, what do you mean to do?" - -"I can't tell," answered Nash. - -"A pretty kettle of fish this is! What do you suppose your father would -have said to it?" - -"I'm sure I can't tell," repeated Nash helplessly, biting his lips to -get some life into them. - -"And what's the matter with your hands that they are so hot and white?" - -Nash glanced at his hands, and hid them away in his pockets. He looked -like a man consumed by inward fever. - -"I have not been over well for some time past," said he. - -"No wonder--with the consciousness of this discovery hanging over your -head! It might have sent some men into their graves." - -Nash drummed upon the window pane. What in the world to do, what to say, -evidently he knew not. - -"You must put away this Jez--this lady," went on the Squire. "It was she -who bewitched you; ay, and set herself out to do it, as all the parish -saw. Let her go back to her father: you might make some provision for -her: and instal your wife here in her proper place. Poor thing! she is -so meek and patient! She won't hear a word said against you; thinks you -are a saint. _I_ think you a scoundrel, Nash: and I tell you so to your -face." - -The door had slowly opened; somebody, who had been outside, listening, -put in her head. A very pretty head, and that's the truth, surmounting -a fashionable morning costume of rose-coloured muslin, all flounces and -furbelows. It was Charlotte the Second. The Squire had called her a -brazen hussy behind her back; he had much ado this morning not to call -her so to her face. - -"What's that I hear you saying to my husband, Mr. Todhetley--that he -should discard me and admit that creature here! How dare you bring your -pernicious counsels into this house?" - -"Why, bless my heart, he is her husband, madam; he is not yours. You'd -not stay here yourself, surely!" - -"This is my home, and he is _my_ husband, and my child is his heir; and -that woman may go back over the seas whence she came. Is it not so, -Nash? Tell him." - -She put her hand on Nash's shoulder, and he tried to get out something -or other in obedience to her. He was as much under her finger and thumb -as Punch in the street is under the showman's. The Squire went into a -purple heat. - -"You married him by craft, madam--as I believe from my very soul: you -married him, knowing, you and your father also, that his wife was alive. -He knew it, too. The motive must have been one of urgency, I should say, -but I've nothing to do with that----" - -"Nor with any other business of ours," she answered with a brazen face. - -"This business is mine, and all Church Dykely's," flashed the Squire. -"It is public property. And now, I ask you both, what you mean to do in -this dilemma you have brought upon yourselves? His wife is waiting to -come in, and you cannot keep her out." - -"She shall never come in; I tell you that," flashed Charlotte the -Second. "She sent word to him that she was dead, and she must abide -by it; from that time she was dead to him, dead for ever. Mr. Caromel -married me equally in the eyes of the world: and here I shall stay with -him, his true and lawful wife." - -The Squire rubbed his face; the torrent of words and the heat made it -glisten. - -"Stay here, would you, madam! What luck do you suppose would come of -that?" - -"Luck! I have quite as much luck as I require. Nash, why do you not -request this--this gentleman to leave us?" - -"Why, he _dare_ not keep you here," cried the Squire, passing over the -last compliment. "He would be prosecuted for--you know what." - -"Let him be prosecuted! Let the wicked woman do her worst. Let her bring -an action, and we'll defend it. I have more right to him than she has. -Mr. Caromel, _do_ you wish to keep up this interview until night?" - -"Perhaps you had better go now, Squire," put in the man pleadingly. -"I--I will consult Nave, and see what's to be done. She may like to go -back to California, to the Munns; the climate suited her: and--and an -income might be arranged." - -This put the finishing stroke to the Squire's temper. He flung out of -the room with a few unorthodox words, and came home in a tantrum. - -We had had times of commotion at Church Dykely before, but this affair -capped all. The one Mrs. Nash Caromel waiting to go into her house, and -the other Mrs. Nash Caromel refusing to go out of it to make room for -her. The Squire was right when saying it was public property: the public -made it theirs. Tongues pitched into Nash Caromel in the fields and in -the road: but some few of us pitied him, thinking what on earth we could -do ourselves in a like position. While old Jones the constable stalked -briskly about, expecting to get a warrant for taking up the master of -Caromel's Farm. - -But the great drawback to instituting legal proceedings lay with Mrs. -Nash Caromel the First. She declined to prosecute. Her husband might -refuse to receive her; might hold himself aloof from her; might keep his -second wife by his side; but she would never hurt a hair of his head. -Heaven might bring things round in its own good time, she said; -meanwhile she would submit--and bear. - -And she held to this, driving indignant men distracted. They argued, -they persuaded, they remonstrated; it was said that one or two -strong-minded ones _swore_. All the same. She stayed on at her mother's, -and would neither injure her husband herself, nor let her family injure -him. Henry Tinkle, her brother, chanced to be from home (as he was when -she had run away to be married), or he might have acted in spite of her. -And, when this state of things had continued for two or three weeks, the -world began to call it a "crying scandal." As to Nash Caromel, he did -not show his face abroad. - -"Not a day longer shall the fellow retain my money," said the pater, -speaking of the twelve hundred pounds he had lent to Nash: and in fact -the term it had been lent for was already up. But it is easier to make -such a threat than to enforce it; and it is not everybody who can -extract twelve hundred pounds at will from uncertain coffers. Any way -the Squire found he could not. He wrote to Nash, demanding its return; -and he wrote to Nave. - -Nash did not answer him at all. Nave's clerk sent a semi-insolent -letter, saying Mr. Caromel should be communicated with when occasion -offered. The Squire wrote in a rage to his lawyer at Worcester, bidding -him enforce the repayment. - -"You two lads can take the letter to the post," said he. - -But we had not got many yards from home when we heard the Squire coming -after us. We all walked into Church Dykely together; and close to the -post-office, which was at Dame Chad's shop, we met Duffham. Of course -the Squire, who could not keep anything in had he been bribed to do it, -told Duffham what steps he was about to take. - -"Going to enforce payment," nodded Duffham. "The man deserves no -quarter. But he is ill." - -"Serve him right. What's the matter with him?" - -"Nervous fever. Has fretted or frightened himself into it. Report says -that he is very ill indeed." - -"Don't you attend him?" - -"Not I. I did not please madam at the time the boy was born--would not -give in to some of her whims and fancies. They have called in that new -doctor who has settled in the next parish, young Bluck." - -"Why, he is no better than an apothecary's boy, that young Bluck! -Caromel can't be very ill, if they have him." - -"So ill, that, as I have just heard, he is in great danger--likely to -die," replied Duffham, tapping his cane against the ledge of Dame Chad's -window. "Bluck's young, but he is clever." - -"Bless my heart! Likely to die! What, Nash Caromel! Here, you lads, if -that's it, I won't annoy him just now about the money, so don't post the -letter." - -"It is posted," said Tod. "I have just put it in." - -"Go in and explain to Dame Chad, and get it out again. Or, stay; the -letter can go, and I'll write and say it's not to be acted on until -he is well again. Nervous fever! I'm afraid his conscience has been -pricking him." - -"I hope it has," said Duffham. - - -II. - -A few days went on. Nash Caromel lay in the greatest danger. Nave was at -the farm day and night. A physician was called in from a distance to aid -young Bluck; but it was understood that there remained very little hope -of recovery. We began to feel sorry for Nash and to excuse his offences, -the Squire especially. It was all that strong-minded young woman's -doings, said he; she had drawn him into her toils, and he had not had -the pluck, first or last, to escape from them. - -But a change for the better took place; Nash passed the crisis, and -would probably, with care, recover. I think every one felt glad; one -does not wish a fellow quite to die, though he has misinterpreted the -laws on the ticklish subject of matrimony. And the Squire felt vexed -later when he learned that his lawyer had disregarded his countermanding -letter and sent a peremptory threat to Nash of enforcing instant -proceedings, unless the money was repaid forthwith. That was not the -only threat conveyed to Caromel's Farm. Harry Tinkle returned; and, -despite his sister's protestations, took the matter into his own hands, -and applied for the warrant that had been so much talked about. As -soon as Nash Caromel could leave his bed, he would be taken before the -magistrates. - -Soon a morning came that we did not forget in a hurry. While dressing -with the window open to the white flowers of the trailing jessamine and -the sweet perfume of the roses, blooming in the warm September air, Tod -came in, fastening his braces. - -"I say, Johnny, here's the jolliest lark! The pater----" - -And what the lark was, I don't know to this day. At that moment the -passing-bell tolled out--three times three; its succession of quick -strokes following it. The wind blew in our direction from the church, -and it sounded almost as though it were in the room. - -"Who can be dead?" cried Tod, stretching his neck out at the window to -listen. "Was any one ill, Jenkins?" he called to the head-gardener, then -coming up the path with a barrow; "do you know who that bell's tolling -for?" - -"It's for Mr. Caromel," answered Jenkins. - -"What?" shouted Tod. - -"It's tolling for Mr. Caromel, sir. He died in the night." - -It was a shock to us all. The Squire, pocketing his indignation against -madam and the Nave family in general, went over to the farm after -breakfast, and saw Miss Gwendolen Nave, who was staying with her sister. -They called her Gwinny. - -"We heard that he was better--going on so well," gasped the Squire. - -"So he was until a day or two ago," said Miss Gwinny, holding her -handkerchief to her eyes. "Very well indeed until then--when it turned -to typhus." - -"Goodness bless me!" cried the Squire, an unpleasant feeling running -through him. "Typhus!" - -"Yes, I am sorry to say." - -"Is it safe to be here? Safe for you all?" - -"Of course it is a risk. We try not to be afraid, and have sent as many -out of the house as we could. I and the old servant Grizzel alone remain -with Mrs. Caromel. The baby has gone to papa's." - -"Dear me, dear me! I was intending to ask to look at poor Nash; we have -known each other always, you see. But, perhaps it would not be prudent." - -"It would be very imprudent, Mr. Todhetley. The sickness was of the -worst type; it might involve not only your own death, but that of -others to whom you might in turn carry it. You have a wife and children, -sir." - -"Yes, yes, quite right," rejoined the Squire. "Poor Nash! How is--your -sister?" He would not, even at that trying moment for them, call her -Mrs. Caromel. - -"Oh, she is very ill; shocked and grieved almost to death. For all we -know, she has taken the fever and may follow her husband; she attended -upon him to the last. I hope that woman, who came here to disturb the -peace of a happy family, that Charlotte Tinkle, will reap the fruit of -what she has sown, for it is all owing to her." - -"People do mostly reap the fruit of their own actions, whether they are -good or bad," observed the Squire to this, as he got up to leave. But he -would not add what he thought--that it was another Charlotte who ought -to reap what she had sown. And who appeared to be doing it. - -"Did the poor fellow suffer much?" - -"Not at the last," said Miss Gwinny. "His strength was gone, and he lay -for many hours insensible. Up to yesterday evening we thought he might -recover. Oh, it is a dreadful calamity!" - -Indeed it was. The Squire came away echoing the words in his heart. - -Three days later the funeral took place: it would not do to delay it -longer. The Squire went to it: when a man was dead, he thought animosity -should cease. Harry Tinkle would not go. Caromel, he said, had escaped -him and the law, to which he had rendered himself amenable, and nobody -might grumble at it, for it was the good pleasure of Heaven, but he -would not show Caromel respect, dead or living. - -All the parish seemed to have been bidden to the funeral. Some went, -some did not go. It looked a regular crowd, winding down the lawn and -down the avenue. Few ventured indoors; they preferred to assemble -outside: for an exaggerated fear of Caromel's Farm and what might be -caught in it, ran through the community. So, when the men came out of -the house, staggering under the black velvet pall with its deep white -border, followed by Lawyer Nave, the company fell up into line behind. - -Little Dun would have been the legal heir to the property had there been -no Charlotte the First. That complication stood in his way, and he could -no more inherit it than I could. Under the peculiar circumstances _there -was no male heir living_, and Nash Caromel, the last of his name, had -the power to make a will. Whether he had done so, or not, was not known; -but the question was set at rest after the return from the funeral. Nave -had gone strutting next the coffin as chief mourner, and he now produced -the will. Half-a-dozen gentlemen had entered, the Squire one of them. - -It was executed, the will, all in due form, having been drawn up by a -lawyer from a distance; not by Nave, who may have thought it as well to -keep his fingers out of the pie. A few days after the return of -Charlotte the First, when Nash first became ill, the strange lawyer was -called in, and the will was made. - -Caromel's Farm and every stick and stone upon it, and all other -properties possessed by Nash, were bequeathed to the little boy, Duncan -Nave (as it was worded), otherwise Duncan Nave Caromel. Not to him -unconditionally, but to be placed in the hands of trustees for his -ultimate benefit. The child's mother (called in the will Charlotte Nave, -otherwise Charlotte Caromel) was to remain at the farm if she pleased, -and to receive the yearly income derived from it for the mutual -maintenance of herself and child. When the child should be twenty-one, -he was to assume full possession, but his mother was at liberty to -continue to have her home with him. In short, they took all; Charlotte -Tinkle, nothing. - -"It is a wicked will," cried one of the hearers when they came out from -listening to it. - -"And it won't prosper them; you see if it does," added the Squire. "She -stands in the place of Charlotte Tinkle. The least Caromel could have -done, was to divide the property between them." - -So that was the apparent ending of the Caromel business, which had -caused the scandal in our quiet place, and a very unjust ending it was. -Charlotte Tinkle, who had not a sixpence of her own in the world, -remained on with her mother. She would come to church in her widow's -mourning, a grievous look of sorrow upon her meek face; people said she -would never get over the cruelty of not having been sent for to say -farewell to her husband when he was dying. - -As for Charlotte Nave, she stayed on at the farm without let or -hindrance, calling herself, as before, Mrs. Nash Caromel. She appeared -at church once in a way; not often. Her widow's veil was deeper than the -other widow's, and her goffered cap larger. Nobody took the fever: and -Nave the lawyer sent back the Squire's twelve hundred pounds within -a month of Nash's death. And that, I say, was the ending, as we all -supposed, of the affair at Caromel's Farm. - -But curious complications were destined to crop up yet. - - -III. - -Nash Caromel died in September. And in how short, or long, a time it was -afterwards that a very startling report grew to be whispered, I cannot -remember; but I think it must have been at the turn of winter. The two -widows were deep in weeds as ever, but over Charlotte Nave a change had -come. And I really think I had better call them in future Charlotte -Tinkle and Charlotte Nave, or we may get in a fog between the two. - -Charlotte Nave grew pale and thin. She ruled the farm, as before, -with the deft hand of a capable woman, but her nature appeared to be -changing, her high spirits to have flown for ever. Instead of filling -the house with company, she secluded herself in it like a hermit, being -scarcely ever seen abroad. Ill-natured people, quoting Shakespeare, said -the thorns, which in her bosom lay, did prick and sting her. - -It was reported that the fear of the fever had taken a haunting hold -upon her. She could not get rid of it. Which was on-reasonable, as Nurse -Picker phrased it; for if she'd ha' been to catch it, she'd ha' caught -it at the time. It was not for herself alone she feared it, but for -others, though she did fear it for herself still, very much indeed. An -impression lay on her mind that the fever was not yet out of the house, -and never would be out of it, and that any fresh person, coming in to -reside, would be liable to take it. More than once she was heard to say -she would give a great deal not to be tied to the place--but the farm -could not get on without a head. Before Nash died, when it was known the -disorder had turned to typhus, she had sent all the servants (except -Grizzel) and little Dun out of the house. She would not let them come -back to it. Dun stayed at the lawyer's; the servants in time got other -situations. The gardener's wife went in by day to help old Grizzel with -the work, and some of the out-door men lived in the bailiff's house. -Nave let out one day that he had remonstrated with his daughter in vain. -Some women are cowards in these matters; they can't help being so; and -the inward fear, perpetually tormenting them, makes a havoc of their -daily lives. But in this case the fear had grown to an exaggerated -height. In short, not to mince the matter, it was suspected her brain, -on that one point, was unhinged. - -Miss Gwinny could not leave her. Another sister, Harriet Nave, had come -to her father's house, to keep it and take care of little Dun. Dun -was allowed to go into the grounds of the farm and to play under the -mulberry-tree on the lawn; and once or twice on a wet day, it was said, -his mother had taken him into the parlour that opened with glass-doors, -but she never let him run the risk of going in farther. At last old -Nave, as was reported, consulted a mad doctor about her, going all the -way to Droitwich to do it. - -But all this had nothing to do with the startling rumour I spoke of. -Things were in this condition when it first arose. It was said that Nash -Caromel "came again." - -At first the whisper was not listened to, was ridiculed, laughed at: but -when one or two credible witnesses protested they had seen him, people -began to talk, and then to say there must be something in it. - -A little matter that had occurred soon after the funeral, was remembered -then. Nash Caromel had used to wear on his watch-chain a small gold -locket with his own and his wife's hair in it. I mean his real wife. -Mrs. Tinkle wrote a civil note to the mistress of Caromel's Farm asking -that the locket might be restored to her daughter--whose property it in -fact was. She did not receive any answer, and wrote again. The second -letter was returned to Mrs. Tinkle in a blank envelope with a wide black -border. - -Upon this, Harry Tinkle took up the matter. Stretching a point for his -sister, who was pining for the locket and Nash's bit of hair in it, -for she possessed no memento at all of her husband, he called at the -farm and saw the lady. Some hard words passed between them: she was -contemptuously haughty; and he was full of inward indignation, not only -at the general treatment accorded to his sister, but also at the unjust -will. At last, stung by some sneering contumely she openly cast upon his -sister, he retorted in her own coin--answering certain words of hers-- - -"I hope his ghost will haunt you, you false woman!" Meaning, you know, -the ghost of the dead man. - -People recalled these words of Harry Tinkle's now, and began to look -upon them (spoken by one of the injured Tinkles) in the light of -prophecy. What with this, and what with their private belief that Nash -Caromel's conscience would hardly allow him to rest quietly in his -grave, they thought it very likely that his ghost _was_ haunting her, -and only hoped it would not haunt the parish. - -Was this the cause of the change apparent in her? Could it be that Nash -Caromel's spirit returned to the house in which he died, and that she -could not rest for it? Was this the true reason, and not the fever, why -she kept the child and the servants out of the house?--lest they should -be scared by the sight? Gossips shivered as they whispered to one -another of these unearthly doubts, which soon grew into a belief. But -you must understand that never a syllable had been heard from herself, -or a hint given, that Caromel's Farm was troubled by anything of the -kind; neither did she know, or was likely to hear, that it was talked of -abroad. Meanwhile, as the time slipped on, every now and then something -would occur to renew the report--that Nash Caromel had been seen. - -One afternoon, during a ride, the Squire's horse fell lame. On his -return he sent for Dobbs, the blacksmith and farrier. Dobbs promised to -be over about six o'clock; he was obliged to go elsewhere first. When -six o'clock struck, the Squire, naturally impatient, began to look out -for Dobbs. And if he sent Thomas out of the room once during dinner, to -see whether the man had arrived, he sent him half-a-dozen times. - -Seven o'clock, and no Dobbs. The pater was in a fume; he did nothing -but walk to and fro between the house and the stables, and call Dobbs -names as he looked out for him. At last, there came a rush across the -fold-yard, and Dobbs appeared, his face looking very peculiar, and his -hair standing up in affright, like a porcupine's quills. - -"Why, what on earth has taken you?" began the Squire, surprised out of -the reproach that had been upon his tongue. - -"I don't know what has taken me," gasped Dobbs. "Except that I've seen -Mr. Nash Caromel." - -"What?" roared the Squire, his surprise changing to anger. - -"As true as I'm a living man, I've seen him, sir," persisted Dobbs, -wiping his face with a blue cotton handkerchief. "I've seen his shadow." - -"Seen the Dickens!" retorted the Squire, slightingly. "One would think -_he_ was after you, by the way you flew up here. I wonder you are not -ashamed of yourself, Dobbs." - -"Being later than I thought to be, sir, I took the field way; it's a bit -shorter," went on Dobbs, attempting to explain. "In passing through that -little copse at the back of Caromel's Farm, I met a curious-looking -shadow of a figure that somehow startled me. May I never stir from this -spot, sir, if it was not Caromel himself." - -"You have been drinking, Dobbs." - -"A strapping pace I was going at, knowing I was being waited for here," -continued Dobbs, too much absorbed in his story to heed the sarcasm. "I -never saw Mr. Nash Caromel plainer in his lifetime than I saw him then, -sir. Drinking? No, that I had not been, Squire; the place where I went -to is teetotal. It was up at the Glebe, and they don't have nothing -stronger in their house than tea. They gave me two good cups of that." - -"Tea plays some people worse tricks than drink, especially if it is -green," observed the Squire: and I am bound to confess that Dobbs, -apart from his state of fright, seemed as sober as we were. "I wouldn't -confess myself a fool, Dobbs, if I were you." - -Dobbs put out his brawny right arm. "Master," said he, with quite a -solemn emphasis, "as true as that there moon's a-shining down upon us, -I this night saw Nash Caromel. I should know him among a thousand. -And I thought my heart would just ha' leaped out of me." - -To hear this strong, matter-of-fact man assert this, with his sturdy -frame and his practical common sense, sounded remarkable. Any one -accustomed to seeing him in his forge, working away at his anvil, would -never have believed it of him. Tod laughed. The Squire marched off to -the stables with an impatient word. I followed with Dobbs. - -"The idea of your believing in ghosts and shadows, Dobbs!" - -"Me believe in 'em, Master Johnny! No more I did; I'd have scorned it. -Why, do you remember that there stir, sir, about the ghost that was said -to haunt Oxlip Dell? Lots of people went into fits over that, a'most -lost their heads; but I laughed at it. Now, I never put credit in -nothing of the kind; but I have seen Mr. Caromel's ghost to-night." - -"Was it in white?" - -"Bless your heart, sir, no. He was in a sort o' long-skirted dark cloak -that seemed to wrap him well round; and his head was in something black. -It might ha' been a cap; I don't know. And here we are at the stable, so -I'll say no more: but I can't ever speak anything truer in my life than -I've spoke this, sir." - -All this passed. In spite of the blacksmith's superstitious assertion, -made in the impulse of terror, there lay on his mind a feeling of shame -that he should have betrayed fear to us (or what bordered upon it) in an -unguarded moment; and this caused him to be silent to others. So the -matter passed off without spreading further. - -Several weeks later, it cropped up again. Francis Radcliffe (if the -reader has not forgotten him, and who had not long before been delivered -out of his brother's hands at Sandstone Torr) was passing along at the -back of Caromel's Farm, when he saw a figure that bore an extraordinary -resemblance to Nash Caromel. The Squire laughed well when told of it, -and Radcliffe laughed too. "But," said he, "had Nash Caromel not been -dead, I could have sworn it was he, or his shadow, before any justice of -the peace." - -His shadow! The same word that Dobbs had used. Francis Radcliffe told -this story everywhere, and it caused no little excitement. - -"What does this silly rumour mean--about Nash Caromel being seen?" -demanded the Squire one day when he met Nave, and condescended to stop -to speak to him. - -And Nave, hearing the question, turned quite blue: the pater told us so -when he came home. Just as though Nave saw the apparition before him -then, and was frightened at it. - -"The rumour is infamous," he answered, biting his cold lips to keep down -his passion. "Infamous and ridiculous both. Emanating from idle fools. I -think, sir, as a magistrate, you might order these people before you and -punish them." - -"Punish people for thinking they see Caromel's ghost!" retorted the -Squire. "Bless my heart! What an ignorant man (for a lawyer) you must -be! No act has been passed against seeing ghosts. But I'd like to know -what gives rise to the fancy about Caromel." - -The rumour did not die away. How could it, when from time to time the -thing continued to be seen? It frightened Mary Standish into a fit. -Going to Caromel's Farm one night to beg grace for something or other -that her ill-doing husband, Jim, then working on the farm, had done or -left undone, she came upon a wonderfully thin man standing in the nook -by the dairy window, and took him to be the bailiff, who was himself -no better than a walking lamp-post. "If you please, sir," she was -beginning, thinking to have it out with him instead of Mrs. Caromel, -"if you please, sir----" - -When, upon looking into his pale, stony face, she saw the late master. -He vanished into air or into the wall, and down fell Mary Standish in a -fainting-fit. The parish grew uneasy at all this--and wondered what had -been done to Nash, or what he had done, that he could not rest. - -One night I was coming, with Tod, across from Mrs. Scott's, who lived -beyond Hyde Stockhausem's. We took the field way from Church Dykely, as -being the shortest route, and that led us through the copse at the back -of Caromel's Farm. It was a very light night, though not moonlight; and -we walked on at a good rate, talking of a frightful scrape Sam Scott -had got into, and which he was afraid to tell his mother of. All in a -moment, just in the middle of the copse, we came upon a man standing -amongst the trees, his face towards us. Tod turned and I turned; and we -both saw Nash Caromel. Now, of course, you will laugh. As the Squire did -when we got home (in a white heat) and told him: and he called us a -couple of poltroons. But, if ever I saw the face of Nash Caromel, I saw -it then; and if ever I saw a figure that might be called a shadow, it -was his. - -"Fine gentlemen, both of you!" scoffed the Squire. "Clear and sensible! -Seen a ghost, have you, and confess to it! Ho, ho! Running through the -back copse, you come upon somebody that you must take for an apparition! -Ha, ha! Nice young cowards! I'd write an account of it to the Worcester -papers if I were you. A ghost, with glaring eyes and a white face! -Death's head upon a mopstick, lads! I shouldn't have wondered at Johnny; -but I do wonder at you, Joe," concluded the Squire, smoothing down. - -"I am no more afraid of ghosts than you are, father," quietly answered -Joe. "I was not afraid when we saw--what we did see; I can't answer for -Johnny. But I do declare, with all my senses (which you are pleased to -disparage) about me, that it was the form and face of Nash Caromel, and -that 'it' (whatever it might be) seemed to vanish from our sight as we -looked." - -"Johnny calls it a shadow," mocked the Squire, amiably. - -"It looked shadowy," said Tod. - -"A tree-trunk, I dare be bound, lads, nothing else," nodded the Squire. -And you might as well have tried to make an impression on a post. - - -IV. - -September came in: which made it a year since Nash died. And on one of -its bright days, when the sun was high, and the blue sky cloudless, -Church Dykely had a stir given it in the sight of the mistress of -Caromel's Farm. She and her father were in a gig together, driving off -on the Worcester road: and it was so very rare a thing to see her abroad -now, that folks ran to their windows and doors to stare. Her golden -hair, what could be seen of it for her smart blue parasol, shone in the -sunlight; but her face looked white and thin through the black crape -veil. - -"Just like a woman who gets disturbed o' nights," pronounced Sam Rimmer, -thinking of the ghostly presence that was believed to haunt the house. - -Before that day's beautiful sun had gone down to light the inhabitants -of the other hemisphere, ill-omened news reached Church Dykely. An -accident had happened to the horse and gig. It was said that both Nave -and his daughter were dreadfully injured; one of them nearly killed. -Miss Gwinny, left at home to take care of Caromel's Farm, posted off to -the scene of damage. - -Holding Caromel's Farm in small respect now, the Squire yet chose to -show himself neighbourly; and he rose up from his dinner to go there and -inquire particulars. "You may come with me, lads, if you like," said he. -Tod laughed. - -"He's afraid of seeing Caromel," whispered he in my ear, as we took down -our hats. - -And, whether the Squire was afraid of it or not, he did see him. It was -a lovely moonlight night, bright and clear as the day had been. Old -Grizzel could not tell us much more of the accident than we had heard -before; except that it was quite true there had been one, and that Miss -Gwinny had gone. And, by the way Grizzel inwardly shook and shivered -while she spoke, and turned her eyes to all corners in some desperate -fear, one might have thought she had been pitched out of a gig herself. - -We had left the door--it was the side-entrance--when the Squire turned -back to put some last query to her. Tod and I went on. The path was -narrow, the overhanging trees on either side obscured the moonlight, -making it dark. Chancing to glance round, I noticed the Squire, at the -other end of the path, come soberly after us. Suddenly he seemed to -halt, to look sideways at the trees, and then he came on with a bound. - -"Boys! Boys!" cried he, in a half-whisper, "come on. There's Caromel -yonder." - -And to see the pater's face in its steaming consternation, and to watch -him rush on to the gate, was better than a play. Seen Caromel! It was -not so long since he had mocked at us for saying it. - -Through the gate went he, bolt into the arms of some unexpected figure, -standing there. We peered at it in the uncertain lights cast by the -trees, and made it out to be Dobbs, the blacksmith. - -Dobbs, with a big coat on, hiding his shirt-sleeves and his leather -apron: Dobbs standing as silent as the grave: arms folded, head bent: -Dobbs in stockinged feet, without his shoes. - -"Dobbs, my good fellow, what on earth do you put yourself in people's -way for, standing stock-still like a Chinese image?" gasped the Squire. -"Dobbs--why, you have no boots on." - -"Hush!" breathed Dobbs, hardly above his breath. "I ask your pardon, -Squire. Hush, please! There's something uncanny in this place; some ugly -mystery. I mean to find it out if I can, sirs, and this is the third -night I've come here on the watch. Hark!" - -Sounds, as of a woman's voice weeping and wailing, reached us faintly -from somewhere--down beyond the garden trees. The pater looked regularly -flustered. - -"Listen!" repeated Dobbs, raising his big hand to entreat for silence. -"Yes, Squire; I don't know what the mystery is; but there is something -wrong about the place, and I can't sleep o' nights for it. Please -hearken, sirs." - -The blacksmith was right. Wrong and mystery, such as the world does not -often hear of, lay within Caromel's Farm. Curious mystery; wicked wrong. -Leaning our arms on the gate, watching the moonlight flickering on the -trees, we listened to Dobbs's whispered revelation. It made the Squire's -hair stand on end. - - - - -THE LAST OF THE CAROMELS. - - -I. - -When a house is popularly allowed to be haunted, and its inmates grow -thin and white and restless, it is not the best place in the world for -children: and this was supposed by Church Dykely to be the reason why -Mrs. Nash Caromel the Second had never allowed her child to come home -since the death of its father. At first it was said that she would not -risk having him lest he should catch the fever Nash had died of: but, -when the weeks went on, and the months went on, and years (so far as -could be seen) were likely to go on, and still the child was kept away, -people put it down to the other disagreeable fact. - -Any way, Mrs. Nash Caromel--or Charlotte Nave, as you please--did not -have the boy home. Little Dun was kept at his grandfather's, Lawyer -Nave; and Miss Harriet Nave took care of him: the other sister, Gwinny, -remaining at Caromel's Farm. Towards the close of spring, the spring -which followed the death of Nash, when Dun was about two years old, he -caught whooping-cough and had it badly. In August he was sent for change -of air to a farm called the Rill, on the other side of Pershore, Miss -Harriet Nave taking the opportunity to go jaunting off elsewhere. The -change of air did the child good, and he was growing strong quickly, -when one night early in September croup attacked him, and he lay in -great danger. News of it was sent to his mother in the morning. It drove -her nearly wild with fear, and she set off for the Rill in a gig, her -father driving it: as already spoken of. So rare was the sight of her -now, for she kept indoors at Caromel's Farm as a snail keeps to its -shell, that no wonder Church Dykely thought it an event, and talked of -it all the day. - -Mr. Nave and his daughter reached the Rill--which lay across country, -somewhere between Pershore and Wyre--in the course of the morning, and -found little Dun gasping with croup, and inhaling steam from a kettle. -Moore told us there was nothing half so sweet in life as love's young -dream; but to Charlotte Nave, otherwise Caromel, there was nothing sweet -at all except this little Dun. He was the light of her existence; the -apple of her eye, to put it poetically. She sat down by the bed-side, -her pale face (so pale and thin to what it used to be) bent lovingly -upon him, and wiping away the tears by stealth that came into her eyes. -In the afternoon Dun was better; but the doctor would not say he was out -of danger. - -"If I could but stay here for the night! I can't bear to leave him," -Charlotte snatched an opportunity to say to her father, when their -friends, the farmer and his wife, were momentarily occupied. - -"But you can't, you know," returned Lawyer Nave. "You must be home by -sunset." - -"By sunset? Nay, an hour after that would do." - -"No, it will not do. Better be on the safe side." - -"It seems _cruel_ that I should have to leave him," she exclaimed, with -a sob. - -"Nonsense, Charlotte! The child will do as well without you as with you. -You may see for yourself how much better he is. The farm cannot be left -to itself at night: remember that. We must start in half-an-hour." - -No more was said. Nave went to see about getting ready the gig; -Charlotte, all down in the dumps, stayed with the little lad, and let -him pull about as he would her golden hair, and drank her tea by his -side. Mr. and Mrs. Smith (good hospitable people, who had stood by -Charlotte Nave through good report and ill report, believing no ill of -her) pressed her to stay all night, promising, however, that every care -should be taken of Duncan, if she did not. - -"My little darling must be a good child and keep warm in bed, and when -mamma comes in the morning he will be nearly well," breathed Charlotte, -showering tears and kisses upon him when the last moment had come. And, -with that, she tore herself away. - -"Such a pity that you should have to go!" said Mrs. Smith, stepping to -the door with her. "I think Gwendolen and old Grizzel might have been -left for one night: they'd not have run away, nor the house neither. -Come over as soon as you can in the morning, my dear; and see if you -can't make arrangements to stay a day or two." - -They were starting from the back-door, as being the nearest and -handiest; Nave, already in the gig, seemed in a rare hurry to be off. -Mr. Smith helped Charlotte up: and away the lawyer drove, across the -fold-yard, one of the farm-boys holding the outer gate open for them. -The sun, getting down in the west, shone right in their eyes. - -"Oh dear, I have left my parasol!" cried Charlotte, just as they reached -the gate. "I must have it: my blue parasol!" And Nave, giving an angry -growl to parasols in general, pulled the horse up. - -"You need not get out, hindering time!" growled he. "Call out for it. -Here, Smith! Mrs. Caromel has forgotten her blue parasol." But the -farmer, then nearing the house, did not hear. - -"I'll run for it, ma'am," said the lad. And he set off to do so, leaving -the gate to itself. Charlotte, who had been rising to get out, looked -back to watch him; the lawyer looked back to shout again, in his -impatience, to Mr. Smith. Their faces were both turned from the side -where the gate was, and they did not see what was about to happen. - -The gate, swinging slowly and noiselessly forward, touched the horse, -which had been standing sideways, his head turned to see what the -stoppage might be about. - -Touched him, and startled him. Bounding upwards, he tore forward down -the narrow lane on which the gate opened; tried to scale a bank, and -pitched the lawyer and Charlotte out of the gig. - -The farmer, and as many of his people as could be gathered at the -moment, came running down, some of them armed with pitchforks. Nave was -groaning as he lay; Charlotte was insensible. Just at first they thought -her dead. Both were carried back to the Rill on hurdles, and the doctor -was sent for. After which, Mr. Smith started off a man on horseback to -tell the ill-news of the accident at Caromel Farm. - -Ill-news. No doubt a bad and distressing accident. But now, see how -curiously the "power that shapes our ends" brings things about. But for -that accident, the mystery and the wrong being played out at Caromel's -Farm might never have had daylight thrown upon it. The accident, like a -great many other accidents, must have been sent to this wise and good -end. At least, so far as we, poor blind mortals that we all are, down -here, might presume to judge. - -The horseman, clattering in at a hard pace to Caromel's Farm, delivered -to Miss Gwendolen Nave, and to Grizzel, the old family servant, the -tidings he was charged with--improving upon them as a thing of course. - -Lawyer Nave, he were groaning awful, all a-bleeding, and unable to move -a limb. The young lady, she were dead; leastways, looked like it. - -With a scream and a cry, Gwendolen gave orders for her own departure. -Seeking the bailiff, she bade him drive her over in the tax-cart, there -being no second gig. - -"Now mind, Grizzel," she said, laying hold of the old woman's arm after -flinging on her bonnet and shawl anyhow, "you will lock all the doors as -soon as I am gone, and take out the keys. Do you hear?" - -"I hear, Miss Gwinny. My will's good to do it: you know that." - -"Take care that you _do_ do it." - -Fine tidings to go flying about Church Dykely in the twilight! Lawyer -Nave half killed, his daughter quite. The news reached us at Dyke -Manor; and Squire Todhetley, though holding Caromel's Farm in little -estimation, thought it only neighbourly to walk over there and inquire -how much was true, how much not. You remember what happened. That in -leaving the farm after interviewing Grizzel, we found ourselves in -contact with Dobbs the blacksmith. Dobbs standing stock-still, like a -marble pillar, outside the gate under the dark, overhanging trees; Dobbs -standing on the watch, in a stealthy, mysterious manner, without his -boots. - -"But what on earth are you here for, Dobbs?" reiterated the Squire. -"Where are your boots?" - -And all Dobbs did for answer, was to lay his hand respectfully on the -Squire's coat-sleeve to begin with, so as to prevent his running away. -Then he entered upon his whispered tale. Leaning our arms upon the low -gate, we listened to it, and to the curious sound of weeping and wailing -that stole faintly on our ears from amongst the garden trees. The scene -altogether looked weird enough in the moonlight, flickering through the -rustling leaves. - -Dobbs, naturally an unbeliever in ghosts, had grown to think that this -ghost, so long talked of, was no ghost at all, but some one got up to -resemble one by Caromel's Farm, for some mysterious purpose of its own. -Remembering his attack of fright, and resenting it excessively, Dobbs -determined if possible to unearth the secret: and this was the third -night he had come upon the watch. - -"But why stand without your boots?" whispered the Squire, who could not -get over the shoeless feet. - -"That I may make no noise in running to pounce upon him, sir," Dobbs -whispered back. "I take 'em off and hide 'em in the copse behind here. -They be just at your back, Master Johnny." - -"Pounce upon whom?" demanded the Squire. "Can't you speak plainly?" - -"That's what I'd like to know," breathed Dobbs. "I feel nearly sure, -Squire, that the--the thing looking like Nash Caromel is not Nash -Caromel. Nor his ghost, either." - -"I never saw two faces more alike, and I have just seen it now," put in -the Squire. "At least, as much as a shadow can look like a face." - -"Ay," assented Dobbs. "I'm as sure, sir, as I am of my own forge, that -it is a likeness got up by Nave to scare us. And I'll _eat_ the forge," -added Dobbs with emphasis, "if there's not something worse than ghosts -at Caromel's Farm--though I can't guess what it is." - -"What a villain he must be: and Nave, too!" cried the Squire, rubbing -his red nose, while Tod simply stared at the man. "But, look here, -Dobbs--how could any man put on the face of Nash Caromel?" - -"I don't know how he does it, Squire, or what he does, but I'm good to -find out," returned the blacksmith. "And if--just hark there again, -sirs!" - -The same faint sounds of wailing, of entreaty in a woman's voice, rose -again upon the air. Dobbs, with a gesture to ask for silence, went -noiselessly down the dark path in his brown woollen stockings, that -looked thick enough for boots. Tod, eager for any adventure, stole after -him, and I brought up the rear. The Squire remained where he was, and -held the gate open, expecting perhaps that we might want to make a rush -through it as he had just done. - -Two minutes more, and the mystery was solved. Near the house, under the -shade of the closely intersecting trees, stood old Grizzel and the -figure people had taken to be the ghost of Nash Caromel. It was -Grizzel's voice we heard, full of piteous entreaty to him not to do -something. - -"Just for this night, master, for the love of Heaven! Don't do it, just -this night that I'm left in charge! They've trusted me, you see!" - -The words seemed to make no impression. Pushing her hands back, the -figure was turning impatiently away, when Dobbs seized upon it. - -But, in sheer astonishment, or perhaps in terror, Dobbs let go again to -step backwards; and the prize might have escaped but for the strong arms -of Tod. It was indeed Nash Caromel. Not his ghost, but himself. - -Nash Caromel worn to the veriest shadow mortal eyes ever gazed upon. The -Squire came up; we all went into the house together, and explanation -ensued. - -Nash had not died. When the fever, of which it was feared he would die, -reached its crisis, he awoke to life, not to death. But, terrified -at his position--the warrant, applied for by Henry Tinkle, being out -against him--overwhelmed with a sense of shame, he had feigned death as -the only chance of escaping disgrace and punishment. The first thought -perhaps was Nave's; indeed there was no doubt of it--or his and his -daughter's combined. They wanted to keep the income, you see. Any way, -they carried the thought out, and had successfully contrived to deceive -doctors, undertakers, and the world. Nash, weak as a rat, had got out of -bed to watch his own funeral procession wind down the avenue. - -And there, in the upper rooms of the house, he had since lived until -now, old Grizzel sharing the secret. But a grievous complaint, partly -brought on by uneasiness of mind, partly inherited from his father, who -had died of it, had speedily attacked Nash, one for which there was no -cure. It had worn him to a shadow. - -He had walked in the garden sometimes. He had come out in the twilight -of the evening or at night; he had now and then passed through the gate -and crossed over to the copse; simply because to live entirely without -fresh air, to remain inactive indoors, was intolerable to him. His wife -and her sister did their best to prevent it. Nave came in the daytime -and would blow him up by the hour together; but they could not always -keep him in. At last they grew alarmed. For, when they attempted to use -force, by locking the doors, he told them that unless he was allowed his -way in this, he would declare himself to the world. Life could not have -been a bed of roses for any of them. - -To look at him, as he sat there to-night by the kitchen fire, his cheeks -white and hollow, his sunken eyes encased in dark rims, and his thin -lips on the shiver, you'd hardly have given him a week of life. A great -pity sat in the blacksmith's face. - -"Don't reproach yourself, Dobbs: it's the best thing that could have -happened to me," spoke Nash Caromel, kindly. "I am not sure but I should -have gone out this very night and declared myself. Grizzel thought it, -and put herself into a paroxysm of fear. Nobody but myself knows the -yearning to do it that has been upon me. You won't go and tell it out in -the market-place, will you, Dobbs?" - -"I'll not tell on't to a single soul, sir," said Dobbs, earnestly, -standing straight in his brown stockings. "Nobody shall know on't from -me. And I'm as glad as glad can be that you be alive and did not die in -that fever." - -"We are all safe and sure, Caromel; not a hint shall escape us," spoke -the Squire from the midst of his astonishment. - -"The first thing must be to get Duffham here." - -"Duffham can't do any good; things have gone too far with me," said poor -Nash. "Once this disorder lays regular hold of a man, there's no hope -for him: you know that, Todhetley." - -"Stuff!" said the pater. "I don't believe it has gone too far, only -you've got moped here and think so. We'll have Duffham here at once. You -boys can go for him." - -"No," dissented Caromel. "Duffham may tell the tale abroad. I'd rather -die in peace, if I can." - -"Not he. Duffham! Why, you ought to know him better. Duffham will be as -secret as ourselves. Do you suppose that he, a family doctor, has not -many a weighty secret to keep? Come, be off, lads: and, mind, we trust -_you_." - -Nash Caromel sighed, and said no more. He had been wanting badly enough -to see a friend or two, but not to be shown up to the parish. We went -out with Dobbs, who rushed into the copse to find his shoes. - -This discovery might never have ensued, I take it, had Charlotte -Nave and the lawyer not been upset in the gig. They would have stood -persistently in his light--perhaps have succeeded in locking him in by -force! As it was, we had it all our own way. - -"How could you lend yourself to so infamous a deception?" cried the -Squire to old Grizzel, following her into the pantry to ask it, when she -returned from bolting the door after us. "I'm not at all sure that you -could not be punished for it. It's--it's a conspiracy. And you, of all -people, old Grizzel, to forget the honour of the Caromels! Why, you -lived with his father!--and with his brother. All these years!" - -"And how could I tell again him when I was asked not to?" contended -Grizzel, the tears dropping on to a tin saucepan she was rubbing out. -"Master Nash was as dear to me as the others were. Could it be me to -speak up and say he was not in the coffin, but only old things to make -up weight! Could it be me to tell he was alive and hiding up aloft here, -and so get him put in prison? No, sir; the good name of the Caromels was -much to me, but Master Nash was more." - -"Now, come, old woman, where's the use of crying like that? Well, yes; -you have been faithful, and it's a great virtue. And--and there's a -shilling or two for you." - -"Have you been blowing her up?" asked Nash, as the Squire went back to -him, and sat down on the other side the wide kitchen hearth, the fire -throwing its glow upon the bricks, square and red and shining, and upon -Nash Caromel's wan face, in which it was not very difficult to read -death. He had put his out-of-door coat off, a long brown garment, and -sat in a grey suit. Tho Squire's belief was that he wouldn't have minded -getting into the fire itself; he sat there shivering and shaking, and -seeming to have no warmth left in him. The room was well guarded from -outer observation. The shutters were up, and there was not a chink in -them. - -"I have," said the Squire, in answer. "Told her she did not show -much regard for the honour of the family--lending herself to such a -deception!" - -"Poor old Grizzel!" sighed Nash, with a half-smile. "She has lived upon -thorns, fearing I should be discovered. As to the family honour, -Todhetley, the less said about that the better." - -"How _could_ you do it, Caromel?" - -"I don't know," answered Nash, with apathy, bringing his face closer to -the blaze. "I let it be done, more than did it. All I did, or could do, -was just to lie still in my bed. The fever had left me weaker than a -child----" - -"Did it really turn to typhus?" interrupted the Squire. - -"No, it didn't. They said so to scare people away. I was weaker than -a child," continued Nash, "both in mind and body. And when I grew -stronger--what was done could not be undone. Not that I seek to defend -or excuse myself. Don't think that." - -"And, in the name of all that's marvellous, what could have put so -monstrous an idea into their heads?" demanded the Squire, getting up to -face the kitchen. - -"Well, I have always fancied that business at Sandstone Torr did," -replied Nash, who had no idea of reticence now, but spoke out as freely -as you please. "It had come to light, you know, not long before. Stephen -Radcliffe had hidden his brother in the old tower, passing him off to -the world as dead; and so, I suppose, it was thought that I could be -hidden and passed off as dead." - -"But Stephen Radcliffe never got up a mock funeral. His tale was that -Frank had died in London. You were bold people. What will Parson Holland -say, when he comes to learn that he read the burial-service over a box -of rubbish?" - -"I don't know," was the helpless reiteration of poor Nash. "The trouble -and worry of it altogether, the discomforts of my position, the -constant, never-ceasing dread of discovery have--have been to me what -you cannot realize. But for going out of the house at night and striding -about in the fresh, free air, I should have become mad. It was a _taste_ -of freedom. Neither could I always confine myself to the walks in the -garden; whether I would nor not, my feet would carry me beyond it and -into the shaded copse." - -"Frightening people who met you!" - -"When I heard footsteps approach I hid myself--though not always quite -in time. I was more put out at meeting people than they were at meeting -me." - -"I wonder your keepers here ever let you get out!" cried the Squire, -musingly. - -"They tried hard to keep me in: and generally succeeded. It was only by -fits and starts I gained my way. They were afraid, you see, that I -should carry out my threat of disclosing myself but for being yielded to -now and then." - -But the Squire did not get over the discovery. He strode about the -large kitchen, rubbing his face, giving out sundry Bless my hearts! at -intervals. The return to life of Charlotte Tinkle had been marvellous -enough, but it was nothing to this. - -Meanwhile we were on our road to Duffham's. Leaving Dobbs at his own -forge, we rushed on, and found the doctor in his little parlour at -supper; pickled eels and bread-and-cheese: the eels in the wide stone -jar they were baked in--which was Nomy's way of serving pickled fish. - -"Will you sit down and take some?" asked Duffham, pointing to the jar: -out of which he took the pieces with a fork as he wanted them. - -"I should like to, but there's no time for it," answered Tod, eyeing the -jar wistfully. - -Pickled eels are a favourite dish in our parts: and you don't often eat -anything as good. - -"Look here, Duffham," he went on: "we want you to go with us and -see--see somebody: and to undertake not to tell tales out of school. The -Squire has answered for it that you will not." - -"See who?" asked Duffham, going on with his supper. - -"A ghost," said Tod, grimly. "A dead man." - -"What good can I do _them_?" - -"Well, the man has come to life again. Not for long, though, I should -say, judging by his looks. You are not to go and tell about it, mind." - -"Tell what?" - -"That he is alive, instead of being, as is supposed, under a gravestone -in yonder churchyard. I am not sure but that you went to his funeral." - -Tod's significant tone, half serious, half mocking, attracted Duffham's -curiosity more even than the words. But he still went on with his eels. - -"Who is it?" - -"Nash Caromel. There. Don't fall off in a faint. Caromel has come to -life." - -Down went Duffham's fork. "Why--what on earth do you mean?" - -"It is not a joke," said Tod. "Nash Caromel has been alive all this -time, concealed in his house--just as Francis Radcliffe was concealed -in the tower. The Squire is with him now--and he is very ill." - -Duffham appealed to me. "Is this true, Johnny Ludlow?" - -"Yes, sir, it is. We found him out to-night. He looks as if he were -dying. Dobbs is sure he is. You never saw anything so like a ghost." - -Leaving his eels now, calling out to old Nomy that she might take away -the supper, Duffham came off with us at once. Dobbs ran up as we passed -his forge, and went with us to the turning, talking eagerly. - -"If you can cure him, Mr. Duffham, sir, I should take it as a great -favour, like, showed to myself," spoke the blacksmith. "I'd not have -pounced upon him for all the world, to give him pain, in the state he's -in. He looks as if he were dying." - -They were in the kitchen still, when Grizzel opened the door to us, the -fire bigger and hotter than ever. The first thing Duffham did was to -order Caromel to bed, and to have a good fire lighted in his room. - -But there was no hope for Nash Caromel. The Squire told us so going home -that night. Duffham thought about ten days more would see the end of -him. - - -II. - -"And how have things gone during my short absence, Grizzel?" demanded -Miss Gwinny Nave, alighting from the tax-cart the following morning, -upon her return to Caromel's Farm. - -"Oh, pretty well," answered Grizzel, who in her heart detested Miss -Gwinny and all the Naves. "The master seems weaker. He have took to his -bed, and got a fire in his room." - -"When did he do that?" - -"He came down last night after you went, Miss Gwinny, and sat over -this here kitchen fire for ever so long. Then he went up to bed, and I -lighted him a fire and took him up some hot arrowroot with a wine glass -o' brandy in it. Shivering with cold, he was." - -"And he has not got up this morning?" - -"No; and he says he does not mean to get up. 'I've taken to my bed for -good, Grizzel,' he says to me this morning when I went in to light the -fire again and see what he'd eat for breakfast. And I think he has, Miss -Gwinny." - -Which information considerably lightened the doubt which was tormenting -Miss Nave's mind. She wanted, oh how badly, and _was_ wanted, to remain -at the Rill, being sorely needed there; but she had not seen her way -clear to do it. If Nash was indeed confined to his bed, she might -perhaps venture to leave him for a day or two to Grizzel. - -But, please don't think old Grizzel mean for keeping in what had taken -place: she was only obeying orders. Duffham and the Squire had laid -their heads together and then talked to Caromel; and it was agreed that -for the present nothing should be disclosed. They gave their orders to -Grizzel, and her master confirmed them. - -"And what news have you brought from the Rill, ma'am?" questioned -Grizzel, who was making a custard pudding at the kitchen table. "I hope -you found things better than you feared." - -"They could not well be worse," sighed Miss Gwinny, untying her bonnet. -She had not the beauty of Charlotte. Her light complexion was like -brick-dust, and her hair was straw-coloured. Not but that she was proud -of her hair, wearing it in twists, with one ringlet trailing over the -left shoulder. "Your mistress lies unconscious still; it is feared the -brain is injured; and papa's leg is broken in two places." - -"Alack a-day?" cried Grizzel, lifting her hands in consternation. "Oh, -but I am sorry to hear it, Miss Gwendolen! And the pretty little boy?" - -Miss Gwendolen shook her head. "The croup came on again last night worse -than ever," she said, with a rising sob. "They don't know whether they -will save him." - -Grizzel brushed away some tears as she began to beat up her eggs. She -was a tender-hearted old thing, and loved little Dun. Miss Nave put -aside her bonnet and shawl, and turned to the staircase to pay a visit -to Nash. But she looked back to ask a question. - -"Then, I am to understand that you had no trouble with the master last -night, Grizzel? He did not want to force himself out?" - -"The time for that has gone by, ma'am, I think," answered Grizzel, -evasively; not daring and not wishing to confess that he had forced -himself out, and what the consequences were. "He seems a deal weaker -to-day, Miss Gwinny, than I've ever seen him." - -And when Miss Gwinny got into Nash's room she found the words true. -Weak, inert, fading, there lay poor Nash. With the discovery, all -struggle had ceased; and it is well known that to resign one's self to -weakness quietly, makes weakness ten times more apparent. One thing -struck her greatly: the hollow sound in the voice. Had it come on -suddenly? If not, how was it she had never noticed it before? It struck -her with a sort of unpleasant chill: for she believed that peculiar -hollowness is generally the precursor of death. - -"You are feeling worse, Nash, Grizzel says," she observed; and she -thought she had never seen him looking half so ill. - -"Oh, I am all right, Gwendolen," answered he. "What of Charlotte and the -child?" - -Sitting down on the edge of the large bed, Gwendolen told him all there -was to tell. Her papa would get well in time, though he could not be -moved yet awhile; but Charlotte and the child were lying in extreme -danger. - -"Dear me! dear me!" he said, and began to cry, as Grizzel had begun. -When a man is reduced, as Nash was, faint in mind and in body, the tears -are apt to lie near the eyes. - -"And there's nobody to attend upon them but Mrs. Smith and her -maids--two of the stupidest country wenches you ever saw," said -Gwendolen. "I did not know how to come away this morning. The child is -more than one person's work." - -"Why did you come?" - -"Because I could not trust you; you know that, Nash. You want to be up -to your tricks too often." - -"My tricks!" - -"Yes. Going out of doors at night. I'm sure it is a dreadful -responsibility that's thrown upon me. And all for your own sake!" - -"You need no longer fear that--if you call my going out the -responsibility. I shall never get out of this bed again, Gwinny." - -"What makes you think so?" - -"Look at me," answered Nash. "See if you think it likely. I do not." - -She shook her head doubtingly. He certainly did look too ill to -stir--but she remembered the trouble there had been with him; the -fierce, wild yearning for exit, that could not be controlled. - -"Are you not satisfied? Listen, then: I give you my solemn word of -honour not to go out of doors; not to attempt to do so. You must go back -to Charlotte and the boy." - -"I'll see later," decided Gwinny. "I shall stay here till the afternoon, -at any rate." - -And when the afternoon came she took her departure for the Rill. -Convinced by Nash's state that he could not quit his bed, and satisfied -at length by his own solemn and repeated assurances that he would not, -Gwinny Nave consigned him to the care of Grizzel, and quitted Caromel's -Farm. - -Which left the field open again, you perceive. And the Squire and -Duffham were there that evening as they had been the previous one. - -It was a curious time--the few days that ensued. Gwendolen Nave came -over for an hour or two every other day, but otherwise Caromel's Farm -was a free house. Her doubts and fears were gone, for Nash grew worse -very rapidly; and, though he sat up in his room sometimes, he could -hardly have got downstairs though the house were burning--as Grizzel put -it. And he seemed so calm, so tranquil, so entirely passive under his -affliction, so resigned to his enfeebled state, so averse to making -exertion of any kind, that Miss Gwinny could not have felt much easier -had he been in the burial-ground where Church Dykely supposed him to be. - -What with his past incarceration, which had endured twelve months, and -what with the approach of death, which he had seen looming for pretty -nearly half that time, Nash Caromel's conscience had come back to him. -It was pricking him in more corners than one. As his love for Charlotte -Nave weakened--and it had been going down a long time, for he saw what -the Naves were now, and what they had done for him--his love for -Charlotte Tinkle came back, and he began to wish he could set wrongs to -rights. That never could be done; he had put it out of his power; but he -meant to make some little reparation, opportunity being allowed him. - -"I want to make a will, Todhetley," he said one evening to the Squire, -as he sat by the fire, dressed, a huge carriage-rug thrown on his knees -for warmth. "I wonder if my lawyer could be induced to come to me?" - -"Do you mean Nave?" retorted the Squire, who could not for the life of -him help having a fling at Caromel once in a way. "He has been your -lawyer of late years." - -"You know I don't mean Nave; and if I did mean him he could not come," -said poor Nash. "I mean our family lawyer, Crow. Since I discarded him -for Nave he has turned the cold shoulder upon me. When I've met him in -the street at Evesham, he has either passed me with a curt nod or looked -another way. I would rather have Crow than anybody, for he'd be true, I -know, if he could be induced to come." - -"I'll see about it," said the Squire. - -"And you'll be executor, won't you, Todhetley? you and Duffham." - -"No," said the Squire. "And what sort of a will are you going to make?" - -"I should like to be just," sighed Nash. "As just as I know how. As -just as I can be under the unfortunate circumstances I am placed in." - -"That you have placed yourself in, Caromel." - -"True. I think of it night and day. But she ought to be provided for. -And there's the boy!" - -"Who ought to be?" - -"My second wife." - -"I don't say to the contrary. But there is somebody else, who has a -greater and prior claim upon you." - -"I know. My heart would be good to leave her all. But that would hardly -be just. Poor Charlotte, how patient she has been!" - -"Ah, you threw off a good woman when you threw her off. And when you -made that other infamous will, leaving her name out of it----" - -"It was Nave made it," interrupted Nash, as hotly as his wasted -condition allowed him to speak. "He got another lawyer to draw it up, -for look's sake--but he virtually made it. And, Todhetley, I must--I -_must_ get another one made," he added, getting more and more excited; -"and there's no time to be lost. If I die to-night that will would have -to stand." - -With the morning light the Squire went off to Evesham, driving Bob and -Blister, and saw the lawyer, Crow--an old gentleman with a bald head. -The two shut themselves up in a private room, and it seemed as if they -never meant to come out again. - -First of all, old Crow had to recover his astonishment at hearing Nash -Caromel was living, and that took him some time; next, he had to get -over his disinclination and refusal--to act again for Nash, and that -took him longer. - -"Mind," said he at last, "if I do consent to act--to see the man and -make his will--it will be done out of the respect I bore his father and -his brother, and because I don't like to stand in the way of an act of -justice. Mrs. Nash Caromel was here yesterday----" - -"Mrs. Nash Caromel!" interrupted the Squire, in a puzzle, for his -thoughts had run over to Charlotte Nave. Which must have been very -foolish, seeing she was in bed with a damaged head. - -"I speak of his wife," said the old gentleman, loftily. "I have never -called any other woman Mrs. Nash Caromel. Her uncle, Tinkle, of -Inkberrow, called about the transfer of some of his funded property, -and she was with him. I respect that young woman, Squire Todhetley." - -"Ay, to be sure. So do I. Well, now, you will let me drive you back this -afternoon, and you'll take dinner with me, and we'll go to Caromel's -Farm afterwards. We never venture there before night; that Miss Gwinny -Nave makes her appearance sometimes in the daytime." - -"It must be late in the afternoon then," said the lawyer, rather -crossly--for he did not enter into the business with a good grace yet. - -"All the same to me," acquiesced the pater, pleased at having got his -consent on any terms. - -And when the Squire drove in that evening just at the dinner-hour and -brought Lawyer Crow with him, we wondered what was agate. Old Jacobson, -who had called in, and been invited to stay by the mater, was as curious -as anything over it, and asked the Squire aside, what he was up to, that -he must employ Crow instead of his own man. - -The will Nash Caromel wished to make was accomplished, signed and -sealed, himself and this said Evesham lawyer being alone privy to its -contents. Dobbs the blacksmith was fetched in, and he and Grizzel -witnessed it. - -And, as if Nash Caromel had only lived to make the will, he went -galloping on to death at railroad speed directly it was done. A change -took place in him the same night. His bell rang for Grizzel, and the old -woman thought him dying. - -But he rallied a bit the next day: and when the Squire got there in the -evening, he was sitting up by the fire dressed. And terribly uneasy. - -"I want to see her," he began, before the Squire had time to say, How -are you, or How are you not. "I can't die in peace unless I see her. And -it will not be long first now. I am a bit better, but I thought I was -dying in the night: has Grizzel told you?" - -The Squire nodded in silence. He was struck with the change in Nash. - -"Who is it you want to see? Charlotte Tinkle?" - -"Ay, you've guessed it. 'Twasn't hard to guess, was it? I want to see -her, Todhetley. I know she'd come." - -Little doubt of that. Had Nash wanted her to visit him in the midst of -a fiery furnace, she'd have rushed into it headlong. - -But there were difficulties in the way. Charlotte Tinkle was not one -of your strong-minded women who are born without nerves; and to tell -her that Nash Caromel was living, and not dead, might send her into -hysterics for a week. Besides that, Harry Tinkle was Nash Caromel's -bitter enemy: if he learnt the truth he might be for handing him over, -dying or living, to old Jones the constable. - -"I don't see how she is to be got here, and that's the truth, Caromel," -spoke the Squire, awaking from his reverie. "It's not a thing I should -like to undertake. Here comes Duffham." - -"I know what you are thinking of--Harry Tinkle," returned Nash, as -Duffham felt his pulse. "When I was supposed to have died, balking him -of his revenge, he grew mad with rage. For a month afterwards he abused -me to everybody in the most atrocious terms: in public rooms, in----" - -"Who told you that?" interrupted the Squire. "Nave?" - -"Nave. I saw no one else to tell me." Duffham laughed. - -"Then it was just as false as Nave is. You might have known Harry Tinkle -better." - -Nash looked up. "False!--was it?" - -"Why, of course it was," repeated the Squire. "I say you might have -known Harry Tinkle better." - -Nash sighed. "Well, I suppose you think he might give me trouble now. -But he would hardly care to apprehend a dying man." - -"We'll see about it," they said. Duffham undertook this expedition--if -you can call it one. He found it easier than he anticipated. That same -evening, upon quitting Caromel's Farm, Duffham went mooning along, deep -in thought, as to how he should make the disclosure to Charlotte, when -he overtook her near his home. Her crape veil was thrown back; her face -looked pale and quiet in the starlight. - -"You are abroad late," said Duffham. - -"I went to see old Miss Pinner this afternoon, and stayed tea with -her," answered Charlotte. "And now I am going to run home." - -"Would you mind coming in for a few minutes, Mrs. Caromel?" he asked, as -they reached his door. "I have something to say to you." - -"Can you say it another time? It is nine o'clock, and my mother will be -wondering." - -"No; another time may not do," said Duffham. "Come in. I won't detain -you long." - -And being just one of those yielding people that never assert a will of -their own, in she went. - -Shut up in Duffham's surgery, which was more remote from Nomy's ears -than the parlour, Duffham disclosed to her by degrees the truth. Whether -he had to get out his sal-volatile over it, or to recover her from fits, -we did not hear. One thing was certain: that when Mrs. Nash Caromel -recommenced her walk homewards, she was too bewildered to know whether -she went on her feet or her head. By that time on the following evening -she would have seen her husband. - -At least, such was the programme Duffham carved out. But to that -bargain, as he found the next day, there might be two words. - -Eleven was striking in the morning by the kitchen clock at Caromel's -Farm, when Grizzel saw Miss Gwinny driving in. The damaged gig had been -mended, and she now drove backwards and forwards herself. - -"How's the master?" asked she, when she entered the kitchen. - -"Very ill," answered Grizzel. "He won't be with us long, now, ma'am." - -And when Miss Gwinny saw Nash, and saw how greatly he was altered in the -last two days, she thought as Grizzel did--that death was close at hand. -Under these circumstances, she sat down to reflect on what she ought to -do: whether to remain herself in the house, or whether to go back to the -Rill and report to her father and sister. For the latter had come out of -her insensibility; the doctors said there was no permanent injury, and -she could soon be removed home if she wished to be. - -"What do you think, Grizzel?" she inquired, condescending to ask -counsel. "It does not seem right to leave him--and you won't like to be -left alone, either, at the last. And I don't see that any end will be -gained by my hastening back to tell them. They'll know it soon enough: -and they cannot come to him." - -"As you please, Miss Gwinny," replied Grizzel, trembling lest she should -remain and complicate matters, but not daring to urge her departure; -Gwinny Nave being given, as a great many more ladies are, to act by the -rules of contrary in the matter of advice. "It seems hardly right, -though, not to let the mistress know he is dying. And I am glad the -child's well: dear little thing!" - -Gwinny Nave sat pulling at her one straw ringlet, her brow knitted in -abstraction. Various reflections, suggesting certain unpleasant facts, -passed rapidly through her mind. That Nash would not be here many days -longer, perhaps not many hours, was a grave fact: and then, what of the -after-necessities that would arise? A sham funeral had gone out of that -house not very long ago: but how was the real funeral to go out, and -who was to make the arrangements for it? The truth of Nash Caromel's -being alive, and of the trick which had been played, would have to be -disclosed then. And Mr. Nave was incapacitated; he could do nothing, and -her sister could do as little; and it seemed to be all falling upon -herself, Gwinny; and who was to know but she might be punished for -letting Nash lie and die without calling in a doctor to him? - -With every fresh moment of thought, some darker complication presented -itself. Miss Gwinny began to see that she had better get away, and leave -old Grizzel to it. The case must be laid before her father. He might -invent some scheme to avoid exposure: for though Lawyer Nave was -deprived for the present of action, his mind was not less keen and -fertile than usual. - -"I think, Grizzel, that the mistress ought to be told how ill he is," -said she, at length. "I shall go back to the Rill. Do all you can for -the master: I dare say he will rally." - -"That he never will," spoke Grizzel, on impulse. - -"Now don't you be obstinate," returned Miss Gwinny. - -Gwendolen Nave drove back to the Rill. Leaving, as she thought, all -responsibility upon old Grizzel. And, that evening, the coast being -clear again, Charlotte Tinkle, piloted by Duffham, came to Caromel's -Farm and had an interview with her once recreant husband. It lasted -longer than Duffham had bargained for; every five minutes he felt -inclined to go and knock at the door. Her sobs and his dying voice, -which seemed to be sobbing too, might be heard by all who chose to -listen. At last Duffham went in and said that it must end: the emotion -was bad for Nash. She was kneeling before the sofa on which he lay, her -tears dropping. - -"Good-bye, good-bye, Charlotte," he whispered. "I have never cared for -any one as I cared for you. Believe that. God bless you, my dear--and -forgive me!" - -And the next to go in was Harry Tinkle--to clasp Caromel's hand, and to -say how little he had needed to fear him. And the next was the Reverend -Mr. Holland; Nash had asked for the parson to be sent for. - -Grizzel had a surprise the next day. She had just taken some beef-tea up -to the master, which Duffham had called out for--for the end was now so -near that the doctor had not chosen to defer his visit till dark--when a -closed fly drove up, out of which stepped Miss Gwinny and her sister. -Old Grizzel dropped the waiter, thinking it must be her mistress's -ghost. - -But it was Charlotte herself. Upon hearing Gwinny's report she had -insisted upon coming home--and Nave supported her views. That stupid old -Grizzel, left to her own devices, might be for getting frightened and -call in half the parish. The doctor in attendance at the Rill had said -Mrs. Caromel might go home if she had any urgent reason for wishing -it--and here she was. And really she seemed tolerably well again; quite -herself. - -Passing Grizzel with a nod, she went straight upstairs, opened Nash's -door, and then--drew back with a scream. For there she saw two -strangers. Mr. Duffham was leaning over the bed, trying to feed Nash -with spoonfuls of beef-tea; Parson Holland (who had stayed with Nash all -night) sat by the fire. Poor Nash himself lay without motion: the hours -were very limited now. - -Well, there ensued a commotion. Charlotte Nave went down to blow up -Grizzel; and she did it well, in spite of her recent illness. Grizzel -answered that she was not to blame; it was not she who had betrayed -him: Dobbs the blacksmith and Squire Todhetley had found him out, and -the Squire had called in Duffham. Charlotte the Second had to make the -best of a bad case; but she did not suspect half the treachery that had -been at work. - -There is no space to enlarge upon the day. Nash died that night; without -having been able to speak a word to Charlotte the Second; he was past -that when she came; though he shook hands with her. - -And the other funeral, which Miss Nave had foreseen a difficulty over, -took place without any difficulty. Unless it might be said that the -crowd made one. Nash Caromel dead a second time! Church Dykely had never -been astounded like this. - -But the one dire act of treachery had to come out yet. Nash Caromel had -made a fresh will. Crow the lawyer brought it in his pocket when he came -from Evesham to attend the funeral, and he read it aloud afterwards. -Mrs. Nash the Second sat biting her lips as she listened. - -Caromel's Farm and everything upon it, every stick and stone possessed -by Nash, was directed to be sold without delay. Of the money this should -realize, the one half was devised to "my dear wife Charlotte, formerly -Charlotte Tinkle;" the other half was to be invested by trustees and -settled upon "my child, Duncan Nave." His mother, Charlotte Nave, was to -receive a stated portion of the interest for life, or until she should -marry again; and that was all the will said about Charlotte the Second. - -There's not much more to tell. As soon as might be, the changes were -carried out. Before Lawyer Nave's leg was fit to go again, Caromel's -Farm had been purchased by the Squire, and Harry Tinkle had taken it -from him on a long lease. Just after Harry got into it with his little -girl, Mrs. Tinkle died; and Charlotte, well off now, came to live in it -with him. The other Charlotte proclaimed herself to be in bad health, -and went off to stay at the sea-side. And Nave, when he came out again -to rejoice the eyes of Church Dykely (walking lame), was fit to swallow -us up with rage. He considered ladies' parasols an infamous institution, -and wished they were all sunk in the sea; especially that particular -blue one of Charlotte's which had led to the accident that unlucky -afternoon. - -It seemed strange that, after all the chances and changes, it should be -a Mrs. Nash Caromel (she was always given her true name now) to inhabit -Caromel's Farm. She, forgiving and loving, made friends with little Dun -for poor Nash's sake, inviting him often to spend the day with her, and -picking him choice fruit off the trees. - - - - -A DAY IN BRIAR WOOD. - - -That day, and its events, can never go out of my memory. There are -epochs in life that lie upon the heart for ever, marking the past like -stones placed for retrospect. They may be of pleasure, or they may be of -pain; but there they are, in that great store-field locked up within us, -to be recalled at will as long as life shall last. - -It was in August, and one of the hottest days of that hot month. A -brilliant day: the sun shining with never a cloud to soften it, the sky -intensely blue. Just the day for a picnic, provided you had shade. - -Shade we had. Briar Wood abounds in it. For the towering trees are dark, -and their foliage thick. Here and there the wood opens, and you come -upon the sweetest little bits of meadow-land scenery that a painter's -eye could desire. Patches of green glade, smooth enough for fairy -revels; undulating banks, draped with ferns and fragrant with sweet -wild-flowers; dells dark, and dim, to roam in and fancy yourself out of -the world. - -Briar Wood belonged to Sir John Whitney. It was of a good length but -narrow, terminating at one end in the tangled coppice which we had -dashed through that long-past day when we played at hare and hounds, and -poor Charles Van Rheyn had died, in that same coppice, of the running. -The other and best end, up where these lonely glades lie sheltered, -extends itself nearly to the lands belonging to Vale Farm--if you have -not forgotten that place. The wood was a rare resort for poachers and -gipsies, as well as picnic parties, and every now and again Sir John -would declare that it should be rooted up. - -We were staying at Whitney Hall. Miss Deveen was there on a visit -(Cattledon included, of course), and Sir John wrote over to invite us -for a few days to meet her: the Squire and Mrs. Todhetley, I and Tod. -And, there we were, enjoying ourselves like anything. - -It was Sir John himself who proposed the picnic. He called it a -gipsy-party: indeed, the word "picnic" had hardly come in then, for this -happened many a year ago. The weather was so hot indoors that Sir John -thought it might be an agreeable change to live a day in the open air; -and lie in the shade and look up at the blue sky through the flickering -trees. So the cook was told to provide fowls and ham and pigeon pies, -with apple puffs, salads, and creams. - -"The large carriage and the four-wheeled chaise shall take the ladies," -observed Sir John, "and I dare say they can make room for me and the -Squire amongst them; it's a short distance, and we shan't mind a little -crowding. You young men can walk." - -So it was ordained. The carriages started, and we after them, William -and Henry Whitney disputing as to which was the best route to take: Bill -holding out for that by Goose Brook, Harry for that by the river. It -ended in our dividing: I went with Bill his way; the rest of the young -Whitneys and Tod the other, with Featherston's nephew; an overgrown -young giant of seventeen, about six feet high, who had been told he -might come. - -Barring the heat, it was a glorious walk: just as it was a glorious day. -Passing Goose Brook (a little stream meandering through the trees, with -a rustic bridge across it: though why it should bear that name I never -knew), we soon came to the coppice end of the wood. - -"Now," said Bill to me, "shall we plunge into the wood at once, and so -onwards right through it; or skirt round by the Granary?" - -"The wood will be the shadiest," I answered. - -"And pleasantest. I'm not at all sure, though, Johnny, that I shan't -lose my way in it. It has all kinds of bewildering tricks and turnings." - -"Never mind if you do. We can find it again." - -"We should have been safe to meet some of those Leonards had we gone by -the Granary," observed Bill, as we turned into the wood, where just at -present the trees were thin, "and they might have been wanting to join -us, pushing fellows that they are! I don't like them." - -"Who are those Leonards, I wonder? Who were they before they came here?" - -"Old Leonard made a mint of money in India, and his sons are spending it -for him as fast as they can. One day when he was talking to my father, -he hinted that he had taken this remote place, the Granary, and brought -them down here, to get them out of the fast lives they were leading in -London. He got afraid, he said." - -"Haven't the sons any professions, Bill?" - -"Don't seem to have. Or anything else that's good--money excepted?" - -"What do they do with their time?" - -"Anything. Idle it away. Keep dogs; and shoot, and fish, and lounge, and -smoke, and---- Halloa! look yonder, Johnny!" - -Briar Wood had no straight and direct road through it; but plenty of -small paths and byways and turnings and windings, that might bring you, -by good luck, to landing at last; or might take you unconsciously back -whence you came. Emerging from a part, where the trees grew dark and -dense and thick, upon one of those delightful glades I spoke of before, -we saw what I took to be a small gipsy encampment. A fire of sticks, -with a kettle upon it, smoked upon the ground; beside it sat a young -woman and child; a few tin wares, tied together, lay in a corner, and -some rabbits' skins were stretched out to dry on the branches of trees. - -Up started the woman, and came swiftly towards us. A regular gipsy, with -the purple-black hair, the yellow skin, and the large soft gleaming -eyes. It was a beautiful young face, but worn and thin and anxious. - -"Do you want your fortunes told, my good young gentlemen? I can----" - -"Not a bit of it," interrupted Bill. "Go back to your fire. We are only -passing through." - -"I can read the lines of your hands unerringly, my pretty sirs. I can -forewarn you of evil, and prepare you for good." - -"Now, look you here," cried Bill, turning upon her good-humouredly, as -she followed up with a lot of the like stuff, "I can forewarn _you_ of -it, unless you are content to leave us alone. This wood belongs to Sir -John Whitney, as I dare say all your fraternity know, and his keepers -wage war against you when they find you are encamped here, and that I am -sure you know. Mind your own affairs, and you may stay here in peace, -for me: keep on bothering us, and I go straight to Rednal and give him a -hint. I am Sir John's son." - -He threw her a sixpence, and the woman's face changed as she caught it. -The persuasive smile vanished as if by magic, giving place to a look of -anxious pain. - -"What's the matter?" said he. - -"Do you know my husband, sir?" she asked. "It's more than likely that -you do." - -"And what if I do?" cried Whitney. - -The woman took the words as an affirmative answer. She drew near, and -laid her small brown finger on his coat-sleeve. - -"Then, if you chance to meet him, sir, persuade him to come back to me, -for the love of Heaven. I _can_ read the future: and for some days past, -since we first halted here, I have foreseen that evil is in store for -him. He won't believe me; he is not one of _us_; but I scent it in the -air, and it comes nearer and nearer; it is drawing very close now. He -may listen to you, sir, for we respect Sir John, who is never hard on us -as some great owners of the land are; and oh, send him back here to me -and the child! Better that it should fall on him when by our side than -when away from us." - -"Why--what do you mean?" cried Whitney, surprised out of the question, -and hardly understanding her words or their purport. And he might have -laughed outright, as he told me later, but for the dreadful trouble that -shone forth from her sad, wild eyes. - -"I don't know what I mean: it's hidden from me," she answered, taking -the words in a somewhat different light from what he meant to imply. "I -think it may be sudden sickness; or it may be trouble: whatever it is, -it will end badly." - -Whitney nodded to her, and we pursued our way. I had been looking at the -little girl, who had drawn shyly up to gaze at us. She was fair as a -lily, with a sweet face and eyes blue as the sky. - -"What humbugs they are!" exclaimed Whitney, alluding to gipsies and -tramps in general. "As to this young woman, I should say she's going off -her head!" - -"Do you know her husband?" - -"Don't know him from Adam. Johnny, I hope that's not a stolen child! -Fair as she is, she can't be the woman's: there's nothing of the gipsy -in her composition." - -"How well the gipsy appears to speak! With quite a refined accent." - -"Gipsies often do, I've heard. Let us get on." - -What with this adventure, and dawdling, and taking a wrong turn or two, -it was past one o'clock when we got in, and they were laying the cloth -for dinner. The green, mossy glade, with the sheltering trees around, -the banks and the dells, the ferns and wild-flowers, made a picture of -a retreat on a broiling day. The table (some boards, brought from the -Hall, and laid on trestles) stood in the middle of the grass; and Helen -and Anna Whitney, in their green-and-white muslins, were just as busy as -bees placing the dishes upon it. Lady Whitney (with a face redder than -beetroot) helped them: she liked to be always doing something. Miss -Cattledon and the mater were pacing the dell below, and Miss Deveen sat -talking with the Squire and Sir John. - -"Have they not got here?" exclaimed William. - -"Have who not got here?" retorted Helen. - -"Todhetley and the boys." - -"Ages ago. They surmised that you two must be lost, stolen, or strayed." - -"Then where are they?" - -"Making themselves useful. Johnny Ludlow, I wish you'd go after them, -and tell them of all things to bring a corkscrew. No one can find ours, -and we think it is left behind." - -"Why, here's the corkscrew, in my pocket," called out Sir John. -"Whatever brings it there? And---- What's that great thing, moving down -to us?" - -It was Tod with a wooden stool upon his head, legs upwards. Rednal the -gamekeeper lived close by, and it was arranged that we should borrow -chairs, and things, from his cottage. - -We sat down to dinner at last--and a downright jolly dinner it was. -Plenty of good things to eat; cider, lemonade, and champagne to drink: -and every one talking together, and bursts of laughter. - -"Look at Cattledon!" cried Bill in my ear. "She is as merry as the rest -of us." - -So she was. A whole sea of smiles on her thin face. She wore a grey gown -as genteel as herself, bands of black velvet round her pinched-in waist -and long throat. Cattledon looked like vinegar in general, it's true; -but I don't say she was bad at heart. Even she could be genial to-day, -and the rest of us were off our head with jollity, the Squire's face and -Sir John's beaming back at one another. - -If we had only foreseen how pitifully the day was to end! It makes me -think of some verses I once learnt out of a journal--Chambers's, I -believe. They were written by Mrs. Plarr. - - "There are twin Genii, who, strong and mighty, - Under their guidance mankind retain; - And the name of the lovely one is Pleasure, - And the name of the loathly one is Pain. - Never divided, where one can enter - Ever the other comes close behind; - And he who in Pleasure his thoughts would centre - Surely Pain in the search shall find! - - "Alike they are, though in much they differ-- - Strong resemblance is 'twixt the twain; - So that sometimes you may question whether - It can be Pleasure you feel, or Pain. - Thus 'tis, that whatever of deep emotion - Stirreth the heart--be it grave or gay - Tears are the Symbol--from feeling's ocean - These are the fountains that rise to-day. - - "Should not this teach us calmly to welcome - Pleasure when smiling our hearths beside? - If she be the substance, how dark the shadow; - Close doth it follow, the near allied. - Or if Pain long o'er our threshold hover, - Let us not question but Pleasure nigh - Bideth her time her face to discover, - Rainbow of Hope in a clouded sky." - -Yes, it was a good time. To look at us round that dinner-table, you'd -have said there was nothing but pleasure in the world. Not but that -ever and anon the poor young gipsy woman's troubled face and her sad -wild eyes, and the warning some subtle instinct seemed to be whispering -to her about her husband, would rise between me and the light. - -The afternoon was wearing on when I got back to the glade with William -Whitney (for we had all gone strolling about after dinner) and found -some of the ladies there. Mrs. Todhetley had gone into Rednal's cottage -to talk to his wife, Jessy; Anna was below in the dell; all the rest -were in the glade. A clean-looking, stout old lady, in a light cotton -gown and white apron, a mob cap with a big border and bow of ribbon in -front of it, turned round from talking to them, smiled, and made me a -curtsy. - -The face seemed familiar to me: but where had I seen it before? Helen -Whitney, seeing my puzzled look, spoke up in her free manner. - -"Have you no memory, Johnny Ludlow? Don't you remember Mrs. Ness!--and -the fortune she told us on the cards?" - -It came upon me with a rush. That drizzling Good Friday afternoon at -Miss Deveen's, long ago, and Helen smuggling up the old lady from -downstairs to tell her fortune. But what brought her here? There seemed -to be no connection between Miss Deveen's house in town and Briar Wood -in Worcestershire. I could not have been more at sea had I seen a -Chinese lady from Pekin. Miss Deveen laughed. - -"And yet it is so easy of explanation, Johnny, so simple and -straightforward," she said. "Mrs. Ness chances to be aunt to Rednal's -wife, and she is staying down here with them." - -Simple it was--as are most other puzzles when you have the clue. The old -woman was a great protegee of Miss Deveen's, who had known her through -her life of misfortune: but Miss Deveen did not before know of her -relationship to Rednal's wife or that she was staying at their cottage. -They had been talking of that past afternoon and the fortune-telling in -it, when I and Bill came up. - -"And what I told you, miss, came true--now didn't it?" cried Mrs. Ness -to Helen. - -"True! Why, you told me _nothing_!" retorted Helen. "There was nothing -in the fortune. You said there was nothing in the cards." - -"I remember it," said Mother Ness; "remember it well. The cards showed -no husband for you then, young lady; they might tell different now. But -they showed some trouble about it, I recollect." - -Helen's face fell. There had indeed been trouble. Trouble again and -again. Richard Foliott, the false, had brought trouble to her; and so -had Charles Leafchild, now lying in his grave at Worcester: not to speak -of poor Slingsby Temple. Helen had got over all those crosses now, and -was looking up again. She was of a nature to look up again from any evil -that might befall her, short of losing her head off her shoulders. All -dinner-time she had been flirting with Featherston's nephew. - -This suggestion of Mrs. Ness, "the cards might tell different now," -caught hold of her mind. Her colour slightly deepened, her eyes -sparkled. - -"Have you the cards with you now, Mrs. Ness?" - -"Ay, to be sure, young lady. I never come away from home without my -cards. They be in the cottage yonder." - -"Then I should like my fortune told again." - -"Oh, Helen, how can you be so silly!" cried Lady Whitney. - -"Silly! Why, mamma, it is good fun. You go and fetch the cards, Mrs. -Ness." - -"I and Johnny nearly had our fortune told to-day," put in Bill, while -Mrs. Ness stood where she was, hardly knowing what to be at. "We came -upon a young gipsy woman in the wood, and she wanted to promise us a -wife apiece. A little girl was with her that may have been stolen: she -was too fair to be that brown woman's child." - -"It must have been the Norths," exclaimed Mrs. Ness. "Was there some -tinware by 'em, sir; and some rabbit skins?" - -"Yes. Both. The rabbit skins were hanging out to dry." - -"Ay, it's the Norths," repeated Mrs. Ness. "Rednal said he saw North -yesterday; he guessed they'd lighted their campfire not far off." - -"Who are the Norths? Gipsies?" - -"The wife is a gipsy, sir; born and bred. He is a native of these parts, -and superior; but he took to an idle, wandering life, and married the -gipsy girl for her beauty. She was Bertha Lee then." - -"Why, it is quite a romance," said Miss Deveen, amused. - -"And so it is, ma'am. Rednal told me all on't. They tramp the country, -selling their tins, and collecting rabbit skins." - -"And is the child theirs?" asked Bill. - -"Ay, sir, it be. But she don't take after her mother; she's like him, -her skin fair as alabaster. You'd not think, Rednal says, that she'd a -drop o' gipsy blood in her veins. North might ha' done well had he only -turned out steady; been just the odds o' what he is--a poor tramp." - -"Oh, come, never mind the gipsies," cried Helen, impatiently. "You go -and bring the cards, Mrs. Ness." - -One can't go in for stilts at a picnic, or for wisdom either; and when -Mrs. Ness brought her cards (which might have been cleaner) none of them -made any objection. Even Cattledon looked on, grimly tolerant. - -"But you can't think there's anything in it--that the cards tell true," -cried Lady Whitney to the old woman. - -"Ma'am, be sure they do. I believe in 'em from my very heart. And so, I -make bold to say, would everybody here believe, if they had read the -things upon 'em that I've read, and seen how surely they've come to -pass." - -They would not contradict her openly; only smiled a little among -themselves. Mother Ness was busy with the cards, laying them out for -Helen's fortune. I drew near to listen. - -"You look just as though you put faith in it," whispered Bill to me. - -"I don't put faith in it. I should not like to be so foolish. But, -William, what she told Helen before _did_ come true." - -Well, Helen's "fortune" was told again. It sounded just as uneventful as -the one told that rainy afternoon long ago--for we were now some years -older than we were then. Helen Whitney's future, according to the cards, -or to Dame Ness's reading of them, would be all plain sailing; smooth -and easy, and unmarked alike by events and by care. A most desirable -career, some people would think, but Helen looked the picture of -desolation. - -"And you say I am not to be married!" she exclaimed. - -Dame Ness had her head bent over the cards. She shook it without looking -up. - -"I don't see a ring nowhere, young lady, and that's the blessed truth. -There _ain't_ one, that's more. There ain't a sign o' one. Neither was -there the other time, I remember: that time in London. And so--I take it -that there won't never be." - -"Then I think you are a very disagreeable story-telling old woman!" -flashed Helen, all candour in her mortification. "Not be married, -indeed!" - -"Why, my dear, I'd be only too glad to promise you a husband if the -cards foretelled it," said Dame Ness, pityingly. "Yours is the best -fortune of all, though, if you could but bring your mind to see it. -Husbands is more plague nor profit. I'm sure I had cause to say so by -the one that fell to my share, as that there dear good lady knows," -pointing to Miss Deveen. - -In high dudgeon, Helen pushed the cards together. Mrs. Ness, getting -some kind words from the rest of us, curtsied as she went off to the -cottage to see about the kettles for our tea. - -"You are a nice young lady!" exclaimed Bill. "Showing your temper -because the cards don't give you a sweetheart!" - -Helen threw her fan at him. "Mind your own business," returned she. And -he went away laughing. - -"And, my dear, I say the same as William," added Lady Whitney. "One -really might think that you were--were _anxious_ to be married." - -"All cock-a-hoop for it," struck in Cattledon: "as the housemaids are." - -"And no such great crime, either," returned Helen, defiantly. "Fancy -that absurd old thing telling me I never shall be!" - -"Helen, my dear, I think the chances are that you will not be married," -quietly spoke Miss Deveen. - -"Oh, _do_ you!" - -"Don't be cross, Helen," said her mother. "Our destinies are not in our -own hands." - -Helen bit her lip, laughed, and recovered her temper. She was like her -father; apt to flash out a hot word, but never angry long. - -"Now--please, Miss Deveen, _why_ do you think I shall not be?" she asked -playfully. - -"Because, my dear, you have had three chances, so to say, of marriage, -and each time it has been frustrated. In two of the instances by--if we -may dare to say it--the interposition of Heaven. The young men died -beforehand in an unexpected and unforeseen manner: Charles Leafchild and -Mr. Temple----" - -"I was never engaged to Mr. Temple," interrupted Helen. - -"No; but, by all I hear, you shortly would have been." - -Helen gave no answer. She knew perfectly well that she had expected an -offer from Slingsby Temple; that his death, as she believed, alone -prevented its being made. She would have said Yes to it, too. Miss -Deveen went on. - -"We will not give more than an allusion to Captain Foliott; he does not -deserve it; but your marriage with him came nearest of all. It may be -said, Helen, without exaggeration, that you have been on the point of -marriage twice, and very nearly so a third time. Now, what does this -prove?" - -"That luck was against me," said Helen, lightly. - -"Ay, child: luck, as we call it in this world. I would rather say, -Destiny. _God knows best._ Do you wonder that I have never married?" -continued Miss Deveen in a less serious tone. - -"I never thought about it," answered Helen. - -"I know that some people have wondered at it; for I was a girl likely to -marry--or it may be better to say, likely to be sought in marriage. I -had good looks, good temper, good birth, and a good fortune: and I dare -say I was just as willing to be chosen as all young girls are. Yes, I -say that all girls possess an innate wish to marry; it is implanted in -their nature, comes with their mother's milk. Let their station be high -or low, a royal princess, if you will, or the housemaid Jemima Cattledon -suggested just now, the same natural instinct lies within each--a wish -to be a wife. And no reason, either, why they should not wish it; it's -nothing to be ashamed of; and Helen, my dear, I would rather hear a -girl avow it openly, as you do, than pretend to be shocked at its very -mention." - -Some gleams of sunlight flickered on Miss Deveen's white hair and fine -features as she sat under the trees, her bronze-coloured silk gown -falling around her in rich folds, and a big amethyst brooch fastening -her collar. I began to think how good-looking she must have been when -young, and where the eyes of the young men of those days could have -been. Lady Whitney, looking like a bundle in her light dress that ill -became her, sat near, fanning herself. - -"Yes, I do wonder, now I think of it, that you never married," said -Helen. - -"To tell you the truth, I wonder myself sometimes," replied Miss Deveen, -smiling. "I think--I believe--that, putting other advantages aside, I -was well calculated to be a wife, and should have made a good one. Not -that _that_ has anything to do with it; for you see the most incapable -women marry, and remain incapable to their dying day. I could mention -wives at this moment, within the circle of my acquaintance, who are -no more fitted to be wives than is that three-legged stool Johnny is -balancing himself upon; and who in consequence unwittingly keep their -husbands and their homes in a state of perpetual turmoil. I was not one -of these, I am sure; but here I am, unmarried still." - -"Would you marry now?" asked Helen briskly: and we all burst into a -laugh at the question, Miss Deveen's the merriest. - -"Marry at sixty! Not if I know it. I have at least twenty years too many -for that; some might say thirty. But I don't believe many women give up -the idea of marriage before they are forty; and I do not see why they -should. No, nor then, either." - -"But--why did you not marry, Miss Deveen?" - -"Ah, my dear, if you wish for an answer to that question, you must ask -it of Heaven. I cannot give one. All I can tell you is, that I did hope -to be married, and expected to be married, _waited_ to be married; but -here you see me in my old age--Miss Deveen." - -"Did you--never have a chance of it--an opportunity?" questioned Helen -with hesitation. - -"I had more than one chance: I had two or three chances, just as you -have had. During the time that each 'chance' was passing, if we may give -it the term, I thought assuredly I should soon be a wife. But each -chance melted away from this cause or that cause, ending in nothing. And -the conclusion I have come to, Helen, for many a year past, is, that -God, for some wise purpose of His own, decreed that I should not marry. -What we know not here, we shall know hereafter." - -Her tone had changed to one of deep reverence. She did not say more for -a little time. - -"When I look around the world," she at length went on, "and note how -many admirable women see their chances of marriage dwindle down one -after another, from unexpected and apparently trifling causes, it is -impossible not to feel that the finger of God is at work. That----" - -"But now, Miss Deveen, we _could_ marry if we would--all of us," -interrupted Helen. "If we did not have to regard suitability and -propriety, and all that, there's not a girl but could go off to church -and marry _somebody_." - -"If it's only a broomstick," acquiesced Miss Deveen, "or a man no better -than one. Yes, Helen, you are right: and it has occasionally been -done. But when we fly wilfully in the teeth of circumstances, bent -on following our own resolute path, we take ourselves out of God's -hands--and must reap the consequences." - -"I--do not--quite understand," slowly spoke Helen. - -"Suppose I give you an instance of what I mean, my dear. Some years ago -I knew a young lady----" - -"Is it _true_? What was her name?" - -"Certainly it is true, every detail of it. As to her name--well, I do -not see any reason why I should not tell it: her name was Eliza Lake. I -knew her family very well indeed, was intimate with her mother. Eliza -was the third daughter, and desperately eager to be married. Her chances -came. The first offer was eligible; but the two families could not agree -about money matters, and it dropped through. The next offer Eliza would -not accept--it was from a widower with children, and she sent him to the -right-about. The third went on smoothly nearly to the wedding-day, and a -good and suitable match it would have been, but something occurred -then very unpleasant though I never knew the precise particulars. The -bridegroom-elect fell into some trouble or difficulty, he had to quit -his country hastily, and the marriage was broken off--was at an end. -That was the last offer she had, so far as I knew; and the years went -on, Eliza gadding out to parties, and flirting and coquetting, all in -the hope to get a husband. When she was in her thirtieth year, her -mother came to me one day in much distress and perplexity. Eliza, she -said, was taking the reins into her own hands, purposing to be married -in spite of her father, mother, and friends. Mrs. Lake wanted me to talk -to Eliza; she thought I might influence her, though they could not; and -I took an opportunity of doing so--freely. It is of no use to mince -matters when you want to save a girl from ruin. I recalled the past to -her memory, saying that I believed, judging by that past, that Heaven -did not intend her to marry. I told her all the ill I had heard of the -man she was now choosing; also that she had absolutely thrown herself -at him, and he had responded for the sake of the little money she -possessed; and that if she persisted in marrying him she would assuredly -rue it. In language as earnest as I knew how to choose, I laid all this -before her." - -"And what was her answer to you?" Helen spoke as if her breath was -short. - -"Just like the reckless answer that a blinded, foolish girl would make. -'Though Heaven and earth were against me, I should marry him, Miss -Deveen. I am beyond the control of parents, brothers, sisters, friends; -and I will not die an old maid to please any of you.' Those were the -wilful words she used; I have never forgotten them; and the next week -she betook herself to church." - -"Did the marriage turn out badly?" - -"Ay, it did. Could you expect anything else? Poor Eliza supped the cup -of sorrow to its dregs: and she brought bitter sorrow and trouble also -on her family. _That_, Helen, is what I call taking one's self out of -God's hands, and flying determinedly in the face of what is right and -seemly, and _evidently appointed_." - -"You say yourself it is hard not to be married," quoth Helen. - -"No, I do not," laughed Miss Deveen. "I say that it appears hard to us -when our days of youth are passing, and when we see our companions -chosen and ourselves left: but, rely upon it, Helen, as we advance in -years, we acquiesce in the decree; many of us learning to be thankful -for it." - -"And you young people little think what great cause you have to be -thankful for it," cried Lady Whitney, all in a heat. "Marriage brings a -bushel of cares: and no one knows what anxiety boys and girls entail -until they come." - -Miss Deveen nodded emphatically. "It is very true. I would not exchange -my present lot with that of the best wife in England; believe that, or -not, as you will, Helen. Of all the different states this busy earth can -produce, a lot such as mine is assuredly the most exempt from trouble. -And, my dear, if you are destined never to marry, you have a great deal -more cause to be thankful than rebellious." - -"The other day, when you were preaching to us, you told us that trouble -came for our benefit," grumbled Helen, passing into rebellion forthwith. - -"I remember it," assented Miss Deveen, "and very true it is. My -heart has sickened before now at witnessing the troubles, apparently -unmerited, that some people, whether married or single, have to undergo; -and I might have been almost tempted to question the loving-kindness of -Heaven, but for remembering that we must through much tribulation enter -into the Kingdom." - -Anna interrupted the silence that ensued. She came running up with a -handful of wild roses and sweetbriar, gathered in the hedge below. Miss -Deveen took them when offered to her, saying she thought of all flowers -the wild rose was the sweetest. - -"How solemn you all look!" cried Anna. - -"Don't we!" said Helen. "I have been having a lecture read to me." - -"By whom?" - -"Every one here--except Johnny Ludlow. And I am sure I hope _he_ was -edified. I wonder when tea is going to be ready!" - -"Directly, I should say," said Anna: "for here comes Mrs. Ness with the -cups and saucers." - -I ran forward to help her bring the things. Rednal's trim wife, a neat, -active woman with green eyes and a baby in her arms, was following with -plates of bread-and-butter and cake, and the news that the kettle was -"on the boil." Presently the table was spread; and William, who had come -back to us, took up the baby's whistle and blew a blast, prolonged and -shrill. - -The stragglers heard it, understood it was the signal for their return, -and came flocking in. The Squire and Sir John said they had been sitting -under the trees and talking: our impression was, they had been sleeping. -The young Whitneys appeared in various stages of heat; Tod and -Featherston's nephew smelt of smoke. The first cups of tea had gone -round, and Tod was making for Rednal's cottage with a notice that the -bread-and-butter had come to an end, when I saw a delicate little -fair-haired face peering at us from amid the trees. - -"Halloa!" cried the Squire, catching sight of the face at the same -moment. "Who on earth's that?" - -"It's the child we saw this morning--the gipsy's child," exclaimed -William Whitney. "Here, you little one! Stop! Come here." - -He only meant to give her a piece of cake: but the child ran off with -a scared look and fleet step, and was lost in the trees. - -"Senseless little thing!" cried Bill: and sat down to his tea again. - -"But what a pretty child it was!" observed the mater. "She put me in -mind of Lena." - -"Why, Lena's oceans of years older," said Helen, free with her remarks -as usual. "That child, from the glimpse I caught of her, can't be more -than five or six." - -"She is about seven, miss," struck in Rednal's wife, who had just come -up with a fresh supply of tea. "It is nigh upon eight years since young -Walter North went off and got married." - -"Walter North!" repeated Sir John. "Who's Walter North? Let me see? The -name seems familiar to me." - -"Old Walter North was the parish schoolmaster over at Easton, sir. The -son turned out wild and unsteady; and at the time his father died he -went off and joined the gipsies. They had used to encamp about here more -than they do now, as Rednal could tell you, Sir John; and it was said -young North was in love with a girl belonging to the tribe--Bertha Lee. -Any way, they got married. Right-down beautiful she was--for a gipsy; -and so young." - -"Then I suppose North and his wife are here now--if that's their child?" -remarked Sir John. - -"They are here sure enough, sir; somewhere in the wood. Rednal has seen -him about this day or two past. Two or three times they'll be here, -pestering, during the summer, and stop ten or twelve days. Maybe young -North has a hankering after the old spots he was brought up in, and -comes to see 'em," suggestively added Rednal's wife; whose tongue ran -faster than any other two women's put together. And that's saying -something. - -"And how does this young North get a living?" asked Sir John. "By -poaching?--and rifling the poultry-yards?" - -"Like enough he do, Sir John. Them tramps have mostly light fingers." - -"They sell tins--and collect rabbit skins," struck in William. "Johnny -Ludlow and I charged the encampment this morning, and nearly got our -fortunes told." - -Jessy Rednal's chin went up. "They'd better let Rednal catch 'em at -their fortune-telling!--it was the wife, I know, sir, did that. When she -was but a slip of a girl she'd go up as bold as brass to any gentleman -or lady passing, and ask them to cross her hand with silver." - -With this parting fling at the gipsies, Rednal's wife ran off to the -cottage for another basin of sugar. The heat made us thirsty, and we -wanted about a dozen cups of tea apiece. - -But now, I don't know why it was, I had rather taken a fancy to this -young woman, Bertha North, and did not believe the words "as bold as -brass" could be properly applied to her. Gipsy though she was, her face, -for good feeling and refinement, was worth ten of Jessy Rednal's. It's -true she had followed us, wanting to tell our fortunes, but she might -have been hard up for money. - -When we had swallowed as much tea as the kettles would produce, and -cleared the plates of the eatables, Sir John suggested that it would -soon be time to move homewards, as the evening would be coming on. This -had the effect of scattering some of us at once. If they did not get us, -they could not take us. "Home, indeed! as early as this!" cried Helen, -wrathfully--and rushed off with her brother Harry and Featherston's -nephew. - -I was ever so far down one of the wood paths, looking about, for somehow -I had missed them all, when sounds of wailing and crying from a young -voice struck my ear. In a minute, that same fair little child came -running into view, as if she were flying for her life from some pursuing -foe, her sobs wild with terror, her face white as death. - -What she said I could not make out, though she made straight up to me -and caught my arm; the language seemed strange, the breath gone. But -there was no mistaking the motions: she pulled me along with her across -the wood, her little arms and eyes frantically imploring. - -Something must be amiss, I thought. What was it? "Is there a mad bull in -the way, little one? And are you making off with me to do battle with -him?" - -No elucidation from the child: only the sobs, and the words I did not -catch. But we were close to the outskirts of the wood now (it was but -narrow), and there, beyond the hedge that bordered it, crouched down -against the bank, was a man. A fair-faced, good-looking young man, small -and slight, and groaning with pain. - -No need to wonder who he was: the likeness between him and the child -betrayed it. How like they were! even to the expression in the large -blue eyes, and the colour of the soft fair hair. The child's face was -his own in miniature. - -"You are Walter North," I said. "And what's to do?" - -His imploring eyes in their pitiful pain looked up to mine, as if he -would question how I needed to ask it. Then he pulled his fustian coat -aside and pointed to his side. It made me start a step back. The side -was steeped in blood. - -"Oh dear, what is it?--what has caused it? An accident?" - -"I have been shot," he answered--and I thought his voice sounded -ominously weak. "Shot from over yonder." - -Looking across the field in front of us, towards which he pointed, I -could see nothing. I mean, nothing likely to have shot him. No men, no -guns. Off to the left, partly buried amidst its grounds, lay the old -house called the Granary; to the right in the distance, Vale Farm. The -little child was stretched on the ground, quiet now, her head resting on -his right shoulder; it was the left side that was injured. Suddenly he -whispered a few words to her; she sprang up with a sob and darted into -the wood. The child, as we heard later, had been sent out by her mother -to look for her father: it was in seeking for him that she had come upon -our tea-party and peeped at us. Later, she found him, fallen where he -was now, just after the shot which struck him was fired. In her terror -she was flying off for assistance, and met me. The man's hat lay near -him, also an old drab-coloured bag, some tin basins, and a Dutch-oven. - -"Can I move you, to put you easier?" I asked between his groans. "Can I -do anything in the world to help you?" - -"No, no, don't touch me," he said, in a hopeless tone. "I am bleeding to -death." - -And I thought he was. His cheeks and lips were growing paler with every -minute. The man's diction was as good as mine; and, tramp though he was, -many a gentleman has not half as nice a face as his. - -"If you don't mind being left, I will run for a doctor--old -Featherston." - -Before he could answer yes or no, Harry Vale, who must have espied us -from their land, came running up. - -"Why--what in the world----" he began. "Is it you, North? What? Shot, -you say?" - -"From over yonder, sir; and I've got my death-blow: I think I have. -Perhaps if Featherston----" - -"I'll fetch him," cried Harry Vale. "You stay here with him, Johnny." -And he darted away like a lamplighter, his long legs skimming the grass. - -I am nothing but a muff; you know that of old. And never did I feel my -own deficiencies come home to me as they did then. Any one else might -have known how to stop the bleeding--for of course it ought to be -stopped--if only by stuffing a handkerchief into the wound. I did -not dare attempt it; I was worse at any kind of surgery than a born -imbecile. All in a moment, as I stood there, the young gipsy-woman's -words of the morning flashed into my mind. She had foreseen some ill -for him, she said; had scented it in the air. How strange it seemed! - -The next to come upon the scene was the Squire, crushing through the -brambles when he heard our voices. He and Sir John, in dire wrath at our -flight, had come out to look for us and to marshal us back for the start -home. I gave him a few whispered words of explanation. - -"What!" cried he. "Dying?" and his face went as pale as the man's. "Oh, -my poor fellow, I am sorry for this!" - -Stooping over him, the Squire pulled the coat aside. The stains were -larger now, the flow was greater. North bent his head forward to look, -and somehow got his hand wet in the process. Wet and red. He snatched it -away with a kind of horror. The sight seemed to bring upon him the -conviction that his minutes were numbered. His _minutes_. Which is the -last and greatest terror that can seize upon man. - -"I'm going before God now, and I'm not fit for it," he cried, a -shrieking note, born of emotion, in his weakening voice. "Can there be -any mercy for me?" - -The Squire seemed to feel it--he has said so since--as one of the most -solemn moments of his life. He took off his spectacles--a habit of his -when much excited--dropped them into his pocket, and clasped his hands -together. - -"There's mercy with God through the Lord Jesus always," he said, bending -over the troubled face. "He pardoned the thief on the Cross. He pardoned -all who came to Him. If you are Walter North, as they tell me, you must -know all this as well as I do. Lord God have mercy upon this poor dying -man, for Christ's sake!" - -And perhaps the good lessons that North had learnt in childhood from his -mother, for she was a good woman, came back to him then to comfort him. -He lifted his own hands towards the skies, and half the terror went out -of his face. - -Some one once said, I believe, that by standing stock still in the -Strand, and staring at any given point, he could collect a crowd about -him in no time. In the thronged thoroughfares of London that's not to -be surprised at; but what I should like to know is this--how is it that -people collect in deserts? They _do_, and you must have seen it often. -Before many minutes were over we had quite a levee: Sir John Whitney, -William, and Featherston's nephew; three or four labourers from Vale -Farm; Harry Vale, who had met Featherston, and outrun him; and one of -the tall sons of Colonel Leonard. The latter, a young fellow with lazy -limbs, a lazy voice, and supercilious manner, strolled up, smacking a -dog-whip. - -"What's the row here?" cried he: and William Whitney told him. The -man had been shot: by whom or by what means, whether wilfully or -accidentally, remained to be discovered. - -"Did you do it--or your brothers?" asked Harry Vale of him in a low -tone. And Herbert Leonard whirled round to face Vale with a haughty -stare. - -"What the devil do you mean? What should we want to shoot a tramp for?" - -"Any way, you were practising with pistols at your target over yonder -this afternoon." - -Leonard did not condescend to reply. The words had angered him. By no -possibility could a shot, aimed at their target, come in this direction. -The dog-whip shook, as if he felt inclined to use it on Harry Vale for -his insolent suggestion. - -"Such a fuss over a tramp!" cried Leonard to Sir John, not caring who -heard him. "I dare say the fellow was caught thieving, and got served -out for his pains." - -But he did not well know Sir John--who turned upon him like lightning. - -"How dare you say that, young man! Are you not ashamed to give utterance -to such sentiments?" - -"Look here!" coolly retorted Leonard. - -Catching hold of the bag to shake it, out tumbled a dead hen with -ruffled feathers. Sir John looked grave. Leonard held it up. - -"I thought so. It is still warm. He has stolen it from some -poultry-yard." - -I chanced to be standing close to North as Leonard said it, and felt -a feeble twitch at my trousers. Poor North was trying to attract my -attention; gazing up at me with the most anxious face. - -"No," said he, but he was almost too faint to speak now. "No. Tell them, -sir, No." - -But Harry Vale was already taking up the defence. "You are wrong, Mr. -Herbert Leonard. I gave that hen myself to North half-an-hour ago. -Some little lads, my cousins, are at the farm to-day, and one of them -accidentally killed the hen. Knowing our people would not care to use -it, I called to North, who chanced to be passing at the time, and told -him he might take it if he liked." - -A gleam of a smile, checked by a sob, passed over the poor man's face. -Things wear a different aspect to us in the hour of death from what -they do in lusty life. It may be that North saw then that theft, even of -a fowl, _was_ theft, and felt glad to be released from the suspicion. -Sir John looked as pleased as Punch: one does not like to hear wrong -brought home to a dying man. - -Herbert Leonard turned off indifferently, strolling back across the -field and cracking his whip; and Featherston came pelting up. - -The first thing the doctor did, when he had seen North's face, was to -take a phial and small glass out of his pocket, and give him something -to drink. Next, he made a clear sweep of us all round, and knelt down to -examine the wound, just as the poor gipsy wife, fetched by the child, -appeared in sight. - -"Is there any hope?" whispered the Squire. - -"Hope!" whispered back Featherston. "In half-an-hour it will be over." - -"God help him!" prayed the Squire. "God pardon and take him!" - -Well, well--that is about all there is to tell. Poor North died, there -as he lay, in the twilight; his wife's arm round his neck, and his -little girl feebly clasped to him. - -What an end to the bright and pleasant day! Sir John thanked Heaven -openly that it was not we who had caused the calamity. - -"For _somebody_ must have shot him, lads," he observed, "though I -dare say it was accidental. And it might have chanced to be one of -you--there's no telling: you are not too cautious with your guns." - -The "somebody" turned out to be George Leonard. Harry Vale (who had -strong suspicions) was right. When they dispersed after their target -practising, one of them, George, went towards Briar Wood, his pistol -loaded. The thick trees afforded a promising mark, he thought, and he -carelessly let off the pistol at them. Whether he saw that he had shot -a man was never known; he denied it out and out: didn't know one was -there, he protested. A waggoner, passing homewards with his team, had -seen him fire the pistol, and came forward to say so; or it might have -been a mystery to the end. "Accidental Death," decided the jury at -the inquest; but they recommended the supercilious young man (just as -indifferent as his brothers) to take care what he fired at for the -future. Mr. George did not take the rebuke kindly. - -For these sons had hard, bad natures; and were doing their best to bring -down their father's grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. - - * * * * * - -But how strange it seemed altogether! The poor young gipsy-wife's subtle -instinct that evil was near!--and that the shot should just have struck -_him_ instead of spending itself harmlessly upon one of the hundreds of -trees! Verily there are things in this world not to be grasped by our -limited understandings. - - - - -THE STORY OF DOROTHY GRAPE. - -DISAPPEARANCE. - - -I. - -According to Mrs. Todhetley's belief, some people are born to be -unlucky. Not only individuals, but whole families. "I have noticed it -times and again, Johnny, in going through life," she has said to me: -"ill-luck in some way lies upon them, and upon all they do; they -_cannot_ prosper, from their cradle to their grave." That there will be -some compensating happiness for these people hereafter--for they do -exist--is a belief we all like to cherish. - -I am now going to tell of people in rather humble life whom this -ill-luck seemed to attend. _That_ might never have brought the family -into notice, ups and downs being so common in the world: but two -mysterious disappearances occurred in it, which caused them to be talked -about; and those occurrences I must relate before coming to Dorothy's -proper history. They took place before my time; in fact when Squire -Todhetley was a young man, and it is from him that I repeat it. - -At this end of the village of Islip, going into it from Crabb, there -stood on the right-hand side of the road a superior cottage residence, -with lovely yellow roses intertwining themselves about its porch. Robert -Grape and his wife lived in it, and were well enough to do. He was in -the "post-horse duty," the Squire said--whatever that might mean; and -she had money on her own account. The cottage was hers absolutely, and -nearly one hundred pounds a-year income. The latter, however, was only -an annuity, and would die with her. - -There were two children living: Dorothy, softened by her friends into -Dolly; and Thomas. Two others, who came between them, went off in what -Mrs. Grape used to call a "galloping consumption." Dolly's cheeks were -bright and her eyes were blue, and her soft brown hair fell back in -curls from her dimpled face. All the young men about, including the -Squire, admired the little girl; more than their mothers did, who said -she was growing up vain and light-headed. Perhaps she might be; but she -was a modest, well-behaved little maiden. She went to school by day, as -did her brother. - -Mr. Grape's occupation, connected with the "post-horse duty," appeared -to consist in driving about the country in a gig. The length of these -journeys varied, but he would generally be absent about three weeks. -Then he would come home for a short interval, and go off again. He was -a well-conducted man and was respected. - -One Monday morning in summer, when the sun was shining on the yellow -roses and the dew glittered on the grass, Robert Grape was about to -start on one of these journeys. Passing out to his gig, which waited at -the gate, after kissing his wife and daughter, he stopped to pluck a -rose. Dolly followed him out. She was sixteen now and had left school. - -"Take care your old horse does not fall this time, father," said she, -gaily and lightly. - -"I'll take care, lass, if I can," he answered. - -"The truth is, Robert, you want a new horse," said Mrs. Grape, speaking -from the open door. - -"I know I do, Mary Ann. Old Jack's no longer to be trusted." - -"Shall you be at Bridgenorth to-morrow?" - -"No; on Wednesday evening. Good-bye once more. You may expect me home at -the time I've said." And, with those last words he mounted his gig and -drove away. - -From that day, from that hour, Robert Grape was never more seen by his -family. Neither did they hear from him: but he did not, as a rule, write -to them when on his journeys. They said to one another what delightful -weather he was having this time, and the days passed pleasantly until -the Saturday of his expected return. - -But he did not come. Mrs. Grape had prepared a favourite dinner of his -for the Sunday, lamb and peas, and a lemon cheese-cake. They had to take -it without him. Three or four more days passed, and still they saw -nothing of him. Mrs. Grape was not at all uneasy. - -"I think, children, he must have been mistaken in a week," she said to -Dolly and Tom. "It must be next Saturday that he meant. I shall expect -him then." - -He did not come. The Saturday came, but he did not. And the following -week Mrs. Grape wrote a letter to the inn at Bridgenorth, where he was -in the habit of putting-up, asking when he had left it, and for what -town. - -Startling tidings came back in answer. Mr. Grape had quitted the place -nearly four weeks ago, leaving his horse and gig at the inn. He had not -yet returned for them. Mrs. Grape could not make it out; she went off -to Worcester to take the stage-coach for Bridgenorth, and there made -inquiries. The following was the substance of what she learned:-- - -On Wednesday evening, the next day but one after leaving his home, Mr. -Grape approached Bridgenorth. Upon entering the town, the horse started -and fell: his master was thrown out of the gig, but not hurt; the shafts -were broken and the horse lamed. "A pretty kettle of fish, this is," -cried Mr. Grape in his good-humoured way to the ostler, when the damaged -cavalcade reached the inn: "I shall have to take a week's holiday now, I -suppose." The man's answer was to the effect that the old horse was no -longer of much good; Mr. Grape nodded assent, and remarked that he must -be upon the look-out for another. - -In the morning, he quitted the inn on foot, leaving the horse to the -care of the veterinary surgeon, who said it would be four or five -days before he would be fit to travel, and the gig to have its shafts -repaired. Mr. Grape observed to the landlord that he should use the -opportunity to go on a little expedition which otherwise he could not -have found time for, and should be back before the horse was well. But -he never had come back. This was recounted to Mrs. Grape. - -"He did not give any clue as to where he was going," added the landlord; -"he started away with nothing but his umbrella and what he might have -put in his pockets, saying he should walk the first stage of his -journey. His portmanteau is up in his bedroom now." - -All this sounded very curious to Mrs. Grape. It was unlike her open, -out-speaking husband. She inquired whether it was likely that he had -been injured in the fall from the gig and could be lying ill somewhere. - -The landlord shook his head in dissent. "He said he was not hurt a bit," -replied he, "and he did not seem to be. He ate a good supper that night -and made a famous breakfast in the morning." - -An idea flashed across Mrs. Grape's mind as she listened. "I think he -must have gone off for a ramble about the Welsh mountains," spoke she. -"He was there once when a boy, and often said how much he should like to -go there again. In fact he said he should go when he could spare the -time." - -"May be so," assented the landlord. "Them Welsh mountains be pleasant to -look upon; but if a mist comes on, or one meets with an awkward pass, or -anything of that sort--well, ma'am, let's hope we shall see him back -yet." - -After bringing all the inquiries to an end that she was able to make, -Mrs. Grape went home in miserable uncertainty. She did not give up hope; -she thought he must be lying ill amongst the Welsh hills, perhaps had -caught a fever and lost his senses. As the days and the weeks passed on, -a sort of nervous expectancy set in. Tidings of him might come to her -any day, living or dead. A sudden knock at the door made her jump; if -the postman by some rare chance paid them a visit--for letters were not -written in those days by the bushel--it set her trembling. More than -once she had hastily risen in the middle of the night, believing she -heard a voice calling to her outside the cottage. But tidings of Robert -Grape never came. - -That was disappearance the first. - -In the spring of the following year Mrs. Grape sold her pretty homestead -and removed to Worcester. Circumstances had changed with her. Beyond -what little means had been, or could be, saved, the children would have -nothing to help them on in the world. Tom, thirteen years old now, -must have a twelvemonth's good schooling before being placed at some -business. Dolly must learn a trade by which to get her living. In past -times, young people who were not specially educated for it, or were of -humble birth, did not dream of making themselves into governesses. - -"You had better go to the mantua-making, Dolly," said Mrs. Grape. "It's -nice genteel work." - -Dolly drew a wry face. "I should not make much hand at that, mother." - -"But what else is there? You wouldn't like the stay-making----" - -"Oh dear, no." - -"Or to serve in a pastry-cook's shop, or anything of that sort. I should -not like to see you in a shop, myself; you are too--too giddy," added -Mrs. Grape, pulling herself up from saying too pretty. "I think it must -be the mantua-making, Dolly: you'll make a good enough hand at it, once -you've learnt it. Why not?" - - -II. - -The house rented by Mrs. Grape at Worcester was near the London Road. It -was semi-detached, and built, like its fellow in rather a peculiar way, -as though the architect had found himself cramped for space in width -but had plenty of it in depth. It was close to the road, about a yard -only of garden ground lying between. The front-door opened into the -sitting-room; not a very uncommon case then with houses of its class. It -was a fair-sized room, light and pretty, the window being beside the -door. Another door, opposite the window, led to the rest of the house: -a small back-parlour, a kitchen, three rooms above, with a yard and a -strip of garden at the back. It was a comfortable house, at a small -rent; and, once Mrs. Grape had disposed her tasty furniture about it to -advantage, she tried to feel at home and to put aside her longing to be -back under the old roof at Islip. - -In the adjoining house dwelt two Quaker ladies named Deavor, an aunt and -niece, the latter a year or two older than Dolly. They showed themselves -very friendly to the new-comers, as did their respectable old -servant-maid, and the two families became intimate neighbours. - -Dolly, seventeen now, was placed with Miss Pedley, one of the first -dressmakers in the city, as out-door apprentice. She was bound to her -for three years, and went to and fro daily. Tom was day-scholar at a -gentleman's school in the neighbourhood. - -One Saturday evening in summer, when they had been about three months in -their new abode, Mrs. Grape was sitting at the table in the front-room, -making up a smart cap for herself. She had never put on mourning for -her husband, always cherishing the delusive hope that he would some -day return. Tom sat by her, doing his lessons; Dolly was near the open -window, nursing a grey kitten. Tom looked as hot as the evening, as -he turned over the books before him with a puzzled face. He was a -good-looking boy, with soft brown eyes, and a complexion as brilliant -as his sister's. - -"I say, mother," cried he, "I don't think this Latin will be of much -good to me. I shan't make any hand at it." - -"You will be like me then, Tom, for I'm sure I shall never make much of -a hand at dressmaking," spoke up Dolly. "Miss Pedley sees it too." - -"Be quiet, Dolly; don't talk nonsense," said Mrs. Grape. "Let Tom finish -his tasks." - -Thus reprimanded, silence ensued again. It grew dusk; candles were -lighted and the window was shut down, as the breeze blew them about; but -the bright moonlight still streamed in. Presently Dolly left the room to -give the kitten its supper. Suddenly, Tom shut up his books with a bang. - -"Finished, Tom?" - -"Yes, mother." - -He was putting them away when a knock came to the front-door. Tom opened -it. - -"Halloa, Bill!" said he. - -"Halloa, Tom!" responded a boy's voice. "I've come up to ask if you'll -go fishing with me to-morrow." - -"To-morrow!" echoed Tom in surprise. "Why, to-morrow's Sunday!" - -"Bother! I mean Monday. I'm going up to the Weir at Powick: there's -first-rate fishing there. Will you come, Tom?" - -Mrs. Grape wondered who the boy was; she knew the voices of some of -Tom's schoolfellows, but did not recognize this one. Tom, standing on -the low step outside, had partly closed the door behind him, and she -could not see out; but she heard every word as plainly as though the -speakers had been in the room. - -"I should like to go, but I'm sure I could never get leave from school," -said Tom. "Why, the Midsummer examination comes on the end of next week; -our masters just do keep us to it!" - -"Stingy old misers! You might take French leave, Tom." - -"Mother would never let me do that," returned Tom; and he probably made -a sign to indicate that his mother was within hearing, as both voices -dropped to a lower key; but Mrs. Grape still heard distinctly. "Are you -going to take French leave yourself, Bill?" added young Grape. "How else -shall you manage to get off?" - -"Oh, Monday will be holiday with us; it's a Saint's Day. Look here, Tom; -you may as well come. Fishing, up at Powick, is rare fun; and I've some -prime bait." - -"I can't," pleaded Tom: "no good thinking about it. You must get one of -your own fellows instead." - -"Suppose I must. Well, good-night." - -"Good-night, Bill." - -"I touched you last," added the strange voice. There was a shout of -laughter, the door flew back, Tom's hand came in to snatch up his cap, -which lay on a table near, and he went flying after the other boy. - -They had entered upon the fascinating game of "Titch-touch-last." Mrs. -Grape got up, laid her finished cap upon the table, shook the odds and -ends of threads from her black gown, and began to put her needles and -cotton in the little work-box. While she was doing this, Dolly came in -from the kitchen. She looked round the room. - -"Why, where's Tom, mother?" - -"Some boy called to speak to him, and they are running about the road at -Titch-touch-last. The cap looks nice, does it not, Dolly?" - -"Oh, very," assented Dolly. It was one she had netted for her mother; -and the border was spread out in the shape of a fan--the fashion -then--and trimmed with yellow gauze ribbon. - -The voices of the boys were still heard, but at a distance. Dolly went -to the door, and looked out. - -"Yes, there the two are," she cried. "What boy is it, mother?" - -"I don't know," replied Mrs. Grape. "I did not see him, or recognize his -voice. Tom called him 'Bill.'" - -She went also to the door as she spoke, and stood by her daughter on the -low broad step. The voices were fainter now, for the lads, in their -play, were drawing further off and nearer to the town. Mrs. Grape could -see them dodging around each other, now on this side the road, now on -that. It was a remarkably light night, the moon, in the cloudless sky, -almost dazzlingly bright. - -"They'll make themselves very hot," she remarked, as she and Dolly -withdrew indoors. "What silly things boys are!" - -Carrying her cap upstairs, Mrs. Grape then attended to two or three -household matters. Half-an-hour had elapsed when she returned to the -parlour. Tom had not come in. "How very thoughtless of him!" she cried; -"he must know it is his bed-time." - -But neither she nor Dolly felt any uneasiness until the clock struck -ten. A shade of it crept over Mrs. Grape then. What could have become of -the boy? - -Standing once more upon the door-step, they gazed up and down the road. -A few stragglers were passing up from the town: more people would be out -on a Saturday night than on any other. - -"How dost thee this evening, friend Grape?" called out Rachel Deavor, -now sitting with her niece at their open parlour window in the -moonlight. Mrs. Grape turned to them, and told of Tom's delinquency. -Elizabeth Deavor, a merry girl, came out laughing, and linked her arm -within Dolly's. - -"He has run away from thee to take a moonlight ramble," she said -jestingly. "Thee had been treating him to a scolding, maybe." - -"No, I had not," replied Dolly. "I have such a pretty grey kitten, -Elizabeth. One of the girls at Miss Pedley's gave it to me." - -They stood on, talking in the warm summer night, Mrs. Grape at the -window with the elder Quakeress, Dolly at the gate, with the younger, -and the time went on. The retiring hour of the two ladies had long -passed, but they did not like to leave Mrs. Grape to her uncertainty: -she was growing more anxious with every minute. At length the clocks -struck half-past eleven, and Mrs. Grape, to the general surprise, burst -into tears. - -"Nay, nay, now, do not give way," said Rachel Deavor kindly. "Doubtless -he has but gone to the other lad's home, and is letting the time pass -unthinkingly. Boys will be boys." - -"That unaccountable disappearance of my husband makes me more nervous -than I should otherwise be," spoke Mrs. Grape in apology. "It is just a -year ago. Am I going to have a second edition of that, in the person of -my son?" - -"Hush thee now, thee art fanciful; thee should not anticipate evil. It -is a pity but thee had recognized the boy who came for thy son; some of -us might go to the lad's house." - -"I wish I had," sighed Mrs. Grape. "I meant to ask Tom who it was when -he came in. Tom called him 'Bill;' that is all I know." - -"Here he comes!" exclaimed Dolly, who was now standing outside the gate -with Elizabeth Deavor. "He is rushing round the corner, at full speed, -mother." - -"Won't I punish him!" cried Mrs. Grape, in her relieved feelings: and -she too went to the gate. - -Dolly's hopeful eagerness had misled her. It was not Tom. But it was one -of Tom's schoolfellows, young Thorn, whom they all knew. He halted to -explain that he had been to a boys' party in the Bath Road, and expected -to "catch it" at home for staying so late. Dolly interrupted him to -speak of Tom. - -"What an odd thing!" cried the lad. "Oh, he'll come home presently, safe -enough. Which of our fellows are named Bill, you ask, Miss Grape? Let's -see. There's Bill Stroud; and Bill Hardwick--that is, William----" - -"It was neither Stroud nor Hardwick; I should have known the voices of -both," interrupted Mrs. Grape. "This lad cannot, I think, be in your -school at all, Thorn: he said his school was to have holiday on Monday -because it would be a Saint's Day." - -"Holiday, because it was a Saint's Day!" echoed Thorn. "Oh then, he -must have been one of the college boys. No other school goes in for -holidays on the Saints' Days but that. The boys have to attend service -at college, morning and afternoon, so it's not a complete holiday: they -can get it easily, though, by asking leave." - -"I don't think Tom knows any of the college boys," debated Dolly. - -"Yes, he does; our school knows some of them," replied Thorn. -"Good-night: I can't stay. He is sure to turn up presently." - -But Tom Grape did not turn up. At midnight his mother put on her bonnet -and shawl and started out to look for him in the now deserted streets of -the town. Now and again she would inquire of some late wayfarer whether -he had met a boy that night, or perhaps two boys, and described Tom's -appearance; but she could learn nothing. The most feasible idea she -could call up, and the most hopeful, was that Tom had really gone home -with the other lad and that something must have happened to keep him -there; perhaps an accident. Dolly felt sure it must be so. Elizabeth -Deavor, running in at breakfast-time next morning to ask for news, -laughingly said Tom deserved to be shaken. - -But when the morning hours passed and did not bring the truant or any -tidings of him, this hope died away. The first thing to be done was to -find out who the other boy was, and to question him. Perhaps he had also -disappeared! - -Getting from young Thorn the address of those of the college -boys--three--who, as he chanced to know, bore the Christian name of -William, Mrs. Grape went to make inquiries at their houses. She could -learn nothing. Each of the three boys disclaimed all knowledge of the -affair; their friends corroborating their assertion that they had not -been out on the Saturday night. Four more of the King's scholars were -named William, they told her; two of them boarding in the house of the -head-master, the Reverend Allen Wheeler. - -To this gentleman's residence, in the College Green, Mrs. Grape next -proceeded. It was then evening. The head-master listened courteously to -her tale, and became, in his awakened interest, as anxious as she was to -find the right boy. Mrs. Grape said she should not know him, but should -know his voice. Not one of the three boys, already seen, possessed the -voice she had heard. - -The two boarders were called into the room, as a mere matter of form; -for the master was able to state positively that they were in bed at -the hour in question. Neither of them had the voice of the boy who had -called for Tom. It was a very clear voice, Mrs. Grape said; she should -recognize it instantly. - -"Let me see," said the master, going over mentally the list of the forty -King's scholars: "how many more of you boys are named William, beyond -those this lady has seen?" - -The boys considered, and said there were two others; William Smith and -William Singleton; both called familiarly "Bill" in the school. Each of -these boys had a clear, pleasant voice, the master observed; but neither -of them had applied for leave for Monday, nor had he heard of any -projected fishing expedition to Powick. - -To the house of the Singletons next went Mrs. Grape: but the boy's voice -there did not answer to the one she had heard. The Smith family she -could not see; they had gone out for the evening: and she dragged -herself home, utterly beaten down both in body and spirit. - -Another night of anxiety was passed, and then Mrs. Grape returned to -Mr. Smith's and saw "Bill." But Bill was hoarse as a raven; it was not -at all the clear voice she had heard; though he looked desperately -frightened at being questioned. - -So there it was. Tom Grape was lost. Lost! and no clue remained as to -the why and wherefore. He must have gone after his father, said the -sympathizing townspeople, full of wonder; and a superstitious feeling -crept over Mrs. Grape. - -But ere the week was quite over, news came to the desolate home: not of -Tom himself; not of the manner of his disappearance; only of the night -it happened. On the Friday evening Mrs. Grape and Dolly were sitting -together, when a big boy of sixteen appeared at their door, Master Fred -Smith, lugging in his brother Bill. - -"He is come to confess, ma'am," said the elder. "He blurted it all out -to me just now, too miserable to keep it in any longer, and I've brought -him off to you." - -"Oh, tell me, tell me where he is!" implored Mrs. Grape from her fevered -lips; as she rose and clasped the boy, Bill, by the arm. - -"I don't know where he is," answered the boy in trembling earnestness. -"I can't think where; I wish I could. I know no more than the dead." - -"For what have you come here then?" - -"To confess that it was I who was with him. You didn't know my voice on -the Monday because I had such a cold," continued he, laying hold of a -chair-back to steady his shaking hands. "I must have caught it playing -with Tom that night; we got so hot, both of us. When I heard he had -never been home since, couldn't be found anywhere, I felt frightened to -death and didn't like to say it was me who had been with him." - -"Where did you leave him? Where did you miss him?" questioned the -mother, her heart sinking with despair. - -"We kept on playing at titch-touch-last; neither of us would give in, -each wanted to have the last touch; and we got down past the Bath Road, -and on up Sidbury near to the canal bridge. Tom gave me a touch; it was -the last; and he rushed through the Commandery gates. I was getting -tired then, and a thought came to me that instead of going after him -I'd play him a trick and make off home; and I did so, tearing over the -bridge as hard as I could tear. And that's all the truth," concluded the -boy, bursting into tears, "and I never saw Tom again, and have no more -to tell though the head-master hoists me for it to-morrow." - -"It is just what he said to me, Mrs. Grape," put in the brother quietly, -"and I am sure it is the truth." - -"Through the Commandery gates," repeated Mrs. Grape, pressing her aching -brow. "And you did not see him come out again?" - -"No, ma'am, I made off as hard as I could go. While he was rushing down -there--I heard his boots clattering on the flags--I rushed over the -bridge homewards." - -The boy had told all he knew. Now that the confession was made, he -would be too glad to add more had he been able. It left the mystery -just as it was before; no better and no worse. There was no outlet to -the Commandery, except these iron gates, and nothing within it that -could have swallowed up Tom. It was a cul-de-sac, and he must have -come out again by these self-same gates. Whither had he then gone? - -It was proved that he did come out. When Mr. Bill Smith's confession was -made public, an assistant to a doctor in the town remembered to have -seen Tom Grape, whom he knew by sight, as he was passing the Commandery -about that same time to visit a patient in Wyld's Lane. Tom came flying -out of the gates, laughing, and looking up and down the street. "Where -are you, Bill?" he called out. The young doctor, whose name was Seton, -looked back at Tom, as he went on his way. - -But the young man added something more, which nobody else had thought to -speak of, and which afforded a small loop-hole of conjecture as to what -poor Tom's fate might have been. Just about that hour a small barge on -the canal, after passing under Sidbury bridge, came in contact with -another barge. Very little damage was done, but there was a great deal -of shouting and confusion. As Mr. Seton walked over the bridge, not a -second before he saw Tom, he heard the noise and saw people making for -the spot. Had Tom Grape made for it? He could easily have reached it. -And if so, had he, amidst the general pushing and confusion on the canal -bank, fallen into the canal? It was hardly to be imagined that any -accident of this kind could happen to him _unseen_; though it might be -just possible, for the scene for some minutes was one of tumult; but -nothing transpired to confirm it. The missing lad did not reappear, -either dead or alive. - -And so poor Tom Grape had passed out of life mysteriously as his father -had done. Many months elapsed before his mother gave up her search for -him; she was always thinking he would come home again, always hoping -it. The loss affected her more than her husband's had, for Tom vanished -under her very eye, so to say; all the terror of it was palpably enacted -before her, all the suspense had to be borne and lived through; whereas -the other loss took place at a distance and she only grew to realize it -by degrees; which of course softened the blow. And the time went on by -years, but nothing was seen of Tom Grape. - -That was disappearance the second. - -Dolly left her place of business at the end of the three years for which -she had been apprenticed, and set up for herself; a brass plate on her -mothers door--"Miss Grape, Mantua-maker"--proclaiming the fact to the -world. She was only twenty then, with as sweet a face, the Squire says, -as Worcester, renowned though it is for its pretty faces, ever saw. She -had never in her heart taken kindly to her business, so would not be -likely to set the world on fire with her skill; but she had tried to do -her best and would continue to do it. A little work began to come in now -and then; a gown to be turned or a spencer to be made, though not so -many of them as Dolly hoped for: but, as her mother said, Rome was not -built in a day. - - -III. - -"Mother, I think I shall go to college this morning." - -So spoke Dolly at the breakfast-table one Sunday in July. The sun was -shining in at the open window, the birds were singing. - -"It's my belief, Dolly, you would go off to college every Sunday of your -life, if you had your way," said Mrs. Grape. - -Dolly laughed. "And so I would, mother." - -For the beautiful cathedral service had charms for Dolly. Islip -Church was a very primitive church, the good old clergyman was -toothless, the singing of the two psalms was led off by the clerk in a -cracked bass voice; there was no organ. Accustomed to nothing better -than this, the first time Dolly found herself at the cathedral, after -their removal to Worcester, and the magnificent services burst upon -her astonished senses, she thought she must have ascended to some -celestial sphere. The fine edifice, the musical chanting of the -prayers by the minor canons, the singing of the numerous choir, men -and boys in their white surplices, the deep tones of the swelling -organ, the array of white-robed prebendaries, the dignified and -venerable bishop--Cornwall--in his wig and lawn sleeves, the state, -the ceremony of the whole, and the glittering colours of the famed -east window in the distance; all this laid hold of Dolly's senses for -ever. She and her mother attended St. Martin's Church generally, but -Dolly would now and then lure her mother to the cathedral. Latterly -Mrs. Grape had been ailing and did not go anywhere. - -"If you could but go to college to-day, mother!" went on Dolly. - -"Why!" - -"Mr. Benson preaches. I met Miss Stafford yesterday afternoon, and she -told me Mr. Benson had come into residence. The _Herald_ said so too." - -"Then you must go betimes if you would secure a seat," remarked Mrs. -Grape. "And mind you don't get your new muslin skirt torn." - -So Dolly put on her new muslin, and her bonnet, and started. - -When the Reverend Christopher Benson, Master of the Temple, became one -of the prebendaries of Worcester, his fame as a preacher flew to all -parts of the town. You should hear the Squire's account of the crush in -getting into the cathedral on the Sundays that he was in residence: four -Sundays in the year; or five, as the case might be; all told. Members of -other churches, Dissenters of different sects, Quakers, Roman Catholics, -and people who never went anywhere at other times, scrupled not to run -to hear Mr. Benson. For reading like unto his, or preaching like unto -his, had rarely been heard in that cathedral or in any other. Though -it might be only the Gospel that fell to his share in the communion -service, the crowd listened, enraptured, to his sweet, melodious tones. -The college doors were besieged before the hour for opening them; it was -like going into a theatre. - -Dolly, on this day, made one in the crowd at the cloister entrance; -she was pushed here and there; and although she hurried well with the -rest as soon as the doors were unlocked, every seat was taken when she -reached the chancel. She found standing room opposite the pulpit, near -King John's tomb, and felt very hot in the crush. - -"Is it always like this, here?" - -The whispered words came from a voice at her side. Dolly turned, and saw -a tall, fine-looking, well-dressed man about thirty, with a green silk -umbrella in his hand. - -"No," she whispered back again. "Only for four or five Sundays, at this -time of the year, when Mr. Benson preaches." - -"Indeed," said the stranger. "His preaching ought to be something -extraordinary to attract such a crowd as this." - -"And so it is," breathed Dolly. "And his reading--oh, you never heard -any reading like it." - -"Very eloquent, I suppose?" - -"I don't know whether it may be called eloquence," debated Dolly, -remembering that a chance preacher she once heard, who thumped the -cushions with his hands and shook the air with his voice, was said to -be eloquent. "Mr. Benson is the quietest preacher and reader I ever -listened to." - -The stranger seemed to be a kind sort of man. During the stir made by -the clergy, preceded by the six black-robed, bowing bedesmen, going up -to the communion-table, he found an inch of room on a bench, and secured -it for Dolly. She thanked him gratefully. - -Mr. Benson's sermon came to an end, the bishop gave the blessing from -his throne, and the crowd poured out. Dolly, by way of a change, made -her exit from the great north entrance. The brightness of the day had -changed; a sharp shower was falling. - -"Oh dear! My new muslin will be wet through!" thought Dolly. "This -parasol's of no use." - -"Will you allow me to offer you my umbrella--or permit me to hold it -over you?" spoke the stranger, who must have followed her out. And Dolly -hesitated and flushed, and did not know whether she ought to say yes or -no. - -He held the umbrella over Dolly, letting his own coat get wet. The -shower ceased presently; but he walked on by her side to her mother's -door, and then departed with a bow fit for an emperor. - -"What a polite man!" thought Dolly. "Quite a gentleman." And she -mentioned the occurrence to her mother; who seemed to-day more poorly -than usual. - -They sat at the open window in the afternoon, and Dolly read aloud the -evening psalms. It was the fifth day of the month. As Dolly finished the -last verse and closed the book, Mrs. Grape, after a moment's silence, -repeated the words:-- - -"The Lord shall give strength unto His people: the Lord shall give His -people the blessing of peace." - -"What a beautiful promise that is, Dolly!" she said in hushed tones. -"Peace! Ah, my dear, no one can know what that word means until they -have been sorely tried. Peace everlasting!" - -Mrs. Grape leaned back in her chair, gazing upwards. The sky was of a -deep blue; a brilliant gold cloud, of peculiar shape, was moving slowly -across it just overhead. - -"One could almost fancy it to be God's golden throne in the brighter -land," she murmured. "My child, do you know, the thought comes across me -at times that it may not be long before I am there. And I am getting to -long for it." - -"Don't say that, mother," cried the startled girl. - -"Well, well, dear, I don't want to frighten you. It is all as God -pleases." - -"I shall send to ask Mr. Nash to come to see you to-morrow, mother. Do -you feel worse?" - -Mrs. Grape slightly shook her head. Presently she spoke. - -"Is it not almost teatime, Dolly?--whoever is that?" - -A gentleman, passing, with a red rose in his button-hole and silk -umbrella in his hand, was taking off his hat to Dolly. Dolly's face -turned red as the rose as she returned the bow, and whispered to her -mother that it was the polite stranger. He halted to express a hope that -the young lady had not taken cold from the morning shower. - -He turned out to be a Mr. Mapping, a traveller in the wine trade for -some London house. But, when he was stating this to Mrs. Grape during -the first visit paid her (for he contrived to make good his entrance -to the house), he added in a careless, off-hand manner, that he was -thankful to say he had good private means and was not dependent upon his -occupation. He lingered on in Worcester, and became intimate with the -Grapes. - -Events thickened. Before the next month, August, came in, Mrs. Grape -died. Dolly was stunned; but she would have felt the blow even more -keenly than she did feel it had she not fallen over head and ears in -love with Alick Mapping. About three hundred pounds, all her mother's -savings, came to Dolly; excepting that, and the furniture, she was -unprovided for. - -"You cannot live upon that: what's a poor three hundred pounds?" spoke -Mr. Mapping a day or two after the funeral, his tone full of tender -compassion. - -"How rich he must be himself!" thought poor Dolly. - -"You will have to let me take care of you, child." - -"Oh dear!" murmured Dolly. - -"We had better be married without delay. Once you are my wife----" - -"Please don't go on!" interposed Dolly in a burst of sobs. "My dear -mother is hardly buried." - -"But what are you to do?" he gently asked. "You will not like to live -here alone--and you have no income to live here upon. Your business is -worth nothing as yet; it would not keep you in gloves. If I speak of -these things prematurely, Dolly, it is for your sake." - -Dolly sobbed. The future looked rather desolate. - -"You have promised to be my wife, Dolly: remember that." - -"Oh, please don't talk of it yet awhile!" sobbed Dolly. - -"Leave you here alone I will not; you are not old enough to take care -of yourself; you must have a protector. I will take you with me to -London, where you will have a good home and be happy as a cricket: but -you must know, Dolly, that I cannot do that until we are married. All -sensible people must say that you will be quite justified under the -circumstances." - -Mr. Alick Mapping had a wily tongue, and Dolly was persuaded to listen. -The marriage was fixed for the first week in September, and the banns -were put up at St. Martin's Church; which, as every one knows, stands in -the corn-market. Until then, Mr. Mapping returned to London; to make, -as he told Dolly, preparations for his bride. An acquaintance of Mrs. -Grape's, who had been staying with Dolly since the death, would remain -with her to the last. As soon as Dolly was gone, the furniture would be -sold by Mr. Stretch, the auctioneer, and the proceeds transmitted to -Dolly in London. Mrs. Grape had given all she possessed to Dolly, in the -fixed and firm belief that her son was really no more. - -But all this was not to be put in practice without a warning from their -neighbour, the Quaker lady; she sent for Dolly, being confined to her -own chamber by illness. - -"Thee should not be in this haste, Dorothy," she began. "It is not -altogether seemly, child, and it may not be well for thee hereafter. -Thee art too young to marry; thee should wait a year or two----" - -"But I am not able to wait," pleaded poor Dolly, with tears in her eyes. -"How could I continue to live alone in the house--all by myself?" - -"Nay, but thee need not have done that. Some one of discreet age would -have been glad to come and share expenses with thee. I might have helped -thee to a suitable person myself: a cousin of mine, an agreeable and -kindly woman, would like to live up this way. But the chief objection -that I see to this hasty union, Dorothy," continued Miss Deavor, "is -that thee knows next to nothing about the young man." - -Dolly opened her eyes in surprise. "Why, I know him quite well, dear -Miss Rachel. He has told me all about himself." - -"That I grant thee. Elizabeth informs me that thee has had a good -account from himself as to his means and respectability. But thee has -not verified it." - -"Verified it!" repeated Dolly. - -"Thee has not taken steps to ascertain that the account he gives is -true. How does thee know it to be so?" - -Dolly's face flushed. "As if he would deceive me! You do not know him, -Miss Deavor." - -"Nay, child, I wish not to cast undeserved aspersion on him. But thee -should ask for proof that what he tells thee is correct. Before thee -ties thyself to him for life, Dorothy, thee will do well to get some -friend to make inquiries in London. It is my best advice to thee, child; -and it is what Mary Ann Grape, thy mother, would have done before giving -thee to him." - -Dolly thanked Miss Deavor and went away. The advice was well meant, of -course; she felt that; but quite needless. Suspect Alick Mapping of -deceit! Dolly would rather have suspected herself. And she did nothing. - -The morning of the wedding-day arrived in due course. Dolly was attiring -herself for the ceremony in a pretty new grey gown, her straw bonnet -trimmed with white satin lying on the bed (to resume her black on the -morrow), when Elizabeth Deavor came in. - -"I have something to say to thee, Dolly," she began, in a grave tone. "I -hardly knew whether to speak to thee or not, feeling not altogether sure -of the thing myself, so I asked Aunt Rachel, and she thinks thee ought -to be told." - -"What is it?" cried Dolly. - -"I think I saw thy brother Tom last night." - -The words gave Dolly a curious shock. She fell back in a chair. - -"I will relate it to thee," said Elizabeth. "Last evening I was at Aunt -Rachel's window above-stairs, when I saw a boy in dark clothes standing -on the pavement outside, just opposite thy gate. It was a bright night, -as thee knows. He had his arms folded and stood quite still, gazing at -this house. The moonlight shone on his face and I thought how much it -was like poor lost Tom's. He still stood on; so I went downstairs and -stepped to our gate, to ask whether he was in want of any one: and then, -Dolly, I felt queerer than I ever felt in my life, for I saw that it was -Tom. At least, I thought so." - -"Did he speak?" gasped Dolly. - -"He neither spoke nor answered me: he turned off, and went quickly down -the road. I think it was Tom; I do indeed." - -"What am I to do?" cried Dolly. "Oh, if I could but find him!" - -"There's nothing to do, that we can see," answered the young Quakeress. -"I have talked it over with Aunt Rachel. It would appear as though he -did not care to show himself: else, if it were truly thy brother, why -did he not come in? I will look out for him every night and speak to him -if he appears again. I promise thee that, Dolly." - -"Why do you say 'appears,' Elizabeth?" cried the girl. "You think it was -himself, do you not; not his--his spirit?" - -"Truly, I can but conclude it was himself." - -Dolly, in a state of bewilderment, what with one thing and another, was -married to Alick Mapping in St. Martin's Church, by its white-haired -Rector, Digby Smith. A yellow post-chaise waited at the church-gates -and carried them to Tewkesbury. The following day they went on by coach -to Gloucester, where Mr. Mapping intended to stay a few days before -proceeding to London. - -They took up their quarters at a comfortable country inn on the -outskirts of the town. On the second day after their arrival, Dolly, -about to take a country walk with her husband, ran downstairs from -putting her bonnet on, and could not see him. The barmaid told her he -had gone into the town to post a letter, and asked Dolly to step into -the bar-parlour to wait. - -It was a room chiefly used by commercial travellers. Dolly's attention -was caught by something over the mantelpiece. In a small glass-case, -locked, there was the portrait of a man cleverly done in pencil; by its -side hung a plain silver watch with a seal and key attached to a short -black ribbon: and over all was a visiting-card, inscribed in ink, "Mr. -Gardner." Dolly looked at this and turned sick and faint: it was her -father's likeness, her father's watch, seal, and ribbon. Of an excitable -nature, she burst into tears, and the barmaid ran in. There and then, -the mystery so long hanging about Robert Grape's fate was cleared up, so -far as it ever would be in this world. - -He had left Bridgenorth, as may be remembered, on the Thursday morning. -Towards the evening of the following day, Friday, as Dolly now heard, he -appeared at this very inn. This same barmaid, an obliging, neat, and -modest young woman, presenting a rare contrast to the barmaids of the -present day, saw him come in. His face had a peculiar, grey shade upon -it, which attracted her notice, and she asked him if he felt ill. He -answered that he felt pretty well then, but supposed he must have had a -fainting-fit when walking into the town, for to his surprise he found -himself on the grass by the roadside, waking up from a sort of stupor. -He engaged a bedroom for the night, and she thought he said--but she had -never been quite sure--that he had come to look out for a horse at the -fair to be held in Gloucester the next day. He took no supper, "not -feeling up to it," he said, but drank a glass of weak brandy-and-water, -and ate a biscuit with it, before going up to bed. The next morning he -was found dead; had apparently died quietly in his sleep. An inquest was -held, and the medical men testified that he had died of heart disease. -Poor Dolly, listening to this, wondered whether the pitch out of the gig -at Bridgenorth had fatally injured him. - -"We supposed him to be a Mr. Gardner," continued the barmaid, "as that -card"--pointing to it--"was found in his pocket-book. But we had no clue -as to who he was or whence he came. His stockings were marked with a 'G' -in red cotton; and there was a little loose money in his pocket and a -bank-note in his pocket-book, just enough to pay the expenses of the -funeral." - -"But that likeness," said Dolly. "How did you come by it? Who took it?" - -"Ah, ma'am, it was a curious thing, that--but such things do not happen -by chance. An idle young man of the town used to frequent our inn; he -was clever at drawing, and would take off a likeness of any one near -him with a few strokes of a pen or pencil in a minute or two, quite -surreptitious like and for his own amusement. Wonderful likenesses -they were. He was in the bar-parlour, this very room, ma'am, while the -stranger was drinking his brandy-and-water, and he dashed off this -likeness." - -"It is _exactly_ like," said poor Dolly. "But his name was Grape, not -Gardner. It must have been the card of some acquaintance." - -"When nobody came forward to identify the stranger, the landlord got the -sketch given up to him," continued the young woman. "He put it in this -case with the watch and seal and card, and hung it where you see, hoping -that sometime or other it might be recognized." - -"But did you not let it be known abroad that he had died?" sighed Dolly. - -"Why, of course we did; and put an advertisement in the Gloucester -papers to ask if any Mr. Gardner was missing from his friends. Perhaps -the name, not being his, served to mislead people. That's how it was, -ma'am." - -So that the one disappearance, that of Robert Grape, was now set at -rest. - - - - -THE STORY OF DOROTHY GRAPE. - -IN AFTER YEARS. - - -I. - -We found her out through Mr. Brandon's nephew, Roger Bevere, a medical -student, who gave his people trouble, and one day got his arm and -head broken. Mr. Brandon and the Squire were staying in London at the -Tavistock Hotel. I, Johnny Ludlow, was also in London, visiting Miss -Deveen. News of the accident was brought to Mr. Brandon; the young man -had been carried into No. 60, Gibraltar Terrace, Islington, and a doctor -named Pitt was attending him. - -We went to see him at once. A narrow, quiet street, as I recollected -well, this Gibraltar Terrace, the dwellings it contained facing each -other, thirty in a row. No. 60 proved to be the same house to which -we had gone once before, when inquiring about the illness of Francis -Radcliffe, and Pitt was the same doctor. It was the same landlady also; -I knew her as soon as she opened the door; a slender, faded woman, long -past middle life, with a pink flush on her thin cheeks, and something of -the lady about her. - -"What an odd thing, Johnny!" whispered the Squire, recognizing the -landlady as well as the house. "Mapping, I remember her name was." - -Mr. Brandon went upstairs to his nephew. We were shown by her into the -small parlour, which looked as faded as it had looked on our last visit, -years before: as faded as she was. While relating to us how young -Bevere's accident occurred, she had to run away at a call from upstairs. - -"Looks uncommonly careworn, doesn't she, Johnny!" remarked the Squire. -"Seems a nice sort of person, though." - -"Yes, sir. I like her. Does it strike you that her voice has a home-ring -in it? I think she must be from Worcestershire." - -"A home-ring--Worcestershire!" retorted he. "It wouldn't be you, Johnny, -if you did not get up some fancy or other. Here she comes! You are not -from Worcestershire, are you, ma'am?" cried the Squire, going to the -root of the question at once, in his haste to convict my fancy of its -sins. - -"Yes, I am, sir," she replied; and I saw the pink flush on her cheeks -deepen to crimson. "I knew you, sir, when I was a young girl, many years -ago. Though I should not have recognized you when you were last here, -but that you left your card. We lived at Islip, sir; at that pretty -cottage with the yellow roses round the porch. You must remember Dolly -Grape." - -"But you are not Dolly Grape!" returned the Squire, pushing up his -spectacles. - -"Yes, sir, I was Dolly Grape. Your mother knew us well; so did you." - -"Goodness bless my heart!" softly cried the Squire, gazing at her as if -the news were too much for him. And then, starting up impulsively, he -grasped her hand and gave it a hearty shake. A sob seemed to take her -throat. The Squire sat back again, and went on staring at her. - -"My father disappeared mysteriously on one of his journeys; you may -remember us by that, sir." - -"To be sure I remember it--Robert Grape!" assented the Squire. "Had to -do with the post-horse duty. Got as far as Bridgenorth, and was never -heard of again. And it is really you--Dolly Grape! And you are living -here--letting lodgings! I'm afraid the world has not been overkind to -you." - -She shook her head; tears were running down her faded cheeks. - -"No, it has not, sir," she answered, as she wiped them away with her -handkerchief. "I have had nothing but ups and downs in life since -leaving Worcester: sad misfortunes: sometimes, I think, more than my -share. Perhaps you heard that I married, sir--one Mr. Mapping?" - -The Squire nodded slightly. He was too busy gazing at her to pay -attention to much else. - -"I am looking at you to see if I can trace the old features of the old -days," he said, "and I do now; they grow upon my memory; though you -were but a slip of a girl when I used to see you. I wonder I did not -recognize you at first." - -"And I wonder that you can even recognize me now, sir," she returned: -"trouble and grief have so much altered me. I am getting old, too." - -"Have you lived in this house long?" - -"Nearly ten years, sir. I live by letting my rooms." - -The Squire's voice took a tone of compassion. - -"It can't be much of a living, once the rent and taxes are paid." - -Mrs. Mapping's mild blue eyes, that seemed to the Squire to be of a -lighter tinge than of yore, wore a passing sadness. Any one able to read -it correctly might have seen she had her struggles. - -"Are you a widow?" - -"I--call myself one, sir," she replied, with hesitation. - -"_Call_ yourself one!" retorted the Squire, for he liked people to be -straightforward in their speech. "My good woman, you are a widow, or you -are not one." - -"I pass for one, sir." - -"Now, what on earth do you mean?" demanded he. "Is your -husband--Mapping--not dead?" - -"He was not dead when I last heard of him, sir; that's a long while ago. -But he is not my husband." - -"Not your husband!" echoed the Squire, pushing up his spectacles again. -"Have you and he quarrelled and parted?" - -Any countenance more pitifully sad than Mrs. Mapping's was at that -moment, I never wish to see. She stood smoothing down her black silk -apron (which had a slit in it) with trembling fingers. - -"My history is a very painful one," she said at last in a low voice. "I -will tell it if you wish; but not this morning. I should like to tell -it you, sir. It is some time since I saw a home-face, and I have often -pictured to myself some kind friendly face of those old happy days -looking at me while I told it. Different days from these." - -"These cannot be much to boast of," repeated the Squire. "It must be a -precarious sort of living." - -"Of course it fluctuates," she said. "Sometimes my rooms are full, at -other times empty. One has to put the one against the other and strive -to tide over the hard days. Mr. Pitt is very good to me in recommending -the rooms to medical students; he is a good-natured man." - -"Oh, indeed! Listen to that, Johnny! Pitt good-natured! Rather a loose -man, though, I fancy, ma'am." - -"What, Mr. Pitt? Sir, I don't think so. He has a surgery close by, and -gets a good bit of practice----" - -The rest was interrupted by Mr. Pitt himself; he came to say we might go -up to Mr. Brandon in the sick-room. We had reason to think ill enough -of Pitt in regard to the Radcliffe business; but the Squire could not -tackle him about the past offhand, this not being just the time or place -for it. Later, when he did so, it was found that we had been misjudging -the man. Pitt had not joined Stephen Radcliffe in any conspiracy; and -the false letter, telling of Frank's death at Dr. Dale's, had not been -written by him. So we saw that it must have been concocted by Stephen -himself. - -"Any way, if I did write such a letter, I retained no consciousness -of it afterwards," added Pitt, with candour. "I am sorry to say, Mr. -Todhetley, that I gave way to drink at that time, and I know I was often -not myself. But I do not think it likely that I wrote it; and as to -joining Mr. Radcliffe in any conspiracy against his brother, why, I -would not do such a thing, drunk or sober, and I never knew it had been -done." - -"You have had the sense to pull up," cried the Squire, in reference to -what Pitt had admitted. - -"Yes," answered Pitt, in a voice hardly above a whisper. "And I never -think of what I might have become by this time, but for pulling up, but -I thank God." - -These allusions, however, may perhaps only puzzle the reader. And it is -not with Mr. Pitt, his virtues or his failings, that this paper concerns -itself, but with the history of Dorothy Grape. - -We must take it up from the time Dorothy arrived in London with her -husband, Alick Mapping, after their marriage at Worcester, as already -narrated. The sum of three hundred pounds, owned by Dolly, passed into -Mr. Mapping's possession on the wedding-day, for she never suggested -such a thing as that it should be settled on herself. The proceeds, -arising from the sale of the furniture, were also transmitted to him -later by the auctioneer. Thus he had become the proprietor of Dolly, -and of all her worldly goods. After that, he and she faded out -of Worcestershire memory, and from the sight of Worcestershire -people--except for one brief meeting, to be mentioned presently. - -The home in London, to which her husband conveyed her, and of which he -had boasted, Dolly found to be lodgings. Lodgings recently engaged by -him, a sitting-room and bedroom, in the Blackfriars Road. They were over -a shop, kept by one Mrs. Turk, who was their landlady. "I would not -fix upon a house, dear, without you," he said; and Dolly thanked him -gratefully. All he did was right to her. - -She was, as he had told her she would be, happy as a cricket, though -bewildered with the noisy bustle of the great town, and hardly daring to -venture alone into its busy streets, more crowded than was Worcester -Cathedral on the Sundays Mr. Benson preached. The curious elucidation at -Gloucester of what her father's fate had been was a relief to her mind, -rather than the contrary, once she had got over its sadness; though the -still more curious doubt about her brother Tom, whispered to her by -Elizabeth Deavor on her wedding morning, was rarely absent from her -thoughts. But Dolly was young, Dolly was in love, and Dolly was -intensely happy. Her husband took her to the theatres, to Vauxhall, and -to other places of amusement; and Dolly began to think life was going to -be a happy valley into which care would never penetrate. - -This happy state of things changed. Mr. Mapping took to be a great deal -away from home, sometimes for weeks together. He laid the fault upon his -business; travellers in the wine trade had to go all over England, -he said. Dolly was not unreasonable and accepted the explanation -cheerfully. - -But something else happened now and then that was less satisfactory. Mr. -Mapping would appear at home in a condition that frightened Dolly: as if -he had made the mistake of tasting the wine samples himself, instead of -carrying them to his customers. Never having been brought into contact -with anything of the kind in her own home, she regarded it with terror -and dismay. - -Then another phase of discomfort set in: money seemed to grow short. -Dolly could not get from her husband what was needed for their moderate -expenses; which were next to nothing when he was away from home. She -cried a little one day when she wanted some badly and he told her he had -none to give her. Upon which Mr. Mapping turned cross. There was no need -of tears, he said: it would all come right if she did not bother. Dolly, -in her secret heart, hoped he would not have to break in upon what -he called their "nest-egg," that three hundred pounds in the bank. -A nest-egg which, as he had more than once assured her, it was his -intention to keep intact. - -Only in one thing had Mr. Mapping been arbitrary: he would not allow -her to hold any communication with Worcester. When they first came to -London, he forbade Dolly to write to any of her former friends, or to -give them her address. "You have no relatives there," he said, "only a -few acquaintances, and I would prefer, Dolly, that you dropped them -altogether." Of course she obeyed him: though it prevented her writing -to ask Elizabeth Deavor whether she had again seen Tom. - -Things, despite Mr. Mapping's assurances, did not come right. As the -spring advanced, his absences became more marked and the money less -plentiful. Dolly shed many tears. She knew not what to do; for, as -the old song says, not e'en love can live on flowers. It was a very -favourite song of Dolly's, and her tuneful voice might often be heard -trilling it through from beginning to end as she sat at work. - - "Young Love lived once in a humble shed, - Where roses breathing - And woodbines wreathing - Around the lattice their tendrils spread, - As wild and as sweet as the life he led. - - "The garden flourished, for young Hope nourished, - And Joy stood by to count the hours: - But lips, though blooming, must still be fed, - And not e'en Love can live on flowers. - - "Alas, that Poverty's evil eye - Should e'er come hither - Such sweets to wither; - The flowers laid down their heads to die, - And Love looked pale as the witch drew nigh. - - "She came one morning, and Love had warning, - For he stood at the window, peeping for day: - 'Oh, oh,' said he, 'is it you,--good-bye'-- - And he opened the window and flew away." - -Dolly's love did not fly away, though the ugly witch, Poverty, was -certainly showing herself. Mrs. Turk grew uneasy. Dolly assured her -there was no occasion for that; that if the worst came to the worst, -they must break into the "nest-egg" which they had lying by in the Bank -of England--the three hundred pounds left her by her mother. - -One bright day in May, Dolly, pining for the outdoor sunshine, betook -herself to Hyde Park, a penny roll in her pocket for her dinner. The sun -glittered in the blue sky, the air was warm, the birds chirped in the -trees and hopped on the green grass. Dolly sat on a bench enjoying the -sweetness and tranquillity, thinking how very delightful life might be -when no evil stepped in to mar it. - -Two Quakeress ladies approached arm-in-arm, talking busily. Dolly -started up with a cry: for the younger one was Elizabeth Deavor. She had -come to London with a friend for the May meetings. The two girls were -delighted to see each other, but Elizabeth was pressed for time. - -"Why did thee never write to me, Dorothy? I had but one letter from -thee, written at Gloucester, telling me, thee knows, all about thy poor -father." And, to this question, Dolly murmured some lame excuse. - -"I wanted to write to thee, but I had not thy address. I promised thee -I would look out for Tom--" - -"And have you seen him again?" interrupted Dolly in excitement. "Oh, -Elizabeth?" - -"I have seen the boy again, but it was not Tom: and I am very sorry -that my fancy misled me and caused me to excite thy hopes. It was only -recently, in Fourth month. I saw the same boy standing in the same -place before thy old gate, his arms folded, and looking at the house as -before, in the moonlight. I ran out, and caught his arm, and held it -while he told me who he was and why he came there. It was not thy -brother, Dorothy, but the likeness to him is marvellous." - -"No!--not he?" gasped Dolly, woefully disappointed. - -"It is one Richard East," said Elizabeth; "a young sailor. He lived with -his mother in that house before she died, when he was a little boy; and -when he comes home from a voyage now, and is staying with his friends in -Melcheapen Street, he likes to go up there and have a good look at it. -This is all. As I say, I am sorry to have misled thee. We think there -cannot be a doubt that poor Tom really lost his life that night in the -canal. And art thee nicely, Dorothy?--and is thy husband well? Thee art -looking thin. Fare thee well." - -Summer passed, Dolly hardly knew how. She was often reduced to straits, -often and often went dinnerless. Mrs. Turk only had a portion of what -was due to her by fits and starts. Mr. Mapping himself made light of -troubles; they did not seem to touch him much; he was always in spirits -and always well dressed. - -"Alick, you should draw a little of that money in the bank," his wife -ventured to suggest one day when Mrs. Turk had been rather troublesome. -"We cannot go on like this." - -"Break in upon our 'nest-egg!'" he answered. "Not if I know it, Dolly. -Mrs. Turk must wait." - -A little circumstance was to happen that gave some puzzle to Dolly. She -had been married about fourteen months, and her husband was, as she -believed, on his travels in Yorkshire, when Lord-Mayor's day occurred. -Mrs. Gurk, a good woman in the main, and compassionating the loneliness -of the young wife, offered to take her to see the show, having been -invited to an upper window of a house in Cheapside. Of all the sights in -the world that Dolly had heard of, she quite believed that must be the -greatest, and felt delighted. They went, took up their station at the -window, and the show passed. If it had not quite come up to Dolly's -expectation, she did not say so. - -"A grand procession, is it not, Mrs. Mapping?" cried her companion, -gazing after it with admiring eyes. - -"Very," said Dolly. "I wonder--Good gracious!" she broke off, with -startling emphasis, "there's my husband!" - -"Where?" asked Mrs. Turk, her eyes bent on the surging crowd below. - -"There," said Dolly, pointing with her finger; "there! He is arm-in-arm -with two others; in the middle of them. How very strange! It was only -yesterday I had a letter from him from Bradford, saying he should be -detained there for some time to come. How I wish he had looked up at -this window!" - -Mrs. Turk's sight had failed to single him out amongst the moving crowd. -And as Mr. Mapping did not make his appearance at home that evening, or -for many evenings to come, she concluded that the young wife must have -been mistaken. - -When Mr. Mapping did appear, he said the same, telling Dolly she must -have "seen double," for that he had not been in London. Dolly did not -insist, but she felt staggered and uncomfortable; she felt _certain_ it -was her husband she saw. - -How long the climax would have been postponed, or in what way it might -have disclosed itself, but for something that occurred, cannot be -conjectured. This wretched kind of life went on until the next spring. -Dolly was reduced to perplexity. She had parted with all the pretty -trinkets her mother left her; she would live for days together upon -bread-and-butter and tears: and a most unhappy suspicion had instilled -itself into her mind--that the nest-egg no longer existed. But even yet -she found excuses for her husband; she thought that all doubt might -still be explained away. Mrs. Turk was very good, and did not worry; -Dolly did some plain sewing for her, and made her a gown or two. - -On one of these spring days, when the sun was shining brightly on the -pavement outside, Dolly went out on an errand. She had not gone many -steps from the door when a lady, very plainly dressed, came up and -accosted her quietly. - -"Young woman, I wish to ask why you have stolen away my husband?" - -"Good gracious!" exclaimed the startled Dolly. "What do you mean?" - -"You call yourself Mrs. Mapping." - -"I am Mrs. Mapping." - -The stranger shook her head. "We cannot converse here," she said. "Allow -me to go up to your room"--pointing to it. "I know you lodge there." - -"But what is it that you want with me?" objected Dolly, who did not like -all this. - -"You think yourself the wife of Alick Mapping. You think you were -married to him." - -Dolly wondered whether the speaker had escaped from that neighbouring -stronghold, Bedlam. "I don't know what it is you wish to insinuate," she -said. "I was married to Mr. Mapping at St. Martin's Church in Worcester, -more than eighteen months ago." - -"Ay! But I, his wife, was married to him in London seven years ago. -Yours was no marriage; he deceived you." - -Dolly's face was turning all manner of colours. She felt frightened -almost to death. - -"Take me to your room and I will tell you all that you need to know. Do -not fear I shall reproach you; I am only sorry for you; it has been no -fault of yours. He is a finished deceiver, as I have learnt to my cost." - -Dolly led the way. Seated together, face to face, her eyes strained on -the stranger's, she listened to the woeful tale, which was gently told. -That it was true she could not doubt. Alick Mapping had married her at -St. Martin's Church in Worcester, but he had married this young woman -some years before it. - -"You are thinking that I look older than my husband," said she, -misinterpreting Dolly's gaze. "That is true. I am five years older, and -am now approaching my fortieth year. He pretended to fall in love with -me; I thought he did; but what he really fell in love with was my -money." - -"How did you come to know about me?--how did you find it out?" gasped -Dolly. - -"It was through Mrs. Turk, your landlady," answered the true wife. "She -has been suspecting that something or other was wrong, and she talked of -it to a friend of hers who chances to know my family. This friend was -struck with the similarity of name--the Alick Mapping whose wife was -here in the Blackfriars Road, and the Alick Mapping whose wife lived at -Hackney." - -"How long is it since he left you?" asked poor Dolly. - -"He has not left me. He has absented himself inexplicably at times for -a year or two past, but he is still with me. He is at home now, at this -present moment. I have a good home, you must understand, and a good -income, which he cannot touch; he would think twice before giving up -that. Had you money?" continued the lady abruptly. - -"I had three hundred pounds. He told me he had placed it in the Bank of -England; I think he did do that; and that he should never draw upon it, -but leave it there for a nest-egg." - -Mrs. Mapping smiled in pity. "You may rely upon it that there's not a -shilling left of it. Money in his hands, when he can get hold of any, -runs out of them like water." - -"Is it true that he travels for a wine house?" - -"Yes--and no. It is his occupation, but he is continually throwing up -his situations: pleasure has more attraction for him than work; and he -will be a gentleman at large for months together. Yet not a more clever -man of business exists than he is known to be, and he can get a place at -any time." - -"Have you any children?" whispered Dolly. - -"No. Shall you prosecute him?" continued the first wife, after a pause. - -"Shall I--what?" cried Dolly, aghast. - -"Prosecute him for the fraud he has committed on you?" - -"Oh dear! the exposure would kill me," shivered the unhappy girl. "I -shall only hope to run away and hide myself forever." - -"Every syllable I have told you is truth," said the stranger, producing -a slip of paper as she rose to depart. "Here are two or three references -by which you can verify it, if you doubt me. Mrs. Turk will do it for -you if you do not care to stir in it yourself. Will you shake hands with -me?" - -Dolly assented, and burst into a whirlwind of tears. - -Nothing seemed to be left for her, as she said, but to run away and -hide herself. All the money was gone, and she was left penniless and -helpless. By the aid of Mrs. Turk, who proved a good friend to her, she -obtained a situation in a small preparatory school near Croydon, as -needle-woman and companion to the mistress. She called herself Mrs. -Mapping still, and continued to wear her wedding-ring; she did not know -what else to do. She _had_ been married; truly, as she had believed; and -what had come of it was surely no fault of hers. - -A little good fortune fell to her in time; a little bit. For years and -years she remained in that school at Croydon, until, as it seemed to -herself, she was middle-aged, and then the mistress of it died. Having -no relatives, she left her savings and her furniture to Dolly. With the -money Dolly set up the house in Gibraltar Terrace, put the furniture -into it, and began to let lodgings. A young woman, who had been teacher -in the school, and whom Dolly regarded as her sister, and often called -her so, removed to it with her and stayed with her until she married. - -Those particulars--which we listened to one evening from her own -lips--were gloomy enough. The Squire went into an explosion over Alick -Mapping. - -"The despicable villain! What has become of him?" - -"I never saw him after his wife came to me," she answered, "but Mrs. -Turk would get news of him now and then. Since Mrs. Turk's death, I have -heard nothing. Sometimes I think he may be dead." - -"I hope he was hung!" flashed the Squire. - -Well--to hasten on. That was Dorothy Grape's history since she left -Worcester; and a cruel one it was! - -We saw her once or twice again before quitting London. And the Squire -left a substantial present with her, for old remembrance sake. - -"She looks as though she needed it, Johnny," said he. "Poor thing! -poor thing! And such a pretty, happy little maiden as she used to be, -standing in her pinafore amongst the yellow roses in the porch at Islip! -Johnny, lad, I _hope_ that vagabond came to be hanged!" - - -II. - -It was ever so long afterwards, and the time had gone on by years, when -we again fell into the thread of Dorothy Grape's life. The Squire was in -London for a few days upon some law business, and had brought me with -him. - -"I should like to see how that poor woman's getting on, Johnny," he said -to me one morning. "Suppose we go down to Gibraltar Terrace?" - -It was a dull, damp, misty day at the close of autumn; and when the -Squire turned in at No. 60, after dismissing the cab, he stood still -and stared, instead of knocking. A plate was on the door, "James Noak, -carpenter and joiner." - -"Has she left, do you think, Johnny?" - -"Well, sir, we can ask. Perhaps the carpenter is only lodging here?" - -A tidy young woman, with a baby in her arms, answered the knock. "Does -Mrs. Mapping live here still?" asked the Squire. - -"No, sir," she answered. "I don't know the name." - -"Not know the name!" retorted he, turning crusty; for he disliked, of -all things, to be puzzled or thwarted. "Mrs. Mapping lived here for ten -or a dozen years, anyhow." - -"Oh, stay, sir," she said, "I remember the name now. Mapping; yes, that -was it. She lived here before we came in." - -"Is she dead?" - -"No, sir. She was sold up." - -"Sold up?" - -"Yes, sir. Her lodging-letting fell off--this neighbourhood's not what -it was: people like to get further up, Islington way--and she was badly -off for a long while, could not pay her rent, or anything; so at last -the landlord was obliged to sell her up. At least, that's what we heard -after we came here, but the house lay empty for some months between. I -did not hear what became of her." - -The people at the next house could not tell anything; they were -fresh-comers also; and the Squire stood in a quandary. I thought of -Pitt the surgeon; he was sure to know; and ran off to his surgery in -the next street. - -Changes seemed to be everywhere. Pitt's small surgery had given place to -a chemist's shop. The chemist stood behind his counter in a white apron. -Pitt? Oh, Pitt had taken to a practice further off, and drove his -brougham. "Mrs. Mapping?" added the chemist, in further answer to me. -"Oh yes, she lives still in the same terrace. She came to grief at No. -60, poor woman, and lodges now at No. 32. Same side of the way; this -end." - -No. 32 had a plate on the door: "Miss Kester, dressmaker," and Miss -Kester herself--a neat little woman, with a reserved, not to say sour, -face and manner, and a cloud of pins sticking out of her brown -waistband--answered the knock. She sent us up to a small back-room at -the top of the house. - -Mrs. Mapping sat sewing near a fireless grate, her bed in one corner; -she looked very ill. I had thought her thin enough before; she was a -shadow now. The blue eyes had a piteous look in them, the cheeks a -hectic. - -"Yes," she said, in answer to the Squire, her voice faint and her cough -catching her every other minute, "it was a sad misfortune for me to be -turned out of my house; it nearly broke my heart. The world is full of -trouble, sir." - -"How long is it since?" - -"Nearly eighteen months, sir. Miss Kester had this room to let, and I -came into it. It is quiet and cheap: only half-a-crown a-week." - -"And how do you get the half-crown?" questioned the Squire. "And your -dinner and breakfast--how do you get that?" - -Mrs. Mapping passed her trembling fingers across her brow before she -answered-- - -"I'm sorry to have to tell of these things, sir. I'm sorry you have -found me out in my poverty. When I think of the old days at home, -the happy and plentiful days when poor mother was living, and what a -different life mine might have been but for the dreadful marriage I -made, I--I can hardly bear up against it. I'm sure I beg your pardon, -gentlemen, for giving way." - -For the tears were streaming down her thin cheeks. The Squire set up a -cough on his own account; I went to the window and looked down at some -grimy back-gardens. - -"When I am a little stronger, and able to do a full day's work again, I -shall get on, sir, but I've been ill lately through going out in the wet -and catching cold," she said, mastering the tears. "Miss Kester is very -good in supplying me with as much as I can do." - -"A grand 'getting on,'" cried the Squire. "You'd be all the better for -some fire in that grate." - -"I might be worse off than I am," she answered meekly. "If it is but -little that I have, I am thankful for it." - -The Squire talked a while longer; then he put a sovereign into her hand, -and came away with a gloomy look. - -"She wants a bit of regular help," said he. "A few shillings paid to -her weekly while she gets up her strength might set her going again. -I wonder if we could find any one to undertake it?" - -"You would not leave it with herself in a lump, sir?" - -"Why, no, I think not; she may have back debts, you see, Johnny, and be -tempted to pay them with it; if so, practically it would be no good to -her. Wish Pitt lived here still! Wonder if that Miss Kester might be -trusted to---- There's a cab, lad! Hail it." - -The next morning, when we were at breakfast at the hotel--which was not -the Tavistock this time--the Squire burst into a state of excitement -over his newspaper. - -"Goodness me, Johnny! here's the very thing." - -I wondered what had taken him, and what he meant; and for some time -did not clearly understand. The Squire's eyes had fallen upon an -advertisement, and also a leading article, treating of some great -philanthropic movement that had recently set itself up in London. -Reading the articles, I gathered that it had for its object the -distribution of alms on an extensive scale and the comprehensive -relieving of the distressed. Some benevolent gentlemen (so far as we -could understand the newspaper) had formed themselves into a band for -taking the general welfare of the needy into their hands, and devoted -their lives to looking after their poverty-stricken brothers and -sisters. A sort of universal, benevolent, set-the-world-to-rights -invention. - -The Squire was in raptures. "If we had but a few more such good men in -the world, Johnny! I'll go down at once and shake their hands. If I -lived in London, I'd join them." - -I could only laugh. Fancy the Squire going about from house to house -with a bag of silver to relieve the needy! - -Taking note of the office occupied by these good men, we made our way to -it. Only two of them were present that morning: a man who looked like a -clerk, for he had books and papers before him; and a thin gentleman in -spectacles. - -The Squire shook him by the hand at once, breaking into an ovation at -the good deeds of the benevolent brotherhood, that should have made the -spectacles before us, as belonging to a member of it, blush. - -"Yes," he said, his cool, calm tones contrasting with the Squire's hot -ones, "we intend to effect a work that has never yet been attempted. -Why, sir, by our exertions three parts of the complaints of hunger, and -what not, will be done away with." - -The Squire folded his hands in an ecstasy of reverence. "That is, you -will relieve it," he remarked. "Bountiful Samaritans!" - -"Relieve it, certainly--where the recipients are found to be deserving," -returned the other. "But non-deserving cases--impostors, ill-doers, and -the like--will get punishment instead of relief, if we can procure it -for them." - -"Quite right, too," warmly assented the Squire. "Allow me to shake your -hand again, sir. And you gentlemen are out every day upon this good -work! Visiting from house to house!" - -"Some of us are out every day; we devote our time to it." - -"And your money, too, of course!" exclaimed the Squire. "Listen, Johnny -Ludlow," he cried, turning to me, his red face glowing more and more -with every word, "I hope you'll take a lesson from this, my lad! Their -time, and their money too!" - -The thin gentleman cleared his throat. "Of course we cannot do all in -the way of money ourselves," he said; "some of us, indeed, cannot do -anything in that way. Our operations are very large: a great deal is -needed, and we have to depend upon a generous public for help." - -"By their making subscriptions to it?" cried the Squire. - -"Undoubtedly." - -The Squire tugged at an inner pocket. "Here, Johnny, help me to get out -my cheque-book." And when it was out, he drew a cheque for ten pounds -there and then, and laid it on the table. - -"Accept this, sir," he said, "and my praises with it. And now I should -like to recommend to your notice a case myself--a most deserving one. -Will you take it in hand?" - -"Certainly." - -The Squire gave Mrs. Mapping's address, telling briefly of her present -distress and weakly state, and intimated that the best mode of relief -would be to allow her a few shillings weekly. "You will be sure to see -to her?" was his parting injunction. "She may starve if you do not." - -"Have no fear: it is our business to do so," repeated the thin -gentleman. "Good-day." - -"Johnny," said the Squire, going up the street sideways in his -excitement, "it is refreshing to hear of these self-denying deeds. -These good men must be going on straight for heaven!" - -"Take care, sir! Look where you are going." - -The Squire had not been going on straight himself just then, and had -bumped up against a foot-passenger who was hurrying along. It was Pitt, -the surgeon. After a few words of greeting, the Squire excused his -flurry by telling him where he had come from. - -"Been _there_!" exclaimed Pitt, bursting into a laugh. "Wish you joy, -sir! We call it Benevolence Hall." - -"And a very good name, too," said the Squire. "Such men ought to be -canonized, Pitt." - -"Hope they will be?" answered Pitt in a curious kind of tone. "I can't -stop now, Mr. Todhetley; am on my way to a consultation." - -"He slips from one like an eel," cried the Squire, looking after the -doctor as he hurried onwards: "I might have spoken to him about Mrs. -Mapping. But my mind is at ease with regard to her, Johnny, now that -these charitable men have the case in hand: and we shall be up again in -a few weeks." - - -III. - -It was nearly two months before we were again in London, and winter -weather: the same business, connected with a lawsuit, calling the Squire -up. - -"And now for Mrs. Mapping," he said to me during the afternoon of the -second day. So we went to Gibraltar Terrace. - -"Yes, she is in her room," said Miss Kester in a resentful tone, when -she admitted us. "It is a good thing somebody's come at last to see -after her! I don't care to have her alone here on my hands to die." - -"To die!" cried the Squire sharply, supposing the dressmaker spoke only -in temper. "What is she dying of?" - -"Starvation," answered Miss Kester. - -"Why, what on earth do you mean, ma'am?" demanded he. "Starvation!" - -"I've done what I could for her, so far as a cup of tea might go, and a -bit of bread-and-butter once a day, or perhaps a drop of broth," ran on -Miss Kester in the same aggrieved tone. "But it has been hard times with -myself lately, and I have my old mother to keep and a bedridden sister. -What she has wanted is a supply of nourishing food; and she has had as -good as none of any sort since you were here, sir, being too weak to -work: and so, rapid consumption set in." - -She whisked upstairs with the candle, for the short winter day was -already closing, and we followed her. Mrs. Mapping sat in an old -easy-chair, over a handful of fire, her thin cotton shawl folded round -her: white, panting, attenuated, starved; and--there could not be much -mistake about it--dying. - -"Starved? dying? dear, dear!" ejaculated the Squire, backing to the -other chair and sitting down in a sort of terror. "What has become of -the good people at Benevolence Hall?" - -"They!" cried Miss Kester contemptuously. "You don't suppose those -people would spend money to keep a poor woman from dying, do you, sir?" - -"Why, it is their business to do it," said the Squire. "I put Mrs. -Mapping's case into their hands, and they undertook to see to it." - -"To see to it, perhaps, sir, but not to relieve it; I should be -surprised if they did that. One of them called here ever so many weeks -ago and frightened Mrs. Mapping with his harsh questions; but he gave -her nothing." - -"I don't understand all this," cried the Squire, rumpling his hair. "Was -it a gentleman?"--turning to Mrs. Mapping. - -"He was dressed as one," she said, "but he was loud and dictatorial, -almost as though he thought me a criminal instead of a poor sick woman. -He asked me all kinds of questions about my past life, where I had lived -and what I had done, and wrote down the answers." - -"Go on," said the Squire, as she paused for breath. - -"As they sent me no relief and did not come again, Miss Kester, after -two or three weeks had gone by, was good enough to send a messenger to -the place: her nephew. He saw the gentlemen there and told them I was -getting weaker daily and was in dreadful need, if they would please to -give me a trifle; he said he should never have thought of applying to -them but for their having come to see after me. The gentlemen answered -unfavourably; inquiries had been made, they sternly told him, and the -case was found to be one not suitable for relief, that I did not deserve -it. I--I--have never done anything wrong willingly," sobbed the poor -woman, breaking down. - -"I don't think she has, sir; she don't seem like it; and I'm sure she -struggled hard enough to get a living at No. 60," said Miss Kester. "Any -way, they did nothing for her--they've just left her to starve and die." - -I had seen the Squire in many a temper, but never in a worse than now. -He flung out of the room, calling upon me to follow him, and climbed -into the hansom that waited for us outside. - -"To Benevolence Hall," roared he, "and drive like the deuce." - -"Yes, sir," said the man. "Where is Benevolence Hall?" - -I gave him the address, and the man whirled us to Benevolence Hall in a -very short time. The Squire leaped out and indoors, primed. In the -office stood a young man, going over some accounts by gaslight. His -flaxen hair was parted down the middle, and he looked uncommonly simple. -The rest of the benevolent gentlemen had left for the day. - -What the Squire said at first, I hardly know: I don't think he knew -himself. His words came tumbling out in a way that astonished the clerk. - -"Mrs. Mapping," cried the young man, when he could understand a little -what the anger was about. "Your ten pounds?--meant for her, you say----" - -"Yes, my ten pounds," wrathfully broke in the Squire; "my ten-pound -cheque that I paid down here on this very table. What have you done with -it?" - -"Oh, that ten pounds has been spent, partly so, at least, in making -inquiries about the woman, looking-up her back history and all that. -Looking-up the back lives of people takes a lot of money, you see." - -"But why did you not relieve her with it, or a portion of it? That -is the question I've come to ask, young man, and I intend to have it -answered." - -The young man looked all surprise. "Why, what an idea!" lisped he. "Our -association does not profess to help sinners. That would be a go!" - -"Sinners!" - -"We can't be expected to take up a sinner, you know--and she's a topping -one," continued he, keeping just as cool as the Squire was hot. "We -found out all sorts of dreadful things against the woman. The name, -Mapping, is not hers, to begin with. She went to church with a man who -had a living wife----" - -"She didn't," burst in the Squire. "It was the man who went to church -with her. And I hope with all my heart he came to be hanged!" - -The clerk considered. "It comes to the same, doesn't it?" said he, -vaguely. "She did go to church with him; and it was ever so long before -his proper wife found it out; and she has gone on calling herself -Mapping ever since! And she managed so badly in a lodging-house she set -up, that she was sold out of it for rent. Consider that! Oh, indeed, -then, it is not on such people as these that our good gentlemen would -waste their money." - -"What do they waste it on?" demanded the Squire. - -"Oh, come now! They don't waste it. They spend it." - -"What on? The sick and needy?" - -"Well, you see, the object of this benevolent association is to discover -who is deserving and who is not. When an applicant comes or sends for -relief, representing that he is sick and starving, and all the rest of -it, we begin by searching out his back sins and misfortunes. The chances -are that a whole lot of ill turns up. If the case be really deserving, -and--and white, you know, instead of black--we relieve it." - -"That is, you relieve about one case in a hundred, I expect?" stormed -the Squire. - -"Oh, now you can't want me to go into figures," said the clerk, in his -simple way. "Anybody might know, if they've some knowledge of the world, -that an out-and-out deserving case does not turn up often. Besides, our -business is not relief but inquiry. We do relieve sometimes, but we -chiefly inquire." - -"Now look you here," retorted the Squire. "Your object, inquiring into -cases, may be a good one in the main and do some excellent service; I -say nothing against it; but the public hold the impression that it is -_relief_ your association intends, not inquiry. Why is this erroneous -impression not set to rights?" - -"Oh, but our system is, I assure you, a grand one," cried the young -fellow. "It accomplishes an immense good." - -"And how much harm does it accomplish? Hold your tongue, young man! Put -it that an applicant is sick, starving, _dying_, for want of a bit of -aid in the shape of food, does your system give that bit of aid, just to -keep body and soul together while it makes its inquiries--say only to -the value of a few pence?" - -The young fellow stared. "What a notion!" cried he. "Give help before -finding out whether it ought to be given or not? That would be quite a -Utopian way of fixing up the poor, that would." - -"And do you suppose I should have given my ten pounds, but for being -misled, for being allowed to infer that it would be expended on the -distressed?" stamped the Squire. "Not a shilling of it. No money of mine -shall aid in turning poor helpless creatures inside out to expose their -sins, as you call it. _That's_ not charity. What the sick and the -famished want is a little kindly help--and the Bible enjoins us to give -it." - -"But most of them are such a bad lot, you know," remonstrated the young -man. - -"All the more need they should be helped," returned the Squire; "they -have bodies and souls to be saved, I suppose. Hold your silly tongue, I -tell you. I should have seen to this poor sick woman myself, who is just -as worthy as you are and your masters, but for their taking the case in -hand. As it is she has been left to starve and die. Come along, Johnny! -Benevolence Hall, indeed!" - -Back to Gibraltar Terrace now, the Squire fretting and fuming. He was -hot and hasty, as the world knows, given to saying anything that came -uppermost, justifiable or the contrary: but in this affair it did seem -that something or somebody must be wrong. - -"Johnny," said the Squire, as the cab bowled along, waking up out -of a brown study, "it seems to me that this is a serious matter of -conscience. It was last Sunday evening, wasn't it, that you read the -chapter in St. Matthew which tells of the last judgment?" - -"Tod read it, sir. I read the one that followed it." - -"Any way, it was one of you. In that chapter Christ charges us to -relieve the poor if we would be saved--the hungry and thirsty, the sick, -the naked. Now, see here, lad: if I give my alms to this new society -that has sprung up, and never a stiver of it to relieve the distress -that lies around me, would the blame, rest on _me_, I wonder? Should _I_ -have to answer for it?" - -It was too complicated a question for me. But just then we drew up at -Miss Kester's door. - -Mrs. Mapping had changed in that short time. I thought she was dying, -thought so as I looked at her. There was a death-shade on the wan face, -never seen but when the world is passing away. The Squire saw it also. - -"Yes," said Miss Kester, gravely, in answer to his whisper. "I fear it -is the end." - -"Goodness bless me!" gasped the Squire. And he was for ordering in -pretty nearly every known restorative the shops keep, from turtle-soup -to calves'-foot jelly. Miss Kester shook her head. - -"Too late, sir; too late. A month ago it would have saved her. Now, -unless I am very much mistaken, the end is at hand." - -Well, he was in a way. If gold and silver could revive the dying, she'd -have had it. He sent me out to buy a bottle of port wine, and got Miss -Kester's little apprentice to run for the nearest doctor. - -"Not rally again at all, you say! all stuff and nonsense," he was -retorting on Miss Kester when I returned. "Here's the wine, at last! Now -for a glass, Johnny." - -She sipped about a teaspoonful by degrees. The shade on her face was -getting darker. Her poor thin fingers kept plucking at the cotton shawl. - -"I have never done any harm that I knew of: at least, not wilfully," she -slowly panted, looking piteously at the Squire, evidently dwelling upon -the accusation made by Benevolence Hall: and it had, Miss Kester said, -troubled her frightfully. "I was only silly--and inexperienced--and--and -believed in everybody. Oh, sir, it was hard!" - -"I'd prosecute them if I could," cried the Squire, fiercely. "There, -there; don't think about it any more; it's all over." - -"Yes, it is over," she sighed, giving the words a different meaning from -his. "Over; over: the struggles and the disappointments, the privations -and the pain. Only God sees what mine have been, and how I've tried to -bear up in patience. Well, well; He knows best: and I think--I do think, -sir--He will make it up to us in heaven. My poor mother thought the same -when she was dying." - -"To be sure," answered the Squire, soothingly. "One must be a heathen -not to know that. Hang that set-the-world-to-rights company!" he -muttered in a whisper. - -"The bitterness of it all has left me," she whispered, with pauses -between the words for want of breath; "this world is fading from my -sight, the world to come opening. Only this morning, falling asleep in -the chair here, after the fatigue of getting up--and putting on my -things--and coughing--I dreamt I saw the Saviour holding out His hand to -welcome me, and I knew He was waiting to take me up to God. The clouds -round about Him were rose colour; a light, as of gold, lay in the -distance. Oh, how lovely it was! nothing but peace. Yes, yes, God will -forgive all our trials and our shortcomings, and make it up to us -there." - -The room had a curious hush upon it. It hardly seemed to be a living -person speaking. Any way, she would not be living long. - -"Another teaspoonful of wine, Johnny," whispered the Squire. "Dear, -dear! Where on earth can that doctor be?" - -I don't believe a drop of it went down her throat. Miss Kester wiped -away the damp from her brow. A cough took her; and afterwards she lay -back again in the chair. - -"Do you remember the yellow roses in the porch," she murmured, speaking, -as must be supposed, to the Squire, but her eyes were closed: "how the -dew on them used to glisten again in the sun on a summer's morning? I -was picking such a handful of them last night--beautiful roses, they -were; sweet and beautiful as the flowers we shall pick in heaven." - -The doctor came upstairs, his shoes creaking. It was Pitt. Pitt! The -girl had met him by chance, and told him what was amiss. - -"Ah," said he, bending over the chair, "you have called me too late. I -should have been here a month or two ago." - -"She is dying of starvation," whispered the Squire. "All that money--ten -pounds--which I handed over to that blessed fraternity, and they never -gave her a sixpence of it--after assuring me they'd see to her!" - -"Ah," said Pitt, his mouth taking a comical twist. "They meant they'd -see after her antecedents, I take it, not her needs. Quite a blessed -fraternity, I'm sure, as you say, Squire." - -He turned away to Mrs. Mapping. But nothing could be done for her; even -the Squire, with all his impetuosity, saw that. Never another word did -she speak, never another recognizing gaze did she give. She just passed -quietly away with a sigh as we stood looking at her; passed to that -blissful realm we are all travelling to, and which had been the last -word upon her lips--Heaven. - -And that is the true story of Dorothy Grape. - - - - -LADY JENKINS. - -MINA. - - -I. - -"Had I better go? I should like to." - -"Go! why of course you had better go," answered the Squire, putting down -the letter. - -"It will be the very thing for you, Johnny," added Mrs. Todhetley. "We -were saying yesterday that you ought to have a change." - -I had not been well for some time; not strong. My old headaches stuck to -me worse than usual; Duffham complained that the pulse was feeble. -Therefore a letter from Dr. Knox of Lefford, pressing me to go and stay -with them, seemed to have come on purpose. Janet had added a postscript: -"You _must_ come, Johnny Ludlow, if it is only to see my two babies, and -you must not think of staying less than a month." Tod was from home, -visiting in Leicestershire. - -Three days, and I was off, bag and baggage. To Worcester first, and then -onwards again, direct for Lefford. The very journey seemed to do me -good. It was a lovely spring day: the hedges were bursting into bud; -primroses and violets nestled in the mossy banks. - -You have not forgotten, I dare say, how poor Janet Carey's hard life, -her troubles, and the sickness those troubles brought, culminated in a -brave ending when Arnold Knox, of Lefford, made her his wife. Some five -years had elapsed since then, and we were all of us that much older. -They had asked me to visit them over and over again, but until now I had -not done it. Mr. Tamlyn, Arnold's former master and present partner, -with whom they lived, was growing old; he only attended to a few of the -old patients now. - -It was a cross-grained kind of route, and much longer than it need -have been could we have gone straight as a bird flies. The train made -all sorts of detours, and I had to change no less than three times. -For the last few miles I had had the carriage to myself, but at Toome -Junction, the last station before Lefford, a gentleman got in: a -rather elderly man with grey hair. Not a syllable did we say, one to -another--Englishmen like--and at length Lefford was gained. - -"In to time exactly," cried this gentleman then, peering out at the -gas-lighted station. "The clock's on the stroke of eight." - -Getting my portmanteau, I looked about for Dr. Knox's brougham, which -would be waiting for me, and soon pitched upon one, standing near the -flys. But my late fellow-passenger strode on before me. - -"I thought I spied you out, Wall," he said to the coachman. "Quite a -chance your being here, I suppose?" - -"I'm waiting for a gentleman from Worcester, sir," answered the man, -looking uncommonly pleased, as he touched his hat. "Dr. Knox couldn't -come himself." - -"Well, I suppose you can take me as well as the gentleman from -Worcester," answered the other, as he turned from patting the old horse, -and saw me standing there. And we got into the carriage. - -It proved to be Mr. Shuttleworth, he who had been old Tamlyn's partner -for a short time, and had married his sister. Tamlyn's people did not -know he was coming to-night, he told me. He was on his way to a distant -place, to see a relative who was ill; by making a round of it, he could -take Lefford, and drop in at Mr. Tamlyn's for the night--and was doing -so. - -Janet came running to the door, Mr. Tamlyn walking slowly behind her. -He had a sad countenance, and scanty grey hair, and looked ever so -much older than his actual years. Since his son died, poor Bertie, -life's sunshine had gone out for him. Very much surprised were they to -see Mr. Shuttleworth as well as me. - -Janet gave us a sumptuous high-tea, pouring out unlimited cups of tea -and pressing us to eat of all the good things. Except that she had -filled out a little from the skeleton she was, and looked as joyous now -as she had once looked sad, I saw little difference in her. Her boy, -Arnold, was aged three and a half: the little girl, named Margaret, -after Miss Deveen, could just walk. - -"Never were such children in all the world before, if you listen to -Janet," cried old Tamlyn, looking at her fondly--for he had learnt to -love Janet as he would a daughter--and she laughed shyly and blushed. - -"You don't ask after mine," put in Mr. Shuttleworth, quaintly; "my one -girl. She is four years old now. Such a wonder! such a paragon! other -babies are nothing to it; so Bessy says. Bessy is silly over that child, -Tamlyn." - -Old Tamlyn just shook his head. They suddenly remembered the one only -child he had lost, and changed the subject. - -"And what about everything!" asked Mr. Shuttleworth, lighting a cigar, -as we sat round the fire after our repast, Janet having gone out to see -to a room for Shuttleworth, or perhaps to contemplate her sleeping -babies. "I am glad you have at last given up the parish work." - -"There's enough to do without it; the practice increases daily," cried -Tamlyn. "Arnold is much liked." - -"How are all the old patients?" - -"That is a comprehensive question," smiled Tamlyn. "Some are -flourishing, and some few are, of course, dead." - -"Is Dockett with you still?" - -"No. Dockett is in London at St. Thomas's. Sam Jenkins is with us in his -place. A clever young fellow; worth two of Dockett." - -"Who is Sam Jenkins?" - -"A nephew of Lady Jenkins--you remember her? At least, of her late -husband's." - -"I should think I do remember Lady Jenkins," laughed Shuttleworth. "How -is she? Flourishing about the streets as usual in that red-wheeled -carriage of hers, dazzling as the rising sun?" - -"Lady Jenkins is not well," replied Tamlyn, gravely. "She gives me some -concern." - -"In what way does she give you concern?" - -"Chiefly because I can't find out what it is that's amiss with her?" - -"Has she been ill long?" - -"For some months now. She is not very ill: goes out in her carriage to -dazzle the town, as you observe, and has her regular soirees at home. -But I don't like her symptoms: I don't understand them, and they grow -worse. She has never been well, really well, since that French journey." - -"What French journey?" - -"At the end of last summer, my Lady Jenkins must needs get it into her -head that she should like to see Paris. Stupid old thing, to go all the -way to France for the first time in her life! She did go, taking Mina -Knox with her--who is growing up as pretty a girl as you'd wish to see. -And, by the way, Shuttleworth, Mina is in luck. She has had a fortune -left her. An old gentleman, not related to them at all, except that he -was Mina's godfather, left her seven thousand pounds last year in his -will. Arnold is trustee." - -"I am glad of it. Little Mina and I used to be great friends. Her mother -is as disagreeable as ever, I suppose?" - -"As if she'd ever change from being _that_!" returned Tamlyn. "I have no -patience with her. She fritters away her own income, and then comes here -and worries Arnold's life out with her embarrassments. He does for her -more than I should do. Educates young Dicky, for one thing." - -"No doubt. Knox always had a soft place in his heart. But about Lady -Jenkins?" - -"Lady Jenkins went over to Paris with her maid, taking Mina as her -companion. It was in August. They stayed three weeks there, racketing -about to all kinds of show-places, and overdoing it, of course. When -they arrived at Boulogne on their way back, expecting to cross over at -once, they found they had to wait. A gale was raging, and the boats -could not get out. So they put up at an hotel there; and, that night, -Lady Jenkins was taken alarmingly ill--the journey and the racketing and -the French living had been too much for her. Young people can stand -these things, Johnny Ludlow; old ones can't," added Tamlyn, looking at -me across the hearth. - -"Very true, sir. How old is Lady Jenkins?" - -"Just seventy. But you wouldn't have thought her so much before that -French journey. Until then she was a lively, active, bustling woman, -with a good-natured, pleasant word for every one. Now she is weary, -dull, inanimate; seems to be, half her time, in a sort of lethargy." - -"What was the nature of the illness?" asked Shuttleworth. "A seizure?" - -"No, nothing of that sort. I'm sure I don't know what it was," added old -Tamlyn, rubbing back his scanty grey hair in perplexity. "Any way, they -feared she was going to die. The French doctor said her getting well -was a miracle. She lay ill ten days, keeping her bed, and was still ill -and very weak when she reached home. Mina believes that a lady who was -detained at the same hotel by the weather, and who came forward and -offered her services as nurse, saved Lady Jenkins's life. She was so -kind and attentive; never going to her bed afterwards until Lady Jenkins -was up from hers. She came home with them." - -"Who did? This lady?" - -"Yes; and has since remained with Lady Jenkins as companion. She is a -Madame St. Vincent; a young widow----" - -"A Frenchwoman!" exclaimed Mr. Shuttleworth. - -"Yes; but you wouldn't think it. She speaks English just as we do, and -looks English. A very nice, pleasant young woman; as kind and loving to -Lady Jenkins as though she were her daughter. I am glad they fell in -with her. She---- Oh, is it you, Sam?" - -A tall smiling young fellow of eighteen, or so, had come in. It was Sam -Jenkins: and, somehow, I took to him at once. Mr. Shuttleworth shook -hands and said he was glad to hear he promised to be a second Abernethy. -Upon which Sam's wide mouth opened in laughter, showing a set of nice -teeth. - -"I thought Dr. Knox was here, sir," he said to Mr. Tamlyn, as if he -would apologize for entering. - -"Dr. Knox is gone over to the Brook, but I should think he'd be back -soon now. Why? Is he wanted?" - -"Only a message, sir, from old Willoughby's. They'd like him to call -there as soon as convenient in the morning." - -"Now, Sam, don't be irreverent," reproved his master. "_Old_ Willoughby! -I should say Mr. Willoughby if I were you. He is no older than I am. You -young men of the present day are becoming very disrespectful; it was -different in my time." - -Sam laughed pleasantly. Close upon that, Dr. Knox came in. He was more -altered than Janet, looking graver and older, his light hair as wild as -ever. He was just thirty now. - -Mr. Shuttleworth left in the morning, and afterwards Dr. Knox took me to -see his step-mother. Her house (but it was his house, not hers), Rose -Villa, was in a suburb of the town, called the London Road. Mrs. Knox -was a dark, unpleasing-looking woman; her voice harsh, her crinkled -black hair untidy--it was never anything else in a morning. The two -eldest girls were in the room. Mina was seventeen, Charlotte twelve -months younger. Mina was the prettiest; a fair girl with a mild face and -pleasant blue eyes, her manner and voice as quiet as her face. Charlotte -seemed rather strong-minded. - -"Are you going to the soiree next door to-night, Arnold?" cried Mrs. -Knox, as we were leaving. - -"I think not," he answered. "Janet wrote to decline." - -"You wished her to decline, I dare say!" retorted Mrs. Knox. "You always -did despise the soirees, Arnold." - -Dr. Knox laughed pleasantly. "I have never had much time for soirees," -he said; "and Janet does not care for them. Besides, we think it unkind -to leave Mr. Tamlyn alone." At which latter remark Mrs. Knox tossed her -head. - -"I must call on Lady Jenkins, as I am up here," observed Dr. Knox to me, -when we were leaving. "You don't mind, do you, Johnny?" - -"I shall like it. They were talking about her last night." - -It was only a few yards higher up. A handsome dwelling, double the size -of Rose Villa, with two large iron gates flanked by imposing pillars, on -which was written in gold letters, as large as life, "Jenkins House." - -Dr. Knox laughed. "Sir Daniel Jenkins re-christened it that," he said, -dropping his voice, lest any ears should be behind the open windows: "it -used to be called 'Rose Bank.' They moved up here four years ago; he was -taken ill soon afterwards and died, leaving nearly all his money to -his wife unconditionally: it is over four thousand a-year. He was in -business as a drysalter, and was knighted during the time he was mayor." - -"Who will come in for the money?" - -"That is as Lady Jenkins pleases. There are lots of relations, -Jenkinses. Sir Daniel partly brought up two orphan nephews--at least, he -paid for their schooling and left each a little money to place them out -in life. You have seen the younger of them, Sam, who is with us; the -other, Dan, is articled to a solicitor in the town, old Belford. Two -other cousins are in the drysalting business; and the ironmonger, Sir -Daniel's youngest brother, left several sons and daughters. The old -drysalter had no end of nephews and nieces, and might have provided for -them all. Perhaps his widow will do so." - -Not possessing the faintest idea of what "drysalting" might be, unless -it had to do with curing hams, I was about to inquire, when the -house-door was thrown open by a pompous-looking gentleman in black--the -butler--who showed us into the dining-room, where Lady Jenkins was -sitting. I liked her at first sight. She was short and stout, and had -pink cheeks and a pink turned-up nose, and wore a "front" of flaxen -curls, surmounted by a big smart cap with red roses and blue ribbons in -it; but there was not an atom of pretence about her, and her blue eyes -were kindly. She took the hands of Dr. Knox in hers, and she shook mine -warmly, saying she had heard of Johnny Ludlow. - -Turning from her, I caught the eyes of a younger lady fixed upon me. She -looked about seven-and-twenty, and wore a fashionable black-and-white -muslin gown. Her hair was dark, her eyes were a reddish brown, her -cheeks had a fixed bloom upon them. The face was plain, and it struck me -that I had seen it somewhere before. Dr. Knox greeted her as Madame St. -Vincent. - -When we first went in, Lady Jenkins seemed to wake up from a doze. In -two minutes she had fallen into a doze again, or as good as one. Her -eyelids drooped, she sat perfectly quiet, never speaking unless spoken -to, and her face wore a sort of dazed, or stupid look. Madame St. -Vincent talked enough for both of them; she appealed frequently to Lady -Jenkins--"Was it not so, dear Lady Jenkins?"--or "Don't you remember -that, dear Lady Jenkins?" and Lady Jenkins docilely answered "Yes, -dear," or "Yes, Patty." - -That Madame St. Vincent was a pleasant woman, as Mr. Tamlyn had said, -and that she spoke English as we did, as he had also said, there -could not be a doubt. Her tongue could not be taken for any but a -native tongue; moreover, unless my ears deceived me, it was native -Worcestershire. Ever and anon, too, a homely word would be dropped by -her in the heat of conversation that belonged to Worcestershire proper, -and to no other county. - -"You will come to my soiree this evening, Mr. Ludlow," Lady Jenkins woke -up to say to me as we were leaving. - -"Johnny can come; I dare say he would like to," put in Dr. Knox; -"although I and Janet cannot----" - -"Which is very churlish of you," interposed Madame St. Vincent. - -"Well, you know what impediments lie in our way," he said, smiling. "Sam -can come up with Johnny, if you like, Lady Jenkins." - -"To be sure; let Sam come," she answered, readily. "How is Sam? and how -does he get on?" - -"He is very well, and gets on well." - -Dr. Knox walked down the road in silence, looking grave. "Every time I -see her she seems to me more altered," he observed presently, and I -found he was speaking of Lady Jenkins. "_Something_ is amiss with her, -and I cannot tell what. I wish Tamlyn would let me take the case in -hand!" - -Two peculiarities obtained at Lefford. The one was that the universal -dinner hour, no-matter how much you might go in for fashion, was in the -middle of the day; the other was that every evening gathering, no matter -how unpretentious, was invariably called a "soiree." They were the -customs of the town. - -The soiree was in full swing when I reached Jenkins House that night--at -six o'clock. Madame St. Vincent and Charlotte Knox sat behind the -tea-table in a cloud of steam, filling the cups as fast as the company -emptied them; a footman, displaying large white calves, carried round a -tray of bread-and-butter and cake. Lady Jenkins sat near the fire in an -easy-chair, wearing a red velvet gown and lofty turban. She nodded -to the people as they came in, and smiled at them with quite a silly -expression. Mina and Charlotte Knox were in white muslin and pink roses. -Mina looked very pretty indeed, and as mild as milk; Charlotte was -downright and strong-minded. Every five minutes or so, Madame St. -Vincent--the white streamers on her rich black silk dress floating -behind her--would leave the tea-table to run up to Lady Jenkins and ask -if she wanted anything. Sam had not come with me: he had to go out -unexpectedly with Dr. Knox. - -"Mr. Jenkins," announced the pompous butler, showing in a tall young -fellow of twenty. He had just the same sort of honest, good-natured face -that had taken my fancy in Sam, and I guessed that this was his brother, -the solicitor. He came up to Lady Jenkins. - -"How do you do, aunt?" he said, bending to kiss her. "Hearing of your -soiree to-night, I thought I might come." - -"Why, my dear, you know you may come; you are always welcome. Which is -it?" she added, looking up at him stupidly, "Dan, or Sam?" - -"It is Dan," he answered; and if ever I heard pain in a tone, I heard it -in his. - -"You are Johnny Ludlow, I know!" he said, holding out his hand to me in -the warmest manner, as he turned from his aunt. "Sam told me about you -this morning." And we were friends from that moment. - -Dan brought himself to an anchor by Mina Knox. He was no beauty -certainly, but he had a good face. Leaning over Mina's chair, he began -whispering to her--and she whispered back again. Was there anything -between them? It looked like it--at any rate, on his side--judging by -his earnest expression and the loving looks that shot from his honest -grey eyes. - -"Are you really French?" I asked of Madame St. Vincent, while standing -by her side to drink some tea. - -"Really," she answered, smiling. "Why?" - -"Because you speak English exactly like ourselves." - -"I speak it better than I do French," she candidly said. "My mother was -English, and her old maid-servant was English, and they educated me -between them. It was my father who was French--and he died early." - -"Was your mother a native of Worcestershire?" - -"Oh dear, no: she came from Wales. What made you think of such a thing?" - -"Your accent is just like our Worcestershire accent. I am Worcestershire -myself: and I could have thought you were." - -She shook her head. "Never was there in my life, Mr. Ludlow. Is that why -you looked at me so much when you were here with Dr. Knox this morning?" - -"No: I looked at you because your face struck me as being familiar," I -frankly said: "I thought I must have seen you somewhere before. Have I, -I wonder?" - -"Very likely--if you have been much in the South of France," she -answered: "at a place called Bretage." - -"But I have never been at Bretage." - -"Then I don't see how we can have met. I have lived there all my life. -My father and mother died there: my poor husband died there. I only came -away from it last year." - -"It must be my fancy, I suppose. One does see likenesses----" - -"Captain Collinson," shouted the butler again. - -A military-looking man, got up in the pink of fashion, loomed in with a -lordly air; you'd have said the room belonged to him. At first he seemed -all hair: bushy curls, bushy whiskers, a moustache, and a fine flowing -beard, all purple black. Quite a flutter stirred the room: Captain -Collinson was evidently somebody. - -After making his bow to Lady Jenkins, he distributed his favours -generally, shaking hands with this person, talking with that. At last he -turned our way. - -"Ah, how do you do, madame?" he said to Madame St. Vincent, his tone -ceremonious. "I fear I am late." - -It was not a minute that he stood before her, only while he said this: -but, strange to say, something in his face or voice struck upon my -memory. The face, as much as could be seen of it for hair, seemed -familiar to me--just as madame's had seemed. - -"Who is he?" I whispered to her, following him with my eyes. - -"Captain Collinson." - -"Yes, I heard the name. But--do you know anything of him?--who he is?" - -She shook her head. "Not much; nothing of my own knowledge. He is in an -Indian regiment, and is home on sick leave." - -"I wonder which regiment it is? One of our fellows at Dr. Frost's got -appointed to one in Madras, I remember." - -"The 30th Bengal Cavalry, is Captain Collinson's. By his conversation, -he appears to have spent nearly the whole of his life in India. It is -said he is of good family, and has a snug private fortune. I don't know -any more about him than that," concluded Madame St. Vincent, as she once -more rose to go to Lady Jenkins. - -"He may have a snug private fortune, and he may have family, but I do -not like him," put in Charlotte Knox, in her decisive manner. - -"Neither do I, Lotty," added Dan--who was then at the tea-table: and his -tone was just as emphatic as Charlotte's. - -He had come up for a cup of tea for Mina. Before he could carry it to -her, Captain Collinson had taken up the place he had occupied at Mina's -elbow, and was whispering to her in a most impressive manner. Mina -seemed all in a flutter--and there was certainly no further room for -Dan. - -"Don't you want it now, Mina?" asked Dan, holding the cup towards her, -and holding it in vain, for she was too much occupied to see it. - -"Oh, thank you--no--I don't think I do want it now. Sorry you should -have had the trouble." - -Her words were just as fluttered as her manner. Dan brought the tea back -and put it on the tray. - -"Of course, she can't spare time to drink tea while _he_ is there," -cried Charlotte, resentfully, who had watched what passed. "That man has -bewitched her, Dan." - -"Not quite yet, I think," said Dan, quietly. "He is trying to do it. -There is no love lost between you and him, I see, Lotty." - -"Not a ghost of it," nodded Lotty. "The town may be going wild in its -admiration of him, but I am not; and the sooner he betakes himself back -to India to his regiment, the better." - -"I hope he will not take Mina with him," said Dan, gravely. - -"I hope not, either. But she is silly enough for anything." - -"Who is that, that's silly enough for anything?" cried Madame St. -Vincent, whisking back to her place. - -"Mina," promptly replied Charlotte. "She asked for a cup of tea, and -then said she did not want it." - -Some of the people sat down to cards; some to music; some talked. It was -the usual routine at these soirees, Mrs. Knox condescended to inform -me--and, what more, she added, could be wished for? Conversation, music, -and cards--they were the three best diversions of life, she said, not -that she herself much cared for music. - -Poor Lady Jenkins did not join actively in any one of the three: she for -the most part dozed in her chair. When any one spoke to her, she would -wake up and say Yes or No; but that was all. Captain Collinson stood in -a corner, talking to Mina behind a sheet of music. He appeared to be -going over the bars with her, and to be as long doing it as if a whole -opera were scored there. - -At nine o'clock the supper-room was thrown open, and Captain Collinson -handed in Lady Jenkins. Heavy suppers were not the mode at Lefford; -neither, as a rule, did the guests sit down, except a few of the elder -ones; but the table was covered with dainties. Sandwiches, meats in -jelly, rissoles, lobster salad, and similar things that could be eaten -with a fork, were supplied in abundance, with sweets and jellies. - -"I hope you'll be able to make a supper, my dear," said Lady Jenkins to -me in her comfortable way--for supper seemed to wake her up. "You see, -if one person began to give a grand sitting-down supper, others would -think themselves obliged to do it, and every one can't afford that. So -we all confine ourselves to this." - -"And I like this best," I said. - -"Do you, my dear? I'm glad of that. Dan, is that you? Mind you make a -good supper too." - -We both made a famous one. At least, I can answer for myself. And, at -half-past ten, Dan and I departed together. - -"How very good-natured Lady Jenkins seems to be!" I remarked. - -"She is good-nature itself, and always was," Dan warmly answered. "She -has never been a bit different from what you see her to-night--kind to -us all. You should have known her though in her best days, before she -grew ill. I never saw any one so altered." - -"What is it that's the matter with her?" - -"I don't know," answered Dan. "I wish I did know. Sam tells me Tamlyn -does not know. I'm afraid he thinks it is the break-up of old age. I -should be glad, though, if she did not patronize that fellow Collinson -so much." - -"Every one seems to patronize him." - -"Or to let him patronize them," corrected Dan. "I can't like the fellow. -He takes too much upon himself." - -"He seems popular. Quite the fashion." - -"Yes, he is that. Since he came here, three or four months ago, the -women have been running after him. Do _you_ like him, Johnny Ludlow?" -abruptly added Dan. - -"I hardly know whether I do or not: I've not seen much of him," was my -answer. "As a rule, I don't care for those people who take much upon -themselves. The truth is, Dan," I laughed jokingly, "you think Collinson -shows too much attention to Mina Knox." - -Dan walked on for a few moments in silence. "I am not much afraid of -that," he presently said. "It is the fellow himself I don't like." - -"And you do like Mina?" - -"Well--yes; I do. If Mina and I were older and my means justified it, I -would make her my wife to-morrow--I don't mind telling you so much. And -if the man is after her, it is for the sake of her money, mind, not for -herself. I'm sure of it. I can see." - -"I thought Collinson had plenty of money of his own." - -"So he has, I believe. But money never comes amiss to an extravagant and -idle man; and I think that Mina's money makes her attraction in -Collinson's eyes. I wish with all my heart she had never had it left -her!" continued Dan, energetically. "What did Mina want with seven -thousand pounds?" - -"I dare say you would not object to it, with herself." - -"I'd as soon not have it. I hope I shall make my way in my profession, -and make it well, and I would as soon take Mina without money as with -it. I'm sure her mother might have it and welcome, for me! She is always -hankering after it." - -"How do you know she is?" - -"We do her business at old Belford's, and she gets talking about the -money to him, making no scruple of openly wishing it was hers. She -bothers Dr. Knox, who is Mina's trustee, to lend her some of it. As if -Knox would!--she might just as well go and bother the moon. No! But for -that confounded seven thousand pounds Collinson would let Mina alone." - -I shook my head. He could not know it. Mina was very pretty. Dan saw my -incredulity. - -"I will tell you why I judge so," he resumed, dropping his voice to a -lower key. "Unless I am very much mistaken, Collinson likes some one -else--and that's Madame St. Vincent. Sam thinks so too." - -It was more than I thought. They were cool to one another. - -"But we have seen them when no one else was by," contended Dan: "when he -and she were talking together alone. And I can tell you that there was -an expression on his face, an anxiousness, an eagerness--I hardly know -how to word it--that it never wore for Mina. Collinson's love is given -to madame. Rely upon that." - -"Then why should he not declare it?" - -"Ah, I don't know. There may be various reasons. Her poverty -perhaps--for she has nothing but the salary Lady Jenkins pays her. Or, -he may not care to marry one who is only a companion: they say he is of -good family himself. Another reason, and possibly the most weighty one, -may be, that madame does not like him." - -"I don't think she does like him." - -"I am sure she does not. She gives him angry looks, and she turns away -from him with ill-disguised coldness. And so, that's about how the state -of affairs lies up there," concluded Dan, shaking hands with me as we -reached the door of his lodgings. "Captain Collinson's love is given to -Madame St. Vincent, on the one hand, and to Mina's money on the other; -and I think he is in a pretty puzzle which of the two to choose. -Good-night, Johnny Ludlow. Be sure to remember this is only between -ourselves." - - -II. - -A week or so passed on. Janet was up to her eyes in preparations, -expecting a visitor. And the visitor was no other than Miss -Cattledon--if you have not forgotten her. Being fearfully particular -in all ways, and given to fault-finding, as poor Janet only too well -remembered, of course it was necessary to have things in apple-pie -order. - -"I should never hear the last of it as long as Aunt Jemima stayed, if -so much as a speck of dust was in any of the rooms, or a chair out of -place," said Janet to me laughingly, as she and the maids dusted and -scrubbed away. - -"What's she coming for, Janet?" - -"She invited herself," replied Janet: "and indeed we shall be glad to -see her. Miss Deveen is going to visit some friends in Devonshire, and -Aunt Jemima takes the opportunity of coming here the while. I am sorry -Arnold is so busy just now. He will not have much time to give to -her--and she likes attention." - -The cause of Dr. Knox's increased occupation, was Mr. Tamlyn's illness. -For the past few days he had had feverish symptoms, and did not go out. -Few medical men would have found the indisposition sufficiently grave to -remain at home; but Mr. Tamlyn was an exception. He gave in at the least -thing now: and it was nothing at all unusual for Arnold Knox to find all -the patients thrown on his own hands. - -Amongst the patients so thrown this time was Lady Jenkins. She had -caught cold at that soiree I have just told of. Going to the door in -her old-fashioned, hospitable way, to speed the departure of the last -guests, she had stayed there in the draught, talking, and began at once -to sneeze and cough. - -"There!" cried Madame St. Vincent, when my lady got back again, "you -have gone and caught a chill." - -"I think I have," admitted Lady Jenkins. "I'll send for Tamlyn in the -morning." - -"Oh, my dear Lady Jenkins, we shall not want Tamlyn," dissented madame. -"I'll take care of you myself, and have you well in no time." - -But Lady Jenkins, though very much swayed by her kind companion, who -was ever anxious for her, chose to have up Mr. Tamlyn, and sent him a -private message herself. - -He went up at once--evidently taking madame by surprise--and saw his -patient. The cold, being promptly treated, turned out to be a mere -nothing, though Madame St. Vincent insisted on keeping the sufferer some -days in bed. By the time Mr. Tamlyn was ill, she was well again, and -there was not much necessity for Dr. Knox to take her: at least, on the -score of her cold. But he did it. - -One afternoon, when he was going up there late, he asked me if I would -like the drive. And, while he paid his visit to Lady Jenkins, I went in -to Rose Villa. It was a fine, warm afternoon, almost like summer, and -Mrs. Knox and the girls were sitting in the garden. Dicky was there -also. Dicky was generally at school from eight o'clock till six, but -this was a half-holiday. Dicky, eleven years old now, but very little -for his age, was more troublesome than ever. Just now he was at open war -with his two younger sisters and Miss Mack, the governess, who had gone -indoors to escape him. - -Leaning against the trunk of a tree, as he talked to Mrs. Knox, Mina, -and Charlotte, stood Captain Collinson, the rays of the sun, now drawing -westward, shining full upon him, bringing out the purple gloss of -his hair, whiskers, beard, and moustache deeper than usual. Captain -Collinson incautiously made much of Dicky, had told him attractive -stories of the glories of war, and promised him a commission when he -should be old enough. The result was, that Dicky had been living in the -seventh heaven, had bought himself a tin sword, and wore it strapped to -his waist, dangling beneath his jacket. Dicky, wild to be a soldier, -worshipped Captain Collinson as the prince of heroes, and followed him -about like a shadow. An inkling of this ambition of Dicky's, and of -Captain Collinson's promise, had only reached Mrs. Knox's ears this very -afternoon. It was a ridiculous promise of course, worth nothing, but -Mrs. Knox took it up seriously. - -"A commission for Dicky!--get Dicky a commission!" she exclaimed in a -flutter that set her bracelets jangling, just as I arrived on the scene. -"Why, what can you mean, Captain Collinson? Do you think I would have -Dicky made into a soldier--to be shot at? Never. He is my only son. How -can you put such ideas into his head?" - -"Don't mind her," cried Dicky, shaking the captain's coat-tails. "I say, -captain, don't you mind her." - -Captain Collinson turned to young Dicky, and gave him a reassuring wink. -Upon which, Dicky went strutting over the grass-plat, brandishing his -sword. I shook hands with Mrs. Knox and the girls, and, turning to -salute the captain, found him gone. - -"You have frightened him away, Johnny Ludlow," cried Charlotte: but she -spoke in jest. - -"He was already going," said Mina. "He told me he had an engagement." - -"And a good thing too," spoke Mrs. Knox, crossly. "Fancy his giving -dangerous notions to Dicky!" - -Dicky had just discovered our loss. He came shrieking back to know where -the captain was. Gone away for good, his mother told him. Upon which -young Dicky plunged into a fit of passion and kicking. - -"Do you know how Lady Jenkins is to-day?" I asked of Charlotte, when -Dicky's noise had been appeased by a promise of cold apple-pudding for -tea. - -"Not so well." - -"Not so well! I had thought of her as being much better." - -"I don't think her so," continued Charlotte. "Madame St. Vincent told -Mina this morning that she was all right; but when I went in just now -she was in bed and could hardly answer me." - -"Is her cold worse?" - -"No; I think that is gone, or nearly so. She seemed dazed--stupid, more -so than usual." - -"I certainly never saw any one alter so greatly as Lady Jenkins has -altered in the last few months," spoke Mrs. Knox. "She is not like the -same woman." - -"I'm sure I wish we had never gone that French journey!" said Mina. "She -has never been well since. Oh, here's Arnold!" - -Dr. Knox had come straight into the garden from Jenkins House. Dicky -rushed up to besiege his arms and legs; but, as Dicky was in a state of -flour--which he had just put upon himself in the kitchen, or had had put -upon him by the maids--the doctor ordered him to keep at arm's-length; -and the doctor was the only person who could make himself obeyed by -Dicky. - -"You have been to see Lady Jenkins, Arnold," said his step-mother. "How -is she?" - -"Nothing much to boast of," lightly answered Dr. Knox. "Johnny, are you -ready?" - -"I am going to be a soldier, Arnold," put in Dicky, dancing a kind of -war-dance round him. "Captain Collinson is going to make me a captain -like himself." - -"All right," said Arnold. "You must grow a little bigger first." - -"And, Arnold, the captain says---- Oh, my!" broke off Dicky, "what's -this? What have I found?" - -The boy stooped to pick up something glittering that had caught his eye. -It proved to be a curiously-shaped gold watch-key, with a small compass -in it. Mina and Lotty both called out that it was Captain Collinson's, -and must have dropped from his chain during a recent romp with Dicky. - -"I'll take it in to him at Lady Jenkins's," said Dicky. - -"You will do nothing of the sort, sir," corrected his mother, taking the -key from him: she had been thoroughly put out by the suggestion of the -"commission." - -"Should you chance to see the captain when you go out," she added to me, -"tell him his watch-key is here." - -The phaeton waited outside. It was the oldest thing I ever saw in regard -to fashion, and might have been in the firm hundreds of years. Its hood -could be screwed up and down at will; just as the perch behind, where -Thomas, the groom, generally sat, could be closed or opened. I asked Dr. -Knox whether it had been built later than the year One. - -"Just a little, I suppose," he answered, smiling. "This vehicle was -Dockett's special aversion. He christened it the 'conveyance,' and we -have mostly called it so since." - -We were about to step into it, when Madame St. Vincent came tripping out -of the gate up above. Dr. Knox met her. - -"I was sorry not to have been in the way when you left, doctor," she -said to him in a tone of apology: "I had gone to get the jelly for Lady -Jenkins. Do tell me what you think of her?" - -"She does not appear very lively," he answered; "but I can't find out -that she is in any pain." - -"I wish she would get better!--she does give me so much concern," warmly -spoke madame. "Not that I think her seriously ill, myself. I'm sure I do -everything for her that I possibly can." - -"Yes, yes, my dear lady, you cannot do more than you do," replied -Arnold. "I will be up in better time to-morrow." - -"Is Captain Collinson here?" I stayed behind Dr. Knox to ask. - -"Captain Collinson here!" returned Madame St. Vincent, tartly, as if -the question offended her. "No, he is not. What should bring Captain -Collinson here?" - -"I thought he might have called in upon leaving Mrs. Knox's. I only -wished to tell him that he dropped his watch-key next door. It was found -on the grass." - -"I don't know anything of his movements," coldly remarked madame. And as -I ran back to Dr. Knox, I remembered what Dan Jenkins had said--that she -did not like the captain. And I felt Dan was right. - -Dr. Knox drove home in silence, I sitting beside him, and Thomas in the -perch. He looked very grave, like a man preoccupied. In passing the -railway-station, I made some remark about Miss Cattledon, who was coming -by the train then on its way; but he did not appear to hear me. - -Sam Jenkins ran out as we drew up at Mr. Tamlyn's gate. An urgent -message had come for Dr. Knox: some one taken ill at Cooper's--at the -other end of the town. - -"Mr. Tamlyn thinks you had better go straight on there at once, sir," -said Sam. - -"I suppose I must," replied the doctor. "It is awkward, though"--pulling -out his watch. "Miss Cattledon will be due presently and Janet wanted me -to meet her," he added to me. "Would you do it, Johnny?" - -"What--meet Miss Cattledon? Oh yes, certainly." - -The conveyance drove on, with the doctor and Thomas. I went indoors -with Sam. Janet said I could meet her aunt just as well as Arnold, as I -knew her. The brougham was brought round to the gate by the coachman, -Wall, and I went away in it. - -Smoothly and quietly glided in the train, and out of a first-class -carriage stepped Miss Cattledon, thin and prim and upright as ever. - -"Dear me! is that you, Johnny Ludlow?" was her greeting to me when I -stepped up and spoke to her; and her tone was all vinegar. "What do -_you_ do here?" - -"I came to meet you. Did you not know I was staying at Lefford?" - -"I knew _that_. But why should they send you to meet me?" - -"Dr. Knox was coming himself, but he has just been called out to a -patient. How much luggage have you, Miss Cattledon?" - -"Never you mind how much, Johnny Ludlow: my luggage does not concern -you." - -"But cannot I save you the trouble of looking after it? If you will get -into the brougham, I will see to the luggage and bring it on in a fly, -if it's too much to go on the box with Wall." - -"You mean well, Johnny Ludlow, I dare say; but I always see to my -luggage myself. I should have lost it times and again, if I did not." - -She went pushing about amongst the porters and the trucks, and secured -the luggage. One not very large black box went up by Wall; a smaller -inside with us. So we drove out of the station in state, luggage and -all, Cattledon holding her head bolt upright. - -"How is Janet, Johnny Ludlow?" - -"Quite well, thank you." - -"And those two children of hers--are they very troublesome?" - -"Indeed, no; they are the best little things you ever saw. I wanted to -bring the boy with me to meet you, but Janet would not let me." - -"Um!" grunted Cattledon: "showed a little sense for once. What is that -building?" - -"That's the Town Hall. I thought you knew Lefford, Miss Cattledon?" - -"One cannot be expected to retain the buildings of a town in one's head -as if they were photographed there," returned she in a sharp tone of -reproof. Which shut me up. - -"And, pray, how does that young woman continue to conduct herself?" she -asked presently. - -"What young woman?" I said, believing she must be irreverently alluding -to Janet. - -"Lettice Lane." - -Had she mentioned the name of some great Indian Begum I could not have -been more surprised. _That_ name brought back to memory all the old -trouble connected with Miss Deveen's emeralds, their loss and their -finding: which, take it for all in all, was nothing short of a romance. -But why did she question _me_ about Lettice Lane. I asked her why. - -"I asked it to be answered, young man," was Cattledon's grim retort. - -"Yes, of course," I said, with deprecation. "But how should I know -anything about Lettice Lane?" - -"If there's one thing I hate more than another, Johnny Ludlow, it is -shuffling. I ask you how that young woman is going on; and I request you -to answer me." - -"Indeed, I would if I could. I don't understand why you should ask me. -Is Lettice Lane not living still with you--with Miss Deveen?" - -Cattledon evidently thought I _was_ shuffling, for she looked daggers at -me. "Lettice Lane," she said, "is with Janet Knox." - -"With Janet Knox! Oh dear, no, she is not." - -"Don't you get into a habit of contradicting your elders, Johnny Ludlow. -It is very unbecoming in a young man." - -"But--see here, Miss Cattledon. If Lettice were living with Janet, I -must have seen her. I see the servants every day. I assure you Lettice -is not one of them." - -She began to see that I was in earnest, and condescended to explain in -her stiff way. "Janet came to town last May to spend a week with us," -she said. "Before that, Lettice Lane had been complaining of not feeling -strong: I thought it was nothing but her restlessness; Miss Deveen and -the doctor thought she wanted country air--that London did not agree -with her. Janet was parting with her nurse at the time; she engaged -Lettice to replace her, and brought her down to Lefford. Is the matter -clear to you now, young man?" - -"Quite so. But indeed, Miss Cattledon, Lettice is not with Janet now. -The nurse is named Harriet, and she is not in the least like Lettice -Lane." - -"Then Lettice Lane must have gone roving again--unless you are -mistaken," said Cattledon, severely. "Wanting country air, forsooth! -Change was what _she_ wanted." - -Handing over Miss Cattledon, when we arrived, to the care of Janet, who -took her upstairs, and told me tea would be ready soon, I went into Mr. -Tamlyn's sitting-room. He was in the easy-chair before the fire, dozing, -but opened his eyes at my entrance. - -"Visitor come all right, Johnny?" - -"Yes, sir; she is gone to take her cloaks off. Janet says tea is nearly -ready." - -"I am quite ready for it," he remarked, and shut his eyes again. - -I took up a book I was reading, "Martin Chuzzlewit," and sat down on the -broad window-seat, legs up, to catch the now fading light. The folds of -the crimson curtain lay between me and Mr. Tamlyn--and I only hoped Mrs. -Gamp would not send me into convulsions and disturb him. - -Presently Dr. Knox came in. He went up to the fire, and stood at the -corner of the mantelpiece, his elbow on it, his back to me; and old -Tamlyn woke up. - -"Well," began he, "what was the matter at Cooper's, Arnold?" - -"Eldest boy fell off a ladder and broke his arm. It is only a simple -fracture." - -"Been very busy to-day, Arnold?" - -"Pretty well." - -"Hope I shall be out again in a day or two. How did you find Lady -Jenkins?" - -"Not at all to my satisfaction. She was in bed, and--and in fact seemed -hardly to know me." - -Tamlyn said nothing to this, and a silence ensued. Dr. Knox broke it. He -turned his eyes from the fire on which they had been fixed, and looked -full at his partner. - -"Has it ever struck you that there's not quite fair play going on up -there?" he asked in a low tone. - -"Up where?" - -"With Lady Jenkins." - -"How do you mean, Arnold?" - -"That something is being given to her?" - -Tamlyn sat upright in his chair, pushed back his scanty hair, and stared -at Dr. Knox. - -"_What_ do you mean, Knox? What do you suspect?" - -"That she is being habitually drugged; gradually, slowly----" - -"Merciful goodness!" interrupted Tamlyn, rising to his feet in -excitement. "Do you mean slowly poisoned?" - -"Hush!--I hear Janet," cried Dr. Knox. - - - - -LADY JENKINS. - -DOUBT. - - -I. - -You might have heard a pin drop in the room. They were listening to the -footsteps outside the door, but the footsteps did not make the hush and -the nameless horror that pervaded it: the words spoken by Dr. Knox had -done that. Old Tamlyn stood, a picture of dismay. For myself, sitting -in the window-seat, my feet comfortably stretched out before me, and -partially sheltered by the red curtains, I could only gaze at them both. - -Janet's footsteps died away. She appeared to have been crossing the hall -to the tea-room. And they began to talk again. - -"I do not say that Lady Jenkins is being poisoned; absolutely, -deliberately poisoned," said Dr. Knox, in the hushed tones to which his -voice had dropped; "I do not yet go quite so far as that. But I do think -that she is in some way being tampered with." - -"In what way?" gasped Tamlyn. - -"Drugged." - -The doctor's countenance wore a puzzled expression as he spoke; his eyes -a far-away look, just as though he did not see his own theory clearly. -Mr. Tamlyn's face changed: the astonishment, the alarm, the dismay -depicted on it gave place suddenly to relief. - -"It cannot be, Arnold. Rely upon it you are mistaken. Who would harm -her?" - -"No one that I know of; no suspicious person is about her to do it," -replied Dr. Knox. "And there lies the puzzle. I suppose she does not -take anything herself? Opium, say?" - -"Good Heavens, no," warmly spoke old Tamlyn. "No woman living is less -likely to do that than Lady Jenkins." - -"Less likely than she _was_. But you know yourself how unaccountably she -has changed." - -"She does not take opium or any other drug. I could stake my word upon -it, Arnold." - -"Then it is being given to her--at least, I think so. If not, her state -is to me inexplicable. Mind you, Mr. Tamlyn, not a breath of this must -transpire beyond our two selves," urged Dr. Knox, his tone and his gaze -at his senior partner alike impressively earnest. "If anything is wrong, -it is being wilfully and covertly enacted; and our only chance of -tracing it home is to conceal our suspicion of it." - -"I beg your pardon, Dr. Knox," I interrupted at this juncture, the -notion, suddenly flashing into my mind, that he was unaware of my -presence, sending me hot all over; "did you know I was here?" - -They both turned to me, and Dr. Knox's confused start was a sufficient -answer. - -"You heard all I said, Johnny Ludlow?" spoke Dr. Knox. - -"All. I am very sorry." - -"Well, it cannot be helped now. You will not let it transpire?" - -"That I certainly will not." - -"We shall have to take you into our confidence--to include you in the -plot," said Arnold Knox, with a smile. "I believe we might have a less -trustworthy adherent." - -"You could not have one more true." - -"Right, Johnny," added Mr. Tamlyn. "But I do hope Dr. Knox is mistaken. -I think you must be, Arnold. What are your grounds for this new theory?" - -"I don't tell you that it is quite new," replied Dr. Knox. "A faint idea -of it has been floating in my mind for some little time. As to grounds, -I have no more to go upon than you have had. Lady Jenkins is in a state -that we do not understand; neither you nor I can fathom what is amiss -with her; and I need not point out that such a condition of things is -unsatisfactory to a medical man, and sets him thinking." - -"I am sure I have not been able to tell what it is that ails her," -concurred old Tamlyn, in a helpless kind of tone. "She seems always to -be in a lethargy, more or less; to possess no proper self-will; to have -parted, so to say, with all her interest in life." - -"Just so. And I cannot discover, and do not believe, that she is in any -condition of health to cause this. _I believe that the evil is being -daily induced_," emphatically continued Dr. Knox. "And if she does -not herself induce it, by taking improper things, they are being -administered to her by others. You will not admit the first theory, Mr. -Tamlyn?" - -"No, that I will not. Lady Jenkins no more takes baneful drugs of her -own accord than I take them." - -"Then the other theory must come up. It draws the point to a narrow -compass, but to a more startling one." - -"Look here, Arnold. If I did admit the first theory you would be -no nearer the light. Lady Jenkins could not obtain drugs, and be -everlastingly swallowing them, without detection. Madame St. Vincent -would have found her out in a day." - -"Yes." - -"And would have stopped it at once herself, or handed it over to me to -be dealt with. She is truly anxious for Lady Jenkins, and spares no -pains, no time, no trouble for her." - -"I believe that," said Dr. Knox. "Whatsoever is being done, Madame St. -Vincent is kept in the dark--just as much as we are. Who else is about -her?" - -"No one much but her maid, that I know of," replied old Tamlyn, after -a pause of consideration. "And I should think she was as free from -suspicion as madame herself. It seems a strange thing." - -"It is. But I fear I am right. The question now will be, how are we to -set about solving the mystery?" - -"She is not quite always in a lethargic state," observed Tamlyn, his -thoughts going off at a tangent. - -"She is so more or less," dissented Dr. Knox. "Yesterday morning I was -there at eight o'clock; I went early purposely, and she was in a more -stupidly lethargic state than I had before seen her. Which of course -proves one thing." - -"What thing? I fail to catch your meaning, Arnold." - -"That she is being drugged in the night as well as the day." - -"If she is drugged at all," corrected Mr. Tamlyn, shaking his head. "But -I do not give in to your fancy yet, Arnold. All this must edify you, -Johnny!" - -Tamlyn spoke the words in a jesting sense, meaning of course that it had -done nothing of the kind. He was wrong, if to edify means to interest. -Hardly ever during my life had I been more excited. - -"It is a frightful shame if any one is playing with Lady Jenkins," I -said to them. "She is as good-hearted an old lady as ever lived. And why -should they do it? Where's the motive?" - -"There lies one of the difficulties--the motive," observed Dr. Knox. "I -cannot see any; any end to be obtained by it. No living being that I -know of can have an interest in wishing for Lady Jenkins's death or -illness." - -"How is her money left?" - -"A pertinent question, Johnny. I do not expect any one could answer it, -excepting herself and Belford, the lawyer. I _suppose_ her relatives, -all the nephews and nieces, will inherit it: and they are not about her, -you see, and cannot be dosing her. No; the motive is to me a complete -mystery. Meanwhile, Johnny, keep your ears and eyes open when you are up -there; there's no telling what chance word or look may be dropped that -might serve to give you a clue: and keep your mouth shut." - -I laughed. - -"If I could put aside my patients for a week, and invent some excuse for -taking up my abode at Jenkins House, I know I should soon find out all -the mystery," went on Dr. Knox. - -"Arnold, why not take Madame St. Vincent into your confidence?" - -Dr. Knox turned quickly round at the words to face his senior partner. -He held up his finger warningly. - -"Things are not ripe for it," he said. "Let me get, or try to get, a -little more inkling into matters than I have at present, as touching the -domestic economy at Jenkins House. I may have to do as you say, later: -but women are only chattering magpies; marplots, often with the best -intentions; and Madame St. Vincent may be no exception." - -"Will you please come to tea?" interrupted Janet, opening the door. - -Miss Cattledon, in a sea-green silk gown that I'm sure I had seen many -times before, and the velvet on her thin throat, and a bow of lace on -her head, shook hands with Mr. Tamlyn and Dr. Knox, and we sat down to -tea. Little Arnold, standing by his mother in his plaid frock and white -drawers (for the time to dress little children as men had not come in -then by many a year), had a piece of bread-and-butter given to him. -While he was eating it, the nurse appeared. - -"Are you ready, Master Arnold? It is quite bedtime." - -"Yes, he is ready, Harriet; and he has been very good," spoke Janet. And -the little fellow went contentedly off without a word. - -Miss Cattledon, stirring her tea at the moment, put the spoon down to -look at the nurse, staring at her as if she had never seen a nurse -before. - -"That's not Lettice Lane," she observed sententiously, as the door -closed on Harriet. "Where is Lettice Lane?" - -"She has left, Aunt Jemima." - -If a look could have withered Janet, Cattledon's was severe enough to do -it. But the displeasure was meant for Lettice, not for Janet. - -"What business had she to leave? Did she misbehave herself?" - -"She stayed with me only two months," said Janet. "And she left because -she still continued poorly, and the two children were rather too much -for her. The baby was cutting her teeth, which disturbed Lettice -at night; and I and Arnold both thought we ought to have some one -stronger." - -"Did you give her warning?" asked Cattledon, who was looking her very -grimmest at thought of the absent Lettice; "or did she give it you?" - -Janet laughed presently. "I think it was a sort of mutual warning, Aunt -Jemima. Lettice acknowledged to me that she was hardly equal to the care -of the children; and I told her I thought she was not. We found her -another place." - -"A rolling-stone gathers no moss," commented Cattledon. "Lettice Lane -changes her places too often." - -"She stayed some time with Miss Deveen, Aunt Jemima. And she likes her -present place. She gets very good wages, better than she had with me, -and helps to keep her mother." - -"What may her duties be? Is she housemaid again?" - -"She is lady's-maid to Lady Jenkins, an old lady who lives up the London -Road. Lettice has grown much stronger since she went there. Why, what do -you think, Aunt Jemima?" added Janet, laughing, "Lettice has actually -been to Paris. Lady Jenkins went there just after engaging Lettice, and -took her." - -Miss Cattledon tossed her head. "Much good that would do Lettice Lane! -Only fill her up with worse conceits than ever. I wonder she is not yet -off to Australia! She used always to be talking of it." - -"You don't appear to like Lettice Lane, ma'am," smiled old Tamlyn. - -"No, I do _not_, sir. Lettice Lane first became known to me under -unfavourable circumstances, and I have not liked her since." - -"Indeed! What were they?" - -"Some of Miss Deveen's jewels disappeared--were stolen; and Lettice Lane -was suspected. It turned out later that she was not guilty; but I could -not get over my dislike to her. We cannot help our likes and dislikes, -which often come to us without rhyme or reason," acknowledged Miss -Cattledon, "and I admit that I am perhaps too persistent in mine." - -Not a soul present, myself excepted, had ever heard about the loss of -the emeralds: and somehow I felt sorry that Cattledon had spoken of it. -Not that she did it in ill-nature--I give her that due. Questions were -immediately poured out, and she had to give the full history. - -The story interested them all, Dr. Knox especially. - -"And who did take the jewels?" he asked. - -But Cattledon could not enlighten him, for Miss Deveen had not betrayed -Sophie Chalk, even to her. - -"I don't know who it was," tartly confessed Cattledon, the point being a -sore one with her. "Miss Deveen promised, I believe, to screen the -thief; and did so." - -"Perhaps it was really Lettice Lane?" - -"I believe not. I am sure not. It was a lady, Miss Deveen told me that -much. No; of that disgraceful act Lettice Lane was innocent: but I -should never be surprised to hear of her falling into trouble. She is -capable of it." - -"Of poisoning somebody, perhaps?" spoke Dr. Knox. - -"Yes," acquiesced Cattledon, grimly. - -How prejudiced she was against Lettice Lane! But she had given this last -answer only in the same jesting spirit in which it appeared to have been -put, not really meaning it. - -"To be wrongly suspected, as poor Lettice Lane was, ought to make people -all the more considerate to her," remarked Janet, her thoughts no doubt -reverting to the time when she herself was falsely suspected--and -accused. - -"True, my dear," answered old Tamlyn. "Poor Lettice must have had her -troubles." - -"And she has had her faults," retorted Cattledon. - -But this story had made an impression on Dr. Knox that Cattledon never -suspected, never intended. He took up the idea that Lettice Lane was -guilty. Going into Mr. Tamlyn's sitting-room for "Martin Chuzzlewit," -when tea was over, I found his hand on my shoulder. He had silently -followed me. - -"Johnny Ludlow," he said, looking down into my eyes in the dim room, -which was only lighted by the dim fire, "I don't like this that I have -heard of Lettice Lane." - -And the next to come in was Tamlyn. Closing the door, he walked up to -the hearthrug where we stood, and stirred the fire into a blaze. - -"I am telling Johnny Ludlow that this story of Miss Deveen's emeralds -has made an unfavourable impression on me," quoth Dr. Knox to him. "It -does not appear to me to be at all clear that Lettice Lane did not take -them; and that Miss Deveen, in her benevolence, screened her from the -consequences." - -"But, indeed----" I was beginning, when Dr. Knox stopped me. - -"A moment, Johnny. I was about to add that a woman who is capable of one -crime can sometimes be capable of another; and I should not be surprised -if it is Lettice Lane who is tampering with Lady Jenkins." - -"But," I repeated, "Lettice Lane did _not_ take the jewels. She knew -nothing about it. She was perfectly innocent." - -"You cannot answer for it, Johnny." - -"Yes, I can; and do. I know who did take them." - -"_You_ know, Johnny Ludlow?" cried old Tamlyn, while Dr. Knox looked at -me in silence. - -"I helped Miss Deveen to find it out. At least, she had me with her -during the progress of the discovery. It was a lady who took the -jewels--as Miss Cattledon told you. She fainted away when it was brought -home to her, and fell on my shoulder." - -I believe they hardly knew whether to give me credit or not. Of course -it did sound strange that I, young Johnny Ludlow, should have been -entrusted by Miss Deveen with a secret she would not disclose even to -her many years' companion and friend, Jemima Cattledon. - -"Who was it, then, Johnny?" began Mr. Tamlyn. - -"I should not like to tell, sir. I do not think it would be right to -tell. For the young lady's own sake, Miss Deveen hushed the matter up, -hoping it would be a warning to her in future. And I dare say it has -been." - -"Young, was she?" - -"Yes. She has married since then. I could not, in honour, tell you her -name." - -"Well, I suppose we must believe you, Johnny," said Dr. Knox, making the -admission unwillingly. "Lettice Lane did get fingering the jewels, it -appears; you admit that." - -"But she did not take them. It was--another." And, cautiously choosing -my words, so as not to say anything that could direct suspicion to -Sophie Chalk--whose name most likely they had never heard in their -lives--I gave them an outline of the way in which Miss Deveen had -traced the matter out. The blaze lighted up Mr. Tamlyn's grey face as -I told it. - -"You perceive that it could not have been Lettice Lane, Dr. Knox," I -said, in conclusion. "I am sorry Miss Cattledon should have spoken -against her." - -"Yes, I perceive Lettice could not have been guilty of stealing the -jewels," answered Dr. Knox. "Nevertheless, a somewhat unfavourable -impression of the girl has been made upon me, and I shall look a little -after her. Why does she want to emigrate to Australia?" - -"Only because two of her brothers are there. I dare say it is all idle -talk--that she will never go." - -They said no more to me. I took up my book and quitted the room, leaving -them to talk it out between themselves. - - -II. - -Mr. Tamlyn might be clever in medicine; he certainly was not in -diplomacy. Dr. Knox had particularly impressed upon him the desirability -of keeping their suspicion a secret for the present, even from Madame -St. Vincent; yet the first use old Tamlyn made of his liberty was to -disclose it to her. - -Tossed about in the conflict of doubts and suspicions that kept arising -in his mind, Mr. Tamlyn, from the night I have just told you of, -was more uneasy than a fish out of water, his opinion constantly -vacillating. "You must be mistaken, Arnold; I feel sure there's nothing -wrong going on," he would say to his junior partner one minute; and, the -next minute, decide that it _was_ going on, and that its perpetrator -must be Lettice Lane. - -The uneasiness took him abroad earlier than he would otherwise have -gone. A slight access of fever attacked him the day after the subject -had been broached--which fever he had no doubt worried himself into. In -the ordinary course of things he would have stayed at home for a week -after that: but he now went out on the third day. - -"I will walk," he decided, looking up at the sunshine. "It will do me -good. What lovely weather we are having." - -Betaking himself through the streets to the London Road, he reached -Jenkins House. The door stood open; and the doctor, almost as much at -home in the house as Lady Jenkins herself, walked in without knocking. - -The dining-room, where they mostly sat in the morning, was empty; the -drawing-room was empty; and Mr. Tamlyn went on to a third room, that -opened to the garden at the back with glass-doors. - -"Any one here? or is the house gone a-maying?" cried the surgeon as he -entered and came suddenly upon a group of three people, all upon their -knees before a pile of old music--Madame St. Vincent, Mina Knox, and -Captain Collinson. Two of them got up, laughing. Mina remained where she -was. - -"We are searching for a manuscript song that is missing," explained -madame, as she gave her hand to the doctor. "Mina feels sure she left -it here; but I do not remember to have seen it." - -"It was not mine," added Mina, looking round at the doctor in her -pretty, gentle way. "Caroline Parker lent it to me, and she has sent for -it twice." - -"I hope you'll find it, my dear." - -"I must have left it here," continued Mina, as she rapidly turned over -the sheets. "I was singing it yesterday afternoon, you remember," she -added, glancing up at the captain. "It was while you were upstairs with -Lady Jenkins, Madame St. Vincent." - -She came to the end of the pile of music, but could not find the song. -Putting it all on a side-table, Mina said a general good-bye, escaped by -the glass-doors, and ran home by the little gate that divided the two -gardens. - -Captain Collinson left next. Perhaps he and Mina had both a sense of -being de trop when the doctor was there. Waiting to exchange a few words -with Mr. Tamlyn, and bidding Madame St. Vincent an adieu that had more -of formality in it than friendship, the captain bowed himself out, -taking his tasselled cane with him, madame ringing for one of the -men-servants to attend him to the hall-door. Tasselled canes were the -fashion then. - -"They do not make a practice of meeting here, do they?" began old -Tamlyn, when the captain was beyond hearing. - -"Who? What?" asked Madame St. Vincent. - -"The captain and little Mina Knox." - -For a minute or two it appeared that madame could not catch his meaning. -She looked at him in perplexity. - -"I fail to understand you, dear Mr. Tamlyn." - -"The captain is a very attractive man, no doubt; a good match, I dare -say, and all that: but still we should not like poor little Mina to be -whirled off to India by him. I asked if they often met here." - -"Whirled off to India?" repeated madame, in astonishment. "Little Mina? -By him? In what capacity?" - -"As his wife." - -"But--dear me!--what can have put such an idea into your head, my good -sir? Mina is a mere child." - -"Old enough to take up foolish notions," quoth the doctor, quaintly; -"especially if they are put into it by a be-whiskered grenadier, such as -he. I hope he is not doing it! I hope you do not give them opportunities -of meeting here!" - -Madame seemed quite taken aback at the implication. Her voice had a -sound of tears in it. - -"Do you suppose I could be capable of such a thing, sir? I did think you -had a better opinion of me. Such a child as Mina! We were both on our -knees, looking for the song, when Captain Collinson came in; and he must -needs go down on his great stupid knees too. He but called to inquire -after Lady Jenkins." - -"Very thoughtful of him, of course. He is often up here, I fancy; at the -next house, if not at this." - -"Certainly not often at this. He calls on Lady Jenkins occasionally, and -she likes it. _I_ don't encourage him. He may be a brave soldier, and a -man of wealth and family, and everything else that's desirable; but he -is no especial favourite of mine." - -"Well, Sam Jenkins has an idea that he would like to get making love to -Mina. Sam was laughing about it in the surgery last night with Johnny -Ludlow, and I happened to overhear him. Sam thinks they meet here, as -well as next door: and you heard Mina say just now that she was singing -to him here yesterday afternoon. Stay, my dear lady, don't be put out. -I am sure _you_ have thought it no harm, have been innocent of all -suspicion of it. Mistaken, you tell me? Well, it may be I am. Mina is -but a child, as you observe, and--and perhaps Sam was only jesting. How -is our patient to-day?" - -"Pretty well. Just a little drowsy." - -"In bed, or up?" - -"Oh, up." - -"Will you tell her I am here?" - -Madame St. Vincent, her plumage somewhat ruffled, betook herself to the -floor above, Mr. Tamlyn following. Lady Jenkins, in a loose gown of blue -quilted silk and a cap with yellow roses in it, sat at the window, -nodding. - -"Well," said he, sitting down by her and taking her hand, "and how do -you feel to-day?" - -She opened her eyes and smiled at him. Better, she thought: oh yes, -certainly better. - -"You are sleepy." - -"Rather so. Getting up tired me." - -"Are you not going for a drive to-day? It would do you good." - -"I don't know. Ask Patty. Patty, are we going out to-day?" - -The utter helplessness of mind and body which appeared to be upon her as -she thus appealed to another, Mr. Tamlyn had rarely seen equalled. Even -while listening to Madame St. Vincent's answer--that they would go if -she felt strong enough--her heavy eyelids closed again. In a minute -or two she was in a sound sleep. Tamlyn threw caution and Dr. Knox's -injunction to the winds, and spoke on the moment's impulse to Madame St. -Vincent. - -"You see," he observed, pointing to the sleeping face. - -"She is only dozing off again." - -"_Only!_ My dear, good lady, this perpetual, stupid, lethargic -sleepiness is not natural. You are young, perhaps inexperienced, or you -would know it to be not so." - -"I scarcely think it altogether unnatural," softly dissented madame, -with deprecation. "She has really been very poorly." - -"But not sufficiently so to induce this helplessness. It has been upon -her for months, and is gaining ground." - -"She is seventy years of age, remember." - -"I know that. But people far older than that are not as she is without -some cause: either of natural illness, or--or--something else. Step here -a minute, my dear." - -Old Tamlyn walked rapidly to the other window, and stood there talking -in low tones, his eyes fixed on Madame St. Vincent, his hand, in his -eagerness, touching her shoulder. - -"Knox thinks, and has imparted his opinion to me--ay, and his doubts -also--that something is being given to her." - -"That something is being given to her!" echoed Madame St. Vincent, her -face flushing with surprise. "Given to her in what way?" - -"Or else that she is herself taking it. But I, who have known her longer -than Knox has, feel certain that she is not one to do anything of the -sort. Besides, you would have found it out long ago." - -"I protest I do not understand you," spoke madame, earnestly. "What is -it that she _could_ take? She has taken the medicine that comes from -your surgery. She has taken nothing else." - -"Knox thinks she is being drugged." - -"Drugged! Lady Jenkins drugged? How, drugged? What with? What for? Who -would drug her?" - -"There it is; who would do it?" said the old doctor, interrupting the -torrent of words poured forth in surprise. "I confess I think the -symptoms point to it. But I don't see how it could be accomplished and -you not detect it, considering that you are so much with her." - -"Why, I hardly ever leave her, day or night," cried madame. "My bedroom, -as you know, is next to hers, and I sleep with the intervening door -open. There is no more chance, sir, that she could be drugged than that -I could be." - -"When Knox first spoke of it to me I was pretty nearly startled out of -my senses," went on Tamlyn. "For I caught up a worse notion than he -meant to convey--that she was being systematically poisoned." - -A dark, vivid, resentful crimson dyed madame's face. The suggestion -seemed to be a reproof on her vigilance. - -"Poisoned!" she repeated in angry indignation. "How dare Dr. Knox -suggest such a thing?" - -"My dear, he did not suggest it against _you_. He and I both look upon -you as her best safeguard. It is your being with her, that gives us some -sort of security: and it is your watchfulness we shall have to look to -for detection." - -"Poisoned!" reiterated madame, unable to get over the ugly word. "I -think Dr. Knox ought to be made to answer for so wicked a suspicion." - -"Knox did not mean to go so far as that: it was my misapprehension. But -he feels perfectly convinced that she is being tampered with. In short, -drugged." - -"It is not possible," reasoned madame. "It could not be done without my -knowledge. Indeed, sir, you may dismiss all idea of the kind from your -mind; you and Dr. Knox also. I assure you that such a thing would be -simply impracticable." - -Mr. Tamlyn shook his head. "Any one who sets to work to commit a crime -by degrees, usually possesses a large share of innate cunning--more -than enough to deceive lookers-on," he remarked. "I can understand how -thoroughly repulsive this idea is to you, my good lady; that your mind -shrinks from admitting it; but I wish you would, just for argument's -sake, allow its possibility." - -But madame was harder than adamant. Old Tamlyn saw what it was--that she -took this accusation, and would take it, as a reflection on her care. - -"Who is there, amidst us all, that would attempt to injure Lady -Jenkins?" she asked. "The household consists only of myself and the -servants. _They_ would not seek to harm their mistress." - -"Not so sure; not so sure. It is amidst those servants that we must look -for the culprit. Dr. Knox thinks so, and so do I." - -Madame's face of astonishment was too genuine to be doubted. She feebly -lifted her hands in disbelief. To suspect the servants seemed, to her, -as ridiculous as the suspicion itself. - -"Her maid, Lettice, and the housemaid, Sarah, are the only two servants -who approach her when she is ill, sir: Sarah but very little. Both of -them are kind-hearted young women." - -Mr. Tamlyn coughed. Whether he would have gone on to impart his doubt of -Lettice cannot be known. During the slight silence Lettice herself -entered the room with her mistress's medicine. A quick, dark-eyed young -woman, in a light print gown. - -The stir aroused Lady Jenkins. Madame St. Vincent measured out the -physic, and was handing it to the patient, when Mr. Tamlyn seized the -wine-glass. - -"It's all right," he observed, after smelling and tasting, speaking -apparently to himself: and Lady Jenkins took it. - -"That is the young woman you must especially watch," whispered Mr. -Tamlyn, as Lettice retired with her waiter. - -"What! Lettice?" exclaimed madame, opening her eyes. - -"Yes; I should advise you to do so. She is the only one who is much -about her mistress," he added, as if he would account for the advice. -"_Watch her._" - -Leaving madame at the window to digest the mandate and to get over her -astonishment, he sat down by Lady Jenkins again, and began talking of -this and that: the fineness of the weather, the gossip passing in the -town. - -"What do you take?" he asked abruptly. - -"Take?" she repeated. "What is it that I take, Patty?" appealing to her -companion. - -"Nay, but I want you to tell me yourself," hastily interposed the -doctor. "Don't trouble madame." - -"But I don't know that I can recollect." - -"Oh yes, you can. The effort to do so will do you good--wake you out -of this stupid sleepiness. Take yesterday: what did you have for -breakfast?" - -"Yesterday? Well, I think they brought me a poached egg." - -"And a very good thing, too. What did you drink with it?" - -"Tea. I always take tea." - -"Who makes it?" - -"I do," said madame, turning her head to Mr. Tamlyn with a meaning -smile. "I take my own tea from the same tea-pot." - -"Good. What did you take after that, Lady Jenkins?" - -"I dare say I had some beef-tea at eleven. Did I, Patty? I generally do -have it." - -"Yes, dear Lady Jenkins; and delicious beef-tea it is, and it does you -good. I should like Mr. Tamlyn to take a cup of it." - -"I don't mind if I do." - -Perhaps the answer was unexpected: but Madame St. Vincent rang the bell -and ordered up a cup of the beef-tea. The beef-tea proved to be "all -right," as he had observed of the medicine. Meanwhile he had continued -his questions to his patient. - -She had eaten some chicken for dinner, and a little sweetbread for -supper. There had been interludes of refreshment: an egg beaten up with -milk, a cup of tea and bread-and-butter, and so on. - -"You don't starve her," laughed Mr. Tamlyn. - -"No, indeed," warmly replied madame. "I do what I can to nourish her." - -"What do you take to drink?" continued the doctor. - -"Nothing to speak of," interposed madame. "A drop of cold -brandy-and-water with her dinner." - -"Patty thinks it is better for me than wine," put in Lady Jenkins. - -"I don't know but it is. You don't take too much of it?" - -Lady Jenkins paused. "Patty knows. Do I take too much, Patty?" - -Patty was smiling, amused at the very idea. "I measure one -table-spoonful of brandy into a tumbler and put three or four -table-spoonfuls of water to it. If you think that is too much brandy, -Mr. Tamlyn, I will put less." - -"Oh, nonsense," said old Tamlyn. "It's hardly enough." - -"She has the same with her supper," concluded madame. - -Well, old Tamlyn could make nothing of his suspicions. And he came home -from Jenkins House and told Knox he thought they must be both mistaken. - -"Why did you speak of it to madame?" asked Dr. Knox. "We agreed to be -silent for a short time." - -"I don't see why she should not be told, Arnold. She is straightforward -as the day--and Lettice Lane seems so, too. I tasted the beef-tea they -gave her--took a cup of it, in fact--and I tasted the physic. Madame -says it is impossible that anything in the shape of drugs is being given -to her; and upon my word I think so too." - -"All the same, I wish you had not spoken." - -And a little time went on. - - -III. - -The soiree to-night was at Rose Villa; and Mrs. Knox, attired in a -striped gauze dress and the jangling ornaments she favoured, stood to -receive her guests. Beads on her thin brown neck, beads on her sharp -brown wrists, beads in her ears, and beads dropping from her waist. -She looked all beads. They were drab beads to-night, each resting in -a little cup of gold. Janet and Miss Cattledon went up in the brougham, -the latter more stiffly ungracious than usual, for she still resented -Mrs. Knox's former behaviour to Janet. I walked. - -"Where can the people from next door be?" wondered Mrs. Knox, as the -time went on and Lady Jenkins did not appear. - -For Lady Jenkins went abroad again. In a day or two after Mr. Tamlyn's -interview with her, Lefford had the pleasure of seeing her red-wheeled -carriage whirling about the streets, herself and her companion within -it. Old Tamlyn said she was getting strong. Dr. Knox said nothing; but -he kept his eyes open. - -"I hope she is not taken ill again? I hope she is not too drowsy to -come!" reiterated Mrs. Knox. "Sometimes madame can't rouse her up from -these sleepy fits, do what she will." - -Lady Jenkins was the great card of the soiree, and Mrs. Knox grew cross. -Captain Collinson had not come either. She drew me aside. - -"Johnny Ludlow, I wish you would step into the next door and see whether -anything has happened. Do you mind it? So strange that Madame St. -Vincent does not send or come." - -I did not mind it at all. I rather liked the expedition, and passed out -of the noisy and crowded room to the lovely, warm night-air. The sky was -clear; the moon radiant. - -I was no longer on ceremony at Jenkins House, having been up to it -pretty often with Dan or Sam, and on my own score. Lady Jenkins had been -pleased to take a fancy to me, had graciously invited me to some drives -in her red-wheeled carriage, she dozing at my side pretty nearly all the -time. I could not help being struck with the utter abnegation of will -she displayed. It was next door to imbecility. - -"Patty, Johnny Ludlow would like to go that way, I think, to-day may -we?" she would say. "Must we turn back already, Patty?--it has been such -a short drive." Thus she deferred to Madame St. Vincent in all things, -small and great: if she had a will or choice of her own, it seemed that -she never thought of exercising it. Day after day she would say the -drives were short: and very short indeed they were made, upon some -plea or other, when I made a third in the carriage. "I am so afraid -of fatigue for her," madame whispered to me one day, when she seemed -especially anxious. - -"But you take a much longer drive, when she and you are alone," I -answered, that fact having struck me. "What difference does my being in -the carriage make?--are you afraid of fatigue for the horses as well?" -At which suggestion madame burst out laughing. - -"When I am alone with her I take care not to talk," she explained; "but -when three of us are here there's sure to be talking going on, and it -cannot fail to weary her." - -Of course that was madame's opinion: but my impression was that, let us -talk as much as we would, in a high key or a low one, that poor nodding -woman neither heard nor heeded it. - -"Don't you think you are fidgety about it, madame?" - -"Well, perhaps I am," she answered. "I assure you, Lady Jenkins is an -anxious charge to me." - -Therefore, being quite at home now at Jenkins House (to return to the -evening and the soiree I was telling of), I ran in the nearest way to -do Mrs. Knox's behest. That was through the two back gardens, by the -intervening little gate. I knocked at the glass-doors of what was called -the garden-room, in which shone a light behind the curtains, and went -straight in. Sitting near each other, conversing with an eager look on -their faces, and both got up for Mrs. Knox's soiree, were Captain -Collinson and Madame St. Vincent. - -"Mr. Ludlow!" she exclaimed. "How you startled me!" - -"I beg your pardon for entering so abruptly. Mrs. Knox asked me to run -in and see whether anything was the matter, and I came the shortest way. -She has been expecting you for some time." - -"Nothing is the matter," shortly replied madame, who seemed more put out -than the occasion called for: she thought me rude, I suppose. "Lady -Jenkins is not ready; that is all. She may be half-an-hour yet." - -"Half-an-hour! I won't wait longer, then," said Captain Collinson, -catching up his crush hat. "I do trust she has not taken another chill. -Au revoir, madame." - -With a nod to me, he made his exit by the way I had entered. The same -peculiarity struck me now that I had observed before: whenever I went -into a place, be it Jenkins House or Rose Villa, the gallant captain -immediately quitted it. - -"Do I frighten Captain Collinson away?" I said to madame on the spur of -the moment. - -"_You_ frighten him! Why should you?" - -"I don't know why. If he happens to be here when I come in, he gets up -and goes away. Did you never notice it? It is the same at Mrs. Knox's. -It was the same once at Mrs. Hampshire's." - -Madame laughed. "Perhaps he is shy," said she, jestingly. - -"A man who has travelled to India and back must have rubbed his shyness -off, one would think. I wish I knew where I had met him before!--if I -have met him. Every now and again his face seems to strike on a chord of -my memory." - -"It is a handsome face," remarked madame. - -"Pretty well. As much as can be seen of it. He has hair enough for a -Russian bear or a wild Indian." - -"Have wild Indians a superabundance of hair?" asked she gravely. - -I laughed. "Seriously speaking, though, Madame St. Vincent, I think I -must have met him somewhere." - -"Seriously speaking, I don't think that can be," she answered; and her -jesting tone had become serious. "I believe he has passed nearly all his -life in India." - -"Just as you have passed yours in the South of France. And yet there is -something in your face also familiar to me." - -"I should say you must be just a little fanciful on the subject of -likenesses. Some people are." - -"I do not think so. If I am I did not know it. I----" - -The inner door opened and Lady Jenkins appeared, becloaked and -beshawled, with a great green hood over her head, and leaning on Lettice -Lane. Madame got up and threw a mantle on her own shoulders. - -"Dear Lady Jenkins, I was just coming to see for you. Captain Collinson -called in to give you his arm, but he did not wait. And here's Mr. -Johnny Ludlow, sent in by Mrs. Knox to ask whether we are all dead." - -"Ay," said Lady Jenkins, nodding to me as she sat down on the sofa: "but -I should like a cup of tea before we start." - -"A cup of tea?" - -"Ay; I'm thirsty. Let me have it, Patty." - -She spoke the last words in an imploring tone, as if Patty were her -mistress. Madame threw off her mantle again, untied the green hood of -her lady, and sent Lettice to make some tea. - -"You had better go back and tell Mrs. Knox we are coming, though I'm -sure I don't know when it will be," she said aside to me. - -I did as I was told; and had passed through the garden-gate, when my eye -fell upon Master Richard Knox. He was standing on the grass in the -moonlight, near the clump of laurels, silently contorting his small form -into cranks and angles, after the gleeful manner of Punch in the show -when he has been giving his wife a beating. Knowing that agreeable youth -could not keep himself out of mischief if he tried, I made up to him. - -"Hush--sh--sh!" breathed he, silencing the question on my lips. - -"What's the sport, Dicky?" - -"She's with him there, beyond the laurels; they are walking round," he -whispered. "Oh my! such fun! I have been peeping at 'em. He has his arm -round her waist." - -Sure enough, at that moment they came into view--Mina and Captain -Collinson. Dicky drew back into the shade, as did I. And I, to my very -great astonishment, trod upon somebody else's feet, who made, so to say, -one of the laurels. - -"It's only I," breathed Sam Jenkins. "I'm on the watch as well as Dicky. -It looks like a case of two loviers, does it not?" - -The "loviers" were parting. Captain Collinson held her hand between both -his to give her his final whisper. Then Mina tripped lightly over the -grass and stole in at the glass-doors of the garden-room, while the -captain stalked round to the front-entrance and boldly rang, making -believe he had only then arrived. - -"Oh my, _my_!" repeated the enraptured Dicky, "won't I have the pull of -her now! She'd better tell tales of me again!" - -"Is it a case, think you?" asked Sam of me, as we slowly followed in the -wake of Mina. - -"It looks like it," I answered. - -Janet was singing one of her charming songs, as we stole in at the -glass-doors: "Blow, blow, thou wintry wind:" just as she used to sing -it in that house in the years gone by. Her voice had not lost its -sweetness. Mina stood near the piano now, a thoughtful look upon her -flushed face. - -"Where did you and Dicky go just now, Sam?" - -Sam turned short round at the query. Charlotte Knox, as she put it, -carried suspicion in her low tone. - -"Where did I and Dicky go?" repeated Sam, rather taken aback. "I--I only -stepped out for a stroll in the moonlight. I don't know anything about -Dicky." - -"I saw Dicky run out to the garden first, and you went next," persisted -Charlotte, who was just as keen as steel. "Dick, what was there to see? -I will give you two helpings of trifle at supper if you tell me." - -For two helpings of trifle Dick would have sold his birthright. "Such -fun!" he cried, beginning to jump. "She was out there with the captain, -Lotty: he came to the window here and beckoned to her: I saw him. I -dodged them round and round the laurels, and I am pretty nearly sure he -kissed her." - -"Who was?--who did?" But the indignant glow on Lotty's face proved that -she scarcely needed to put the question. - -"That nasty Mina. She took and told that it was me who eat up the big -bowl of raspberry cream in the larder to-day; and mother went and -believed her!" - -Charlotte Knox, her brow knit, her head held erect, walked away after -giving us all a searching look apiece. "I, like Dicky, saw Collinson -call her out, and I thought I might as well see what he wanted to be -after," Sam whispered to me. "I did not see Dicky at all, though, until -he came into the laurels with you." - -"He is talking to her now," I said, directing Sam's attention to the -captain. - -"I wonder whether I ought to tell Dr. Knox?" resumed Sam. "What do you -think, Johnny Ludlow? She is so young, and somehow I don't trust him. -Dan doesn't, either." - -"Dan told me he did not." - -"Dan fancies he is after her money. It would be a temptation to some -people,--seven thousand pounds. Yet he seems to have plenty of his -own." - -"If he did marry her he could not touch the money for three or four -years to come." - -"Oh, couldn't he, though," answered Sam, taking me up. "He could touch -it next day." - -"I thought she did not come into it till she was of age, and that Dr. -Knox was trustee." - -"That's only in case she does not marry. If she marries it goes to her -at once. Here comes Aunt Jenkins!" - -The old lady, as spruce as you please, in a satin gown, was shaking -hands with Mrs. Knox. But she looked half silly: and, may I never be -believed again, if she did not begin to nod directly she sat down. - -"Do you hail from India? as the Americans phrase it," I suddenly ask of -Captain Collinson, when chance pinned us together in a corner of the -supper-room, and he could not extricate himself. - -"Hail from India!" he repeated. "Was I born there, I conclude you mean?" - -"Yes." - -"Not exactly. I went there, a child, with my father and mother. And, -except for a few years during my teens, when I was home for education, I -have been in India ever since. Why do you ask?" - -"For no particular reason. I was telling Madame St. Vincent this evening -that it seemed to me I had seen you before; but I suppose it could not -be. Shall you be going back soon?" - -"I am not sure. Possibly in the autumn, when my leave will expire: not -till next year if I can get my leave extended. I shall soon be quitting -Lefford." - -"Shall you?" - -"Must do it. I have to make my bow at a levee; and I must be in town for -other things as well. I should like to enjoy a little of the season -there: it may be years before the opportunity falls to my lot again. -Then I have some money to invest: I think of buying an estate. Oh, I -have all sorts of business to attend to, once I am in London." - -"Where's the use of buying an estate if you are to live in India?" - -"I don't intend to live in India always," he answered, with a laugh. "I -shall quit the service as soon as ever I can, and settle down -comfortably in the old country. A home of my own will be of use to me -then." - -Now it was that very laugh of Captain Collinson's that seemed more -familiar to me than all the rest of him. That I had heard it before, ay, -and heard it often, I felt sure. At least, I should have felt sure but -for its seeming impossibility. - -"You are from Gloucestershire, I think I have heard," he observed to me. - -"No; from Worcestershire." - -"Worcestershire? That's a nice county, I believe. Are not the Malvern -Hills situated in it?" - -"Yes. They are eight miles from Worcester." - -"I should like to see them. I must see them before I go back. And -Worcester is famous for--what is it?--china?--yes, china. And for its -cathedral, I believe. I shall get a day or two there if I can. I can do -Malvern at the same time." - -"Captain Collinson, would you mind giving Lady Jenkins your arm?" cried -Mrs. Knox at this juncture. "She is going home." - -"There is no necessity for Captain Collinson to disturb himself: I can -take good care of Lady Jenkins," hastily spoke Madame St. Vincent, in -a tart tone, which the room could not mistake. Evidently she did not -favour Captain Collinson. - -But the captain had already pushed himself through the throng of people -and taken the old lady in tow. The next minute I found myself close to -Charlotte Knox, who was standing at the supper-table, with a plate of -cold salmon before her. - -"Are you a wild bear, Johnny Ludlow?" she asked me privately, under -cover of the surrounding clatter. - -"Not that I know of. Why?" - -"Madame St. Vincent takes you for one." - -I laughed. "Has she told you so?" - -"She has not told me: I guess it is some secret," returned Charlotte, -beginning upon the sandwiches. "I learnt it in a curious way." - -A vein of seriousness ran through her half-mocking tone; seriousness lay -in her keen and candid eyes, lifted to mine. - -"Yes, it was rather curious, the way it came to me: and perhaps on my -part not altogether honourable. Early this morning, Johnny, before ten -o'clock had struck, mamma made me go in and ask how Lady Jenkins was, -and whether she would be able to come to-night. I ran in the nearest -way, by the glass-doors, boisterously of course--mamma is always going -on at me for that--and the breeze the doors made as I threw them open -blew a piece of paper off the table. I stooped to pick it up, and saw it -was a letter just begun in madame's handwriting." - -"Well?" - -"Well, my eyes fell on the few words written; but I declare that I read -them heedlessly, not with any dishonourable intention; such a thought -never entered my mind. 'Dear Sissy,' the letter began, 'You must not -come yet, for Johnny Ludlow is here, of all people in the world; it -would not do for you and him to meet.' That was all." - -"I suppose madame had been called away," continued Charlotte, after a -pause. "I put the paper on the table, and was going on into the passage, -when I found the room-door locked: so I just came out again, ran round -to the front-door and went in that way. Now if you are not a bear, -Johnny, why should you frighten people?" - -I did not answer. She had set me thinking. - -"Madame St. Vincent had invited a sister from France to come and stay -with her: she does just as she likes here, you know. It must be she who -is not allowed to meet you. What is the mystery?" - -"Who is talking about mystery?" exclaimed Caroline Parker; who, standing -near, must have caught the word. "What _is_ the mystery, Lotty?" - -And Lotty, giving her some evasive reply, put down her fork and turned -away. - - - - -LADY JENKINS. - -MADAME. - - -I. - -"If Aunt Jenkins were the shrewd woman she used to be, I'd lay the -whole case before her, and have it out; but she is not," contended Dan -Jenkins, tilting the tongs in his hand, as we sat round the dying -embers of the surgery fire. - -His brother Sam and I had walked home together from Mrs. Knox's soiree, -and we overtook Dan in the town. Another soiree had been held in Lefford -that night, which Dan had promised himself to before knowing Mrs. Knox -would have one. We all three turned into the surgery. Dr. Knox was out -with a patient, and Sam had to wait up for him. Sam had been telling -his brother what we witnessed up at Rose Villa--the promenade round the -laurels that Captain Collinson and Mina had stolen in the moonlight. As -for me, though I heard what Sam said, and put in a confirming word here -and there, I was thinking my own thoughts. In a small way, nothing had -ever puzzled me much more than the letter Charlotte Knox had seen. Who -was Madame St. Vincent? and who was her sister, that I, Johnny Ludlow, -might not meet her? - -"You see," continued Dan, "one reason why I can't help suspecting the -fellow, is this--he does not address Mina openly. If he were honest and -above board, he would go in for her before all the world. He wouldn't do -it in secret." - -"What do you suspect him of?" cried Sam. - -"I don't know. I do suspect him--that he is somehow not on the square. -It's not altogether about Mina; but I have no confidence in the man." - -Sam laughed. "Of course you have not, Dan. You want to keep Mina for -yourself." - -Dan pitched his soft hat at Sam's head, and let fall the tongs with a -clatter. - -"Collinson seems to be all right," I put in. "He is going up to London -to a levee, and he is going to buy an estate. At least, he told me so -to-night in the supper-room." - -"Oh, in one sense of the word the fellow is all right," acknowledged -Dan. "He is what he pretends to be; he is in the army list; and, for all -I know to the contrary, he may have enough gold to float an argosy of -ships. What I ask is, why he should go sneaking after Mina _when he does -not care for her_." - -"That may be just a fallacy of ours, Dan," said his brother. - -"No, it's not. Collinson is in love with Madame St. Vincent; not with -Mina." - -"Then why does he spoon after Mina?" - -"That's just it--why?" - -"Any way, I don't think madame is in love with him, Dan. It was proposed -that he should take aunt home to-night, and madame was as tart as you -please over it, letting all the room know that she did not want him." - -"Put it down so," agreed Dan, stooping to pick up the tongs. "Say that -he is not fond of madame, but of Mina, and would like to make her his -wife: why does he not go about it in a proper manner; court her openly, -speak to her mother; instead of pursuing her covertly like a sneak?" - -"It may be his way of courting." - -"May it! It is anything but a right way. He is for ever seeking to meet -her on the sly. I know it. He got her out in the garden to-night to a -meeting, you say: you and Johnny Ludlow saw it." - -"Dicky saw it too, and Charlotte got the truth out of him. There may be -something in what you say, Dan." - -"There's a great deal in what I say," contended Dan, his honest face -full of earnestness. "Look here. Here's an officer and a gentleman; a -rich man, as we are given to believe, and we've no reason to doubt it. -He seems to spend enough--Carter saw him lose five pounds last night, -betting at billiards. If he is in love with a young lady, there's -nothing to hinder a man like that from going in for her openly----" - -"Except her age," struck in Sam. "He may think they'll refuse Mina to -him on that score." - -"Stuff! I wish you wouldn't interrupt me, Sam. Every day will help to -remedy that--and he might undertake to wait a year or two. But I feel -sure and certain he does not really care for Mina; I feel sure that, if -he is seeking in this underhand way to get her to promise to marry him, -he has some ulterior motive in view. My own belief is he would like to -kidnap her." - -Sam laughed. "You mean, kidnap her money?" - -"Well, I don't see what else it can be. The fellow may have outrun the -constable, and need some ready money to put him straight. Rely upon this -much, Sam--that his habits are as fast as they can well be. I have been -learning a little about him lately." - -Sam made no answer. He began to look grave. - -"Not at all the sort of man who ought to marry Mina, or any other tender -young girl. He'd break her heart in a twelvemonth." - -Sam spoke up. "I said to Johnny Ludlow, just now, that it might be -better to tell Dr. Knox. Perhaps----" - -"What about?" interrupted the doctor himself, pouncing in upon us, and -catching the words as he opened the door. "What have you to tell Dr. -Knox about, Sam? And why are all you young men sitting up here? You'd be -better in bed." - -The last straw, you know, breaks the camel's back. Whether Sam would -really have disclosed the matter to Dr. Knox, I can't say; the doctor's -presence and the doctor's question decided it. - -Sam spoke in a low tone, standing behind the drug-counter with the -doctor, who had gone round to look at some entry in what they called the -day-book, and had lighted a gas-burner to do it by. Dr. Knox made no -remark of any kind while he listened, his eyes fixed on the book: one -might have thought he did not hear, but his lips were compressed. - -"If she were not so young, sir--a child, as may be said--I should not -have presumed to speak," concluded Sam. "I don't know whether I have -done wrong or right." - -"Right," emphatically pronounced the doctor. - -But the word had hardly left his lips when there occurred a startling -interruption. The outer door of the surgery, the one he had come in by, -was violently drummed at, and then thrown open. Charlotte Knox, Miss -Mack the governess, and Sally the maid--the same Sally who had been at -Rose Villa when the trouble occurred about Janet Carey, and the same -Miss Mack who had replaced Janet--came flocking in. - -"Dicky's lost, Arnold," exclaimed Charlotte. - -"Dicky lost!" repeated Dr. Knox. "How can he be lost at this time of -night?" - -"He _is_ lost. And we had nearly gone to bed without finding it out. The -people had all left, and the doors were locked, when some one--Gerty, I -think--began to complain of Dicky----" - -"It was I who spoke," interposed the governess; and though she was fat -enough for two people she had the meekest little voice in the world, and -allowed herself to be made a perfect tool of at Rose Villa. "Dicky did -behave very ill at supper, eating rudely of everything, and----" - -"Yes, yes," broke in Charlotte, "I remember now, Macky. You said Dicky -ought to be restrained, and you wondered he was not ill; and then mamma -called out, 'But where is Dicky?' 'Gone to bed to sleep off his supper,' -we all told her: and she sent Sally up to see that he had put his candle -out." - -"And of course," interrupted Sally, thinking it was her turn to begin, -"when I found the room empty, and saw by the moonlight that Master -Dicky had not come to bed at all, I ran down to say so. And his mamma -got angry, accusing us servants of having carelessly locked him -out-of-doors. And he can't be found, sir--as Miss Lotty says." - -"No, he cannot be found anywhere," added Lotty. "We have searched the -house and the gardens, and been in to inquire at Lady Jenkins's; and he -is _gone_. And mamma is frantic, and said we were to come to you, -Arnold." - -"Master Dicky's playing truant: he has gone off with some of the -guests," observed Dr. Knox. - -"Well, mamma is putting herself into a frightful fever over him, Arnold. -That old well in the field at the back was opened the day before -yesterday; she says Dicky may have strayed there and fallen in." - -"Dicky's after more mischief than that," said the doctor, sagely. "A -well in a solitary field would have no charms for Dicky. I tell you, -Lotty, he must have marched home with some one or other. Had you any -lads up there to-night?" - -"No, not any. You know mamma never will have them. Lads, _and_ Dicky, -would be too much." - -"If Master Dicky have really gone off, as the doctor thinks, I'd lay -my next quarter's wages that it's with Captain Collinson," cried Sally. -"He is always wanting to be after the captain." - -Lotty lifted her face, a gleam of intelligence flashing across it. -"Perhaps that's it," she said; "I should not wonder if it is. He has -strayed off after, or with, Captain Collinson. What is to be done, -Arnold?" - -"Not strayed with him, I should think," observed the doctor. "Captain -Collinson, if he possesses any sense or consideration, would order Dicky -back at once." - -"Won't you come with us to the captain's lodgings, Arnold, and see?" -cried Charlotte. "It would not do, would it, for us to go there alone at -this time of night? The captain may be in bed." - -Arnold Knox looked at his sister; looked at the three of them, as if he -thought they were enough without him. He was nearly done up with his -long day's work. - -"I suppose I had better go with you, Lotty," he said. "Though I don't -think Captain Collinson would kidnap any one of you if you went alone." - -"Oh dear, no; it is Mina he wants to kidnap, not us," answered Lotty, -freely. And Arnold glanced at her keenly as he heard the words. - -Did you ever know a fellow in the hey-dey of his health and restlessness -who was not ready for any night expedition--especially if it were to -search after something lost? Dr. Knox took up his hat to accompany the -visitors, and we three took up ours. - -We proceeded in a body through the moonlit streets to Collinson's -lodgings; the few stragglers we met no doubt taking us all for benighted -wayfarers, trudging home from some one or other of the noted Lefford -soirees. Collinson had the rooms at the hairdresser's--good rooms, -famed as the best lodgings in the town. The gas was alight in his -sitting-room over the shop; a pretty fair proof that the captain was -yet up. - -"Stay, Lotty," said Dr. Knox, arresting her impatient hand, that was -lifted to pull the bell. "No need to arouse the house: I dare say Pink -and his family are in bed. I will go up to Collinson." - -It was easy to say so, but difficult to do it. Dr. Knox turned the -handle of the door to enter, and found it fastened. He had to ring, -after all. - -Nobody answered it. Another ring and another shared the same fate. Dr. -Knox then searched for some small loose stones, and flung them up at the -window. It brought forth no more than the bell had. - -"Dicky can't be there, or that gravel would have brought him to the -window," decided Lotty. "I should say Captain Collinson is not there, -either." - -"He may be in his room at the back," observed Dr. Knox. And he rang -again. - -Presently, after a spell of at least ten minutes' waiting, and no end -of ringing, an upper window was opened and a head appeared--that of -the hairdresser. - -"Whatever's the matter?" called out he, seeing us all below. "It's not -fire, is it?" - -"I am sorry to disturb you, Pink," called back Dr. Knox. "It is Captain -Collinson I want. Is he in, do you know?" - -"Yes, sir; he came in about twenty minutes ago, and somebody with -him, for I heard him talking," answered Pink. "He must be in his -sitting-room, if he is not gone to bed." - -"There is a light in the room, but I don't think he can be in. I have -thrown up some gravel, and he does not answer." - -"I'll come down and see, sir." - -Pink, the most obliging little man in the world, descended to the -captain's room and thence to us at the door. Captain Collinson was not -in. He had gone out again, and left his gas alight. - -"You say some one came in with him, Pink. Was it a young lad?" - -"I can't tell, sir. I heard the captain's latch-key, and I heard him -come on upstairs, talking to somebody; but I was just dropping off to -sleep, so did not take much notice." - -That the somebody was young Dick, and that Captain Collinson had gone -out to march Dick home again, seemed only probable. There was nothing -for it but to go on to Rose Villa and ascertain; and we started for it, -after a short consultation. - -"I shall not have the remotest idea where to look for Dick if he is not -there," remarked Dr. Knox. - -"And in that case, I do believe mamma will have a fit," added Charlotte. -"A real fit, I mean, Arnold. I wish something could be done with Dicky! -The house is always in a commotion." - -Captain Collinson was at Rose Villa, whether Dicky was or not. At the -garden-gate, talking to Mina in the moonlight, stood he, apparently -saying good-night to her. - -"Dicky? oh dear, yes; I have just brought Dicky back," laughed the -captain, before Dr. Knox had well spoken his young half-brother's name, -while Mina ran indoors like a frightened hare. "Upon getting home to my -rooms just now I found some small mortal stealing in after me, and it -proved to be Dicky. He followed me home to get a top I had promised him, -and which I forgot to bring up here when I came to-night." - -"I hope you did not give it him," said Dr. Knox. - -"Yes, I did. I should never have got him back without," added the -captain. "Good-night." - -He laughed again as he went away. Dicky's vagaries seemed to be rare fun -for him. - -Dicky was spinning the top on the kitchen table when we went in--for -that's where they had all gathered: Mrs. Knox, Gerty, Kate, and the -cook. A big humming-top, nearly as large and as noisy as Dick. Dr. Knox -caught up the top and caught Dicky by the hand, and took both into the -parlour. - -"Now then, sir!" he sternly asked. "What did you mean by this night's -escapade?" - -"Oh, Arnold, don't scold him," implored Mrs. Knox, following them in -with her hands held up. "It _was_ naughty of him, of course, and it gave -me a dreadful fright; but it was perhaps excusable, and he is safe at -home again. The captain was to bring the top, and did not, and poor -Dicky ran after him to get it." - -"You be quiet, Arnold; I am not to be scolded," put in cunning Dicky. -"You just give me my top." - -"As to scolding you, I don't know that it would be of any further use: -the time seems to have gone by for it, and I must take other measures," -spoke Dr. Knox. "Come up to bed now, sir. I shall see you in it before -I leave." - -"But I want my top." - -"Which you will not have," said the doctor: and he marched off Dicky. - -"How cross you are with him, Arnold!" spoke his step-mother when the -doctor came down again, leaving Dicky howling on his pillow for the top. - -"It needs some one to be cross with him," observed Dr. Knox. - -"He is only a little boy, remember." - -"He is big enough and old enough to be checked and corrected--if it ever -is to be done at all. I will see you to-morrow: I wish to have some -conversation with you." - -"About Dicky?" she hastily asked. - -"About him and other things. Mina," he added in a low tone, as he passed -her on his way out, but I, being next to him, caught the words, "I did -not like to see you at the gate with Captain Collinson at this hour. Do -not let it occur again. Young maidens cannot be too modest." - -And, at the reproof, Miss Mina coloured to the very roots of her hair. - - -II. - -They sat in the small garden-room, its glass-doors open to the warm -spring air. Mrs. Knox wore an untidy cotton gown, of a flaming -crimson-and-white pattern, and her dark face looked hot and angry. Dr. -Knox, sitting behind the table, was being annoyed as much as he could be -annoyed--and no one ever annoyed him but his step-mother--as the lines -in his patient brow betrayed. - -"It is for his own good that I suggest this; his welfare," urged Dr. -Knox. "Left to his own will much longer, he must not be. Therefore I say -that he must be placed at school." - -"You only propose it to thwart me," cried Mrs. Knox. "A fine expense it -will be!" - -"It will not be your expense. I pay his schooling now, and I shall pay -it then. My father left me, young though I was, Dicky's guardian, and -I must do this. I wonder you do not see that it will be the very best -thing for Dicky. Every one but yourself sees that, as things are, the -boy is being ruined." - -Mrs. Knox looked sullenly through the open doors near which she sat; she -tapped her foot impatiently upon the worn mat, lying on the threshold. - -"I know you won't rest until you have carried your point and separated -us, Arnold; it has been in your mind to do it this long while. And my -boy is the only thing I care for in life." - -"It is for Dicky's own best interest," reiterated Dr. Knox. "Of course -he is dear to you; it would be unnatural if he were not; but you surely -must wish to see him grow up a good and self-reliant man: not an idle -and self-indulgent one." - -"Why don't you say outright that your resolve is taken and nothing can -alter it; that you are going to banish him to school to-morrow?" - -"Not to-morrow, but he shall go at the half-quarter. The child will be -ten times happier for it; believe that." - -"Do you _really_ mean it?" she questioned, her black eyes flashing fury -at Arnold. "Will nothing deter you?" - -"Nothing," he replied, in a low, firm tone. "I--bear with me a moment, -mother--I cannot let Dicky run riot any longer. He is growing up the -very incarnation of selfishness; he thinks the world was made for him -alone; you and his sisters are only regarded by him as so many ministers -to his pleasure. See how he treats you all. See how he treats the -servants. Were I to allow this state of things to continue, how should I -be fulfilling my obligation to my dead father?--my father and Dicky's." - -"I will hear no more," spoke Mrs. Knox, possibly thinking the argument -was getting too strong for her. "_I_ have wanted to speak to you, -Arnold, and I may as well do it now. Things must be put on a different -footing up here." - -"What things?" - -"Money matters. I cannot continue to do upon my small income." - -Arnold Knox passed his hand across his troubled brow, almost in despair. -Oh, what a weary subject this was! Not for long together did she ever -give him rest from it. - -"Your income is sufficient, mother; I am tired of saying it. It -is between three and four hundred a-year; and you are free from -house-rent." - -"Why don't you remind me that the house is yours, and have done with -it!" she cried, her voice harsh and croaking as a raven's. - -"Well, it is mine," he said good-humouredly. - -"Yes; and instead of settling it upon me when you married, you must -needs settle it on your wife! Don't _you_ talk of selfishness, Arnold." - -"My wife does not derive any benefit from it. It has made no difference -to you." - -"She would derive it, though, if you died. Where should I be then?" - -"I am not going to die, I hope. Oh, mother, if you only knew how these -discussions vex me!" - -"Then you should show yourself generous." - -"Generous!" he exclaimed, in a pained tone. And, goaded to it by his -remembrance of what he had done for her in the present and in the past, -he went on to speak more plainly than he had ever spoken yet. "Do you -forget that a great portion of what you enjoy should, by right, be mine? -_Is_ mine!" - -"Yours!" she scornfully said. - -"Yes: mine. Not by legal right, but by moral. When my father died he -left the whole of his property to you. Considerably more than the half -of that property had been brought to him by my mother: some people might -have thought that much should have descended to her son." - -"He did not leave me the whole. You had a share of it." - -"Not of the income. I had a sum of five hundred pounds left me, for a -specific purpose--to complete my medical education. Mother, I have never -grumbled at this; never. It was my father's will and pleasure that the -whole should be yours, and that it should go to your children after -you; and I am content to think that he did for the best; the house was -obliged to come to me; it had been so settled at my mother's marriage; -but you have continued to live in it, and I have not said you nay." - -"It is like you to remind me of all this!" - -"I could remind you of more," he rejoined, chafing at her unjust words, -her resentful manner. "That for years I impoverished myself to help -you to augment this income. Three parts of what I earned, before my -partnership with Mr. Tamlyn, I gave to you." - -"Well, I needed it. Do, for goodness' sake, let the past alone, if you -can: where's the use of recalling it? Would you have us starve? Would -you see me taken off to prison? And that's what it will come to, unless -I can get some money to pay up with. That table-drawer that you've -got your elbow on, is full of bills. I've not paid one for these six -months." - -"I cannot think what it is you do with your money!" - -"Do with my money! Why, it goes in a hundred ways. How very ignorant you -are, Arnold. Look at what dress costs, for myself and four girls! Look -at what the soirees cost! We have to give all sorts of dishes now; -lobster salads and raspberry creams, and all kinds of expensive things. -Madame St. Vincent introduced _that_." - -"You must put down the soirees and the dress--if you cannot keep them -within the bounds of your income." - -"Thank you. Just as I had to put down the pony-carriage and James. How -cruel you are, Arnold!" - -"I hope I am not. I do not wish to be so." - -"It will take two hundred pounds to set me straight; and I must have it -from you, or from somebody else," avowed Mrs. Knox. - -"You certainly cannot have it, or any portion of it, from me. My -expenses are heavy now, and I have my own children coming on." - -His tone was unmistakably decisive, and Mrs. Knox saw that it was -so. For many years she had been in the habit of regarding Arnold as -something like a bucket in a well, which brings up water every time it -is let down. Just so had he brought up money for her from his pocket -every time she worried for it. But that was over now: and he had to bear -these reproaches periodically. - -"You know that you _can_ let me have it, Arnold. You can lend it me from -Mina's money." - -His face flushed slightly, he pushed his fair hair back with a gesture -of annoyance. - -"The last time you spoke of _that_ I begged you never to mention it -again," he said in a low tone. "Why, what do you take me for, mother?" - -"Take you for?" - -"You must know that I could not touch Mina's money without becoming a -false trustee. Men have been brought to the criminal bar to answer for -a less crime than that would be." - -"If Mina married, you would have to hand over the whole of it." - -"Of course I should. First of all taking care that it was settled upon -her." - -"I don't see the necessity of that. Mina could let me have what she -pleased of it." - -"Talking of Mina," resumed Dr. Knox, passing by her remark, "I think you -must look a little closely after her. She is more intimate, I fancy, -with Captain Collinson than is desirable, and----" - -"Suppose Captain Collinson wants to marry her?" interrupted Mrs. Knox. - -"Has he told you that he wants to do so?" - -"No; not in so many words. But he evidently likes her. What a good match -it would be!" - -"Mina is too young to be married yet. And Captain Collinson cannot, I -should suppose, have any intention of the sort. If he had, he would -speak out: when it would be time enough to consider and discuss his -proposal. Unless he does speak, I must beg of you not to allow Mina to -be alone with him." - -"She never is alone with him." - -"I think she is, at odd moments. Only last night I saw her with him at -the gate. Before that, while your soiree was going on, Dicky--I believe -he could tell you so, if you asked him--saw them walking together in -the garden, the captain's arm round her waist." - -"Girls are so fond of flirting! And young men think no harm of a little -passing familiarity." - -"Just so. But for remembering this, I should speak to Captain Collinson. -The thought that there may be nothing serious in it prevents me. At any -rate, I beg of you to take care of Mina." - -"And the money I want?" she asked, as he took up his hat to go. - -But Dr. Knox, shortly repeating that he had no money to give her, made -his escape. He had been ruffled enough already. One thing was certain: -that if some beneficent sprite from fairyland increased Mrs. Knox's -annual income cent. per cent. she would still, and ever, be in -embarrassment. Arnold knew this. - -Mrs. Knox sat on, revolving difficulties. How many similar interviews -she had held with her step-son, and how often he had been brought round -to pay her bills, she could but remember. Would he do it now? A most -unpleasant doubt, that he would not, lay upon her. - -Presently the entrance was darkened by some tall form interposing -itself between herself and the sunlight. She glanced up and saw Captain -Collinson. He stood there smiling, his tasselled cane jauntily -swayed in his left hand. - -"My dear madam, you looked troubled. Is anything wrong?" - -"Troubled! the world's full of trouble, I think," spoke Mrs. Knox, in a -pettish kind of way. "Dr. Knox has been here to vex me." - -Captain Collinson stepped airily in, and sat down near Mrs. Knox, his -eyes expressing proper concern: indignation blended with sympathy. - -"Very inconsiderate of Dr. Knox: very wrong! Can I help you in any way, -my dear lady?" - -"Arnold is always inconsiderate. First, he begins upon me about Dicky, -threatening to put him altogether away at school, poor ill-used child! -Next, he----" - -"Sweet little angel?" interlarded the captain. - -"Next, he refuses to lend me a trifling sum of money--and he knows how -badly I want it!" - -"Paltry!" ejaculated the captain. "When he must be making so much of -it!" - -"Rolling in it, so to say," confirmed Mrs. Knox. "Look at the practice -he has! But if he did not give me any of his, he might advance me a -trifle of Mina's." - -"Of course he might," warmly acquiesced Captain Collinson. - -What with the warmth and the sympathy, Mrs. Knox rather lost her head. -Many of us are betrayed on occasion into doing the same. That is, she -said more than she should have said. - -"You see, if Mina married, as I pointed out to Arnold, the money would -no longer be under his control at all. It would be hers to do as she -pleased with. She is a dear, good, generous girl, and would not scruple -to let me have one or two hundred pounds. What would such a trifle be -out of the whole seven thousand?" - -"Very true; nothing at all," cried the captain, toying with his handsome -beard. - -"But no; Arnold will not hear of it: he answered me in a way that I -should not like to repeat. He also said he should take care, if Mina did -marry before she was of age, that her money was settled upon her; said -it on purpose to thwart me." - -"Cruel!" aspirated the captain. - -"Some girls might be tempted to marry off-hand, and say nothing to him, -if only to get her fortune out of his control. I don't say Mina would." - -"Miser! My dear madam, rely upon it that whenever Miss Mina does marry, -her husband will join with her in letting you have as much money as you -wish. I am sure it would be his pride and pleasure to do so." - -Was it an implied promise? meant to be so understood? Mrs. Knox took it -for one. She came out of her dumps, and felt exalted to the seventh -heaven. - -Meanwhile, Arnold Knox was with Lady Jenkins, to whom he had gone on -quitting his step-mother. The old lady, up and dressed, sat in her -dining-room. There appeared to be no change in her condition: drowsy, -lethargic, gentle, yielding; imbecile, or not many shades removed from -it. And yet, neither Dr. Knox nor his fellow-practitioner could see any -cause to account for this. Of bodily illness she had none: except that -she seemed feeble. - -"I wish you would tell me what it is you are taking," said Dr. Knox, -bending over her and speaking in low, persuasive tones. "I fear that you -are taking something that does you harm." - -Lady Jenkins looked up at him, apparently trying to consider. "I've not -had anything since I took the physic," she said. - -"What physic?" - -"The bottles that Mr. Tamlyn sent me." - -"But that was when you were ill. Are you sure you have not taken -anything else?--that you are not taking anything? Any"--he dropped his -voice to a still lower key--"opiates? Laudanum, for instance?" - -Lady Jenkins shook her head. "I never took any sort of opiate in my -life." - -"Then it is being given to her without her knowledge," mentally decided -the doctor. "I hear you were at the next door last night, as gay as the -best of them," he resumed aloud, changing his tone to a light one. - -"Ay. I put on my new bronze satin gown: Patty said I was to. Janet sang -her pretty songs." - -"Did she? When are you coming to spend an evening with us? She will sing -them again for you." - -"I should like to come--if I may." - -"If you may! There's nothing to prevent it. You are quite well enough." - -"There's Patty. We shall have to ask her whether I may." - -Anything Arnold Knox might have rejoined to this was stopped by the -entrance of Patty herself, a light blue shawl on her shoulders. A -momentary surprise crossed her face at sight of the doctor. - -"Oh, Dr. Knox! I did not know you were here," she said, as she threw off -the shawl. "I was running about the garden for a few minutes. What a -lovely day it is!--the sun so warm." - -"It is that. Lady Jenkins ought to be out in it. Should you not like to -take a run in the garden?" he laughingly added to her. - -"Should I, Patty?" - -The utter abnegation of will, both of tone and look, as she cast an -appealing glance at her companion, struck Dr. Knox forcibly. He looked -at both of them from under his rather overhanging eyebrows. Did Madame -St. Vincent extort this obedience?--or was it simply the old lady's -imbecility? Surely it must be the latter. - -"I think," said madame, "a walk in the garden will be very pleasant -for you, dear Lady Jenkins. Lettice shall bring down your things. The -may-tree is budding beautifully." - -"Already!" said the doctor: "I should like to see it. Will you go with -me, madame? I have two minutes to spare." - -Madame St. Vincent, showing no surprise, though she may have felt it, -put the blue shawl on her shoulders again and followed Dr. Knox. The -may-tree was nearly at the end of the garden, down by the shrubbery. - -"Mr. Tamlyn mentioned to you, I believe, that we suspected something -improper, in the shape of opiates, was being given to Lady Jenkins," -began Dr. Knox, never as much as lifting his eyes to the budding -may-tree. - -"Yes; I remember that he did," replied Madame St. Vincent. "I hardly -gave it a second thought." - -"Tamlyn said you had a difficulty in believing it. Nevertheless, I feel -assured that it is so." - -"Impossible, Dr. Knox." - -"It seems impossible to you, I dare say. But that it is being done, I -would stake my head upon. Lady Jenkins is being stupefied in some way: -and I have brought you out here to tell you so, and to ask your -co-operation in tracing the culprit." - -"But--I beg your pardon, Dr. Knox--who would give her anything of the -kind? You don't suspect me, I hope?" - -"If I suspected you, my dear lady, I should not be talking to you as I -am. The person we must suspect is Lettice Lane." - -"Lettice Lane!" - -"I have reason to think it. Lettice Lane's antecedents are not, I fear, -quite so clear as they might be: though it is only recently I have known -this. At any rate, she is the personal attendant of Lady Jenkins; the -only one of them who has the opportunity of being alone with her. I must -beg of you to watch Lettice Lane." - -Madame St. Vincent looked a little bewildered; perhaps felt so. -Stretching up her hand, she plucked one of the budding may-blossoms. - -"Mr. Tamlyn hinted at Lettice also. I have always felt confidence in -Lettice. As to drugs--Dr. Knox, I don't believe a word of it." - -"_Lady Jenkins is being drugged_," emphatically pronounced Dr. Knox. -"And you must watch Lettice Lane. If Lettice is innocent, we must look -elsewhere." - -"Shall I tax Lettice with it?" - -"Certainly not. You would make a good detective," he added, with a -laugh; "showing your hand to the enemy. Surely, Madame St. Vincent, you -must yourself see that Lady Jenkins is being tampered with. Look at her -state this morning: though she is not quite as bad as she is sometimes." - -"I have known some old people sleep almost constantly." - -"So have I. But theirs is simply natural sleep, induced by exhausted -nature: hers is not natural. She is stupefied." - -"Stupefied with the natural decay of her powers," dissented madame. -"But--to drug her! No, I cannot believe it. And where would be the -motive?" - -"That I know not. But I am sure I am not mistaken," he added decisively. -"You will watch Lettice Lane?" - -"I will," she answered, after a pause. "Of course it _may_ be as you -say; I now see it. I will watch her to the very utmost of my ability -from this hour." - - -III. - - "DEAR JOHNNY, - - "I expect your stay at Lefford is drawing towards a close; mine is, - here. It might be pleasant if we travelled home together. I could - take Lefford on my way--starting by an early train--and pick you up. - You need some one to take care of you, you know. Let me hear when - you intend to be ready. I will arrange my departure accordingly. - - "Hope you have enjoyed yourself, old fellow." - - "Ever yours, - "J. T." - -The above letter from Tod, who was still in Leicestershire, reached me -one morning at breakfast-time. Dr. Knox and Janet, old Tamlyn--all the -lot of them--called out that they could not spare me yet. Even Cattledon -graciously intimated that she should miss me. Janet wrote to Tod, -telling him he was to take Lefford on his way, as he proposed, and to -stay a week when he did come. - -It was, I think, that same day that some news reached us touching -Captain Collinson--that he was going to be married. At least that he had -made an offer, and was accepted. Not to Mina Knox; but to an old girl -(the epithet was Sam's) named Belmont. Miss Belmont lived with her -father at a nice place on the London Road, half-a-mile beyond Jenkins -House; he had a great deal of money, and she was his only child. She was -very plain, very dowdy, and quite forty years of age; but very good, -going about amongst the poor with tracts and soup. If the tidings -were true, and Captain Collinson _had_ made Miss Belmont an offer, it -appeared pretty evident that his object was her money: he could not -well have fallen in love with her, or court a wife so much older than -himself. - -When taxed with the fact--and it was old Tamlyn who did it, meeting him -opposite the market-house--Collinson simpered, and stroked his dark -beard, and said Lefford was fond of marvels. But he did not deny it. -Half-an-hour later he and Miss Belmont were seen together in the High -Street. She had her old cloth mantle on and her brown bonnet, as close -as a Quaker's, and carried her flat district basket in her hand. The -captain presented a contrast, with his superb dandy-cut clothes and -flourishing his ebony cane. - -"I think it must be quite true," Janet observed, as we watched them pass -the house. "And I shall be glad if it is: Arnold has been tormenting -himself with the fancy that the gallant captain was thinking of little -Mina." - -A day or two after this, it chanced that Dr. Knox had to visit Sir Henry -Westmorland, who had managed to give a twist to his ankle. Sir Henry was -one of those sociable, good-hearted men that no one can help liking; a -rather elderly bachelor. He and Tamlyn were old friends, and we had all -dined at Foxgrove about a week before. - -"Would you like to go over with me, Johnny?" asked Dr. Knox, when he was -starting. - -I said I should like it very much, and got into the "conveyance," the -doctor letting me drive. Thomas was not with us. We soon reached -Foxgrove: a low, straggling, red-brick mansion, standing in a small -park, about two miles and a half from Lefford. - -Dr. Knox went in; leaving me and the conveyance on the smooth wide -gravel-drive before the house. Presently a groom came up to take charge -of it, saying Sir Henry was asking for me. He had seen me from the -window. - -Sir Henry was lying on a sofa near the window, and Knox was already -beginning upon the ankle. A gentlemanly little man, nearly bald, sat on -the ottoman in the middle of the room. I found it was one Major Leckie. - -Some trifle--are these trifles _chance_?--turned the conversation upon -India. I think Knox spoke of some snake-bite in a man's ankle that had -laid him by for a month or two: it was no other than the late whilom -mayor, Sir Daniel Jenkins. Upon which, Major Leckie began relating his -experience of some reptile bites in India. The major had been home -nearly two years upon sick leave, he said, and was now going back again. - -"The 30th Bengal Cavalry!" repeated Dr. Knox, as Major Leckie happened -to mention that regiment--which was his, and the doctor remembered that -it was Captain Collinson's. "One of the officers of that regiment is -staying here now." - -"Is he!" cried the major, briskly. "Which of them?" - -"Captain Collinson." - -"Collinson!" echoed the major, his whole face alight with pleasure. -"Where is he? How long has he been here? I did not know he had left -India." - -"He came home last autumn, I fancy; was not well, and got twelve months' -leave. He has been staying at Lefford for some time." - -"I should like to see him! Good old Collinson! He and I were close -friends. He is a nice fellow." - -"Old, you style him!" cried Dr. Knox. "I should rather call him -young--of the two." - -Major Leckie laughed. "It is a word we are all given to using, doctor. -Of course Collinson's not old in years. Why is he staying at Lefford?" - -"I'm sure I don't know. Unless it is that he has fallen in love. I heard -him remark one day that the air of the place suited him." - -"Ah ah, Master Collinson!" laughed the major. "In love, are you, sir! -Caught at last, are you! Who is the lady?" - -"Nay, I spoke only in jest," returned Dr. Knox. "He seems to be a -general admirer; but I don't know that it is any one in particular. -Report has mentioned one or two ladies, but report is often a false -town-crier." - -"Well, she will be in luck--whoever gets him. He is one of the nicest, -truest fellows I know; and will make a rare good husband." - -"It is said he has private means. Do you know whether that's true?" - -"He has very good private means. His father left him a fortune. -Sometimes we fancy he will not stay with us long. I should not be -surprised if he sells out while he is at home, and settles down." - -"Johnny Ludlow heard him say something the other night to that effect," -observed the doctor, looking at me. - -"Yes," I said, confirming the words. "He is about buying an estate now, -I believe. But he talked of going back to India for a few years." - -"I hope he will. There's not a man amongst us, that I would not rather -spare than Collinson. I _should_ like to see him. I might walk into -Lefford now--if you will give me his address, doctor. Will you spare me -for an hour or two, Sir Henry?" - -"Well, I must, I suppose," grumbled Sir Henry. "It's rather bad of you, -though, Leckie; and after putting me off with so miserably short a stay. -You get here at ten o'clock last night, and you go off at ten o'clock -to-night! Fine behaviour that!" - -"I am obliged to go to-night, Westmorland; you know I am, and I could -not get to you earlier, although I tried. I won't be away a minute -longer than I can help. I can walk into Lefford in half-an-hour--my pace -is a quick one. No; and I won't stay an unconscionable time with -Collinson," he added, in answer to a growl of the baronet's. "Trust me. -I'll be back under two hours." - -"Bring him back with you for the rest of the day," said Sir Henry. - -"Oh, thank you. And I am sure you will say he is the best fellow going. -I wonder you and he have not found out one another before." - -"If you don't mind taking a seat in yonder nondescript vehicle--that Mr. -Johnny Ludlow here has the audacity to say must have been built in the -year One," laughed Dr. Knox, pointing outside, "I can drive you to -Captain Collinson's lodgings." - -"A friend in need is a friend indeed," cried the major, laughing also. -"What style of vehicle do you call it?" - -"_We_ call it the conveyance. As to its style--well I never had the -opportunity of asking that of the builder. I believe my father bought -it second-hand when he first went into practice many a year ago." - -The doctor drove this time; Major Leckie sitting beside him, I in the -perch behind. Leaving the major at the hairdresser's, upon reaching -Lefford, Dr. Knox and I went home. And this is what occurred--as we -heard later. - -Ringing at the private door, which was Captain Collinson's proper -entrance, a young servant-girl appeared, and--after the manner of -many young country servants--sent Major Leckie alone up to Captain -Collinson's rooms, saying she supposed the captain was at home. It -turned out that he was not at home. Seated before the fire was a -gentleman in a crimson dressing-gown and slippers, smoking a huge pipe. - -"Come in," cried out he, in answer to the major's knock. - -"I beg your pardon," said the major, entering. "I understood that -Captain Collinson lodged here." - -"He does lodge here," replied he of the dressing-gown, putting his pipe -into the fender, as he rose. "What is it that you want with him?" - -"I only called to see him. I am one of his brother-officers--home on -sick leave; as I understand he is." - -"Collinson is out," said the gentleman. "I am sorry it should happen so. -Can you leave any message?" - -"Will he be long? I should much like to see him." - -"He will be back to dinner to-night; not much before that, I think. He -is gone by train to--to--some place a few miles off. Boom--or Room--or -Doom--or some such name. I am a stranger here." - -"Toome, I suppose," remarked the major. "It's the last station before -you get to Lefford--I noticed the name last night. I am very sorry. I -should liked to have seen Collinson. Tell him so, will you. I am Major -Leckie." - -"You will be calling again, perhaps?" - -"I can't do that. I must spend the rest of this day with my friend, Sir -Henry Westmorland, and I leave to-night. Tell Collinson that I embark in -a few days. Stay: this is my address in London, if he will write to me. -I wonder he did not attempt to find me out--I came home before he did: -and he knew that he could always get my address at my bankers'." - -"I will tell Collinson all you say, Major Leckie," said the stranger, -glancing at the card. "It is a pity he is out." - -"Should he come back in time--though I fear, by what you say, there's -little chance of it--be so good as to say that Sir Henry Westmorland -will be happy to see him to dinner this evening at Foxgrove, at six -o'clock--and to come over as much earlier as he can." - -With the last words, Major Leckie left, Collinson's friend politely -attending him down to the front-door. I was standing at Mr. Tamlyn's -gate as he passed it on his way back to Foxgrove. Dr. Knox, then going -off on foot to see a patient, came across the yard from the surgery at -the same moment. - -"Such a mischance!" the major stopped in his rapid walk to say to us. -"Collinson has gone to Toome to-day. I saw a friend of his, who is -staying with him, and he thinks he won't be back before night." - -"I did not know Collinson had any one staying with him," remarked the -doctor. "Some one called in upon him, probably." - -"This man is evidently staying with him; making himself at home too," -said the major. "He was in a dressing-gown and slippers, and had his -feet on the fender, smoking a pipe. A tall, dark fellow, face all -hair." - -"Why, that is Collinson himself," cried I. - -"Not a bit of it," said the major. "This man is no more like -Collinson--except that Collinson is dark and has a beard--than he is -like me. He said he was a stranger in the place." - -A rapid conclusion crossed me that it must be a brother of -Collinson's--for a resemblance to himself, according to the major's -description, there no doubt was. Major Leckie wished me good-day, and -continued his way up the street, Dr. Knox with him. - -"What are you gazing at, Johnny Ludlow?" - -I turned at the question, and saw Charlotte Knox. She was coming to -call on Janet. We stood there talking of one thing and another. I told -Charlotte that Collinson's brother, as I took it to be, was staying with -him; and Charlotte told me of a quarrel she had just had with Mina on -the score of the captain. - -"Mina won't believe a word against him, Johnny. When I say he is nothing -but a flirt, that he is only playing with her, she bids me hold my -tongue. She quite scorns the notion that he would like to marry Miss -Belmont." - -"Have you seen any more letters, that concern me, in at Madame St. -Vincent's?" I asked. - -"Do you think I should be likely to?--or that such letters are as -plentiful as blackberries?" retorted Charlotte. "And you?--have you -discovered the key to that letter?" - -"I have not discovered it, Charlotte. I have taxed my memory in vain. -Never a girl, no matter whose sister she may be, can I recall to mind as -being likely to owe me a grudge." - -"It was not that the girl owed you a grudge," quickly spoke Charlotte. -"It was that she must not meet you." - -"Does not the one thing imply the other? I can't think of any one. There -was a young lady, indeed, in the years gone by, when I was not much more -than a lad, who--may--have--taken up a prejudice against me," I added -slowly and thoughtfully, for I was hardly sure of what I said. "But she -cannot have anything to do with the present matter, and I am quite sure -she was not a sister of Madame St. Vincent." - -"What was her name?" asked Charlotte. - -"Sophie Chalk." - - - - -LADY JENKINS. - -LIGHT. - - -I. - -Tod arrived at Lefford. I met him at the train, just as I had met -Miss Cattledon, who was with us still. As we walked out of the -station together, many a man cast a glance after the tall, fine young -fellow--who looked strong enough to move the world, if, like Archimedes, -the geometrician of Syracuse, he had only possessed the necessary lever. - -"Shall you be able to stay a week, Tod?" - -"Two weeks if they'd like it, Johnny. How you have picked up, lad!" - -"Picked up?" - -"In looks. They are all your own again. Glad to see it, old fellow." - -Some few days had elapsed since the latest event recorded in this -veritable little history--the call that Major Leckie made on Captain -Collinson, and found his brother there, instead of himself--but no -change worth noting to the reader had occurred in the town politics. -Lady Jenkins was ailing as much as ever, and Madame St. Vincent was -keeping a sharp watch on the maid, Lettice Lane, without, as yet, -detecting her in any evil practices: the soirees were numerous, one -being held at some house or other every night in the work-a-day week: -and the engagement of Captain Collinson to Miss Belmont was now talked -of as an assured fact. Collinson himself had been away from Lefford -during these intervening days. Pink, the hairdresser, thought he had -taken a run up to London, on some little matter of business. As to the -brother, we had heard no more of him. - -But, if Captain Collinson had taken a run up to London, he had -unquestionably run down again, though not to Lefford. On the day but one -before the coming of Tod, Janet and Miss Cattledon went over by train -to do some shopping at the county town, which stood fifteen miles from -Lefford, I being with them. Turning into a pastry-cook's in the middle -of the day to get something to eat, we turned in upon Captain Collinson. -He sat at a white marble-topped table in the corner of the shop, eating -an oyster patty. - -"We heard you were in London," said Janet, shaking hands with him, as he -rose to offer her his seat. - -"Got back this morning. Shall be at Lefford to-morrow: perhaps -to-night," he answered. - -He stood gobbling up his patty quickly. I said something to him, just -because the recollection came into my mind, about the visit of his -brother. - -"My brother!" he exclaimed in answer, staring at me with all his eyes. -"What brother? How do you know anything about my brother?" - -"Major Leckie saw him when he called at your lodgings. Saw him instead -of you. You had gone to Toome. We took it to be your brother, from the -description; he was so like yourself." - -The captain smiled. "I forgot that," he said. "We _are_ much alike. Ned -told me of Leckie's call. A pity I could not see him! Things always -happen cross and contrary. Has Leckie left Foxgrove yet?" - -"Oh, he left it that same night. I should think he is on his way back to -India by this time." - -"His visit to Lefford seems to have been as flying a one as my brother's -was, and _his_ did not last a day. How much?" to the girl behind the -counter. "Sixpence? There it is." And, with a general adieu nodded to -the rest of us, the captain left the shop. - -"I don't like that dandy," spoke Cattledon, in her severest tone. "I -have said so before. I'm sure he is a man who cannot be trusted." - -I answered nothing: but I had for a little time now thought the same. -There was that about him that gave you the idea he was in some way or -other not _true_. And it may as well be mentioned here that Captain -Collinson got back to Lefford that same evening, in time to make his -appearance at Mrs. Parker's soiree, at which both Miss Belmont and Mina -Knox were present. - -So now we come to Tod again, and to the day of his arrival. Talking of -one thing and another, telling him of this and that, of the native -politics, as we all like to do when a stranger comes to set himself -down, however temporarily, amidst us, I mentioned the _familiarity_ that -in two of the people struck upon my memory. Never did I see this same -Captain Collinson, never did I see Madame St. Vincent, or hear them -speak, or listen to their laugh, but the feeling that I had met them -before--had been, so to say, intimate with both one and the other--came -forcibly upon me. - -"And yet it would seem, upon the face of things, that I never have -been," I continued to Tod, when telling of this. "Madame St. Vincent -says she never left the South of France until last year; and the captain -has been nearly all his life in India." - -"You know you do take fancies, Johnny." - -"True. But, are not those fancies generally borne out by the result? Any -way, they puzzle me, both of them: and there's a ring in their voices -that----" - -"A ring in their voices!" put in Tod, laughing. - -"Say an accent, then; especially in madame's; and it sounds, to my ears, -unmistakably Worcestershire." - -"Johnny, you _are_ fanciful!" - -I never got anything better from Tod. "You will have the honour of -meeting them both here to-night," I said to him, "for it is Janet's turn -to give the soiree, and I know they are expected." - -Evening came. At six o'clock the first instalment of guests knocked at -the door; by half-past six the soiree was in full glory: a regular -crowd. Every one seemed to have come, with the exception of the ladies -from Jenkins House. Sam Jenkins brought in their excuses. - -Sam had run up to Jenkins House with some physic for the butler, who -said he had a surfeit (from drinking too much old ale, Tamlyn thought), -and Sam had made use of the opportunity to see his aunt. Madame St. -Vincent objected. It would try the dear old lady too much, madame said. -She was lying in a sweet sleep on the sofa in her own room; had been -quite blithe and lively all day, but was drowsy now; and she had better -not be disturbed until bedtime. Perhaps Mr. Sam would kindly make their -excuses to Mrs. Arnold Knox. - -"Can't you come yourself, madame?" asked Sam, politely. "If Aunt Jenkins -is asleep, and means to keep asleep till bed-time, she can't want you." - -"I could not think of leaving her," objected madame. "She looks for me -the moment she wakes." - -So Sam, I say, brought back the message. Putting himself into his -evening-coat, he came into the room while tea was going on, and -delivered madame's excuses to Janet as distinctly as the rattle of cups -and saucers allowed. You should have seen Cattledon that evening:--in a -grey silk gown that stood on end, a gold necklace, and dancing shoes. - -"This is the second soiree this week that Lady Jenkins has failed to -appear at," spoke Mrs. Knox--not Janet--in a resentful tone. "My firm -opinion is that Madame St. Vincent keeps her away." - -"Keeps her away," cried Arnold. "Why should she do that?" - -"Well, yes; gives way to her fads and fancies about being ill, instead -of rousing her out of them. As to _why_ she does it," continued Mrs. -Knox, "I suppose she is beginning to grow nervous about her. As if an -innocent, quiet soiree could hurt Lady Jenkins!" - -"Johnny," whispered Sam, subsiding into the background after delivering -his message, "may I never stir again if I didn't see Collinson hiding in -aunt's garden!" - -"_Hiding_ in your aunt's garden!" I exclaimed. "What was he doing that -for?" - -"Goodness knows. Did you ever notice a big bay-tree that you pass on the -left, between the door and the gate? Well, he was standing behind it. I -came out of the house at a double quick pace, knowing I should be late -for the soiree, cleared the steps at a leap, and the path to the gate at -another. Too quick, I suppose, for Collinson. He was bending forward to -look at the parlour windows, and drew back as I passed." - -"Did you speak, Sam?" - -"No, I came flying on, taking no notice. I dare say he thinks I did not -see him. One does not like, you know, to speak to a man who evidently -wants to avoid you. But now--I wonder what he was doing there?" -continued Sam, reflectively. "Watching Madame St. Vincent, I should say, -through the lace curtains." - -"But for what purpose?" - -"I can't even imagine. There he was." - -To my mind this sounded curious. But that Mina Knox was before my -eyes--just at the moment listening to the whispers of Dan Jenkins--I -should have thought the captain was looking after her. Or, rather, _not_ -listening to Dan. Mina had a pained, restless look on her face, not in -the least natural to it, and kept her head turned away. And the more Dan -whispered, the more she turned it from him. - -"Here he is, Sam." - -Sam looked round at my words, and saw Captain Collinson, then coming in. -He was got up to perfection as usual, and wore a white rose in his -button-hole. His purple-black hair, beard, whiskers and moustache were -grand; his voice had its ordinary fashionable drawl. I saw Tod--at the -opposite side of the room--cease talking with old Tamlyn, to fix his -keen eyes on the captain. - -"Very sorry to be so late," apologized the captain, bowing over Janet's -hand. "Been detained at home writing letters for India. Overland mail -goes out to-morrow night." - -Sam gave me a knock with his elbow. "What a confounded story!" he -whispered. "Wonder what the gallant captain means, Johnny! Wonder what -game he is up to?" - -It was, I dare say, nearly an hour after this that I came across Tod. He -was standing against the wall, laughing slightly to himself, evidently -in some glee. Captain Collinson was at the piano opposite, his back to -us, turning over the leaves for Caroline Parker, who was singing. - -"What are you amused at, Tod?" - -"At you, lad. Thinking what a muff you are." - -"I always am a muff, I know. But why am I one just now in particular?" - -"For not knowing that man," nodding towards Collinson. "I thought I -recognized him as he came in; felt sure of him when I heard him speak. -Men may disguise their faces almost at will; but not their voices, -Johnny." - -"Why, who is he?" I asked in surprise. - -"I'll tell you when we are alone. I should have known him had we met -amid the Hottentots. I thought he was over in Australia; knew he went -there." - -"But--is he not Captain Collinson?" - -Tod laughed. "Just as much as I am, Johnny. Of course he may have -assumed the name of Collinson in place of his own: if so, nobody has a -right, I take it, to say him nay. But, as to his being a captain in the -Bengal Cavalry--well, I don't think he is." - -"And you say I know him!" - -"I say you ought to--but for being a muff. I suppose it is the hair he -is adorned with that has thrown you off the scent." - -"But, where have I seen him, Tod? Who----" - -"Hush, lad. We may be overheard." - -As a general rule, all the guests at these soirees left together. They -did so to-night. The last to file out at the door were the Hampshires, -with Mrs. Knox, her daughter, and Miss Mack--for Janet had made a point -of inviting poor hard-worked, put-upon Macky. Both families lived in the -London Road, and would go home in company. Dan had meant to escort Mina, -but she pointedly told him he was not wanted, and took the offered arm -of Captain Collinson. Upon which, Dan turned back in a huff. Sam laughed -at that, and ran after them himself. - -How long a time had elapsed afterwards, I hardly know. Perhaps -half-an-hour; perhaps not so much. We had not parted for the night: in -fact, Mr. Tamlyn and Tod were still over the game at chess they had -begun since supper; which game seemed in no mood to be finished. I -watched it: Dr. Knox and Miss Cattledon stood talking over the fire; -while Janet, ever an active housekeeper, was in the supper-room, helping -the maids to clear the table. In the midst of this, Charlotte Knox came -back, rushing into the room in a state of intense excitement, with the -news that Mina and Captain Collinson were eloping together. - -The account she gave was this--though just at first nothing clear could -be made out of her. Upon starting, the Hampshires, Mrs. Knox, and Miss -Mack went on in front; Captain Collinson and Mina walked next, and -Charlotte fell behind with Sam. Fell very much behind, as it appeared; -for when people are talking of what interests them, their steps are apt -to linger; and Sam was telling her of having seen Captain Collinson -behind the bay-tree. It was a beautiful night, warm and pleasant. - -Charlotte and Sam let the captain and Mina get pretty nearly the length -of a street before them; and _they_, in their turn, were as much behind -the party in advance. Suddenly Sam exclaimed that the captain was taking -the wrong way. His good eyes had discerned that, instead of keeping -straight on, which was the proper (and only) route to the London Road, -he and Mina had turned down the lane leading to the railway-station. -"Halloa!" he exclaimed to Charlotte, "what's that for?" "They must be -dreaming," was Charlotte's laughing reply: "or, perhaps the captain -wants to take an excursion by a night-train!" Whether anything in the -last remark, spoken in jest, struck particularly on the mind of Sam, -Charlotte did not know: away he started as if he had been shot, -Charlotte running after him in curiosity. Arrived at the lane, Sam saw -the other two flying along, just as if they wanted to catch a train and -had not a minute to do it in. Onward went Sam's long legs in pursuit; -but the captain's legs were long also, and he was pulling Mina with him: -altogether Sam did not gain much upon them. The half-past eleven o'clock -train was then gliding into the station, where it was timed to halt two -minutes. The captain and Mina dashed on to the platform, and, when -Sam got up, he was putting her into the nearest carriage. Such was -Charlotte's statement: and her eyes looked wild, and her breath was -laboured as she made it. - -"Have they _gone_?--gone on by the train?" questioned Dr. Knox, who -seemed unnaturally calm. - -"Goodness, no!" panted the excited Charlotte. "Sam managed to get his -arm round Mina's waist, and the captain could not pull her away from -him. It was a regular struggle on the platform, Arnold. I appealed to -the station-master, who stood by. I told him it was my sister, and that -she was being kidnapped against her will; Sam also appealed to him. So -he gave the signal when the time was up, and let the train go on." - -"Not against her will, I fear," spoke Arnold Knox from between his -condemning lips. "Where are they now, Lotty?" - -"On the platform, quarrelling; and still struggling which shall keep -possession of Mina. I came running here to fetch you, Arnold, and I -believe I shall never get my breath again." - -With one accord we all, Cattledon excepted, set off to the station; even -old Tamlyn proved he had some go in his legs yet. Tod reached it first: -few young men could come up to him at running. - -Sam Jenkins had exchanged his hold of Mina for a hold on Captain -Collinson. The two were struggling together; but Sam's grasp was firm, -and he held him as in a vice. "No, no," he was saying, "you don't escape -me, captain, until some one comes here to take charge of Mina." As -to Mina, little simpleton, she cowered in the shade of the corner, -shivering and crying. The station-master and the two night-porters stood -about, gaping and staring. - -Tod put his hand on the captain's shoulder; his other hand momentarily -holding back Dr. Knox. "Since when have you been Captain Collinson," he -quietly asked. - -The captain turned his angry eyes upon him. "What is that to you?" he -retorted. "I am Captain Collinson; that is enough for you." - -"Enough for me, and welcome. Not enough, as I judge, for this gentleman -here," indicating the doctor. "When I knew you your name was not -Collinson." - -"How dare you insult me?" hissed the captain. "My name not Collinson!" - -"Not at all!" was Tod's equable answer. "It used to be FABIAN PELL." - - -II. - -The history of the Clement-Pells and their downfall was given in the -First Series of these stories, and the reader can have no difficulty in -recalling Fabian to his memory. There are times, even to this day, when -it seems to me that I must have been a muff, as Tod said, not to know -him. But, some years had elapsed since I saw him; and those years, -with their ill-fortune and exposure, and the hard life he had led in -Australia, had served to change him greatly; above all, there was now -the mass of hair disguising the greater part of his face. Bit by bit my -recollection came to me, and I knew that he was, beyond all shadow of -doubt, Fabian Pell. - -How long we sat up that night at Mr. Tamlyn's, talking over its events, -I cannot precisely tell. For quite the half of what was left of it. -Mina, brought to his own home by Arnold for safety, was consigned to -Cattledon's charge and bed, and retired to the latter in a state of -humiliation and collapse. - -The scene on the platform had soon come to a conclusion. With the -security of Mina assured by the presence of her brother and the rest of -us, Sam let go his hold of the captain. It had been a nice little plot -this, that the captain had set on foot in secret, and persuaded that -silly girl, not much better than a child, to accede to. They were to -have run away to London that night, and been married there the next day; -the captain, as was found out later, having already managed to procure a -licence. You see, if Mina became his wife without any settlement, her -money at once lapsed to him and he could do what he would with it. How, -as Captain Collinson, he would have braved the matter out to Dr. Knox -that night, and excused himself for his treachery, he best knew. Tod -checkmated him by proclaiming him as Fabian Pell. A lame attempt at -denial, which Tod, secure in his assertion, laughed at; a little -bravado, and Captain Collinson collapsed. Against the truth--that he was -Fabian Pell--brought home to him so suddenly and clearly, he could not -hold out; the man's hardihood deserted him; and he turned tail and went -off the platform, calling back that Mr. Todhetley should hear from him -in the morning. - -We came away then, bringing Mina. Sam went to escort Charlotte home, -where they would have the pleasure of imparting the news to Mrs. Knox, -who probably by that time was thinking that Lotty had eloped as well as -Mina. And now we were sitting round the fire in old Tamlyn's room, -discussing what had happened. Sam came back in the midst of it. Arnold -_was_ down in the mouth, and no mistake. - -"Did you see Mrs. Knox?" he asked of Sam. - -"Not to speak to, sir. I saw her through the kitchen window. She was -spreading bread-and-jam for Dicky, who had come down in his night-gown -and would not be coaxed back to bed." - -"What an injudicious woman she is!" put in old Tamlyn. "Enough to ruin -the boy." - -Perhaps Dr. Knox was thinking, as he sat there, his hand pressed upon -his brow, that if she had been a less injudicious woman, a different -mother altogether, Mina might not have been in danger of falling into -the present escapade: but he said nothing. - -"I remember hearing of the notorious break-up of the Clement-Pells at -the time it took place," observed old Tamlyn to Tod. "And to think that -this man should be one of them!" - -"He must carry his impudence about with him," was Tod's remark. - -"They ruined hundreds of poor men and women, if not thousands," -continued old Tamlyn. "I conclude your people knew all about it?" - -"Indeed, yes. We were in the midst of it. My father lost--how much was -it, Johnny?" - -"Two hundred pounds," I answered; the question bringing vividly back to -me our adventures in Boulogne, when the pater and Mr. Brandon went over -there to try to get the money back. - -"I suppose," resumed the surgeon, "your father had that much balance -lying in their hands, and lost it all?" - -"No," said Tod, "he did not bank with them. A day or two before -Clement-Pell burst up, he drove to our house as bold as brass, asking my -father in the most off-hand manner to let him have a cheque for two -hundred pounds until the next day. The Squire did let him have it, -without scruple, and of course lost it. He would have let him have two -thousand had Pell asked for it." - -"But that was a fraud. Pell might have been punished for it." - -"I don't know that it was so much a fraud as many other things Pell did, -and might have been punished for," observed Tod. "At any rate, not as -great a one. He escaped out of the way, as I dare say you know, sir, and -his family escaped with him. It was hard on them. They had been brought -up in the greatest possible extravagance, in all kinds of luxury. This -one, Fabian, was in the army. He, of course, had to retire. His own -debts would have forced that step upon him, apart from the family -disgrace." - -"Did he re-enter it, I wonder." - -Tod laughed. "_I_ should say not. He went to Australia. Not above a -year ago I heard that he was still there. He must have come back here -fortune-hunting; _bread_-hunting; and passed himself off as Captain -Collinson the better to do it. Miss Mina Knox's seven thousand pounds -was a prize to fight for." - -"That's it!" cried Sam. "Dan has said all along it was the money he was -after, dishonourable wretch, not Mina herself. He cares too much for -Madame St. Vincent to care for Mina: at least we think so. How did he -get the funds, I wonder, that he has been flourishing about upon?" - -"Won them at billiards," suggested Tod. - -"No," said Sam, "I don't think that. By all accounts he lost more than -he won in the billiard-rooms." - -Dr. Knox looked up from a reverie. "Was it himself that Major Leckie -saw?--and did he pass himself off as another man to escape detection? -Did he go off for the remainder of the week lest the major should look -him up again?" - -And we knew it must have been so. - -Little sleep did I get that night, or, rather, morning, for the small -hours had struck when we went to bed. The association of ideas is a -great thing in this world; a help in many an emergency. This association -led me from Fabian Pell to his sisters: and the mysterious memory of -Madame St. Vincent that had so puzzled my mind cleared itself up. As -though a veil had been withdrawn from my eyes, leaving the recollection -unclouded and distinct, I saw she was one of those sisters: the eldest -of them, Martha Jane. And, let not the reader call me a muff, as Tod -again did later, for not having found her out before. When I knew her -she was an angular, raw-boned girl, with rather a haggard and very pale -face, and nothing to say for herself. Now she was a filled-out woman, -her face round, her colour healthy, and one of the most self-possessed -talkers I ever listened to. In the old days her hair was reddish -and fell in curls: now it was dark, and worn in braids and plaits -fashionably incomprehensible. Whether the intervening years had -darkened the hair, or whether madame cunningly dyed it, must remain -a question. - -Dan Jenkins and his brother were right. They no doubt had seen looks of -anxious interest given to Madame St. Vincent by Captain Collinson. Not -as a lover, however; they were mistaken there; but as a brother who was -living in a state of peril, and whom she was doubtless protecting and -trying to aid. But how far had her aid gone? That she kept up the -ball, as to his being Captain Collinson, the rich, honourable, and -well-connected Indian officer, went without saying, as the French have -it; and no one could expect her to proclaim him as Fabian Pell, the -swindler; but had she been helping him in his schemes upon Mina? As to -her display of formal coolness to him, it must have been put on to -mislead the public. - -And what was I to do? Must I quietly bury my discovery within me and say -nothing? or must I tell Dr. Knox that Madame St. Vincent was no other -than Martha Jane Pell? What _ought_ I to do? It was that question that -kept me awake. Never liking to do harm where I could not do good, I -asked myself whether I had any right to ruin her. It might be that she -was not able to help herself; that she had done no worse than keep -Fabian's secret: it might be that she had wanted him gone just as much -as Dan Jenkins had wanted it. - -"I'll tell Tod in the morning," was my final conclusion, "and hear what -he thinks." - -When I got downstairs they were beginning breakfast, and Miss Cattledon -was turning from the table to carry up Mina's tea. Mina remained in the -depths of tears and contrition, and Cattledon had graciously told her -she might lie in bed. Breakfast was taken very late that morning, the -result of the previous night's disturbance, and the clock was striking -ten when we rose from it. - -"Tod, I want to speak to you," I said in his ear. "I want to tell you -something." - -"All right, lad. Tell away." - -"Not here. Won't you come out with me somewhere? We must be alone." - -"Then it must wait, Johnny. I am going round to the stables with -Tamlyn. He wishes me to see the horse they have got on trial. By the -description, I don't think much of him: should give him a pretty long -trial before I bought him." - -They went out. Not long after that, I was strolling across the -court-yard with Sam Jenkins, who had been despatched on some -professional errand, when we saw Sir Henry Westmorland ride up and -rein in his horse. He asked for Dr. Knox. Sam went back to the house -to say so, while Sir Henry talked to me. - -"Look here," said Sir Henry to the doctor, after they had shaken -hands, "I have had a curious letter from Major Leckie this morning. At -least"--taking the letter from his pocket and opening it--"it contains -an odd bit of news. He says--where is it?--stand still, sir,"--to the -horse. "Here it is; just listen, doctor. 'Dr. Knox must have made a -mistake in saying Collinson was at Lefford. Collinson is in India; has -not been home at all. I have had a letter from him by the overland mail -just in, asking me to do a commission for him. Tell Dr. Knox this. If -the man he spoke of is passing himself off for Collinson of ours, he -must be an impostor.' What do you think of that, doctor?" concluded Sir -Henry, folding the letter again. - -"He is an impostor," replied Dr. Knox. "We found him out last night." - -"What a rogue! Has he been taking people in--fleecing them?" - -"He has taken us all in, Sir Henry, in one sense of the word; he was -on the point of doing it more effectually, when he was stopped. As to -fleecing people, I don't know about that. He seems to have had plenty -of money at his command--whence obtained is another question." - -"Cheated some one out of it; rely upon that," remarked the baronet, as -he nodded a good-day to us, and rode off. - -Mina was downstairs when we returned indoors. Anything more pitiful than -her state of contrition and distress I should not care to see. No doubt -the discovery, just made, tended to strengthen her repentance. In -a silly girl's mind some romance might attach to the notion of an -elopement with a gallant captain of consideration, brave in Her -Majesty's service; but to elope with Mr. Fabian Pell, the chevalier -d'industrie, was quite another affair. Mina was mild in temperament, -gentle in manners, yet she might have flown at the ex-captain's face -with sharp nails, had he come in her way. - -"I did not really like him," she sobbed forth: and there was no doubt -that she spoke truth. "But they were always on at me, persuading me; -they never let me alone." - -"Who persuaded you, my dear?" asked Janet. - -"He did. He was for ever meeting me in private, and urging me. I could -not go out for a walk, or just cross the garden, or run into the next -door, but he would be there. Madame St. Vincent persuaded me. She did -not say to me, in words, 'you had better do as he asks you and run -away,' but all her counsels tended towards it. She would say to me how -happy his wife would be; what a fine position it was for any young lady -lucky enough to be chosen by him; and that all the world thought me old -enough to marry, though Arnold did not, and for that reason Arnold would -do his best to prevent it. And so--and so----" - -"And so they persuaded you against your better judgment," added Janet -pityingly, as Mina broke down in a burst of tears. - -"There, child, take this, and don't cry your eyes out," interposed -Cattledon, bringing in a beaten-up egg. - -Cattledon was coming out uncommonly strong in the way of compassion, all -her tartness gone. She certainly did not look with an eye of favour on -elopements; but she was ready to take up Mina's cause against the man -who had deceived her. Cattledon hated the Pells: for Cattledon had been -done out of fifty pounds at the time of old Pell's failure, money she -had rashly entrusted to him. She could not very well afford to lose it, -and she had been bitter on the Pells, one and all, ever since. - -That morning was destined to be one of elucidation. Mr. Tamlyn was in -the surgery, saying a last word to Dr. Knox before the latter went out -to visit his patients, when Lettice Lane marched in. She looked so fresh -and innocent that three parts of Tamlyn's suspicions of her melted away. - -"Anything amiss at home?" asked he. - -"No, sir," replied Lettice, "I have only brought this note"--handing one -in. "Madame St. Vincent told the butler to bring it; but his pains are -worse this morning; and, as I chanced to be coming out at the moment, he -asked me to leave it here for him." - -"Wait an instant," said Mr. Tamlyn, as he opened the note. - -It contained nothing of consequence. Madame St. Vincent had written to -say that Lady Jenkins was pretty well, but had finished her medicine: -perhaps Mr. Tamlyn would send her some more. Old Tamlyn's injunction to -wait an instant had been given in consequence of a sudden resolution he -had then come to (as he phrased it in his mind), to "tackle" Lettice. - -"Lettice Lane," he began, winking at Dr. Knox, "your mistress's state is -giving us concern. She seems to be always sleeping." - -"She is nearly always dozing off, sir," replied Lettice, her tone and -looks open and honest as the day. - -"Ay. I can't quite come to the bottom of it," returned old Tamlyn, -making believe to be confidential. "To me, it looks just as though she -took--took opiates." - -"Opiates, sir?" repeated Lettice, as if she hardly understood the -word: while Dr. Knox, behind the desk, was glancing keenly at her from -underneath his compressed eyebrows. - -"Opium. Laudanum." - -Lettice shook her head. "No, sir, my mistress does not take anything of -that sort, I am sure; we have nothing of the kind in the house. But -Madame St. Vincent is for ever dosing her with brandy-and-water." - -"What?" shouted old Tamlyn. - -"I have said a long while, sir, that I thought you ought to know it; -I've said so to the housemaid. I don't believe an hour hardly passes, -day or night, but madame administers to her a drop of brandy-and-water. -Half a wine-glass, maybe, or a full wine-glass, as the case may happen; -and sometimes I know it's pretty strong." - -"That's it," said Dr. Knox quietly: and a curious smile crossed his -face. - -Mr. Tamlyn sat down on the stool in consternation. "Brandy-and-water!" -he repeated, more than once, "Perpetually dosed with brandy-and-water! -And now, Lettice Lane, how is it you have not come here before to tell -me of this?" - -"I did not come to tell you now, sir," returned Lettice. "Madame St. -Vincent says that Lady Jenkins needs it: she seems to give it her for -her good. It is only lately that I have doubted whether it can be -right. I have not liked to say anything: servants don't care to -interfere. Ten times a-day she will give her these drops of cold -brandy-and-water: and I know she gets up for the same purpose once or -twice in the night." - -"Does Lady Jenkins take it without remonstrance?" asked Dr. Knox, -speaking for the first time. - -"She does, sir, now. At first she did not. Many a time I have heard my -lady say, 'Do you think so much brandy can be good for me, Patty? I -feel so dull after it,' and Madame St. Vincent has replied, that it is -the only thing that can get her strength back and bring her round." - -"The jade!" spoke Dr. Knox, between his teeth. "And to assure us both -that all the old lady took was a drop of it weak twice a-day at her -meals! Lettice Lane," he added aloud, and there was a great sternness -in his tone, "you are to blame for not having spoken of this. A little -longer silence, and it might have cost your mistress her life." And -Lettice went out in contrition. - -"What can the woman's motive be, for thus dosing her into stupidity?" -spoke the one doctor to the other when they were shut in together. - -"_That_: the dosing her into it," said Dr. Knox. - -"But the motive, Arnold?--the reason? She must have had a motive." - -"That remains to be found out." - -It turned out to be too true. The culprit was Madame St. Vincent. She -had been administering these constant doses of brandy-and-water for -months. Not giving enough at a time to put Lady Jenkins into a state of -intoxication; only to reduce her to a chronic state of semi-stupidity. - -Tod called me, as I tell you, a muff: first for not knowing Madame St. -Vincent; and next for thinking to screen her. Of course this revelation -of Lettice Lane's had put a new complexion upon things. I left the -matter with Tod, and he told the doctors at once: Madame St. Vincent -was, or used to be, Martha Jane Pell, own sister to Captain Collinson -the false. - - -III. - -Quietly knocking at the door of Jenkins House this same sunny morning -went three gentlemen: old Tamlyn, Mr. Lawrence, and Joseph Todhetley. -Mr. Lawrence was a magistrate and ex-mayor; he had preceded the late -Sir Daniel Jenkins in the civic chair, and was intimate with him as a -brother. Just as old Tamlyn tackled Lettice, so they were now about to -tackle Madame St. Vincent on the score of the brandy-and-water; and they -had deemed it advisable to take Tod with them. - -Lady Jenkins was better than usual; rather less stupid. She was seated -with madame in the cheerful garden-room, its glass-doors standing open -to the sunshine and the flowers. The visitors were cordially received; -it was supposed they had only come to pay a morning visit. Madame St. -Vincent sat behind a table in the corner, writing notes of invitation -for a soiree, to be held that day week. Tod, who had his wits about him, -went straight up to her. It must be remembered that they had not yet -met. - -"Ah! how are you?" cried he, holding out his hand. "Surprised to see -you here." And she turned white, and stared, uncertain how to take his -words, or whether he had really recognized her, and bowed stiffly as to -a stranger, and never put out her own hand in answer. - -I cannot tell you much about the interview: Tod's account to me was not -very clear. Lady Jenkins began talking about Captain Collinson--that -he had turned out to be some unworthy man of the name of Pell, and had -endeavoured to kidnap poor little Mina. Charlotte Knox imparted the news -to her that morning, in defiance of Madame St. Vincent, who had tried -to prevent her. Madame had said it must be altogether some mistake, and -that no doubt Captain Collinson would be able to explain: but she, Lady -Jenkins, did not know. After that there was a pause; Lady Jenkins shut -her eyes, and madame went on writing her notes. - -It was old Tamlyn who opened the ball. He drew his chair nearer the old -lady, and spoke out without circumlocution. - -"What is this that we hear about your taking so much brandy-and-water?" - -"Eh?" cried the old lady, opening her eyes. Madame paused in her -writing, and looked up. Tamlyn waited for an answer. - -"Lady Jenkins does not take much brandy-and-water," cried madame. - -"I am speaking to Lady Jenkins, madame," returned old Tamlyn, severely: -"be so kind as not to interfere. My dear lady, listen to me"--taking her -hand; "I am come here with your life-long old friend, William Lawrence, -to talk to you. We have reason to believe that you continually take, and -have taken for some time past, small doses of brandy-and-water. Is it -so?" - -"Patty gives it me," cried Lady Jenkins, looking first at them and then -at Patty, in a helpless sort of manner. - -"Just so: we know she does. But, are you aware that brandy-and-water, -taken in this way, is so much poison?" - -"Tell them, Patty, that you give it me for my good," said the poor lady, -in affectionate appeal. - -"Yes, it is for your good, dear Lady Jenkins," resentfully affirmed -Madame St. Vincent, regarding the company with flashing eyes. "Does any -one dare to suppose that I should give Lady Jenkins sufficient to hurt -her? I may be allowed, I presume, as her ladyship's close companion, -constantly watching her, to be the best judge of what is proper for her -to take." - -Well, a shindy ensued--as Tod called it--all of them talking altogether, -except himself and poor Lady Jenkins: and madame defying every one and -everything. They told her that she could no longer be trusted with Lady -Jenkins; that she must leave the house that day; and when madame defied -this with a double defiance, the magistrate intimated that he had come -up to enforce the measure, if necessary, and he meant to stay there -until she was gone. - -She saw it was serious then, and the defiant tone changed. "What I have -given Lady Jenkins has been for her good," she said; "to do her good. -But for being supported by a little brandy-and-water, the system could -never have held out after that serious attack she had in Boulogne. I -have prolonged her life." - -"No, madame, you have been doing your best to shorten her life," -corrected old Tamlyn. "A little brandy-and-water, as you term it, might -have been good for her while she was recovering her strength, but you -have gone beyond the little; you have made her life a constant lethargy; -you would shortly have killed her. What your motive was, Heaven knows." - -"My motive was a kind one," flashed madame. "Out of this house I will -not go." - -So, upon that, they played their trump card, and informed Lady Jenkins, -who was crying softly, that this lady was the sister of the impostor, -Collinson. The very helplessness, the utter docility to which the -treatment had reduced her, prevented her expressing (and most probably -feeling) any dissent. She yielded passively to all, like a child, and -told Patty that she must go, as her old friends said so. - -A bitter pill for madame to take. But she could not help herself. - -"You will be as well as ever in a little time," Tamlyn said to Lady -Jenkins. "You would have died, had this gone on: it must have induced -some malady or other from which you could not have rallied." - -Madame St. Vincent went out of the house that afternoon, and Cattledon -entered it. She had offered herself to Lady Jenkins for a few days in -the emergency. - -It was, perhaps, curious that I should meet Madame St. Vincent before -she left the town. Janet was in trouble over a basket of butter and -fowls that had been sent her by one of the country patients, and of -which the railway people denied the arrival. I went again to the station -in the afternoon to see whether they had news of it: and there, seated -on the platform bench, her boxes around her, and waiting for the London -train, was madame. - -I showed myself as respectful to her as ever, for you can't humiliate -fallen people to their faces, telling her, in the pleasantest way I -could, that I was sorry things had turned out so. The tone seemed to -tell upon her, and she burst into tears. I never saw a woman so subdued -in the space of a few hours. - -"I have been treated shamefully, Johnny Ludlow," she said, gulping down -her sobs. "Day and night for the past nine months have I been about Lady -Jenkins, wearing myself out in attendance on her. The poor old lady had -learnt to love me and to depend upon me. I was like a daughter to her." - -"I dare say," I answered, conveniently ignoring the dosing. - -"And what I gave her, I gave her for the best," went on madame. "It -_was_ for the best. People seventy years old need it. Their nerves and -system require soothing: to induce sleep now and then is a boon to them. -It was a boon to her, poor old thing. And this is my recompense!--turned -from the house like a dog!" - -"It does seem hard." - -"Seem! It _is_ hard. I have had nothing but hardships all my life," she -continued, lifting her veil to wipe away the tears. "Where I am to go -now, or how make a living, I know not. They told me I need not apply to -Lady Jenkins for references: and ladies won't engage a companion who has -none." - -"Is your husband really dead?" I ventured to ask. - -"My poor husband is really dead, Johnny Ludlow--I don't know why you -should imply a doubt of it. He left me nothing: he had nothing to leave. -He was only a master in the college at Bretage--a place in the South of -France--and he died, I verily believe, of poor living. We had not been -married twelve months. I had a little baby, and that died. Oh, I assure -you I have had my troubles." - -"How are--Mr. and Mrs. Clement-Pell?" I next asked, with hesitation. -"And Conny?--and the rest of them?" - -"Oh, they were well when I last heard," she answered, slightingly. "I -don't hear often. Foreign postage is expensive. Conny was to have come -here shortly on a visit." - -"Where is Gusty? Is----" - -"I know nothing at all about my brothers," she interrupted sharply. "And -this, I suppose, is my train. Good-bye, Johnny Ludlow; you and I at -least can part friends. You are always kind. I wish the world was like -you." - -I saw her into the carriage--first-class--and her boxes into the van. -And thus she disappeared from Lefford. And her brother, "Captain -Collinson," as we found later, had taken his departure for London by an -early morning train, telling little Pink, his landlord, as he paid his -week's rent, that he was going up to attend a levee. - -It was found that the rumour of his engagement to Miss Belmont was -altogether untrue. Miss Belmont was rather indignant about it, freely -saying that she was ten years his senior. He had never hinted at such a -thing to her, and she should have stopped him if he had. We concluded -that the report had been set afloat by himself, to take attention from -his pursuit of Mina Knox. - -Madame St. Vincent had feathered her nest. As the days went on, and Lady -Jenkins grew clearer, better able to see a little into matters, she -could not at all account for the money that had been drawn from the -bank. Cheque after cheque had been presented and cashed; and not -one-tenth of the money could have been spent upon home expenses. Lady -Jenkins had been always signing cheques; she remembered that much; never -so much as asking, in her loss of will, what they were needed for. "I -want a cheque to-day, dear Lady Jenkins," her companion would say, -producing the cheque-book from her desk; and Lady Jenkins would docilely -sign it. That a great portion of the proceeds had found their way to Mr. -Fabian Pell was looked upon as a certainty. - -And to obtaining this money might be traced the motive for dosing Lady -Jenkins. Once let her intellect become clear, her will reassert itself, -and the game would be stopped. Madame St. Vincent had also another -scheme in her head--for the past month or two she had been trying to -persuade Lady Jenkins to make a codicil to her will, leaving her a few -thousand pounds. Lady Jenkins might have fallen blindly into that; but -they had not as yet been able to agree upon the details: Madame St. -Vincent urging that a lawyer should be called in from a distance; Lady -Jenkins clinging to old Belford. That this codicil would have been made -in time, and by the remote lawyer, there existed no doubt whatever. - -Ah, well: it was a deep-laid plot altogether. And my visit to Lefford, -with Tod's later one, had served, under Heaven, to frustrate it. - -Lady Jenkins grew rapidly better, now that she was no longer drugged. In -a few days she was herself again. Cattledon came out amazingly strong in -the way of care and kindness, and was gracious to every one, even to -Lettice. - -"She always forbade me to say that I took the brandy-and-water," Lady -Jenkins said to me one day when I was sitting with her under the -laburnum tree on her lawn, talking of the past, her bright green silk -dress and pink cap ribbons glistening in the sun. "She made my will -hers. In other respects she was as kind as she could be to me." - -"That must have been part of her plan," I answered. "It was the great -kindness that won you to her. After that, she took care that you should -have no will of your own." - -"And the poor thing might have been so happy with me had she only chosen -to be straightforward, and not try to play tricks! I gave her a handsome -salary, and new gowns besides; and I don't suppose I should have -forgotten her at my death." - -"Well, it is all over, dear Lady Jenkins, and you will be just as well -and brisk as you used to be." - -"Not quite that, Johnny," she said, shaking her head; "I cannot expect -that. At seventy, grim old age is laying its hand upon us. What we need -then, my dear," she added, turning her kindly blue eyes upon me, in -which the tears were gathering, "is to go to the mill to be ground young -again. And that is a mill that does not exist in this world." - -"Ah no!" - -"I thank God for the mercy He has shown me," she continued, the tears -overflowing. "I might have gone to the grave in the half-witted state to -which I was reduced. And, Johnny, I often wonder, as I lie awake at -night thinking, whether I should have been held responsible for it." - -The first use Lady Jenkins made of her liberty was to invite all her -relations, the young nephews and nieces, up to dinner, as she used -to do. Madame St. Vincent had set her face against these family -entertainments, and they had fallen through. The ex-mayor, William -Lawrence, and his good old wife, made part of the company, as did Dr. -Knox and Janet. Lady Jenkins beamed on them once more from her place at -the head of the table, and Tamlyn sat at the foot and served the big -plum-pudding. - -"Never more, I trust, shall I be estranged from you, my dears, until it -pleases Heaven to bring about the final estrangement," she said to the -young people when they were leaving. And she gave them all a sovereign -a-piece. - -Cattledon could not remain on for ever. Miss Deveen wanted her: so Mina -Knox went to stay at Jenkins House, until a suitable lady should be -found to replace Madame St. Vincent. Upon that, Dan Jenkins was taken -with an anxious solicitude for his aunt's health, and was for ever -finding his way up to inquire after it. - -"You will never care to notice me again, Dan," Mina said to him, with a -swelling heart and throat, one day when he was tilting himself by her on -the arm of the sofa. - -"Shan't I!" returned Dan. - -"Oh, I am so ashamed of my folly; I feel more ashamed of it, day by -day," cried Mina, bursting into tears. "I shall never, never get over -the mortification." - -"Won't you!" added Dan. - -"And I never liked him much: I think I _dis_-liked him. At first I did -dislike him; only he kept saying how fond he was of me; and Madame St. -Vincent was always praising him up. And you know he was all the -fashion." - -"Quite so," assented Dan. - -"Don't you think it would be almost as well if I were dead, Dan--for all -the use I am likely to be to any one?" - -"Almost, perhaps; not quite," laughed Dan; and he suddenly stooped and -kissed her. - - * * * * * - -That's all. And now, at the time I write this, Dan Jenkins is a -flourishing lawyer at Lefford, and Mina is his wife. Little feet patter -up and down the staircase and along the passages that good old Lady -Jenkins used to tread. She treads them no more. There was no mill to -grind her young again here; but she is gone to that better land where -such mills are not needed. - -Her will was a just one. She left her property to her nephews and -nieces; a substantial sum to each. Dan had Jenkins House in addition. -But it is no longer Jenkins House; for he had that name taken off the -entrance pillars forthwith, replacing it by the one that had been there -before--Rose Bank. - - - - -THE ANGELS' MUSIC. - - -I. - -How the Squire came to give in to it, was beyond the ken of mortal man. -Tod turned crusty; called the young ones all the hard names in the -dictionary, and said he should go out for the night. But he did not. - -"Just like her!" cried he, with a fling at Mrs. Todhetley. "Always -devising some rubbish or other to gratify the little reptiles!" - -The "little reptiles" applied to the school children at North Crabb. -They generally had a treat at Christmas; and this year Mrs. Todhetley -said she would like it to be given by us, at Crabb Cot, if the Squire -did not object to stand the evening's uproar. After vowing for a day -that he wouldn't hear of it, the Squire (to our astonishment) gave in, -and said they might come. It was only the girls: the boys had their -treat later on, when they could go in for out-of-door sports. After the -pater's concession, she and the school-mistress, Miss Timmens, were as -busy planning-out the arrangements as two bees in a honeysuckle field. - -The evening fixed upon was the last in the old year--a Thursday. And the -preparations seemed to me to be in full flow from the previous Monday. -Molly made her plum-cakes and loaves on the Wednesday; on the Thursday -after breakfast, her mistress went to the kitchen to help her with the -pork-pies and the tartlets. To judge by the quantity provided, the -school would require nothing more for a week to come. - -The Squire went over to Islip on some matter of business, taking Tod -with him. Our children, Hugh and Lena, were spending the day with the -little Letsoms, who would come back with them for the treat; so we had -the house to ourselves. The white deal ironing-board under the kitchen -window was raised on its iron legs; before it stood Mrs. Todhetley and -Molly, busy with the mysteries of pastry-making and patty-pan filling. -I sat on the edge of the board, looking on. The small savoury pies were -done, and in the act of baking, a tray-load at a time; every now and -then Molly darted into the back kitchen, where the oven was, to look -after them. For two days the snow had come down thickly; it was falling -still in great flakes; far and near, the landscape showed white and -bright. - -"Johnny, if you will persist in eating the jam, I shall have to send you -away." - -"Put the jar on the other side then, good mother." - -"Ugh! Much jam Master Johnny would leave for the tarts, let him have his -way," struck in Molly, more crusty than her own pastry, when I declare I -had only dipped the wrong end of the fork in three or four times. The -jam was not hers. - -"Mind you don't give the young ones bread-and-scrape, Molly," I -retorted, catching sight of no end of butter-pats through the open door. -At which advice she only threw up her head. - -"Who is this, coming up through the snow?" cried the mater. - -I turned to the window and made it out to be Mrs. Trewin: a meek little -woman who had seen better days, and tried to get her living as a -dressmaker since the death of her husband. She had not been good for -very much since: never seemed quite to get over the shock. Going out one -morning, as usual, to his duties as an office clerk, he was brought home -dead. Killed by an accident. It was eighteen months ago now, but Mrs. -Trewin wore deep mourning still. - -Not standing upon ceremony down in our country, Mrs. Todhetley had her -brought into the kitchen, going on with the tartlets all the same, while -she talked. Mrs. Trewin was making a frock for Lena, and had come up to -say that the trimming ran short. The mater told her she was too busy to -see to it then, and was very sorry she had come through the snow for -such a trifle. - -"'Twas not much further, ma'am," was her answer: "I had to go out to the -school to fetch home Nettie. The path is so slippery, through the boys -making slides, that I don't altogether like to trust the child to go to -and fro to school by herself." - -"As if Nettie would come to any harm, Mrs. Trewin!" I put in. "If she -went down, it would only be a Christmas gambol." - -"Accidents happen so unexpectedly, sir," she answered, a shadow crossing -her sad face. And I was sorry to have said it: it had put her in mind of -her husband. - -"You are coming up this evening, you know, Mrs. Trewin," said mother. -"Don't be late." - -"It is very good of you to have asked me, ma'am," she answered -gratefully. "I said so to Miss Timmens. I'm sure it will be something -new to have such a treat. Nettie, poor child, will enjoy it too." - -Molly came banging in with a tray of pork-pies, just out of the oven. -The mater told Mrs. Trewin to take one, and offered her a glass of beer. - -But, instead of eating the pie, she wrapped it in paper to take with her -home, and declined the beer, lest it should give her a headache for the -evening. - -So Mrs. Trewin took her departure; and, under cover of it, I helped -myself to another of the pork-pies. Weren't they good! After that the -morning went on again, and the tart-making with it. - -The last of the paste was being used up, the last of the jam jars stood -open, and the clock told us that it was getting on for one, when we had -another visitor: Miss Timmens, the schoolmistress. She came in, stamping -the snow from her shoes on the mat, her thin figure clad in an old long -cloth cloak, and the chronic redness in her face turned purple. - -"My word! It is a day, ma'am, this is!" she exclaimed. - -"And what have you come through it for?" asked Mrs. Todhetley. "About -the forms? Why, I sent word to you by Luke Mackintosh that they would be -fetched at two o'clock." - -"He never came, then," said Miss Timmens, irate at Luke's negligence. -"That Mackintosh is not worth his salt. What delicious-looking -tartlets!" exclaimed she, as she sat down. "And what a lot of them!" - -"Try one," said the mother. "Johnny, hand them to Miss Timmens, and a -plate." - -"That silly Sarah Trewin has gone and tumbled down," cried Miss Timmens, -as she thanked me and took the plate and one of the tartlets. "Went and -slipped upon a slide near the school-house. What a delicious tart!" - -"Sarah Trewin!" cried the mater, turning round from the board. "Why, she -was here an hour ago. Has she hurt herself?" - -"Just bruised all the one side of her black and blue, from her shoulder -to her ankle," answered Miss Timmens. "Those unruly boys have made -slides all over the place, ma'am; and Sarah Trewin must needs go down -upon one, not looking, I suppose, to her feet. She had only just turned -out of the schoolroom with Nettie." - -"Dear, dear! And she is so unable to bear a fall!" - -"Of course it might have been worse, for there are no bones broken," -remarked Miss Timmens. "As to Nettie, the child was nearly frightened -out of her senses; she's sobbing and crying still. Never was such a -timid child as that." - -"Will Sarah Trewin be able to come this evening?" - -"Not she, ma'am. She'll be as stiff as buckram for days to come. I'd -like to pay out those boys--making their slides on the pathway and -endangering people's lives! Nicol's not half strict enough with them; -and I'm tired of telling him so. Tiresome, rude monkeys! Not that my -girls are a degree better: they'd go down all the slides in the parish, -let 'em have their way. What with them, and what with these fantastical -notions of the new parson, I'm sure my life's a martyrdom." - -The mother smiled over her pastry. Miss Timmens and the parson, civilly -polite to one another, were mentally at daggers drawn. - -The time I am writing of was before the movement, set in of later years, -for giving the masses the same kind of education as their betters; -but our new parson at Crabb was before his age in these ideas. To -experienced Miss Timmens, and to a great many more clear-sighted people, -the best word that could be given to the movement was "fantastical." - -"He came in yesterday afternoon at dusk," she resumed, "when I was -holding my Bible Class. 'And what has been the course of instruction -to-day, Miss Timmens?' asked he, as mild as new milk, all the girls -gaping and staring around him. 'It has been reading, and writing, and -summing, and spelling, and sewing,' said I, giving him the catalogue in -full: 'and now I'm trying to teach them their duty to Heaven and to one -another. And according to my old-fashioned notion, sir,' I summed up, -'if a poor girl acquires these matters thoroughly, she is a deal more -fitted to go through life in the station to which God has called her -(as the catechism says), than she would be if you gave her a course of -fine mincing uppishness, with your poetry and your drawing and your -embroidery.' Oh, he gets his answer from me, ma'am." - -"Mr. Bruce may be kind and enlightened, and all that," spoke Mrs. -Todhetley, "but he certainly seems inclined to carry his ideas beyond -reasonable bounds, so far as regards these poor peasant children." - -"Reasonable!" repeated Miss Timmens, catching up the word, and rubbing -her sharp nose with excitement: "why, the worst is, that there's no -reason in it. Not a jot. The parson's mind has gone a little bit off -its balance, ma'am; that's my firm conviction. This exalted education -applied to young ladies would be all right and proper: but where can be -the use of it to these poor girls? What good will his accomplishments, -his branches of grand learning do them? His conchology and meteorology, -and all the rest of his ologies? Of what service will it be to them in -future?" - -"I'd have got my living nicely, I guess, if I'd been taught them -things," satirically struck in Molly, unable to keep her tongue still -any longer. "A fine cook I should ha' made!--kept all my places a -beautiful length of time; I wouldn't come with such flighty talk to the -Squire, Miss Timmens, if 'twas me." - -"The talk's other people's; it isn't mine," fired Miss Timmens, turning -her wrath on Molly. "That is, the notions are. You had better attend to -your baking, Molly." - -"So I had," said Molly. "Baking's more in my line than them other -foreign jerks. But well I should have knowed how to do it if my mind -had been cocketed up with the learning that's only fit for lords and -ladies." - -"Is not that my argument?" retorted Miss Timmens, flinging the last word -after her as she went out to her oven. "Poor girls were sent into the -world to work, ma'am, not to play at being fine scholars," she added to -Mrs. Todhetley, as she got up to leave. "And, as sure as we are born, -this new dodge of education, if it ever gets a footing, will turn the -country upside down." - -"I'm sure I hope not," replied the mother in her mild way. "Take another -tart, Miss Timmens. These are currant and raspberry." - - -II. - -The company began to arrive at four o'clock. The snow had ceased to -fall; it was a fine, cold, clear evening, the moon very bright. A large -store-room at the back of the house had been cleared out, and a huge -fire made in it. The walls were decorated with evergreens, and tin -sconces holding candles; benches from the school-house were ranged -underneath them. This was to be the principal play-room, but the other -rooms were open. Mrs. Hill (formerly Mrs. Garth, who had not so very -long before lost poor David) and Maria Lease came up by invitation to -help Miss Timmens with the children; and Mrs. Trewin would have come but -for her fall on the slide. Miss Timmens appeared in full feather: a -purple gown of shot silk, with a red waist-band, and red holly berries -in her lace cap. The children, timid at first, sat round on the forms in -prim stillness, just like so many mice. - -By far the most timid of all was a gentle little thing of seven years -old, got up like a lady; white frock, black sash and sleeve ribbons. She -was delicate-featured, blue-eyed, had curling flaxen hair. It was Nettie -Trewin. Far superior she looked to all of them; out of place, in fact, -amongst so many coarser natures. Her little arm and hand trembled as she -clung to Miss Timmens' gown. - -"Senseless little thing," cried Miss Timmens, "to be afraid in a -beautiful room like this, and with all these kind friends around her! -Would you believe it, Mr. Johnny, that I could hardly get her here? -Afraid, she said, to come without mother!" - -"Oh, Nettie! Why, you are going to have lots of fun! Is mother better -this evening?" - -"Yes," whispered Nettie, venturing to take a peep at me through her wet -eyelashes. - -The order of the day was this. Tea at once, consisting of as much -bread-and-butter and plum-cake as they could eat; games afterwards. The -savoury pies and tartlets later on; more cake to wind up with, which, if -they had no room for, they might carry home. - -After all signs of tea had disappeared, and our neighbours, the Coneys, -had come in, and several round rings were seated on the floor at -"Hunt-the-Slipper," I, chancing to draw within earshot, found Miss -Timmens had opened out her grievance to the Squire--the parson's -interference with the school. - -"It would be reversing the proper and natural order of things, as _I_ -look upon it," she was saying, "to give an exalted education to those -who must get their living by the sweat of their brow; as servants, and -what not. Do you think so, sir?" - -"Think so! of course I think so," spluttered the Squire, taking up the -subject hotly as usual. "It's good for them to read and write well, to -add up figures, and know how to sew and clean, and wash and iron. That's -the learning they want, whether they are to pass their lives serving in -families, or as the wives of working men." - -"Yes, sir," acquiesced Miss Timmens, in a glow of satisfaction; "but -you may as well try to beat common sense into a broomstick as into Mr. -Bruce. The other day--what, is it you again, Nettie!" she broke off, as -the little white-robed child sidled up and hid her head in what appeared -to be her haven of refuge--the folds of the purple gown. "Never was such -a child as this, for shyness. When put to play with the rest, she'll not -stay with them. What do you think you are good for?"--rather wrathfully. -"Do you suppose the gentlefolk are going to eat you, Nettie?" - -"There's nothing to be afraid of, little lassie. What child is it?" -added the Squire, struck with her appearance. - -"Tell your name to the Squire," said Miss Timmens, with authority. And -the little one lifted her pretty blue eyes appealingly to his face, as -if beseeching him not to bite her. - -"It's Nettie Trewin, sir," she said in a whisper. - -"Dear me! Is that poor Trewin's child! She has a look of her father too. -A delicate little maid." - -"And silly also," added Miss Timmens. "You came here to play, you know, -Nettie; not hide your face. What are they all stirring at, now? Oh, -going to have 'Puss-in-the-corner.' You can play at that, Nettie. Here, -Jane Bright! Take Nettie with you and attend to her. Find her a corner: -she has not had any play at all." - -A tall, awkward girl stepped up: slouching shoulders, narrow forehead, -stolid features, coarse hair all ruffled; thick legs, thick boots--Miss -Jane Bright. She seized Nettie's hand. - -"Yes, sir, you are right: the child is a delicate, dainty little thing, -quite a contrast to most of these other girls," resumed Miss Timmens, -in answer to the Squire. "Look at that one who has just fetched Nettie -away: she is only a type of the rest. They come, most of them, of -coarse, stupid parents, and will be no better to the end of the chapter, -whatever education you may try to hammer into them. As I said to Mr. -Bruce the other day when---- Well, I never! There he is!" - -The young parson caught her eye, as he was looming in. Long coat, -clerical waistcoat, no white tie to speak of round his bare neck; quite -a la mode. The new fashions and the new notions that Mr. Bruce went in -for, were not at all understood at North Crabb. - -The Squire had gone on at first against the party; but no face was more -sunshiny than his, now that he was in the thick of it. A select few of -the children, with ours and the little Lawsons, had appropriated the -dining-room for "Hunt-the-Whistle." The pater chanced to look in just -before it began, and we got him to be the hunter. I shall never forget -it as long as I live. I don't believe I had ever laughed as much before. -He did not know the play, or the trick of it: and to see him whirling -himself about in search of the whistle as it was blown behind his back, -now seizing on this bold whistler, believing he or she must be in -possession of the whistle, and now on that one, all unconscious that the -whistle was fastened to the back button of his own coat; and to look at -the puzzled wonder of his face as to where the whistle could possibly -be, and how it contrived to elude his grasp, was something to be -remembered. The shrieks of laughter might have been heard down at the -Ravine. Tod had to sit on the floor and hold his sides; Tom Coney was in -convulsions. - -"Ah--I--ah--what do you think, Mr. Todhetley?" began Bruce, with his -courteous drawl, catching the Squire, as he emerged later, red and -steaming, from the whistle-hunt. "Suppose I collect these young ones -around me and give them a quarter-of-an-hour's lecture on pneumatics? -I've been getting up the subject a little." - -"Pneumatics be hanged!" burst forth the pater, more emphatically than -politely, when he had taken a puzzled stare at the parson. "The young -ones have come here to _play_, not to have their brains addled. Be shot -if I quite know myself what 'pneumatics' means. I beg your pardon, -Bruce. You mean well, I know." - -"Pneumatics!" repeated old Coney, taking time to digest the word. "Don't -you think, parson, that's more in the department of the Astronomer -Royal?" - -One required a respite after the whistle-hunt. I put my back against the -wall in the large room, and watched the different sets of long tails, -then pulling fiercely at "Oranges and Lemons." Mrs. Hill and Maria Lease -sat side by side on one of the benches, both looking as sad as might be, -their memories, no doubt, buried in the past. Maria Lease had never, so -to say, worn a smiling countenance since the dreadful end of Daniel -Ferrar. - -A commotion! Half-a-dozen of the "lemons," pulling too fiercely, had -come to grief on the ground. Maria went to the rescue. - -"I was just thinking of poor David, sir," Mrs. Hill said to me, with a -sigh. "How he would have enjoyed this scene: so merry and bright!" - -"But he is in a brighter scene than this, you know." - -"Yes, Master Johnny, I do know it," she said, tears trickling slowly -down her cheeks. "Where he is, all things are beautiful." - -In her palmy days Mrs. Todhetley used to sing a song, of which this was -the first verse:-- - - "All that's bright must fade, - The brightest still the fleetest; - All that's sweet was made - But to be lost when sweetest." - -Mrs. Hill's words brought this song to my memory, and with it the -damping reminder that nothing lasts in this world, whether of pleasure -or brightness. All things must fade, or die: but in that better life to -come they will last for ever. And David had entered upon it. - - * * * * * - -"Now, where's that senseless little Nettie?" - -The words, spoken sharply, came from Miss Timmens. But if she did -possess a sharp-toned tongue, she was good and kind at heart. The -young crew were sitting down at the long table to the savoury pies and -tartlets; Miss Timmens, taking stock of them, missed Nettie. - -"Jane Bright, go and find Nettie Trewin." - -Not daring to disobey the curt command, but looking as though she feared -her portion of the good things would be eaten up during her absence, -Jane Bright disappeared. Back she came in a brace of shakes, saying -Nettie "was not there." - -"Maria Lease, where's Nettie Trewin?" asked Miss Timmens. - -Maria turned from the table. "Nettie Trewin?" she repeated, looking -about her. "I don't know. She must be somewhere or other." - -"I wish to goodness you'd find her then." - -Maria Lease could not see anything of the child. "Nettie Trewin" was -called out high and low; but it brought forth no response. The servants -were sent to look over the house, with no better result. - -"She is hiding somewhere in her shyness," said Miss Timmens. "I have a -great mind to punish her for this." - -"She can't have got into the rain-water butt?" suggested the Squire. -"Molly, go and look." - -It was not very likely: as the barrel was quite six feet high. But, as -the Squire once got into the water-butt to hid himself when he was a -climbing youngster, and had reasons for anticipating a whipping, his -thoughts naturally flew to it. - -"Well, she must be somewhere," cried he when we laughed at him. "She -could not sink through the floor." - -"Who saw her last?" repeated Miss Timmens. "Do you hear, children? Just -stop eating for a minute, and answer." - -Much discussion--doubt--cross-questioning. The whole lot seemed to be -nearly as stupid as owls. At last, so far as could be gathered, none of -them had noticed Nettie since they began "Puss-in-the-corner." - -"Jane Bright, I told you to take Nettie to play with the rest, and to -find her a corner. What did you do with her?" - -Jane Bright commenced her answer by essaying to take a sly bite at her -pie. Miss Timmens stopped her midway, and turned her from the table to -face the company. - -"Do you hear me? Now don't stand staring like a gaby! Just answer." - -Like a "gaby" did Jane Bright stand: mouth wide open, eyes round, -countenance bewildered. - -"Please, governess, I didn't do nothing with her." - -"You must have done something with her: you held her hand." - -"I didn't do nothing," repeated the girl, shaking her head stolidly. - -"Now, that won't do, Jane Bright. Where did you leave her?" - -"'Twas in the corner," answered Jane Bright, apparently making desperate -efforts of memory. "When I was Puss, and runned across and came back -again, I didn't see her there." - -"Surely, the child has not stolen out by herself and run off home!" -cried Mrs. Coney: and the schoolmistress took up the suggestion. - -"It is the very thought that has been in my mind the last minute or -two," avowed she. "Yes, Mrs. Coney, that's it, depend upon it. She has -decamped through the snow and gone back to her mother's." - -"Then she has gone without her things," interposed Maria Lease, who was -entering the room with a little black cloak and bonnet in her hand. "Are -not these Nettie's things, children?" And a dozen voices all speaking -together, hastened to say Yes, they were Nettie's. - -"Then she must be in the house," decided Miss Timmens. "She wouldn't be -silly enough to go out this cold night with her neck and arms bare. The -child has her share of sense. She has run away to hide herself, and may -have dropped asleep." - -"It must be in the chimbleys, then," cried free Molly from the back of -the room. "We've looked everywhere else." - -"You had better look again," said the Squire. "Take plenty of light--two -or three candles." - -It seemed rather a queer thing. And, while this talking had been going -on, there flashed into my mind the old Modena story, related by the poet -Rogers, of the lovely young heiress of the Donatis: and which has been -embodied in our song "The Mistletoe Bough." Could this timid child have -imprisoned herself in any place that she was unable to get out of? Going -to the kitchen for a candle, I went upstairs, taking the garret first, -with its boxes and lumber, and then the rooms. And nowhere could I find -the least trace or sign of Nettie. - -Stepping into the kitchen to leave the candle, there stood Luke -Mackintosh, whiter than death; his back propped against Molly's press, -his hands trembling, his hair on end. Tod stood in front of him -suppressing his laughter. Mackintosh had just burst in at the back-door -in a desperate state of fright, declaring he had seen a ghost. - -It's not the first time I have mentioned the man's cowardice. Believing -in ghosts and goblins, wraiths and witches, he could hardly be persuaded -to cross Crabb Ravine at night, on account of the light sometimes seen -there. Sensible people told him that this light (which, it was true, no -one had ever traced to its source) was nothing but a will-o'-the-wisp, -an ignis-fatuus arising from the vapour; but Luke could not be brought -to reason. On this evening it chanced that the Squire had occasion to -send Mackintosh to the Timberdale post-office, and the man had now just -come in from the errand. - -"I see the light, too, sir," he was saying to Tod in a scared voice, as -he ran his shaking hand through his hair. "It be dodging about on the -banks of the Ravine for all the world like a corpse-candle. Well, sir, -I didn't like that, and I got up out of the Ravine as fast as my legs -would bring me, and were making straight for home here, with my head -down'ards, not wanting to see nothing more, when something dreadful met -me. All in white, it was." - -"A man in his shroud, who had left his grave to take a moonlight walk," -said Tod, gravely, biting his lips. - -"'Twere in grave-clothes, for sure; a long, white garment, whiter than -the snow. I'd not say but it was Daniel Ferrar," added Luke, in the low -dread tones that befitted the dismal subject. "His ghost do walk, you -know, sir." - -"And where did his ghost go to?" - -"Blest if I saw, sir," replied Mackintosh, shaking his head. "I'd not -have looked after it for all the world. 'Twarn't a slow pace I come at, -over the field, after that, and right inside this here house." - -"Rushing like the wind, I suppose." - -"My heart was all a-throbbing and a-skeering. Mr. Joseph, I _hope_ the -Squire won't send me through the Ravine after dark again! I couldn't -stand it, sir; I'd a'most rather give up my place." - -"You'll not be fit for this place, or any other, I should say, -Mackintosh, if you let this sort of fear run away with your senses," I -put in. "You saw nothing; it was all fancy." - -"Saw nothing!" repeated Mackintosh in the excess of desperation. "Why, -Mr. Johnny, I never saw a sight plainer in all my born days. A great, -white, awesome apparition it were, that went rushing past me with a -wailing sound. I hope you won't ever have the ill-luck to see such a -thing yourself, sir." - -"I'm sure I shan't." - -"What's to do here?" asked Tom Coney, putting in his head. - -"Mackintosh has seen a ghost." - -"Seen a ghost!" cried Tom, beginning to grin. - -Mackintosh, trembling yet, entered afresh on the recital, rather -improving it by borrowing Tod's mocking suggestion. "A dead man in his -shroud come out walking from his grave in the churchyard--which he -feared might be Ferrar, lying on the edge on't, just beyond consecrated -ground. I never could abear to go by the spot where he was put in, and -never a prayer said over him, Mr. Tom!" - -But, in spite of the solemnity of the subject, touching Ferrar, Tom -Coney could only have his laugh out. The servants came in from their -fruitless search of the dairy and cellars, and started to see the state -of Mackintosh. - -"Give him a cup of warm ale, Molly," was Tod's command. And we left them -gathered round the man, listening to his tale with open mouths. - -From the fact that Nettie Trewin was certainly not in the house, one -only deduction could be drawn--that the timid child had run home to her -mother. Bare-headed, bare-necked, bare-armed, she had gone through the -snow; and, as Miss Timmens expressed it, might just have caught her -death. - -"Senseless little idiot!" exclaimed Miss Timmens in a passion. "Sarah -Trewin is sure to blame me; she'll say I might have taken better care of -her." - -But one of the elder girls, named Emma Stone, whose recollection only -appeared to come to her when digesting her supper, spoke up at this -juncture, and declared that long after "Puss-in-the-corner" was over, -and also "Oranges and Lemons," which had succeeded it, she had seen and -spoken to Nettie Trewin. Her account was, that in crossing the passage -leading from the store-room, she saw Nettie "scrouged against the wall, -half-way down the passage, like anybody afeared of being seen." - -"Did you speak to her, Emma Stone?" asked Miss Timmens, after listening -to these concluding words. - -"Yes, governess. I asked her why she was not at play, and why she was -hiding there." - -"Well, what did she say?" - -"Not anything," replied Emma Stone. "She turned her head away as if she -didn't want to be talked to." - -Miss Timmens took a long, keen look at Emma Stone. This young lady, -it appeared, was rather in the habit of romancing; and the governess -thought she might be doing it then. - -"I vow to goodness I saw her," interrupted the girl, before Miss Timmens -had got out more than half a doubt: and her tone was truthful enough. -"I'm not telling no story, 'm. I thought Nettie was crying." - -"Well, it is a strange thing you should have forgotten it until this -moment, Emma Stone." - -"Please, 'm, it were through the pies," pleaded Emma. - -It was time to depart. Bonnets and shawls were put on, and the whole of -them filed out, accompanied by Miss Timmens, Mrs. Hill, and Maria Lease: -good old motherly Dame Coney saying she hoped they would find the child -safe in bed between the blankets, and that her mother would have given -her some hot drink. - -Our turn for supper came now. We took it partly standing, just the fare -that the others had had, with bread-and-cheese added for the Squire -and old Coney. After that, we all gathered round the fire in the -dining-room, those two lighting their pipes. - -And I think you might almost have knocked some of us down with a feather -in our surprise, when, in the midst of one of old Coney's stories, we -turned round at the sudden opening of the door, and saw Miss Timmens -amongst us. A prevision of evil seemed to seize Mrs. Todhetley, and she -rose up. - -"The child! Is she not at home?" - -"No, ma'am; neither has she been there," answered Miss Timmens, ignoring -ceremony (as people are apt to do at seasons of anxiety or commotion) -and sitting down uninvited. "I came back to tell you so, and to ask what -you thought had better be done." - -"The child must have started for home and lost her way in the snow," -cried the Squire, putting down his pipe in consternation. "What does the -mother think?" - -"I did not tell her of it," said Miss Timmens. "I went on by myself to -her house; and the first thing I saw there, on opening the door, was a -little pair of slippers warming on the fender. 'Oh, have you brought -Nettie?' began the mother, before I could speak: 'I've got her shoes -warm for her. Is she very, very cold?--and has she enjoyed herself and -been good?' Well, sir, seeing how it was--that the child had not got -home--I answered lightly: 'Oh, the children are not here yet; my sister -and Maria Lease are with them. I've just stepped on to see how your -bruises are getting on.' For that poor Sarah Trewin is good for so -little that one does not care to alarm her," concluded Miss Timmens, as -if she would apologize for her deceit. - -The Squire nodded approval, and told me to give Miss Timmens something -hot to drink. Mrs. Todhetley, looking three parts frightened out of her -wits, asked what was to be done. - -Yes; what was to be done? What could be done? A sort of council was held -amongst them, some saying one thing, some another. It seemed impossible -to suggest anything. - -"Had harm come to her in running home, had she fallen into the snow, -for instance, or anything of that sort, we should have seen or heard -her," observed Miss Timmens. "She would be sure to take the direct -path--the way we came here and returned." - -"It might be easy enough for the child to lose her way--the roads and -fields are like a wide white plain," observed Mrs. Coney. "She might -have strayed aside amongst the trees in the triangle." - -Miss Timmens shook her head in dissent. - -"She'd not do that, ma'am. Since Daniel Ferrar was found there, the -children don't like the three-cornered grove." - -"Look here," said old Coney, suddenly speaking up. "Let us search all -these places, and any others that she could have strayed to, right or -left, on her road home." - -He rose up, and we rose with him. It was the best thing that could be -done: and no end of a relief, besides, to pitch upon something to do. -The Squire ordered Mackintosh (who had not recovered himself yet) to -bring a lantern, and we all put on our great-coats and went forth, -leaving the mater and Mrs. Coney to keep the fire warm. A black party -we looked, in the white snow, Miss Timmens making one of us. - -"I can't rest," she whispered to me. "If the child has been lying on the -snow all this while, we shall find her dead." - -It was a still, cold, lovely night; the moon high in the sky, the snow -lying white and pure beneath her beams. Tom Coney and Tod, all their -better feelings and their fears aroused, plunged on fiercely, now amidst -the deep snow by the hedges, now on the more level path. The grove, -which had been so fatal to poor Daniel Ferrar, was examined first. And -now we saw the use of the lantern ordered by the Squire, at which order -we had secretly laughed: for it served to light up the darker parts -where the trunks of the trees grew thick. Mackintosh, who hated that -grove, did not particularly relish his task of searching it, though he -was in good company. But it did not appear to contain Nettie. - -"She would not turn in here," repeated Miss Timmens, from the depth of -her strong conviction; "I'm sure she wouldn't. She would rather bear -onwards towards her mother's." - -Bounding here, trudging there, calling her name softly, shouting -loudly, we continued our search after Nettie Trewin. It was past twelve -when we got back home and met Mrs. Todhetley and Mrs. Coney at the door, -both standing there in their uneasiness, enveloped in woollen shawls. - -"No. No success. Can't find her anywhere." - -Down sank the Squire on one of the hall-chairs as he spoke, as though -he could not hold himself up a minute longer, but was dead beat with -tramping and disappointment. Perhaps he was. What was to be done next? -What _could_ be done? We stood round the dining-room fire, looking at -one another like so many helpless mummies. - -"Well," said the pater, "the first thing is to have a drop of something -hot. I am half-frozen. What time's that?"--as the clock over the -mantelpiece chimed one stroke. "Half-past twelve." - -"And she's dead by this time," gasped Miss Timmens, in a faint voice, -its sharpness gone clean out of it. "I'm thinking of the poor widowed -mother." - -Mrs. Coney (often an invalid) said she could do no good by staying -longer, and wanted to be in bed. Old Coney said _he_ was not going -in yet; so Tom took her over. It might have been ten minutes after -this--but I was not taking any particular account of the time--that I -saw Tom Coney put his head in at the parlour-door, and beckon Tod out. -I went also. - -"Look here," said Coney to us. "After I left mother indoors, I thought -I'd search a bit about the back-ground here: and I fancy I can see the -marks of a child's footsteps in the snow." - -"No!" cried Tod, rushing out at the back-door and crossing the premises -to the field. - -Yes, it was so. Just for a little way along the path leading to Crabb -Ravine the snow was much trodden and scattered by the footsteps of a -man, both to and fro. Presently some little footsteps, evidently of a -child, seemed to diverge from this path and go onwards in rather a -slanting direction through the deeper snow, as if their owner had lost -the direct way. When we had tracked these steps half-way across the -field. Tod brought himself to a halt. - -"I'm sure they are Nettie's," he said. "They look like hers. Whose else -should they be? She may have fallen down the Ravine. One of you had -better go back and bring a blanket--and tell them to get hot water -ready." - -Eager to be of use, Tom Coney and I ran back together. Tod continued his -tracking. Presently the little steps diverged towards the path, as if -they had suddenly discovered their wanderings from it; and then they -seemed to be lost in those other and larger footsteps which had kept -steadily to the path. - -"I wonder," thought Tod, halting as he lost the clue, "whether -Mackintosh's big ghost could have been this poor little white-robed -child? What an idiotic coward the fellow is! These are his footmarks. A -slashing pace he must have travelled at, to fling the snow up in this -manner!" - -At that moment, as Tod stood facing the Ravine, a light, looking -like the flame of a candle, small and clear and bright as that of a -glow-worm, appeared on the opposite bank, and seemed to dodge about the -snow-clad brushwood around the trunks of the wintry trees. What was this -light?--whence did it proceed?--what caused it? It seemed we were never -tired of putting these useless questions to ourselves. Tod did not know; -never had known. He thought of Mack's fright and of the ghost, as he -stood watching it, now disappearing in some particular spot, now coming -again at ever so many yards' distance. But ghosts had no charms for Tod: -by which I mean no alarms: and he went forward again, trying to find -another trace of the little footsteps. - -"I don't see what should bring Nettie out here, though," ran his -thoughts. "Hope she has not pitched head foremost down the Ravine! -Confound the poltroon!--kicking up the snow like this!" - -But now, in another minute, there were traces again. The little feet -seemed to have turned aside at a tangent, and once more sought the deep -snow. From that point he did not again lose them; they carried him to -the low and narrow dell (not much better than a ditch) which just there -skirted the hedge bordering the Ravine. - -At first Tod could see nothing. Nothing but the drifted snow. -But--looking closely--what was that, almost at his feet? Was it only a -dent in the snow?--or was anything lying on it? Tod knelt down on the -deep soft white carpet (sinking nearly up to his waist) and peered and -felt. - -There she was: Nettie Trewin! With her flaxen curls fallen about her -head and mingling with the snow, and her little arms and neck exposed, -and her pretty white frock all wet, she lay there in the deep hole. Tod, -his breast heaving with all manner of emotion, gathered her into his -arms, as gently as an infant is hushed to rest by its mother. The white -face had no life in it; the heart seemed to have stopped beating. - -"Wake up, you poor little mite!" he cried, pressing her against his warm -side. "Wake up, little one! Wake up, little frozen snow-bird!" - -But there came no response. The child lay still and white in his arms. - -"Hope she's not frozen to death!" he murmured, a queer sensation taking -him. "Nettie, don't you hear me? My goodness, what's to be done?" - -He set off across the field with the child, meeting me almost directly. -I ran straight up to him. - -"Get out, Johnny Ludlow!" he cried roughly, in his haste and fear. -"Don't stop me! Oh, a blanket, is it? That's good. Fold it round her, -lad." - -"Is she dead?" - -"I'll be shot if I know." - -He went along swiftly, holding her to him in the blanket. And a fine -commotion they all made when he got her indoors. - -The silly little thing, unable to get over her shyness, had taken the -opportunity, when the back-door was open, to steal out of it, with the -view of running home to her mother. Confused, perhaps, by the bare white -plain; or it may be by her own timidity; or probably confounding the -back-door and its approaches with the front, by which she had entered, -she went straight across the field, unconscious that this was taking -her in just the opposite direction to her home. It was she whom Luke -Mackintosh had met--the great idiot!--and he frightened her with his -rough appearance and the bellow of fear he gave, just as much as she had -frightened him. Onwards she went, blindly terrified, was stopped by the -hedge, fell into the ditch, and lay buried in the snow. Whether she -could be brought back to life, or whether death had really taken her, -was a momentous question. - -I went off for Cole, flying all the way. He sent me back again, saying -he'd be there as soon as I--and that Nettie Trewin must be a born -simpleton. - -"Master Johnny!--Mr. Ludlow!--Is it you?" - -The words greeted me in a weak panting voice, just as I reached the -corner by the store barn, and I recognized Mrs. Trewin. Alarmed at -Nettie's prolonged stay, she had come out, all bruised as she was, and -extorted the fact--that the child was missing--from Maria Lease. I told -her that the child was found--and where. - -"Dead or alive, sir?" - -I stammered in my answer. Cole would be up directly, I said, and we must -hope for the best. But she drew a worse conclusion. - -"It was all I had," she murmured. "My one little ewe lamb." - -"Don't cry, Mrs. Trewin. It may turn out to be all right, you know." - -"If I could only have laid her poor little face on my bosom to die, and -said good-bye to her!" she wailed, the tears falling. "I have had so -much trouble in the world, Master Johnny!--and she was all of comfort -left to me in it." - -We went in. Cole came rushing like a whirlwind. By-and-by they got some -warmth into the child, lying so still on the bed; and she was saved. - -"Were you cold, dear, in the snow?--were you frightened?" gently asked -the mother, when Nettie could answer questions. - -"I was very cold and frightened till I heard the angels' music, mother." - -"The angels' music?" - -"Yes. I knew they played it for me. After that, I felt happy and went to -sleep. Oh, mother, there's nothing so sweet as angels' music." - -The "music" had been that of the church bells, wafted over the Ravine by -the rarefied air; the sweet bells of Timberdale, ringing in the New -Year. - - -THE END. - - - - - LONDON: - PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, - STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. - - - - -"Mrs. Henry Wood has an art of novel writing which no rival possesses in -the same degree."--_Spectator._ - -"The fame of Mrs. Henry Wood widens and strengthens."--_Morning Post._ - - -MRS. HENRY WOOD'S NOVELS. - -_Sale approaching Two Million and a half Copies._ - - EAST LYNNE. _480th Thousand._ - THE CHANNINGS. _200th Thousand._ - MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES. _150th Thousand._ - THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. _110th Thousand._ - LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS. _105th Thousand._ - VERNER'S PRIDE. _85th Thousand._ - ROLAND YORKE. _130th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. First Series. _55th Thousand._ - MILDRED ARKELL. _80th Thousand._ - ST. MARTIN'S EVE. _76th Thousand._ - TREVLYN HOLD. _65th Thousand._ - GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. _70th Thousand._ - THE RED COURT FARM. _80th Thousand._ - WITHIN THE MAZE. _112th Thousand._ - ELSTER'S FOLLY. _60th Thousand._ - LADY ADELAIDE. _60th Thousand._ - OSWALD CRAY. _60th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. Second Series. _35th Thousand._ - ANNE HEREFORD. _55th Thousand._ - DENE HOLLOW. _60th Thousand._ - EDINA. _45th Thousand._ - A LIFE'S SECRET. _65th Thousand._ - COURT NETHERLEIGH. _46th Thousand._ - BESSY RANE. _42nd Thousand._ - THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS. _50th Thousand._ - ORVILLE COLLEGE. _38th Thousand._ - POMEROY ABBEY. _48th Thousand._ - THE HOUSE OF HALLIWELL. _30th Thousand._ - THE STORY OF CHARLES STRANGE. _15th Thousand._ - ASHLEY. _15th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. Third Series. _23rd Thousand._ - LADY GRACE. _21st Thousand._ - ADAM GRAINGER. _15th Thousand._ - THE UNHOLY WISH. _15th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. Fourth Series. _15th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. Fifth Series. _15th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. Sixth Series. - - - LONDON: - MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED. - - - - - * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber's note: - -Errors in punctuation were corrected without comment. - -The following corrections were made, on page - - 116 "a" changed to "at" (a party at Mrs. Green's) - 116 "al" changed to "all" (for all the parties) - 172 "ts" changed to "its" (away half its discomfort.) - 186 "he" changed to "the" (of the dining-room.) - 188 "a" added (and a five-roomed Vicarage) - 226 "Charlote" changed to "Charlotte" (Charlotte stood like a goose) - 264 "III" changed to "IV" (Section header) - 269 "noislessly" changed to "noiselessly" (swinging slowly and - noiselessly forward) - 290 "Deeven" changed to "Deveen" (Miss Deveen was there) - 301 "Deeven" changed to "Deveen" (in my old age--Miss Deveen.) - 454 "Trewen" changed to "Trewin" (to any harm, Mrs. Trewin!). - -Otherwise the original was preserved, including inconsistent spelling -and hyphenation. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHNNY LUDLOW, THIRD SERIES*** - - -******* This file should be named 40936.txt or 40936.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/0/9/3/40936 - - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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