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diff --git a/40940-8.txt b/40940-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f08ad77..0000000 --- a/40940-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,22376 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Johnny Ludlow, Fourth 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/license - - -Title: Johnny Ludlow, Fourth Series - -Author: Mrs. Henry Wood - -Release Date: October 5, 2012 [EBook #40940] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHNNY LUDLOW, FOURTH SERIES *** - - - - -Produced by David Edwards, eagkw and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - JOHNNY LUDLOW - - - - - [Illustration] - - - - - JOHNNY LUDLOW - - By - MRS. HENRY WOOD - - AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," ETC. - - _FOURTH SERIES_ - - TWENTIETH THOUSAND - - +London+ - MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED - NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1901 - - - - - "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. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - A MYSTERY 1 - - SANDSTONE TORR 61 - - CHANDLER AND CHANDLER 145 - - VERENA FONTAINE'S REBELLION 190 - - A CURIOUS EXPERIENCE 293 - - ROGER BEVERE 313 - - KETIRA THE GIPSY 368 - - THE CURATE OF ST. MATTHEW'S 408 - - MRS. CRAMP'S TENANT 449 - - - - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - - - - -A MYSTERY. - - -I. - -"Look here, Johnny Ludlow," said Darbyshire to me--Darbyshire being, as -you may chance to remember, our doctor at Timberdale--"you seem good -at telling of unaccountable disappearances: why don't you tell of that -disappearance which took place here?" - -I had chanced to look in upon him one evening when he was taking rest in -his chimney-corner, in the old red-cushioned chair, after his day's work -was over, smoking his churchwarden pipe in his slippers and reading the -story of "Dorothy Grape." - -"We should like to see that disappearance on paper," went on Darbyshire. -"It is the most curious thing that has happened in my experience." - -True enough it was. Too curious for any sort of daylight to be seen -through it; as you will acknowledge when you hear its details; and far -more complicated than the other story. - -The lawyer at Timberdale, John Delorane, was a warm-hearted and -warm-tempered man of Irish extraction. He had an extensive practice, and -lived in an old-fashioned, handsome red-brick house in the heart of -Timberdale, with his only daughter and his sister, Hester. - -You may have seen prettier girls than Ellin Delorane, but never one -that the heart so quickly went out to. She was too much like her dead -mother; had the same look of fragile delicacy, the same sweet face with -its pensive sadness, the soft brown eyes and the lovely complexion. Mrs. -Delorane had died of decline: people would say to one another, in -confidence, they hoped Ellin might escape it. - -The largest and best farm in the neighbourhood of Timberdale, larger -than even that of the Ashtons, was called the Dower Farm. It belonged -to Sir Robert Tenby, and had been occupied for many years by one Roger -Brook, a genial, pleasant gentleman of large private means apart from -his success in farming. Rich though he was, he did not disdain to see -practically after his work himself; was up with the lark and out with -his men, as a good farmer ought to be. Out-of-doors he was the keen, -active, thorough farmer; indoors he lived as a gentleman. He had four -children: three boys and one girl, who were all well and comprehensively -educated. - -But he intended his sons to work as he had worked: no idleness for him; -no leading of indolent and self-indulgent lives. "Choose what calling -you please," he said to them; "but stick to it when chosen, and do your -very best in it." The eldest son, Charles, had no fancy for farming, -no particular head for any of the learned professions; he preferred -commerce. An uncle, Matthew Brook, was the head of a mercantile house in -New York; he offered a post in it to Charles, who went out to him. The -second son, Reginald, chose the medical profession; after qualifying -for it, he became assistant to a doctor in London to gain experience. -William, the third son, went to Oxford. He thought of the Church, but -being conscientious, would not decide upon it hastily. - -"So that not one of you will be with me," remarked Mr. Brook. "Well, be -it so. I only want you to lead good and useful lives, striving to do -your duty to God and to man." - -But one of those overwhelming misfortunes, that I'm sure may be compared -with the falling of an avalanche, fell on Mr. Brook. In an evil hour -he had become a shareholder in a stupendous undertaking which had -banking for its staple basis; and the thing failed. People talked of -"swindling." Its managers ran away; its books and money were nowhere; -its shareholders were ruined. Some of the shareholders ran away too; -Roger Brook, upright and honourable, remained to face the ruin. And -utter ruin it was, for the company was one of unlimited liability. - -The shock was too much for him: he died under it. Every shilling he -possessed was gone; harpies (it is what Timberdale called them) came -down upon his furniture and effects, and swept them away. In less time -almost than it takes to tell of, not a vestige remained of what had -been, save in memory: Sir Robert Tenby had another tenant at the Dower -Farm, and Mrs. Brook had moved into a little cottage-villa not a stone's -throw from Darbyshire's. She had about two hundred a-year of her own, -which no adverse law could touch. Her daughter, Minnie, remained with -her. You will hardly believe it, but they had named her by the romantic -name of Araminta. - -William Brook had come down from Oxford just before, his mind made up -_not_ to be a clergyman, but to remain on the farm with his father. When -the misfortunes fell, he was, of course, thrown out; and what to turn -his hand to he did not at once know. Brought up to neither profession -nor trade, no, nor to farming, it was just a dilemma. At present, he -stayed with his mother. - -One day he presented himself to Mr. Delorane. "Can you give me some -copying to do, sir?" he asked: "either at your office here, or at home. -I write a good clear hand." - -"What do you mean to do, Master William?" returned the lawyer, passing -over the question. The two families had always been intimate and much -together. - -"I don't know what; I am waiting to see," said William. He was a slender -young fellow of middle height, with gentle manners, a very nice, refined -face, and a pair of honest, cheery, dark-blue eyes. - -"Waiting for something to turn up, like our old friend Micawber!" said -the lawyer. - -"If I could earn only a pound a-week while I am looking out, I should -not feel myself so much of a burden on my mother--though she will not -hear me say a word about that," the young man went on. "You would not -take me on as clerk and give me that sum, would you, Mr. Delorane?" - -Well, they talked further; and the upshot was, that Mr. Delorane did -take him on. William Brook went into the office as a clerk, and was paid -a pound a-week. - -The parish wondered a little, making sundry comments over this at its -tea-tables: for the good old custom of going out to real tea was not out -of fashion yet in Timberdale. Every one agreed that William Brook was to -be commended for putting his shoulder to the wheel, but that it was a -grave descent for one brought up to his expectations. Mr. St. George -objected to it on another score. - -Years before, there had arrived in England from the West Indies a little -gentleman, named Alfred St. George. His father, a planter, had recently -died, and the boy's relatives had sent him home to be educated, together -with plenty of money for that purpose. Later, when of an age to leave -school, he was articled to Mr. Delorane, and proved an apt, keen pupil. -Next he went into the office of a renowned legal firm in London, became -a qualified lawyer and conveyancer, and finally accepted an offer made -him by Mr. Delorane, to return to Timberdale, as his chief and managing -clerk. Mr. Delorane paid him a handsome salary, and held out to him, as -report ran, hopes of a future partnership. - -Alfred St. George had grown up a fine man; tall, strong, lithe and -active. People thought his face handsome, but it had unmistakably a -touch of the tar-brush. The features were large and well formed, the -lips full, and the purple-black hair might have been woolly but for -being drilled into order with oils. His complexion was a pale olive, his -black eyes were round, showing a great deal of the whites, and at times -they wore a very peculiar expression. Take him for all in all, he was a -handsome man, with a fluent tongue and persuasive eloquence. - -It was Mr. St. George who spoke against William Brook's being taken on -as clerk. Not that his objection applied to the young man himself, but -to his probable capacity for work. "He will be of no use to us, sir," -was the substance of his remonstrance to Mr. Delorane. "He has had no -experience: and one can hardly snub Brook as one would a common clerk." - -"Don't suppose he will be of much use," carelessly acquiesced Mr. -Delorane, who was neither a stingy nor a covetous man. "What could I do -but take him on when he asked me to? I like the young fellow; always -did; and his poor father was my very good friend. You must make the best -of him, St. George: dare say he won't stay long with us." At which St. -George laughed good-naturedly and shrugged his shoulders. - -But William Brook did prove to be of use. He got on so well, was so -punctual, so attentive, so intelligent, that fault could not be found -with him; and at the end of the first year Mr. Delorane voluntarily -doubled his pay--raising it to two pounds per week. - -Timberdale wondered again: and began to ask how it was that young Brook, -highly educated, and reared to expect some position in the world, could -content himself with stopping on, a lawyer's clerk? Did he mean to -continue in the office for ever? Had he ceased to look out for that -desirable something that was to turn up? Was he parting with all -laudable ambition? - -William Brook could have told them, had he dared, that it was not lack -of ambition chaining him to his post, but stress of love. He and Ellin -Delorane had entered a long while past into the mazes of that charming -dream, than which, as Tom Moore tells us, there's nothing half so sweet -in life, and the world was to them as the Garden of Eden. - -It was close upon the end of the second year before Mr. Delorane found -it out. He went into a storm of rage and reproaches--chiefly showered -upon William Brook, partly upon Ellin, a little upon himself. - -"I have been an old fool," he spluttered to his confidential clerk. -"Because the young people had been intimate in the days when the Brooks -were prosperous, I must needs let it go on still, and never suspect -danger! Why, the fellow has had his tea here twice a-week upon an -average!--and brought Ellin home at night when she has been at his -mother's!--and I--I--thought no more than if it had been her brother! -I could thrash myself! And where have her aunt Hester's eyes been, I -should like to know!" - -"Very dishonourable of Brook," assented St. George, knitting his brow. -"Perhaps less harm is done than you fear, sir. They are both young, can -hardly know their own minds; they will grow out of it. Shall you part -them?" - -"Do you suppose I shouldn't?" retorted the lawyer. - -William Brook was discharged from the office: Ellin received orders to -give up his acquaintanceship; she was not to think of him in private or -speak to him in public. Thus a little time went on. Ellin's bright face -began to fade; Aunt Hester looked sick and sorry; the lawyer had never -felt so uncomfortable in his life. - -Do what he would, he could not get out of his liking for William Brook, -and Ellin was dear to him as the apple of his eye. He had been in love -himself once, and knew what it meant; little as you would believe it of -a stout old red-faced lawyer; knew that both must be miserable. So much -the better for Brook--but what of Ellin? - -"One would think it was you who had had your lover sent to the -right-about!" he wrathfully began to Aunt Hester, one morning when he -came upon her in tears as she sat at her sewing. "I'd hide my face if I -were you, unless I could show a better." - -"It is that I am so sorry for Ellin, John," replied Aunt Hester, meekly -wiping her tears. "I--I am afraid that some people bear sorrow worse -than others." - -"Now what do you mean by that?" - -"Oh, not much," sighed Aunt Hester, not daring to allude to the dread -lying latent in her own mind--that Ellin might fade away like her -mother. "I can see what a sharp blow it has been to the child, John, and -so--and so I can but feel it myself." - -"Sharp blow! Deuce take it all! What business had young Brook to get -talking to her about such rubbish as love?" - -"Yes indeed, it is very unfortunate," said Aunt Hester. "But I do not -think he has talked to her, John; I imagine he is too honourable to have -said a single word. They have just gone on loving one another in secret -and in silence, content to live in the unspoken happiness that has -flooded their two hearts." - -"Unspoken fiddlestick? What a simpleton you are, Hester!" - -Mr. Delorane turned off in a temper. He knew it must have been a -"sharp blow" to Ellin, but he did not like to hear it so stated to his -face. Banging the door behind him, he was crossing the hall to the -office--which made a sort of wing to the house--when he met William -Brook. - -"Will you allow me to speak to you, sir?" asked the young man in a tone -of deprecation. And, though the lawyer had the greatest mind in the -world to tell him NO and send him head-foremost out again, he thought of -Ellin, he thought of his dead friend, Roger Brook; so he gave a growl, -and led the way into the dining-room. - -In his modest winning way, William Brook spoke a little of the trouble -that had come upon their family--how deeply sorry he was that Ellin and -he should have learnt to care for one another for all time, as it was -displeasing to Mr. Delorane---- - -"Hang it, man," interrupted the lawyer irascibly, too impatient to -listen further--"what on earth do you propose to yourself? Suppose I did -not look upon it with displeasure?--are you in a position to marry her?" - -"You would not have objected to me had we been as we once -were--prosperous, and----" - -"What the dickens has that to do with it!" roared the lawyer. "Our -business lies with the present, not the past." - -"I came here to tell you, sir, that I am to leave for New York to-night. -My brother Charles has been writing to me about it for some time past. -He says I cannot fail to get on well in my uncle's house, and attain -to a good position. Uncle Matthew has no sons: he will do his best to -advance his nephews. What I wish to ask you, sir, is this--if, when my -means shall be good and my position assured, you will allow me to think -of Ellin?" - -"The man's mad?" broke forth Mr. Delorane, more put about than he had -been at all. "Do you suppose I should let my only child go to live in a -country over the seas?" - -"No, sir, I have thought of that. Charles thinks, if I show an aptitude -for business, they may make me their agent over here. Oh, Mr. Delorane, -be kind, be merciful: for Ellin's sake and for mine! Do not send me away -without hope!" - -"Don't you think you possess a ready-made stock of impudence, William -Brook?" - -The young man threw his earnest, dark-blue eyes into the lawyer's. "I -feared you would deem so, sir. But I am pleading for what is dearer to -me and to her than life: our lives will be of little value to us if we -must spend them apart. Only just one ray of possible hope, Mr. Delorane! -It is all I ask." - -"Look here; we'll drop this," cried the lawyer, his hands in his -pockets, rattling away violently at the silver in them, his habit when -put out, but nevertheless calming down in temper, for in spite of -prejudice he did like the young man greatly, and he was not easy as to -Ellin. "The best thing you can do is to go where you are going--over the -Atlantic: and we'll leave the future to take care of itself. The money -you think to make may turn out all moonshine, you know. There; that's -every word I'll say and every hope I'll give, though you stop all day -bothering me, William Brook." - -And perhaps it was as much as William Brook had expected: any way, it -did not absolutely forbid him to hope. He held out his hand timidly. - -"Will you not shake hands with me, sir--I start to-night--and wish me -God speed." - -"I'll wish you better sense; and--and I hope you'll get over safely," -retorted Mr. Delorane: but he did not withhold his hand. "No -correspondence with Ellin, you understand, young man; no underhand -love-making." - -"Yes, sir, I understand; and you may rely upon me." - -He quitted the room as he spoke, to make his way out as he came--through -the office. The lawyer stood in the passage and looked after him: and a -thought, that had forced itself into his mind several times since this -trouble set in, crossed it again. Should he make the best of a bad -bargain: give Brook a chief place in his own office and let them set up -in some pleasant little home near at hand? Ellin had her mother's money: -and she would have a great deal more at his own death; quite enough to -allow her husband to live the idle life of a gentleman--and William was -a gentleman, and the nicest young fellow he knew. Should he? For a full -minute Mr. Delorane stood deliberating--yes, or no; then he took a hasty -step forward to call the young man back. Then, wavering and uncertain, -he stepped back again, and let the idea pass. - -"Well, how have you sped?" asked Mr. St. George, as William Brook -reappeared in the office. "Any hope?" - -"Yes, I think so," answered William. "At least, it is not absolutely -forbidden. There's a line in a poem my mother would repeat to us when we -were boys--'God and an honest heart will bear us through the roughest -day.' I trust He, and it, will so bear me and Ellin." - -"Wish I had your chance, old fellow!" - -"My chance!" repeated William. - -"To go out to see the world; to go out to the countries where gold and -diamonds are picked up for the stooping--instead of being chained, as I -am, between four confined walls, condemned to spend my life over musty -parchments." - -William smiled. "I don't know where you can pick up gold and diamonds -for the stooping. Not where I am going." - -"No, not in New York. You should make your way to the Australian -gold-fields, Brook, or to the rich Californian mines, or to the diamond -mountains in Africa, and come back--as you would in no time--with a sack -of money on your shoulders, large enough to satisfy even Delorane." - -"Or lose my health, if not my life, in digging, and come home without -a shirt to my back; a more common result than the other, I fancy," -remarked William. "Well, good-bye, old friend." - -St. George, towering aloft in his height and strength, put his -arm around William's shoulder and walked thus with him to the -street-entrance. There they shook hands, and parted. Ellin Delorane, -her face shaded behind the drawing-room curtain from the October sun, -watched the parting. - -There was to be no set farewell allowed to her. She understood that. -But she gathered from Aunt Hester, during the day, that her father had -not been altogether obdurate, and that if William could get on in the -future, perhaps things might be suffered to come right. It brought to -her a strange comfort. So very slight a ray, no bigger than one of the -specks that fall from the sky, as children say, will serve to impart a -most unreasonable amount of hope to the troubled heart. - -Towards the close of the afternoon, Ellin went in her restlessness to -pay a visit to her friend Grace at the Rectory, who had recently become -Herbert Tanerton's wife, and sat talking with her till it was pretty -late. The moon, rising over the tops of the trees, caused her to start -up with an exclamation. - -"What will Aunt Hester say?" - -"If you don't mind going through the churchyard, Ellin," said Grace, -"you would cut off that corner, and save a little time." So Ellin took -that route. - -"Ellin!" - -"William!" - -They had met face to face under the church walls. He explained that he -was sparing a few minutes to say farewell to his friends at the Rectory. -The moon, coming out from behind a swiftly passing cloud, for it was -rather a rough night, shone down upon them and upon the graves around -them. Wildly enough beat the heart of each. - -"You saw papa to-day," she whispered unevenly, as though her breath were -short. - -"Yes, I saw him. I cannot say that he gave me hope, Ellin, but he -certainly did not wholly deny it. I think--I believe--that--if I can -succeed in getting on, all may be well with us yet." - -William Brook spoke with hesitation. He felt trammelled; he could not -in honour say what he would have wished to say. This meeting might be -unorthodox, but it was purely accidental; neither he nor Ellin had -sought it. - -"Good-bye, my darling," he said with emotion, clasping her hands in his. -"As we have met, there cannot be much wrong in our saying it. I may -not write to you, Ellin; I may not even ask you to think of me; I may -not, I suppose, tell you in so many words that I shall think of you; -but, believe this: I go out with one sole aim and end in view--that of -striving to make a position sufficiently fair to satisfy your father." - -The tears were coursing down her cheeks; she could hardly speak for -agitation. Their hearts were aching to pain. - -"I will be true to you always, William," she whispered. "I will wait for -you, though it be to the end of life." - -To be in love with a charming young lady, and to have her all to -yourself in a solitary graveyard under the light of the moon, presents -an irresistible temptation for taking a kiss, especially if the kiss -is to be a farewell kiss for days and for years. William Brook did not -resist it; very likely did not try to. In spite of Mr. Delorane and -every one else, he took his farewell kiss from Ellin's lips. - -Then they parted, he going one way, she the other. Only those of -us--there are not many--who have gone through this parting agony can -know how it wrings the heart. - -But sundry superstitious gossips, hearing of this afterwards, assured -Ellin that it must be unlucky to say farewell amidst graves. - - * * * * * - -The time went on. William Brook wrote regularly to his people, and Minty -whispered the news to Ellin Delorane. He would send kind remembrances to -friends, love to those who cared for it. He did not dislike the work of -a mercantile life, and thought he should do well--in time. - -In time. There was the rub, you see. We say "in time" when we mean next -Christmas, and we also say it when we mean next century. By the end of -the first year William Brook was commanding a handsome salary; but the -riches that might enable him to aspire to the hand of Miss Delorane -loomed obscurely in the distance yet. Ellin seemed strong and well, gay -and cheerful, went about Timberdale, and laughed and talked with the -world, just as though she had never had a lover, or was not waiting for -somebody over the water. Mr. Delorane thought she must have forgotten -that scapegrace, and he hoped it was so. - -It was about this time, the end of the first year, that a piece of good -luck fell to Mr. St. George. He came into a fortune. Some relative in -the West Indies died and left it to him. Timberdale put it down at a -thousand pounds a-year, so I suppose it might be about five hundred. It -was thought he might be for giving up his post at Mr. Delorane's to -be a gentleman at large. But he did nothing of the kind. He quitted -his lodgings over Salmon's shop, and went into a pretty house near -Timberdale Court, with a groom and old Betty Huntsman as housekeeper, -and set up a handsome gig and a grey horse. And that was all the change. - -As the second year went on, Ellin Delorane began to droop a little. Aunt -Hester did not like it. One of the kindest friends Ellin had was Alfred -St. George. After the departure of young Brook, he had been so tender -with Ellin, so considerate, so indulgent to her sorrow, and so regretful -(like herself) of William's absence, that he had won her regard. "It -will be all right when he comes back, Ellin," he would whisper: "only be -patient." - -But in this, the second year, Mr. St. George's tone changed. It may be -that he saw no hope of any happy return, and deemed that, for her own -sake, he ought to repress any hope left in her. - -"There's no more chance of his returning with a fortune than there is of -my going up to the moon," he said to Tod confidentially one day when we -met him striding along near the Ravine. - -"Don't suppose there is--in this short time," responded Tod. - -"I'm afraid Ellin sees it, too: she seems to be losing her spirits. -Ah, Brook should have done as I advised him--gone a little farther and -dug in the gold-fields. He might have come back a Croesus then. As it -is--whew! I wouldn't give a copper sixpence for his chance." - -"Do you know what I heard say, St. George?--that you'd like to go in for -the little lady yourself." - -The white eye-balls surrounding St. George's dark orbs took a tinge of -yellow as they rolled on Tod. "Who said it?" he asked quietly. - -"Darbyshire. He says you are in love with her as much as ever Brook -was." - -St. George laughed. "Old Darbyshire? Well, perhaps he is not far wrong. -Any way, love's free, I believe. Were I her father, Brook should prove -his eligibility to propose for her, or else give her up. Good-day, -Todhetley; good-day, Johnny." - -St. George went off at a quick pace. Tod, looking after him, made his -comments. "Should not wonder but he wins her. He is the better man of -the two----" - -"The better man!" I interrupted. - -"As to means, at any rate: and see what a fine upright free-limbed -fellow he is! And where will you find one more agreeable?" - -"In tongue, nowhere; I admit that. But I wouldn't give up William Brook -for him, were I Ellin Delorane." - -That St. George was in love with her grew as easy to be seen as is the -round moon in harvest. Small blame to him. Who could be in the daily -companionship of a sweet girl like Ellin Delorane, and not learn to love -her, I should like to know? Tod told St. George he wished he had his -chance. - -At last St. George spoke to her. It was in April, eighteen months after -Brook's departure. Ellin was in the garden at sunset, busy with the -budding flowers, when St. George came to join her, as he sometimes did, -on leaving the office for the day. Aunt Hester sat sewing at the open -glass-doors of the window. - -"I have been gardening till I am tired," was Ellin's greeting to him, as -she sat down on a bench near the sweetbriar bush. - -"You look pale," said Mr. St. George. "You often do look pale now, -Ellin: do you think you can be quite well?" - -"Pray don't let Aunt Hester overhear you," returned Ellin in covert, -jesting tones. "She begins to have fancies, she says, that I am not as -well as I ought to be, and threatens to call in Mr. Darbyshire." - -"You need some one to take care of you; some one near and dear to you, -who would study your every look and action, who would not suffer the -winds of heaven to blow upon your face too roughly," went on St. George, -plunging into Shakespeare. "Oh, Ellin, if you would suffer me to be that -one----" - -Her face turned crimson; her lips parted with emotion; she rose up to -interrupt him in a sort of terror. - -"Pray do not continue, Mr. St. George. If--if I understand you rightly, -that you--that you----" - -"That I would be your loving husband, Ellin; that I would shelter you -from all ill until death us do part. Yes, it is nothing less than that." - -"Then you must please never to speak of such a thing again; never to -think of it. Oh, do not let me find that I have been mistaking you all -this time," she added in uncontrollable agitation: "that while I have -ever welcomed you as my friend--and his--you have been swayed by another -motive!" - -He did not like the agitation; he did not like the words; and he bit his -lips, striving for calmness. - -"This is very hard, Ellin." - -"Let us understand each other once for all," she said--"and oh, I -am so sorry that there's need to say it. What you have hinted at is -impossible. Impossible: please not to mistake me. You have been my very -kind friend, and I value you; and, if you will, we can go on still on -the same pleasant terms, caring for one another in friendship. There -can be nothing more." - -"Tell me one thing," he said: "we had better, as you intimate, -understand each other fully. Can it be that your hopes are still fixed -upon William Brook?" - -"Yes," she answered in a low tone, as she turned her face away. "I hope -he will come home yet, and that--that matters may be smoothed for us -with papa. Whilst that hope remains it is simply treason to talk to me -as you would have done," she concluded with a spurt of anger. - -"Ellin," called out Aunt Hester, putting her head out beyond the -glass-doors, "the sun has set; you had better come in." - -"One moment, Ellin," cried Mr. St. George, preventing her: "will you -forgive me?" - -"Forgive and forget, too," smiled Ellin, her brow smoothing itself. -"But you must never recur to the subject again." - -So Mr. St. George went home, his accounts settled--as Tod would have -said: and the days glided on. - - * * * * * - -"What is it that ails Ellin?" - -It was a piping-hot morning in July, in one of the good old hot -summers that we seem never to get now; and Aunt Hester sat in her -parlour, its glass-doors open, adding up the last week's bills of the -butcher and the baker, when she was interrupted by this question from -her brother. He had come stalking upon her, rattling as usual, though -quite unconsciously, the silver in his trousers pockets. The trousers -were of nankeen: elderly gentlemen wore them in those days for -coolness. - -"What ails her!" repeated Aunt Hester, dropping the bills in alarm. -"Why do you ask me, John?" - -"Now, don't you think you should have been a Quaker?" retorted Mr. -Delorane. "I put a simple question to you, and you reply to it by asking -me another. Please to answer mine first. What is it that is the matter -with Ellin?" - -Aunt Hester sighed. Of too timid a nature to put forth her own opinion -upon any subject gratuitously in her brother's house, she hardly liked -to give it even when asked for. For the past few weeks Ellin had been -almost palpably fading; was silent and dispirited, losing her bright -colour, growing thinner; might be heard catching her breath in one -of those sobbing sighs that betoken all too surely some secret, -ever-present sorrow. Aunt Hester had observed this; she now supposed -it had at length penetrated to the observation of her brother. - -"Can't you speak?" he demanded. - -"I don't know what to say, John. Ellin does not seem well, and looks -languid: of course this broiling weather is against us all. But----" - -"But what?" cried the lawyer, as she paused. "As to broiling weather, -that's nothing new in July." - -"Well, John--only you take me up so--and I'm sure I shouldn't like to -anger you. I was about to add that I think it is not so much illness -of body with Ellin as illness of mind. If one's mind is ransacked with -perpetual worry----" - -"Racked with perpetual worry," interrupted Mr. Delorane, unconsciously -correcting her mistake. "What has she to worry her?" - -"Dear me! I suppose it is about William Brook. He has been gone nearly -two years, John, and seems to be no nearer coming home with a fortune -than he was when he left. I take it that this troubles the child: she -is losing hope." - -Mr. Delorane, standing before the open window, his back to his sister, -turned the silver coins about in his pockets more vehemently than -before. "You say she is not ailing in body?" - -"Not yet. She is never very strong, you know." - -"Then there's no need to be uneasy." - -"Well, John--not yet, perhaps. But should this state of despair, if I -don't use too strong a word, continue, it will tell in tune upon her -health, and might bring on--bring on----" - -"Bring on what?" sharply asked the lawyer. - -"I was thinking of her mother," said poor Aunt Hester, with as much -deprecation as though he had been the Great Mogul: "but I trust, John, -you won't be too angry with me for saying it." - -Mr. Delorane did not say whether he was angry or not. He stood there, -fingering his sixpences and shillings, gazing apparently at the -grass-plat, in reality seeing nothing. He was recalling a past vision: -that of his delicate wife, dying of consumption before her time; he -seemed to see a future vision: that of his daughter, dying as she had -died. - -"When it comes to dreams," timidly went on Aunt Hester, "I can't say I -like it. Not that I am one to put faith in the foolish signs old wives -talk of--that if you dream of seeing a snake, you've got an enemy; or, -if you seem to be in the midst of a lot of beautiful white flowers, -it's a token of somebody's death. I am not so silly as that, John. But -for some time past Ellin has dreamt perpetually of one theme--that of -being in trouble about William Brook. Night after night she seems to be -searching for him: he is lost, and she cannot tell how or where." - -Had Aunt Hester suddenly begun to hold forth in the unknown tongue, it -could not have brought greater surprise to Mr. Delorane. He turned short -round to stare at her. - -"Seeing what a wan and weary face the child has come down with of late, -I taxed her with not sleeping well," continued Aunt Hester, "and she -confessed to me that she was feeling a good bit troubled by her dreams. -She generally has them towards morning, and the theme is always the -same. The dreams vary, but the subject is alike in all--William Brook -is lost, and she is searching for him." - -"Nonsense! Rubbish!" put in Mr. Delorane. - -"Well, John, I dare say it is nonsense," conceded Aunt Hester meekly: -"but I confess I don't like dreams that come to you persistently night -after night and always upon one and the same subject. Why should they -come?--that's what I ask myself. Be sure, though, I make light of the -matter to Ellin, and tell her her digestion is out of order. Over and -over again, she says, they seem to have the clue to his hiding place, -but they never succeed in finding him. And--and I am afraid, John, that -the child, through this, has taken up the notion that she shall never -see him again." - -Mr. Delorane, making some impatient remark about the absurdity of women -in general, turned round and stood looking into the garden as before. -Ellin's mind was getting unhinged with the long separation, she had -begun to regard it as hopeless, and hence these dreams that Brook was -"lost," he told himself, and with reason: and what was he to do? - -How long he stood thus in perfect silence, no sound to be heard but -the everlasting jingling of the loose silver, Aunt Hester did not know; -pretty near an hour she thought. She wished he would go; she felt very -uncomfortable, as she always did feel when she vexed him--and here were -the bills waiting to be added up. At length he turned sharply, with the -air of one who has come to some decision, and returned to the office. - -"I suppose I shall have to do it myself," he remarked to Mr. St. George. - -"Do what, sir?" - -"Send for that young fellow back, and let them set up in some little -homestead near me. I mean Brook." - -"Brook!" stammered St. George. - -"Here's Ellin beginning to fade and wither. It's all very well for her -aunt to talk about the heat! _I_ know. She is pining after him, and I -can't see her do it; so he must come home." - -Of all the queer shades that can be displayed by the human countenance, -about the queerest appeared in that of Mr. St. George. It was not -purple, it was not green, it was not yellow; it was a mixture of all -three. He gazed at his chief and master as one gazes at a madman. - -"Brook can come into the office again," continued Mr. Delorane. "I don't -like young men to be idle; leads 'em into temptation. We'll make him -head clerk here, next to you, and give him a couple of hundred a-year. -If--what's the matter?" - -For the strange look on his manager's face had caught the eye of Mr. -Delorane. St. George drew three or four deep breaths. - -"Have you thought of Miss Delorane, sir--of her interests--in planning -this?" he presently asked. - -"Why, that's what I do think of; nothing else. You may be sure I -shouldn't think of it for the interest of Brook. All the same, I like -the young man, and always shall. The child is moping herself into a bad -way. Where shall I be if she should go into a decline like her mother? -No, no; she shall marry and have proper interests around her." - -"She could do that without being sacrificed to Brook," returned St. -George in a low tone. "There are others, sir, of good and suitable -position, who would be thankful to take her--whose pride it would be -to cherish her and render every moment of her life happy." - -"Oh, I know that; you are one of 'em," returned Mr. Delorane carelessly. -"It's what all you young sparks are ready to say of a pretty girl, -especially if she be rich as well. But don't you see, St. George, that -Ellin does not care for any of you. Her heart is fixed upon Brook, and -Brook it must be." - -Of course this news came out to Timberdale. Some people blamed Mr. -Delorane, others praised him. Delorane must be turning childish in his -old age, said one; Delorane is doing a good and a wise thing, cried -another. Opinions vary in this world, you know, and ever will, as proved -to us in the fable of the old man and his ass. - -But now--and it was a strange thing to happen the very next day Mr. -Delorane received a letter from William Brook, eight closely written -pages. Briefly, this was its substance. The uncle, Matthew Brook of New -York, was about to establish a house in London, in correspondence with -his own; he had offered the managership of it to William, with a small -share of profits, guaranteeing that the latter should not be less than -seven hundred a-year. - -"And if you can only be induced to think this enough for us to begin -upon, sir, and will give me Ellin," wrote the young man, "I can but say -that I will strive to prove my gratitude in loving care for her; and I -trust you will not object to her living in London. I leave New York next -month, to be in England in September, landing at Liverpool, and I shall -make my way at once to Timberdale, hoping you will allow me to plead my -cause in person." - -"No no, Master William, you won't carry my daughter off to London," -commented Mr. Delorane aloud, when he had read the letter--not but that -it gratified him. "You must give up your post, young man, and settle -down by me here, if you are to have Ellin. I don't see, St. George, why -Brook should not make himself into a lawyer, legal and proper," added he -thoughtfully. "He is young enough--and he does not dislike the work. You -and he might be associated together after I am dead: 'Brook and St. -George.'" - -Mr. St. George's face turned crusty: he did not like to hear his name -put next to Brook's. "I never feel too sure of my own future," he said -in reply. "Now that I am at my ease in the world, tempting visions come -often enough across me of travelling out to see it." - -Mr. Delorane wrote a short, pithy note in answer to the appeal of -William Brook, telling him he might come and talk to him as soon as he -returned. "The young fellow may have left New York before it can reach -him," remarked the lawyer, as he put the letter in the post; "but if so, -it does not much matter." - -So there was Timberdale, all cock-a-hoop at the prospect of seeing -William Brook again, and the wedding that was to follow. Sam Mullet, -the clerk, was for setting the bells to ring beforehand. - - * * * * * - -Some people think September the pleasantest month in the year, when the -heats of summer have passed and the frosts of winter have not come. -Never a finer September than we had that autumn at Timberdale; the skies -looked bright, the leaves of the trees were putting on their tints of -many colours, and the land was not yet quite shorn of its golden grain. - -All the world was looking out for William Brook. He did not come. -Disappointment is the lot of man. Of woman also. When the third week -was dragging itself along in expectancy, a letter came to Mrs. Brook -from William. It was to say that his return home was somewhat delayed, -as he should have to take Jamaica en route, to transact some business -at Kingston for his uncle. He should then proceed direct from Kingston -by steamer to Liverpool, which place he hoped to reach before the -middle of October. "Tell all my friends this, that they may not wonder -at my delay," the letter concluded; but it contained no intimation -that he had received the answer written by Mr. Delorane. - -A short postscript was yet added, in these words: "Alfred St. George -has, I know, some relatives living in, or near Kingston--planters, I -believe. Tell him I shall call upon them, if I can make time, to see -whether they have any commands for him." - -Long before the middle of October, Ellin Delorane became obviously -restless. A sort of uneasy impatience seemed to have taken possession -of her: and without cause. One day, when we called at Mr. Delorane's -to take a message from home, Ellin was in the garden with her outdoor -things on, waiting to go out with her aunt. - -"What a ridiculous goose you are!" began Tod. "I hear you have taken up -the notion that Sweet William has gone down in the Caribbean Sea." - -"I'm sure I have not," said Ellin. "Aunt Hester must have told you that -fable when she was at Crabb Cot yesterday." - -"Just so. She and the mater laid their gossiping caps together for the -best part of an hour--and all about the foolishness of Miss Ellin -Delorane." - -"Why, you know, Ellin," I put in, "it is hardly the middle of October -yet." - -"I tell myself that it is not," she answered gravely. "But, somehow, -Johnny, I don't--don't--expect--him." - -"Now, what on earth do you mean?" - -"I wish I knew what. All I can tell you is, that when his mother -received that letter from William last month, saying his return was -delayed, a sort of foreboding seized hold of me, an apprehension that -he would never come. I try to shake it off, but I cannot. Each day, as -the days come round, only serves to make it stronger." - -"Don't you think a short visit to Droitwich would do you good, Ellin?" -cried Tod, which was our Worcestershire fashion of recommending people -to the lunatic asylum. - -"Just listen to him, Johnny!" she exclaimed, with a laugh. - -"Yes, 'just listen to him'--and just listen to yourself, Miss Ellin, and -see which talks the most sense," he retorted. "Have you got over those -dreams yet?" - -Ellin turned her face to him quickly. "Who told you anything about that, -Aunt Hester?" - -Tod nodded. "It's true, you know." - -"Yes, it is true," she slowly said. "I have had those strange dreams for -some weeks now; I have them still." - -"That William Brook is lost?" - -"That he is lost, and that we are persistently searching for him. -Sometimes we are seeking for him in Timberdale, sometimes at -Worcester--in America, in France, in places that I have no knowledge -of. There always seems to be a sadness connected with it--a sort of -latent conviction that he will never be found." - -"The dreams beget the dreams," said Tod, "and I should have thought you -had better sense. They will soon vanish, once Sweet William makes his -appearance: and mind, Miss Ellin, that you invite me to the wedding." - -Ellin sighed--and smiled. And just then Aunt Hester appeared attired in -her crimson silk shawl with the fancy border, and the primrose feather -in her Leghorn bonnet. - -A day or two went on, bringing no news of the traveller. On the -nineteenth of October--I shall never forget the date--Mr. and Mrs. -Todhetley and ourselves set off in the large open phaeton for a place -called Pigeon Green, to spend the day with some friends living there. -On this same morning, as it chanced, a very wintry one, Mr. St. George -started for Worcester in his gig, accompanied by Ellin Delorane. But -of this we knew nothing. He had business in the town; she was going to -spend a few days with Mary West, formerly Mary Coney. - -Ellin was well wrapped up, and Mr. St. George, ever solicitous for her -comfort, kept the warm fur rug well about her during the journey: the -skies looked grey and threatening, the wind was high and bitterly cold. -Worcester reached, he drove straight through the town, left Ellin at -Mrs. West's door, in the Foregate Street, and then drove back to the -Hare and Hounds Inn to put up his horse and gig. - - -II. - -I shall always say, always think, it was a curious thing we chanced to -go that day, of all days, to Pigeon Green. It is not chance that brings -about these strange coincidences. - - "There's a divinity that shapes our ends, - Rough-hew them how we will." - -Pigeon Green, a small colony of a dozen houses, formed a triangle, as -may be said, with Timberdale and Evesham, being a few miles distant from -each. Old Mr. and Mrs. Beele, life-long friends of the Squire, lived -here. Their nephew had brought his newly-married wife from London to -show her to them, and we were all invited to dinner. As the Squire did -not care to be out in the dark, his sight not being what it used to be, -the dinner-hour was fixed for two o'clock. We started in the large open -phaeton, the Squire driving his favourite horses, Bob and Blister. It -was the nineteenth of October. Mrs. Todhetley complained of the cold -as we went along. The lovely weather of September had left us; early -winter seemed to be setting in with a vengeance. The easterly wind was -unusually high, and the skies were leaden. - -On this same wintry morning Mr. St. George left Timberdale in his gig -for Worcester, accompanied by Ellin Delorane. St. George had business to -transact with Philip West, a lawyer, who was Mr. Delorane's agent in -Worcester. Philip West lived in the Foregate Street, his offices being -in the same house. Ellin was very intimate with his wife, formerly Mary -Coney, and was invited to spend a few days with her. It was Aunt Hester -who had urged the acceptance of this invitation: seeing that Ellin was -nervous at the non-arrival of her lover, William Brook, was peeping into -the newspapers for accounts of shipwrecks and other calamities at sea. -So they set off after breakfast, Ellin well wrapped up, in this stylish -gig of Mr. St. George's. There are gigs and gigs, you know, and I assure -you some gigs were yet fashionable vehicles in those days. - -It was bitterly cold. St. George, remarking that they should have snow -as soon as the high wind would let it come down, urged his handsome -grey horse to a fleet pace, and they soon reached Worcester. He drove -straight to Foregate Street, which lay at the other end of the town, set -down Ellin, and then went back again to leave his horse and gig at the -Hare and Hounds in College Street, the inn at which he generally put up, -retracing his steps on foot to Mr. West's. - -And now I must return to ourselves. - -After a jolly dinner at two o'clock with the Beeles, and a jolly dessert -after it, including plenty of fresh filberts and walnuts, and upon -that a good cup of tea and some buttered toast, we began to think about -getting home. When the phaeton came round, the Squire remarked that -it was half-an-hour later than he had meant to start; upon which, old -Beele laid the fault of its looking late to the ungenial weather of the -evening. - -We drove off. Dusk was approaching; the leaden skies looked dark and -sullen, the wind, unpleasantly high all day, had increased to nearly a -hurricane. It roared round our heads, it whistled wildly through the -trees and hedges, it shook the very ears of Bob and Blister; the few -flakes of snow or sleet beginning then to fall were whirled about in -the air like demons. It was an awful evening, no mistake about that; -and a very unusual one for the middle of October. - -The Squire faced the storm as well as he could, his coat-collar turned -up, his cloth cap, kept for emergencies in a pocket of the carriage, -tied down well on his ears. Mrs. Todhetley tied a knitted grey shawl -right over her bonnet. We, in the back seat, had much ado to keep our -hats on: I sat right behind the Squire, Tod behind Mrs. Todhetley. It -was about the worst drive I remember. The wild wind, keen as a knife, -stung our faces, and seemed at times as if it would whirl us, carriage -and horses and all, in the air, as it was whirling the sleet and snow. - -Tod stood up to speak to his father. "Shall I drive, sir?" he asked. -"Perhaps you would be more sheltered if you sat here behind." - -Tod's driving in those days was regarded by the Squire with remarkable -disparagement, and Tod received only a sharp answer--which could not be -heard for the wind. - -We got along somehow in the teeth of the storm. The route lay chiefly -through by-ways, solitary and unfrequented, not in the good, open -turnpike-roads. For about a mile, midway between Pigeon Green and -Timberdale, was an ultra dreary spot; dreary in itself and dreary in its -associations. It was called Dip Lane, possibly because the ground dipped -there so much that it lay in a hollow; overgrown dark elm-trees grew -thickly on each side of it, their branches nearly meeting overhead. In -the brightest summer's day the place was gloomy, so you may guess how it -looked now. - -But the downward dip and the dark elm-trees did not constitute all the -dreariness of Dip Lane. Many years before, a murder had been committed -there. The Squire used to tell us of the commotion it caused, all the -gentlemen for miles and miles round bestirring themselves to search out -the murderers. He himself was a little fellow of five or six years old, -and could just remember what a talk it made. A wealthy farmer, belated, -riding through the lane from market one dark night, was attacked and -pulled from his horse. The assailants beat him to death, rifled his -pockets of a large sum, for he had been selling stock, and dragged him -_through the hedge_, making a large gap in it. Across the field, near -its opposite side, was the round, deep stagnant piece of water known as -Dip Pond (popularly supposed to be too deep to have any bottom to it); -and it was conjectured that the object of the murderers, in dragging him -through the hedge, was to conceal the body beneath the dark and slimy -water, and that they must have been disturbed by some one passing in the -lane. Any way, the body was found in the morning lying in the field -a few yards from the gap in the hedge, pockets turned inside out, and -watch and seals gone. The poor frightened horse had made its way home, -and stayed whinnying by the stable-door all night. - -The men were never found. A labourer, hastening through the lane earlier -in the evening, with some medicine from the doctor's for his sick wife, -had noticed two foot-pads, as he described them, standing under a tree. -That these were the murderers, then waiting for prey, possibly for this -very gentleman they attacked, no one had any doubt; but they were never -traced. Whoever they were, they got clear off with their booty, and--the -Squire would always add when telling the story to a stranger--with -their wicked consciences, which he sincerely hoped tormented them ever -afterwards. - -But the most singular fact in the affair remains to be told. From -that night nothing would grow on the spot in the hedge over which -the murdered man was dragged, and on which his blood had fallen. The -blood-stains were easily got rid of, but the hedge, though replanted -more than once, never grew again; and the gap remained in it still. -Report went that the farmer's ghost haunted it--that, I am sure, you -will not be surprised to hear, ghosts being so popular--and might be -seen hovering around it on a moonlit night. - -And amidst the many small coincidences attending the story (my story) -which I am trying to place clearly before you, was this one: that the -history of the murder was gone over that day at Mr. Beele's. Some remark -led to the subject as we sat round the dessert-table, and Mrs. Frank -Beele, who had never heard of it, inquired what it was. Upon that, the -Squire and old Beele recounted it to her, each ransacking his memory to -help the other with fullest particulars. - -To go on with our homeward journey. Battling along, we at length -plunged into Dip Lane--which, to its other recommendations, added that -of being inconveniently narrow--and Tod, peering outwards in the gloomy -dusk, fancied he saw some vehicle before us. Bringing his keen sight to -bear upon it, he stood up to reconnoitre, and made it out to be a gig, -going the same way that we were. The wind was not quite so bad in this -low spot, and the snow and sleet had ceased for a bit. - -"Take care, father," said Tod: "there's a gig on ahead." - -"A gig, Joe?" - -"Yes, it's a gig: and going at a strapping pace." - -But the Squire was going at a strapping pace also, and driving two fresh -horses, whereas the gig had but one horse. We caught it up in no time. -It slackened speed slightly as it drew close to the hedge on that side, -to give us room to pass. In a moment we saw it was St. George's gig, St. -George driving. - -"Halloa!" called Tod, as we shot by, and his shout was loud enough -to frighten the ghost at the gap, which lively spot we were fast -approaching, "there's William Brook! Father, pull up: there's William -Brook!" - -Brook was sitting with St. George. His coat was well buttoned up, -a white woollen comforter folded round his neck and chin, and a -low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his brows. I confess -that but for Tom's shout I should not have recognized him--muffled up -in that way. - -Anxious to get home, out of the storm, the Squire paid no heed to Tod's -injunction of pulling up. He just turned his head for a moment towards -the gig, but drove on at the same speed as before. All we could do was -to call out every welcome we could think of to William Brook as we -looked back, and to pull off our hats and wave them frantically. - -William Brook pulled off his, and waved it to us in return. _I saw him -do it._ He called out something also, no doubt a greeting. At least, I -thought he did; but the wind swept by with a gust at the moment, and it -might have been St. George's voice and not his. - -"Johnny, lad, it's better than nuts," cried Tod to me, all excitement -for once, as he fixed his hat on his head again. "How glad I am!--for -Nelly's sake. But what on earth brings the pair of them--he and St. -George--in Dip Lane?" - -Another minute or so, and we reached the gap in the hedge. I turned -my eyes to it and to the pond beyond it in a sort of fascination; I -was sure to do so whenever I went by, but that was seldom; and the -conversation at the dessert-table had opened the wretched details -afresh. Almost immediately afterwards, the gig wheels behind us, which I -could hear above the noise of the wind, seemed to me to come to a sudden -standstill. "St. George has stopped," I exclaimed to Tod. "Not a bit of -it," answered he; "we can no longer hear him." Almost close upon that, -we passed the turning which led out of the lane towards Evesham. Not -heeding anything of all this, as indeed why should he, the Squire dashed -straight onwards, and in time we gained our homestead, Crabb Cot. - -The first thing the Squire did, when we were all gathered round the -welcome fire, blazing and crackling with wood and coal, and the stormy -blasts beat on the window-panes, but no longer upon us, was to attack us -for making that noise in Dip Lane, and for shouting out that it was -Brook. - -"It was Brook, father," said Tod. "St. George was driving him." - -"Nonsense, Joe," reprimanded the Squire. "William Brook has not landed -from the high seas yet. And, if he had landed, what should bring him in -Dip Lane--or St. George either?" - -"It was St. George," persisted Tod. - -"Well, that might have been. It looked like his grey horse. Where was he -coming from, I wonder?" - -"Mr. St. George went to Worcester this morning, sir," interposed Thomas, -who had come in with some glasses, the Squire having asked for some hot -brandy-and-water. "Giles saw his man Japhet this afternoon, and he said -his master had gone off in his gig to Worcester for the day." - -"Then he must have picked up Brook at Worcester," said Tod, in his -decisive way. - -"May be so," conceded the Squire, coming round to reason. "But I don't -see what they could be doing in Dip Lane." - - * * * * * - -The storm had disappeared the following morning, but the ground was -white with a thin coating of snow; and in the afternoon, when we started -for Timberdale to call on William Brook, the sky was blue and the sun -shining. Climbing up from the Ravine and crossing the field beyond it to -the high-road, we met Darbyshire, the surgeon, striding along as fast as -his legs would carry him. - -"You seem to be in a hurry," remarked the Squire. - -"Just sent for to a sick patient over yonder," replied Darbyshire, -nodding to some cottages in the distance. "Dying, the report is; -supposed to have swallowed poison. Dare say it will turn out to be a -case of cucumber." - -He was speeding on when Tod asked whether he had seen William Brook -yet. Darbyshire turned to face him, looking surprised. - -"Seen Brook yet! No; how should I see him? Brook's not come, is he?" - -"He got home last night. St. George drove him from Worcester in his -gig," said Tod, and went on to explain that we had passed them in Dip -Lane. Darbyshire was uncommonly pleased. Brook was a favourite of his. - -"I am surprised that I have not seen him," he cried; "I have been about -all the morning. St. George was in Worcester yesterday, I know. Wonder, -though, what induced them to make a pilgrimage through Dip Lane!" - -Just, you see, as the rest of us had wondered. - -We went on towards Mrs. Brook's. But in passing Mr. Delorane's, Aunt -Hester's head appeared above the Venetian blind of the dining-room. She -began nodding cordially. - -"How lively she looks," exclaimed the Squire. "Pleased that he is back, -I take it. Suppose we go in?" - -The front-door was standing open, and we went in unannounced. Aunt -Hester, sitting then at the little work-table, making herself a cap with -lace and pink ribbons, got up and tried to shake hands with all three of -us at once. - -"We are on our way to call on William Brook," cried the Squire, as we -sat down, and Aunt Hester was taking up her work again. - -"On William Brook!--why, what do you mean?" she exclaimed. "Has he -come?" - -"You don't mean to say you did not know it--that he has not been to see -you?" cried the Squire. - -"I don't know a thing about it; I did not know he had come; no one has -told me," rejoined Aunt Hester. "As to his coming to see me--well, I -suppose he would not feel himself at liberty to do that until Mr. -Delorane gave permission. When did he arrive? I am so glad." - -"And he is not much behind his time, either," observed Tod. - -"Not at all behind it, to speak of, only we were impatient. The truth -is, I caught somewhat of Ellin's fears," added Aunt Hester, looking at -us over her spectacles, which she rarely wore higher than the end of her -nose. "Ellin has had gloomy ideas about his never coming back at all; -and one can't see a person perpetually sighing away in silence, without -sighing a bit also for company. Did he get here this morning? What a -pity Ellin is in Worcester!" - -We told Aunt Hester all about it, just as we had told Darbyshire, but -not quite so curtly, for she was not in a hurry to be off to a poisoned -patient. She dropped her work to listen, and took off her spectacles, -looking, however, uncommonly puzzled. - -"What a singular thing--that you should chance to have been in Dip Lane -just at the time they were!--and why should they have chosen that dreary -route! But--but----" - -"But what, ma'am?" cried the Squire. - -"Well, I am thinking what could have been St. George's motive for -concealing the news from me when he came round here last night to tell -me he had left Ellin safely at Philip West's," replied she. - -"Did he say nothing to you about William Brook?" - -"Not a word. He said what a nasty drive home it had been in the teeth -of the storm and wind, but he did not mention William Brook. He seemed -tired, and did not stay above a minute or two. John was out. Oh, here is -John." - -Mr. Delorane, hearing our voices, I suppose, came in from the office. -Aunt Hester told him the news at once--that William Brook was come home. - -"I am downright glad," interrupted the lawyer emphatically. "What with -one delay and another, one might have begun to think him lost: it was -September, you know, that he originally announced himself for. What -do you say?"--his own words having partly drowned Aunt Hester's--"St. -George drove him home last night from Worcester? Drove Brook? Nonsense! -Had St. George brought Brook he would have told me of it." - -"But he did bring him, sir," affirmed Tod: and he went over the history -once more. Mr. Delorane did not take it in. - -"Are these lads playing a joke upon me, Squire?" asked he. - -"Look here, Delorane. That we passed St. George in Dip Lane is a fact; -I knew the cut of his gig and horse. Some one was with him; I saw that -much. The boys called out that it was William Brook, and began shouting -to him. Whether it was he, or not, I can't say; I had enough to do -with my horses, I can tell you; they did not like the wind, Blister -especially." - -"It was William Brook, safe enough, sir," interposed Tod. "Do you think -I don't know him? We spoke to him, and he spoke to us. Why should you -doubt it?" - -"Well, I suppose I can't doubt it, as you speak so positively," said Mr. -Delorane. "The news took me by surprise, you see. Why on earth did St. -George not tell me of it? I shall take him to task when he comes in. Any -way, I am glad Brook's come. We will drink his health." - -He opened what was in those days called the cellaret--and a very -convenient article it was for those who drank wine as a rule--and put on -the table some of the glasses that were standing on the sideboard. Then -we drank health and happiness to William Brook. - -"And to some one else also," cried bold Tod, winking at Aunt Hester. - -"You two boys can go on to Mrs. Brook's," cried the Squire; "I shall -stop here a bit. Tell William I am glad he has surmounted the perils of -the treacherous seas." - -"And tell him he may come to see me if he likes," added the lawyer. "I -expect he did not get a note I wrote to him a few months back, or he'd -have been here this morning." - -Away we went to Mrs. Brook's. And the first thing that flabbergasted us -(the expression was Tod's, not mine) was to be met by a denial of the -servant's. Upon Tod asking to see Mr. William, she stared at us and said -he was not back from his travels. - -"Come in," called out Minty from the parlour; "I know your voices." She -sat at the table, her paint-box before her. Minty painted very nice -pieces in water-colours: the one in process was a lovely bit of scenery -taken from Little Malvern. Mrs. Brook was out. - -"What did I hear you saying to Ann about William--that he had come -home?" she began to us, without getting up from her work--for we were -too intimate to be upon any ceremony with one another. "He is not come -yet. I only wish he was." - -"But he is come," said Tod. "He came last night. We saw him and spoke to -him." - -Minty put down her camel-hair pencil then, and turned round. "What do -you mean?" she asked. - -"Mr. St. George drove William home from Worcester. We passed them in the -gig in Dip Lane." - -Minty retorted by asking whether we were not dreaming; and for a minute -or two we kept at cross-purposes. She held to it that they had seen -nothing of her brother; that he was not at Timberdale. - -"Mamma never had a wink of sleep last night, for thinking of the -dreadful gale William must be in at sea. Your fancy misled you," went on -Minty, calmly touching-up the cottage in her painting--and Tod looked as -if he would like to beat her. - -But it did really seem that William had not come, and we took our -departure. I don't think I had ever seen Tod look so puzzled. - -"I wish I may be shot if I can understand this!" said he. - -"Could we have been mistaken in thinking it was Brook?" I was beginning; -and Tod turned upon me savagely. - -"I swear it was Brook. There! And you know it as well as I, Mr. Johnny. -Where can he be hiding himself? What is the meaning of it?" - -It is my habit always to try to account for things that seem -unaccountable; to search out reasons and fathom them; and you would be -surprised at the light that will sometimes crop up. An idea flashed -across me now. - -"Can Brook be ill, Tod, think you?--done up with his voyage, or -something--and St. George is nursing him at his house for a day or two -before he shows himself to Timberdale?" And Tod thought it might be so. - -Getting back to Mr. Delorane's, we found him and the Squire sitting at -the table still. St. George, just come in, was standing by, hat in hand, -and they were both tackling him at once. - -"_What_ do you say?" asked St. George of his master, when he found room -for a word. "That I brought William Brook home here last night from -Worcester! Why, what can have put such a thing into your head, sir?" - -"_Didn't_ you bring him?" cried the Squire. "Didn't you drive him home -in your gig?" - -"That I did not. I have not seen William Brook." - -He spoke in a ready, though surprised tone, not at all like one who is -shuffling with the truth, or telling a fable, and looked from one to -another of his two questioners, as if not yet understanding them. The -Squire pushed his spectacles to the top of his brow and stared at St. -George. He did not understand, either. - -"Look here, St. George: do you deny that it was you we passed in Dip -Lane last night--and your grey horse--and your gig?" - -"Why should I deny it?" quietly returned St. George. "I drew as close -as I could to the hedge as a matter of precaution to let you go by, -Squire, you were driving so quickly. And a fine shouting you greeted me -with," he added, turning to Tod, with a slight laugh. - -"The greeting was not intended for you; it was for William Brook," -answered Tod, his voice bearing a spice of antagonism; for he thought he -was being played with. - -St. George was evidently at a loss yet, and stood in silence. All in a -moment, his face lighted up. - -"Surely," he cried impulsively, "you did not take that man in the gig -for William Brook!" - -"It was William Brook. Who else was it?" - -"A stranger. A stranger to me and to the neighbourhood. A man to whom -I gave a lift." - -Tod's face presented a picture. Believing, as he did still, that it -was Brook in the gig, the idea suggested by me--that St. George was -concealing Brook at his house out of good-fellowship--grew stronger and -stronger. But he considered that, as it had come to this, St. George -ought to say so. - -"Where's the use of your continuing to deny it, St. George?" he asked. -"You had Brook there, and you know you had." - -"But I tell you that it was not Brook," returned St. George. "Should I -deny it, if it had been he? You talk like a child." - -"Has Brook been away so long that we shouldn't know him, do you -suppose?" retorted quick-tempered Tod. "Why! as a proof that it was -Brook, he shouted back his greeting to us, taking off his hat to wave -it in answer to ours. Would a strange man have done that?" - -"The man did nothing of the kind," said St. George. - -"Yes, he did," I said, thinking it was time I spoke. "He called back a -greeting to us, and he waved his hat round and round. I should not have -felt so sure it was Brook but for seeing him without his hat." - -"Well, I did not see him do it," conceded St. George. "When you began -to shout in passing the man seemed surprised. 'What do those people -want?' he said to me; and I told him you were acquaintances of mine. It -never occurred to my mind, or to his either, I should imagine, but that -the shouts were meant for me. If he did take off his hat in response, -as you say, he must have done it, I reckon, because I did not take off -mine." - -"Couldn't you hear our welcome to him? Couldn't you hear us call him -'Brook'?" persisted Tod. - -"I did not distinguish a single word. The wind was too high for that." - -"Then we are to understand that Brook has not come back: that you did -not bring him?" interposed the Squire. "Be quiet, Joe; can't you see you -were mistaken? I told you you were, you know, at the time. You and -Johnny are for ever taking up odd notions, Johnny especially." - -"The man was a stranger to me," spoke St. George. "I overtook him -trudging along the road, soon after leaving Worcester; it was between -Red Hill and the turning to Whittington. He accosted me, asking which of -the two roads before us would take him to Evesham. I told him which, and -was about to drive on when it occurred to me that I might as well offer -to give the man a lift: it was an awful evening, and that's the truth: -one that nobody would, as the saying runs, turn a dog out in. He thanked -me, and got up; and I drove him as far as----" - -"Then that's what took you round by Dip Lane, St. George?" interrupted -Mr. Delorane. - -"That's what took me round by Dip Lane," acquiesced St. George, slightly -smiling; "and which seems to have led to this misapprehension. But don't -give my humanity more credit than it deserves. Previously to this I had -been debating in my own mind whether to take the round, seeing what a -journey was before me. It was about the wildest night I ever was out -in, the horse could hardly make head against the wind, and I thought we -might feel it less in the small and more sheltered by-ways than in the -open road. Taking up the traveller decided me." - -"You put him down in Dip Lane, at the turning that leads to Evesham," -remarked the Squire. - -"Yes, I put him down there. It was just after you passed us. He thanked -me heartily, and walked on; and I drove quickly home, glad enough to -reach it. Who he was, or what he was, I do not know, and did not ask." - -Tod was still in a quandary; his countenance betrayed it. "Did you -notice that he resembled William Brook, St. George?" - -"No. It did not strike me that he resembled any one. His face was well -wrapped up from the cold, and I did not get a clear view of it: I am not -sure that I should know it again. I should know his voice, though," he -added quickly. - -Poor Aunt Hester, listening to all this in dismay, felt the -disappointment keenly: the tears were stealing down her face. "And we -have been drinking his health, and--and feeling so thankful that he was -safely back again!" she murmured gently. - -"Hang it, yes," added Mr. Delorane. "Well, well; I dare say a day or two -more will bring him. I must say I thought it odd that you should not -have mentioned it to me, St. George, if he had come." - -"I should have thought it very odd, sir," spoke St. George. - -"Will you take a glass of wine?" - -"No, thank you; I have not time for it. Those deeds have to be gone -over, you know, sir, before post-time," replied St. George; and he left -the room. - -"And if ever you two boys serve me such a trick again--bringing me over -with a cock-and-bull story that people have come back from sea who -haven't--I'll punish you," stuttered the Squire, too angry to speak -clearly. - -We went away in humility; heads down, metaphorically speaking, tails -between legs. The Squire kept up the ball, firing away sarcastic -reproaches hotly. - -Tod never answered. The truth was, he felt angry himself. Not with the -Squire, but with the affair altogether. Tod hated mystification, and -the matter was mystifying him utterly. With all his heart, with all the -sight of his eyes, he had believed it to be William Brook: and he could -not drive the conviction away, that it was Brook, and that St. George -was giving him house room. - -"I don't like complications," spoke he resentfully. - -"Complications!" retorted the Squire. "What complications are there -in this? None. You two lads must have been thinking of William Brook, -perhaps speaking of him, and so you thought you saw him. That's all -about it, Joe." - -The complications were not at an end. A curious addition to them was at -hand. The Squire came to a halt at the turning to the Ravine, undecided -whether to betake himself home at once, or to make a call first at -Timberdale Court, to see Robert Ashton. - -"I think we'll go there, lads," said he: "there's plenty of time. I -want to ask him how that squabble about the hunting arrangements has -been settled." - -So we continued our way along the road, presently crossing it to take -the one in which the Court was situated: a large handsome house, lying -back on the right hand. Before gaining it, however, we had to pass the -pretty villa rented by Mr. St. George, its stable and coach-house and -dog-kennel beside it. The railway was on ahead; a train was shrieking -itself at that moment into the station. - -St. George's groom and man-of-all-work, Japhet, was sweeping up the -leaves on the little lawn. Tod, who was in advance of us, put his arms -on the gate. "Are you going to make a bonfire with them?" asked he. - -"There's enough for't, sir," answered Japhet. "I never see such a wind -as yesterday's," he ran on, dropping his besom to face Tod, for the man -was a lazy fellow, always ready for a gossip. "I'm sure I thought it 'ud -ha' blowed the trees down as well as the leaves." - -"It was pretty strong," assented Tod, as I halted beside him, and the -Squire walked on towards the Court. "We were out in it--coming home from -Pigeon Green. There was one gust that I thought would have blown the -horses right over." - -"The master, he were out in it, too, a coming home from Worcester," -cried Japhet, taking off his old hat to push his red hair back. "When he -got in here, he said as he'd had enough on't for one journey. I should -think the poor horse had too; his coat were all wet." - -Tod lifted up his head, speaking impulsively. "Was your master alone, -Japhet, when he got home? Had he any one with him?" - -"Yes, he were all alone, sir," replied the man. "Miss Delorane were with -him when he drove off in the morning, but she stayed at Worcester." - -Had Tod taken a moment for thought he might not have asked the question. -He had nothing of the sneak in him, and would have scorned to pump a -servant about his master's movements. The answer tended to destroy his -theory of Brook's being concealed here, and to uphold the account given -by Mr. St. George. - -Quitting the railings, we ran to catch up the Squire. And at that -moment two or three railway passengers loomed into view, coming from the -train. One of them was Ellin Delorane. - -She came along briskly, with a buoyant step and a smiling face. The -Squire dropped us a word of caution. - -"Now don't go telling her of your stupid fancy about Brook, you two: it -would only cause her disappointment." And with the last word we met her. - -"Ah ha, Miss Ellin!" he exclaimed, taking her hands. "And so the -truant's back again!" - -"Yes, he is back again," she softly whispered, with a blush that was -deep in colour. - -The Squire did not quite catch the words. She and he were at -cross-purposes. "We have but now left your house, my dear," he -continued. "Your aunt does not expect you back to-day; she thought you -would stay at Worcester till Saturday." - -Ellin smiled shyly. "Have you seen him?" she asked in the same soft -whisper. - -"Seen whom, my dear?" - -"Mr. Brook." - -"Mr. Brook! Do you mean _William_ Brook? He is not back, is he?" - -"Yes, he is back," she answered. "I thought you might have seen him: you -spoke of the return of the truant." - -"Why, child, I meant you," explained the Squire. "Nobody else. Who says -William Brook is back?" - -"Oh, I say it," returned Ellin, her cheeks all rosy dimples. "He reached -Worcester yesterday." - -"And where is he now?" cried the Squire, feeling a little at sea. - -"He is here, at Timberdale," answered Ellin. "Mr. St. George drove him -home last night." - -"There!" cried Tod with startling emphasis. "There, father, please not -to disparage my sight any more." - -Well, what do you think of this for another complication? It took me -aback. The Squire rubbed his face, and stared. - -"My dear, just let us understand how the land lies," said he, putting -his hand on Ellin's shoulder. "Do you say that William Brook reached -Worcester yesterday on his return, and that St. George drove him home -here at night?" - -"Yes," replied Ellin. "Why should you doubt it? It is true." - -"Well, we thought St. George did drive him home," was the Squire's -answer, staring into her face; "we passed his gig in Dip Lane and -thought that it was Brook that he had with him. But St. George denies -this. He says it was not Brook; that he has not seen Brook, does not -know he has come home; he says the man he had with him was a stranger, -to whom he was giving a lift." - -Ellin looked grave for a moment; then the smiles broke out again. - -"St. George must have been joking," she cried; "he cannot mean it. He -happened to be at Worcester Station yesterday when Mr. Brook arrived by -the Birmingham train: we suppose he then offered to drive him home. Any -way, he did do it." - -"But St. George denied that he did, Ellin," I said. - -"He will not deny it to me, Johnny. Gregory West, returning from a visit -to some client at Spetchley, met them in the gig together." - -The Squire listened as a man dazed. "I can't make head or tail of it," -cried he. "What does St. George mean by denying that he brought Brook? -And where _is_ Brook?" - -"Has no one seen him?" questioned Ellin. - -"Not a soul, apparently. Ellin, my girl," added the Squire, "we will -walk back with you to your father's, and get this cleared up. Come -along, boys." - -So back we went to turn the tables upon St. George, Tod in a rapture of -gratification. You might have thought he was treading upon eggs. - -We had it out this time in Mr. Delorane's private office; the Squire -walked straight into it. Not but that "having it out" must be regarded -as a figure of speech, for elucidation seemed farther off than before, -and the complications greater. - -Mr. Delorane and his head-clerk were both bending over the same -parchment when we entered. Ellin kissed her father, and turned to St. -George. - -"Why have you been saying that you did not drive home William Brook?" -she asked as they shook hands. - -"A moment, my dear; let me speak," interrupted the Squire, who never -believed any one's explanation could be so lucid as his own. "Delorane, -I left you just now with an apology for having brought to you a -cock-and-bull story through the misleading fancies of these boys; but -we have come back again to tell you the story's true. Your daughter -here says that it was William Brook that St. George had in his gig. -And perhaps Mr. St. George"--giving that gentleman a sharp nod--"will -explain what he meant by denying it?" - -"I denied it because it was not he," said Mr. St. George, not appearing -to be in the least put out. "How can I tell you it was Brook when it was -not Brook? If it had been----" - -"You met William Brook at the Worcester railway-station yesterday -afternoon," interrupted Ellin. "Mrs. James Ashton saw you there; saw -the meeting. You _were_ at the station, were you not?" - -"I was at the station," readily replied St. George, "and Mrs. James -Ashton may have seen me there, for all I know--I did not see her. But -she certainly did not see William Brook. Or, if she did, I didn't." - -"Gregory West saw you and him in your gig together later, when you were -leaving Worcester," continued Ellin. "It was at the top of Red Hill." - -St. George shook his head. "The person I had in my gig was a stranger. -Had Gregory West come up one minute earlier he would have seen me take -the man into it." - -"William _has_ come," persisted Ellin. - -"I don't say he has not," returned St. George. "All I can say is that I -did not know he had come and that I have not seen him." - -Who was right, and who was wrong? Any faces more hopelessly puzzled than -the two old gentlemen's were, as they listened to these contradictory -assertions, I'd not wish to see. Nothing came of the interview; nothing -but fresh mystification. Ellin declared William Brook had arrived, had -been driven out of Worcester for Timberdale in St. George's gig. We felt -equally certain we had passed them in Dip Lane, sitting together in the -gig; but St. George denied it in toto, affirming that the person with -him was a stranger. - -And perhaps it may be as well if I here say a word about the routes. -Evesham lay fifteen miles from Worcester; Timberdale not much more -than half that distance, in a somewhat different direction, and on a -different road. In going to Timberdale, if when about half-way there you -quitted the high-road for by-ways you would come to Dip Lane. Traversing -nearly the length of the lane, you would then come to a by-way leading -from it on the other side, which would bring you on the direct road to -Evesham, still far off. Failing to take this by-way leading to Evesham, -you would presently quit the lane, and by dint of more by-ways would -gain again the high-road and soon come to Timberdale. This is the route -that Mr. St. George took that night. - -We went home from Mr. Delorane's, hopelessly mystified, the Squire -rubbing up his hair the wrong way; now blowing us both up for what he -called our "fancies" in supposing we saw William Brook, and now veering -round to the opposite opinion that we and Ellin must be alike correct in -saying Brook had come. - -Ellin's account was this: she passed a pleasant morning with Mary West, -who was nearly always more or less of an invalid. At half-past one -o'clock dinner was served; Philip West, his younger brother Gregory, who -had recently joined him, and Mr. St. George coming in from the office -to partake of it. Dinner over, they left the room, having no time to -linger. In fact, Gregory rose from table before he had well finished. -Mary West inquired what his haste was, and he replied that he was off to -Spetchley; some one had been taken ill there and wanted a will made. It -was Philip who ought to have gone, who had been sent for; but Philip had -an hour or two's business yet to do with Mr. St. George. Mrs. West told -St. George that she would have tea ready at five o'clock, that he might -drink a cup before starting for home. - -Later on in the afternoon, when Ellin and Mrs. West were sitting over -the fire, talking of things past and present, and listening to the -howling of the wind, growing more furious every hour, James Ashton's -wife came in, all excitement. Her husband, in medical practice at -Worcester, was the brother of Robert Ashton of Timberdale. A very nice -young woman was Marianne Ashton, but given to an excited manner. Taking -no notice of Mrs. West, she flew to Ellin and began dancing round her -like a demented Red Indian squaw. - -"What will you give me for my news, Ellin?" - -"Now, Marianne!" remonstrated Mrs. West. "Do be sensible, if you can." - -"Be quiet, Mary: I am sensible. Your runaway lover is come, Ellin; quite -safely." - -They saw by her manner, heard by her earnest tone, that it was true. -William Brook had indeed come, was then in the town. Throwing off her -bonnet, and remarking that she meant to remain for tea, Mrs. James -Ashton sat down to tell her story soberly. - -"You must know that I had to go up to the Shrub Hill Station this -afternoon," began she, "to meet the Birmingham train. We expected Patty -Silvester in by it; and James has been since a most unearthly hour this -morning with some cross-grained patient, who must needs go and be ill at -the wrong time. I went up in the brougham, and had hardly reached the -platform when the train came in. There was a good deal of confusion; -there always is, you know; passengers getting out and getting in. I ran -about looking for Patty, and found she had not come: taken fright at the -weather, I suppose. As the train cleared off, I saw a figure that seemed -familiar to me; it was William Brook; and I gave a glad cry that you -might have heard on the top of St. Andrew's spire. He was crossing the -line with others who had alighted, a small black-leather travelling-bag -in his hand. I was about to run over after him, when a porter stopped -me, saying a stray engine was on the point of coming up, to take on the -Malvern train. So, all I could do was to stand there, hoping he would -turn his head and see me. Well: just as he reached the opposite -platform, Mr. St. George stepped out of the station-master's office, and -I can tell you there was some shaking of hands between the two. There's -my story." - -"And where is he now?" - -"Oh, they are somewhere together, I suppose; on their way here perhaps," -rejoined Mrs. James Ashton carelessly. "I lost sight of them: that -ridiculous stray engine the man spoke of puffed up at the minute, and -stopped right in front of me. When it puffed on again, leaving the way -clear, both he and St. George had vanished. So I got into the brougham -to bring you the news in advance, lest the sudden sight of William the -deserter should cause a fainting-fit." - -Ellin, unable to control herself, burst into glad tears of relief. "You -don't know what a strain it has been," she said. And she sat listening -for his step on the stairs. But William Brook did not come. - -At five o'clock punctually the tea was brought in, and waited for some -little time on the table. Presently Mr. West appeared. When they told -him he was late, he replied that he had lingered in the office expecting -Mr. St. George. St. George had left him some time before to go to the -Shrub Hill Station, having business to see to there, and had promised to -be back by tea-time. However, he was not back yet. Mr. West was very -glad to hear of the arrival of William Brook, and supposed St. George -was then with him. - -Before the tea was quite over, Gregory West got back from Spetchley. He -told them that he had met St. George just outside the town, and that he -had a gentleman in his gig. He, Gregory West, who was in his brother's -gig, pulled up to ask St. George whether he was not going home earlier -than he had said. Yes, somewhat, St. George called back, without -stopping: when he had seen what sort of a night it was going to be, he -thought it best to be off as soon as he could. - -"Of course it was William Brook that he had with him, Gregory!" -exclaimed Mary West, forgetting that her brother-in-law had never seen -William Brook. - -"I cannot tell," was the only answer the young lawyer could give. "It -was a stranger to me: he wore a lightish-coloured over-coat and a white -comforter." - -"That's he," said Mrs. James Ashton. "And he had on new tan-coloured kid -gloves: I noticed them. I think St. George might have brought him here, -in spite of the roughness of the night. He is jealous, Ellin." - -They all laughed. But never a shadow of doubt rested on any one of their -minds that St. George was driving William Brook home to Timberdale. And -we, as you have heard, saw him, or thought we saw him, in Dip Lane. - - -III. - -I scarcely know how to go on with this story so as to put its -complications and discrepancies of evidence clearly before you. William -Brook had been daily expected to land at Liverpool from the West Indies, -and to make his way at once to Timberdale by rail, _viâ_ Birmingham and -Worcester. - -In the afternoon of the 19th of October, Mrs. James Ashton chanced to be -at the Worcester Station when the Birmingham train came in. Amidst the -passengers who alighted from it she saw William Brook, whom she had -known all her life. She was not near enough to speak to him, but she -watched him cross the line to the opposite platform, shake hands there -with Mr. St. George, and remain talking. Subsequently, Gregory West -had met St. George leaving Worcester in his gig, a gentleman sitting -with him; it was therefore assumed without doubt that he was driving -William Brook to Timberdale, to save him the railway journey and for -companionship. - -That same evening, at dusk, as we (not knowing that Brook had landed) -were returning home from Pigeon Green in the large phaeton, amid a great -storm of wind, and slight sleet and snow, Mrs. Todhetley sitting with -the Squire in front, Tod and I behind, we passed St. George's gig in -Dip Lane; and saw William Brook with him--as we believed, Tod most -positively. We called out to Brook, waving our hats; Brook called back -to us and waved his. - -But now, Mr. St. George denied that it was Brook. He said the gentleman -with him was a stranger to whom he had given a lift of three or four -miles on the road, and who bore no resemblance to Brook, so far as he -saw. Was it Brook, or was it not? asked every one. If it was Brook, what -had become of him? The only one point that seemed to be sure in the -matter was this--William Brook had not reached Timberdale. - -The following, elaborated, was Mr. St. George's statement. - -He, as confidential clerk, soon to be partner, of Mr. Delorane, had a -good deal of business to go through that day with Philip West at -Worcester, and the afternoon was well on before it was concluded. He -then went up to the station at Shrub Hill to inquire after a missing -packet of deeds, which had been despatched by rail from Birmingham to -Mr. Delorane and as yet could not be heard of. His inquiries over, St. -George was traversing the platform on his way to quit the station, when -one of the passengers, who had then crossed the line from the Birmingham -train, stopped him to ask if he could inform him when the next train -would leave for Evesham. "Very shortly," St. George replied, speaking -from memory: but even as he spoke a doubt arose in his mind. "Wait a -moment," he said to the stranger; "I am not sure that I am correct"--and -he drew from his pocket a time-table and consulted it. There would not -be a train for Evesham for more than two hours, he found, one having -just gone. The stranger remarked that it was very unfortunate; he had -not wanted to wait all that time at Worcester, but to get on at once. -The stranger then detained him to ask, apologizing for the trouble, and -adding that it was the first time he had been in the locality, whether -he could get on from Evesham to Cheltenham. St. George told him that -he could, but that he could also get on to Cheltenham from Worcester -direct. "Ah," remarked the stranger, "but I have to take Evesham on -my way." No more passed, and St. George left him on the platform. He -appeared to be a gentleman, spoke as a cultured man speaks, St. George -added when questioned on these points: and his appearance and attire -tallied with that given by Mrs. Ashton. St. George had not observed Mrs. -James Ashton on the opposite platform; did not know she was there. - -Perceiving, as he left the station, how bad the weather was getting, and -what a wild night might be expected, St. George rapidly made up his mind -to start for home at once, without waiting for tea at Philip West's or -going back at all to the house. He made his way to the Hare-and-Hounds -through the back streets, as being the nearest, ordered his gig, and set -off--alone--as soon as it was ready. It was then growing dusk; snow was -falling in scanty flakes mixed with sleet, and the wind was roaring and -rushing like mad. - -Gaining the top of Red Hill, St. George was bowling along the level road -beyond it, when some wayfarer turned round just before him, put up his -hand, and spoke. By the peculiar-coloured coat--a sort of slate--and -white comforter, he recognized the stranger of the railway-station; -he also remembered the voice. "I beg your pardon a thousand times for -stopping you," he said, "but I think I perceive that the road branches -off two ways yonder: will you kindly tell me which of them will take me -to Evesham? there seems to be no one about on foot that I can inquire -of." "That will be your way," St. George answered, pointing with his -whip. "But you are not thinking of walking to Evesham to-night, are -you?" he added. "It is fifteen miles off." - -The stranger replied that he had made up his mind to walk, rather than -wait two hours at Worcester station: and St. George was touching his -horse to move on, when a thought struck him. - -"I am not going the direct Evesham road, but I can give you a lift part -of the way," he said. "It will not cut off any of the distance for you, -but it will save your legs three or four miles." The stranger thanked -him and got up at once, St. George undoing the apron to admit him. He -had the same black bag with him that St. George had noticed at the -station. - -St. George had thus to make a detour to accommodate the stranger. He -was by no means unwilling to do it; for, apart from the wish to help a -fellow-creature, he believed it would be less rough in the low-lying -lands. Driving along in the teeth of the furious wind, he turned off the -highway and got into Dip Lane. We saw him in it, the stranger sitting -with him. He drove on after we had passed, pulled up at the proper place -for the man to descend, and pointed out the route. "You have a mile or -two of these by-ways," he said to him, "but keep straight on and they -will bring you out into the open road. Turn to your left then, and you -will gain Evesham in time--and I wish you well through your walk." - -Those were St. George's exact words--as he repeated them to us later. -The stranger thanked him heartily, shook hands and went on his way, -carrying his black bag. St. George said that before parting with the -traveller, he suggested that he should go on with him to Timberdale, -seeing the night was so cold and wild, put up at the Plough-and-Harrow, -where he could get a comfortable bed, and go on to Evesham in the -morning. But the stranger declined, and seemed impatient to get on. - -He did not tell St. George who he was, or what he was; he did not tell -his name, or what his business was in Worcestershire, or whether he was -purposing to make a stay at Evesham, or whither he might be going when -he left it: unless the question he had put to St. George, as to being -able to get on to Cheltenham, might be taken for an indication of his -route. In fact, he stated nothing whatever about himself; but, as -St. George said, the state of the weather was against talking. It was -difficult to hear each other speak; the blasts howled about their ears -perpetually, and the sharp sleet stung their faces. As to his bearing -the resemblance to Brook that was being talked of, St. George could only -repeat that he did not perceive it; he might have been about Brook's -height and size, but that was all. The voice was certainly not Brook's, -not in the least like Brook's, neither was the face, so far as St. -George saw of it: no idea of the kind struck him. - - * * * * * - -These were the different statements: and, reading them, you have the -matter in a nutshell. Mrs. James Ashton continued to affirm that it was -William Brook she saw at the station, and could not be shaken out of -her belief. She and William had played together as children, they had -flirted together, she was pleased to declare, as youth and maiden, and -_did_ anybody suppose she could mistake an unknown young man for him in -broad daylight? An immense favourite with all the world, Marianne Ashton -was fond of holding decisively to her own opinions; all her words might -have begun with capital letters. - -I also maintained that the young man we saw in St. George's gig in -Dip Lane, and who wore a warm great-coat of rather an unusual colour, -something of a grey--or a slate--or a mouse, with the white woollen -comforter on his neck and the soft low-crowned hat drawn well on his -brows, was William Brook. When he took off his hat to wave it to us in -response, I saw (as I fully believed) that it was Brook; and I noticed -his gloves. Mrs. Todhetley, who had turned her head at our words, also -saw him and felt not the slightest doubt that it was he. Tod was ready -to swear to it. - -To combat this, we had Mr. St. George's cool, calm, decisive assertion -that the man was a stranger. Of course it outweighed ours. All the -probabilities lay with it; he had been in companionship with the -stranger, had talked with him face to face: we had not. Besides, if it -had been Brook, where was he that he had not made his way to Timberdale? -So we took up the common-sense view of the matter and dismissed our own -impressions as fancies that would not hold water, and looked out daily -for the landing of the exile. Aunt Hester hoped he was not "lost at -sea:" but she did not say it in the hearing of Ellin Delorane. - - * * * * * - -The days went on. November came in. William Brook did not appear; no -tidings reached us of him. His continued non-appearance so effectually -confirmed St. George's statement, that the other idea was exploded and -forgotten by all reasonable minds. Possibly in one or two unreasonable -ones, such as mine, say, a sort of hazy doubt might still hover. But, -doubt of what? Ay, that was the question. Even Tod veered round to the -enemy, said his sight must have misled him, and laid the blame on the -wind. Both common sense and uncommon said Brook had but been detained in -Jamaica, and might be expected in any day. - -The first check to this security of expectation was wrought by a letter. -A letter from New York, addressed to William Brook by his brother there, -Charles. Mrs. Brook opened it. She was growing vaguely uneasy, and had -already begun to ask herself why, were William detained in the West -Indies, he did not write to tell her so. - -And this, as it proved, was the chief question the letter was written to -ask. "If," wrote Charles Brook to his brother, "if you have arrived at -home--as we conclude you must have done, having seen in the papers the -safe arrival of the _Dart_ at Liverpool--how is it you have not written -to say so, and to inform us how things are progressing? The uncle does -not like it. 'Is William growing negligent?' he said to me yesterday." - -The phrase "how things are progressing," Mrs. Brook understood to apply -to the new mercantile house about to be established in London. She sent -the letter by Araminta to Mr. Delorane. - -"Can William have been drowned at sea?" breathed Minty. - -"No, no; I don't fear that; I'm not like that silly woman, Aunt Hester, -with her dreams and her fancies," said Mr. Delorane. "It seems odd, -though, where he can be." - -Inquiries were made at Liverpool for the list of passengers by the -_Dart_. William Brook's name was not amongst them. Timberdale waited on. -There was nothing else for it to do. Waited until a second letter came -from Charles Brook. It was written to his mother this time. He asked for -news of William; whether he had, or had not, arrived at home. - -The next West Indian mail-packet, steaming from Southampton, carried -out a letter from Mr. St. George, written to his cousin in Kingston, -Jamaica, at the desire of Mr. Delorane: at the desire, it may with truth -be said, of Timberdale in general. The same mail also took out a letter -from Reginald Brook in London, who had been made acquainted with the -trouble. Both letters were to the same purport--an inquiry as to William -Brook and his movements, more particularly as to the time he had -departed for home, and the vessel he had sailed in. - -In six or eight weeks, which seemed to some of us like so many months, -Mr. St. George received an answer. His relative, Leonard St. George, -sent rather a curious story. He did not know anything of William -Brook's movements himself, he wrote, and could not gain much reliable -information about them. It appeared that he was to have sailed for -England in the _Dart_, a steamer bound for Liverpool, not one of their -regular passenger-packets. He was unable, however, to find any record -that Brook had gone in her, and believed he had not: neither could he -learn that Brook had departed by any other vessel. A friend of his told -him that he feared Brook was dead. The day before the _Dart_ went out of -port, a young man, who bore out in every respect the description of -Brook, was drowned in the harbour. - -Comforting news! Delightfully comforting for Ellin Delorane, not to -speak of Brook's people. Aunt Hester came over to Crabb Cot, and burst -into tears as she told it. - -But the next morning brought a turn in the tide; one less sombre, though -uncertain still. Mrs. Brook, who had bedewed her pillow with salt tears, -for her youngest son was very dear to her heart, received a letter from -her son Reginald in London, enclosing one he had just received from -the West Indies. She brought them to Mr. Delorane's office during the -morning, and the Squire and I happened to be there. - -"How should Reginald know anything about it?" demanded St. George, in -the haughty manner he could put on when not pleased; and his countenance -looked dark as he gazed across his desk at Mrs. Brook, for which I -saw no occasion. Evidently he did not like having his brother's news -disputed. - -"Reginald wrote to Kingston by the same mail that you wrote," she said. -"He received an introduction to some mercantile firm out there, and this -is their answer to him." - -They stated, these merchants, that they had made due inquiries according -to request, and found that William Brook had secured a passage on board -the _Dart_; but that, finding himself unable to go in her, his business -in Kingston not being finished, he had, at the last moment, made over -his berth and ticket to another gentleman, who found himself called upon -to sail unexpectedly: and that he, Brook, had departed by the _Idalia_, -which left two days later than the _Dart_ and was also bound for -Liverpool. - -"I have ascertained here, dear mother," wrote Reginald from London, -"that the _Idalia_ made a good passage and reached Liverpool on the -18th of October. If the statement which I enclose you be correct, that -William left Jamaica in her, he must have arrived in her at Liverpool, -unless he died on the way. It is very strange where he can be, and -what can have become of him. Of course, inquiries must now be made in -Liverpool. I only wish I could go down myself, but our patients are all -on my hands just now, for Dr. Croft is ill." - -The first thought, flashing into the mind of Mr. Delorane, was, that the -18th of October was the eve of the day on which William Brook was said -to have been seen by Mrs. James Ashton. He paused to consider, a sort of -puzzled doubt on his face. - -"Why, look you here," cried he quickly, "it seems as though that _was_ -Brook at Worcester Station. If he reached Liverpool on the 18th, the -probabilities are that he would be at Worcester on the 19th. What do you -make of it?" - -We could not make anything. Mrs. Brook looked pale and distressed. -The Squire, in his impulsive good-nature, offered to be the one to go, -off-hand, to make the inquiries at Liverpool. St. George opposed this: -_he_ was the proper person to go, he said; but Mrs. Delorane reminded -him that he could be ill spared just then, when the assizes were at -hand. For the time had gone on to spring. - -"I will start to-night," said the Squire, "and take Johnny with me. My -time is my own. We will turn Liverpool upside down but what we find -Brook--if he is to be found on earth." - - * * * * * - -That the Squire might have turned Liverpool "upside down" with the -confusion of his inquiries was likely enough, only that Jack Tanerton -was there, having brought his own good ship, the _Rose of Delhi_, -into port but a few days before. Jack and William Brook had been boys -together, and Jack took up the cause in warm-hearted zeal. His knowledge -of the town and its shipping made our way plain before us. That is, as -plain as a way can be made which seems to have neither inlet nor outlet. - -The _Idalia_ was then lying in the Liverpool docks, not long in again -from the West Indies. We ascertained that William Brook had come in her -the previous autumn, making the port of Liverpool on the 18th of -October. - -"Then nothing happened to him half-way?" cried the Squire to the second -mate, a decent sort of fellow who did all he could for us. "He was not -lost, or--or--anything of that sort?" - -"Why no," said the mate, looking surprised. "He was all right the whole -of the voyage and in first-rate spirits--a very nice young fellow -altogether. The _Idalia_ brought him home, all taut and safe, take our -word for that, sir; and he went ashore with the rest, and his luggage -also: of which he had but little; just a big case and the small one that -was in his cabin." - -All this was certain. But from the hour Brook stepped ashore, we were -unable to trace anything certain about him. The hotels could not single -him out in memory from other temporary sojourners. I think it was by no -means a usual occurrence in those days for passing guests to give in -their names. Any way, we found no record of Brook's. The railway porters -remembered no more of him than the hotels--and it was hardly likely they -would. - -Captain Tanerton--to give Jack his title--was indefatigable; winding -himself in and out of all kinds of places like a detective eel. In -some marvellous way he got to learn that a gentleman whose appearance -tallied with Brook's had bought some tan-coloured kid gloves and also -a white comforter in a shop in Bold Street on the morning of the 19th -of October. Jack took us there that we might question the people, -especially the young woman who served him. She said that, while choosing -the gloves, he observed that he had just come off a sea-voyage and found -the weather here very chilly. He wore a lightish great-coat, a sort of -slate or grey. She was setting out the window when he came in, and had -to leave it to serve him; it was barely eight o'clock, and she remarked -that he was shopping betimes; he replied yes, for he was going off -directly by train. He bought two pair of the gloves, putting one pair of -them on in the shop; he next bought a warm knitted woollen scarf, white, -and put that on. She was quite certain it was the 19th of October, and -told us why she could not be mistaken. And that was the last trace we -could get of Brook in Liverpool. - -Well, well; it is of no use to linger. We went away from Liverpool, -the Squire and I, no better off than we were when we entered it. That -William Brook had arrived safely by the _Idalia_, and that he had landed -safely, appeared to be a fact indisputable: but after that time he -seemed to have vanished into air. Unless, mark you, it was he who had -come on to Worcester. - -The most concerned of all at our ill-luck was Mr. St. George. He had -treated the matter lightly when thinking Brook was only lingering over -the seas; now that it was proved he returned by the _Idalia_, the case -was different. - -"I don't like it at all," he said to the Squire frankly. "People may -begin to think it was really Brook I had with me that night, and ask me -what I did with him." - -"What could you have done with him?" dissented the Squire. - -"Not much--that I see. I couldn't pack him up in a parcel to be sent -back over seas, and I couldn't bury him here. I wish with all my heart -it had been Brook! I won't leave a stone unturned now but what I find -him," added St. George, his eyes flashing, his face flushing hotly. "Any -way, I'll find the man who was with me." - -St. George set to work. Making inquiries here, there, and everywhere for -William Brook, personally and by advertising. But little came of it. -A porter at the Worcester railway-station, who had seen the traveller -talking with St. George on the platform, came forward to state that -they (the gentleman and Mr. St. George) had left the station together, -walking away from it side by side, down the road. St. George utterly -denied this. He admitted that the other might have followed him so -closely as to impart a possible appearance of their being together, but -if so, he was not conscious of it. Just as he had denied shaking hands -with the stranger, which Mrs. James Ashton insisted upon. - -Next a lady came forward. She had travelled from Birmingham that -afternoon, the 19th of October, with her little nephew and niece. In the -same compartment, a first-class one, was another passenger, bearing, -both in attire and person, the description told of--a very pleasant, -gentlemanly young man, nice-looking, eyes dark blue. It was bitterly -cold: he seemed to feel it greatly, and said he had recently come from a -warmer climate. He also said that he ought to have got into Worcester by -an earlier train, but had been detained in Birmingham, through missing -his luggage, which he supposed must have been put out by mistake at some -intermediate station. He had with him a small black hand-bag; nothing -else that she saw. His great-coat was of a peculiar shade of grey; it -did not look like an English-made coat: his well-fitting kid gloves were -of fawn (or tan) colour, and appeared to be new. Once, when the high -wind seemed to shake the carriage, he remarked with a smile that one -might almost as well be at sea; upon which her little nephew said: "Have -you ever been to sea, sir?" "Yes, my little lad," he answered; "I landed -from it only yesterday." - -The only other person to come forward was a farmer named Lockett, well -known to us all. He lived on the Evesham Road, close upon the turning, -or by-way, which led up from Dip Lane. On the night of the storm, the -19th of October, he went out about ten o'clock to visit a neighbour, -who had met with a bad accident. In passing by this turning, a man came -out of it, walking pretty sharply. He looked like a gentleman, seemed to -be muffled up round the neck, and carried something in his hand; whether -a black bag, or not, Mr. Lockett did not observe. "A wild night," said -the farmer to him in salutation. "It is that," answered the other. He -took the road to Evesham, and Mr. Lockett saw him no more. - -St. George was delighted at this evidence. He could have hugged old -Lockett. "I knew that the truth would be corroborated sooner or later," -he said, his eyes sparkling. "That was the man I put out of my gig in -Dip Lane." - -"Stop a bit," cried Mr. Delorane, a doubt striking him. "If it was the -same man, what had he been doing to take two or three hours to get into -the Evesham Road? Did he bear any resemblance to William Brook, -Lockett?--you would have known Brook." - -"None at all that I saw. As to knowing Brook, or any one else, I can't -answer for it on such a night as that," added the farmer after a pause. -"Brook would have known me, though, I take it, daylight or dark, seeing -me close to my own place, and all." - -"It was the other man," affirmed St. George exultantly, "and now we will -find him." - -An advertisement was next inserted in the local newspapers by Mr. St. -George, and also in the _Times_. - -"Gentleman Wanted. The traveller who got out of the Birmingham train -at Worcester railway-station on the 19th of last October, towards the -close of the afternoon, and who spoke to a gentleman on the platform -respecting the trains to Evesham and to Cheltenham, and who was -subsequently overtaken a little way out of Worcester by the same -gentleman and given a few miles' lift in his gig, and was put down in -a cross-country lane to continue his walk to Evesham: this traveller -is earnestly requested to give an address where he may be communicated -with, to Alfred St. George, Esquire, Timberdale, Worcester. By doing -so, he will be conferring a great favour." - -For two long weeks the advertisements brought forth no reply. At the -end of that time there came to Mr. St. George a post-letter, short and -sweet. - -"Tell me what I am wanted for.--R. W." - -It was dated Post Office, Cheltenham. To the Post Office, Cheltenham, -St. George, consulting with Mr. Delorane, wrote a brief explanation. -That he (R. W.) had been mistaken by some people who saw him that night -in the gig, for a gentleman named Brook, a native of Timberdale, who -had been missing since about that time. This, as R. W. might perceive, -was not pleasant for himself, St. George; and he begged R. W. to come -forward and set the erroneous idea at rest, or to state where he could -be seen. Expenses, if any, would be cheerfully paid. - -This letter brought forth the following answer:-- - - "DEAR SIR, - - "I regret that your courtesy to me that stormy night should have - led to misapprehension. I the more regret it that I am not able - to comply with your request to come forward. At present that is - impossible. The truth is, I am, and have been for some months now, - lying under a cloud, partly through my own credulous fault, chiefly - through the designing faults of another man, and I dare not show - myself. It may be many more months yet before I am cleared: that I - shall be, in time, there exists no doubt, and I shall then gladly - bear personal testimony to the fact that it was I myself who was - with you. Meanwhile, perhaps the following statement will suffice: - which I declare upon my honour to be true. - - "I was hiding at Crewe, when I received a letter from a friend at - Evesham, bidding me go to him without delay. I had no scruple in - complying, not being known at all in Worcestershire, and I started - by one of the Liverpool trains. I had a portmanteau with me - containing papers principally, and this I missed on arriving at - Birmingham. The looking for it caused me to lose the Worcester - train, but I went on by the next. Upon getting out there, I - addressed the first person I saw after crossing the line--yourself. - I inquired of you when the next train would start for Evesham. Not - for two hours, you told me: so I set off to walk, after getting - some light refreshment. Barely had I left Worcester when, through - the dusk of evening, I thought I saw that the road before me - branched off two ways. I did not know which to take, and ventured - to stop a gig, then bowling up behind me, to ask. As you answered - me I recognized you for the gentleman to whom I had spoken at the - station. You offered to take me a few miles on my road, and I got - into the gig. I found that you would have to go out of your way to - do this, and I expressed concern; you laughed my apologies off, - saying you should probably have chosen the way in any case, as it - was more sheltered. You drove me as far as your road lay, told me - that after I got out of the cross-lanes my way would be a straight - one, and I left you with hearty thanks--which I repeat now. I may - as well tell you that I reached Evesham without mishap--in process - of time. The storm was so bad, the wind so fierce, that I was fain - to turn out of the lane close upon leaving you, and shelter myself - for an hour or two under a hay-rick, hoping it would abate. How it - was possible for mortal man to see enough of me that night in your - gig to mistake me for some one else, I am at a loss to understand. - I remember that carriage passing us in the narrow line, the people - in it shouted out to you: it must have been they, I conclude, who - mistook me, for I do not think we saw another soul. You are at full - liberty to show them this letter: but I must ask you not to make it - absolutely public. I have purposely elaborated its details. I - repeat my sacred declaration that every word of it is true--and I - heartily regret that I cannot yet testify to it personally. - - "R. W." - -This letter set the matter at rest. We never doubted that it was -genuine, or anything but a plain narrative of absolute facts. But the -one great question remained--where was William Brook? - -It was not answered. The disappearance, which had been a mystery at the -beginning, seemed likely to remain a mystery to the end. - - * * * * * - -Another autumn had come round. Ellin Delorane, feeble now, sat in the -church-porch, the graveyard lying around her under the hot September -sun, soon herself to be laid there. Chancing to take that way round from -buying some figs at Salmon's for Hugh and Lena, I saw her, and dashed up -the churchyard path. - -"You seem to have set up a love for this lively spot, Ellin! You were -sitting here the last time I passed by." - -"The sun is hot yet, and I get tired, so I come across here for a rest -when out this way," she answered, a sweet smile on her wan face and a -hectic on her thin cheeks. "Won't you stay with me for a little while, -Johnny?" - -"Are you better, Ellin?" I asked, taking my place on the opposite bench, -which brought my knees near to hers, for the porch was not much more -than big enough for a coffin to pass through. - -She gently shook her head as she glanced across at me, a steadfast look -in her sad brown eyes. "Don't you see how it is, Johnny? That I shall -never be better in this world?" - -"Your weakness may take a turn, Ellin; it may indeed. And--_he_ may come -back yet." - -"He will never come back: rely upon that," she quietly said. "He is -waiting for me on the Eternal shores." - -Her gaze went out afar, over the gravestones and the green meadows -beyond, almost (one might fancy) into the blue skies, as if she could -see those shores in the distant horizon. - -"Is it well to lose hope, Eileen mavourneen?" - -"The hope of his returning died out long ago," she answered. "Those -dreams that visited me so strangely last year, night after night, night -after night, seemed to take _that_ from me. Perhaps they came to do it. -You remember them, Johnny?" - -"I cannot think, Ellin, how you could put faith in a parcel of dreams!" - -"It was not in the dreams I put faith--exactly. It was in the mysterious -influence--I hope I don't speak profanely--which caused me to have the -dreams. A silent, undetected influence that I understood not and never -grasped--but it was there. Curious dreams they were," she added, after -a pause; "curious that they should have come to me. William was always -lost, and I, with others, was always searching for him--and never, never -found him. They lasted, Johnny, for weeks and months; and almost from -the time of their first setting-in, the impression, that I should never -see him again, lay latent in my heart." - -"Do they visit you still?" - -"No. At least, they have changed in character. Ever since the night that -he seems to have been really lost, the 19th of October. How you look at -me, Johnny!" - -"You speak so strangely." - -"The subject is strange. I was at Worcester, you know, at Mary West's, -and we thought he had come. That night I had the pleasantest dream. We -were no longer seeking for him; all the anxiety, the distress of that -was gone. We saw him; he seemed to be with us--though yet at a distance. -When I awoke, I said in my happiness, 'Ah, those sad dreams will visit -me no more, now he is found.' I thought he was, you see. Since then, -though the dreams continue, he is never lost in them. I see him always; -we are often talking, though we are never very close together. I will be -indoors, perhaps, and he outside in the garden; or maybe I am toiling up -a steep hill and he stands higher up. I seem to be _always going towards -him_ and he to be waiting for me. And though I never quite reach him, -they are happy dreams. It will not be very long first now." - -I knew what she meant--and had nothing to say to it. - -"Perhaps it may be as well, Johnny," she went on in speculative thought. -"God does all things for the best." - -"Perhaps what may be as well?" - -"That he should never have come back to marry me. I do not suppose I -should have lived long in any case; I am too much like mamma. And to -have been left a widower--perhaps--no, it is best as it is." - -"You don't give yourself a chance of getting better, Ellin--cherishing -these gloomy views." - -"Gloomy! They are not gloomy. I am as happy as I can be. I often picture -to myself the glories of the world I am hastening to; the lovely -flowers, the trees that overshadow the banks of the pure crystal river, -whose leaves are for the healing of the nations, and the beautiful -golden light shed around us by God and the Lamb. Oh, Johnny, what a rest -it will be after the weary sorrow here--and the weakness--and the pain!" - -"But you should not wish to leave us before your time." - -"I do not wish it; it is God who is taking me. I think if I had a wish -it would be to stay here as long as papa stays. For I know what my death -will be to him. And what it will be to you all," she generously added, -holding out her hands to me, as the tears filled her eyes. - -I held them for a minute in mine. Ellin took up her parasol, preparatory -to moving away; but laid it down again. - -"Johnny, tell me--I have often thought I should like to ask you--what do -_you_ think could have become of William? Have you ever picked up an -idea, however faint, of anything that could tend to solve the mystery?" - -It was a hard question to answer, and she saw my hesitation. - -"I cannot admit that I have, Ellin. When looking at the affair in one -light, I whisper to myself, 'It might have been this way;' when looking -at it in another, I say, 'It might have been that.' Difficulties and -contradictions encompass it on all sides. One impediment to elucidation -was the length of time that elapsed before we began the search in -earnest. Had we known from the first that he was really lost, and gone -to work then, we might have had a better chance." - -Ellin nodded assent. "Marianne Ashton still maintains that it was -William she saw that day at the railway-station." - -"I know she does. She always will maintain it." - -"Has it ever struck you, Johnny, in how rather remarkable a way any -proof that it was he, or not he, seems to have been withheld?" - -"Well, we could not get at any positive proof, one way or the other." - -"But I mean that proof seems to _have been withheld_," repeated Ellin. -"Take, to begin with, the traveller's luggage: but for its being lost -(and we do not know that it was ever found), the name, sure to have been -on it, would have told whether its owner was William Brook, or not. Then -take Marianne Ashton: had she gained the platform but a few seconds -earlier, she would have met the traveller face to face, avoiding all -possibility of mistake either way. Next take the meeting of the two gigs -that evening when Gregory West was returning from Spetchley. Gregory, a -stranger to Worcester until recently, did not know William Brook; but -had Philip West himself gone to Spetchley--as he ought to have done--he -would have known him. Again, had Philip's groom, Brian, been there, he -would have known him: he comes from this neighbourhood, you know. Brian -was going with the gig that afternoon, but just as it was starting -Philip got a message from a client living at Lower Wick, and he had to -send Brian with the answer, so Gregory went alone. You must see how very -near proof was in all these moments, yet it was withheld." - -Of course I saw it. And there was yet another instance: Had the Squire -only pulled up when we passed the gig in Dip Lane, instead of driving on -like the wind, we should have had proof that it was, or was not, Brook. - -"If it was he," breathed Ellin, "it must have been that night he died. -He would not, else, keep away from Timberdale." - -My voice dropped to a lower key than hers. "Ellin! Do you really think -it was he with St. George?" - -"Oh, I cannot say that. If any such thought intrudes itself, I drive it -away. I do not like St. George, but I would not be unjust to him." - -"I thought St. George was one of your prime favourites." - -"He was never that. He used to be very kind to me, especially after -William went away, and I liked him for it. But latterly I have taken a -most unreasonable dislike to him--and really without any justifiable -cause. He worries me--but it is not that." - -"Worries you!" - -"In pressing me to be his wife," she sighed. "Of course I ought to be -grateful: he tells me, he tells papa, that with a new life and new -scenes, which he would carry me to, my health might be re-established. -Poor papa! Only the other day he said to me, 'My dear, don't you think -you might bring yourself to try it,' and I was so silly as to burst into -tears. The tears came into papa's eyes too, and he promised never to -suggest it to me again." - -The tears were trickling down her cheeks, now as she spoke. "What a -world of crosses and contradiction it is!" she cried, smiling through -them as she rose. "And, Johnny, all this is between ourselves, -remember." - -Yes, it was between ourselves. We strolled across the churchyard to a -tomb that stood in a corner facing the western sun. It was of white -marble, aromatic shrubs encircling it within ornamental railings, and -an inscription on it to her who lay beneath--"Maria, the beloved wife -of John Delorane." - -Ellin lingered on through the frosts of winter. Except that she grew -thinner and weaker and her cheeks brighter, there really did not seem -to be much the matter. Darbyshire saw her every day, other medical men -occasionally, but they could not save her. When the snowdrops were -peeping from the ground, and the violets nestled in their mossy -shelters, and the trees and hedges began to show signs of budding, -tokens of the renewal of life after the death of winter, Ellin passed -away to that other life, where there is no death and the flowers bloom -for ever. And another inscription was added to the white tombstone in -the churchyard--"Ellin Maria, the only child of John and Maria -Delorane." - -"You should have seen St. George at the funeral," said Tom Coney to us, -as we turned aside after church one hot summer's day to look at the new -name on grave, for we were away from Crabb Cot when she died. "His face -was green; yes, green--hold your tongue, Johnny!--green, not yellow; and -his eyes had the queerest look. You were right, Todhetley; you used to -say, you know, that St. George was wild after poor Ellin." - -"Positive of it," affirmed Tod. - -"And he can't bear the place now she's gone out of it," continued -Tom Coney. "Report says that he means to throw up his post and his -prospects, and run away for good." - -"Not likely," dissented Tod, tossing his head. "A strong man like St. -George does not die of love nowadays, or put himself out of good things, -either. You have been reading romances, Coney." - -But Tom Coney was right. When the summer was on the wane St. George bade -a final adieu to Timberdale. And if it was his love for Ellin, or her -death, that drove him away, he made no mention of it. He told Timberdale -that he was growing tired of work and meant to travel. As he had a good -income, Timberdale agreed that it was only natural he should grow tired -of work and want to travel. So he said adieu, and departed: and Mr. -Delorane speedily engaged another head-clerk in his place, who was to -become his partner later. - -St. George wrote to Sir. Delorane from Jamaica, to which place he -steamed first, to take a look at his cousins. The letter contained a few -words about William Brook. St. George had been instituting inquiries, -and he said that, by what he could learn, it was certainly William Brook -who was drowned in Kingston harbour the day before he ought to have -sailed for England in the _Dart_. He, St. George, felt perfectly assured -of this fact, and also that if any man had sailed in the _Idalia_ -under Brook's name, it must have been an impostor who had nefariously -substituted himself. St. George added that he was going "farther -afield," possibly to California: he would write again from thence if -he arrived without mishap. - -No other letter ever came from him. So whether the sea swallowed him up, -as, according to his report, it had swallowed his rival, none could -tell. But it would take better evidence than that, to convince us -William Brook had not come home in the _Idalia_. - - * * * * * - -And that is all I have to tell. I know you will deem it most -unsatisfactory. Was it William Brook in the gig, or was it not? We found -no trace of him after that stormy night: we have found none to this day. -And, whether that was he, or was not he, what became of him? Questions -never, as I believe, to be solved in this life. - -There was a peculiar absence of proof every way, as Ellin remarked; -nothing but doubt on all sides. Going over the matter with Darbyshire -the other evening, when, as I have already told you, he suggested that -I should relate it, we could not, either of us, see daylight through -it, any more than we saw it at the time of its occurrence. - -There was the certainty (yes, I say so) that Brook landed at Liverpool -the evening of the 18th of October; he would no doubt start for home the -morning of the 19th, by rail, which would take him through Birmingham to -Worcester; there was also what the shopwoman in Bold Street said, though -hers might be called negative testimony, as well as the lady's in the -train. There was Mrs. James Ashton's positive belief that she saw him -arrive that afternoon at Worcester by the Birmingham train, _shake -hands_ with St. George and talk with him: and there was our recognition -of him an hour or two later in St. George's gig in Dip Lane---- - -"Hold there, Johnny," cried Darbyshire, taking his long clay pipe from -his mouth to interrupt me as I went over the items. "You should say -_supposed_ recognition." - -"Yes, of course. Well, all that points to its having been Brook: you -must see that, Mr. Darbyshire. But, if it was in truth he, there's a -great deal that seems inexplicable. Why did he set off to _walk_ from -Worcester to Timberdale--and on such a night!--why not have gone on by -rail? It is incredible." - -"Nay, lad, we are told he--that is, the traveller--set off to walk to -Evesham. St. George says he put him down in Dip Lane; and Lockett, you -know, saw somebody, that seems to answer the description, turn from the -lanes into the Evesham road." - -I was silent, thinking out my thoughts. Or, rather, not daring to think -them out. Darbyshire put his pipe in the fender and went on. - -"If it was Brook and no stranger that St. George met at Worcester -Station, the only possible theory I can form on that point is this, -Johnny: that St. George then proposed to drive him home. He may have -said to him, 'You walk on, and I will get my gig and overtake you -directly:' it is a lame theory, you may say, lad, but it is the only one -I can discern, and I have thought of the matter more than you suppose. -St. George started for home earlier than he had meant to start, and this -may have been the reason: though _he_ says it was because he saw it was -going to be so wild a night. Why they should not have gone in company to -the Hare-and-Hounds, and started thence, in the gig together, is another -question." - -"Unless Brook, being done up, wished not to show himself at Worcester -that day--to get on at once to Timberdale." - -Darbyshire nodded: the thought, I am sure, was not strange to him. "The -most weighty question of all remains yet, lad: If St. George took up -Brook in his gig, what did he do with him? _He_ would not want to be put -down in Dip Lane to walk to Evesham." - -He caught up his churchwarden pipe, relighted it at the fire, and puffed -away in silence. Presently I spoke again. - -"Mr. Darbyshire, I do not like St. George. I never did. You may not -believe me, perhaps, but the first time I ever saw his face--I was -a little fellow--I drew back startled. There was something in its -expression which frightened me." - -"One of your unreasonable dislikes, Johnny?" - -"Are they unreasonable? But I have not taken many such dislikes in my -life as that one was. Perhaps I might say _any_ such." - -"St. George was liked by most people." - -"I know he was. Any way, my dislike remained with me. I never spoke of -it; no, not even to Tod." - -"Liking him or disliking him has nothing to do with the main -question--what became of Brook. There were the letters too, sent by the -traveller in answer to St. George's advertisements." - -"Yes, there were the letters. But--did it ever occur to you to notice -that not one word was said in those letters, or one new fact given, that -we had not heard before? They bore out St. George's statement, but they -afforded no proof that his statement was true." - -"That is, Mr. Johnny, you would insinuate, putting it genteelly, that -St. George fabricated the answers himself." - -"No, not that he did, only that there was nothing in the letters to -render it impossible that he did." - -"After having fabricated the pretty little tale that it was a stranger -he picked up, and what the stranger said to him, and all the rest of it, -eh, Johnny?" - -"Well"--I hesitated--"as to the letters, it seemed to me to be an -unaccountable thing that the traveller could not let even one person see -him in private, to hear his personal testimony: say Mr. Delorane, or a -member of the Brook family. The Squire went hot over it: he asked St. -George whether the fellow thought men of honour carried handcuffs in -their pockets. Again, the stranger said he should be at liberty to come -forward later, but he never has come." - -Darbyshire smoked on. "I'd give this full of gold," he broke the silence -with, touching the big bowl of the clay pipe, "to know where Brook -vanished to." - -My restless fingers had strayed to his old leaden tobacco jar, on the -table by me, pressing down its heavy lid and lifting it again. When I -next spoke he might have thought the words came out of the tobacco, they -were so low. - -"Do you think St. George had a grudge against Brook, Mr. -Darbyshire?--that he wished him out of the way?" - -Darbyshire gave me a look through the wreathing smoke. - -"Speak out, lad. What have you on your mind?" - -"St. George said, you know, that he stopped the gig in Dip Lane at the -turning which would lead to Evesham, for Brook--I mean the traveller--to -get out. But I thought I heard it stop before that. I was almost sure of -it." - -"Stop where?" - -"Just about opposite the gap in the hedge; hardly even quite as far as -that. We had not reached the turning to Evesham ourselves when I heard -this. The gig seemed to come to a sudden standstill. I said so to Tod at -the time." - -"Well?" - -"Why should he have stopped just at the gap?" - -"How can I tell, lad?" - -"I suppose he could not have damaged Brook? Struck him a blow to stun -him--or--or anything of that?" - -"And if he had? If he (let us put it so) _killed_ him, Johnny, what did -he do with--what was left of him? What could he do with it?" - -Darbyshire paused in his smoking. I played unconsciously with the jar. -He was looking at me, waiting to be answered. - -"I suppose--if that pond had been dragged--Dip Pond--if it were to be -dragged now--that--that--nothing would be found----" - -"Hush, lad," struck in Darbyshire, all hastily. "Walls have ears, people -tell us: and we must not even whisper grave charges without sufficient -grounds; grounds that we could substantiate." - -True: and of course he did right to stop me. - - * * * * * - -But we cannot stay rebellious thought: and no end of gruesome ideas -connected with that night in Dip Lane steal creepingly at times into my -mind. If I am not mistaken they steal also into Darbyshire's. - -All the same they may be but phantoms of the imagination, and St. -George may have been a truthful, an innocent man. You must decide for -yourselves, if you can, on which side the weight of evidence seems to -lie. I have told you the story as it happened, and I cannot clear up -for you what has never yet been cleared for Timberdale. It remains an -unsolved mystery. - - - - -SANDSTONE TORR. - - -I. - -What I am going to tell of took place before my time. But we shall get -down to that by-and-by, for I had a good deal to do with the upshot when -it came. - -About a mile from the Manor, on the way to the Court (which at that time -belonged to my father) stood a very old house built of grey stone, and -called Sandstone Torr: "Torr," as every one knew, being a corruption of -Tower. It was in a rather wild and solitary spot, much shut in by trees. -A narrow lane led to it from the highway, the only road by which a -carriage could get up to it: but in taking the field way between the -Court and Dyke Manor, over stiles and across a running rivulet or two, -you had to pass it close. Sandstone Torr was a rambling, high, and ugly -old building, once belonging to the Druids, or some ancient race of that -kind, and said to have been mighty and important in its day. The points -chiefly remarkable about it now were its age, its lonesome grey walls, -covered with lichen, and an amazingly lofty tower, that rose up from the -middle of the house and went tapering off at the top like an aspiring -sugar loaf. - -Sandstone Torr belonged to the Radcliffes. Its occupier was Paul -Radcliffe, who had inherited it from his father. He was a rather -unsociable man, and seemed to find his sole occupation in farming what -little land lay around the Torr and belonged to it. He might have -mixed with the gentry of the county, as far as descent went, for the -Radcliffes could trace themselves back for ages--up to the Druids, I -think, the same as the house: but he did not appear to care about it. -Who his wife had been no one knew. He brought her home one day from -London, and she kept herself as close as he did, or closer. She was dead -now, and old Radcliffe lived in the Torr with his only son, and a man -and maid servant. - -Well, in those days there came to stay at Dyke Manor a clergyman, named -Elliot, with his daughter Selina. Squire Todhetley was a youngish man -then, and he and his mother lived at the Manor together. Mr. Elliot was -out of health. He had been overworked for the past twenty years in the -poor London parish of which he was curate; and old Mrs. Todhetley asked -them to come down for a bit of a change. Change indeed it brought to Mr. -Elliot. He died there. His illness, whatever it was, took a sudden and -rapid stride onwards, and before he had been at Dyke Manor three weeks -he was dead. - -Selina Elliot--we have heard the Squire say it many a time--was the -sweetest-looking girl that ever the sun shone on. She was homeless now. -The best prospect before her was that of going out as governess. The -Elliots were of good descent, and Selina had been thoroughly well -educated; but of money she had just none. Old Mrs. Todhetley bid her not -be in any hurry; she was welcome to stay as long as she liked at Dyke -Manor. So Selina stayed. It was summer weather then, and she was out and -about in the open air all day long: a slight girl, in deep mourning, -with a shrinking air that was natural to her. - -One afternoon she came in, her bright face all aglow, and her shy eyes -eager. Soft brown eyes they were, that had always a sadness in them. -I--a little shaver--can remember that, when I knew her in later years. -As she sat down on the stool at Mrs. Todhetley's feet, she took off her -black straw hat, and began to play nervously with its crape ends. - -"My dear, you seem to be in a heat," said Mrs. Todhetley; a stout old -lady, who sat all day long in her easy-chair. - -"Yes, I ran home fast," said Selina. - -"Home from whence? Where have you been?" - -"I was--near the Torr," replied Selina, with hesitation. - -"Near the Torr, child! That's a long way for you to go strolling alone." - -"The wild roses in the hedges there are so lovely," pleaded Selina. -"That's why I took to go there at first." - -"Took to go there!" repeated the old lady, thinking it an odd phrase. -"Do you see anything of the Torr people? I hope you've not been making -intimate with young Stephen Radcliffe," she added, a thought darting -into her mind. - -"Stephen? that's the son. No, I never saw him. I think he is away from -home." - -"That's well. He is by all accounts but a churlish lout of a fellow." - -Selina Elliot bent her timid face over the hat, smoothing its ribbons -with her restless fingers. She was evidently ill at ease. Glancing up -presently, she saw the old lady was shutting her eyes for a doze: and -that hastened her communication. - -"I--I want to tell you something, please, ma'am. But--I don't like to -begin." And, with that, Selina burst into unexpected tears, and the -alarmed old lady looked up. - -"Why, what ails you, child? Are you hurt? Has a wasp been at you?" - -"Oh no," said Selina, brushing the tears away with fingers that trembled -all over. "I--if you please--I think I am going to live at the Torr." - -The old lady wondered whether Selina was dreaming. "At the Torr!" said -she. "There are no children at the Torr. They don't want a governess at -the Torr." - -"I am going there to be with Mr. Radcliffe," spoke Selina, in her -throat, as if she meant to choke. - -"To be with old Radcliffe! Why, the child's gone cranky! Paul Radcliffe -don't need a governess." - -"He wants to marry me." - -"Mercy upon us!" cried the old lady, lifting both hands in her -amazement. And Selina burst into tears again. - -Yes, it was true. Paul Radcliffe, who was fifty years of age, if a day, -and had a son over twenty, had been proposing marriage to that bright -young girl! They had met in the fields often, it turned out, and Mr. -Radcliffe had been making his hay while the sun shone. Every one went on -at her. - -"It would be better to go into a prison than into that gloomy Sandstone -Torr--a young girl like you, Selina," said Mrs. Todhetley. "It would be -sheer madness." - -"Why, you'd never go and sacrifice yourself to that old man!" cried the -Squire, who was just as outspoken and impulsive and good-hearted then as -in these latter years. "He ought to be ashamed of himself. It would be -like June and December." - -But all they said was of no use in the end. It was not that Selina, poor -girl, was in love with Mr. Radcliffe--one could as well have fancied -her in love with the grizzly old bear, just then exhibiting himself at -Church Dykely in a travelling caravan. But it was her position. Without -money, without a home, without a resource of any kind for the future, -save that of teaching for her bread, the prospect of becoming mistress -of Sandstone Torr was something fascinating. - -"I do so dislike the thought of spending my whole life in teaching!" -she pleaded in apology, the bitter tears streaming down her face. "You -cannot tell what it is to feel dependent." - -"I'd rather sweep chimneys than marry Paul Radcliffe if I were a pretty -young girl like you," stormed the old lady. - -"Since papa died you don't know what the feeling has been," sobbed -Selina. "Many a night have I lain awake with the misery of knowing that -I had no claim to a place in the wide world." - -"I am sure you are welcome to stay here," said the Squire. - -"Yes; as long as I am here myself," added his mother. "After that--well, -I suppose it wouldn't be proper for you to stay." - -"You are all kindness; I shall never meet with such friends again; and I -know that I am welcome to stay as long as I like," she answered in the -saddest of tones. "But the time of my departure must come sometime; and -though the world lies before me, there is no refuge for me in it. It is -very good of Mr. Radcliffe to offer to make me his wife and to give me -a home at the Torr." - -"Oh, is it, though!" retorted the Squire. "Trust him for knowing on -which side his bread's buttered." - -"He is of good descent; he has a large income----" - -"Six hundred a-year," interrupted the Squire, slightingly. - -"Yes, I am aware that it cannot appear much to you," she meekly said; -"but to me it seems unbounded. And that is apart from the house and -land." - -"The house and land must both go to Stephen." - -"Mr. Radcliffe told me that." - -"As to the land, it's only a few acres; nothing to speak of," went on -the Squire. "I'd as soon boast of my gooseberry bushes. And he can leave -all his money to Stephen if he likes. In my opinion, the chances are -that he will." - -"He says he shall always behave fairly by me," spoke poor Selina. - -"Why, you'd have a step-son older than yourself, Selina!" put in the old -lady. "And I don't like him--that Stephen Radcliffe. He's no better than -he should be. I saw him one day whipping a poor calf almost to death." - -Well, they said all they could against it; ten thousand times more than -is written down here. Selina wavered: she was not an obstinate girl, but -tractable as you please. Only--she had no homestead on the face of the -earth, and Mr. Radcliffe offered her one. He did not possess youth, -it is true; he had never been handsome: but he was of irreproachable -descent--and Selina had a little corner of ambition in her heart; and, -above all, he had a fairly good income. - -It was rather curious that the dread of this girl's life, the one dread -above all other dreads, was that of _poverty_. In the earlier days of -her parents, when she was a little girl and her mother was alive, and -the parson's pay was just seventy pounds a-year, they had had such a -terrible struggle with poverty that a horror of it was implanted in the -child's mind for ever. Her mother died of it. She had become weaker and -weaker, and perished slowly away for the want of those comforts that -money alone could have bought. Mr. Elliot's stipend was increased later: -but the fear of poverty never left Selina: and now, by his death, she -was again brought face to face with it. That swayed her; and her choice -was made. - -Old Mrs. Todhetley and the Squire protested that they washed their hands -of the marriage. But they could only wash them gingerly, and, so to say, -in private. For, after all, excepting that Paul Radcliffe was more than -old enough to be Selina's father, and had grizzly hair and a grown-up -son, there was not so much to be said against it. She would be Mrs. -Radcliffe of Sandstone Torr, and might take her standing in the county. - - * * * * * - -Sandstone Torr, dull and gloomy, and buried amidst its trees, was enough -to put a lively man in mind of a prison. You entered it by a sort of -closed-in porch, the outer door of which was always chained back in the -daytime. The inner door opened into a long, narrow passage, and that -again to a circular stone hall with a heavy ceiling, just like a large -dark watch-box. Four or five doors led off from it to different passages -and rooms. This same kind of round place was on all the landings, -shut in just as the hall was, and with no light, except what might be -afforded from the doors of the passages or rooms leading to it. It was -the foundation of the tower, and the house was built round it. All the -walls were of immense thickness: the rooms were low, and had beams -running across most of them. But the rooms were many in number, and -the place altogether had a massive, grand air, telling of its past -importance. It had one senseless point in it--there was no entrance to -the tower. The tower had neither staircase nor door of access. People -said what a grand view might be obtained if you could only get to the -top of it, or even get up to look through the small slits of windows in -its walls. But the builder had forgotten the staircase, and there it -ended. - -Mr. Radcliffe took his wife straight home from the church-door. Selina -had never before been inside the Torr, and the gloominess of its aspect -struck upon her unpleasantly. Leading her down the long passage into the -circular hall, he opened one of its doors, and she found herself in a -sitting-room. The furniture was good but heavy; the Turkey carpet was -nearly colourless with age, but soft to the feet; the window looked out -only upon trees. A man-servant, who had admitted them, followed them in, -asking his master if he had any orders. - -"Send Holt here," said Mr. Radcliffe. "This is the parlour, Selina." - -A thin, respectable woman of middle age made her appearance. She looked -with curiosity at the young lady her master had brought in: at her -wedding-dress of grey silk, at the pretty face blushing under the white -straw bonnet. - -"Mrs. Radcliffe, Holt. Show your mistress her rooms." - -The woman curtsied, and led the way through another passage to the -stairs; and into a bedroom and sitting-room above, that opened into one -another. - -"I've aired 'em well, ma'am," were the first words she said. "They've -never been used since the late mistress's time, for master has slept in -a little chamber near Master Stephen's. But he's coming back here now." - -"Is this the drawing-room?" asked Selina, observing that the furniture, -though faded, was prettier and lighter than that in the room downstairs. - -"Dear no, ma'am! The drawing-room is below and on t'other side of the -house entirely. It's never gone into from one month's end to another. -Master and Mr. Stephen uses nothing but the parlour. We call this the -Pine Room." - -"The Pine Room!" echoed Selina. "Why?" - -"Because it looks out on them pines, I suppose," replied Holt. - -Selina looked from the window, and saw a row of dark pines waving -before the higher trees behind them. The view beyond was completely shut -in by these trees; they were very close to the house: it almost seemed -as though a long arm might have touched them from where she stood. -Anything more dull than this aspect could not well be found. Selina -leaned from the window to look below: and saw a gravel-path with some -grass on either side it, but no flowers. - -It was a week later. Mr. Radcliffe sat in the parlour, busily examining -some samples of new wheat, when there came a loud ring at the outer -bell, and presently Stephen Radcliffe walked in. The father and son -resembled each other. Both were tall and strongly built, and had the -same rugged cast of features: men of few words and ungenial manners. But -while Mr. Radcliffe's face was not an unpleasing one, Stephen's had a -most sullen--some might have said evil--expression. In his eyes there -was a slight cast, and his dull brown hair was never tidy. Some time -before this, when the father and son had a quarrel, Stephen had gone off -into Cornwall to stay with his mother's relations. This was his first -appearance back again. - -"Is it you, Stephen!" cried Mr. Radcliffe, without offering to shake -hands: for the house was never given to ceremony. - -"Yes, it's me," replied Stephen, who generally talked more like a boor -than a gentleman, particularly in his angry moods. "It's about time I -came home, I think, when such a notice as this appears in the public -papers." - -He took a newspaper from his pocket, and laid it before his father, -pointing with his fore-finger to an announcement. It was that of Mr. -Radcliffe's marriage. - -"Well?" said Mr. Radcliffe. - -"Is that true or a hoax?" - -"True." - -Stephen caught the paper up again, tore it in two, and flung it across -the room. - -"What the devil made you go and do such a thing as that?" - -"Softly, Ste. Keep a civil tongue in your head. I am my own master." - -"At your age!" growled Stephen. "There's no fool like an old fool." - -"If you don't like it, you can go back to where you came from," said Mr. -Radcliffe quietly, turning the wheat from one of the sample-bags out on -the table. - -Stephen went to the window, and stood there looking at that agreeable -prospect beyond--the trees--his hands in his pockets, his back to his -father, and swearing to himself awfully. It would not do to quarrel -implacably with the old man, for his money was at his own disposal: and, -if incensed too greatly, he might possibly take the extreme step of -leaving it away from him. But Stephen Radcliffe's heart was good to turn -his father out of doors there and then, and appropriate the money to -himself at once, if he only had the power. "No fool like an old fool!" -he again muttered. "Where _is_ the cat?" - -"Where's who?" cried Mr. Radcliffe, looking up from his wheat. - -"The woman you've gone and made yourself a world's spectacle with." - -"Ste, my lad, this won't do. Keep a fair tongue in your head, as I -bid you; or go where you may make it a foul one. For by Heaven!"--and -Mr. Radcliffe's passion broke out and he rose from his seat -menacingly--"I'll not tolerate this." - -Stephen hardly ever remembered his father to have shown passion before. -He did not like it. They had gone on so very quietly together, until -that quarrel just spoken of, and Stephen had had his own way, and ruled, -so to say, in all things, for his father was easy, that this outbreak -was something new. It might not do to give further provocation then. - -He was standing as before in sullen silence, his hands in his trousers' -pockets and the skirts of his short brown velveteen coat thrown back, -and Mr. Radcliffe had sat down to the bags again, when the door opened, -and some one came in. Stephen turned. He saw a pretty young girl in -black, with some books in her delicate hands. Just for an instant he -wondered who the young girl could be: and then the thought flashed -over him that "the woman" his father had married might have a grown-up -daughter. Selina had been unpacking her trunks upstairs, and arranging -her things in the drawers and closets. She hesitated on her way to the -book-case when she saw the stranger. - -"My son Stephen, Selina. Ste, Mrs. Radcliffe." - -Stephen Radcliffe for a moment forgot his sullenness and his temper. -He did nothing but stare. Was his father playing a joke on him? He had -pictured the new wife (though he knew not why) as a woman of mature -age: this was a child. As she timidly held out the only hand she could -extricate from the load of books, he saw the wedding-ring on her -finger. Meeting her hand ungraciously and speaking never a word, he -turned to the window again. Selina put the books down, to be disposed -in their shelves later, and quitted the room. - -"This is even worse folly than I dreamed of," began Stephen, facing his -father. "She's nothing but a child." - -"She is close upon twenty." - -"Why, there may be children!" broadly roared out Stephen. "You must have -been mad when you did such a deed as this." - -"Mad or sane, it's done, Stephen. And I should do it again to-morrow -without asking your leave. Understand that." - -Yes, it was done. Rattling the silver in his pockets, Stephen Radcliffe -felt that, and that there was no undoing it. Here was this young -step-mother planted down at the Torr; and if he and she could not hit -it off together, it was he who would have to walk out of the house. -For full five minutes Stephen mentally rehearsed all the oaths he -remembered. Presently he spoke. - -"It was a fair trick, wasn't it, that you should forbid my marrying, -and go and do the same thing yourself!" - -"I did not object to your marrying, Ste: I objected to the girl. -Gibbon's daughter is not one to match with you. You are a Radcliffe." - -Stephen scoffed. Nobody had ever been able to beat into him any sense -of self-importance. Pride of birth, pride in his family were elements -unknown to Stephen's nature. He had a great love of money to make up -for it. - -"What's good for the goose is good for the gander," he retorted, -plunging into a communication he had resolved to make. "You have been -taking a wife on your score, and I have taken one on mine." - -Mr. Radcliffe looked keenly at Stephen. "You have married Gibbon's -girl?" - -"I have." - -"When? Where?" - -"In Cornwall. She followed me there." - -The elder man felt himself in a dilemma. He did care for his son, and -he resented this alliance bitterly for Stephen's sake. Gibbon was -gamekeeper to Sir Peter Chanasse, and had formerly been outdoor servant -at the Torr; and this daughter of his, Rebecca--or Becca, as she was -commonly called--was a girl quite beneath Stephen. Neither was she a -lovable young woman in herself; but hard, and sly, and bony. How it was -that Stephen had fancied her, Mr. Radcliffe could not understand. But -having stolen a march on Stephen himself, in regard to his own marriage, -he did not feel much at liberty to resent Stephen's. It was done, -too--as he had just observed of his own--and it could not be undone. - -"Well, Stephen, I am more vexed for your sake than I care to say. It -strikes me you will live to repent it." - -"That's my look out," replied Stephen. "I am going to bring her home." - -"Home! Where?" - -"Here." - -Mr. Radcliffe was silent; perhaps the assertion startled him. - -"I don't want Gibbon's daughter here, Stephen. There's no room for her." - -"Plenty of room, and to spare." - -So there was; for the old house was large. But Mr. Radcliffe had not -been thinking of space. - -"I can't have her. There! You may make your home where you like." - -"This is my home," said Stephen. - -"And it may be still, if you like. But it's not hers. Two women in a -house, each wanting to be mistress, wouldn't do. Now no noise, Ste, -_I won't have Gibbon's girl here_. I've not been used to consort with -people who have been my servants." - - * * * * * - -It is one thing to make a resolution, and another to keep it. Before -twelve months had gone by, Mr. Radcliffe's firmly spoken words had -come to naught; and Stephen had brought his wife into the Torr and two -babies--for Mrs. Stephen had presented him with two at once. Selina was -upstairs then with an infant of her own, and very ill. The world thought -she was going to die. - -The opportunity was a grand one for Madam Becca, and she seized upon it. -When Selina came about again, after months spent in confinement, she -found, so to say, no place for her. Becca was in her place; mistress, -and ruler, and all. Stephen behaved to her like the lout he was; Becca, -a formidable woman of towering height, alternately snapped at, and -ignored her. Old Radcliffe did not interfere: he seemed not to see that -anything was amiss. Poor Selina could only sit up in that apartment -that Holt had called the Pine Room, and let her tears fall on her -baby-boy, and whisper all her griefs into his unconscious ear. She was -refined and timid and shrinking: but once she spoke to her husband. - -"Treat you with contempt?--don't let you have any will of your -own?--thwart you in all ways?" he repeated. "Who says it, Selina?" - -"Oh, it is so; you may see that it is, if you only will notice," she -said, looking up at him imploringly through her tears. - -"I'll speak to Stephen. I knew there'd be a fuss if that Becca came -here. But you are not as strong to bustle about as she is, Selina: let -her take the brunt of the management off you. What does it matter?" - -What did it matter?--that was Mr. Radcliffe's chief opinion on the -point: and had it been only a question of management it would not have -mattered. He spoke to Stephen, telling him that he and his wife must -make things pleasanter for Mrs. Radcliffe, than, as it seemed, they were -doing. The consequence was, that Stephen and Becca took a convenient -occasion of attacking Selina; calling her a sneak, a tell-tale, and a -wolf in sheep's clothing, and pretty nearly frightening her into another -spell of illness. - -From that time Selina had no spirit to retaliate. She took all that -was put upon her--and it was a great deal--and bore it in silence and -patience. She saw that her marriage, taking one thing with another, had -turned out to be the mistake her friends had foretold that it would be. -Mr. Radcliffe, growing by degrees into a state of apathy as he got -older, was completely under the dominion of Stephen. He did not mean to -be unkind to his wife: he just perceived nothing; he was indifferent to -all that passed around him: had they set fire to Selina's petticoats -before his eyes, he'd hardly have seen the blaze. Now and again Selina -would try to make friends with Holt: but Holt, though never uncivil, -had a way of throwing her off. And so, she lived on, a cowed, -broken-spirited woman, eating away her heart in silence. Selina -Radcliffe had found out that there were worse evils in the world than -poverty. - -She might have died then but for her boy. You never saw a nicer little -fellow than he--that Francis Radcliffe. A bright, tractable, loving boy; -with laughing blue eyes, and fair curls falling back from his pretty -face. Mr. and Mrs. Stephen hated him. Their children, Tom and Lizzy, -pinched and throttled him: but the lad took it all in good part, and -had the sweetest temper imaginable. He loved his mother beyond telling, -and she made him as gentle and nearly as patient as she was. Virtually -driven from the parlour, except at meal-times, their refuge was the Pine -Room. There they were unmolested. There Selina educated and trained him, -doing her best to show him the way to the next world, as well as to fit -him for this. - -One day when he was about nine years old, Selina was up aloft, in the -little room where he slept; which had a better view than some of the -rooms had, and looked out into the open country. It was snowy weather, -and she caught sight of the two boys in the yard below, snowballing each -other. Opening the window to call Francis in--for he always got into the -wars when with Tom, and she had learnt to dread his being with him--she -saw Stephen Radcliffe crossing from the barn. Suddenly a snowball -took Stephen in the face. It came from Tom; she saw that; Francis was -stooping down at the time, collecting material for a fresh missive. - -"Who flung that at me?" roared out Stephen, in a rage. - -Tom disclaimed all knowledge of it; and Stephen Radcliffe seized upon -Francis, beating him shamefully. - -"It was not Francis," called out Selina from the window, shivering at -the sight; for Stephen in his violence might some time, as she knew, -lame the lad. "Its touching you was an accident; I could see that; but -it was not Francis who threw it." - -The cold, rarefied air carried her words distinctly to the ear of -Stephen. Holding Francis by one hand to prevent his escape, he told Mrs. -Radcliffe that she was a liar, adding other polite epithets and a few -oaths. And then he began pummelling the lad again. - -"Come in, Francis! Let him come in!" implored the mother, clasping her -hands in her bitter agony. "Oh, is there no refuge for him and for me?" - -She ran down to their sanctum, the Pine Room. Francis came up, sore all -over, and his face bleeding. He was a brave little lad, and he strove -to make light of it, and keep his tears down. She held him to her, and -burst into sobs while trying to comfort him. That upset him at once. - -"Oh, my darling, try and bear! My poor boy, there's nothing left for -us both but to bear. The world is full of wrongs and tribulation: -but, Francis, it will all be made right when we get to heaven." - -"Don't cry, mamma. It didn't hurt me much. But, indeed, the snowball -was not mine." - -At ten years old the boys were sent to school. Young Tom, allowed to -have his own way, grew beyond every one's control, even his father's; -and Stephen packed him off to school. Selina besought her husband to -send Francis also. Why not, replied Mr. Radcliffe; the boy must be -educated. And, in spite of Stephen's opposition, Francis was despatched. -It was frightfully lonely and unpleasant for Selina after that, and she -grew to have a pitiful look on her face. - -The school was a sharp one, and Francis got on well; he seemed to -possess his grandfather Elliot's aptitude for learning. Tom hated it. -After each of the half-yearly holidays, it took Stephen himself to get -him to school again: and before he was fourteen he capped it all by -appearing at home uncalled for, a red-hot fugitive, and announcing an -intention of going to sea. - -Tom carried his point. After some feats of skirmishing between him -and his father, he was shipped off as "midshipman" on board a fine -merchantman bound for Hong Kong. Stephen Radcliffe might never have -given a consent, but for the certainty that if he did not give it, Tom -would decamp from the Torr, as he did from school, and go off as a -common seaman before the mast. It was strange, with his crabbed nature, -how much he cared for those two children! - -"You'll have that other one home now," said sullen Stephen to his -father. "No good to be paying for him there." - -And most likely it would have been so; but fate, or fortune, intervened. -Francis had a wind-fall. A clergyman, who had known Mr. Elliot, died, -and left Francis a thousand pounds. Selina decided that it should be -spent, or at least a portion of it, in completing his education in a -more advanced manner--though, no doubt, Stephen would have liked to get -hold of the money. Francis was sent up to King's College in London, -and to board at the house of one of the masters. In this way a few more -years passed on. Francis chose the Bar as a profession, and began to -study law. - -"The Bar!" sneered Stephen. "A penniless beggar like Francis Radcliffe! -Put a pig to learn to spell!" - -A bleak day in winter. The wind was howling and crying round Sandstone -Torr, tearing through the branches of the almost leafless trees, -whirling the weather-cock atop of the lofty tower, playing madly on the -window-panes. If there was one spot in the county that the wind seemed -to favour above all other spots, it was the Torr. It would go shrieking -in the air round about there like so many unquiet spirits. - -In the dusk of evening, on a sofa beside the fire in the Pine Room lay -Mrs. Radcliffe, with a white, worn face and hollow eyes. She was slowly -dying. Until to-day she had not thought there was any immediate danger: -but she knew it all now, and that the end was at hand. - -So it was not that knowledge which had caused her, a day or two ago, to -write to London for Francis. Some news brought in by Stephen Radcliffe -had unhinged and shocked her beyond expression. Francis was leading a -loose, bad life, drinking and gambling, and going to the deuce headlong, -ran the tales, and Stephen repeated them indoors. - -That same night she wrote for Francis. She could not rest day or night -until she could see him face to face, and say--Is this true, or untrue? -He might have reached the Torr the previous day; but he did not. She was -lying listening for him now in the twilight gloom amidst the blasts of -that shrieking wind. - -"If God had but taken my child in infancy!" came the chief thought of -her troubled heart. "If I could only know that I should meet him on the -everlasting shores!" - -"Mother!" - -She started up with a yearning cry. It was Francis. He had arrived, and -come upstairs, and his opening of the door had been drowned by the wind. -A tall, slender, bright-faced young fellow of twenty, with the same -sunny hair as in his childhood, and a genial heart. - -Francis halted, and stood in startled consternation. The firelight -played on her wasted face, and he saw--what was there. In manners he was -still almost a boy; his disposition open, his nature transparent. - -She made room for him on the sofa; sitting beside him, and laying her -weary head for a moment on his shoulder. Francis took a few deep breaths -while getting over the shock. - -"How long have you been like this, mother? What has brought it about?" - -"Nothing in particular; nothing fresh," she answered. "I have been -getting nearer and nearer to it for years and years." - -"Is there no hope?" - -"None. And oh, my darling, but for you I should be so glad to die. -Sitting here in my loneliness for ever, with only heaven to look forward -to, it seems that I have learnt to see a little already of what its rest -will be." - -Francis pushed his hair from his brow, and left his hand there. He had -loved his mother intensely, and the blow was cruel. - -Quietly, holding his other hand in hers, she spoke of what Stephen -Radcliffe had heard. Francis's face turned to scarlet as he listened. -But in that solemn hour he could not and would not tell a lie. - -Yes, it was true; partly true, he said. He was not always so steady as -he ought to be. Some of his acquaintances, young men studying law like -himself, or medicine, or what not, were rather wild, and he had been the -same. Drink?--well, yes; at times they did take more than might be quite -needful. But they were not given to gambling: that was false. - -"Francis," she said, her heart beating wildly with its pain, "the worst -of all is the drink. If once you suffer yourself to acquire a love for -it, you may never leave it off. It is so insidious----" - -"But I don't love it, mother; I don't care for it--and I am sure you -must know that I would tell you nothing but truth now," he interrupted. -"I have only done as the others do. I'll leave it off." - -"Will you promise me that?" - -"Yes, I will. I do promise it." - -She carried his hand to her lips and kissed it. Francis had always kept -his promises. - -"It is so difficult for young fellows without a home to keep straight in -London," he acknowledged. "There's no good influence over us; there's no -pleasant family circle where we can spend our evenings: and we go out, -and get drawn into this and that. It all comes of thoughtlessness, -mother." - -"You have promised me, Francis." - -"Oh yes. And I will perform." - -"How long will it be before you are called to the Bar?" she asked, after -a pause. - -"Two years." - -"So much as that?" - -"I think so. How the wind howls!" - -Mrs. Radcliffe sighed; Francis's future seemed not to be very clear. -Unless he could get on pretty quickly, and make a living for himself-- - -"When I am gone, Francis," she said aloud, interrupting her own -thoughts, "this will not be any home for you." - -"It has not been one for me for some years now, mother." - -"But if you do not get into work soon, and your own funds come to an -end, you will have no home but this to turn to." - -"If I attempted to turn to it, Stephen would soon make it too hot for -me, I expect." - -"That might not be all; not the worst," she quickly answered, dropping -her voice to a tone of fear, and glancing around as one in a fever. - -Francis looked round too. He supposed she was seeking something. - -"It is always scaring me, Francis," she whispered. "There are times when -I fancy I am going to see it enacted before my eyes. It puts me into a -state of nervous dread not to be described." - -"See what enacted?" he asked. - -"I was sitting here about ten days ago, Francis, thinking of -you, thinking of the future, when all at once a most startling -prevision--yes, I call it so--a prevision came upon me of some dreadful -ill in store for you; ill wrought by Stephen. I--I am not sure but -it was--that--that he took your life," she added, scarcely above her -breath, and in tones that made Francis shiver. - -"Why, what do you mean, mother?" - -"Every day, every day since, every night and nearly all night, that -strange conviction has lain upon me. I know it will be fulfilled: when -the hand of death is closing on us, these previsions are an instinct. As -surely as that I am now disclosing this to you, Francis, so surely will -you fall in some way under the iron hand of Stephen." - -"Perhaps you were dreaming, mother dear," suggested Francis: for he had -his share of common sense. - -"It will be in this house; the Torr," she went on, paying no attention -to him; "for it is always these rooms and the dreary trees outside -that seem to lie before me. For that reason, I would not have you live -here----" - -"But don't you think you may have been dreaming?" repeated Francis, -interrupting the rest. - -"I was as wide awake as I am now, Francis, but I was deep in thought. -It stole upon me, this impression, without any sort of warning, or any -train of ideas that could have led to it; and it lies within me, a sure -and settled conviction. _Beware of Stephen._ But oh, Francis! even -while I give you this caution I know that you will not escape the -evil--whatever it may turn out to be." - -"I hope I shall," he said, rather lightly. "I'll try, at any rate." - -"Well, I have warned you, Francis. Be always upon your guard. And keep -away from the Torr, if you can." - -Holt, quite an aged woman now, came in with some tea for her mistress. -Francis took the opportunity to go down and see his father. Mr. -Radcliffe, in a shabby old coat, was sitting in his arm-chair at the -parlour fire. He looked pleased to see Francis, and kept his hand for -a minute after he had shaken it. - -"My mother is very ill, sir," said Francis. - -"Ay," replied the old man, dreamily. "Been so for some time now." - -"Can nothing be done to--to--keep her with us a little longer, father?" - -"I suppose not. Ask Duffham." - -"What the devil!--is it you! What brings _you_ here?" - -The coarse salutation came from Stephen. Francis turned to see him enter -and bang the door after him. His shoes were dirty, his beaver gaiters -splashed, and his hair was like a tangled mop. - -"I came down to see my father and mother," answered Francis, as he held -out his hand. But Stephen did not choose to see it. - -Mrs. Stephen, in a straight-down blue cloth gown and black cap garnished -with red flowers, looking more angular and hard than of yore, came in -with the tea-tray. She did as much work in the house as a servant. Lizzy -had been married the year before, and lived in Birmingham with her -husband, who was curate at one of the churches there. - -"You'll have to sleep on the sofa to-night, young man," was Mrs. -Stephen's snappish salutation to Francis. "There's not a bed in the -house that's aired." - -"The sofa will do," he answered. - -"Let his bed be aired to-morrow, Becca," interposed the old man. And -they stared in astonishment to hear him say it. - -Francis sat down to the tea-table with Stephen and his wife; but neither -of them spoke a word to him. Mr. Radcliffe had his tea in his arm-chair -at the fire, as usual. Afterwards, Francis took his hat and went out. He -was going to question the doctor; and the wind came rushing and howling -about him as he bore onwards down the lane towards Church Dykely. - -In about an hour's time he came back again with red eyes. He said it was -the wind, but his subdued voice sounded as though he had been crying. -His father, with bent head, was smoking a long pipe; Stephen sat at the -table, reading the sensational police reports in a low weekly newspaper. - -"Been out for a stroll, lad?" asked old Radcliffe--and it was the first -voluntary question he had put for months. Stephen, listening, could not -think what was coming to him. - -"I have been to Duffham's," answered Francis. "He--he--" with a stopping -of the breath, "says that nothing can be done for my mother; that a few -days now will see the end of it." - -"Ay," quietly responded the old man. "Our turns must all come." - -"_Her_ turn ought not to have come yet," said Francis, nearly breaking -down. - -"No?" - -"I have been looking forward at odd moments to a time when I should be -in work, and able to give her a happy home with me, father. It is very -hard to come here and find _this_." - -Old Radcliffe took a long whiff; and, opening his mouth, let the smoke -curl upwards. "Have a pipe, Francis?" - -"No, thank you, sir. I am going up to my mother." - -As he left the room, Stephen, having finished the police reports, was -turning the paper to see what it said about the markets, when his father -put down his pipe and began to speak. - -"Only a few days, he says, Ste!" - -"What?" demanded Stephen in his surly and ungracious tones. - -"She's been ailing always; and has sat up there away from us, Ste. But -we shall miss her." - -"Miss her!" retorted Ste, leaving the paper, and walking to the fire. -"Why, what good has she been? _Miss_ her? The house'll have a good -riddance of her," he added, under his breath. - -"It'll be my turn next, Ste. And not long first, either." - -Stephen took a keen look at his father from beneath his overhanging, -bushy eyebrows, that were beginning to turn grey. All this sounded very -odd. - -"When you and me and Becca's left alone here by ourselves, we shall be -as easy as can be," he said. - -"What month is it, Ste?" - -"November." - -"Ay. You'll have seen the last o' me before Christmas." - -"Think so?" was Stephen's equable remark. The old man nodded; and there -came a pause. - -"And you and Becca'll be glad to get us out, Ste." - -Stephen did not take the trouble to gainsay it. He was turning about in -his thoughts something that he had a mind to speak of. - -"They've been nothing but interlopers from the first--she and him. I -expect you to do what's right by me, father." - -"Ay, I shall do what's right," answered the old man. - -"About the money, I mean. It must _all_ come to me, father. I was heir -to it before you ever set eyes on her; and her brat must not be let -stand in my way. Do you hear?" - -"Yes, I hear. It'll be all right, Ste." - -"Take only a fraction from the income, and how would the Torr be kept -up?" pursued Stephen, plucking up his spirits at the last answer. "He -has got his fine profession, and he can make a living for himself out of -it: some o' them counsellors make their thousands a-year. But he must -not be let rob _me_." - -"He shan't rob you, Ste. It will be all right." - -And covetous Stephen, thus reassured and put at ease, strolled into -the kitchen, and ordered Becca to provide his favourite dish, toasted -cheese, for supper. - -The "few days" spoken of by Mr. Duffham, were slowly passing. There was -not much difference to be observed in Selina; except that her voice grew -weaker. She could only use it at intervals. But her face had a beautiful -look of peace upon it, just as though she were three parts in heaven. I -have heard Duffham say so many a time since; I, Johnny Ludlow. - -On the fifth day she was so much better that it seemed little short of -a miracle. They found her in the Pine Room early, up and dressed: when -Holt went in to light the fire, she was looking over the two books -that lay on the round table. One of them was the Bible; the other was -a translation of the German tale "Sintram," which Francis had brought -her when he came down the last summer. The story had taken hold of her -imagination, and she knew it nearly by heart. - -Down went Holt, and told them that the mistress (for, contradictory -though it may seem, Selina had been always accorded that title) had -taken a "new lease of life," and was getting well. Becca, astonished, -went stalking up: perhaps she was afraid it might be true. Selina had -"Sintram" in her hand as she sat: her eyes looked bright, her cheeks -pink, her voice was improved. - -"Oh," said Becca. "What have you left your bed for at this early hour?" - -"I feel so well," Selina answered with a smile, letting the book lie -open on the table. "Won't you shake hands with me?--and--and kiss me?" - -Now Becca had never kissed her in all the years they had lived together, -and she did not seem to care about beginning now. "I'll go down and beat -you up an egg and a spoonful of wine," said she, just touching the tips -of Selina's fingers, in response to the held-out hand: and, with that, -went away. - -Stephen was the only one who did not pay the Pine Room a visit that day. -He heard of the surprising change while he was feeding the pigs: for -Becca went out and told him. Stephen splashed some wash over the side -of the trough, and gave a little pig a smack with the bucket, and that -was all his answer. Old Radcliffe sat an hour in the room; but he never -spoke all the time: so his company could not be considered as much. - -Selina crept as far as the window, and looked out on the bare pines and -the other dreary trees. Most trees are dreary in November. Francis saw a -shiver take her as she stood, leaning on the window-frame; and he went -to give her his arm and bring her back again. They were by themselves -then. - -"A week, or so, of this improvement, mother, and you will be as you used -to be," said he cheerfully, seating her on the sofa and stirring up the -fire. "We shall have our home together yet." - -She turned her face full on his, as he sat down by her; a -half-questioning, half-wondering look in her eyes. - -"Not in this world, Francis. Surely _you_ are not deceived!" and his -over-sanguine heart went down like lead. - -"It is but the flickering of the spirit before it finally quits the -weary frame; just as you may have seen the flame shoot up from an -expiring candle," she continued. "The end is very near now." - -A spasm of pain rose in his throat. She took his hands between her own -feeble ones. - -"Don't grieve, Francis; don't grieve for me! Remember what my life has -been." - -He did remember it. He remembered also the answer Duffham gave when -he had inquired what malady it was his mother was dying of. "A broken -heart." - -"Don't forget, Francis--never forget--that it is a journey we must enter -on, sooner or later." - -"An uncertain and unknown journey at the best!" he said. "You have no -fear of it?" - -"Fear! No, but I had once." - -She spoke the words in a low, sweet tone, and pointed with a smile to -the book that still lay open on the table. Francis's eyes fell on the -page. - - "When death is drawing near, - And thy heart shrinks with fear, - And thy limbs fail, - Then raise thy hands and pray - To Him who cheers the way - Through the dark vale. - - "Seest thou the eastern dawn? - Hears't thou, in the red morn, - The angel's song? - Oh! lift thy drooping head, - Thou who in gloom and dread - Hast lain so long. - - "Death comes to set thee free; - Oh! meet him cheerily, - As thy true friend; - And all thy fears shall cease, - And in eternal peace - Thy penance end." - -Francis sat very still, struggling a little with that lump in his -throat. She leaned forward, and let her head rest upon him, just as she -had done the other day when he first came in. His emotion broke loose -then. - -"Oh, mother, what shall I do without you?" - -"You will have God," she whispered. - -Still all the morning she kept up well; talking of this and that, saying -how much of late the verses, just quoted, had floated in her mind and -become a reality to her; showing Holt a slit that had appeared in the -table-cover and needed darning: telling Francis his pocket-handkerchiefs -looked yellow and should be bleached. It might have been thought she was -only going out to tea at Church Dykely, instead of entering on the other -journey she had told of. - -"Have you been giving her anything?" demanded Stephen, casting his surly -eyes on Francis as they sat opposite to each other at dinner in the -parlour. "Dying people can't spurt up in this manner without drugs to -make 'em." - -Francis did not deign to answer. Stephen projected his fork, and took a -potato out of the dish. Frank went upstairs when the meal was over. He -had left his mother sitting on the sofa, comparatively well. He found -her lying on the bed in the next room, grappling with death. She lifted -her feeble arms to welcome him, and a ray of joyous light shone on her -face. Francis made hardly one step of it to the bed. - -"Oh, my darling, it will be all right!" she breathed. "I have prayed for -you, and I know--I know I have been heard. You will be helped to put -away that evil habit; temptation may assail, but it will not finally -overcome you. And, Francis, when----" Her voice failed. - -"I no longer hear what you say, mother," cried Francis in an agony. - -"Yes, yes," she repeated, as if in answer to something he had said. -"Beware of Stephen." - -The hands and face alike fell. Francis rang the bell violently, and Holt -came up. All was over. - - * * * * * - -Stephen attended the funeral with the others. Grumbling wofully at -having to do it, because it involved a new suit of black clothes. -"They'll be ready for the old man, though," was his consoling -reflection: "he won't be long." - -He was even quicker than Stephen thought. On the very day week that they -had come in from leaving Selina in the grave, Mr. Radcliffe was lying -as lifeless as she was. A seizure carried him off. Francis was summoned -again from London before he had well got back to it. Stephen could not, -at such a season, completely ignore him. - -He did not foresee the blow that was to come thundering down. When Mr. -Radcliffe's will came to be opened, it was found that his property was -equally divided between the two sons, half and half: Stephen of course -inheriting the Torr; and Squire Todhetley being appointed trustee for -Francis. "And I earnestly beg of him to accept the trust," ran the -words, "for the sake of Selina's son." - -Francis caught the glare of Stephen as they were read out. It was of -course Stephen himself, but it looked more like a savage wild-cat. That -warning of his mother's came into Francis's mind with a rush. - - -II. - -It stood on the left of the road as you went towards Alcester: a -good-looking, red-brick house, not large, but very substantial. -Everything about it was in trim order; from the emerald-green outer -venetian window-blinds to the handsome iron entrance-gates between the -enclosing palisades; and the garden and grounds had not as much as -a stray worm upon them. Mr. Brandon was nice and particular in all -matters, as old bachelors generally are; and he was especially so in -regard to his home. - -Careering up to this said house on the morning of a fine spring day, -when the green hedges were budding and the birds sang in the trees, -went a pony-gig, driven by a gentleman. A tall, slender young fellow of -seven-and-twenty, with golden hair that shone in the sun and eyes as -blue and bright as the sky. Leaving the pony to be taken care of by a -labouring boy who chanced to be loitering about, he rang the bell at the -iron gates, and inquired of the answering servant whether Mr. Brandon -was at home. - -"Yes, sir," was the answer of the man, as he led the way in. "But I am -not sure that he can see you. What name?" And the applicant carelessly -took a card from his waistcoat-pocket, and was left in the drawing-room. -Which card the servant glanced at as he carried it away. - -"Mr. Francis Radcliffe." - -People say there's sure to be a change every seven years. Seven years -had gone by since the death of old Mr. Radcliffe and the inheritance by -Francis of the portion that fell to him; three hundred a-year. There -were odd moments when Frank, in spite of himself, would look back at -those seven years; and he did not at all like the retrospect. For he -remembered the solemn promise he had made to his mother when she was -dying, to put away those evil habits which had begun to creep upon him, -more especially that worst of all bad habits that man, whether young -or old, can take to--_drinking_--and he had not kept the promise. -He had been called to the Bar in due course, but he made nothing by -his profession. Briefs did not come to him. He just wasted his time -and lived a fast life on the small means that were his. He pulled up -sometimes, turned his back on folly, and read like a house on fire: -but his wild companions soon got hold of him again, and put his good -resolutions to flight. Frank put it all down to idleness. "If I had work -to do, I should do it," he said, "and that would keep me straight." But -at the close of this last winter he had fallen into a most dangerous -illness, resulting from the draughts of ale, and what not, that he had -made too free with, and he got up from it with a resolution never to -drink again. Knowing that the resolution would be more easy to keep if -he turned his back on London and the companions who beset him, down he -came to his native place, determined to take a farm and give up the law. -For the second time in his life some money had come to him unexpectedly; -which would help him on. And so, after a seven years' fling, Frank -Radcliffe was going in for a change. - -He had never stayed at Sandstone Torr since his father's death. His -brother Stephen's surly temper, and perhaps that curious warning of -his mother's, kept him out of it. He and Stephen maintained a show of -civility to one another; and when Frank was in the neighbourhood (but -that had only happened twice in the seven years), he would call at the -Torr and see them. The last time he came down, Frank was staying at a -place popularly called Pitchley's Farm. Old Pitchley--who had lived -on it, boy and man, for seventy years--liked him well. Frank made -acquaintance that time with Annet Skate; fell in love with her, in fact, -and meant to marry her. She was a pretty girl, and a good girl, and had -been brought up to be thoroughly useful as a farmer's daughter: but -neither by birth nor position was she the equal of Frank Radcliffe. All -her experience of life lay in her own secluded, plain home: in regard -to the world outside she was as ignorant as a young calf, and just as -mild and soft as butter. - -So Frank, after his spell of sickness and reflection, had thrown up -London, and come down to settle in a farm with Annet, if he could get -one. But there was not a farm to be let for miles round. And it was -perhaps a curious thing that while Frank was thinking he should have to -travel elsewhere in search of one, Pitchley's should turn up. For old -Pitchley suddenly died. Pitchley's Farm belonged to Mr. Brandon. It was -a small compact farm; just the size Frank wanted. A large one would have -been beyond his means. - -Mr. Brandon sat writing letters at the table in his library, in his -geranium-coloured Turkish cap, with its purple tassel, when his servant -went in with the card. - -"Mr. Francis Radcliffe!" read he aloud, in his squeaky voice. "What, is -he down here again? You can bring him in, Abel--though I'm sure I don't -know what he wants with me." And Abel went and brought him. - -"We heard you were ill, young man," said Mr. Brandon, peering up into -Frank's handsome face as he shook hands, and detecting all sorts of -sickly signs in it. - -"So I have been, Mr. Brandon; very ill. But I have left London and its -dissipations for good, and have come here to settle. It's about time I -did," he added, with the candour natural to him. - -"I should say it was," coughed old Brandon. "You've been on the wrong -tack long enough." - -"And I have come to you--I hope I am first in the field--to ask you to -let me have the lease of Pitchley's Farm." - -Mr. Brandon could not have felt more surprised had Frank asked for a -lease of the moon, but he did not show it. His head went up a little, -and the purple tassel took a sway backwards. - -"Oh," said he. "_You_ take Pitchley's Farm! How do you think to stock -it?" - -"I shall take to the stock at present on it, as far as my means will -allow, and give a bond for the rest. Pitchley's executors will make it -easy for me." - -"What are your means?" curtly questioned old Brandon. - -"In all, they will be two thousand pounds. Taking mine and Miss Skate's -together." - -"That's a settled thing, is it, Master Francis?"--alluding to the -marriage. - -"Yes, it is," said Frank. "Her portion is just a thousand pounds, -and her friends are willing to put it on the farm. Mine is another -thousand." - -"Where does yours come from?" - -"Do you recollect, Mr. Brandon, that when I was a little fellow at -school I had a thousand pounds left me by a clergyman--a former friend -of my grandfather Elliot?" - -Mr. Brandon nodded. "It was Parson Godfrey. He came down once or twice -to the Torr to see your mother and you." - -"Just so. Well, his widow has now recently died; she was considerably -younger than he; and she has left me another thousand. If I can have -Pitchley's Farm, I shall be sure to get on at it," he added in his -sanguine way. For, if ever there was a sanguine, sunny-natured fellow -in this world, it was Frank Radcliffe. - -Old Brandon pushed his geranium cap all aside and gave a flick to the -tassel. "My opinion lies the contrary way, young man: that you will be -sure not to get on at it." - -"I understand all about farming," said Frank eagerly. "And I mean to be -as steady as steady can be." - -"To begin with a debt on the farm will cripple the best man going, sir." - -"Oh, Mr. Brandon, don't turn against me!" implored Frank, who was -feeling terribly in earnest. "Give me a chance! Unless I can get some -constant work, some _interest_ to occupy my hands and my mind, I might -be relapsing back to the old ways again from sheer ennui. There's no -resource but a farm." - -Mr. Brandon did not seem to be in a hurry to answer. He was looking -straight at Frank, and nodding little nods to himself, following out -some mental argument. Frank leaned forward in his chair, his voice low, -his face solemn. - -"When my poor mother was dying, I promised her to give up bad habits, -Mr. Brandon. I hope--I think--I fully intend to do so now. Won't you -help me?" - -"What do you wish me to understand by 'bad' habits, young man?" queried -Mr. Brandon in his hardest tones. "What have been yours?" - -"Drink," said Frank shortly. "And I am ashamed enough to have to say -it. It is not that I have been a constant drinker, or that I have -taken _much_, in comparison with what very many men drink; but I have, -sometimes for weeks together, taken it very recklessly. _That_ is what -I meant by speaking of my bad habits, Mr. Brandon." - -"Couldn't speak of a worse habit, Frank Radcliffe." - -"True. I should have pulled up long ago but for those fast companions -I lived amongst. They kept me down. Once amidst such, a fellow has no -chance. Often and often that neglected promise to my mother has lain -upon me, a nightmare of remorse. I have fancied she might be looking -down upon earth, upon _me_, and seeing how I was fulfilling it." - -"If your mother was not looking down upon you, sir, your Creator was." - -"Ay. I know. Mr. Brandon"--his voice sinking deeper in its solemnity, -and his eyes glistening--"in the very last minute of my mother's -life--when her soul was actually on the wing--she told me that she -_knew_ I should be helped to throw off what was wrong. She had prayed -for it, and seen it. A conviction is within me that I shall be--has been -within me ever since. I think this--now--may be the turning-point in my -life. Don't deny me the farm, sir." - -"Frank Radcliffe, I'd let you have the farm, and another to it, if I -thought you were sincere." - -"Why--you _can't_ think me not sincere, after what I have said!" cried -Frank. - -"Oh, you are sincere enough at the present moment. I don't doubt that. -The question is, will you be sincere in keeping your good resolutions in -the future?" - -"I hope I shall. I believe I shall. I will try with all my best -energies." - -"Very well. You may have the farm." - -Frank Radcliffe started up in his joy and gratitude, and shook Mr. -Brandon's hands till the purple tassel quivered. He had a squeaky voice -and a cold manner, and went in for coughs and chest-aches, and all kinds -of fanciful disorders; but there was no more generous heart going than -old Brandon's. - -Business settled, the luncheon was ordered in. But Frank was a good deal -too impatient to stay for it; and drove away in the pony-gig to impart -the news to all whom it might concern. Taking a round to the Torr first, -he drove into the back-yard. Stephen came out. - -Stephen looked quite old now. He must have been fifty years of age. Hard -and surly as ever was he, and his stock of hair was as grizzled as his -father's used to be before Frank was born. - -"Oh, it's you!" said Stephen, as civilly as he could bring his tongue to -speak. "Whose chay and pony is that?" - -"It belongs to Pitchley's bailiff. He lent it me this morning." - -"Will you come in?" - -"I have not time now," answered Frank. "But I thought I'd just drive -round and tell you the news, Stephen. I'm going to have Pitchley's -Farm." - -"Who says so?" - -"I have now been settling it with Mr. Brandon. At first, he seemed -unwilling to let me have it--was afraid, I suppose, that I and the farm -might come to grief together--but he consented at last. So I shall get -in as soon as I can, and take Annet with me. You'll come to our wedding, -Stephen?" - -"A fine match _she_ is!" cried cranky Stephen. - -"What's the matter with her?" - -"I don't say as anything's the matter with her. But you have always -stuck up for the pride and pomp of the Radcliffes: made out that nobody -was good enough for 'em. A nice comedown for Frank Radcliffe that'll -be--old Farmer Skate's girl." - -"We won't quarrel about it, Stephen," said Frank, with his good-humoured -smile. "Here's your wife. How do you do, Mrs. Radcliffe?" - -Becca had come out with a wet mop in her hands, which she proceeded to -wring. Some of the splashes went on Frank's pony-gig. She wore morning -costume: a dark-blue cotton gown hanging straight down on her thin, -lanky figure; and an old black cap adorning her hard face. It was a -great contrast: handsome, gentlemanly, well-dressed, sunny Frank -Radcliffe, barrister-at-law; and that surly boor Stephen, in his rough -clothes, and his shabby, hard-working wife. - -"When be you going back to London?" was Becca's reply to his salutation, -as she began to rinse out the mop at the pump. - -"Not at all. I have been telling Stephen. I am going into Pitchley's -Farm." - -"Along of Annet Skate," put in Stephen; whose queer phraseology had been -indulged in so long that it had become habitual. "Much good they'll do -in a farm! He'd like us to go to the wedding! No, thank ye." - -"Well, good-morning," said Frank, starting the pony. They did not give -him much encouragement to stay. - -"Be it true, Radcliffe?" asked Becca, letting the mop alone for a -minute. "Be he a-going to marry Skate's girl, and get Pitchley's Farm?" - -"I wish the devil had him!" was Stephen's surly comment, as he stalked -off in the wake of the receding pony-gig, giving his wife no other -answer. - -No doubt Stephen was sincere in his wish, though it was hardly polite to -avow it. For the whole of Frank's life, he had been a thorn in the flesh -of Stephen: in the first years, for fear their father should bequeath to -Frank a share of the inheritance; in the later years, because Frank had -had the share! That sum of three hundred a-year, enjoyed by Frank, was -coveted by Stephen as money was never yet coveted by man. Looking at -matters with a distorted mind, he considered it a foul wrong done him; -as no better than a robbery upon him; that the whole of the money was -his own by all the laws of right and wrong, and that not a stiver of -it ought to have gone to Frank. Unable, however, to alter the state of -existing things, he had sincerely hoped that some lucky chance--say the -little accident of Frank's drinking himself to death--would put him in -possession of it; and all the rumours that came down from London about -Frank's wild life rejoiced him greatly. For if Frank died without -children, the money went to Stephen. And it may as well be mentioned -here, that old Mr. Radcliffe had so vested the three hundred a-year that -Frank had no power over the capital and was unable to squander it. It -would go to his children when he died; or, if he left no children, to -Stephen. - -Never a night when he went to bed, never a morning when he got up, but -Stephen Radcliffe's hungry heart gave a dismal groan to that three -hundred a-year he had been deprived of. In truth, his own poor three -hundred was not enough for him. And then, he had expected that the six -would all be his! He had, he said, to work like a slave to keep up the -Torr, and make both ends meet. His two children were for ever tugging at -his purse-strings. Tom, quitting the sea, had settled in a farm in -Canada; but he was always writing home for help. Lizzy would make her -appearance at home at all kinds of unseasonable times; and tell pitiful -stories of the wants of her scanty ménage at Birmingham, and of her -little children, and of the poor health and short pay of her husband -the curate. Doubtless Stephen had rather a hard life of it and could -very well have done with a doubled income. To hear that Frank was going -to settle down to a sober existence and to marry a wife, was the worst -news of all to Stephen, for it lessened his good chances finely. - -But he had only the will to hinder it, not the power. And matters and -the year went swimmingly on. Francis entered into possession of the -farm; and just a week before Midsummer Day, he married Annet Skate and -took her home. - - * * * * * - -The red June sunset fell full on Pitchley's Farm, staining the windows a -glowing crimson. Pitchley's Farm lay in a dell, about a mile from Dyke -Manor, on the opposite side to Sandstone Torr. It was a pretty little -homestead, with jessamine on the porch, and roses creeping up the frames -of the parlour-windows. Just a year had gone by since the wedding, and -to-morrow would be the anniversary of the wedding-day. Mr. and Mrs. -Francis Radcliffe were intending to keep it, and had bidden their -friends to an entertainment. He had carried out his resolution to be -steady, and they had prospered fairly well. David Skate, one of Annet's -brothers, a thorough, practical farmer, was ever ready to come over, if -wanted, and help Francis with work and counsel. - -Completely tired with her day's exertions, was Annet, for she had been -making good things for the morrow, and now sat down for the first time -that day in the parlour--a low room, with its windows open to the -clustering roses, and the furniture bright and tasty. Annet was of -middle height, light and active, with a delicate colour on her cheeks, -soft brown eyes, and small features. She had just changed her cotton -gown for one of pink summer muslin, and looked as fresh as a daisy. - -"How tired I am!" she exclaimed to herself, with a smile. "Frank would -scold me if he knew it." - -"Be you ready for supper, ma'am?" asked a servant, putting in her head -at the door. The only maid kept: for both Frank and his wife knew that -their best help to getting on was economy. - -"Not yet, Sally. I shall wait for your master." - -"Well, I've put it on the table, ma'am; and I'm just going to step -across now to Hester Bitton's, and tell her she'll be wanted here -to-morrow." - -Annet went into the porch, and stood there looking out for her husband, -shading her eyes with her hand from the red glare. Some business -connected with stock took him to Worcester that day, and he had started -in the early morning; but Annet had expected him home earlier than this. - -There he was, riding down the road at a sharpish trot; Annet heard -the horse's hoofs before she saw him. He waved his hand to her in the -distance, and she fluttered her white handkerchief back again. Thorpe, -the indoor man, appeared to take the horse. - -Francis Radcliffe had been changing for the better during the past -twelvemonth. Regular habits and regular hours, and a mind healthily -occupied, had done great things for him. His face was bright, his blue -eyes were clear, and his smile and his voice were alike cheering as he -got off the horse and greeted his wife. - -"You are late, Frank! It is ever so much past eight." - -"Our clocks are fast: I've found that out to-day, Annet, But I could not -get back before." - -He had gone into the parlour, had kissed her, and was disincumbering his -pockets of various parcels: she helping him. Both were laughing, for -there seemed to be no end to them. They contained articles wanted for -the morrow: macaroons, and potted lampreys, and lots of good things. - -"Don't say again that I forget your commissions, Annet." - -"Never again, Frank. How good you are! But what is in this one? it feels -soft." - -"That's for yourself," said Frank. "Open it." - -Cutting the string, the paper flew apart, disclosing a baby's cloak of -white braided cashmere. Annet laughed and blushed. - -"Oh, Frank! How could you?" - -"Why, I heard you say you must get one." - -"Yes--but--not just yet. It may not be wanted, you know." - -"Stuff! The thing was in Mrs. What's-her-name's window in High Street, -staring passers-by in the face; so I went in, and bought it." - -"It's too beautiful," murmured Annet, putting it reverently into the -paper, as if she mistook it for a baby. "And how has the day gone, -Frank? Could you buy the sheep?" - -"Yes; all right. The sheep--Annet, who _do_ you think is coming here -to-morrow? Going to honour us as one of the guests?" - -At the break in the sentence, Frank had flung himself into a chair, and -thrown his head back, laughing. Annet wondered. - -"Stephen! It's true. He had gone to Worcester after some sheep himself. -I asked whether we should have the pleasure of seeing them here, and he -curtly said that he was coming, but couldn't answer for Mrs. Radcliffe. -Had the Pope of Rome told me he was coming, I should not have been more -surprised." - -"Stephen's wife took no notice of the invitation." - -"Writing is not in her line: or in his either. Something must be in the -wind, Annet: neither he nor his wife has been inside our doors yet." - -They sat down to supper, full of chat: as genial married folks always -are, after a day's separation. And it was only when the house was at -rest, and Annet was lighting the bed-candle, that she remembered a -letter lying on the mantel-piece. - -"Oh, Frank, I ought to have given it to you at once; I quite forgot it. -This letter came for you by this morning's post." - -Frank sat down again, drew the candle to him, and read it. It was from -one of his former friends, a Mr. Briarly; offering on his own part and -on that of another former friend, one Pratt, a visit to Pitchley's Farm. - -Instincts arise to all of us: instincts that it might be well to trust -to oftener than we do. A powerful instinct, _against_ the offered visit, -rushed into the mind of Francis Radcliffe. But the chances are, that, in -the obligations of hospitality, it would not have prevailed, even had -the chance been afforded him. - -"Cool, I must say!" said Frank, with a laugh. "Look here, Annet; these -two fellows are going to take us by storm to-morrow. If I don't want -them, says Briarly, I must just shut the door in their faces." - -"But you'll be glad to see them, won't you, Frank?" she remarked in her -innocence. - -"Yes. I shall like well enough to see them again. It's our busy time, -though: they might have put it off till after harvest." - -As many friends went to this entertainment at Pitchley's Farm as liked -to go. Mr. Brandon was one of them: he walked over with us--with me, and -Tod, and the Squire, and the mater. Stephen Radcliffe and his wife were -there, Becca in a black silk with straps of rusty velvet across it. -Stephen mostly sat still and said nothing, but Becca's sly eyes were -everywhere. Frank and his wife, well dressed and hospitable, welcomed -us all; and the board was well spread with cold meats and dainties. - -Old Brandon had a quiet talk with Annet in a corner of the porch. He -told her he was glad to find Frank seemed likely to do well at the farm. - -"He tries his very best, sir," she said. - -"Ay. Somehow I thought he would. People said 'Frank Radcliffe has his -three hundred a-year to fall back upon when he gets out of Pitchley's': -but I fancied he might stay at Pitchley's instead of getting out of it." - -"We are getting on as well as we can be, sir, in a moderate way." - -"A moderate way is the only safe way to get on," said Mr. Brandon, -putting his white silk handkerchief corner-wise on his head against the -sun. "That's a true saying, He who would be rich in twelve months is -generally a beggar in six. You are helping Frank well, my dear. _I_ have -heard of it: how industrious you are, and keep things together. It's not -often a good old head like yours is set upon young shoulders." - -Annet laughed. "My shoulders are not so very young, sir. I was -twenty-four last birthday." - -"That's young to manage a farm, child. But _you've_ had good training; -you had an industrious mother"--indicating an old lady on the lawn in a -big lace cap and green gown. "I can tell you what--when I let Frank -Radcliffe have the lease, I took into consideration that you were coming -here as well as he. Why!--who are these?" - -Two stylish-looking fellows were dashing up in a dog-cart; pipes in -their mouths, and portmanteaus behind them. Shouting and calling -indiscriminately about for Frank Radcliffe; for a man to take the horse -and vehicle, that they had contrived to charter at the railway terminus; -for a glass of bitter beer apiece, for they were confoundedly dry--there -was no end of a commotion. - -They were the two visitors from London, Briarly and Pratt. Their tones -moderated somewhat when they saw the company. Frank came out; and -received a noisy greeting that might have been heard at York. One of -them trod on Mr. Brandon's corns as he went in through the porch. Annet -looked half frightened. - -"Come to stay here!--gentlemen from London!--Frank's former friends!" -repeated old Brandon, listening to her explanation. "Fine friends, I -should say! Frank Radcliffe,"--laying hold of him as he was coming back -from giving directions to his servant--"how came you to bring those men -down into your home?" - -"They came of their own accord, Mr. Brandon." - -"Friends of yours, I hear?" - -"Yes, I knew them in the old days." - -"Oh. Well--_I_ should not like to go shouting and thundering up to a -decent house with more aboard me than I could carry. Those men have both -been drinking." - -Frank was looking frightfully mortified. "I am afraid they have," he -said. "The heat of the day and the dust on the journey must have caused -them to take more than they were aware of. I'm very sorry. I assure you, -Mr. Brandon, they are really quiet, good fellows." - -"May be. But the sooner you see their backs turned, the better, young -man." - -From that day, the trouble set in. Will it be believed that Frank -Radcliffe, after keeping himself straight for ever so much more than a -year, fell away again? Those two visitors must have found their quarters -at Pitchley's Farm agreeable, for they stayed on and on, and made no -sign of going away. They were drinkers, hard and fast. They drank, -themselves, and they seduced Frank to drink--though perhaps he did not -require much seduction. Frank's ale was poured out like water. Dozens of -port, ordered and paid for by Briarly, arrived from the wine-merchant's; -Pratt procured cases of brandy. From morning till night liquor was under -poor Frank's nose, tempting him to sin. _Their_ heads might be strong -enough to stand the potions; Frank's was not. It was June when the new -life set in; and on the first of September, when all three staggered in -from a day's shooting, Frank was in a fever and curiously trembling from -head to foot. - -By the end of the week he was strapped down in his bed, a raving madman; -Duffham attending him, and two men keeping guard. - -Duffham made short work with Briarly and Pratt. He packed them and their -cases of wine and their portmanteaus off together; telling them they -had done enough mischief for one year, and he must have the house quiet -for both its master and mistress. Frank's malady was turning to typhus -fever, and a second doctor was called in from Evesham. - -The next news was, that Pitchley's Farm had a son and heir. They called -it Francis. It did not live many days, however: how was a son and heir -likely to live, coming to that house of fright and turmoil? Frank's -ravings might be heard all over it; and his poor wife was nearly -terrified out of her bed. - -The state of things went on. October came in, and there was no change. -It was not known whether Annet would live or die. Frank was better in -health, but his mind was gone. - -"There's one chance for him," said Duffham, coming across to Dyke Manor -to the Squire: "and that is, a lunatic asylum. At home he cannot be -kept; he is raving mad. No time must be lost in removing him." - -"You think he may get better in an asylum?" cried the Squire, gloomily. - -"Yes. I say it is his best chance. His wife, poor thing, is horrified at -the thought: but there's nothing else to be done. The calmness of an -asylum, the sanatory rules and regulations observed there, will restore -him, if anything will." - -"How is _she_?" asked the Squire. - -"About as ill as she can be. She won't leave her bed on this side -Christmas. And the next question is, Squire--where shall he be placed? -Of course we cannot act at all without your authority." - -The Squire, you see, was Frank Radcliffe's trustee. At the present -moment Frank was dead in the eye of the law, and everything lay with the -Squire. Not a sixpence of the income could any one touch now, but as he -pleased to decree. - -After much discussion, in which Stephen Radcliffe had to take his share, -according to law and order, Frank was conveyed to a small private asylum -near London. It belonged to a Dr. Dale: and the Evesham doctor strongly -recommended it. The terms seemed high to us: two hundred pounds a-year: -and Stephen grumbled at them. But Annet begged and prayed that money -might not be spared; and the Squire decided to pay it. So poor Frank was -taken to town; and Stephen, as his nearest male relative--in fact, his -only one--officially consigned him to the care of Dr. Dale. - -And that's the jolly condition things were in, that Christmas, at -Pitchley's Farm. Its master in a London madhouse, its mistress in her -sick-bed, and the little heir in Church Dykely churchyard. David Skate, -like the good brother he was, took up his quarters at the farm, and -looked after things. - -It was in January that Annet found herself well enough to get upon her -legs. The first use she made of them was to go up to London to see her -husband. But the sight of her so much excited Frank that Dr. Dale begged -her not to come again. It was, he said, taking from Frank one chance of -his recovery. So Annet gave her promise not to do so, and came back to -Pitchley's sobbing and sighing. - -Things went on without much change till May. News came of Frank -periodically, chiefly to Stephen Radcliffe, who was the recognized -authority in Dr. Dale's eyes. On the whole it was good. The improvement -in him, though slow, was gradual: and Dr. Dale felt quite certain now of -his restoration. In May, the cheering tidings arrived that Frank was -all but well; and Stephen Radcliffe, who went to London for a fortnight -about that time and saw Frank twice, confirmed it. - -Stephen's visit up arose in this way. One Esau D. Stettin (that's how -he wrote his name), who owned land in Canada, came to this country on -business, and brought news to the Torr of Tom Radcliffe. Tom had every -chance of doing well, he said, and was quite steady--and this was true. -Mr. and Mrs. Stephen were almost as glad to hear it as if a fortune -had been left them. But, to ensure his doing well and to make his farm -prosperous, Tom wanted no end of articles sent out to him: the latest -improvements in agricultural implements; patent wheelbarrows, and all -the rest of it. For Stephen to take the money out of his pocket to -purchase the wheelbarrows was like taking the teeth from his head; but -as Esau D. Stettin--who was above suspicion--confirmed Tom's need of -the things, Stephen decided to do it. He went up to London, to buy the -articles and superintend their embarkation, and it was during that time -that he saw Frank. Upon returning to the Torr, he fully bore out Dr. -Dale's opinion that Frank was recovering his mind, was, in fact, almost -well; but he privately told the Squire some other news that qualified -it. - -Frank's health was failing. While his mind was resuming its tone, his -body was wasting. He was, Ste said, a mere shadow; and Dr. Dale feared -that he would not last very long after complete sanity set in. - -How sorry we all were, I need not say. With all his failings and his -instability, every one liked Frank Radcliffe. They kept it from Annet. -She was but a shadow herself: had fretted her flesh to fiddlestrings; -and Duffham's opinion was that she stood a good chance of dwindling -away till nothing was left of her but a shroud and a coffin. - -"Would it be of any use my going up to see him, poor fellow?" asked the -Squire, sadly down in the mouth. - -"Not a bit," returned Stephen. "Dale would be sure not to admit you: so -much depends on Frank's being kept free from excitement. Why, he wanted -to deny me, that Dale; but I insisted on my right to go in. I mean to -see him again, too, before many days are over." - -"Are you going to London again?" asked the Squire, rather surprised. It -was something new for Stephen Radcliffe to be a gad-about. - -"I shall have to go, I reckon," said Stephen, ungraciously. "I've to see -Stettin before he sails." - -Stephen Radcliffe did go up again, apparently much against his will, to -judge by the ill words he gave to it. And the report he brought back of -Frank that time was rather more cheering. - - * * * * * - -The Squire was standing one hot morning in the yard in his light buff -coat, blowing up Dwarf Giles for something that had gone wrong in the -stables, when a man was seen making his way from the oak-walk towards -the yard. The June hay-making was about, and the smell of the hay was -wafted across to us on the wings of the summer breeze. - -"Who's that, Johnny?" asked the pater: for the sun was shining right in -his eyes. - -"It--it looks like Stephen Radcliffe, sir." - -"You may tell him by his rusty suit of velveteen," put in Tod; who stood -watching a young brood of ducklings in the duck-pond, and the agonies of -the hen that had hatched them. - -Stephen Radcliffe it was. He had a stout stick in his hand, and his -face was of a curious leaden colour. Which, with him, took the place -of paleness. - -"I've had bad news, Mr. Todhetley," he began, in low tones, without any -preliminary greeting. "Frank's dead." - -The Squire's straw hat, which he chanced to have taken off, dropped on -the stones. "Dead! Frank!" he exclaimed in an awestruck tone. "It can't -be true." - -"Just the first thought that struck me when I opened the letter," said -Stephen, drawing one from his pocket. "Here it is, though, in black and -white." - -His hands shook like anything as he held out the letter. It was from one -of the assistants at Dale's--a Mr. Pitt: the head doctor, under Dale, -Stephen explained. Frank had died suddenly, it stated, without warning -of any kind, so that there was no possibility of apprising his friends; -and it requested Mr. Radcliffe to go up without delay. - -"It is a dreadful thing!" cried the Squire. - -"So it is, poor fellow," agreed Stephen. "I never thought it was going -to end this way; not yet awhile, at any rate. For him, it's a happy -release, I suppose. He'd never ha' been good for anything." - -"What has he died of?" questioned Tod. - -The voice, or the question, seemed to startle Stephen. He looked sharply -round, as if he hadn't known Tod was there, an ugly scowl on his face. - -"I expect we shall hear it was heart disease," he said, facing the -Squire and turning his back upon Tod. - -"Why do you say that, Mr. Radcliffe? Was anything the matter with his -heart?" - -"Dale had some doubts of it, Squire. He thought that was the cause of -his wasting away." - -"You never told us that." - -"Because I never believed it. A Radcliffe never had a weak heart yet. -And it's only a thought o' mine: he might have died from something else. -Laid hands on himself, maybe." - -"For goodness' sake don't bring up such an ill thought as that," cried -the pater explosively. "Wait till you know." - -"Yes, I must wait till I know," said Stephen, sullenly. "And a precious -inconvenience it is to me to go up at this moment when my hay's just -cut! Frank's been a bother to me all his life, and he must even be a -bother now he's dead." - -"Shall I go up for you?" asked the Squire: who in his distress at the -sudden news would have thought nothing of offering to start for -Kamschatka. - -"No good if you did," growled Stephen, folding up the letter that the -pater handed back to him. "They'd not as much as release him to be -buried without me, I expect. I shall bring him down here," added -Stephen, jerking his head in the direction of the churchyard. - -"Yes, yes, poor fellow--let him lie by his mother," said the Squire. - -Stephen said a good-morrow, meant for the whole of us; and had rounded -the duck-pond on his exit, when he stopped, and turned back again to the -pater. - -"There'll be extra expenses, I suppose, up at Dale's. Have I your -authority to discharge them?" - -"Of course you have, Mr. Radcliffe. Or let Dale send in the account to -me, if you prefer it." - -He went off without another word, his head down; his thick stick held -over his shoulder. Tho Squire rubbed his face, and wondered what on -earth was the next thing to do in this unhappy crisis. - -Annet was in Wales with her mother at some seaside place. It would be a -dreadful shock to her. Getting the address from David Skate, the Squire -wrote to break it to them in the best manner he could. But now, a -mischance happened to that letter. Welsh names are difficult to spell; -the pater's pen put L for Y, or X for Z, something of that sort; and the -letter went to a wrong town altogether, and finally came back to him -unopened. Stephen Radcliffe had returned then. - -Stephen did not keep his word, instead of bringing Frank down, he left -him in London in Finchley Cemetery. "The heat of the weather," he -pleaded by way of excuse when the Squire blew him up. "There was some -delay; an inquest, and all that; and unless we'd gone to the expense of -lead, it couldn't be done; Dale said so. What does it signify? He'll lie -as quiet there as he would here." - -"And was it the heart that was wrong?" asked the pater. - -"No. It was what they called 'effusion on the brain,'" replied Stephen. -"Dale says it's rather a common case with lunatics, but he never feared -it for Frank." - -"It is distressing to think his poor wife did not see him. Quite a -misfortune." - -"Well, we can't help it: it was no fault of ours," retorted Stephen: -who had actually had the decency to put himself into a semblance of -mourning. "The world 'ud go on differently for many of us, Squire, if -we could foresee things." - -And that was the end of Francis Radcliffe! - -"Finchley Cemetery!" exclaimed Mr. Brandon, when he heard it. "That -Stephen Radcliffe has been at his stingy tricks again. You can bury -people for next to nothing there." - -Poor Annet came home in her widow's weeds, In health she was better; -and might grow strong in time. There was no longer any suspense: she -knew the worst; that was in itself a rest. The great doubt to be -encountered now was, whether she could keep on Pitchley's Farm. Mr. -Brandon was willing to risk it: and David Skate took up his abode at the -farm for good, and would do his best in all ways. But the three hundred -a-year income, that had been the chief help and stay of herself and -Frank, was gone. - -It had lapsed to Stephen. Nothing could be said against that in law, for -old Mr. Radcliffe's will had so decreed it; but it seemed a very cruel -thing for every shilling to leave her, an injustice, a wrong. The tears -ran down her pale face as she spoke of it one day at Pitchley's to the -Squire: and he, going in wholesale for sympathy, determined to have a -tussel with Stephen. - -"You can't _for shame_ take it all from her, Stephen Radcliffe," said -the Squire, after walking over to Sandstone Torr the next morning. "You -must not leave her quite penniless." - -"I don't take it from her," replied Stephen, rumpling up his grizzled -hair. "It comes to me of right. It is my own." - -"Now don't quibble, Stephen Radcliffe," said the Squire, rubbing his -face, for he went into a fever as usual over his argument, and the day -was hot. "The poor thing was your brother's wife, and you ought to -consider that." - -"Francis was a fool to marry her. An unsteady man like him always is a -fool to marry." - -"Well, he did marry her: and I don't see that he was a fool at all for -it. I wish I'd got the whip-hand of those two wicked blades who came -down here and turned him from his good ways. I wonder how they'll answer -for it in heaven." - -"Would you like to take a drop of cider?" asked Stephen. - -"I don't care if I do." - -The cider was brought in by Eunice Gibbon: a second edition, so far as -looks went, of Mrs. Stephen Radcliffe, whose younger sister she was. She -lived there as servant, the only one kept. Holt had left when old Mr. -Radcliffe died. - -"Come, Stephen Radcliffe, you must make Annet some allowance," said the -Squire, after taking a long draught and finding the cider uncommonly -sour. "The neighbours will cry out upon you if you don't." - -"The neighbours can do as they choose." - -"Just take this much into consideration. If that little child of theirs -had lived, the money would have been his." - -"But he didn't live," argued Stephen. - -"I know he didn't--more's the pity. He'd have been a consolation to her, -poor thing. Come! you can't, I say, take all from her and leave her with -nothing." - -"Nothing! Hasn't she got the farm-stock and the furniture? She's all -that to the good. 'Twas bought with Frank's money." - -"No, it was not. Half the money was hers. Look here. Unless she gets -help somewhere, I don't see how she is to stay on at Pitchley's." - -"And 'twould be a sight better for her not to stay on at Pitchley's," -retorted Stephen. "Let her go back to her mother's again, over in the -other parish. Or let her emigrate. Lots of folks is emigrating now." - -"This won't do, Stephen Radcliffe," said the Squire, beginning to lose -his temper. "You can't for shame bring every one down upon your head. -Allow her a trifle, man, out of the income that has lapsed to you: let -the world have to say that you are generous for once." - -Well, not to pursue the contest--which lasted, hot and sharp, for a -couple of hours, for the Squire, though he kept getting out of one -passion into another, would not give in--I may as well say at once that -Stephen at last yielded, and agreed to allow her fifty pounds a-year. -"Just for a year or so," as he ungraciously put it, "while she turned -herself round." - -And it was so tremendous a concession for Stephen Radcliffe that no one -believed it at first, the Squire included. It must be intended as a -thanksgiving for his brother's death, said the world. - -"Only, Ste Radcliffe is not the one to offer thanksgivings," observed -old Brandon. "Take care that he pays it, Squire." - -And thus things fell into the old grooves again, and the settling down -of Frank Radcliffe amongst us seemed but as a very short episode in -Church Dykely life. Stephen Radcliffe, in funds now, bought an adjoining -field that was to be sold, and added it to his land: but he and his wife -and the Torr kept themselves more secluded than ever. Frank's widow took -up her old strength by degrees, and worked and managed incessantly: -she in the house, and David Skate out of it; to keep Pitchley's Farm -together. And the autumn drew on. - -The light of the moon streamed in slantwise upon us as we sat round the -bay-window. Tod and I had just got home for the Michaelmas holidays: and -we sat talking after dinner in the growing dusk. There was always plenty -to relate, on getting home from school. A dreadful thing had happened -this last quarter: one of the younger ones had died at a game of Hare -and Hounds. I'll tell you of it some time. The tears glistened in Mrs. -Todhetley's eyes, and we all seemed to be talking at once. - -"Mrs. Francis Radcliffe, ma'am." - -Old Thomas had opened the door and interrupted us. Annet came in -quietly, and sat down after shaking hands all round. Her face looked -pale and troubled. We asked her to stay tea; but she would not. - -"It is late to come in," she said, some apology in her tone. "I meant -to have been here earlier; but it has been a busy day, and I have had -interruptions besides." - -This seemed to imply that she had come over for some special purpose. -Not another word, however, did she say. She just sat in silence, or -next door to it: answering Yes and No in an abstracted sort of way when -spoken to, and staring out into the moonlight like any one dreaming. And -presently she got up to leave. - -We went out with her and walked across the field; the pater, I, and Tod. -Nearly every blade of the short grass could be seen as distinctly as -in the day. At the first stile she halted, saying she expected to meet -David there, who had gone on to Dobbs the blacksmith on some errand -connected with the horses. - -Tod saw a young hare scutter across the grass, and rushed after it, full -chase. The moon, low in the heavens, as autumn moons mostly are, lighted -up the perplexity on Annet's face. It _was_ perplexed. Suddenly she -turned it on the Squire. - -"Mr. Todhetley, I am sure you must wonder what I came for." - -"Well, I thought you wanted something," said the Squire candidly. "We -are always pleased to have you; you ought to have stayed tea." - -"I did want something. But I really could not muster courage to begin -upon it. The longer I sat there--like a statue, as I felt--the more my -tongue failed me. Perhaps I can say it here." - -It was a curious thing she had to tell, and must have sounded to the -Squire's ears like an incident out of a ghost story. The gist of it was -this: an impression had taken hold of her mind that her husband had not -been fairly dealt with. In plain words, had not come fairly by his end. -The pater listened, and could make no sense of it. - -"I can't tell how or when the idea arose," she said; "it seems to have -floated in my mind so long that I do not trace the beginning. At first -it was but the merest shadow of a doubt; hardly that; but it has grown -deeper and darker, and I cannot rest for it." - -"Bless my heart!" cried the Squire. "Johnny, hold my hat a minute." - -"Just as surely as that I see that moon in the sky, sir," she went on, -"do I seem to see in my mind that some ill was wrought to Frank by his -brother. Mrs. Radcliffe said it would be." - -"Dear me! What Mrs. Radcliffe?" - -"Frank's mother. She had the impression of it when she was dying, and -she warned Frank that it would be so." - -"Poor Selina! But--my dear lady, how do you know that?" - -"My husband told me. He told me one night when we were sitting alone in -the parlour. Not that he put faith in it. He had escaped Stephen's toils -until then, he said in a joking tone, and thought he could take care of -himself and escape them still. But I fear he did not." - -"Now what is it you do fear?" asked the Squire. "Come." - -She glanced round in dread, and then spoke with considerable hesitation -and in a low whisper. - -"I fear--that Stephen--may have--murdered him." - -"Mercy upon us!" uttered the Squire, recoiling a step or two. - -She put her elbow on the stile and raised her hand to her face, showing -out so pale and distressed under its white net border. - -"It lies upon me, sir--a great agony. I don't know what to do." - -"But it _could not_ be," cried the Squire, collecting his scared senses. -"Your imagination must run away with you, child. Frank died up at Dr. -Dale's; Stephen Radcliffe was down here at the time." - -"Yes--I am aware of all that, sir. But--I believe it was as I fear. I -don't pretend to account for it; to say what Stephen did or how he did -it--but my fears are dreadful. I have no peace night or day." - -The Squire stared at her and shook his head. I am sure he thought her -brain was touched. - -"My dear Mrs. Frank, this must be pure fancy. Stephen Radcliffe is a -hard and griping man, not sticking at a trick or two where his pocket is -concerned, but he wouldn't do such a thing as this. No, no; surly as he -may be, he could not be guilty of murder." - -She took her arm off the stile, with a short shiver. David Skate came -into sight; Tod's footsteps were heard brushing the grass. - -"Good-night, sir," she hurriedly said; and was over the stile before we -could help her. - - -III. - -When the rumours first began, I can't tell you. They must have had a -beginning: but no one recollected when the beginning was. It was said -that curious noises were heard in the neighbourhood of Sandstone Torr. -One spoke of it, and another spoke of it, at intervals of perhaps a -month apart, until people grew _accustomed_ to hearing of the strange -sounds that went shrieking round the Torr on a windy night. Dovey, the -blacksmith, going up to the Torr on some errand, declared he had heard -them at mid-day: but he was not generally believed. - -The Torr was so remote from the ordinary routes of traffic, that the -noises were not likely to be heard often, even allowing that there were -noises to hear. Shut in by trees, and in a lonely spot, people had no -occasion to pass it. The narrow lane, by which it was approached from -Church Dykely, led to nowhere else; on other sides it was surrounded -by fields. Stephen Radcliffe was asked about these noises; but he -positively denied having heard any, except those caused by the wind. -_That_ shrieked around the house as if so many witches were at work, he -said, and it always had as long as he could remember. Which was true. - -Stephen's inheritance of all the money on the death of his young -half-brother Francis--young, compared with him--seemed to have been -only the signal for him and his wife to become more unsociable, and -they were bad enough before. They shut themselves up in the Torr, -with that sister of hers, Eunice Gibbon, who acted as their servant, -and saw no one. Neither visitors nor tradespeople were encouraged -there; they preferred to live without help from any one: butcher or -baker or candlestick maker. The produce of the farm supplied ordinary -daily needs, and anything else that might be wanted was fetched from -the village by Eunice Gibbon--as tall and strapping a woman as Mrs. -Stephen, and just as grim and silent. Even the postman had orders to -leave any letters that might arrive, addressed to the Torr, at Church -Dykely post-office to be called for. Possibly it was a sense of their -own unfitness for society that caused them to keep aloof from it. -Stephen Radcliffe had always been a sullen, boorish man, in spite of -his descent from the ancient Druids--or whatever the high-caste tribes -might be, that he traced back from; and as to his wife, she was just -as much like a lady as a pig's like a windmill. - -The story of the queer noises gained ground, and in the course of time -it coursed about pretty freely. One evening in the late spring--but the -report had been abroad then for months and months--a circumstance caused -it to be discussed at Dyke Manor. Giles, our groom, strolling out one -night to give himself an airing, chanced to get near the Torr, and came -home full of it. "Twere exactly," he declared, "like a lot o' witches -howling in the air." Just as Stephen Radcliffe had said of the wind. -The Squire told Giles it must be the owls; the servants thought Mr. -Radcliffe might be giving his wife a beating; Mrs. Todhetley imagined it -might be only the bleating of the young lambs. Giles protested it could -come from neither owls nor lambs: and as to Radcliffe's beating 'Becca, -he'd be hardly likely to try it on, for she'd beat back again. Tod and -I were at school, and heard nothing of it till we got home in summer. - - * * * * * - -"Johnny! There's the noise!" - -We two had been over to the Court to see the Sterlings; it was only the -second day of our holidays; and were taking the cross-cut home through -the fields, which led us past Sandstone Torr. It was the twilight of a -summer's evening. The stars were beginning to show themselves; in the -north-west the colours were the most beautiful opal conceivable; the -round silver moon sailed in the clear blue sky. Crossing the stile by -the grove of trees that on three sides surrounded the Torr, we had -reached the middle of the next field, when a sort of faint wailing cry, -indescribably painful, brought us both to a standstill. - -"It must be the noise they talk of," repeated Tod. - -Where did it come from? What was it? Standing on the path in the centre -of the open field, we turned about and gazed around; but could see -nothing to produce or cause it. It seemed to be overhead, ever so far -up in the air: an unearthly, imploring cry, or rather a succession of -cries; faint enough, as if the sound spent itself before it reached us, -but still distinct; and just as much like what witches might be supposed -to make, witches in pain, as any cries could be. I'd have given a -month's pocket-money not to have heard it. - -"Is it in the Torr?" exclaimed Tod, breaking the silence. "I don't see -how that could be, though." - -"It is up in the air, Tod." - -We stood utterly puzzled; and gazing at the Torr. At as much of it, at -least, as could be seen--the tops of the chimneys, and the sugar-loaf -of a tower shooting up to its great height amidst them. The windows of -the house and its old stone walls, on which the lichen vegetated, were -hidden by the clustering old trees, in full foliage then. - -"Hark! There it is again!" - -The same horrible, low, distressing sound, something between a howl and -a wail; enough to make a stout man shiver in his shoes. - -"Is it a woman's cry, Tod?" - -"_I_ don't know, lad. It's like a person being murdered and crying out -for help." - -"Radcliffe can't be tanning his wife." - -"Not he, Johnny. She'd take care of that. Besides, they've never been -cat-and-dog. Birds of a feather: that's what they are. Oh, by Jove! -there it comes again! Just listen to it! I don't like this at all, -Johnny. It must be witches, and nothing else." - -Decidedly it must be. It came from the air. The open fields lay around, -white and still under the moonlight, and nothing was on their surface of -any kind, human or animal. Now again! that awful cry, rising on the bit -of breeze there was, and dying away in pain to a faint echo. - -"Let us go to the Torr, Johnny, and ask Radcliffe if he hears it!" - -We bounded forward under the cry, which rose again and again -incessantly; but in nearing the house it seemed to get further off and -to be higher than ever in the air. Leaping the gate into the lane, we -reached the front-door, and seized the bell-handle. It brought Mrs. -Radcliffe; a blue cap and red roses adoring her straggling hair. Holding -the candle above her head, she peered at us with her small, sly eyes. - -"Oh, is it you, young gentlemen? Do you want anything? Will you walk -in?" - -I was about to say No, when Tod pushed me aside and strode up the damp -stone passage. They did not make fires enough in the house to keep out -the damp. As he told me afterwards, he wanted to get in to listen. But -there was no sound at all to be heard; the house seemed as still as -death. Wherever the cries might come from, it was certainly not from -inside the Torr. - -"Radcliffe went over to Wire-Piddle this afternoon, and he's not back -yet," she said; opening the parlour-door when we got to the hall. "Did -you want him? You must ha' been in a hurry by the way you pulled the -bell." - -She put the candle down on the table. Her work lay there--a brown -woollen stocking about half-way knitted. - -"There is the most extraordinary noise outside that you ever heard, Mrs. -Radcliffe," began Todd, seating himself without ceremony on the -old-fashioned mahogany sofa. "It startled us. Did you hear it in here?" - -"I have heard no noise at all," she answered quietly, taking up the -stocking and beginning to knit standing. "What was it like?" - -"An awful shrieking and crying. Not loud; nearly faint enough for dying -cries. As it is not in your house--and we did not think it was, or could -be--it must be, I should say, in the air." - -"Ay," she said, "just so. I can tell you what it is, Mr. Joseph: the -night-birds." - -Tod looked at her, plying the knitting-needles so quickly, and looked -at me, and there was a silence. I wondered what was keeping him from -speaking. He suddenly bent his head forward. - -"Have you heard any talk of these noises, Mrs. Radcliffe? People say -they are to be heard almost any night." - -"I've not heard no talk, but I have heard the noise," she answered, -whisking out a needle and beginning another of the three-cornered rows. -"One evening about a month ago I was a-coming home up the lane, and I -hears a curious kind o' prolonged cry. It startled me at the moment, -for, thinks I, it must be in this house; and I hastens in. No. Eunice -said she had heard no cries: as how should she, when there was nobody -but herself indoors? So I goes out again, and listens," added Mrs. -Radcliffe, lifting her eyes from the stocking and fixing them on Tod, -"and then I finds out what it really was--the night-birds." - -"The night-birds?" he echoed. - -"'Twas the night-birds, Mr. Joseph," she repeated, with an emphatic nod. -"They had congregated in these thick trees, and was crying like so many -human beings. I have heard the same thing many a time in Wiltshire when -I was a girl. I used to go there to stay with aunt and uncle." - -"Well, I never heard anything like it before," returned Tod. "It's just -as though some unquiet spirit was in the air." - -"Mayhap it sounds so afore you know what it is. Let me give you young -gentlemen a drop o' my home-made cowslip wine." - -She had taken the decanter of wine and some glasses off the sideboard -with her long arms, before we could say Yes or No. We are famous for -cowslip wine down there, but this was extra good. Tod took another glass -of it, and got up to go. - -"Don't be frighted if you hear the noise again, now that you know what -it is," she said, quite in a motherly way. "For my part I wish some o' -the birds was shot. They don't do no good to nobody." - -"As there is not any house about here, except this, the thought -naturally arises that the noise may be inside it--until you know to the -contrary," remarked Tod. - -"I wish it was inside it--we'd soon stop it by wringing all their -necks," cried she. "You can listen," she added, suddenly going into the -hall and flinging wide every door that opened from it and led to the -different passages and rooms. "Go to any part of the house you like, and -hearken for yourselves, young gentlemen." - -Tod laughed at the suggestion. The passages were all still and cold, and -there was nothing to hear. Taking up the candle, she lighted us to the -front-door. Outside stood the woman-servant Eunice, a basket on her arm, -and just about to ring, Mrs. Radcliffe inquired if she had heard any -noise. - -"Only the shrieking birds up there," she answered readily. "They be in -full cry to-night." - -"They've been startling these gentlemen finely." - -"There bain't nothing to be startled at," said the woman, roughly, -turning a look of contempt upon us. "If I was the master I'd shoot as -many as I could get at; and if that didn't get rid of 'em, I'd cut the -trees down." - -"They make a queerer noise than any birds I ever heard before," said -Tod, standing his ground to say it. - -"They does," assented the woman. "That queer, that some folks believes -it's the shrieks o' the skeleton on the gibbet." - -Pleasant! When I and Tod had to pass within a few yards of its corner. -The posts of the old gibbet were there still, but the skeleton had -mouldered away long ago. A bit of chain, some few inches long, adhered -to its fastening in the post still, and rattled away on windy nights. - -"What donkeys we were, Johnny, not to know birds' cries when we heard -them!" exclaimed Tod, as we tumbled over the gate and went flying across -the field. "Hark! Listen! There it is again!" - -There it was. The same despairing sort of wail, faintly rising and dying -on the air. Tod stood in hushed silence. - -"Johnny, I believe that's a human cry!--I could almost fancy," he went -on, "that it is speaking words. No bird, that ever I met with, native or -foreign, could make the like." - -It died away. But still occurred the obvious question, What was it, and -where did it come from? With nothing but the empty air above and around -us, that was difficult to answer. - -"It's not in the trees--I vow it," said Tod; "it's not inside the Torr; -it can't rise up from under the ground. I say, Johnny, is it a case of -ghost?" - -The wailing arose again as he spoke, as if to reprove him for his -levity. I'd rather have met a ghost; ay, and a real ghost; than have -carried away that sound to haunt me. - -We tore home as fast as our heels could take us, and told of the night's -adventure. After the pater had blown us up for being late, he treated us -to a dose of ridicule. Human cries, indeed? Ghosts and witches? I might -be excused, he said, being a muff; but Joe must be just going back to -his childhood. That settled Tod. Of all disagreeable things he most -hated to be ridiculed. - -"It must have been the old birds in those trees, after all, Johnny," -said he, as we went up to bed. "I think the moon makes people fanciful." - -And after a sound night's rest we woke up to the bright sunshine, and -thought no more of the cries. - -That morning, being close to Pitchley's Farm, we called in to see Mrs. -Frank Radcliffe. But she was not to be seen. Her brother, David Skate, -just come in to his mid-day dinner, came forward to meet us in his -fustian suit. Annet had been hardly able to keep about for some time, he -said, but this was the first day she had regularly broken down so as to -be in bed. - -"It has brought on a touch of fever," said he, pressing the -bread-and-cheese and cider upon us, which he had ordered in. - -"What has?" asked Tod. - -"This perpetual torment that she keeps her mind in. But she can't help -it, poor thing, so it's not fair to blame her," added David Skate. "It -grows worse instead of better, and I don't see what the end of it is to -be. I've thought for some time she might go and break up to-day." - -"Why to-day?" - -"Because it is the anniversary of her husband's death, Master Johnny. He -died twelve months ago to-day." - -Back went my memory to the morning we heard of it. When the pater was -scolding Dwarf Giles in the yard, and Tod stood laughing at the young -ducks taking to the water, and Stephen Radcliffe loomed into sight, -grim and surly, to disclose to us the tidings that the post had brought -in--his brother Frank's death. - -"Has she still that curious fancy in her, David?--that he did not come -by his death fairly." - -"She has it in her, and she can't get it out of her," returned David. -"Why, Master Johnny, it's nothing but that that's killing her. Ay, and -that's not too strong a word, sir, for I do believe she'll die of it, -unless something can be done to satisfy her mind, and give her rest," he -added earnestly. "She thinks there was foul play used in some way, and -that Stephen Radcliffe was at the bottom of it." - -We had never heard a word about the fancy since that night when Annet -first spoke of it at the stile, and supposed she had forgotten it long -ago. The Squire and Mrs. Todhetley had often noticed how ill she looked, -but they put it down to grief for Francis and to her anxiety about the -farm. - -"No, she has said no more since then," observed David. "She took up an -idea that the Squire ascribed it to a wandering brain; and so has held -her peace since." - -"Is her brain wandering, do you think?" asked Tod. - -"Well, I don't know," returned David, absently making little cuts at -the edge of the cheese with the knife. "In all other respects she is as -sane as sane can be; there's not a woman of sounder sense, as to daily -matters, anywhere. But this odd fancy has got hold of her mind; and it's -just driving her crazy. She says that her husband appears to her in her -dreams, and calls upon her to help and release him." - -"Release him from what? From his grave in Finchley Cemetery?" - -"From what indeed!" echoed David Skate. "That's what I ask her. But she -persists that, sleeping or waking, his spirit is always hovering near -her, crying out to her to avenge him. She declares that it is no fancy. -Of course it is, though." - -"I never met with such a case," said Tod, forgetting the good cider in -his astonishment. "Frank Radcliffe died up at Dr. Dale's in London. -Stephen could not have had anything to do with his death: he was down -here at the time." - -"Well, Annet has the notion firmly fixed in her mind that he had, and -there's no turning her," said David. "There will be no turning her this -side the grave, unless we can free her from it. Any way, the fancy has -come to such a pitch now, and is telling upon her so seriously, that -something must be done. If it were not that just the busiest time has -set in; the hay cut, and the wheat a'most ready to cut, I'd take her to -London to Dr. Dale's. Perhaps if she heard the account of Frank's death -from his own lips, and that it was a natural death, it might help her a -bit." - -We went home full of this. The Squire was in a fine way when he heard -it, and brimming over with pity for Annet. He had grown to like her; and -he had always looked on Francis as in some degree belonging to him. - -"Look here," said he, in his impulsive good nature, "it will never do to -let this go on: we shall have her in a mad-house too. That's not a bad -notion of David Skate's; and if he can't leave to take her up to London -just now, I'll take her." - -"She could not go," said Tod. "She is in bed with low fever." - -"Then I'll go up by myself," stamped the Squire in his zeal. "And get -Dr. Dale to write out all the particulars, and hurry down again with -them to her as fast as the train will bring me. Poor thing! her disease -must be a sort of mania." - - * * * * * - -"Now, Johnny, mind you don't make a mistake in the omnibus. Use your -eyes; they are younger than mine." - -We were standing at Charing Cross in the hot afternoon sun, looking out -for an omnibus that would take us westward. The Squire had lost no time -in starting for London, and we had reached it an hour before. He let me -come up with him, as Tod had gone to Whitney Hall. - -"Here it is, sir. 'Kensington,--Hammersmith,--Richmond.' This is the -right one." - -The omnibus stopped, and in we got; for the Squire said the sun was too -fierce for the outside; and by-and-by, when the houses became fewer, and -the trees and fields more frequent, we were set down near Dr. Dale's. A -large house, standing amidst a huge grass-plat, shut in by iron gates. - -"I want to see Dr. Dale," said the pater, bustling in as soon as the -door was opened, without waiting to be asked. - -The servant looked at him and then at me; as if he thought the one or -the other of us was a lunatic about to be left there. "This way, sir," -said he to the Squire and put us into a small square room that had a -blue and drab carpet, and a stand of plants before the window. A little -man, with deep-set dark eyes, and the hair all gone from the top of his -head, soon made his appearance--Dr. Dale. - -The Squire plunged into explanations in his usual confusing fashion, -mixing up many things together. Dr. Dale knitted his brow, trying to -make sense of it. - -"I'm sure I should be happy to oblige you in any way," said he--and he -seemed to be a very pleasant man. "But I do not quite understand what it -is you ask of me." - -"Such a dreadful thing, you know, if she has to be put in a mad-house -too!" went on the pater. "A pretty, anxious, hard-working little -woman she is, as ever you saw, Dr. Dale! We think the account in your -handwriting might ease her. I hope you won't mind the trouble." - -"The account of what?" asked the doctor. - -"Only this," explained the Squire, laying hold, in his zeal, of the -doctor's button-hole. "Just dot down the particulars of Francis -Radcliffe's death. His death here, you know. I suppose you were an -eye-witness to it." - -"But, my good sir, I--pardon me--I must repeat that I do not understand. -Francis Radcliffe did not die here. He went away a twelvemonth ago, -cured." - -"Goodness bless me!" cried the Squire, staggering back to a chair when -he had fully taken in the sense of the words, and staring about him like -a real maniac. "It cannot be. I must have come to the wrong place." - -"This is Dale House, and I am Dr. Dale. Mr. Francis Radcliffe was -under my charge for some months: I can't tell exactly how many without -referring to my books; seven or eight, I think; and he then left, cured, -or nearly so." - -"Johnny, hand me my handkerchief; it's in my hat. I can't make top or -tail of this." - -"I did not advise his removal," continued Dr. Dale, who, I do believe, -thought the Squire was bad enough for a patient. "He was very nearly, -if not quite well, but another month here would have established his -recovery on a sure basis. However, his brother insisted on removing him, -and I had no power to prevent it." - -"What brother?" cried the Squire, rubbing his head helplessly. - -"Mr. Radcliffe, of Sandstone Torr." - -"Johnny, I think we must all be dreaming. Radcliffe of the Torr got a -letter from you one morning, doctor--in June, I think; yes, I remember -the hay-making was about--saying Francis had died; here in this house, -with you: and bidding him come up to see you about it." - -"I never wrote any such letter. Francis Radcliffe did not die here." - -"Well, it was written for you by one of your people. Not die! Why, you -held a coroner's inquest on him! You buried him in Finchley Cemetery." - -"Nothing of the sort, Mr. Todhetley. Francis Radcliffe was taken from -this house, by his brother, last June, alive and well." - -"Well I never!--this beats everything. Was he not worn away to a -skeleton before he went?--had he not heart disease?--did he not die of -effusion on the brain?" ran on the Squire, in a maze of bewilderment. - -"He was thin certainly: patients in asylums generally are; but he could -not be called a skeleton; I never knew that he had heart disease. As to -dying, he most assuredly did not die here." - -"I do think I must be lost," cried the Squire. "I can't find any way -out of this. Can you let me see Mr. Pitt, your head assistant, doctor? -Perhaps he can throw some light on it. It was Pitt who wrote the letter -to Mr. Radcliffe." - -"You should see him with pleasure if he were still with me," replied the -doctor. "But he has left." - -"And Frank did not die here!" commented the Squire. "What can be the -meaning of it?" - -The meaning was evidently not to be found there. Dr. Dale said he could -tell us no more than he had told, if he talked till night--that Francis -Radcliffe was taken out by his brother. Stephen paid all charges at the -time, and they went away together. - -"And of course, Johnny, he is to be believed," quoth the pater, turning -himself round and round on the grass-plot, as we were going away, like a -teetotum. "Dale would not deceive us: he could have no object in doing -that. What in the world does it all mean?--and where _is_ Francis? Ste -Radcliffe can't have shipped him off to Canada with the wheelbarrows!" - -How the Squire whirled straight off to the train, finding one on the -point of starting, and got down home again, there's no space to tell of. -It was between eight and nine, as the station clock told him, but he was -in too much excitement to let the matter rest. - -"Come along, Johnny. I'll have it out with Stephen before I sleep." - -And they had it out in that same gloomy parlour at the Torr, where Tod -and I had been a night or two before; frightfully gloomy to-night, for -the dusk was drawing on, and hardly a bit of light came in. The Squire -and Stephen, sitting opposite each other, could not see the outline of -one another's faces. Ste brazened it out. - -"You're making a hullabaloo for nothing," said he, doggedly. "No, it's -true he didn't die at the mad-house; he died within a week of coming -out of it. Why didn't I tell the truth about it? Why, because I knew I -should get a heap o' blame thrown back at me for taking him out--and I -wished I hadn't took him out; but 'twas no good wishing then. How was -I to know that the very self-same hour he'd got his liberty, he would -begin drinking again?--and drink himself into a furious fever, and -die of it? Could I bring him to life again, do you suppose?" - -"What was the meaning of that letter you brought to me, purporting to -come from Dr. Dale? Answer that, Stephen Radcliffe." - -"I didn't bring you a letter from Dr. Dale. 'Twas from Pitt; Dr. Dale's -head man. You read it yourself. When I found that Frank was getting -unmanageable at the lodgings, I sent to Pitt, asking if he'd be good -enough to come and see to him--I knew no other doctor up there; and Pitt -was the best I could have, as he understood his case. Pitt came and took -the charge; and I left Frank under him. I couldn't afford to stay up -there, with my grass waiting to be cut, and all the fine weather wasting -itself away. Pitt stayed with him; and he died in Pitt's arms; and it -was Pitt that wrote the letter to tell me of it. You should ha' gone up -with me, Squire," added Stephen, with a kind of sneer, "and then you'd -have seen where he was for yourself, and known as much as I did." - -"It was an infamous deceit to put upon me, Stephen Radcliffe." - -"It did no harm. The deceit only lay in letting you think he died in the -mad-house instead of out of it. If I'd not thought he was well enough to -come out, I shouldn't have moved him. 'Twas his fault," sullenly added -Stephen. "He prayed me to take him away from the place; not to go away -without him." - -"And where was it that he did die?" - -"At my lodgings." - -"What lodgings?" - -"The lodgings I stayed at while I was shipping off the things to Tom. I -took Frank there, intending to bring him down home with me when I came, -and surprise you all. Before I could come he was drinking, and as mad -again as a March hare. Pitt had to strap him down to his bed." - -"Are you sure you did not ship him off to Tom also, while you were -shipping the things?" demanded the Squire. "I believe you are crafty -enough for it, Stephen Radcliffe--and unbrotherly enough." - -"If I'd shipped him off, he could have shipped himself back again, I -take it," returned Stephen, coolly. - -"Where are these lodgings that he died at?" - -"In London." - -"Whereabouts in London? I didn't suppose they were in New York." - -"'Twas near Cow Cross." - -"Cow Cross! Where in the name of wonder is Cow Cross?" - -"Up towards Smithfield. Islington way." - -"You give me the address, Stephen Radcliffe. I insist upon knowing it. -Johnny, you can see--take it down. If I don't verify this matter to my -satisfaction, Mr. Radcliffe, I'll have you up publicly to answer for -it." - -Stephen took an old pocket-book out of his coat, went to the window to -catch what little light came in, and ran his finger down the leaves. - -"Gibraltar Terrace, Islington district," read he. "That was all the -address I ever knew it by." - -"Gibraltar Terrace, Islington district," repeated the pater. "Take it -down, Johnny--here's the back of an old letter. And now, Mr. Radcliffe, -will you go with me to London?" - -"No. I'll be hanged if I do." - -"I mean to come to the bottom of this, I can tell you. You shan't play -these tricks on honest people with impunity." - -"Why, what do you suspect?" roared Stephen. "Do you think I murdered -him?" - -"I'm sure I don't know what you did," retorted the pater. "Find out a -man in one lie, and you may suspect him of others. What was the name of -the people, at these lodgings?" - -Stephen Radcliffe, sitting down again, put his hands on his knees, -apparently considering; but I saw him take an outward glance at the -Squire from under his grey eyebrows--very grey and bushy they were now. -He could see that for once in his life the pater was resolute. - -"Her name was Mapping," he said. "A widow. Mrs. Mapping." - -"Put that down, Johnny. 'Mrs. Mapping, Gibraltar Terrace, Islington -district.' And now, Mr. Radcliffe, where is Pitt to be found? He has -left Dale House." - -"In the moon, for aught I can tell," was the insolent answer. "I paid -him for his attendance when we came back from the funeral--and precious -high his charges were!--and I know nothing of him since." - -We said good-night to Stephen Radcliffe with as much civility as could -be called up under the circumstances, and went home in the fly. The -next day we steamed up to London again to make inquiries at Gibraltar -Terrace. It was not that the Squire exactly doubted Stephen's word, or -for a moment thought that he had dealt unfairly by Frank: nothing of -that sort: but he was in a state of explosion at the deceit Stephen -Radcliffe had practised on him; and needed to throw the anger off. Don't -we all know how unbearable inaction is in such a frame of mind? - -Well. Up one street, down another, went we, in what Stephen had called -the Islington district, but no Gibraltar Terrace could we see or hear -of. The terrace might have been in Gibraltar itself, for all the sign -there was of it. - -"I'll go down to-morrow, and issue a warrant against Ste Radcliffe," -cried the Squire, when we got in, tired and heated, to the Castle and -Falcon--at which inn, being convenient to the search, he had put up. "I -will, Johnny, as I'm a living man. It is infamous to send us up here on -a wild-goose chase, to a place that has no name, and no existence. I -don't like the aspect of things at all; and he shall be made to explain -them." - -"But I suppose we have not looked in all parts of Islington," I said. -"It seems a large place. And--don't you think, sir--that it might be as -well to ascertain where Pitt is? I dare say Dr. Dale knows." - -"Perhaps it, would, Johnny." - -"Pitt would be able to testify to the truth of what Stephen Radcliffe -says. We might hear it all from him." - -"And need not bother further about this confounded Gibraltar Terrace. -The thought did not strike me before, Johnny. We'll go up to Dale's the -first thing after breakfast." - -The Squire chartered a cab: he was in too much of a fever to look out -for an omnibus: and by ten o'clock Dr. Dale's was reached. The doctor -was not at home, but we saw some one that the servant called Mr. -Lichfield. - -"Pitt?" said Mr. Lichfield--who was a tall, strong young man in a tweed -suit of clothes, and had black hair parted down the middle--"Oh, he was -my predecessor here. He has left." - -"Where's he gone?" asked the Squire. - -"I don't know, I'm sure. Dr. Dale does not know; for I have once or -twice heard him wonder what had become of Pitt. Pitt grew rather -irregular in his habits, I fancy, and the doctor discharged him." - -"How long ago?" - -"About a year, I think. I have not the least idea where Pitt is now: -would be happy to tell you if I knew." - -So, there we were again--baffled. The Squire went back in the cab to -the Castle and Falcon, rubbing his face furiously, and giving things in -general a few hard words. - -Up to Islington again, and searching up and down the streets and roads. -A bright thought took the pater. He got a policeman to show him to the -district sorting-house, went in, and inquired whether such a place as -Gibraltar Terrace existed, or whether it did not. - -Yes. There was one. But it was not in Islington; only on the borders of -it. - -Away we went, after getting the right direction, and found it. A terrace -of poor houses, in a quiet side-street. In nearly every other window -hung a card with "Lodgings" on it, or "Apartments." Children played in -the road: two men with a truck were crying mackerel. - -"I say, Johnny, these houses all look alike. What is the number we -want?" - -"Stephen Radcliffe did not give any number." - -"Bless my heart! We shall have to knock at every one of them." - -And so he did. Every individual door he knocked at, one after the other, -asking if Mrs. Mapping lived there. At the very last house of all we -found her. A girl, whose clothes were dilapidated enough to have come -down from Noah's Ark, got up from her knees, on which she was cleaning -the door-flag, and told us to go into the parlour while she called Mrs. -Mapping. It was a tidy threadbare room, not much bigger than a closet, -with "Lodgings" wafered to the middle pane of the window. - -Mrs. Mapping came in: a middle-aged, washed-out lady, with pink cheeks, -who looked as if she didn't have enough to eat. She thought we had come -after the lodgings, and stood curtsying, and rubbing her hands down her -black-silk apron--which was in slits. Apparently a "genteel" person who -had seen better days. The Squire opened the ball, and her face took a -puzzled look as she listened. - -"Radcliffe?--Radcliffe?" No, she did not recollect any lodger of the -name. But then, nine times out of ten, she did not know the names of -her lodgers. She didn't want to know them. Why should she? If the -gentlemen's names came out incidental, well and good; if not, she never -presumed to inquire after them. She had not been obliged to let lodgings -always. - -"But this gentleman died here--_died_, ma'am," interrupted the Squire, -pretty nearly beside himself with impatience. "It's about twelve months -ago." - -"Oh, that gentleman," she said. "Yes, he did die here, poor young man. -The doctor--yes, his name was Pitt, sir--he couldn't save him. Drink, -that was the cause, I'm afeard." - -The Squire groaned--wishing all drink was at the bottom of the Thames. -"And he was buried in Finchley Cemetery, ma'am, we hear?" - -"Finchley? Well, now yes, I believe it was Finchley, sir," replied Mrs. -Mapping, considering--and I could see the woman was speaking the truth -according to her recollection. "The burial fees are low at Finchley, -sir." - -"Then he did die here, ma'am--Mr. Francis Radcliffe?" - -"Sure enough he did, sir. And a sad thing it was, one young like him. -But whether his name was Radcliffe, or not, I couldn't take upon myself -to say. I don't remember to have heard his name." - -"Couldn't you have read it on the coffin-plate?" asked the Squire, -explosively. "One might have thought if you heard it in no other way, -you'd see it there." - -"Well, sir, I was ill myself at the time, and in a good deal of trouble -beside, and didn't get upstairs much out of my kitchen below. Like -enough it was Radcliffe: I can't remember." - -"His brother brought him--and lodged here with him--did he not?" - -"Like enough, sir," she repeated. "There was two or three of 'em out and -in often, I remember. Mr. Pitt, and others. I was that ill, myself, that -some days I never got out of bed at all. I know it was a fine shock to -me when my sister came down and said the young man was dead. She was -seeing to things a bit for me during my illness. His rantings had been -pitiful." - -"Could I see your sister, ma'am?" asked the Squire. - -"She's gone to Manchester, sir. Her husband has a place there now." - -"Don't you recollect the elder Mr. Radcliffe?" pursued the Squire. "The -young man's brother? He was staying up in London two or three times -about some shipping." - -"I should if I saw him, sir, no doubt. Last year I had rare good luck -with my rooms, never hardly had 'em empty. The young man who died had -the first-floor apartments. Well, yes, I do remember now that some -gentleman was here two or three times from the country. A farmer, I -think he was. A middle-aged man, sir, so to say; fifty, or thereabouts; -with grey hair." - -"That's him," interrupted the Squire, forgetting his grammar in his -haste. "Should know the description of him anywhere, shouldn't we, -Johnny? Was he here at the time of the young man's death, ma'am?" - -"No, sir. I remember as much as that. He had gone back to the country." - -Mrs. Mapping stood, smoothing down the apron, waiting to hear what we -wanted next, and perhaps not comprehending the drift of the visit yet. - -"Where's that Mr. Pitt to be found?" - -"Law, sir! as if I knew!" she exclaimed. "I've never set eyes on him -since that time. He didn't live here, sir; only used to come in and out -to see to the sick young man. I never heard where he did live." - -There was nothing more to wait for. The Squire slipped half-a-crown into -the woman's hand as we went out, and she curtsied again and thanked -him--in spite of the better days. Another question occurred to him. - -"I suppose the young man had everything done for him that could be? -Care?--and nourishment?--and necessary attendance?" - -"Surely, sir. Why not? Mr. Pitt took care of that, I suppose." - -"Ay. Well, it was a grievous end. Good-morning, ma'am." - -"Good-day to you, gentlemen." - -The Squire went looming up the street in the dumps; his hands in his -pockets, his steps slow. - -"I suppose, Johnny, if one tried to get at Pitt in this vast London -city, it would be like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay." - -"We have no clue to him, sir." - -"No. And I don't know that it would answer any purpose if we did get at -him. He could only confirm what we've heard. Well, this is fine news to -take back to poor Annet Radcliffe!" - -"I should think she had better not be told, sir." - -"She must know it some time." - -The Squire sent for David Skate when we got home, and told him what we -knew; and the two marched to the Torr in the blazing June sun, and held -an interview with Stephen Radcliffe. Ste was sullen and reserved, and -(for him) haughty. It was a mistake, of course, as things turned out, -his having taken Frank from the asylum, he admitted that, admitted he -was sorry for it, but he had done it for the best. Frank got drinking -again, and it was too much for him; he died after a few days of -delirium, and Pitt couldn't save him. That was the long and the short -of the history; and the Squire and Skate might make the best and the -worst of it. - -The Squire and Skate were two of the simplest of men; honest-minded -themselves, and unsuspicious of other people. They quitted the Torr for -the blazing meadows, on their road home again. - -"I shall not say anything about this to Annet," observed David Skate. -"In her present frame of mind it would not do. The fever seems better, -and she is up, and about her work again. Later perhaps we may tell her -of it." - -"I wish we could have found Pitt," said the Squire. - -"Yes, it would be satisfactory to hear what he has to say," replied -David. "Some of these days, when work is slack, I'll take a run up to -London and try and search him out. Though I suppose he could not tell -us much more than the landlady has told." - -"There it is," cried the Squire. "Even Johnny Ludlow, with his crotchets -about people and his likes and dislikes, says he's sure Mrs. Mapping -might be trusted; that she was relating facts." - -So matters subsided, and the weeks and our holidays went on together. -Stephen Radcliffe, by this act of deceit, added another crooked feather -to his cap of ills in the estimation of the neighbourhood; though that -would not be likely to trouble him. Meeting Mr. Brandon one day in the -road, just out of Church Dykely, Stephen chanced to say that he wished -to goodness it was in his power to sell the Torr, so that he might be -off to Canada to his son: _that_ was the land to make money at, by all -accounts. - -"You and your son might cut off the entail, now poor Francis is gone," -said old Brandon, thinking what a good riddance it would be if Stephen -went. - -"I don't know who'd buy it--at my price," growled Stephen. "I mean -to get shut o' them birds, though," he added, as an afterthought. -"_They're_ not entailed. They've never cried and shrieked as they do -this summer. I'd as soon have an army of squalling cats around the -place." - -"The noise is becoming a subject of common talk," said old Brandon. - -Ste Radcliffe bit his lips and turned his face another way, and emitted -sundry daggers from his looks. "Let folks concern themselves with their -own business," said he. "The birds is nothing to them." - - * * * * * - -Four weeks had gone by, and the moon was nearly at the full again. Its -light streamed on the hedges, and flickered amidst the waving trees, and -lay on the fields like pale silver. It was Sunday evening, and we had -run out for a stroll before supper, Tod and I. - -On coming out of church, Duffham had chanced to get talking of the -cries. He had heard them the previous night. They gave him the shivers, -he said, they were so like human cries. This put it into our heads to -go again ourselves, which we had not done since that first time. How -curiously events are brought about! - -Leaping the last stile, the Torr was right before us at the opposite -side of the large field, the tops of its chimneys and its towering -sugar-loaf tower showing out white in the moonlight. The wind was high, -blowing in gusts from the south-west. - -"I say, Johnny, it's just the night for witches. Whirr! how it sweeps -along! They'll ride swimmingly on their broomsticks." - -"The wind must have got up suddenly," I answered. "There was none -to-day. It was too hot for it. Talking of witches and broomsticks, Tod, -have you read----" - -He put his arm out to stop my words and steps, halting himself. We had -been rushing on like six, had traversed half the field. - -"What's that, Johnny?" he asked in a whisper. "There"--pointing onwards -at right angles. "Something's lying there." - -Something undoubtedly was--lying on the grass. Was it an animal?--or a -man? It did not look much like either. We stood motionless, trying to -make the shape out. - -"Tod! It is a woman." - -"Gently, lad! Don't be in a hurry. We'll soon see." - -The figure raised itself as we approached, and stood confronting us. The -last pull of wind that went brushing by might have brushed me down, in -my surprise. It was Mrs. Francis Radcliffe. - -She drew her grey cloak closer round her and put her hand upon Tod's -arm. He went back half a step: I'm not sure but he thought it might be -her ghost. - -"Do not think me quite out of my mind," she said--and her voice and -manner were both collected. "I have come here every evening for nearly a -week past to listen to the cries. They have never been so plain as they -are to-night. I suppose the wind helps them." - -"But--you--were lying on the grass, Mrs. Francis," said Tod; not knowing -yet what to make of it all. - -"I had put my ear on the ground, wondering whether I might not hear it -plainer," she replied. "Listen!" - -The cry again! The same painful wailing sound that we heard that other -night, making one think of I know not what woe and despair. When it had -died away, she spoke further, her voice very low. - -"People are talking so much about the cries that I strolled on here some -evenings ago to hear them for myself. In my mind's tumult I can hardly -rest quiet, once my day's work is done: what does it matter which way I -stroll?--all ways are the same to me. Some people said the sounds came -from the birds, some said from witches, some from the ghost of the man -on the gibbet: but the very first night I came here I found out what -they were really like--my husband's cries." - -"What!" cried Tod. - -"And I believe from my very soul that it is his spirit that cries!" she -went on, her voice taking as much excitement as any voice, only half -raised, can take. "His spirit is unable to rest. It is here, hovering -about the Torr. Hush! there it comes again." - -It was anything but agreeable, I can assure you, to stand in that big -white moonlit plain, listening to those mysterious cries and to these -ghostly suggestions. Tod was listening with all his ears. - -"They are the very cries he used to make in his illness at the farm," -said Mrs. Radcliffe. "I can't forget _them_. I should know them -anywhere. The same sound of voice, the same wail of anguish: I could -almost fancy that I hear the words. Listen." - -It did seem like it. One might have fancied that his name was repeated -with a cry for help. "Help! Frank Radcliffe! Help!" But at such a moment -as this, when the nerves are strung up to concert pitch, imagination -plays us all sorts of impossible tricks. - -"I'll be shot if it's not like Frank Radcliffe's voice!" exclaimed Tod, -breaking the silence. "And calling out, too." - -"Thank you," said Mrs. Francis. "I shall not be able to bear this long: -I shall have to speak of it to the world. When I say that you have -recognized his voice also, they will be less likely to mock at me as -a lunatic. David did, when I told him. At least, I could make no -impression on him." - -Tod was lying down with his ear to the ground. But he soon got up, -saying he could not hear so well. - -"Did Stephen kill him, do you think?" she asked, in a dread whisper, -drawing closer to us. "Why, else, should his poor unquiet spirit haunt -the region of the Torr?" - -"It is the first time I ever heard of spirits calling out in a human -voice," said Tod. "The popular belief is, that they mostly appear in -dumb show." - -He quitted us, as he spoke, and went about the field with slow steps, -halting often to look and listen. The trees around the Torr in -particular seemed to attract his attention, by the length of time he -stared up at them. Or, perhaps, it might be at the tops of the chimneys: -or perhaps at the tapering tower. We waited in nearly the same spot, -shivering and listening. But the sounds never came so distinctly again: -I think the wind had spent itself. - -"It is a dreadful weight to have to carry about with me," said poor -Annet Radcliffe as we walked homewards. "And oh! what will be the -ending? Will it be heard always?" - -I had never seen Tod so thoughtful as he was that night. At supper he -put down his knife and fork perpetually to fall into a brown study; and -I am sure he never knew a word of the reading afterwards. - -It was some time in the night, and I was fast asleep and dreaming of -daws and magpies, when something shook my shoulder and awoke me. There -stood Tod, his nightshirt white as snow in the moonlight. - -"Johnny," said he, "I have been trying to get daylight out of that -mystery, and I think I've done it." - -"What mystery? What's the matter?" - -"The mystery of the cries. They don't come from Francis Radcliffe's -ghost, but from Francis himself. His ghost! When that poor soft creature -was talking of the ghost, I should have split with laughter but for her -distress." - -"From Francis himself! What on earth do you mean?" - -"Stephen has got him shut up in that tower." - -"Alive?" - -"Alive! Go along, Johnny! You don't suppose he'd keep him there if he -were dead. Those cries we heard to-night were human cries; words; and -that was a human voice uttering them, as my ears and senses told me; and -my brain has been in a muddle ever since, all sleep gone clean out of -it. Just now, turning and twisting possibilities about, the solution of -the mystery came over me like a flash of lightning. Ste has got Frank -shut up in the Torr." - -He, standing there upright by the bed, and I, digging my elbow into the -counterpane and resting my cheek on my hand, gazed at one another, the -perplexity of our faces showing out strongly in the moonlight. - - -IV. - -Mr. Duffham the surgeon stood making up pills and powders in his surgery -at Church Dykely, the mahogany counter before him, the shelves filled -with glass bottles of coloured liquids behind him. Weighing out grains -of this and that in the small scales that rested beside the large ones, -both sets at the end of the counter, was he, and measuring out drops -with a critical eye. The day promised to be piping-hot, and his summer -house-coat, of slate-coloured twill, was thrown back on his shoulders. -Spare and wiry little man though he was, he felt the heat. He was rather -wondering that no patients had come in yet, for people knew that this -was the time to catch him, before he started on his rounds, and he -generally had an influx on Monday morning. - -Visitor the first. The surgery-door, standing close to the open front -one, was tapped at, and a tall, bony woman entered, dressed in a big -straw bonnet with primrose ribbons, a blue cotton gown and cotton shawl. -Eunice Gibbon, Mrs. Stephen Radcliffe's sister. - -"Good-morning, Mr. Duffham," she said, lodging her basket on the -counter. "I'm frightfully out o' sorts, sir, and think I shan't be right -till I've took a bottle or two o' physic." - -"Sit down," said the doctor, coming in front of the counter, preparatory -to inquiring into the symptoms. - -She sat down in one of the two chairs: and Duffham, after sundry -questions, told her that her liver was out of order. She answered that -she could have told him that, for nothing but "liver" was ever the -matter with her. He went behind the counter again to make up a bottle of -some delectable stuff good for the complaint, and Eunice sat waiting for -it, when the surgery-door was pushed open with a whirl and a bang, and -Tod and I burst in. To see Eunice Gibbon there, took us aback. It seemed -a very curious coincidence, considering what we had come about. - -"Well, young gentlemen," quoth Duffham, looking rather surprised, -and detecting our slight discomfiture, "does either of you want my -services?" - -"Yes," said Tod, boldly; "Johnny does: he has a headache. We'll wait, -Mr. Duffham." - -Leaning on the counter, we watched the progress of the making-up in -silence, Duffham exchanging a few words with Eunice Gibbon at intervals. -Suddenly he opened upon a subject that caused Tod to give me a private -dig with his elbow. - -"And how were the cries last night?" asked Duffham. "Did you hear much -of them?" - -"There was no cries last night," answered Eunice--which brought me -another dig from Tod. "But wasn't the wind high! It went shrieking round -the Torr like so many mad cats. Two spoonfuls twice a-day, did you say, -sir?" - -"Three times a-day. I am putting the directions on the bottle. You will -soon feel better." - -"I've been subject to these bilious turns all my life," she said, -speaking to me and Tod. "But I don't know when I've had as bad a one as -this. Thank ye, sir." - -Taking the bottle of physic, she put it into her basket, said -good-morning, and went away. Duffham came to the front, and Tod jumped -on the counter and sat there facing us, his long legs dangling. I had -taken one of the chairs. - -"Mr. Duffham, what do you think we have come about?" began Tod, dropping -his voice to a mysterious key. "Don't you go and faint away when you -hear it." - -"Faint away!" retorted old Duffham. - -"I'll be shot if it would not send some people into a faint! That Gibbon -woman has just said that no cries were to be heard last night." - -"Well?" - -"Well, there _were_ cries; plenty of them. And awful cries they were. -I, and Johnny, and Mrs. Frank Radcliffe--yes, she was with us--stood -in that precious field listening to them till our blood ran cold. -_You_ heard them, you know, on Saturday night." - -"Well?" repeated Duffham, staring at Tod. - -"Look here. We have found it out--and have come over to tell you--and -to ask you what can be done," went on Tod earnestly, jumping off the -counter and putting his back against the door to make sure of no -interruption. "The cries come from Frank Radcliffe. He is not dead." - -"What?" shouted Duffham, who had turned to face Tod and stood in the -middle of the oil-cloth, wondering whether Tod was demented. - -"Frank is no more dead than I am. I'd lay my life upon it. Stephen -Radcliffe has got him shut up in the tower; and the piteous cries are -his--crying for release." - -"Bless my heart and mind!" exclaimed Duffham, backing right against the -big scales. "Frank Radcliffe alive and shut up in the tower! But there's -no way to the tower. He could not be got into it." - -"I don't care. I know he is there. That huzzy, now gone out, does well -to say no cries were abroad last night; her business is to throw people -off the scent. But I tell you, Duffham, the cries never were so loud or -so piteous, and I heard what they said as distinctly as you can hear me -speak now. 'Help! Frank Radcliffe! Help!' they said. And I swear the -voice was Frank's own." - -"If ever I heard the like of this!" ejaculated Duffham. "It is really -not--not to be credited." - -"The sound of the cries comes out on the air through the openings in the -tower," ran on Tod, in excitement. "Oh, he is there, poor fellow, safe -enough. And to think what long months he has been kept there, Stephen's -prisoner! Twelve. Twelve, as I'm alive. Now, look you here, Duffham! you -are staring like an unbeliever." - -"It's not altogether that--that I don't believe," said Duffham, whose -wide-open eyes were staring considerably. "I am thinking what is to be -done about it--how to set the question at rest." - -Tod left the door unguarded and flung himself into the other chair. He -went over the whole narrative quietly: how Mrs. Frank Radcliffe--who had -been listening to the cries for a week past--had first put him into a -puzzle, how he had then heard the words and the voice, and how the true -explanation came flashing into his mind later. With every sentence, -Duffham grew more convinced, and at last he believed it as much as we -did. - -"And now how is he to be got out?" concluded Tod. - -Holding a council together, we decided that the first step must be -to get a magistrate's order to search the Torr. That involved the -disclosure of the facts to the magistrate--whosoever he might be. Mr. -Brandon was pitched upon: Duffham proposed the Squire at first; but, as -Tod pointed out, the Squire would be sure to go to work in some hot and -headlong manner, and perhaps ruin all. Let Stephen Radcliffe get only -half an inkling of what was up, and he might contrive to convey Frank to -the ends of the earth. - -All three of us started at once, Duffham leaving his patients for that -one morning to doctor themselves, and found Mr. Brandon at breakfast. He -had been distracted with face-ache all night, he said, which caused him -to rise late. The snow-white table-cloth was set off with flowers and -plate, but the fare was not luxurious. The silver jug held plenty of new -milk, the silver tea-pot a modicum of the weakest of tea, the silver -rack the driest of dry toast. A boiled egg and the butter-dish remained -untouched. One of the windows was thrown up wide to the summer air, and -to the scent from the clustering flower-beds and the hum of the bees -dipping over them to sip their sweets. - -Breaking off little bits of toast, and eating them slowly, Mr. Brandon -listened to the tale. He did not take it in. That was check the first. -And he would not grant a warrant to search the Torr. That was check the -second. - -"Stephen Radcliffe is bad enough in the way of being sullen and -miserly," said he. "But as to daring such a thing as this, I don't think -he would. Pass his brother off to the world for dead, and put him into -his house and keep him there in concealment! No. No one of common sense -would believe it." - -Tod set on again, giving our experience of the past night, earnestly -protesting that he had recognized Frank's voice, and heard the words it -said--"Help! Frank Radcliffe!" He added that Annet Radcliffe, Frank's -widow--or wife, whichever it might turn out to be--had been listening to -the cries for days past and knew them for her husband's: only she, poor -daft woman, took them to come from his ghost. Mr. Brandon sipped his tea -and listened. Duffham followed on: saying that when he heard the cries -on Saturday night, in passing the Torr on his way from the Court, he -could then almost have staked his existence upon their being human -cries, proceeding from some human being in distress, but for the -apparent impossibility of such a thing. And I could see that an -impression was at length made on Mr. Brandon. - -"If Stephen Radcliffe has done so infamous an act, he must be more -cruel, more daring than man ever was yet," remarked he, in answer. "But -I must be more satisfied of it before I sign the warrant you ask for." - -Well, there we sat, hammering at him. That is, _they_ did. Being my -guardian, I did not presume to put in a word edgeways, so far as -pressing him to act went. In all that he thought right, and in spite of -his quiet manner and his squeaky voice, old Brandon was a firm man, not -to be turned by argument. - -"But won't you grant this warrant, sir?" appealed Tod for the tenth -time. - -"I have told you, no," he replied. "I will not at the present stage of -the affair. In any case, I should not grant it without consulting your -father----" - -"He is so hot-headed," burst in Tod. "He'd be as likely as not to go off -knocking at the Torr door without his hat, demanding Frank Radcliffe." - -"Mr. Todhetley was Frank Radcliffe's trustee, and he is your father, -young man; I do not stir a step in this matter without consulting him," -returned old Brandon, coolly persistent. - -Well, there was nothing for it now but to go back home and consult -the pater. It seemed like a regular damper--and we were hot and tired -besides. Tod in his enthusiasm had pictured us storming the Torr at -mid-day, armed with the necessary authority, and getting out Frank at -once. - -Mr. Brandon ordered his waggonette--a conveyance he did not like, and -scarcely ever used himself, leaving it to the servants for their -errands--and we all drove back to Dyke Manor, himself included. To -describe the astonishment of the pater when the disclosure was made to -him would take a strong pen. He rubbed his face, and blustered, and -stared around, and then told Tod he was a fool. - -"I know I am in some things," said Tod, as equably as old Brandon could -have put it; "but I'm not in this. If Frank Radcliffe is not alive in -that tower of Stephen's, and calling out nightly for his release, you -may set me down as a fool to the end of my days, Father." - -"Goodness bless us all!" cried the poor bewildered Squire. "Do you -believe this, Brandon?" - -Mr. Brandon did not say whether he believed it or not. Both of them -shook their heads about granting a warrant: upon which, Tod passionately -asked whether Francis Radcliffe was to be left in the tower to die. It -was finally decided that we should go in a body that night to the field -again, so as to give the two doubters the benefit of hearing anything -there might be to hear. And Mr. Brandon stayed with us for the day, -telling his coachman to come back at night with the small pony-gig to -take him home. - -The moon was just as bright as on the previous night, and we started on -our expedition stealthily. Tod and I went first; Duffham came strolling -next; and the Squire and Mr. Brandon afterwards. Should Stephen -Radcliffe or any of his people catch sight of the whole of us moving -together, he might suspect there was something in the wind. - -Annet did not make her appearance, which was a great relief. For we -could talk without restraint; and it would never have done to let her -know what we suspected: and so raise wild hopes within her that might -not be fulfilled. We knew later that her mother was at Pitchley's Farm -that evening, and it kept Annet at home. - -Was Heaven interfering in Frank's behalf? It does interfere for the -oppressed, you know; ay, more often than we heedless and ungrateful -mortals think for. Never had the cries been so plain as they were this -night, though there was no wind to waft them downwards, for the air was -perfectly still: and the words were distinctly heard. "Help! Help! Frank -Radcliffe." - -"Mercy upon us!" exclaimed the Squire, under his breath. "The voice does -sound like Frank's." - -Mr. Brandon was standing with his hand to his ear. Duffham leaned on his -gold-headed cane, his face lifted upwards. - -Tod stood by in dudgeon; he was angry with them for not having believed -him at first. - -"I think we may grant a search-warrant, Squire," said Mr. Brandon. - -"And send old Jones the constable, to execute it," assented the Squire. - -Tod flung back his head. "Old Jones! Much use he'd be! Why, father, -Eunice Gibbon alone could settle old Jones with his shaky legs. She'd -pitch him out at the first window." - -"Jones can take help, Joe." - - * * * * * - -It was the breakfast hour at the Torr, eight o'clock. The meal was being -taken in the kitchen. Less semblance of gentility than even in the -former days was kept up; all usages of comfort and refinement had -departed with old Mr. Radcliffe and Selina. Stephen was swallowing his -eggs and rashers of bacon quickly. Tuesday is Alcester market-day, -and he was going in to attend it, expecting to sell some of his -newly-gathered crop of hay. Mrs. Stephen sat opposite him, eating bacon -also; and Eunice Gibbon stood at the dresser, mixing some meal for the -fattening of fowls. Miserly though Stephen was by nature, he liked a -good table, and took care to have it. - -"Could you bring some starch home, master?" asked Eunice, turning her -head round to speak. - -"Why can't you get your starch here?" retorted Stephen. - -"Well, it's a farthing less a pound at Alcester than it is at Church -Dykely," said Eunice. "They've rose it here." - -Farthings were farthings in Stephen's eyes, and he supposed he might as -well bring the starch. "How much is wanted of it?" he growled. - -"We'd better have a pound," interposed Becca. "Half pounds don't get the -benefit of the farthing: you can't split a farthing in two. Shall you be -home early?" she continued to her husband. - -"Don't know. Not afore afternoon." - -"Because we shall want some of the starch to-day. There's none to go on -with, is there, Eunice?" - -"Yes, there's a bit. I can make it do." - -"You'll have to wait till you get it," remarked Stephen as he pushed his -plate away and rose from table. "And mind you don't forget to give the -pigs their dinner." - -"What'll be wanted up there to-day?" inquired Becca, pointing towards -some invisible place over-head, possibly intending to indicate the -tower. - -"Nothing but dinner," said Stephen. "What should there be? I shall be -back afore tea-time." - -He went out at the back-door as he spoke, gave a keen look or two -around his yard and premises generally, to see that all was right, and -presently trotted away on horseback. A few minutes later, Jim, the only -regular man kept, was seen to cross the yard towards the lane with the -horse and cart. - -"Where be you off to, Jim?" demanded Becca, stalking to the door and -speaking at the top of her voice. - -"Master ordered me to go after that load o' manure," called back Jim, -standing upright in the cart and arresting the horse for a moment. - -"What, this morning?" - -"It's what he telled me." - -"Well, don't go and make a day's work of it," commanded Mrs. Stephen. -"There's a sight o' things a-waiting to be done." - -"I can't be back afore two, hasten as I 'ool," returned Jim, giving the -horse his head and clattering off. - -"I wonder what the master sent him to-day for, when he's away himself?" -cried Becca to her sister, returning to the table in the kitchen. - -"Well, he got a message last night to say that if he didn't send for it -away to-day it wouldn't be kept for him," said Eunice. "It's a precious -long way to have to go for a load o' manure!" - -"But then we get it for the fetching; there's naught to pay," returned -Becca. - -She had begun to wash up the breakfast-things, and when that was done -she put the kitchen to rights. Eunice seemed to be at all sorts of jobs, -indoors and out, and went stalking about in pattens. The furnace had -been lighted in the brewhouse, for Eunice had a day's washing before -her. Becca went up to make the beds, and brought down sundry armfuls of -clothes for the wash. About ten o'clock she appeared in the brewhouse -with her bonnet and shawl on. Eunice was standing at the tub in her -pattens, rubbing away at the steaming soap-suds. - -"Why, where be you going?" she exclaimed in evident surprise. - -"I'm a-going over to Dick's to fetch Beccy," replied Mrs. Stephen. "It's -a long while since she was here. Ste don't care to see children about -the place. The child shall stop to dinner with us and can go home by -herself in the afternoon. What's the matter now, Eunice Gibbon? Don't it -please ye?" - -"Oh, it pleases me well enough," returned Eunice, who was looking -anything _but_ pleased, and splashing both hands desperately about in -the water, over one of Stephen's coloured cotton handkerchiefs. "The -child can come, and welcome, for me. 'Tain't that." - -"It's some'at else then," remarked Becca. - -"Well, I'd wanted to get a bit o' talk with ye," said Eunice. "That's -what it is. The master's safe off, and it was a good opportunity for -it." - -"What about?" - -Eunice Gibbon took her hands out of the soap-suds and rested them on the -sides of the tub, while she answered--coming to the point at once. - -"I've been a-thinking that I can't stop on here, Becca. I bain't at -ease. Many a night lately I have laid awake over it. If anything comes -out about--you know what--we might all of us get into trouble." - -"No fear," said Becca. - -"Well, I says there is fear. Folks have talked long enough; but it -strikes me they won't be satisfied with talking much longer: they'll be -searching out. Only yesterday morning when I was waiting at Duffham's -while he mixed up the stuff, he must begin upon it. 'Did ye hear the -cries last night?' says he--or something o' that. 'No,' says I in -answer; 'there was none to hear, only the wind.' Them two young gents -from the Manor was there, cocking up their ears at the words. _I_ see -'em." - -Rebecca Radcliffe remained silent. Truth to tell, she and Stephen were -getting afraid of the cries themselves. That is, of what the cries might -result in. - -"He ought to be got away," resumed Eunice. - -"But there's no means o' getting him away." - -"Well, I can't feel comfortable, Becca; not safe, you know. So don't you -and the master be put out if I walks myself off one o' these here first -fine days. When I come here, I didn't bargain for nothing o' this sort." - -"There's no danger of ill turning up," flashed Becca, braving out the -matter with scorn. "The cries is took to come from the birds: who is to -pick up any other notion, d'ye suppose? I'll tell ye what it is, Eunice: -that jaundiced liver of yours is tormenting you. You'll be afeared next -of your own shadda." - -"Perhaps it is," acknowledged Eunice, dropping the argument and resuming -her rubbing. "I know that precious physic of old Duffham's is upsetting -me. It's the nausiousest stuff I ever took." - -Mrs. Stephen stalked out of the kitchen and betook herself across the -fields, towards her brother's. Richard Gibbon had succeeded to his late -father's post of gamekeeper to the Chavasses. The gamekeeper's lodge -was more than a mile away; and Mrs. Stephen strode off, out of sight, -unconscious of what was in store for the Torr. - -Eunice went on with her washing, deep in thought. She had fully made up -her mind to quit the Torr; but she meant to break the fact by degrees -to its master and mistress. Drying her hands for the temporary purpose -of stirring-up and putting more slack on the furnace fire, she was -interrupted by a gentle ring at the front-door bell. - -"Why, who on earth's that?" she exclaimed aloud. "Oh, it must be Lizzy," -with a flash of recollection: "she sent word she should be over to-day -or to-morrow. How early she have got here!" - -Free of all suspicion, glancing at no ill, Eunice went through the -passages and opened the front-door. Quite a small crowd of people stood -there, and one or two of them pushed in immediately. Mr. Duffham, Tod, -I, the Squire, old Jones, and old Jones's man, who was young, and active -on his legs. The Squire _would_ come, and we were unable to hinder him. - -"In the Queen's name!" cried old Jones--who always used that formula on -state occasions. And Eunice Gibbon screamed long and loud. - -To oppose our entrance was not to be thought of. We had entered and -could not be thrust back again. Eunice took to her heels up the passage, -and confronted us at the parlour-door with a pair of tongs. Duffham and -Tod disarmed her. She then flew to the kitchen, sat down, and went into -hysterics. Old Jones read out the authority for the search, but she only -screamed the louder. - -They left her to get out of the screaming at her leisure, and went up, -seeking the entrance to the tower. It was found without much difficulty: -Tod was the one to see it first. A small door (only discovered by -Stephen Radcliffe since his father's death, as we heard later) led from -a dark and unused lumber-room to the narrow stairs of the tower. In its -uppermost compartment, a little, round den, sat Frank Radcliffe, chained -to the wall. - -Not at once could we take in the features of the scene; for, all the -light came in through the one long narrow opening, a framed loophole -without glass, that was set in the deep round wall of the tower. A -mattress was spread on the floor, with a pillow and blankets; one chair -stood close to a box that served for a table, on which he no doubt eat -his meals, for there were plates and food on it; another box, its lid -open, was in a corner, and on the other chair sat Frank. That was every -earthly article the place contained. It was through that opening--you -could not call it a window--that Frank's cries for help had gone forth -to the air. There he sat, the chain round his waist, turning his amazed -eyes upon us. - -And raving mad, you ask? No. He was all skin and bone, and his fair hair -hung down like that of a wild man of the woods, but he was as sane as -you or I. He rose up, the chain clanking, and then we saw that it was -long enough to admit of his moving about to any part of the den. - -"Oh, God bless you, Frank!--we have come to release you," burst forth -the Squire, impetuously seizing both his hands. "God help you, my poor -lad!" And Frank, what with surprise and the not being over stout, burst -into joyous tears. - - * * * * * - -The ingenious scheme of taking possession of Frank, and representing -him as dead, that he might enjoy all the money, had occurred to Stephen -Radcliffe when he found Frank was recovering under Dr. Dale's treatment. -During the visits Stephen paid to London at that time, he and Pitt, Dr. -Dale's head man, became very intimate: and when Pitt was discharged from -Dr. Dale's they grew more so. Stephen Radcliffe would not perhaps have -done any harm to Frank in the shape of poison or a dagger, being no more -of a killer and slayer of men than were his neighbours; but to keep him -concealed in the Torr, so as to reap the benefit himself of all the -money, he looked upon as a very venial crime indeed--quite justifiable, -so to say. Especially, if he could escape being found out. And this -fine scheme he perfected and put in practice, and successfully carried -through. - -How much of it he confided to Pitt, or how much he did not, will never -be known. Certain it was, that Pitt wrote the letter announcing Frank's -death; though we could not find out that he had helped it in any other -way. But a very curious coincidence attended the affair; one that aided -Stephen's plans materially; and but for its happening I do not see that -they could have succeeded when inquiries were made. In the London house -where Stephen lodged (Gibraltar Terrace, that I and the Squire had a -two days' hunt to find) there came to live a young man, who was taken -ill close upon his entrance with a malady arising from his habits of -drinking. Pitt, coming often to Gibraltar Terrace then with Stephen -Radcliffe, took to attend on the young man out of good nature, doing -for him all that could be done. It was this young man who died, and -was buried in Finchley Cemetery; and of whose death the landlady with -the faded face and black silk apron spoke to the Squire, thereby -establishing in our minds the misapprehension that it was Francis -Radcliffe. Stephen did not take Frank to the lodgings at all; he brought -him straight down to the Torr when he was released from Dr. Dale's, -taking care to get out at a remote country station in the dusk of -evening, where his own gig, conveyed thither by Becca, was in waiting. -He laid his plans well, that crafty Stephen! And, once he had got Frank -securely into that upper den, he might just have kept him there for -life, but for that blessed outlet in the wall, and no one been any the -wiser. - -Stephen Radcliffe did not bargain for that. It nearly always happens -that in doing an ill deed we overreach ourselves in some fatal way. -Knowing that no sound, though it were loud enough to awaken the seven -sleepers, could penetrate from that upper room through the massive walls -of the house, and be heard below, Stephen thought his secret was safe, -and that Frank might call out, if he would, until Doomsday. It never -occurred to him that the cries could get out through that unglazed -window in the tower wall, and set the neighbourhood agog with curiosity. -They did, however: and Stephen, whatever amount of dread it might have -brought his heart, was unable to stop them. Not until Frank had been for -some months chained in his den, did it occur to himself to make those -cries, so hopeless was he of their being heard below to any good -purpose. But one winter night when the wind was howling outside, and the -sound of it came booming into his ears through the window, it struck him -that he might be heard through that very opening; and from that time his -voice was raised in supplication evening after evening. Stephen could do -nothing. He dared not brick the opening up lest some suspicion or other -should be excited outside; he could not remove Frank, for there was no -other secret room to remove him to, or where his cries would not have -been heard below. He ordered Frank to be still: he threatened him; he -once took a horsewhip to him and laid it about his shoulders. All in -vain. When Frank was alone, his cries for release never ceased. Stephen -and his household put it upon the birds and the wind, and what not; but -they grew to dread it: and Stephen, even at this time, of discovery, was -perpetually ransacking his brains for some safe means of departing for -Canada and carrying Frank with him. The difficulty lay in conveying -Frank out of the Torr and away. They might drug him for the bare exit, -but they could not keep him perpetually drugged; they could not hinder -him coming in contact with his fellow-men on the journey and transit, -and Frank had a tongue in his head. No: Stephen saw no hope, no safety, -but in keeping him where he was. - -"But how could you allow yourself to be brought up here?--and fastened -to a stake in this shameful fashion?" was nearly the first question of -the Squire when he could collect his senses: and he asked it with just a -touch of temper, for he was beginning to think that Frank, in permitting -it, must have been as simple as the fool in a travelling circus. - -"He got me up by stratagem," answered Frank, tossing his long hair back -from his face. "While we were sitting at supper the night we arrived -here, he began talking about the wonderful discovery he had made of the -staircase and opening to the tower. Naturally I was interested; and when -Stephen proposed to show it me at once, I assented gladly. Becca came -with us, saying she'd carry the candle. We got up here, and were all -three standing in the middle of the floor, just where we are standing -now, when I suddenly had a chain--this chain--slipped round my waist, -and found myself fastened to the wall, a prisoner." - -"But why did you come to the Torr at all?" stamped the Squire, while old -Jones stretched out his hands, as if putting imaginary handcuffs on -Stephen's. "Why did you not go at once to your own home--or come to us? -When you knew you were going to leave Dale's, why didn't you write to -say so?" - -"When events are past and gone we perceive the mistakes we have made, -though we do not see them at the time," answered Frank, turning his blue -eyes from one to the other of us. "Dr. Dale did not wish me to quit his -house quite so soon; though I was perfectly well, he said another month -there would be best for me. I, however, was anxious to get away, more -eager for it than I can tell you--which was only natural. Stephen -whispered to me that he would accomplish it, but that I must put myself -entirely in his hands, and not write to any one down here about it. He -got me out, sooner than I had thought for: sooner, as he declared, than -he had thought for himself; and he said we must break the news to Annet -very cautiously, for she was anything but strong. He proposed to take me -to the Torr for the first night of my return, and give me a bed there; -and the following day the communication could be made to Annet at -Pitchley's Farm, and then I might follow it as soon as I pleased. It all -seemed to me feasible; quite the right way of going to work; in fact, -the only way: I thanked Stephen, and came down here with him in all -confidence." - -"Good patience!" cried the Squire. "And you had no suspicions, Frank -Radcliffe!--knowing what Stephen was!" - -"I never knew he would do such a dastardly deed as this. How could I -know it?" - -"Oh, come along!" returned the Squire, beginning to stumble down the -narrow, dark stairs. "We'll have the law of him." - -The key of the chain had been found hanging on a nail outside the door, -out of poor Frank's reach. He was soon free; but staggered a little when -he began to descend the stairs. Duffham laid hold of him behind, and Tod -went before. - -"Thank God! thank God!" he broke out with reverent emotion, when the -bright sun burst upon him through the windows, after passing the dark -lumber-room. "I feared I might never see full daylight again." - -"Have you any clothes?" asked Duffham. "This coat's in rags." - -"I'm sure I don't know whether I have or not," replied Frank. "The coat -is all I have had upon me since coming here." - -"Becca's a beast," put in Tod. "And I hope Stephen will have his neck -stretched." - -Eunice Gibbon was nowhere to be seen below. The premises were deserted. -She had made a rush to her brother's, the gamekeeper's lodge, to warn -Becca of what was taking place. We started for Dyke Manor, Frank in our -midst, leaving the Torr, and its household gods, including the cackling -fowls and the dinnerless pigs, to their fate. Mr. Brandon met us at the -second field, and he took Frank's hand in silence. - -"God bless you, lad! So you have been shut up there!" - -"And chained to a stake in the wall," cried the Squire. - -"Well, it seems perfectly incredible that such a thing should take place -in these later days. It reads like an episode of the dark ages." - -"Won't we pay out Master Radcliffe for 't!" put in old Jones, at work -with his imaginary handcuffs again. "I should say, for my part, it 'ud -be a'most a case o' transportation to Botany Bay." - -Frank Radcliffe was ensconced within Dyke Manor (sending Mrs. Todhetley -into hysterics, for she had known nothing), and Duffham undertook the -task of breaking it to Frank's wife. Frank, when his hair should have -been trimmed up a little, was to put himself into a borrowed coat and -to follow on presently. - -Pitchley's Farm and Pitchley's roses lay hot and bright under the -summer sunshine. Mr. Duffham went straight in, and looked about for its -mistress. In the sitting-rooms, in the kitchen, in the dairy: he and his -cane, and could not see her. - -"Missis have stepped out, sir," said Sally, who was scrubbing the -kitchen table. "A fearful headache she have got to-day." - -"A headache, has she!" responded Duffham. - -"I don't think she's never without one," remarked Sally, dipping her -brush into the saucer of white sand. - -"Where's Mr. Skate?" - -"Him? Oh, he be gone over to Alcester market, sir." - -"You go and find your mistress, Sally, and say I particularly wish to -speak with her. Tell her that I have some very good news for her." - -Sally left her brush and her sand, and went out with the message. The -doctor strolled into the best parlour, and cribbed one of the many roses -intruding their blooming beauty into the open window. Mr. Duffham had to -exercise his patience. It seemed to him that he waited half-an-hour. - -Annet came in at last, saying how sorry she was to have kept him: she -had stepped over to see their carter's wife, who was ill, and Sally had -only just found her. She wore her morning gown of black and white print, -with the small net widow's cap on her bright hair. But for the worn look -in her face, the sad eyes, she was just as pretty as ever; and Duffham -thought so. - -"Sally says you have some good news for me," she observed with a poor, -faint smile. "It must be a joke of yours, Mr. Duffham. There's no news -that could be good for me." - -"Wait till you hear it," said he. "You have had a fortune left you! It -is _so good_, Mrs. Frank Radcliffe, that I'm afraid to tell you. You may -go into a fit; or do some other foolish thing." - -"Indeed no. Nothing can ever have much effect on me again." - -"Don't you make too sure of that," said Duffham. "You've never felt -quite sure about that death of your husband, up at Dales, have you? -Thought there was something queer about it--eh?" - -"Yes," she said. "I have thought it." - -"Well, some of us have been looking into it a little. And we find--in -short, we are not at all sure that--that Frank did die." - -"Oh!"--her hands lifting themselves in agitation--"what is it, sir? You -have come to disclose to me that my husband was murdered." - -"The contrariness of woman!" exclaimed Duffham, giving the floor a thump -with his cane. "Why, Mrs. Frank Radcliffe, I told you as plainly as I -could speak, that it was _good_ news I brought. So good, that I hardly -thought you could bear it with equanimity. Your husband was _not_ -murdered." - -Poor Annet never answered a word to this. She only gazed at him. - -"And our opinion is that Frank did not die at all; at Dale's, or -elsewhere. Some of us think he is alive still, and--now don't you drop -down in a heap." - -"Please go on," she breathed, turning whiter than her own cap. "I--shall -not drop down." - -"We have _reason_ to think it, Mrs. Frank. To think that he is alive, -and well, and as sane in mind as you'd wish him to be. We believe it, -ma'am; we all but know it." - -She let her head fall back in the chair. "You, I feel sure, would not -tell me this unless you had good grounds for it, Mr. Duffham. Oh, if it -may but be so! But--then--what of those cries that we heard?" she added, -recollecting them. "I am sure they were his." - -"Very likely. Stephen may have had him shut up in the tower, and Frank -cried out to let the world know he was there. Oh, I dare say that was -it. I should not wonder, Mrs. Frank, but your husband may be here -to-day." - -She rose from her seat, face lightening, hands trembling. She had caught -sight through the window of a small knot of people approaching the -house-door, and she recognized the cut of Frank's fair Saxon face -amongst them, and the gleam of his golden hair. Duffham knew no more -till she was in Frank's arms, sobbing and crying. - - * * * * * - -Ring! knock! shake! Shake! knock! ring! It was at the front-door of the -Torr, and old Jones was doing it. He had gone there to apprehend Stephen -Radcliffe, a whole posse of us at his tail--where we had no business to -be--and the handcuffs in his side-pocket. - -By the afternoon of the day just told of, the parish was up in arms. -Had Frank Radcliffe really risen from the dead, it could scarcely have -caused more commotion. David Skate, for one, was frightened nearly out -of his senses. Getting in from Alcester market, Sally accosted him, as -he was crossing the yard, turning round from the pump to do it, where -she was washing the summer cabbage for dinner. - -"The master be in there, sir." - -"What master?" asked David, halting on the way. - -"Why, the master hisself, Mr. Frank. He be come back again." - -To hear that a dead man has "come back" again and is then in the house -you are about to enter, would astonish most of us. David Skate stared at -Sally, as if he thought she had been making free with the cider barrel. -At that moment, Frank appeared at the door, greeting David with a smile -of welcome. The sun shone on his face, making it look pale, and David -verily and truly believed he saw Frank's ghost. With a shout and a cry, -and cheeks all turned to a sickly tremor, he backed behind the pump and -behind Sally. Sally, all on the broad grin, enjoyed it. - -"Why, sir, it be the master hisself. There ain't nothing to be skeered -at." - -"David, don't you know me?" called out Frank heartily; and came forth -with outstretched hands. - -But David did not get his cheeks right again for a good -quarter-of-an-hour. And he was in a maze of wonder all day. - -A warrant had been issued for the apprehension of Stephen Radcliffe of -the Torr, and old Jones started off to the Torr to execute it. As if -Stephen was likely to be found there! Ringing the bell, knocking at the -door, shaking the handle, stood old Jones; the whole string of us behind -burning to help him. It was not answered, and old Jones went at it -again. You might have heard the noise over at Church Dykely. - -Presently the door was drawn slowly back by Stephen Radcliffe's -daughter--the curate's wife. She was trembling all over and looking fit -to drop. Lizzy had come over from Birmingham and learned what had taken -place. Naturally it scared her. She had always been the best of the -bunch; and she had, of course, not known the true secret of the cries. - -"I want to see Mr. Radcliffe, if you please, ma'am," began old Jones, -putting his foot inside, so that the door should not be closed again. - -"My father is not here," she answered, shaking and shivering. - -"Not here!" repeated old Jones, surreptitiously stealing one hand round -to feel the handcuffs. - -"There's no one in the house but myself," she said. "When I got here, an -hour or two ago, I found the place deserted." - -"I should like to see that for myself, ma'am," returned incredulous old -Jones. - -"You can," she answered, drawing back a little. For she saw how futile -it would be to attempt to keep him out. - -Old Jones and some more went in to the search. Not a living creature was -there but herself and the dog. Stephen Radcliffe had never been back -since he started for Alcester in the morning. - -In fact, Stephen was not to be found anywhere, near or distant. Mrs. -Stephen was not to be found. Eunice Gibbon was not to be found. They had -all made themselves scarce. The women had no doubt contrived to convey -the news to Stephen while he was at Alcester, and he must have lost no -time in turning his back on Warwickshire. - -In a day or two, a rumour arose that Stephen Radcliffe and his wife had -sailed for Canada. It proved to be true. "So much the better," said -old Jones, regaling himself, just then, with cold beef in the Squire's -kitchen. "Let him go! Good shut of bad rubbish!" - -Just the sentiments that prevailed generally! Canada was the best place -for Stephen the crafty. It spared us further sight of his surly face and -saved the bother of a prosecution. He took only his own three hundred -a-year with him; the Squire, for Frank, had resumed the receipt of the -other three. And Lizzy, the daughter, with a heap of little ones at her -skirts, remained in possession of the Torr until it should be taken. She -had charge to let it as soon as might be. - -Pitchley's Farm resumed its bustle and its sounds of everyday, happy -life. The crowds that flocked to it to shake hands with Frank and -welcome his wonderful resuscitation were beyond telling. Frank had sworn -a solemn oath never to drink again: he never would, God helping him. -He _knew_ that he never should, he whispered one day to Mr. Brandon, a -joyous light in his face as he spoke. His mother praying for him in -dying, had told him that he would overcome; she had _seen_ that he would -in that last solemn hour, for the prayer had been heard, bringing her -peace. He had overcome now, he said, and he would and should overcome to -the end. - -And Mr. Brandon, reading the faith and the earnestness, felt as sure of -it as Frank did. - - * * * * * - -Frank kept his word. And, two years later, there he was, back at the -Torr again. For Stephen had died of a severely cold winter in Canada, -and his son Tom had died, but not of cold, and the Torr was Frank's. - -Mrs. Stephen came back again, and took up her abode at her brother's. -She would enjoy the three hundred a-year for life, by Stephen's will; it -would then go to her daughter Lizzy--who would want it badly enough with -her flock of youngsters. Becca and Eunice turned their attention to -poultry, and sent rare fowls to shows, and gained prizes for them. -Eunice returned long before Mrs. Stephen. She had never been out of -England at all; and, finding it safe for her, put in an appearance, one -winter day, at the gamekeeper's lodge. - -Frank began to make alterations at the Torr as soon as he entered it, -cutting down trees, and trying to render it a little less gloomy. Annet, -with a calm face of sweet content, was much occupied at that time with a -young man who was just getting on his legs, propelling him before her -by the help of some safety reins that she called "backstrings," a fair -child, who had the frank face and the golden curls of his father. And in -all the country round about, there was not a gentleman more liked and -respected than Francis Radcliffe of Sandstone Torr. - - - - -CHANDLER AND CHANDLER. - - -I. - -Standing at right angles between North Crabb and South Crabb, and from -two to three miles distant, was a place called Islip. A large village -or small town, as you might please to regard it; and which has not a -railroad as yet. - -Years and years before my days, one Thomas Chandler, who had served his -articles to a lawyer in Worcester, set up in practice for himself at -Islip. At the same time another lawyer, one John Paul, also set up at -Islip. The two had no wish to rival one another; but each had made his -arrangements, and neither of them would give way. Islip felt itself -suddenly elevated to pride, now that it could boast of two established -lawyers, when until then it had not possessed one, but concluded that -both of them would come to grief in less than a twelve-month. At the -twelve-month's end, however, each was bearing steadily onwards, and had -procured one or two valuable land agencies; in addition to the legal -practice, which, as yet, was not much. So they kept themselves afloat: -and if they had sometimes to eat bread-and-cheese for dinner, it was -nothing to Islip. - -In the second or third year, Mr. Chandler took his brother Jacob, who -had qualified for a solicitor, into the office; and subsequently made -him a partner, giving him a full half share. Islip thought it was an -extravagantly generous thing of Mr. Chandler to do, and told him he had -better be careful. And, after that, the years went on, and the Chandlers -flourished. The business, what with the land agencies and other things, -increased so much that it required better offices: and so Mr. Chandler, -who had always lived on the premises, moved into a larger and a -handsomer house some doors further up the street. Jacob Chandler had a -pretty little place called North Villa, just outside Crabb, and walked -to and fro night and morning. Both were married and had children. Their -only sister, Mary Ann Chandler, had married a farmer in Gloucestershire, -Stephen Cramp. Upon his death, a year or two afterwards, she came back -and settled herself in a small farm near Islip, where she hoped to get -along, having been left but poorly off. And that is enough by way of -explanation. - -I was only a little shaver, but I remember the commotion well. We were -staying for the autumn at Crabb Cot; and, one afternoon, I, with Tod and -the Squire, found myself on the Islip Road. I suppose we were going for -a walk; perhaps to Islip; but I know nothing about that. All in a moment -we saw a gig coming along at a frightful pace. The horse had run away. - -"Here, you boys, get out of harm's way!" cried the Squire, and bundled -us over the fence into the field. "Bless my heart and mind, it is -Chandler!" he added, as the gig drew nearer. "Chandler and his brother!" - -Mr. Chandler was driving: we could see that as the gig flew past. He was -a tall, strong man; and, perched up on the driving-cushion, looked like -a giant compared with Jacob, who seemed no bigger than a shrimp beside -him. Mr. Chandler's face wore its usual healthy colour, and he appeared -to retain all his presence of mind. Jacob sat holding on to the -driving-cushion with his right hand and to the gig-wing with the left, -and was just as white as a sheet. - -"Dear me, dear me, I hope and trust there will be no accident!" groaned -the Squire. "I hope Chandler will be able to hold in the horse!" - -He set off back to North Crabb at nearly as fleet a pace as the horse, -Tod after him, and I as fast as my small legs would take me. At the -first turning we saw what had happened, for there was a group lying in -the road, and people from the village were running up to it. - -The horse had dashed at the bank, and turned them over. He was not hurt, -the wretched animal. Jacob stood shivering in the highway, quitte pour -la peur, as the French say; Mr. Chandler lay in a heap. - -Jacob's house was within a stone's-throw, and they carried Mr. Chandler -to it on a hurdle, and sent for Cole. The Squire went in with the rest; -Tod and I sat on the opposite stile and waited. And if I am able to tell -you what passed within the doors, it is owing to the Squire's having -been there and staying to the end. No need was there for Cole to tell -Thomas Chandler that the end was at hand: he knew it himself. There -remained no hope for him: no hope. Some complicated injury had been -done him inwardly, through that fiend of a horse trampling on him; and -neither Cole nor all the doctors in the world could save him. - -He was carried into one of the parlours and laid upon a mattress, -hastily placed upon the carpet. Somebody got another gig and drove -fiercely off to fetch his wife and son from Islip. He had two sons only, -Thomas and George. Thomas, sixteen years old now, was in the office, -articled to his father; George was at school, too far off to be sent -for. Mrs. Chandler was soon with him. She had been a farmer's daughter, -and was a meek, patient kind of a woman, who gave you the idea of never -having a will of her own. The office clerks went posting about Islip to -find Tom; he having been out when the gig and messenger arrived. - -It chanced that Jacob Chandler's wife had gone abroad that day, taking -her daughters; so the house was empty, save for the two maid-servants. -The afternoon wore on. Cole had done what he could (which was nothing), -and was now waiting in the other parlour with the clergyman; who had -also done all that was left to do. The Squire stayed in the room; -Chandler seemed to wish it; they had always liked one another. Mrs. -Chandler knelt by the mattress, holding the dying hand: Jacob stood -leaning against the book-case with folded arms and looking the very -picture of misery: the Squire sat on the other side, nursing his knees. - -"There's no time to alter my will, Betsy," panted poor Chandler, who -could only speak by snatches: "and I don't know that I should alter -it if I had the time. It was made when the two lads were little ones. -Everything is left to you without reserve. I know I can trust you to -do a mother's part by them." - -"Always," responded Mrs. Chandler meekly, the silent tears rolling down -her cheeks. - -"You will have enough for comfort. Thoughts have crossed me at times of -making a fortune for you and the lads: I was working on and laying by -for it. How little we can foresee the future! God alone knows what that -will be, and shapes it out. Not a day, not a day can we call our own: I -see it now. With your own little income, and the interest of what I have -been able to put by, you can live. There will also be money paid to you -yearly from the practice----" - -He was stopped by want of breath. Could not go on. - -"Do not trouble yourself to think of these things," she said, catching -up a sob, for she did not want to give way before him. "We shall have -quite plenty. As much as I wish for." - -"And when Tom is out of his articles he will take my place, you know, -and will be well provided for and help you," said Mr. Chandler, taking -up the word again. "And George you must both of you see to. If he has -set his heart upon being a farmer instead of a clergyman, as I wished, -why, let him be one. 'If you are a clergyman, Georgy, you will always -be regarded as a gentleman,' I said to him the other day when he was -at home, telling me he wanted to be a farmer. But now that I am going, -Betsy, I see how valueless these distinctions are. Provided a man -does his duty in the world and fears God, it hardly matters what his -occupation in it is. It is for so short a time. Why, it seems only the -other day that I was a boy, and now my few poor years are over, and I -am going into the never-ending ages of immortality!" - -"It shall all be as you wish, Thomas," she whispered. - -"Ay," he answered. "Jacob, come here." - -Jacob let his arms drop, and left the book-case to stand close over his -brother. Mr. Chandler lifted his right hand, and Jacob stooped and took -it. - -"When we drew up our articles of partnership, Jacob, a clause was -inserted, that upon the death of either of us, the survivor should pay -a hundred and fifty pounds a-year out of the practice to those the other -should leave behind him, provided the business could afford it. You -remember that?" - -"Yes," said Jacob. "I wish it had been me to go instead of you, Thomas." - -"The business will afford it well, as you know, and more than afford it: -you might well double it, Jacob. But I suppose you will have to take an -additional clerk in my place, some efficient man, and he must be paid. -So we will let it be at the hundred and fifty, Jacob. Pay that sum to my -wife regularly." - -"To be sure I will," said Jacob. - -"And when Tom shall be of age he must take my place, you know, and draw -his full half share. _That_ was always an understood thing between you -and me, Jacob, if I were taken. Your own son will, I suppose, be coming -in shortly: so that in later years, when you shall have followed me to -a better world, the old firm will be perpetuated in them--Chandler and -Chandler. Tom and Valentine will divide the profits equally, as we have -divided them." - -"To be sure," said Jacob. - -"Yes, yes; my mind is at rest on the score of worldly things. I would -that all dying men could be as much at ease. God bless and prosper you, -Jacob! You'll give a fatherly eye over Tom and George in my place, and -lead them in straightforward paths." - -"That I will," said Jacob. "I wish with all my heart this dreadful day's -work had never happened!" - -"And so will I too," put in the Squire. "I'll look a bit after your two -boys myself, Chandler." - -Mr. Chandler, drawing his hand from his brother, held it towards the -Squire. At that moment, a suppressed stir was heard outside, and an -eager voice. Tom had arrived: having run all the way from Islip. - -"Where's papa?--where's he lying? Is he hurt very much?" - -Cole appeared, marshalling him in. A well-grown young fellow for -sixteen, with dark eyes, a fresh colour, and a good-natured face; -altogether, the image of his father. Cole took a look down at the -mattress, and saw how very much nearer something was at hand than it -had been only a few minutes before. - -"Hush, Tom," he said, hastily pouring some drops into half a wine-glass -of water. "Gently, lad. Let me give him this." - -Poor Tom Chandler, aghast at what he beheld, was too frightened to -speak. A sudden stillness fell upon him, and he knelt down by the side -of his mother. Cole's drops did no good. There could be only a few last -words. - -"I never thought it would end thus--that I should not have time granted -me for even a last farewell," spoke the dying man in a faint voice and -with a gasp between every word, as he took Tom's hand. "Tom, my boy, I -cannot say to you what I would." - -Tom gave a great burst as though he were choking, and was still the next -minute. - -"Do your duty, my boy, before God and man with all the best strength -that Heaven gives you. You must some time lie as I am lying, Tom; it may -be with as little warning of it as I have had: at the best, this life -will last such a little while as compared with life eternal. Fear God; -find your Saviour; love and serve your fellow-creatures. Make up your -accounts with your conscience morning and evening. And--Tom----" - -"Yes, father; yes, father?" spoke poor Tom, entreatingly, as the voice -died away, and he was afraid that the last words were dying away too and -would never be spoken. - -"Take care of your mother and be dutiful to her. And do you and George -be loving brothers to each other always: tell him I enjoined it with my -closing breath. Poor George! if I could but see him! And--and--and----" - -"Yes, oh yes, I will; I will indeed! What else, father?" - -But there was nothing else. Just two or three faint words as death came -in, and a final gasp to close them. - -"God be with you ever, Tom!" - -That was all. And the only other thing I recollect was seeing the -sister, Mrs. Cramp, come up in a yellow chaise from the Bell at Islip, -and pass into the house, as we sat on the gate. But she was just too -late. - -You may be sure that the affair caused a commotion. So grave a calamity -had never happened at North Crabb. Mr. Chandler and his brother had -started from Islip in their gig to look at some land that was going -to be valued, which lay a mile or two on the other side Crabb on the -Worcester Road. They had driven the horse a twelvemonth and never had -any trouble with him. It was supposed that something must have been -wrong with the harness. Any way, he had started, kicked, backed, and -finally run away. - -I saw the funeral: standing with Tod in the churchyard amidst many -other spectators, and reading the inscriptions on the grave-stones -while we waited. Mr. Chandler had been taken back to his house at -Islip, and was brought from thence to Crabb to be buried. Tom and -George Chandler came in the first mourning-coach with their Uncle -Jacob and his son Valentine. In the next sat two other relatives, -with the Squire and Mr. Cole. - -Changes followed. Mrs. Chandler left the house at Islip, and Jacob -Chandler and his family moved into it. She took a pretty cottage at -North Crabb, and Tom walked to the office of a morning and home again -at night. Valentine, Jacob's only son, was removed from school at once -to be articled to his father. He was fifteen, just a year younger -than Tom. - -Years passed on. Tom grew to be four-and-twenty, Valentine -three-and-twenty. Both of them were good-looking young men, tall and -straight; but Tom had the pleasanter face, address, and manners. Every -one liked him. Crabb had thought when Tom attained his majority, and got -his certificate as a solicitor, that his uncle would have taken him into -partnership. The Squire had said it publicly. Instead of that, old Jacob -gave him a hundred a-year salary to start with, and said to him, "Now -we shall go on comfortably, Tom." Tom, who was anything but exacting, -supposed his uncle wished him to add a year or two to his age and some -more experience, before taking him in. So he thanked old Jacob for the -hundred a-year, and was contented. - -George Chandler had emigrated to Canada. Which rather gave his mother -a turn. Some people they knew had gone out there, purchased land, and -were doing well on it; and George resolved to follow them. George had -been placed with a good farmer in Gloucestershire and learnt farming -thoroughly. That accomplished, he began to talk to his mother about -his prospects. What he would have liked was, to take a farm on his own -account. But he had no money to stock it, and his mother had none to -give him. Her income, including the hundred and fifty paid to her from -the business, was about four hundred pounds, all told: home living -and her sons' expenses had taken it all, leaving no surplus. "There's -nothing for me but going to Canada, mother," said George: "I don't see -any opening for me in England. I shall be sure to get on, over there. I -am healthy and steady and industrious; and those are the qualities that -make way in a new country. If the worst comes to the worst, and I do not -succeed, I can but come back again." His arguments prevailed at length, -and he sailed for Canada, their friends over there promising to receive -and help him. - -All this while Jacob Chandler had flourished. His practice had gradually -increased, and he had become a great man. Great in show and expense. It -was not his fault; it was that of his family: of his own will, he would -never have put a foot forward out of his plain old groove. Mrs. Jacob -Chandler, empty-headed, vain, and pretty, had but two thoughts in the -world: the one to make her way amidst fashionable people, the other to -marry her daughters well. Originally a small tradesman's daughter in -Birmingham, she was now ridiculously upstart, and put on more airs and -graces in an hour than a lady born and bred would in a lifetime. Mrs. -Jacob Chandler's people had sold brushes and brooms, soaps and pickles: -she had occasionally stood behind the counter and served out the soap -with her own hands; and Mrs. Jacob now looked down upon Birmingham -itself and every one in it. - -North Villa had not been given up, though they did move to Islip. Jacob -Chandler held a long lease of it, and he sub-let it for three or four -years. At the end of that period it occurred to Mrs. Jacob that she -should like to keep it for herself, as a sort of country house to retire -to at will. As she was the grey mare, this was done; though Jacob -grumbled. So North Villa was furbished up, and some new furniture put -into it; and the garden, a very nice one, improved: and Mrs. Jacob, with -one or other or all three of her daughters, might be frequently seen -driving her pony-carriage with its handsome ponies between North Villa -and Islip, streamers flying, ribbons fluttering: you would have taken it -for a rainbow coming along. The girls were not bad-looking, played and -sang with open windows loud enough to frighten the passers-by, and -were given to speak to one another in French at table. "Voulez-vouz -donner-moi la sel, Clementina?" "Voulez-vous passer-moi le moutarde, -Georgiana?" "Voulez-vous envoyer-moi les poivre, Julietta?" For, as Mrs. -Jacob would have told you, they had learnt French at school; and to -converse in it was of course only natural to themselves, and most -instructive to any visitor who might chance to be present. Added to -these advantages Mrs. and the Miss Chandlers adored dress, their -out-of-door toilettes being grander than a queen's. - -All this: the two houses and the company received in them; the ponies -and the groom; the milliners' bills and the dress-makers', made a hole -in Jacob Chandler's purse. Not too much of a hole in one sense of the -word; Jacob took care of that: but it prevented him from putting by all -the money he wished. He made plenty of it: more than the world supposed. - -In this manner matters had gone on since the departure of George -Chandler for Canada. Mrs. Chandler living quietly in her home making -it a happy one for her son Tom, and treasuring George's letters from -over the sea: Mrs. Jacob Chandler and her daughters keeping the place -alive; Valentine getting to be a very fine gentleman indeed; old Jacob -sticking to business and pocketing his gains. The first interruption -came in the shape of a misfortune for Mrs. Chandler. She lost a -good portion of her money through a calamity that you have heard of -before--the bursting-up of Clement Pell. It left her with very little, -save the hundred and fifty pounds a-year paid to her regularly by -Jacob. Added to this was the hundred a-year Tom earned, and which his -uncle had not increased. And this brings us down to the present time, -when Tom was four-and-twenty. - -Jacob Chandler sat one morning in his own room at his office, when a -clerk came in and said Mrs. Chandler from Crabb was asking to see him. -Cordiality had always subsisted between the two families, though they -were not much together; Mrs. Chandler disliking their show; Mrs. Jacob -and her daughters intensely despising one who wore black silk for best, -and generally made her puddings with her own fingers. "So low-lived, you -know, my dears," Mrs. Jacob would say, with a toss of her bedecked head. - -Jacob heard his clerk's announcement with annoyance; the lines on his -brow grew deeper. He had always been a shrimp of a man, but he looked -like a shrivelled one now. His black clothes sat loosely upon him; his -white neckcloth, for he dressed like a parson, seemed too large for his -thin neck. - -"Mrs. Chandler can come in," said he, after a few moments' hesitation. -"But say I am busy." - -She came in, putting back her veil: she had worn a plain-shaped bonnet -with a white border ever since her husband died. It suited her meek, -kind, and somewhat homely face, on which the brown hair, streaked with -grey, was banded. - -"Jacob, I am sorry to disturb you, especially as you are busy; but I -have wanted to speak to you for some time now and have not liked to -come," she began, taking the chair that stood near the table at which -he sat. "It is about Tom." - -"What about him?" asked Jacob. "Has he been up to any mischief?" - -"Mischief! Tom! Why, Jacob, I hardly think there can be such another -young man as he, for steadiness and good conduct; and, I may say, for -kindness. I have never heard anything against him. What I want to ask -you is, when you think of making a change?" - -"A change?" echoed Jacob, as if the words puzzled him, biting away at -the feather of his pen. "A change?" - -"Is it not time that he should be taken into the business? I--I -thought--and Tom I know also thought, Jacob--that you would have done -it when he was twenty-one." - -"Oh, did you?" returned Jacob, civilly. - -"He is twenty-four, you know, now, Jacob, and naturally wishes to -get forward in life. I am anxious that he should; and I think it is -time--forgive me for saying it, Jacob--that something was settled." - -"I was thinking of raising Tom's salary," coolly observed Jacob; "of -giving him, say, fifty pounds a-year more. Valentine has been bothering -me to do the same by him; so I suppose I must." - -The fixed colour on Mrs. Chandler's thin cheeks grew a shade deeper. -"But, Jacob, it was his father's wish, you know, that he should be taken -into partnership, should succeed to his own share of the business; and -I thought you would have arranged it ere this. An increase of salary is -not the thing at all: it is not that that is in question." - -"Nothing can be so bad for a young man as to make him his own master too -early," cried Jacob. "I've known it ruin many a one." - -"You promised my husband when he was dying that it should be so," she -gently urged. "Besides, it is Tom's right. I understood that when he -was of a proper age, he was to come in, in accordance with a previous -arrangement made between you and poor Thomas." - -Jacob bit the end of the pen right off and nearly swallowed it. "Thomas -left all things in my hands," said he, coughing and choking. "Tom must -acquire some further experience yet." - -"When do you propose settling it, then? How long will it be first?" - -"Well, that depends, you know. I shall see." - -"Will it be in another year? Tom will be five-and-twenty then." - -"Ay, he will: and Val four-and-twenty. How time flies! It seems but the -other day that they were in jackets and trousers." - -"But will it be then--in another year? You have not answered me, Jacob." - -"And I can't answer you," returned Jacob. "How can I? Don't you -understand me when I say I must wait and see?" - -"You surely will do what is right, Jacob?" - -"Well now, can you doubt it, Betsy? Of course I shall. When did you hear -from George?" - -Mrs. Chandler rose, obliged to be satisfied. To urgently press any -interest of her own was not in her nature. As she shook hands with Jacob -she was struck with the sickly appearance of his face. - -"Are you feeling quite well, Jacob? You look but poorly." - -"I have felt anything but well for a long time," he replied, in a -fretful tone. "I don't know what ails me: too much work, perhaps, but -I seem to have strength for nothing." - -"You should give yourself a rest, Jacob, and take some bark." - -"Ay. Good-day." - -Now it came to pass that in turning out of the house, after nodding to -Tom and Valentine, who sat at a desk side by side in the room to the -left, the door of which stood open, Mrs. Chandler saw the Squire on the -opposite side of the street, and crossed over to him. He asked her in -a joking way whether she had been in to get six and eightpenceworth -of law. She told him what she had been in for, seeing no reason for -concealing it. - -"Bless me, yes!" cried he, in his impulsive way. "I'm sure it's quite -time Tom was in the firm. I'll go and talk to Jacob." - -And when he got in--making straight across the street with the words, -and through the passage, and so to the room without halt or ceremony--he -saw Jacob leaning back in his chair, his hands thrust into his black -side-pockets, and his head bent on his chest in deep thought. The Squire -noticed how deep the lines in his brow had grown, just as Mrs. Chandler -had. - -"But you know, Jacob Chandler, that it was an agreement with the dead," -urged the Squire, in his eagerness, after listening to some plausible -(and shuffling) remarks from Jacob. - -"An agreement with the dead!" repeated Jacob, looking up at the Squire -for explanation. They were both standing on the matting near the fender: -which was filled with an untidy mass of torn and twisted scraps of -paper. "What do you mean, Squire? I never knew before that the dead -could make an agreement." - -"You know what I mean," cried the Squire, hotly. "Poor Thomas was close -upon death at the time you and he had the conversation: he wanted but -two or three minutes of it." - -"Oh, ah, yes; that's true enough, so far as it goes, Squire," replied -Jacob, pulling up his white cravat as if his throat felt cold. - -"Well," argued the Squire. "Did not you and he agree that Tom was to -come in when he was twenty-one? Both of you seemed to imply that there -existed a previous understanding to that effect." - -"There never was a word said about his coming in when he was -twenty-one," contended Jacob. - -"Why, bless my heart and mind, do you suppose my ears were shut, Jacob -Chandler?" retorted the Squire, beginning to rub his head with his red -silk handkerchief. "I heard the words." - -"No, Squire. Think a bit." - -Jacob spoke so calmly that the Squire began to rub up his memory as well -as his head. He had no cause to suppose Jacob Chandler to be other than -an honourable man. - -"'When Tom shall be of age, he must take my place:' those were I think -the very words," repeated the Squire. "I can see your poor brother's -face now as he lay down on the floor and spoke them. It had death in -it." - -"Yes, it had death in it," acquiesced Jacob, in a tone of discomfort. -"What he said was this, Squire: 'When Tom shall be of an age.' Meaning -of course a suitable age to justify the step." - -"I don't think so: I did not hear it so," persisted the Squire. "There -was no 'an' in it. 'When Tom shall be of age:' that was it. Meaning -when he should be twenty-one." - -"Oh dear, no; quite a mistake. You can't think my ears would deceive me -at such a time as that, Mr. Todhetley. And about our own business too." - -"Well, you ought to know best, of course, though my impression is that -you are wrong," conceded the Squire. "Put it that it was as you say: -don't you think Tom Chandler is now quite old enough for it to be acted -upon?" - -"No, I don't," replied Jacob. "As I have just told his mother, nothing -can be more pernicious for a young man than to be made his own master -too early. Nine young fellows out of every ten would get ruined by it." - -"Do you think so?" asked the Squire, dubiously. - -"I am sure so, Squire. Tom Chandler is steady now, for aught I know to -the contrary; but just let him get the reins into his hands, and you'd -see what it would be. That is, what it might be. And I am not going to -risk it." - -"He is as steady-going a young man as any one could wish for; diligent, -straightforward. Not at all given to spending money improperly." - -"Because he has not had it to spend. I have known many a young blade to -be quiet and cautious while his pockets were empty; and as soon as they -were filled, perhaps all at once, he has gone headlong to rack and ruin. -How do we know that it would not be the case with Tom?" - -"Well, I--I don't think it would be," said the Squire, with hesitation, -for he was coming round to Jacob's line of argument. - -"But I can't act upon 'thinking,' Squire; I must be sure. Tom will just -stay on with me at present as he is; so there's an end of it. His salary -is going to be raised: and I--I consider that he is very well off." - -"Well, perhaps he'll be none the worse for a little longer spell -of clerkship," repeated the Squire, coming wholly round. "And now -good-morning. I'm rather in a hurry to-day, but I thought it right to -put in a word for Tom's sake, as I was present when poor Thomas died." - -"Good-morning, Mr. Todhetley," answered Jacob, as he sat down to his -desk again. - -But he did not get to work. He bent his head on his neckcloth as before, -and set on to think. What had just passed did not please him at all: for -Jacob Chandler was not devoid of conscience; though it was an elastic -one, and he was in the habit of deadening it at will. It was not his -intention to take his nephew into partnership at all; then or later. -Almost ever since the day of his brother's funeral he had looked at -matters after his own fashion, and soon grew to think that Tom had no -manner of right to a share in the business; that as Thomas was dead and -gone, it was all his, and ought to be all his. He and Thomas had shared -it between them: therefore it was only just and proper that he, the -survivor, should take it. That's how Jacob Chandler, who was the essence -of covetousness, had been reasoning, and his mind was made up. - -It was therefore very unpleasant to be pounced upon in this way by two -people in one morning. Their application as regarded Tom himself would -not have troubled him: he knew how to put disputants off civilly, saying -neither yes nor no, and promising nothing: but what annoyed him was the -reminiscence they had called up of his dying brother. Jacob intended to -get safely into the world above, some day, by hook or by crook; he went -to church regularly, and considered himself a model of good behaviour. -But these troublesome visitors had somehow contrived to put before -his conscience the fact that he might be committing a lifelong act -of injustice on Tom; and that, to do so, was not the readiest way of -getting to heaven. Was that twelve o'clock? How the morning had passed! - -"Uncle Jacob, I am going over to Brooklands about that lease. Have you -any particular instructions to give me?" - -It was Tom himself who had entered. A tall, good-looking, fresh-coloured -young man, who had honesty and kindliness written on every line of his -open face. - -Jacob lifted his bent head, and drew his chair nearer his table as if he -meant to set to work in earnest. But his mouth took a cross look. - -"Who told _you_ to go? I said Valentine was to go." - -"Valentine has stepped out. He asked me to go for him." - -"Where has he stepped to?" - -"He did not say," replied Tom, evasively. For he knew quite well where -Valentine was gone: to the Bell inn over the way. Valentine went to the -Bell a little too much, and was a little too fond of the Bell's good -liquor. - -"I suppose you can go, then. No, I have no instructions: you know what -to say as well as I do. We don't give way a jot, mind. Oh, and--Tom!" -added Jacob, calling him back as he went out. - -"Yes, sir." - -"I am intending to raise your salary. From the beginning of next month, -you will have a hundred and fifty a-year." - -"Oh, thank you, Uncle Jacob." - -Tom spoke as he in his ready good-nature felt--brightly and gratefully. -Nevertheless, a shade of disappointment did cross his mind, for he -thought his position in the house ought to be a different one. - -"And I am _sure_ it is quite as much as I ought to do for him," argued -Jacob with his conscience. And he put away unpleasant prickings and set -to work like a house on fire. - -It was one o'clock when Valentine came in. He had an excuse ready for -his father: the latter, turning out of the clerks' room, chanced to see -him enter. "He had been down to Tyler's to see if he could get that -money from them." It was an untruth, for he had stayed all the while at -the Bell; and his father noticed that his face was uncommonly flushed. -Old Jacob had had his suspicions before; yes, and spoken of them to -Valentine: he now motioned him to go before him into the private room. - -"You have been drinking, sir!" - -"I!--good gracious, no," returned Valentine, boldly, his blue eyes -fearlessly meeting his father's. "What fancies you do pick up!" - -"Valentine, when I was your age I never drank a drop of anything till -night, and then it was only a glass of beer with my supper. It seems to -me that young men of the present day think they can drink at all hours -with impunity." - -"I don't drink, father." - -"Very well. Take care you do not. It is a habit more easily acquired -than left off. Look here: I am going to give you fifty pounds a-year -more. Mind you _make it do_: and do not spend it in waste." - -It was not very long after this that Jacob Chandler had a shock: a few -months, or so. During that time he had been growing thinner and weaker, -and looked so shrivelled up that there seemed to be nothing left of -him. Islip, small place though it was, had a market-day--Friday;--when -farmers would drive or walk in and congregate at the Bell. One -afternoon, just as the ordinary was over, Jacob went to the inn, as was -his general custom: he had always some business or other to transact -with the farmers; or, if not, something to say. His visit to them over, -he said good-day and left: but the next minute he turned back, having -forgotten something. Some words fell on his ear as he opened the door. - -"Ay. He is not long for this world." - -They were spoken by old Farmer Blake--a big, burly, kind-hearted man. -And Jacob Chandler felt as certain that they were meant to apply to -himself as though his name had been mentioned. He went into a cold -shiver, and shut the door again without entering. - -Was it true, he asked himself, as he walked across the street to his -office: was it indeed a fact that he was slowly dying? A great fear fell -upon him: a dread of death. What, leave all this beautiful sunshine, -this bright world in which he was so busy, and pass into the cold dark -grave! Jacob turned sick at the thought. - -It was true that he had long been ailing; but not with any specific -ailment. He could not deny that he was now more like a shadow than a -man, or that every day seemed to bring him less of strength. Passing -into his dining-parlour instead of into his private business room, he -drank two glasses of wine off at once, and it seemed to revive him. He -was a very abstemious man in general. - -Well, if Farmer Blake did say it--stupid old idiot!--it was not obliged -to be true, reflected Jacob then. People judged by his spareness: he -wished he could get a little fatter. And so he reasoned and persuaded -himself out of his fears, and grew sufficiently reassured to transact -his business, always pressing on a Friday. - -But that same evening, Jacob Chandler drove to North Villa in his gig, -telling his wife he should sleep there for a week or two, for the sake -of the fresh air. And the next morning, before he went to Islip, he sent -for the doctor--Cole. - -"People are saying you won't live!" repeated Cole, having listened to -Jacob's confidential communication. "I don't see why you should not -live. Let's examine you a bit. You should not take up fancies." - -Cole could find nothing particular the matter with him. He recommended -him rest from business, change of air, and a generous diet. "Try it for -a month," said he. - -"I can't try it--except the diet," returned Jacob. "It's all very well -for you to talk about rest from business, Cole, but how am I to take -rest? My business could not get on without me. Business is a pleasure to -me; it's not a pain." - -"You want rest from it all the same," said Cole. "You have stuck closely -to it this many a year." - -"My mother died without apparent cause," said Jacob, dreamily. "She -seemed just to drift out of life. About my age, too." - -"That's no reason why you should," argued Cole. - -Well, they went on, talking at one another; but nothing came of it. And -Cole left, saying he would send him in some tonics to take. - -By the evening it was known all over the place that Jacob Chandler was -ill and had sent for Cole. People talked of it the next morning as they -went to church. Jacob appeared, looking much as usual, and sat down in -his pew. The next to come in was Mrs. Cramp; who walked over to our -church sometimes. She stayed to dine with the Lexoms, and went to call -at North Villa after dinner; finding Mrs. Jacob and the rest of them at -dessert with a guest or two. Jacob was somewhere in the garden. - -Mrs. Cramp found him in the latticed arbour, and sat down opposite to -him, taking up her brown shot-silk gown, lest the seat should be dusty. -When she told him it was the hearing of his illness which had brought -her over to Crabb, he turned cross. He was not ill, he said; only a -trifle out of sorts, as every one else must be at times and seasons. By -dint of questioning, Mrs. Cramp, who was a stout, comely woman, fond of -having her own way, got out of him all Cole had said. - -"And Cole is right, Jacob: it is rest and change you want," she -remarked. "You are sure you do not need it? don't tell me. A stitch in -times saves nine, remember." - -"You know nothing about it, Mary Ann." - -"I know that you look thinner and thinner every time I see you. Be wise -in time, brother." - -"Cole told me to go away to the seaside for a month. Why, what should I -do, mooning for a whole month in a strange place by myself? I should be -like a fish out of water." - -"Take your wife and the girls." - -"I dare say! They would only worry me with their fine doings. And look -at the expense." - -"I will go with you if you like, Jacob, rather than you should go alone, -though it would be an inconvenience to me. And pay my own expenses." - -"Mary Ann, I am not going at all; or thinking of it. It would be -impossible for me to leave my business." - -Mrs. Cramp, turning over matters in her mind, determined to put the case -plainly before him, and did so; telling him that it would be better to -leave his business for a temporary period now, than to find shortly that -he must leave it for ever. Jacob sat gazing out straight before him -at the Malvern Hills, the chain of which lay against the sky in the -distance. - -"If you took my advice, brother, you would retire from business -altogether. You have made enough to live without it, I suppose----" - -"But I have not made enough," he interrupted. - -"Then you ought to have made it, Jacob." - -"Oughts don't go for much." - -"What I mean is, that you ought to have made it, judging by the style in -which you live. Two houses, a carriage and ponies (besides your gig), -expensive dress, parties: all that should never be gone into, brother, -unless the _realized_ income justifies it." - -"It is the style we live in that has not let me put by, Mary Ann. I -don't tell you I have put nothing by: I have put a little by year by -year; but it is not enough to live upon." - -"Then make arrangements for half the proceeds of the business to be -given over to you. Let the two boys take to it, and----" - -"_Who?_" cried Jacob. - -"The two boys, Tom and Valentine. It will be theirs some time, you know, -Jacob: let them have it at once. Tom's name must be first, as it ought -to be. Valentine----" - -"I have no intention of doing anything of the kind," interposed Jacob, -sharply. "I shall keep the business in my own hands as long as I live. -Perhaps I may take Valentine into it: not Tom." - -Mrs. Cramp sat for a full minute staring at Jacob, her stout hands, -from which the gloves had been taken, and her white lace ruffles lying -composedly on her brown gown. - -"Not take Tom into the business!" she repeated, in a slow, astonished -tone. "Why, Jacob, what do you mean?" - -"_That_," said Jacob. "Tom will stay on at a good salary: I shall -increase it, I dare say, every two years, or so; but he will not come -into the firm." - -"You can't mean what you say." - -"I have meant it this many a year past, Mary Ann. I have never intended -to take him in." - -"Jacob, beware! No luck ever comes of fraud." - -"Of what? _Fraud?_" - -"Yes; I say fraud. If you deprive Tom of the place that is justly his, -it will be a cheat and a fraud, and nothing short of it." - -"You have a queer way of looking at things, Mrs. Cramp. Who has kept the -practice together all these years, but me? and added to it little by -little, and made it worth double what it was; ay, and more than double? -It is right--_right_, mind you, Mary Ann--that my own son should succeed -to it." - -"Who made the practice in the first place, and took you into it out of -brotherly affection, and made you a full partner without your paying a -farthing, and for seventeen or eighteen years was the chief prop and -stay of it?" retorted Mrs. Cramp. "Why, poor Thomas; your elder brother. -Who made him a promise when he was lying dying in that very parlour -where your wife and children are now sitting, that Tom should take his -proper place in the firm when he was of age, and his half-share with it, -according to agreement? Why you. You did, Jacob Chandler." - -"That was all a mistake," said Jacob, shuffling his thin legs and -wrists. - -"I will leave you," said Mrs. Cramp. "I don't care to discuss questions -while you are in this frame of mind. Is this all the benefit you got -from the parson's sermon this morning, and the text he gave out before -it? That text: think of it a bit, brother Jacob, and perhaps you'll see -your way to acting differently. Remember," she added, turning back to -him for the last word, which she always had, somehow, "that cheating -never prospers in the long run. It never does, Jacob; never: for where -it is crafty cheating, hidden away from the sight of man, it is seen -and noted by God." - -Her brown skirts (all the shades of a copper tea-kettle) disappeared -round the corner by the mulberry-tree, leaving Jacob very angry and -uncomfortable. Angry with her, uncomfortable in himself. Do what he -would, he could not get that text out of his mind--and what right -had she to bring it cropping up to him in that inconvenient way, he -wondered, or to speak to him about such matters at all. The verse was -a beautiful verse in itself; he had always thought so: but it was not -pleasant to be tormented by it--and all through Mary Ann! There it was -haunting his memory again! - -"Keep innocency, and take heed unto the thing that is right: for that -shall bring a man peace at the last." - - * * * * * - -Jacob Chandler grew to look a little fresher, though not stouter, as -the weeks went on: the drive, night and morning, seemed to do him good. -Meeting Cole one day, he told him he felt stronger, and did not see why -he should not live to be ninety. With all his heart, Cole answered, but -most people found seventy long enough. - -All at once, without warning, a notice appeared in the local papers, -stating that Jacob Chandler had taken his son Valentine into -partnership. Mrs. Chandler read it as she sat at breakfast. - -"What does it mean, Tom?" she asked. - -"I don't know what it means, mother. We have heard nothing about it at -the office." - -"Tom, you may depend your uncle Jacob _has done it_, and that he does -not intend to take you in at all," spoke Mrs. Chandler, in her strong -conviction. "I shall go to him." - -She finished her breakfast and went off there and then, catching Jacob -just as he was turning out of the white gate at North Villa to mount his -gig: for he still came over to Crabb to sleep. The newspaper was in her -hand, and she pointed to the advertisement. - -"What does it mean, Jacob?" she asked, just as she had a few minutes -before asked of Tom. - -"Mean!" said Jacob. "It can't have more than one meaning, can it? I've -thought it best to let Val's name appear in the practice, and made over -to him a small share of the profits. Very small, Betsy. He won't draw -much more than he has been drawing as salary." - -"But what of Tom?" questioned poor Mrs. Chandler. - -"Of Tom? Well, what of him?" - -"When is he to be taken in?" - -"Oh, there's time enough for that. I can't make two moves at once; it -could not be expected of me, Betsy. My son is my son, and he had to come -in first." - -"But--Jacob--don't you think you ought to carry out the agreement made -with Tom's father--that you are bound in honour?" debated Mrs. Chandler, -in her meek and non-insisting way. - -"Time enough, Betsy. We shall see. And look there, my horse won't stand: -he's always fresh in the morning." - -Shaking her hand hastily, he stepped up, took the reins from the man, -and was off in a trice, bowling along at a quicker pace than usual. The -poor woman, left standing there and feeling half-bewildered, saw Mrs. -Jacob at one of the open windows, and crossed the lawn to speak. - -"I came up about this announcement," she said. "It is so strange a -thing; we can't understand it at all. Jacob should take Tom into -partnership. Especially now that he has taken Valentine." - -"Do you think so?" drawled Mrs. Jacob; who wore a pink top-knot and -dirty morning wrapper, and minced her words more than usual, for she -thought the more she minced them the finer she was. "Dear me! I'm sure I -don't know anything about it. All well at home, I hope? I won't ask you -in, for I'm going to be busy. My daughters are invited to a garden-party -this afternoon, and I must give directions about the trimming of their -dresses. Good-morning." - -Back went Mrs. Chandler, and found her son watching for her at the door, -waiting to hear what news she brought, before setting out on his usual -walk. - -"Your uncle slips through it like an eel, Tom," she began. "I can make -nothing of him one way or another. He does not say he will not take you -in, but he does not say he will. What is to be done?" - -"Nothing can be done that I know of, mother," replied Tom; "nothing at -all. Uncle Jacob holds the power in his own hands, you see. If it does -not please him to give me my lawful share, we cannot oblige him to do -it." - -"But how unjust it will be if he does not!" - -"Yes. _I_ think so. But, it seems to me there's little else but -injustice in the world," added Tom, with a light smile. "You would say -so if you were in a lawyer's office and had to dive into the cases -brought there. Good-bye, mother mine." - -Pretty nearly a year went on after this, bringing no change. "Jacob -Chandler and Son, Solicitors, Conveyancers, and Land Agents," flourished -in gilt letters on the front-door at Islip, and Jacob Chandler and Son -flourished inside, in the matter of business. But never a move was made -to take in Tom. And when Jacob was asked about it, as he was once or -twice, he civilly shuffled the topic off. - -But, before the year had well elapsed, Jacob was stricken down. To look -at him you would have said he had been growing thinner all that while, -only that it seemed impossible. This time it was for death. He had not -much grace given him, either: just a couple of days and a night. - -He went to bed one night as well as usual, but the next morning did not -get up, saying he felt "queer," and sent for Cole. Jacob Chandler was -a rare coward in illness. That fining-down process he had been going -through so long had not troubled him: he thought it was only his natural -constitution: and when real illness set in his fears sprang up. - -"You had better stay in bed to-day," said Cole. "I will send you a -draught to take." - -"But what is it that's the matter with me?" asked Jacob. - -"I don't know," said Cole. - -"Is it ague? Or intermittent fever coming on? See how I am shaking." - -"N--o," hesitated Cole, either in doubt, or else because he would not -say too much. "I'll look in again by-and-by." - -Towards midday Jacob thought he'd get up, and see what that would do for -him. It seemed to do nothing, except make him worse; and he went to bed -again. Cole looked in three times during the day, but did not say what -he thought. - -In the middle of the night a paroxysm of illness came on again, and a -servant ran to knock up the doctor. Jacob was shaking the very bed, and -seemed in awful fear. - -And in the morning he appeared to know that he had not many hours to -live. Knew it by intuition, for Cole had not told him. An express -went flying to Worcester for Dr. Malden: but Cole knew--and told it -later--that all the physicians in the county could not save him. - -And the state of mind that Jacob Chandler went into with the knowledge, -might have read many a careless man a lesson. It seemed to him that he -had a whole peck of suddenly-recollected sins on his head, and misdeeds -to be accounted for. He remembered Tom Chandler then. - -"I have not done by him as I ought; it lies upon me with an awful -weight," he groaned. "Valentine, you must remedy the wrong. Take him in, -and give him his proper share. I should like to see Tom. Some one fetch -him." - -Tom had to be fetched from Islip. He came at once, his long legs -skimming over the ground quickly; and he entered the sick-chamber with -the cordial smile on his open face, and took his uncle's hand. - -"It shall all be remedied, Tom; all the injustice; and you shall have -your due rights. I see now how unjust it was: I don't know what God's -thinking of me for it. I wanted to make a good provision for my old age, -you see; to be able to live at ease; and now there is no old age for me: -God is taking me before it has come on." - -"Don't distress yourself, Uncle Jacob; it will be all right. And I'm -sure I have not thought much about it." - -"But others have," groaned Jacob. "Your mother; and Mary Ann; and--and -Squire Todhetley. They have all been on at me at times. But I shut my -ears. Oh dear! I wish God would let me live a few years over again! I'd -try and be different. What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?" - -And that was how he kept on the best part of the day. Then he called out -that he wanted his will altered. Valentine brought in pen and ink, but -his father motioned him away and said it must be done by Paul. So Paul -the lawyer was got over from Islip, and was shut up alone with the -sick man for a quarter-of-an-hour. Next the parson came, and read some -prayers. But Jacob still cried out his piteous laments, at having no -time to redeem the past, until his voice was too weak to speak. At nine -o'clock in the evening all was over. - -The disease that killed him must have been making silent progress for a -good while, Cole said, when the truth was ascertained: but he had never -seen it develop itself with so little warning, or prove fatal so quickly -as in the case of Jacob Chandler. - - -II. - -Jacob Chandler, solicitor, conveyancer, and land-agent, had died: and -his son Valentine (possibly taking a leaf out of the history of Jonas -Chuzzlewit) determined that he should at least be borne to the grave -with honours, if he had never had an opportunity to specially bear them -in life. Crabb churchyard was a show of mutes and plumes, and Crabb -highway was blocked up with black coaches. As it is considered a -compliment down with us to get an invitation to a funeral, and a great -slight on the dead to refuse it, all classes, from Sir John Whitney, -down to Massock, the brickmaker, and little Farmer Bean, responded to -Valentine Chandler's notes. Some people said that it was Valentine's -mother, the new widow, who wished for so much display; and probably they -were right. - -It took place on a Saturday. I can see the blue sky overhead now, and -the bright sun that shone upon the scene and lighted up the feathers. It -was thought he must have died rich, and that the three daughters he left -would have good portions. His son Valentine had the practice: so, at any -rate, _he_ was provided for. Tom Chandler, the nephew, made one of the -mourners: and the spectators talked freely enough in an undertone, -as he passed them in his place when the procession walked up the -churchyard path. It seemed but the other day, they said, that his poor -father was buried, killed by that lamentable accident. Time flew. Years -passed imperceptibly. But Jacob--lying so still under that black and -white pall, now slowly disappearing within the church--had not done the -right thing by his dead brother's son. The practice had been made by -Thomas, the elder brother. Thomas took Jacob into full partnership -without fee or recompense; and there was an understanding entered into -between them later (but no legal agreement) that if the life of either -failed his son should succeed to his post. If Thomas, the elder, died, -his son Tom was to take his father's place as senior partner in due -time. Thomas did die; died suddenly; but from that hour to this, Jacob -had never attempted to carry out the agreement: he had taken his own -son, Valentine, into partnership, but not Tom. And Crabb knew, both -North and South, for such things get about curiously, that the injustice -had troubled Jacob when he was dying, and that he had charged Valentine -to remedy it. - -Sunday morning was not so fine: leaden clouds, threatening rain, had -overshadowed the summer sky. But all the family mourners came to -church, Valentine wearing his long crape hatband and shoulder scarf -(for that was our custom); the widow in her costly mourning, and the -three girls in theirs. The mourning was furnished, Miss Timmens took -the opportunity of whispering to Mrs. Todhetley, from a fashionable -black shop at Worcester: and, to judge by the frillings and furbelows, -very fashionable indeed the shop must have been. Mrs. Chandler and her -son Tom sat together in their own pew, Mrs. Cramp, Jacob's sister, -with them. It chanced that we were staying at Crabb Cot at the time of -Jacob's death, just as we had been at Thomas's, and so saw the doings -and heard the sayings, and the Squire was at hand for both funerals. - -The next morning, Monday, Valentine Chandler took his place in the -office as master for the first time, and seated himself in his late -father's chair in the private room. He and his mother had already held -some conversation as to arrangements for the future. Valentine said he -should live at the office at Islip: now that there was only himself -he should have more to do, and did not want the bother of walking or -driving to and fro morning and evening. She would live entirely at -North Villa. - -Valentine took his place in his father's room; and the clerks, who had -been hail-fellow-well-met with him hitherto, put on respect of manner, -and called him Mr. Chandler. Tom had an errand to do every Monday -morning connected with the business, and did not enter until nearly -eleven o'clock. Before settling to his desk, he went in to Valentine. - -They shook hands. In times of bereavement we are apt to observe more -ceremony than at others. Tom sat down: which caused the new master to -look towards him inquiringly. - -"Valentine, I want to have a bit of talk with you. Upon what footing am -I to be on here?" - -"How do you mean?" asked Valentine: who was leaning back in the green -leather chair with the air of his new importance full upon him, his -elbows on the low arms, and an ivory paper-knife held between his -fingers. - -"My uncle Jacob told me that from henceforth I was to assume my right -place here, Valentine. I suppose it will be so." - -"What do you call your right place?" cried Valentine. - -"Well, my right place would be head of the office," replied Tom, -speaking, as he always did, cordially and pleasantly. "But I don't wish -to be exacting. Make me your partner, Valentine, and give me the second -place in the firm." - -"Can't do it, old fellow," said Valentine, in tones which seemed to say -he would like to joke the matter off. "The practice was my father's, and -it is now mine." - -"But you know that part of it ought to have been mine from the first, -Valentine. That is, from the time I have been of an age to succeed to -it." - -"I don't know it, I'm sure, Tom. If it 'ought' to have been yours, I -suppose my father would have given it to you. He was able to judge." - -Tom dropped his voice. "He sent for me that last day of his life, you -know, Valentine. It was to tell me he had not done the right thing by -me, but that it should be done now: that he had charged _you_ to do it." - -"Ah," said Valentine, carelessly, "worn-out old men take up odd -fancies--fit for a lunatic asylum. My poor father must have been spent -with disease, though not with age: but we did not know it." - -"Will you make me your partner?" - -"No, Tom, I can't. The practice was all my father's, and the practice -must be mine. Look here: on that same day you speak of he sent for John -Paul to add a codicil to his will. Now it stands to reason that if he -had wished me to take you into the firm, he would have mentioned it in -that codicil and bound me down to do it." - -"And he did not?" - -"Not a word of it. You are quite welcome to read the will. It is a very -short and simple one: leaving what property he had to my mother, and -the business and office furniture to me. The codicil Paul wrote was to -decree that I should pay my mother a certain sum out of the profits. -Your name is not mentioned in the will at all, from beginning to end." - -Tom made no reply. Valentine continued. - -"The object of his tying me down to pay over to my mother a portion of -the profits is, because she has not enough to live on without it. There -need be no secret about it. I am to give her a third of the income I -make, whatsoever it may be." - -"One final word, Valentine: will you be just and take me in?" - -"No, Tom, I cannot. And there's another thing. I don't wish to be mean, -I'm sure; it's not in my nature: but with all my own expenses upon me -and this third that I must hand over to my people, I fear I shall not be -able to continue to give your mother the hundred and fifty a-year that -my father has allowed her so long." - -"You cannot help yourself, Valentine. That much is provided for in the -original partnership deed, and you are bound by it." - -"No," dissented Valentine, flicking a speck off the front of his black -coat. "My father might have been bound by it, but I am not. Now that the -two original partners are dead, the deed is cancelled, don't you see. It -is not binding upon me." - -"I think you are mistaken: but I will leave that question for this -morning. Is your decision, not to give me a share, final?" - -"It is." - -"Let me make one remark. You say the codicil stipulates that you shall -pay a third of the profits to your mother--and it is a very just and -right thing to do. Valentine, rely upon it, that your father's last -intentions were that, of the other two-thirds left, one of them should -be mine." - -Valentine flushed red. He had a florid complexion at all times, -something like salmon-colour. Very different from Tom's, which was -clear and healthy. - -"We won't talk any more about it, Tom. How you can get such crotchets -into your head, I can't imagine. If you sit there till midday, I can say -no more than I have said: I cannot take you into partnership." - -"Then I shall leave you," said Tom, rising. He was a fine-looking young -fellow, standing there with his arm on the back of the client's chair, -in which he had sat; tall and straight. His good, honest face had a -shade of pain in it, as it gazed straight out to Valentine's. He looked -his full six-and-twenty years. - -"Well, I wish you would leave me, Tom," replied Valentine, carelessly. -"I have heaps to do this morning." - -"Leave the office, I mean. Leave you for good." - -"Nonsense!" - -"Though your father did not give me the rights that were my just due, -I remained on, expecting and hoping that he would give them some time. -It was my duty to remain with him; at least, my mother told me so; and -perhaps my interest. But the case is changed now. I will not stay with -you, Valentine, unless you do me justice; I shall leave you now. Now, -this hour." - -"But you can't, Tom. You would put me to frightful inconvenience." - -"And what inconvenience--inconvenience for life--are you putting me to, -Valentine? You take my prospects from me. The position that ought to be -mine, here at Islip, you refuse to let me hold. This was my father's -practice; a portion of it, at least, ought to be mine. I will not -continue to be a servant where I ought to be a master." - -"Then you must go," said Valentine. - -Tom held out his hand. "Good-bye. I do not part in enmity." - -"Good-bye, Tom. I'm sorry: but it's your fault." - -Tom Chandler went into the office where he had used to sit, opened his -desk, and began putting up what things belonged to him. They made a -tolerable-sized parcel. Valentine, left in his chair of state, sat on in -a brown study. All the inconvenience that Tom's leaving him would be -productive of was flashing into his mind. Tom had been, under old Jacob, -the prop and stay of the business; knew about everything, and had a -clear head for details. He himself was different--and Valentine was -never more sure of the fact than at this moment. There are lawyers and -lawyers. Tom was one, Valentine was another. He, Valentine, had never -much cared for business; he liked pleasure a great deal better. Indulged -always by both father and mother, he had grown up self-indulgent. It was -all very fine to perch himself in that chair and play the master; but he -knew that, without Tom to direct things, for some time to come he should -be three-parts lost. But, as to making him a partner and giving him a -share? "No," concluded Valentine emphatically, "I won't do it." - -Tom, carrying his paper parcel, left the house and crossed the road to -the post-office, which was higher up the street, to post a letter he -had hastily written. It was addressed to a lawyer at Worcester. A week -or two before, Tom, being at Worcester, was asked by this gentleman if -he would take the place of head clerk and manager in his office. The -question was put jokingly, for the lawyer supposed Tom to be a fixture -at Islip: but Tom saw that he would have been glad for him to take -the berth. He hoped it might still be vacant. What with one thing and -another, beginning with the injustice done him at the old place and -his anxiety to get into another without delay, Tom felt more bothered -than he had ever felt in his life. The tempting notion of setting-up -somewhere for himself came into his mind. But it went out of it again: -he could not afford to risk any waste of time, with his mother's home -to keep up, and especially with this threat of Valentine's to stop her -hundred and fifty pounds a-year income. - -"How do you do, Mr. Chandler?" - -At the sound of the pretty voice, Tom turned short round from the -post-office window, which was a stationer's, to see a charming girl all -ribbons and muslins, with sky-blue eyes and bright hair. Tom took the -hand only half held out to him. - -"I beg your pardon, Emma: I was reading this concert bill. The idea of -Islip's getting up a concert!" - -She was the only child of John Paul the lawyer, and had as fair a face -as you'd wish to see, and a habit of blushing at nothing. To watch her -as she stood there, the roses coming and going, the dimples deepening, -and the small white teeth peeping, did Tom good. He was reddening -himself, for that matter. - -"Yes, it is to be given in the large club-room at the Bell to-night," -she answered. "Shall you come over for it?" - -"Are you going to it, Emma?" - -"Oh yes. Papa has taken twelve tickets. A great many people are coming -in to go with us." - -"I shall go also," said Tom decidedly. And at that the roses came again. - -"What a large parcel you are carrying!" - -Tom held the brown-paper parcel further out at the remark. - -"They are my goods and chattels," said he. "Things that I had at the -office. I have left it, Emma." - -"Left the office!" she repeated, looking as though she did not -understand. "You don't mean _really_ left it?--left it for good?" - -"I have left it for good, Emma. Valentine----" - -"Here's papa," interrupted Emma, as a stout, elderly gentleman with -iron-grey hair turned out of the stationer's; neither of them having the -least idea he was there. - -"Is it you, Tom Chandler?" cried Mr. Paul. - -"Yes, it is, sir." - -"And fine to be you, I should say! Spending your time in gossip at the -busiest part of the day." - -"Unfortunately I have to-day no business to do," returned Tom, smiling -in the old lawyer's face. "And I was just telling Miss Paul why. I have -left the office, sir, and am looking out for another situation." - -Mr. Paul stared at him. "Why, it is your own office. What's that for?" - -"It ought to be my own office in part, as it was my father's before me. -But Valentine cannot see that, sir. He tells me he will not take me into -partnership; that I ought not to expect it. I refuse to remain on any -other terms; and so I have left him for good. These are my rattletraps. -Odds and ends of things that I am bringing away." - -Mr. Paul continued to look at Tom in silence for a minute or two. Tom -thought he was considering what he should next say. It was not that, -however. "How well he would suit me! How I should like to take him! What -a load of work he'd lift off my shoulders!" Those were the thoughts that -were running rapidly through Mr. Paul's mind. - -But he did not speak them. In fact, he had no intention of speaking -them, or of taking on Tom, much as he would have liked to do it. - -"When Jacob Chandler lay dying only yesterday, as it were, he told me -you would join his son; that the two of you would carry on the practice -together." - -"Yes, he said the same thing to me," replied Tom. "But Valentine refuses -to carry it out. So I told him I would not be a servant where I ought to -be a master, and came away." - -"And what are you going to do, young man?" - -Tom smiled. He was just as much a lawyer as Mr. Paul was. "I should like -to set up in practice for myself," he answered; "but I do not yet see -my way sufficiently clear to do so. There may be a chance for me at -Worcester, as managing clerk. I have written to ask if the place is -filled up. May I join your party to the concert to-night, sir?" he -asked. - -"I don't mind--if you are going to it," said the old lawyer: "but I -can't see what young men want at concerts?" - -Tom caught Miss Emma's eye and her blushes, and gave her a glance that -told her he should be sure to come. - -But, before the lapse of twenty-four hours, in spite of his -non-intention, Mr. Paul had taken on Tom Chandler and, looking back in -later years, it might be seen that it had been on the cards of destiny -that Tom should be taken. - - "There's a divinity that shapes our ends, - Rough-hew them how we will." - -Lawyer Paul was still in his dining-room that evening in his handsome -house just out of Islip, and before any of his expected guests had come, -when Tom arrived to say he could not make one, and was shown into the -drawing-room. Feasting his eyes with Miss Emma's charming dress, and -shaking her hand longer than was at all polite, Tom told her why he -could not go. - -"My mother took me to task severely, Emma. She asked me what I could be -thinking of to wish to go to a public concert when my uncle was only -buried the day before yesterday. The truth is, I never thought of that." - -"I am so sorry," whispered Emma. "But I am worse than you are. It was -I who first asked whether you meant to go. And it is to be the nicest -concert imaginable!" - -"I don't care for the concert," avowed Tom. "I--I should like to have -gone to it, though." - -"At least you--you will stay and take some tea," suggested Emma. - -"If I may." - -"Would you please loose my hand?" went on Emma. "The lace has caught in -your sleeve-button." - -"I'll undo it," said Tom. "What pretty lace it is! Is it Valenciennes? -My mother thinks there's no lace like Valenciennes." - -"It is only pillow," replied Emma, bending her face over the lace and -the buttons. "After you left this morning, papa said he wished he -had remembered to ask you where he could get a prospectus of those -water-works. He----" - -"Mrs. and Miss Maceveril," interrupted a servant, opening the door to -show in some ladies. - -So the interview was over; and Tom took the opportunity to go to the -lawyer's dining-room, and tell him about the water-works. - -"You have come over from Crabb to go to this fine concert!" cried Mr. -Paul, sipping his port wine; which he always took out of a claret-glass. -Though never more than one glass, he would be half-an-hour over it. - -"I have come to say I can't go to it," replied Tom. "My mother thinks it -would not be seemly so soon after Uncle Jacob's death." - -"Quite right of her, too. Why don't you sit down? No wine? Well, sit -down all the same. I want to talk to you. Will you come into my office?" - -The proposal was so sudden, so unexpected, that Tom scarcely knew what -to make of it. He did not know that Mr. Paul's office wanted him. - -"I have been thinking upon matters since I saw you this morning, Tom -Chandler. I am growing elderly; some people would say old; and the -thought has often crossed me that it might be as well if I had some one -about me different from an ordinary clerk. Were I laid aside by illness -to-morrow the conduct of the business would still lie upon me; and lie -it must, unless I get a confidential manager, who is a qualified lawyer: -one who can act in my place without reference to me. I offer you the -post; and I will give you, to begin with, two hundred a-year." - -"I should like it of all things," cried Tom in delight, eyes and face -sparkling. "I am used to Islip and don't care to leave it. Yes, sir, I -will come with the greatest pleasure." - -"Then that's settled," said old Paul. - - * * * * * - -Just about two years had gone on, and it was hot summer again. In the -same room at North Villa where poor Thomas Chandler had died, sat -Valentine Chandler and his mother. It was evening, and the window was -open to the garden. In another room, its window also open, sat the three -girls, Georgiana, Clementina, and Julietta; all of them singing and -playing and squalling. - -"Not talk about business on a Sunday night! You must have grown -wonderfully serious all on a sudden!" exclaimed Mrs. Chandler, tartly. -"I never get to see you except on a Sunday: you know that, Valentine." - -"It is not often I can get time to come over on a week-day," responded -Valentine, helping himself to some spirits and water, which had been -placed on the table after supper. "Business won't let me." - -"If all I hear be true, it is not business that hinders you," said Mrs. -Chandler. "Be quiet, Valentine: I _must_ speak. I have put it off and -off, disliking to do it; but I must speak at last. Your business, as I -am told, is falling off alarmingly; that a great deal of it has gone -over to John Paul." - -"Who told you?" - -"That is beyond the question, Valentine, and I am not going to make -mischief. Is it true, or is it not true?" - -"A little of the practice went over to Paul when Tom left me. It was not -much. Some of the clients, you see, had been accustomed to Tom at our -place, and they followed him. That was a crafty move of John -Paul's--getting hold of Tom." - -"I am not alluding to the odds and ends of practice that left you then, -Valentine. I speak chiefly of this last year. Hardly a week has passed -in it but some client or other has left you for Paul." - -"If they have, I can't help it," was the careless reply. "How those -girls squall!" - -"I suppose there is no underhand influence at work, Valentine?" she said -dubiously. "Tom Chandler does not hold out baits for your clients, and -so fish them away from you?" - -"Well, no, I suppose not," repeated the young lawyer, draining his -glass. "I accused Tom of it one day, and for once in his life he flew -into a passion, asking me what I had ever seen in him to suspect he -could be guilty of such a thing." - -"No. I fear it is as I have been given to understand, Valentine: that -the cause lies with you. You spend your time in pleasure instead of -being at business. When clients go to the office, three times out of -every five they do not find you. You are not there. You are over at the -Bell, playing at billiards, or drinking in the bar." - -"What an unfounded calumny!" exclaimed Valentine. - -"I have been told," continued Mrs. Chandler, sinking her voice, "that -you are getting to drink frightfully. It is nothing for clients now to -find you in a state incapable of attending to them." - -"Now, mother, I insist upon knowing who told you these lies," spluttered -Valentine, getting up and striding to the window. "Let anybody come -forward and prove that he has found me incapable--if he can." - -"I heard that Sir John Whitney went in the other day and could make -neither top nor tail of what you said," continued his mother, -disregarding his denial. "You are agent for the little bit of property -he owns here: he chanced to come over from Whitney Hall, and found you -like that." - -"I'll write to Sir John Whitney and ask what he means by saying it." - -"He did not say it--that I know of. Others were witnesses of your state -as well as he." - -"If my clerks tell tales out of my office, I'll discharge them from it," -burst forth Valentine, too angry to notice the tacit admission his words -gave. "Not the clerks, you say? Then why don't you----" - -"Do be still, Valentine. Putting yourself out like this will do no good. -I hope it is not true: if you assure me it is not, I am ready to believe -you. All I spoke for was, to caution you, and to tell you what is being -said, that you may be on your guard. Leave off going to the Bell; stick -to business instead: people will soon cease talking then." - -"I dare say they will!" growled Valentine. - -"If you are always at your post, ready to confer with clients, they -would have no plea for leaving you and going to Paul. For all our sakes, -Valentine, you must do this." - -"And so I do. If----" - -"Hush! The girls are coming in. I hear them shutting the piano." - -Valentine dashed out a second supply, and drank it, not caring whether -it contained most brandy or water. We are never so angry as when -conscience accuses us: and it was accusing him. - -In came the young ladies, laughing, romping, and pushing one another; -Georgiana, Clementina, and Julietta, arrayed in all the colours of -the rainbow. The chief difference Sunday made to them was, that their -smartest clothes came out. - -Mrs. Chandler's accusations were right, and Valentine's denials wrong. -During the past two years he had been drifting downwards. The Bell was -getting to possess so great a fascination for him that he could not -keep away from it more than a couple of hours together. It was nothing -for him to be seen playing billiards in the morning, or lounging in -the parlour or the bar-room, drinking. One of his clerks would come -interrupting him with news that some client was waiting at the office, -and Valentine would put down his cue or his glass, and go flying over. -But clients, as a rule, don't like this kind of reception: they expect -to find their legal advisers cool and ready on the spot. - -The worst of all was the drink. Valentine had made a friend of it so -long now, that he did not attempt to do without it. Thought he could -not. Where he at first drank one glass he went on to drink two glasses, -and the two gave place to three, or to more. Of course it told upon -him. It told now and then upon his manner in the daytime: which was -unfortunate. He could leave his billiards behind him and his glass, but -he could not leave the effects of what the glass had contained; and it -was no uncommon thing now for his clients, when he did go rushing in -to them, to find his speech uncertain and his brains in a muddle. As a -natural result, the practice was passing over to John Paul as fast as it -could: and Tom, who was chief manager at Paul's now, had been obliged to -take on an extra clerk. Every day of his life old Paul told himself how -lucky his move of engaging Tom had turned out. And this, not for the -extra business he had gained: a great deal of that might have come -to him whether Tom was with him or not: but because Tom had eased his -shoulders of their hard work and care, and because he, the old man, had -grown to like him so much. - -But never a word had Mr. Paul said about raising Tom's salary. Tom -supposed he did not intend to raise it. And, much as he liked his post, -and, for many reasons, his stay at Islip, he entertained notions of -quitting both. Valentine had stopped the income his father had paid to -Mrs. Chandler; and Tom's two hundred a-year, combined with the trifle -remaining to her out of her private income, only just sufficed to keep -the home going. - -It chanced that on the very same Sunday evening, when they were talking -at North Villa of Valentine's doings, Tom broached the subject to his -mother. They were sitting out of doors in the warm summer twilight, -sniffing the haycocks in the neighbouring field. Tom spoke abruptly. - -"Should you mind my going to London, mother?" - -"To London!" cried Mrs. Chandler. "What for?" - -"To live." - -"You--you are not leaving Mr. Paul, are you?" - -"I am thinking of it. You see, mother mine, there is no prospect of -advancement where I am. It seems to me that I may jog on for ever at two -hundred a-year----" - -"It is enough for us, Tom." - -"As things are, yes: but nothing more. If--for instance--if I wanted to -set up a home of my own, I have no means of doing it. Never shall have, -at the present rate." - -Mrs. Chandler turned and looked at Tom's face. "Are you thinking of -marrying, Tom?" - -"No. It is of no use to think of it. If I thought of it ever so, I -could not do it. Putting that idea aside, it occurs to me sometimes to -remember that I am eight-and-twenty, and ought to be doing better for -myself." - -"Do you fancy you could do better in London?" - -"I am sure I could. Very much better." - -Opening the Bible on her lap, Mrs. Chandler took out the spectacles that -lay between the leaves, and put them into their case with trembling -fingers. - -"Do whatever you think best, Tom," she said at length, having waited to -steady her voice. "Children leave their parents' home for one of their -own; this Book tells us that they should do so. Had Jacob Chandler done -the right thing by you, you would never have needed to leave Islip: had -his son done the right thing by me, I should not be the burden to you -that I am. But now that George has taken to sending me money over from -Canada----" - -"Burden!" interrupted Tom, laughingly. "Don't you talk treason, Mrs. -Chandler. If I do go to London, you will have to come with me, and see -the lions." - -That night, lying awake, Tom made his mind up. He had been offered a -good appointment in London to manage a branch office for a large legal -firm--four hundred a-year salary. And he would never for a moment have -hesitated to take it, but for not liking to leave old Paul and -(especially) old Paul's daughter. - -Walking to Islip the next morning, he thought a bit about the best way -of breaking it to Mr. Paul--who would be sure to come down upon him with -a storm. By midday he had found no opportunity of speaking: people were -perpetually coming in: and in the afternoon Tom had to go a mile or two -into the country. In returning he overtook Emma. She was walking along -the field-path under the hedge, her hat hanging on her arm by its -strings. - -"It is so warm," said she, in apology, as Tom shook hands. "And the -trees make it shady here. I went over to ask Mary Maceveril to come back -with me and dine: but they have gone to Worcester for the day." - -"So much the better for me," said Tom. "I want to tell you, Emma, that -I am going to leave." - -"To leave!" - -"I have had a very good place offered me in London. Mr. Paul knows -nothing about it yet, for I did not make up my mind till last night, and -I could not get a minute alone with him this morning." - -She had turned her face suddenly to the hedge, seemingly to pick a wild -rose. Tom saw that the pink roses on her cheek had turned to white ones. - -"I shall be very sorry to leave Islip, Emma. But what else can I do? -Situated as I am now, I cannot even glance at any plans for the future. -By making this change, I may be able to do so. My salary will be a good -one and enable me to put by: and the firm I am going to dropped me a -hint of a possible partnership." - -"I wish these dog-roses had no thorns! And I wish they would grow -double, as the garden roses do!" - -"So that I--having considered the matter thoroughly--believe I shall -do well to make the change. Perhaps then I may begin to indulge dreams -of a future." - -"There! all the petals are off!" - -"Let me gather them for you. What is the matter, Emma?" - -"Matter? Nothing, sir. What should there be?" - -"Here is a beauty. Will you take it?" - -"Thank you. I never thought you would leave papa, Mr. Chandler." - -"But--don't you perceive my reasons, Emma? What prospect is there for me -as long as I remain here? What hope can I indulge, or even glance at, -of--of settling in life?" - -"I dare say you don't want to settle." - -"I do not put the question to myself, because it is so useless." - -"I shall be late for dinner. Good-bye." - -She took a sudden flight to the little white side-gate of her house, -which opened to the field, ran across the garden, and disappeared within -doors. Tom, catching a glimpse of her face, saw that it was wet with -tears. - -"Yes, it's very hard upon her and upon me," he said to himself. "And all -the more so that I cannot in honour speak, even just to let her know -that I care for her." - -Continuing his way towards the office, he met Mr. Paul, who was just -leaving it. Tom turned with him, having to report to him of the business -he had been to execute. - -"I expected you home before this, Chandler." - -"Willis was out when I arrived there, and I had to wait for him. His -wife gave me some syllabub." - -"Now for goodness' sake don't mix up syllabubs with law!" cried the old -gentleman, testily. "That's just you, Tom Chandler. Will Willis do as I -advise him, or will he not?" - -"Yes, he is willing; but upon conditions. I will explain to-morrow -morning," added Tom, as Mr. Paul laid his hand upon the handle of his -front-gate, to enter. - -"You can come in and explain now: and take some dinner with me." - -Emma did not know he was there until she came into the dining-room. It -gave her a sort of pleasant shock. They were deep in conversation about -Willis, and she sat down quietly. - -"I am glad he has asked me," thought Tom. "It will give me an -opportunity of telling him about myself after dinner." - -Accordingly, when the port wine was on the table and Emma had gone, for -she never stayed after the cloth was removed, Tom spoke. Old Paul was -pouring out his one large glass. The communication was over in a few -words, for Tom did not feel it a comfortable one to make. - -"Oh!" said old Paul, after listening. "Want to better yourself, do you? -Going to London to get four hundred a-year, with a faint prospect of -partnership? Have had it in your mind some time to make a change? No -prospects here at Islip? Can only just keep your mother? Perhaps you -want to keep a wife as well, Tom Chandler?" - -Tom flushed like a school-girl. As the old gentleman saw, peering at him -from under his bushy grey eyebrows. - -"I should very much like to be able to do it, sir," boldly replied Tom, -playing with his wine-glass. "But I can't. I can't as much as think of -it under present circumstances." - -"Who is the young lady? Your cousin Julietta?" - -Tom burst into laughter. "No, that it is not, sir." - -"Perhaps it is Miss Maceveril? Well, the Maceverils are exclusive -people. But faint heart, you know, never won fair lady." - -Tom shook his head. "I should not be afraid of winning _her_." But it -was not Miss Maceveril he was thinking of. - -"What should you be afraid of?" - -"Her friends. They would not listen to me." - -"Thinking you are not rich, I suppose?" - -"Knowing I am not, sir." - -"The young lady may have money." - -"There's the evil of it," said Tom, impulsively. "If she had none, it -would be all straight and smooth for us. I would very soon make a little -home for her in London." - -"It is the first time I ever heard of money being an impediment to -matrimony," observed old Paul, taking the first sip at his wine. - -"Not when the money is on the wrong side, sir." - -"Has she much?" - -"I don't know in the least. She will be sure to have some: she is an -only child." - -"Then it _is_ Mary Maceveril!" nodded the old man. "You look after her, -Tom, my boy. She will have ten thousand pounds." - -"Miss Maceveril would not look at me, if I wanted her ever so. She is as -proud as a peacock." - -"Tut, tut! Try. Try, boy. Why, what could she want? As my partner, you -might be a match for even Miss Maceveril." - -"Your what, sir?" cried Tom, in surprise, lifting his eyes from the -blue-and-red checked table-cover. - -"I said my partner, Tom. Yes, that is what I intend to make you: have -intended it for some time. We will have no fly-away London jaunts and -junkets. Once my partner, of course the world will understand that you -will be also my successor: and I think I shall soon retire." - -Tom had risen from his seat: for once in his life he was agitated. Mr. -Paul rose and put his hand on Tom's shoulder. - -"With this position, and a suitable income to back it, Tom, you are a -match for Mary Maceveril, or for any other good girl. Go and try her, -boy; try your luck." - -"But--it is of no use," spoke Tom. "You don't understand, sir." - -"No use! Go and try,"--pushing him towards the door. "My wife was one -of the proud Wintertons, you know: how should I have gained her but for -trying? _I_ did not depreciate myself, and say I'm not good enough for -her: I went and asked her to have me." - -"But suppose it is not Mary Maceveril, sir?--as indeed it is not. -Suppose it is somebody nearer--nearer home?" - -"No matter. Go and try, I say." - -"I--do--think--you--understand--me, sir," cried Tom, slowly and -dubiously. "I--hope there is no mistake!" - -"Rubbish about mistake!" cried old Paul, pushing him towards the door. -"Go and do as I bid you. Try." - -He went to look for Emma, and saw her sitting under the acacia tree on -the bench, which faced the other way. Stepping noiselessly over the -grass, he put his arms on her shoulders, and she turned round with a -cry. But Tom would not let her go. - -"I am told to come out and _try_, Emma. I want a wife, and your father -thinks I may gain one. He is going to make me his partner; and he says -he thinks I am a match for any good girl. And I am not going to London." - -She turned pale and red, red and pale, and then burst into a fit of -tears and trembling. - -"Oh, Tom, can it be true! Oh, Tom, Tom!" - -And Tom kissed her for the first time in his life. But not for the last. - -The news came out to us in a lump. Tom Chandler was taken into -partnership and was to marry Emma. We wished them good luck. She was not -to leave her home, for her father would not spare her: she and Tom were -to live with him. - -"I had to do it, you know, Squire," said old Paul, meeting the Squire -one day. "Only children are apt to be wilful. Not that I ever found -Emma so. Had I not allowed it, I expect she'd have dutifully saddled -herself, an old maid, upon me for life." - -"She could not have chosen better," cried the Squire, warmly. "If -there's one young fellow I respect above another, it's Tom Chandler. -He is good to the back-bone." - -"He wouldn't have got her if he were not; you may rely upon that," -concluded old Paul, emphatically. - -So the wedding took place at Islip in the autumn, and old Paul gave Tom -a month's holiday, and told him he had better take Emma to Paris; as -they both seemed, by what he could gather, red-hot to see it. - - * * * * * - -Drizzle, drizzle, drizzle, came down the rain, dropping with monotonous -patter on the decaying leaves that strewed the garden. Not the trim -well-kept garden it used to be, but showing signs of neglect. What with -the long grass, and the leaves, and the sloppy roads, and the November -skies, nothing could well look more dreary than the world looked to-day, -as seen from the windows of North Villa. - -Time had gone on, another year, bringing its events and its changes; as -time always does bring. The chief change, as connected with this little -record, lay in Valentine Chandler. He had gone to the dogs. That was -Islip's expression for it, not mine. A baby had come to Tom and Emma. - -Little by little, step by step, Valentine had gone down lower and lower. -Some people, who are given to bad habits, make spasmodic efforts to -reform; but, so far as Islip could see, Valentine never made any. He -passed more time at the Bell, or at less respectable public-houses, -and drank deeper: and at last neglected his business almost entirely. -Enervated and good for nothing, he would lie in bed till twelve o'clock -in the day. To keep on the office seemed only a farce. Its profits were -not enough to pay for its one solitary clerk. Valentine was then pulled -up by an illness, which confined him to his bed, and left him in a shaky -state. The practice had quite gone then, and the clerk had gone; and -Valentine knew that, even though he had had sufficient energy left to -try to bring them back, no clients would have returned to him. - -He was going to emigrate to Canada. His friends hoped he would be -steady there, and redeem the past: he gave fair promises of it. George -Chandler (Tom's brother, who was doing very well there now, with a large -farm about him, and a wife and children) had undertaken to receive -Valentine and help him to employment. So he would have to begin life -over again. - -It was all so much gall and bitterness to his mother and sisters, and -had been for a long while. The tears were dropping through the fingers -of Mrs. Chandler now, as she leaned on her hand and watched the dreary -rain on the window-panes. With all his faults, she had so loved -Valentine. She loved him still, above all the trouble he had brought; -and it seemed, this afternoon, just as though her heart would break. - -When the business fell off, of course her income fell off also. -Valentine was to have paid her a third of the profits, but if he did not -make any profits, he could not pay her any. She had the private income, -two hundred a-year, which Jacob had secured to her: but what was that -for a family accustomed to live in the fashion? There is an old saying -that necessity has no law: and Mrs. Jacob Chandler and her daughters had -proved its truth. One of the girls had gone out as a governess; one was -on a prolonged visit to her aunt Cramp; and Julietta and her mother were -to move into a smaller house at Christmas. The practice and the other -business, once Valentine's, and his father's before him, had all gone -over to the other firm, Paul and Chandler. - -"I'm sure I don't know what Georgiana means by writing home for money -amidst all our troubles!" cried Mrs. Chandler, fretfully. "She has -fifteen pounds a-year salary, and she must make that do." - -"She says her last quarter's money is all spent, and she can't possibly -manage without a new mantle for Sunday," returned Julietta. - -"_I_ can't supply it; you know I can't. I am not able to pay my own way -now. Let her write to Mrs. Cramp." - -"It would be of no use, mamma. Aunt Mary Ann will never help us to -clothes. She says we have had too many of them." - -"Well, I don't want to be worried with these matters: it's enough for me -to think of poor Valentine's things. Only two days now before he starts. -And what wretched weather it is!" - -"Valentine says he shall not take much luggage with him. He saw me -counting his shirts, and he said they were too many by half." - -"And who will supply him with shirts out there, do you suppose?" -demanded Mrs. Chandler. "You talk nothing but nonsense, Julietta. Where -_is_ Valentine? He ought to be here, with all this packing to do. He -must have been gone out these two hours." - -"He said he had business at Islip." - -Mrs. Chandler looked gloomy at the answer. She hated the very name of -Islip: partly because they held no longer any part in the place, partly -because the Bell was in it. - -But Valentine had not gone to the Bell this time. His visit was to his -cousin Tom; and his errand was to beg of Tom to give or lend him a -fifty-pound note before sailing. - -"I shall have next to nothing in my pocket, Tom, when I land," he urged, -as the two sat together in Tom's private room. "If I get on over there, -I will pay you back. If I don't--well, perhaps you won't grudge having -helped me for the last time." - -For a moment Tom did not answer. He sat before his desk-table, Valentine -near him: just as Valentine had one day sat at his desk in his private -room, and Tom had been the petitioner, not so many years gone by. -Valentine looked upon the silence as an ill-omen. - -"You have all the business that once was mine in your fingers now, Tom. -It has left me for you." - -"But not by any wish or seeking of mine, Valentine; you know that," -spoke Tom readily, turning his honest eyes and kindly face on the fallen -man. "I wish you were in your office still. There's plenty of work for -both of us." - -"Well, I am not in it; and you have got it all. You might lend me such -a poor little sum as fifty pounds." - -"Of course I mean to lend it: but I was thinking. Look here, Valentine. -I will not give it you now; you cannot want it before sailing: and you -might lose it on board," he added laughing. "You shall carry with you an -order upon my brother George for one hundred pounds." - -"Will George pay it?" - -"I will take care of that. He shall receive a letter from me by the same -mail that takes you out. Stay, Valentine. I will give you the order -now." - -He wrote what was necessary, sealed it up, and handed it over. Valentine -thanked him. - -"How is Emma?" he asked as he rose. "And the boy?" - -"Quite well, thank you: both. Will you not go in and see them?" - -"I think not. You can say good-bye for me. I don't much care to trouble -people." - -"God bless you, Valentine," said Tom, clasping his hand. "You will begin -life anew over there, and may have a happy one yet. One of these days -you will be coming back to us, a prosperous man." - -Valentine went trudging home through the rain, miserable and dispirited, -and found a visitor had arrived--Mrs. Cramp. His mother and sister -were upstairs then, busy over his trunks; so Mrs. Cramp had him all to -herself. She had liked Valentine very much. When he went wrong, it put -her out frightfully, and since then she had not spared him: which of -course put out Valentine. - -"Yes, it will be a change," he acknowledged, in reply to a remark of -hers. "A flourishing solicitor here, and a servant there. For that's -what I shall be over yonder, I conclude; I can't expect to be my own -master. You don't know how good the business was, Aunt Mary Ann, at the -time my father died. If I could only have kept it!" - -"You could not expect to keep it," said Mrs. Cramp, who sat facing him, -her bonnet tilted back from her red and comely face, her purple stuff -gown pulled up above her boots. - -"I should have kept it, but for now and then taking a little drop too -much," confessed poor Valentine: who was deeper in the dumps that day -than he had ever been before. - -"I don't know that," said Mrs. Cramp. "The business was a usurped one." - -"A what?" said Valentine. - -"There is an overruling Power above us, you know," she went on. "I am -quite sure, Valentine--I have learnt it by experience--that injustice -never answers in the long run. It may seem to succeed for a time; but -it does not last: it cannot and it does not. If a man rears himself on -another's downfall, causing himself that downfall that he may rise, his -prosperity rests on no sure foundation. In some way or other the past -comes home to him; and he suffers for it, if not in his own person, -in that of his children. Ill-gotten riches bring a curse, never a -blessing." - -"What a growler you are, Aunt Mary Ann!" - -"I don't mean it for growling, Valentine. It is true." - -"It's not true." - -"Not true! The longer I live the more examples I see of it. A man treads -another down that he may rise himself: and there he stands high and -flourishing. But wait a few years, and look then. He is gone. Gone, and -no trace of his prosperity left. And when I mark that, I recall that -verse in the Psalms of David: 'I went by, and lo, he was gone: I sought -him, but his place was nowhere to be found.' That verse is a true type -of real life, Valentine." - -"I don't believe it," cried Valentine. "And where's the good of having -the Psalms at your finger-ends?" - -"You do believe it. Why, Valentine, take your own case. Was there ever -a closer exemplification? Tom was injured; put down; I may say, crushed -by you and your father. Yes, crushed: crushed out of his rights. _His_ -father made the business; and the half of it, at any rate, ought to have -been Tom's. Instead of that, your father deposed him and usurped it. He -repented when he was dying, and charged you to remedy the wrong. But you -did not; _you_ usurped it. And what has it ended in?" - -"Ended in?" cried Valentine vacantly. - -"You are--as you are; ruined in character, in purse, in reputation; and -Tom is respected and flourishing. The business has left you and gone -to him; not through any seeking of his, but through your own doings -entirely; the very self-same business that his father made has in the -natural course of time and events gone back to him--and he is not thirty -yet. It is retribution, nephew. Justice has been righting herself; and -man could neither stay nor hinder it." - -"What nonsense!" debated Valentine testily. "Suppose I had been steady: -would the business have left me for Tom then?" - -"Yes. In some inscrutable way, that we see not, it would. I am sure of -it. You would no more have been allowed to triumph to the end on your -ill-gotten gains, than I could stand if I went out and perched myself on -yonder weathercock," affirmed Mrs. Cramp, growing warm. "Your father -kept his place, it is true; but what a miserable man he always was, and -without any ostensible cause." - -"I wonder you don't set up for a parson, Aunt Mary Ann! This is as good -as a sermon." - -"Then carry the sermon in your memory through life, Valentine. Our -doings, whether they be good or ill, bring back their fruits. In some -wonderful manner that we cannot understand, events are always shaping -onwards their own true ends, their appointed destiny, and working out -the will of Heaven." - - * * * * * - -That's all. And the Squire seemed to take a leaf out of Mrs. Cramp's -book. For ever so long afterwards, he would tell us to read a lesson -from the history of the Chandlers, and to remember that none can deal -unjustly in the sight of God without having to account for it sooner or -later. - - - - -VERENA FONTAINE'S REBELLION. - - -I. - -You have been at Timberdale Rectory two or three times before; an -old-fashioned, red-brick, irregularly-built house, the ivy clustering -on its front walls. It had not much beauty to boast of, but was as -comfortable a dwelling-place as any in Worcestershire. The well-stocked -kitchen-garden, filled with plain fruit-trees and beds of vegetables, -stretched out beyond the little lawn behind it; the small garden in -front, with its sweet and homely flowers, opened to the pasture-field -that lay between the house and the church. - -Timberdale Rectory basked to-day in the morning sun. It shone upon -Grace, the Rector's wife, as she sat in the bow-window of their usual -sitting-room, making a child's frock. Having no little ones of her own -to work for--and sometimes Timberdale thought it was that fact that made -the Rector show himself so crusty to the world in general--she had time, -and to spare, to sew for the poor young starvelings in her husband's -parish. - -"Here he comes at last!" exclaimed Grace. - -Herbert Tanerton looked round from the fire over which he was shivering, -though it was a warm and lovely April day. A glass of lemonade, or some -such cooling drink, stood on the table at his elbow. He was always -catching a sore throat--or fancied it. - -"If I find the delay has arisen through any neglect of Lee's, I shall -report him for it," spoke the Rector severely. For, though he had -condoned that one great mishap of Lee's, the burning of the letter, he -considered it his duty to look sharply after him. - -"Oh but, Herbert, it cannot be; he is always punctual," cried Grace. -"I'll go and ask." - -Mrs. Tanerton left the room, and ran down the short path to the little -white gate; poor old Lee, the letterman, was approaching it from the -field. Grace glanced at the church clock--three-quarters past ten. - -"A break-down on the line, we hear, ma'am," said he, without waiting to -be questioned, as he put one letter into her hand. "Salmon has been in -a fine way all the morning, wondering what was up." - -"Thank you," said Grace, glancing at the letter; "we wondered too. What -a beautiful day it is! Your wife will lose her rheumatism now. Tell her -I say so." - -Back ran Grace. Herbert Tanerton was standing up, impatient for the -letter he had been specially expecting, his hand stretched out for it. - -"Your letter has not come, Herbert. Only one for me. It is from Alice." - -"Oh!" returned Herbert, crustily, as he sat down again to his fire and -his lemonade. - -Grace ran her eyes quickly over the letter--rather a long one, but very -legibly written. Her husband's brother, Jack Tanerton--if you have not -forgotten him--had just brought home in safety from another voyage the -good ship _Rose of Delhi_, of which he was commander. Alice, his wife, -who generally voyaged with him, had gone immediately on landing to her -mother at New Brighton, near Liverpool; Jack remaining with his ship. -This time the ship had been chartered for London, and Jack was there -with it. - -Grace folded the letter slowly, an expression of pain seated in her -eyes. "Would you like to read it, Herbert?" she asked. - -"Not now," groaned Herbert, shifting the band of flannel on his throat. -"What does she say?" - -"She says"--Grace hesitated a moment before proceeding--"she says she -wishes Jack could leave the sea." - -"I dare say!" exclaimed Herbert. "Now, Grace, I'll not have that absurd -notion encouraged. It was Alice's cry last time they were at home; and -I told you then I would not." - -"I have not encouraged it, Herbert. Of course what Alice says has reason -in it: one cannot help seeing that." - -"Jack chose the sea as his profession, and Jack must abide by it. A -turncoat is never worth a rush. Jack _likes_ the sea; and Jack has been -successful at it." - -"Oh yes: he's a first-rate sailor," conceded Grace. "It is Alice's -wish, no doubt, rather than his. She says here"--opening the -letter--"Oh, if Jack could but leave the sea! All my little ones coming -on!--I shall not be able to go with him this next voyage. And I come -home to find my little Mary and my mother both ill! If we could but -leave the sea!" - -"I may just as well say 'If I could but leave the Church!'--I'm sure I'm -never well in it," retorted Herbert. "Jack had better not talk to me of -this: I should put him down at once." - -Grace sighed as she took up the little frock again. _She_ remembered, -though it might suit her husband to forget it, that Jack had not, in one -sense of the word, chosen the sea; he had been deluded into it by Aunt -Dean, his wife's mother. She had plotted and planned, that woman, for -her daughter's advancement, and found out too late that she had plotted -wrongly; for Alice chose Jack, and Jack, through her machinations, had -been deprived of the greater portion of his birthright. He made a smart -sailor; he was steady, and stuck to his duty manfully; never a better -merchant commander sailed out of port than John Tanerton. But, as his -wife said, her little ones were beginning to grow about her; she had two -already; and she could not be with them at New Brighton, and be skimming -over the seas to Calcutta, or where not, in the _Rose of Delhi_. -Interests clashed; and with her whole heart Alice wished Jack could quit -the sea. Grace sighed as she thought of this; she saw how natural was -the wish, though Herbert did not see it: neither could she forget that -the chief portion of the fortune which ought to have been Jack's was -enjoyed by herself and her husband. She had always thought it unjust; it -did not seem to bring them luck; it lay upon her heart like a weight of -care. Their income from the living and the fortune, comprised together, -was over a thousand pounds a-year. They lived very quietly, not -spending, she was sure, anything like half of it; Herbert put by the -rest. What good did all the money bring them? But little. Herbert was -always ailing, fretful, and grumbling: the propensity to set the world -to rights grew upon him: he had ever taken pleasure in _that_, from the -time when a little lad he would muffle himself in his step-father's -surplice, and preach to Jack and Alice. Poor Jack had to work hard for -what he earned at sea; he had only a hundred and fifty pounds a-year, -besides, of the money that had been his mother's; Herbert had the other -six hundred and fifty of it. But Jack, sunny-natured, ever-ready Jack, -was just as happy as the day was long. - -Lost in these thoughts, her eyes bent on her work, Alice did not see a -gentleman who was coming across the field towards the house. The click -of the little gate, as it swung to after him, caused her to look up, but -hardly in time. Herbert turned at the sound. - -"Who's come bothering now, I wonder?" - -"I think it is Colonel Letsom," answered Grace. - -"Then he must come in here," rejoined Herbert. "I am not going into that -cold drawing-room." - -Colonel Letsom it was; a pleasant little man with a bald head, who had -walked over from his house at Crabb. Grace opened the parlour-door, and -the colonel came in and shook hands. - -"I want you both to come and dine with me to-night in a friendly way," -spoke he; "no ceremony. My brother, the major, is with us for a day or -two, and we'd like to get a few friends together to meet him at dinner." - -Herbert Tanerton hesitated. He did not say No, for he liked dinners; he -liked the importance of sitting at the right or left hand of his hostess -and saying grace. He did not say Yes, for he thought of his throat. - -"I hardly know, colonel. I got up with a sore throat this morning. Very -relaxed indeed it is. Who is to be there?" - -"Yourselves and the Fontaines and the Todhetleys: nobody else," answered -the colonel. "As to your throat--I dare say it will be better by-and-by. -A cheerful dinner will do you good. Six o'clock sharp, mind." - -Herbert Tanerton accepted the offer, conditionally. If his throat got -worse, of course he should have to send word, and decline. The colonel -nodded. He felt sure in his own mind the throat would get better: he -knew how fanciful the parson was, and how easily he could be roused out -of his ailments. - -"How do you like the Fontaines?" questioned he of the colonel. "Have you -seen much of them yet?" - -"Oh, we like them very well," answered the colonel, who, in his easy -nature, generally avowed a liking for everybody. "They are connections -of my wife's." - -"Connections of your wife's!" repeated Herbert quickly. "I did not know -that." - -"I'm not sure that I knew it myself, until we came to compare notes," -avowed the colonel. "Any way, I did not remember it. Sir Dace Fontaine's -sister married----. Stop; let me consider--how was it?" - -Grace laughed. The colonel laughed also. - -"I know it now. My wife's sister married a Captain Pym: it is many -years ago. Captain Pym was a widower, and his first wife was a sister -of Dace Fontaine's. Yes, that's it. Poor Pym and his wife died soon; -both of them in India: and so, you see, we lost sight of the connection -altogether; it slipped out of memory." - -"Were there any children?" - -"The first wife had one son, who was, I believe, taken to by his -father's relatives. That was all. Well, you'll come this evening," added -the colonel, turning to depart. "I must make haste back home, for they -don't know yet who's coming and who's not." - -A few days previously to this, we had taken up our abode at Crabb Cot, -and found that some people named Fontaine had come to the neighbourhood, -and were living at Maythorn Bank. Naturally the Squire wanted to know -who they were and what they were. And as they were fated to play a -conspicuous part in the drama I am about to relate, I must give to them -a word of introduction. Important people need it, you know. - -Dace Fontaine belonged to the West Indies and was attached to the civil -service there. He became judge, or sheriff, or something of the kind; -had been instrumental in quelling a riot of the blacks, and was knighted -for it. He married rather late in life, in his forty-first year, a young -American lady. This young lady's mother--it is curious how things come -about!--was first cousin to John Paul, the Islip lawyer. Lady Fontaine -soon persuaded her husband to quit the West Indies for America. Being -well off, for he had amassed money, he could do as he pleased; and to -America they went with their two daughters. From that time they lived -sometimes in America, sometimes in the West Indies: Sir Dace would not -quite abandon his old home there. Changes came as the years went on: -Lady Fontaine died; Sir Dace lost a good portion of his fortune through -some adverse speculation. A disappointed man, he resolved to come to -England and settle down on some property that had fallen to him in right -of his wife; a small estate called Oxlip Grange, which lay between Islip -and Crabb. Any way, old Paul got a letter, saying they were on the -road. However, when they arrived, they found that the tenants at Oxlip -Grange could not be got to go out of it without proper notice--which -anybody but Sir Dace Fontaine would have known to be reasonable. After -some cavilling, the tenants agreed to leave at the end of six months; -and the Fontaines went into that pretty little place, Maythorn Bank, -then to be let furnished, until the time should expire. So there they -were, located close to us at Crabb Cot, Sir Dace Fontaine and his two -daughters. - -Colonel Letsom had included me in the dinner invitation, for which I -felt obliged to him: I was curious to see what the Fontaines were like. -Tom Coney said one of the girls was beautiful, lovely--like an angel: -the other was a little quick, dark young woman, who seemed to have a -will of her own. - -We reached Colonel Letsom's betimes--neighbourly fashion. In the country -you don't rush in when the dinner's being put on the table; you like to -get a chat beforehand. The sunbeams were slanting into the drawing-room -as we entered it. Four of the Letsoms were present, besides the major, -and Herbert Tanerton and his wife, for the throat was better. All of us -were talking together when the strangers were announced: Sir Dace -Fontaine, Miss Fontaine, and Miss Verena Fontaine. - -Sir Dace was a tall, heavy man, with a dark, sallow, and arbitrary face; -Miss Fontaine was little and pale; she had smooth black hair, and dark -eyes that looked straight out at you. Her small teeth were brilliantly -white, her chin was pointed. A particularly _calm_ face altogether, and -one that could boast of little beauty--but I rather took to it. - -Did you ever see a fairy? Verena Fontaine looked like nothing else. A -small, fair, graceful girl, with charming manners and pretty words. She -had the true golden hair, that is so beautiful but so rare, delicate -features, and laughing eyes blue as the summer sky. I think her beauty -and her attractions altogether took some of us by surprise; me for one. -Bob Letsom looked fit to eat her. The sisters were dressed alike, in -white muslin and pink ribbons. - -How we went in to dinner I don't remember, except that Bob and I brought -up the rear together. Sir Dace took Mrs. Letsom, I think, and the -colonel Mrs. Todhetley; and that beautiful girl, Verena, fell to Tod. -Tod! The two girls were about the most self-possessed girls I ever saw; -their manners quite American. Not their accent: that was good. Major -Letsom and Sir Dace fraternized wonderfully: they discovered that they -had once met in the West Indies. - -After dinner we had music. The sisters sang a duet, and Mary Ann Letsom -a song; and Herbert Tanerton sang, forgetting his throat, Grace playing -for him; and they made me sing. - -The evening soon passed, and we all left together. It was a warmish -night, with a kind of damp smell exhaling from the shrubs and hedges. -The young ladies muffled some soft white woollen shawls round their -faces, and called our climate a treacherous one. The parson and Grace -said good-night, and struck off on the near way to Timberdale; the rest -of us kept straight on. - -"Why don't your people always live here?" asked Verena of me, as we -walked side by side behind the rest. "By something that was said at -dinner I gather that you are not here much." - -"Mr. Todhetley's principal residence lies at a distance. We only come -here occasionally." - -"Well, I wish you stayed here always. It would be something to have -neighbours close to us. Of course you know the dreadful little cottage -we are in--Maythorn Bank?" - -"Quite well. It is very pretty, though it is small." - -"Small! Accustomed to our large rooms in the western world, it seems to -us that we can hardly turn in these. I wish papa had managed better! -This country is altogether frightfully dull. My sister tells us that -unless things improve she shall take flight back to the States. She -_could_ do it," added Verena; "she is twenty-one now, and her own -mistress." - -I laughed. "Is she obliged to be her own mistress because she is -twenty-one?" - -"She is her own," said Verena. "She has come into her share of the money -mamma left us and can do as she pleases." - -"Oh, you were speaking in that sense." - -"Partly. Having money, she is not tied. She could go back to-morrow if -she liked. We are not bound by your English notions." - -"It would not suit our notions at all. English girls cannot travel about -alone." - -"That comes of their imperfect education. What harm do you suppose -could anywhere befall well brought-up girls? We have been self-dependent -from childhood; taught to be so. Coral could take care of herself the -whole world over, and meet with consideration, wheresoever she might -be." - -"What do you call her--Coral? It is a very pretty name." - -"And coral is her favourite ornament: it suits her pale skin. Her name -is really Coralie, but I call her Coral--just as she calls me Vera. Do -you like my name--Verena?" - -"Very much indeed. Have you read 'Sintram'?" - -"'Sintram'!--no," she answered. "Is it a book?" - -"A very nice book, indeed, translated from the German. I will lend it -you, if you like, Miss Verena." - -"Oh, thank you. I am fond of nice books. Coralie does not care for books -as I do. But--I want you to tell me," she broke off, turning her fair -face to me, the white cloud drawn round it, and her sweet blue eyes -laughing and dancing--"I can't quite make out who you are. They are not -your father and mother, are they?"--nodding to the Squire and Mrs. -Todhetley, who were on ever so far in front with Sir Dace. - -"Oh no. I only live with them. I am Johnny Ludlow." - - * * * * * - -Maythorn Bank had not an extensive correspondence as a rule, but three -letters were delivered there the following morning. One of the letters -was for Verena: which she crushed into her hand in the passage and ran -away with to her room. The others, addressed to Sir Dace, were laid by -his own man, Ozias, on the breakfast-table to await him. - -"The West Indian mail is in, papa," observed Coralie, beginning to pour -out the coffee as her father entered. "It has brought you two letters. I -think one of them is from George Bazalgette." - -Sir Dace wore a rich red silk dressing-gown, well wadded. A large fire -burnt in the grate of the small room. He felt the cold here much. -Putting his gold eye-glasses across his nose, as he slowly sat down--all -his movements were deliberate--he opened the letter his daughter had -specially alluded to, and read the few lines it contained. - -"What a short epistle!" exclaimed Coralie. - -"George Bazalgette is coming over; he merely writes to tell me so," -replied Sir Dace. "Verena," he added, for just then Verena entered and -wished him good-morning, with a beaming face, "I have a letter here -from George Bazalgette. He is coming to Europe; coming for you." - -A defiant look rose to Verena's bright blue eyes. She opened her mouth -to answer; paused; and closed it again without speaking. Perhaps she -recalled the saying, "Discretion is the better part of valour." It -certainly is, when applied to speech. - -Breakfast was barely over when Ozias came in again. He had a -copper-coloured face, as queer as his name, but he was a faithful, -honest servant, and had lived in the family twenty years. The gardener -was waiting for instructions about the new flower-beds, he told his -master; and Sir Dace went out. It left his daughters at liberty to talk -secrets. How pretty the two graceful little figures looked in their -simple morning dresses of delicate print, tied with bows of pale green -ribbon. - -"I told you I knew George Bazalgette would be coming over, Vera," began -Coralie. "His letter by the last mail quite plainly intimated that." - -Verena tossed her pretty head. "Let him come! He will get his voyage out -and home for nothing. I hope he'll be fearfully sea-sick!" - -Not to make a mystery of the matter, which we heard all about later, and -which, perhaps, led to that most dreadful crime--but I must not talk -of that yet. George Bazalgette was a wealthy West Indian planter, and -wanted to marry Miss Verena Fontaine. She did not want to marry him, and -for the very good reason that she intended to marry somebody else. There -had been a little trouble about it with Sir Dace; and alas! there was -destined to be a great deal more. - -"Shall I tell you what _I_ hope, Vera?" answered Coralie, in her -matter-of-fact, unemotional way. "I hope that Edward Pym will never come -here, or to Europe at all, to worry you. Better that the sea should -swallow him up en voyage." - -Verena's beaming face broke into smiles. Her sister's pleasant -suggestion went for nothing, for a great joy lay within her. - -"Edward Pym _has_ come, Coral. The ship has arrived in port, and he has -written to me. See!" - -She took the morning's letter from the bosom of her dress, and held it -open for Coralie to see the date, "London," and the signature "Edward." -Had the writer signed his name in full, it would have been Edward Dace -Pym. - -"How did he know we were here?" questioned Coralie, in surprise. - -"I wrote to tell him." - -"Did _you_ know where to write to him?" - -"I knew he had sailed from Calcutta in the _Rose of Delhi_; we all -knew that; and I wrote to him to the address of the ship's brokers -at Liverpool. The ship has come on to London, it seems, instead of -Liverpool, and they must have sent my letter up there." - -"If you don't take care, Vera, some trouble will come of this. Papa will -never hear of Edward Pym. That's my opinion." - -She was as cool as were the cucumbers growing outside in the garden, -under the glass shade. Verena was the opposite--all excitement; though -she did her best to hide it. Her fingers were restless; her blushes came -and went; the sweet words of the short love-letter were dancing in her -heart. - - "MY DARLING VERA, - - "The ship is in; I am in London with her, and I have your dear - letter. How I wish I could run down into Worcestershire! That cannot - be just yet: our skipper will take care to be absent himself, I - expect, and I must stay: he is a regular Martinet as to duty. You - will see me the very hour I can get my liberty. How strange it is - you should be at that place--Crabb! I believe a sort of aunt of mine - lives there; but I have never seen her. - - "Ever your true lover, - "EDWARD." - -"Who is it--the sort of aunt?" cried Coralie, when Verena had read out -the letter; "and what does he mean?" - -"Mrs. Letsom, of course. Did you not hear her talking to papa, last -night, about her dead sister, who had married Captain Pym?" - -"And Edward was the son of Captain Pym's first wife, papa's sister. -Then, in point of fact, he is not related to Mrs. Letsom at all. Well, -it all happened ages ago," added Coralie, with supreme indifference, -"long before our time." - -Just so. Edward Pym, grown to manhood now, and chief-mate of the _Rose -of Delhi_, was the son of that Captain Pym and his first wife. When -Captain Pym died, a relative of his, who had no children of his own, -took to the child, then only five years old, and brought him up. The boy -turned out anything but good, and when he was fourteen he ran away to -sea. He found he had to stick to the sea, for his offended relative -would do no more for him: except that, some years later, when he died, -Edward found that he was down for five hundred pounds in his will. -Edward stayed on shore to spend it, and then went to sea again, this -time as first officer in an American brig. Chance, or something else, -took the vessel to the West India Islands, and at one of them he fell in -with Sir Dace Fontaine, who was, in fact, his uncle, but who had never -taken the smallest thought for him--hardly remembered he had such a -nephew--and made acquaintance with his two cousins. He and Verena fell -in love with one another; and, on her side, at any rate, it was not -the passing fancy sometimes called by the name, but one likely to last -for all time. They often met, the young officer having the run of his -uncle's house whenever he could get ashore; and Edward, who could be as -full of tricks and turns as a fox when it suited his convenience to be -so, contrived to put himself into hospital when the brig was about to -sail, saying he was sick; so he was left behind. The brig fairly off, -Mr. Edward Pym grew well again, and looked to have a good time of -idleness and love-making. But he reckoned without his host. A chance -word, dropped inadvertently, opened the eyes of Sir Dace to the treason -around. The first thing he did was to forbid Mr. Edward Pym his house; -the second thing was to take passage with his family for America. Never -would he allow his youngest and prettiest and best-loved daughter to -become the wife of an ill-conducted, penniless ship's mate; and that man -a cousin! The very thought was preposterous! So Edward Pym, thrown upon -his beam-ends, joined a vessel bound for Calcutta. Arrived there, he -took the post of chief mate on the good ship _Rose of Delhi_, Captain -Tanerton, bound for England. - - * * * * * - -"What is this nonsense I hear, about your wanting to leave the sea, -John?" - -The question, put in the Rector of Timberdale's repellent, chilly tone, -more intensified when anything displeased him, brought only a smile to -the pleasant face of his brother. Ever hopeful, sunny-tempered Jack, had -reached the Rectory the previous night to make a short visit. They sat -in the cheerful, bow-windowed room, the sun shining on Jack, as some -days before it had shone on Grace; the Rector in his easy-chair at the -fire. - -"Well, I suppose it is only what you say, Herbert--nonsense," answered -Jack, who was playing with the little dog, Dash. "I should like to leave -the sea well enough, but I don't see my way clear to do it at present." - -"_Why_ should you like to leave it?" - -"Alice is anxious that I should. She cannot always sail with me now; and -there are the little ones to be seen to, you know, Herbert. Her mother -is of course--well, very kind, and all that," went on Jack, after an -imperceptible pause, "but Alice would prefer to train her children -herself; and, to do that, she must remain permanently on shore. It would -not be a pleasant life for us, Herbert, she on shore and I at sea." - -"Do you ever think of _duty_, John?" - -"Of duty? In what way?" - -"When a man has deliberately chosen his calling in life, and spent his -first years in it, it is his duty to continue in that calling, and to -make the best of it." - -"I suppose it is, in a general way," said Jack, all smiles and -good-humour. "But--if I could get a living on shore, Herbert, I don't -see but what my duty would lie in doing it as much as it now lies at -sea." - -"_You_ may not see it, John. Chopping and changing often brings a man -to poverty." - -"Oh, I'd take care, I hope, not to come to poverty. Down, Dash! Had I -a farm of two or three hundred acres, I could make it answer well, if -any man could. You know what a good farmer I was as a boy, Herbert--in -practical knowledge, I mean--and how I loved it. I like the sea very -well, but I _love_ farming. It was my born vocation." - -"I wish you'd not talk at random!" cried Herbert, fretfully. "Born -vocation! You might just as well say you were born to be a mountebank! -And where would you get the money to stock a farm of two or three -hundred acres? You have put none by, I expect. You never could keep your -pence in your pocket when a lad: they were thrown away right and left." - -"That's true," laughed Jack. "Other lads used to borrow them. True also -that I have not put money by, Herbert. I have not been able to." - -"Of course you have not! It wouldn't be you if you had." - -"No, Dash, there's not a bit more; you've had it all," cried Jack to the -dog. But he, ever generous-natured, did not tell his brother _why_ he -had not been able to put by: that the calls made upon him by his wife's -mother--Aunt Dean, as they still styled her--were so heavy and so -perpetual. She wanted a great deal for herself, and she presented vast -claims for the expenses of Jack's two little children, and for the -maintenance of her daughter when Alice stayed on shore. Alice whispered -to Jack she believed her mother was making a private purse for herself. -Good-natured Jack thought it very likely, but he did not stop the -supplies. Just as Aunt Dean had been a perpetual drain upon her brother, -Jacob Lewis, during his lifetime, so she now drained Jack. - -"Then, with no means at command, what utter folly it is for you to think -of leaving the sea?" resumed the parson. - -"So it is, Herbert," acquiesced Jack. "I assure you I don't think of -it." - -"Alice does." - -"Ay, poor girl, because she wishes it." - -"Do you see any _chance_ of leaving it?" - -"Not a bit," readily acknowledged Jack. - -"Then where's the use of talking about it--of harping upon it?" - -"None in the world," said Jack. - -"Then we'll drop the subject, if you please," pursued Herbert, -forgetting, perhaps, that it was he who introduced it. - -"Jump then, Dash! Jump, good little Dash!" - -"What a worry you make with that dog, John! Attend to me. I want to know -why you came to London instead of to Liverpool." - -"She was laid on for London this time," answered Jack. - -"_Laid on!_" ejaculated Herbert, who knew as much about sailor's phrases -as he did of Hebrew. - -Jack laughed. "The agents in Calcutta chartered the ship for London, -freights for that port being higher than for Liverpool. The _Rose of -Delhi_ is a free ship." - -"Oh," responded Herbert. "I thought perhaps she had changed owners." - -"No. But our broker in London is brother to the owners in Liverpool. -There are three of them in all. James Freeman is the broker; Charles -and Richard are the owners. Rich men they must be!" - -"When do you think you shall sail again?" - -"It depends upon when they can begin to reload and get the fresh cargo -in." - -"That does not take long, I suppose," remarked Herbert, slightingly. - -"She may be loaded in three days if the cargo is ready and waiting. It -may be three weeks if the cargo's not--or more than that." - -"And Alice does not go with you?" - -Jack shook his head: something like a cloud passed over his fresh, frank -face. "No, not this time." - -We were all glad to see Jack Tanerton again. He had paid Timberdale but -one visit, and that a flying one, since he took command of the _Rose of -Delhi_. It was the old Jack Tanerton, frank of face, hearty of manner, -flying to all the nooks and corners of the parish with outstretched -hands to rich and poor, with kind words and generous help for the sick -and sorrowful: just the same, only with a few more years gone over his -head. I don't say but Herbert was also glad to see him; only Herbert -never displayed much gladness at anything. - -One morning Jack and I chanced to be out together; when, in passing -through the green and shady lane, that would be fragrant in summer with -wild roses and woodbine, and that skirted Maythorn Bank, we saw some one -stooping to peer through the sweetbriar hedge, as if he wanted to see -what the house was like, and did not care to look at it openly. He -sprang up at sound of our footsteps. It was a slight, handsome young man -of five or six-and-twenty, rather under the middle height, with a warm -colour, bright dark eyes, and dark whiskers. The gold band on his cap -showed that he was a sailor, and he seemed to recognize Jack with a -start. - -"Good-morning, sir," he cried, hurriedly. - -"Is it you, Mr. Pym?--good-morning," returned Jack, in a cool tone. -"What are you doing down here?" - -"The ship's finished unloading, and is gone into dry dock to be -re-coppered, so I've got a holiday," replied the young man: and he -walked away with a brisk step, as if not caring to be questioned -further. - -"Who is he?" I asked, as we went on in the opposite direction. - -"My late chief mate: a man named Pym." - -"You spoke as if you did not like him, Jack." - -"Don't like him at all," said Jack. "My own chief mate left me in -Calcutta, to better himself, as the saying runs; he got command of one -of our ships whose master had died out there; Pym presented himself to -me, and I engaged him. He gave me some trouble on the homeward voyage; -drank, was insolent, and would shirk his duty when he could. Once I had -to threaten to put him in irons. I shall never allow him to sail with me -again--and he knows it." - -"What is he here for?" - -"Don't know at all," returned Jack. "He can't have come after me, I -suppose." - -"Has he left the ship?" - -"I can't tell. I told the brokers in London I should wish to have -another first officer appointed in Pym's place. When they asked why, I -only said he and I did not hit it off together very well. I don't care -to report ill of the young man; it might damage his prospects; and he -may do better with another master than he did with me." - -At that moment Pym overtook us, and accosted Jack: saying something -about some bales of "jute," which, as I gathered, had constituted part -of the cargo. - -"Have you got your discharge from the ship, Mr. Pym?" asked Jack, after -answering his question about the bales of jute. - -"No, sir." - -"No!" - -"Not yet. I have not applied for it. There's some talk, I fancy, of -making Ferrar chief," added Pym. "Until then I keep my post." - -The words were not insolent, but the tone had a ring in it that -betokened no civility. I thought Pym would have liked to defy Jack had -he dared. Jack's voice, as he answered, was a little haughty--and I had -never heard that from Jack in all my life. - -"I shall not take Ferrar as chief. What are you talking of, Mr. Pym? -Ferrar is not qualified." - -"Ferrar is qualifying himself now; he is about to pass," retorted Pym. -"Good-afternoon, sir." - -Had Pym looked back as he turned off, he would have seen Sir Dace -Fontaine, who came, in his slow, lumbering manner, round the corner. -Jack, who had been introduced to him, stopped to speak. But not a word -could Sir Dace answer, for staring at the retreating figure of Pym. - -"Does my sight deceive me?" he exclaimed. "Who _is_ that man?" - -"His name is Pym," said Jack. "He has been my first mate on board the -_Rose of Delhi_." - -Sir Dace Fontaine looked blacker than thunder. "What is he doing down -here?" - -"I was wondering what," said Jack. "At first I thought he might have -come down after me on some errand or other." - -Sir Dace said no more. Remarking that we should meet again in the -evening, he went his way, and we went ours. - -For that evening the Squire gave a dinner, to which the Fontaines were -coming, and old Paul the lawyer, and the Letsoms, and the Ashtons from -Timberdale Court. Charles Ashton, the parson, was staying with them: he -would come in handy for the grace in place of Herbert Tanerton, who had -a real sore throat this time, and must stay at home. - -But now it should be explained that, up to this time, none of us had the -smallest notion that there was anything between Pym and Verena Fontaine, -or that Pym was related to Sir Dace. Had Jack known either the one -fact or the other, he might not have said what he did at the Squire's -dinner-table. Not that he said much. - -It occurred during a lull. Sir Dace craned his long and ponderous neck -over the table towards Jack. - -"Captain Tanerton, were you satisfied with that chief mate of yours, -Edward Pym? Did he do his duty as a chief mate ought?" - -"Not always, Sir Dace," was Jack's ready answer. "I was not particularly -well satisfied with him." - -"Will he sail with you again when you go out?" - -"No. Not if the decision lies with me." - -Sir Dace frowned and drew his neck in again. I fancied he would have -been glad to hear that Pym was going out again with Jack--perhaps to be -rid of him. - -Colonel Letsom spoke up then. "Why do you not like him, Jack?" - -"Well, for one thing, I found him deceitful," spoke out Jack, after -hesitating a little, and still without any idea that Pym was known to -anybody present. - -Verena bent forward to speak then from the end of the table, her face -all blushes, her tone resentful. - -"Perhaps Mr. Pym might say the same thing of you, Captain Tanerton--that -_you_ are deceitful?" - -"I!" returned Jack, with his frank smile. "No, I don't think he could -say that. Whatever other faults I may have, I am straightforward and -open: too much so, perhaps, on occasion." - -When the ladies left the table, the Squire despatched me with a message -to old Thomas about the claret. In the hall, after delivering it, I came -upon Verena Fontaine. - -"I am going to run home for my music," she said to me, as she put her -white shawl on her shoulders. "I forgot to bring it." - -"Let me go for you," I said, taking down my hat. - -"No, thank you; I must go myself." - -"With you, then." - -"I wish to go alone," she returned, in a playful tone, but one that had -a decisive ring in it. "Stay where you are, if you please, Mr. Johnny -Ludlow." - -She meant it; I saw that; and I put my hat down and went into the -drawing-room. Presently somebody missed her; I said she had gone home to -fetch her music. - -Upon which they all attacked me for letting her go--for not offering to -fetch it for her. Tod and Bob Letsom, who had just come into the room, -told me I was not more gallant than a rising bear. I laughed, and -did not say what had passed. Mary Ann Letsom plunged into one of her -interminable sonatas, and the time slipped on. - -"Johnny," whispered the mater to me, "you must go after Verena Fontaine -to see what has become of her. You ought not to have allowed her to go -out alone." - -Truth to say, I was myself beginning to wonder whether she meant to come -back at all. Catching up my hat again, I ran off to Maythorn Bank. - -Oh! Pacing slowly the shadiest part of the garden there, was Miss -Verena, the white shawl muffled round her. Mr. Pym was pacing with her, -his face bent down to a level with hers, his arm passed gingerly round -her waist. - -"I thought they might be sending after me," she cried out, quitting Pym -as I went in at the gate. "I will go back with you, Mr. Johnny. Edward, -I can't stay another moment," she called back to him; "you see how it -is. Yes, I'll be walking in the Ravine to-morrow." - -Away she went, with so fleet a step that I had much ado to keep up with -her. _That_ was my first enlightenment of the secret treason which was -destined to bring forth so terrible an ending. - -"You won't tell tales of me, Johnny Ludlow?" she stopped to say, in a -beseeching tone, as we reached the gate of Crabb Cot. "See, I have my -music now." - -"All right, Miss Verena. You may trust me." - -"I am sure of that. I read it in your face." - -Which might be all very well; but I thought it would be more to the -purpose could she have read it in Pym's. Pym's was a handsome face, but -not one to be trusted. - -She glided into the room behind Thomas and his big tea-tray, seized upon -a cup at once, and stood with it as coolly as though she had never been -away. Sir Dace, talking near the window with old Paul, looked across -at her, but said nothing. I wondered how long they had been in the -drawing-room, and whether he had noticed her absence. - -It was, I think, the next afternoon but one that I went to Maythorn -Bank, and found Jack Tanerton there. The Squire had offered to drive Sir -Dace to Worcester, leaving him to fix the day. Sir Dace wrote a note to -fix the following day, if that would suit; and the Squire sent me to say -it would. - -Coralie was in the little drawing-room with Sir Dace, but not Verena. -Jack seemed to be quite at home with them; they were talking with -animation about some of the ports over the seas, which all three of -them knew so well. When I left, Jack came with me, and Sir Dace walked -with us to the gate. And there we came upon Mr. Pym and Miss Verena -promenading together in the lane as comfortably as you please. You -should have seen Sir Dace Fontaine's face. A dark face at all times; -frightfully dark then. - -Taking Verena by the shoulder, never speaking a word, he marched her -in at the gate, and pushed her up the path towards the house. Then he -turned round to Pym. - -"Mr. Edward Pym," said he, "as I once had occasion to warn you off my -premises in the Colonies, I now warn you off these. This is my house, -and I forbid you to approach it. I forbid you to attempt to hold -intercourse of any kind with my daughters. Do you understand me, sir?" - -"Quite so, Uncle Dace," replied the young man: and there was the same -covert defiance in his tone that he had used the other day to his -captain. - -"I should like to know what brings you in this neighbourhood?" continued -Sir Dace. "You cannot have any legitimate business here. I recommend you -to leave it." - -"I will think of it," said Pym, as he lifted his cap to us generally, -and went his way. - -"What does it mean, Johnny?" spoke Tanerton, breathlessly, when we were -alone. "Is Pym making-up to that sweet girl?" - -"I fancy so. Wanting to make up, at least." - -"Heaven help her, then! It's like his impudence." - -"They are first cousins, you see." - -"So much the worse. I expect, though, Pym will find his match in Sir -Dace. I don't like him, by the way, Johnny." - -"Whom? Pym?" - -"Sir Dace. I don't like his countenance: there's too much secretiveness -in it for me. And in himself too, unless I am mistaken." - -"I am sure there is in Pym." - -"I hate Pym!" flashed Jack. And at the moment he looked as if he did. - -But would he have acknowledged as much, even to me, had he foreseen the -cruel fate that was, all too soon, to place Edward Pym beyond the pale -of this world's hate?--and the dark trouble it would bring home to -himself, John Tanerton? - - -II. - -Striding along through South Crabb, and so on down by old Massock's -brick-fields, went Sir Dace Fontaine, dark and gloomy. His heavy stick -and his heavy tread kept pace together; both might have been the better -for a little lightness. - -Matters were not going on too smoothly at Maythorn Bank. Seemingly -obedient to her father, Verena Fontaine contrived to meet her lover, and -did not take extraordinary pains to keep it secret. Sir Dace, watching -stealthily, found it out, and felt just about at his wits' end. - -He had no power to banish Edward Pym from the place: he had none, one -must conclude, to exact submission from Verena. She had observed to me, -the first night we met, that American girls grow up to be independent -of control in many ways. That is true: and, as it seems to me, they -think great guns of themselves for being so. - -Sir Dace was beginning to turn his anger on Colonel Letsom. As chance -had it, while he strode along this morning, full of wrath, the colonel -came in view, turning the corner of the strongest and most savoury -brick-yard. - -"Why do you harbour that fellow?" broke out Sir Dace, fiercely, without -circumlocution of greeting. - -"What, young Pym?" cried the little colonel in his mild way, jumping to -the other's meaning. "I don't suppose he will stay with us long. He is -expecting a summons to join his ship." - -"But why do you have him at your house at all?" reiterated Sir Dace, -with a thump of his stick. "Why did you take him in?" - -"Well, you see, he came down, a stranger, and presented himself to us, -calling my wife aunt, though she is not really so, and said he would -like to stay a few days with us. We could not turn him away, Sir Dace. -In fact we had no objection to his staying; he behaves himself very -well. He'll not be here long." - -"He has been here a great deal too long," growled Sir Dace; and went on -his way muttering. - -Nothing came of this complaint of Sir Dace Fontaine's. Edward Pym -continued to stay at Crabb, Colonel Letsom not seeing his way clear to -send him adrift; perhaps not wanting to. The love-making went on. In the -green meadows, where the grass and the sweet wild flowers were springing -up, in the Ravine, between its sheltering banks, redolent of romance; or -in the triangle, treading underfoot the late primroses and violets--in -one or other of these retreats might Mr. Pym and his ladye-love be seen -together, listening to the tender vows whispered between them, and to -the birds' songs. - -Sir Dace, conscious of all this, grew furious, and matters came to a -climax. Verena was bold enough to steal out one night to meet Pym for a -promenade with him in the moonlight, and Sir Dace came upon them sitting -on the stile at the end of the cross lane. He gave it to Pym hot and -strong, marched Verena home, and the next day carried both his daughters -away from Crabb. - -But I ought to mention that I had gone away from Crabb myself before -this, and was in London in with Miss Deveen. So that what had been -happening lately I only knew by hearsay. - -To what part of the world Sir Dace went, was not known. Naturally Crabb -was curious upon the point. Just as naturally it was supposed that Pym, -having nothing to stay for, would now take his departure. Pym, however, -stayed on. - -One morning Mr. Pym called at Maythorn Bank. An elderly woman, one Betty -Huntsman, who had been employed by the Fontaines as cook, opened the -door to him. The coloured man, Ozias, and a maid, Esther, had gone away -with the family. It was the second time Mr. Pym had presented himself -upon the same errand: to get the address of Sir Dace Fontaine. Betty, -obeying her master's orders, had refused it; this time he had come to -bribe her. Old Betty, however, an honest, kindly old woman, refused to -be bribed. - -"I can't do it, sir," she said to Pym. "When the master wrote to give me -the address, on account of sending him his foreign letters, he forbade -me to disclose it to anybody down here. It is only myself that knows it, -sir." - -"It is in London; I know that much," affirmed Pym, making a shot at the -place, and so far taking in old Betty. - -"That much may possibly be known, sir. I cannot tell more." - -Back went Pym to Colonel Letsom's. He sat down and wrote a letter in -a young lady's hand--for he had all kinds of writing at his fingers' -ends--and addressed it to Mrs. Betty Huntsman at Maythorn Bank, -Worcestershire. This he enclosed in a bigger envelope, with a few lines -from himself, and posted it to London, to one Alfred Saxby, a sailor -friend of his. He next, in a careless, off-hand manner, asked Colonel -Letsom if he'd mind calling at Maythorn Bank, and asking the old cook -there if she could give him her master's address. Oh, Pym was as cunning -as a fox, and could lay out his plans artfully. And Colonel Letsom, -unsuspicious as the day, and willing to oblige everybody, did call that -afternoon to put the question to Betty; but she told him she was not at -liberty to give the address. - -The following morning, Pym got the summons he had been expecting, to -join his ship. The _Rose of Delhi_ was now ready to take in cargo. After -swearing a little, down sat Mr. Pym to his desk, and in a shaky hand, to -imitate a sick man's, wrote back word that he was ill in bed, but would -endeavour to be up in London on the morrow. - -And, the morning following this, Mrs. Betty Huntsman got a letter from -London. - - "_London, Thursday._ - - "DEAR OLD BETTY, - - "I am writing to you for papa, who is very poorly indeed. Should - Colonel Letsom apply to you for our address here, you are to give - it him: papa wishes him to have it. We hope your wrist is better. - - "CORALIE FONTAINE." - -Betty Huntsman, honest herself, never supposed but the letter was -written by Miss Fontaine. By-and-by, there came a ring at the bell. - -"My uncle, Colonel Letsom, requested me to call here this morning, as I -was passing on my way to Timberdale Rectory," began Mr. Pym; for it was -he who rang, and by his authoritative voice and lordly manner, one might -have thought he was on board a royal frigate, commanding a cargo of -refractory soldiers. - -"Yes, sir!" answered Betty, dropping a curtsy. - -"Colonel Letsom wants your master's address in London--if you can give -it him. He has to write to Sir Dace to-day." - -Betty produced a card from her innermost pocket, and showed it to Mr. -Pym: who carefully copied down the address. - -That he was on his way to Timberdale Rectory, was _not_ a ruse. He went -on there through the Ravine at the top of his speed, and asked for -Captain Tanerton. - -"Have got orders to join ship, sir, and am going up this morning. Any -commands?" - -"To join what ship?" questioned Jack. - -"The _Rose of Delhi_. She is beginning to load." - -Jack paused. "Of course you must go up, as you are sent for. But I don't -think you will go out in the _Rose of Delhi_, Mr. Pym. I should -recommend you to look out for another ship." - -"Time enough for that, Captain Tanerton, when I get my discharge from -the _Rose of Delhi_: I have not got it yet," returned Pym, who seemed to -take a private delight in thwarting his captain. - -"Well, I shall be in London myself shortly, and will see about things," -spoke Jack. - -"Any commands, sir?" - -"Not at present." - -Taking his leave of Colonel and Mrs. Letsom, and thanking them for their -hospitality, Edward Pym departed for London by an afternoon train. He -left his promises and vows to the young Letsoms, boys and girls, to -come down again at the close of the next voyage, little dreaming, poor -ill-fated young man, that he would never go upon another. Captain -Tanerton wrote at once to head-quarters in Liverpool, saying he did -not wish to retain Pym as chief mate, and would like another one to be -appointed. Strolling back to Timberdale Rectory from posting the letter -at Salmon's, John Tanerton fell into a brown study. - -A curious feeling, against taking Pym out again, lay within him; like an -instinct, it seemed; a prevision of warning. Jack was fully conscious -of it, though he knew not why it should be there. It was a great deal -stronger than could have been prompted by his disapprobation of the -man's carelessness in his duties on board. - -"I'll go up to London to-morrow," he decided. "Best to do so. Pym means -to sail in the _Rose of Delhi_ if he can; just, I expect, because he -sees I don't wish him to: the man's nature is as contrary as two sticks. -I'll not have him again at any price. Yes, I must go up to-morrow." - -"L'homme propose"--we know the proverb. Very much to Jack's surprise, -his wife arrived that evening at the Rectory from Liverpool, with her -eldest child, Polly. Therefore, Jack did not start for London on the -morrow; it would not have been at all polite. - -He went up the following week. His first visit was to Eastcheap, in -which bustling quarter stood the office of Mr. James Freeman, the ship's -broker. After talking a bit about the ship and her cargo, Jack spoke of -Pym. - -"Has a first officer been appointed in Pym's place?" - -"No," said Mr. Freeman. "Pym goes out with you again." - -"I told you I did not wish to take Pym again," cried Jack. - -"You said something about it, I know, and we thought of putting in the -mate from the _Star of Lahore_; but he wants to keep to his own vessel." - -"I won't take Pym." - -"But why, Captain Tanerton?" - -"We don't get on together. I never had an officer who gave me so much -provocation--the Americans would say, who _riled_ me so. I believe the -man dislikes me, and for that reason was insubordinate. He may do better -in another ship. I am a strict disciplinarian on board." - -"Well," carelessly observed the broker, "you will have to make the best -of him this voyage, Captain Tanerton. It is decided that he sails with -you again." - -"Then, don't be surprised if there's murder committed," was Jack's -impetuous answer. - -And Mr. Freeman stared: and noted the words. - - * * * * * - -The mid-day sun was shining hotly upon the London pavement, and -especially upon the glittering gold band adorning the cap of a lithe, -handsome young sailor, who had just got out of a cab, and was striding -along as though he wanted to run a race with the clocks. It was Edward -Pym: and the reader will please take notice that we have gone back a few -days, for this was the day following Pym's arrival in London. - -"Halt a step," cried he to himself, his eye catching the name written up -at a street corner. "I must be out of my bearings." - -Taking from his pocket a piece of paper, he read some words written -there. It was no other than the address he had got from Bessy Huntsman -the previous day. - -"Woburn Place, Russell Square," repeated he. "This is not it. I'll be -shot if I know where I am! Can you tell me my way to Woburn Place?" -asked he, of a gentleman who was passing. - -"Turn to the left; you will soon come to it." - -"Thank you," said Pym. - -The right house sighted at last, Mr. Pym took his standing in a friendly -door-way on the other side of the road, and put himself on the watch. -Very much after the fashion of a bailiff's man, who wants to serve a -writ. - -He glanced up at the windows; he looked down at the doors; he listened -to the sound of a church clock striking; he scraped his feet in -impatience, now one foot, now the other. Nothing came of it. The rooms -behind the curtained windows might be untenanted for all the sign given -out to the eager eyes of Mr. Pym. - -"Hang it all!" he cried, in an explosion of impatience: and he could -have sent the silent dwelling to Jericho. - -No man of business likes his time to be wasted: and Mr. Pym could very -especially not afford to waste his to-day. For he was supposed to be at -St. Katherine's Docks, checking cargo on board the _Rose of Delhi_. When -twelve o'clock struck, the dinner hour, he had made a rush from the -ship, telling the foreman of the shed not to ship any more cargo till he -came back in half-an-hour, and had come dashing up here in a fleet cab. -The half-hour had expired, and another half-hour to it, and it was a -great deal more than time to dash back again. If anybody from the office -chanced to go down to the ship, what a row there'd be!--and he would -probably get his discharge. - -He had not been lucky in his journey from Worcestershire the previous -day. The train was detained so on the line, through some heavy waggons -having come to grief, that he did not reach London till late at night; -too late to go down to his lodgings near the docks; so he slept at an -hotel. This morning he had reported himself at the broker's office; and -Mr. Freeman, after blowing him up for his delay, ordered him on board -at once: since they began to load, two days ago now, a clerk from the -office had been down on the ship, making up the cargo-books in Pym's -place. - -"I'll be hanged if I don't believe they must all be dead!" cried Pym, -gazing at the house. "Why does not somebody show himself? I can't post -the letter--for I know my letters to her are being suppressed. And I -dare not leave it at the door myself, lest that cantankerous Ozias -should answer me, and hand it to old Dace, instead of to Vera." - -Luck at last! The door opened, and a maid-servant came out with a jug, -her bonnet thrown on perpendicularly. Mr. Pym kept her in view, and -caught her up as she was nearing a public-house. - -"You come from Mrs. Ball's, Woburn Place?" said he. - -"Yes, sir," answered the girl, doubtfully, rather taken aback at the -summary address, but capitulating to the gold-lace band. - -"I want you to give this letter privately to Miss Verena Fontaine. When -she is quite alone, you understand. And here's half-a-crown, my pretty -lass, for your trouble." - -The girl touched neither letter nor money. She surreptitiously put her -bonnet straight, in her gratified vanity. - -"But I can't give it, sir," she said. "Though I'm sure I'd be happy to -oblige you if I could. The Miss Fontaines and their papa is not with us -now; they've gone away." - -"What?" cried Pym, setting his teeth angrily, an expression crossing his -face that marred all its good looks. "When did they leave? Where are -they gone to?" - -"They left yesterday, sir, and they didn't say where. That black servant -of theirs and our cook couldn't agree; there was squabbles perpetual. -None of us liked him; it don't seem Christian-like to have a black man -sitting down to table with you. Mrs. Ball, our missis, she took our -part; and the young ladies and their papa they naturally took _his_ -part: and so, they left." - -"Can I see Mrs. Ball?" asked Pym, after mentally anathematizing servants -in general, black and white. "Is she at home?" - -"Yes, sir, and she'll see you, I'm sure. She is vexed at their having -left." - -He dropped the half-crown into the girl's hand, returned the note to his -pocket, and went to the house. Mrs. Ball, a talkative, good-humoured -woman in a rusty black silk gown, with red cheeks and quick brown eyes, -opened the door to him herself. - -She invited him in. She would have given him Sir Dace Fontaine's address -with all the pleasure in life, if she had it, she said. Sir Dace did not -leave it with her. He simply bade her take in any letters that might -come, and he would send for them. - -"Have you not any notion where they went?--to what part of the town?" -asked the discomfited Pym. That little trick he had played Betty -Huntsman was of no use to him now. - -"Not any. Truth to say, I was too vexed to ask," confessed Mrs. Ball. "I -knew nothing about their intention to leave until they were packing up. -Sir Dace paid me a week's rent in lieu of warning, and away they went in -two cabs. You are related to them, sir? There's a look in your face that -Sir Dace has got." - -Mr. Pym knitted his brow; he did not take it as a compliment. Many -people had seen the same likeness; though he was a handsome young man -and Sir Dace an ugly old one. - -"If you can get their address, I shall be much obliged to you to keep it -for me; I will call again to-morrow evening," were his parting words to -the landlady. And he went rattling back to the docks as fast as wheels -could take him. - -Mr. Pym went up to Woburn Place the following evening accordingly, but -the landlady had no news to give him. He went the next evening after, -and the next, and the next. All the same. He went so long and to so -little purpose that he at last concluded the Fontaines were not in -London. Sir Dace neither sent a messenger nor wrote for any letters -there might be. Two were waiting for him; no more. Edward Pym and Mrs. -Ball became, so to say, quite intimate. She had much sympathy with the -poor young man, who wanted to find his relatives before he sailed--and -could not. - -It may as well be told, not to make an unnecessary mystery of it, that -the Fontaines had gone straight to Brighton. At length, however, Mrs. -Ball was one day surprised by a visit from Ozias. She never bore malice -long, and received him civilly. Her rooms were let again, so she had got -over the smart. - -"At Brighton!" she exclaimed, when she heard where they had been--for -the man had no orders to conceal it. "I thought it strange that your -master did not send for his letters. And how are the young ladies? And -where are you staying now?" - -"The young ladies, they well," answered Ozias. "We stay now at one big -house in Marylebone Road. We come up yesterday to this London town: Sir -Dace, he find the sea no longer do for him; make him have much bile." - -Edward Pym had been in a rage at not finding Verena. Verena, on her -part, though rather wondering that she did not hear from him, looked -upon his silence as only a matter of precaution. When they were settled -at Woburn Place, after leaving Crabb, she had written to Pym, enjoining -him not to reply. It might not be safe, she said, for Coralie had gone -over to "the enemy," meaning Sir Dace: Edward must contrive to see her -when he came to London to join his ship. And when the days went on, and -Verena saw nothing of her lover, she supposed he was not yet in London. -She went to Brighton supposing the same. But, now that they were back -from Brighton, and still neither saw Pym nor heard from him, Verena grew -uneasy, fearing that the _Rose of Delhi_ had sailed. - -"What a strange thing it is about Edward!" she exclaimed one evening to -her sister. "I think he must have sailed. He would be sure to come to us -if he were in London." - -"How should he know where we are?" dissented Coralie. "For all he can -tell, Vera, we may be in the moon." - -A look of triumph crossed Vera's face. "He knows the address in Woburn -Place, Coral, for I wrote and gave it him: and Mrs. Ball would direct -him here. Papa sent Ozias there to-day for his letters; and I know -Edward would never cease going there, day by day, to ask for news, until -he heard of me." - -Coralie laughed softly. Unlocking her writing-case, she displayed a -letter that lay snugly between its leaves. It was the one that Vera had -written at Woburn Place. Verena turned very angry, but Coralie made -light of it. - -"As I dare say he has already sailed, I confess my treachery, Vera. It -was all done for your good. Better think no more of Edward Pym." - -"You wicked thing! You are more cruel than Bluebeard. I shall take means -to ascertain whether the _Rose of Delhi_ is gone. Captain Tanerton made -a boast that he'd not take Edward out again, but he may not have been -able to help himself," pursued Vera, her tone significant. "Edward -_intended to go in her_, and he has a friend at court." - -"A friend at court!" repeated Coralie. "What do you mean? Who is it?" - -"It is the Freemans out-door manager at Liverpool, and the ship's -husband--a Mr. Gould. He came up here when the ship got in, and he and -Edward made friends together. The more readily because Gould and Captain -Tanerton are not friends. The captain complained to the owners last time -of something or other connected with the ship--some bad provisions, I -think, that had been put on board, and insisted on its being rectified. -As Mr. Gould was responsible, he naturally resented this, and ever since -he has been fit to hang Captain Tanerton." - -"How do you know all this, Verena?" - -"From Edward. He told me at Crabb. Mr. Gould has a great deal more to do -with choosing the officers than the Freemans themselves have, and he -promised Edward he should remain in the _Rose of Delhi_." - -"It is strange Edward should care to remain in the ship when her -commander does not like him," remarked Coralie. - -"He stays in because of that--to thwart Tanerton," laughed Verena -lightly. "Partly, at least. But he thinks, you see, and I think, that -his remaining for two voyages in a ship that has so good a name may tell -well for him with papa. Now you know, Coral." - - * * * * * - -The lovers met. Pym found her out through Mrs. Ball. And Verena, -thoroughly independent in her notions, put on her bonnet, and walked -with him up and down the Marylebone Road. - -"We sail this day week, Vera," he said. "My life has been a torment to -me, fearing I should not see you before the ship went out of dock. And, -in that case, I don't think I should have gone in her." - -"Is it the _Rose of Delhi_?" asked Vera. - -"Of course. I told you Gould would manage it. She is first-rate in every -way, and the most comfortable ship I ever was in--barring the skipper." - -"You don't like him, I know. And he does not like you." - -"I hate and detest him," said Pym warmly--therefore, as the reader must -perceive, no love was lost between him and Jack. "He is an awful screw -for keeping one to one's duty, and I expect we shall have no end of -squalls. Ah, Verena," continued the young man, in a changed tone, "had -you only listened to my prayers at Crabb, I need not have sailed again -at all." - -Mr. Edward Pym was a bold wooer. He had urged Verena to cut the matter -short by marrying him at once. She stopped his words. - -"I will marry you in twelve months from this, if all goes well, but not -before. It is waste of time to speak of it, Edward--as I have told you. -Were I to marry without papa's consent--and you know he will not give -it--he can take most of the money that came to me from mamma. Only a -small income would remain to me. I shall not risk _that_." - -"As if Sir Dace would exact it! He might go into one of his passions at -first, but he'd soon come round; he'd not touch your money, Vera." And -Edward Pym, in saying this, fully believed it. - -"You don't know papa. I have been used to luxuries, Edward, and I -could not do without them. What would two hundred pounds a-year be for -me--living as I have lived? And for you, also, for you would be my -husband? Next May I shall be of age, and my fortune will be safe--all -my own." - -"A thousand things may happen in a year," grumbled Pym, who was wild to -lead an idle life, and hated the discipline on board ship. "The _Rose -of Delhi_ may go down, and I with it." - -"She has not gone down yet. Why should she go down now?" - -"What right had Coralie to intercept your letter?" asked Pym, passing to -another phase of his grievances. - -"She had no right; but she did it. I asked Esther, our own maid, to run -and put it in the post for me. Coralie, coming in from walking, met -Esther at the door, saw the letter in her hand, and took it from her, -saying she would go back and post it herself. Perhaps Esther suspected -something: she did not tell me this. Coralie had the face to tell it me -herself yesterday." - -"Well, Vera, you should have managed better," returned Pym, feeling -frightfully cross. - -"Oh, Edward, don't you see how it is?" wailed the girl, in a piteous -tone of appeal--"that they are all against me. Or, rather, against you. -Papa, Coralie, and Ozias: and I fancy now that Coralie has spoken to -Esther. Papa makes them think as he thinks." - -"It is a fearful shame. Is this to be our only interview?" - -"No," said Vera. "I will see you every day until you sail." - -"You may not be able to. We shall be watched, now Coralie has turned -against us." - -"I will see you every day until you sail," repeated the girl, with -impassioned fervour. "Come what may, I will contrive to see you." - -In making this promise, Miss Verena Fontaine probably did not understand -the demands on a chief mate's time when a ship is getting ready for sea. -To rush up from the docks at the mid-day hour, and rush back again in -time for work, was not practicable. Pym had done it once; he could not -do it twice. Therefore, the only time to be seized upon was after six -o'clock, when the _Rose of Delhi_ was left to herself and her watchman -for the night, and the dock-gates were shut. This brought it, you see, -to about seven o'clock, before Pym could be hovering, like a wandering -ghost, up and down the Marylebone Road; for he had to go to his lodgings -in Ship Street first and put himself to rights after his day's work, -to say nothing of drinking his tea. And seven o'clock was Miss Verena -Fontaine's dinner hour. Sir Dace Fontaine's mode of dining was -elaborate; and, what with the side-dishes, the puddings and the dessert, -it was never over much before nine o'clock. - -For two days Verena made her dinner at luncheon. Late dining did not -agree with her, she told Coralie, and she should prefer some tea in her -room. Coralie watched, and saw her come stealing in each night soon -after nine. Until that hour, she had promenaded with Edward Pym in the -bustling lighted streets, or in the quieter walks of the Regent's Park. -On the third day, Sir Dace told her that she must be in her place at -the dinner-table. Verena wondered whether the order emanated from his -arbitrary temper, or whether he had any suspicion. So, that evening she -dined as usual; and when she and Coralie went into the drawing-room at -eight o'clock, she said her head ached, and she should go to bed. - -That night there was an explosion. Docked of an hour at the beginning of -their interview, the two lovers made up for it by lingering together an -hour longer at the end of it. It was striking ten when Verena came in, -and found herself confronted by her father. Verena gave Coralie the -credit of betraying her, but in that she was wrong. Sir Dace--he might -have had his suspicions--suddenly called for a particular duet that was -a favourite with his daughters, bade Coralie look it out, and sent up -for Verena to come down and sing it. Miss Verena was not to be found, so -could not obey. - -Sir Dace, I say, met her on the stairs as she came in. He put his hand -on her shoulder to turn her footsteps to the drawing-room, and shut the -door. Then came the explosion. Verena did not deny that she had been out -with Pym. And Sir Dace, in very undrawing-room-like language, swore that -she should see Pym no more. - -"We have done no harm, papa. We have been to Madame Tussaud's." - -"Listen to me, Verena. Attempt to go outside this house again while that -villain is in London, and I will carry you off, as I carried you from -Crabb. You cannot beard _me_." - -It was not pleasant to look at the face of Sir Dace as he said it. At -these moments of excitement, it would take a dark tinge underneath the -skin, as if the man, to use Jack Tanerton's expression, had a touch of -the tar-brush; and the dark sullen eyes would gleam with a peculiar -light, that did not remind one of an angel. - -"We saw Henry the Eighth and his six wives," went on Vera. "Jane Seymour -looked the nicest." - -"How _dare_ you talk gibberish, at a moment like this?" raved Sir Dace. -"As to that man, I have cursed him. And you will learn to thank me for -it." - -Verena turned whiter than a sheet. Her answering words seemed brave -enough, but her voice shook as she spoke them. - -"Papa, you have no right to interfere with my destiny in life; no, -though you are the author of my being. I have promised to be the wife -of my cousin Edward, and no earthly authority shall stay me. You may be -able to control my movements now by dint of force, for you are stronger -than I am; but my turn will come." - -"Edward Pym--hang him!--is bad to the backbone." - -"I will have him whether he is bad or good," was Verena's mental answer: -but she did not say it aloud. - -"And I will lock you in your room from this hour, if you dare defy me," -hissed Sir Dace. - -"I do not defy you, papa. It is your turn, I say; and you have strength -and power on your side." - -"Take care you do not. It would be the worse for you." - -"Very well, papa," sighed Verena. "I cannot help myself now; but in a -twelvemonth's time I shall be my own mistress. We shall see then." - -Sir Dace looked upon the words as a sort of present concession. He -concluded Miss Verena had capitulated and would not again go a-roving. -So he did not go the length of locking her in her room. - -Verena was mild as milk the next day, and good as gold. She -never stirred from the side of Coralie, but sat practising a new -netting-stitch, her temper sweet, her face placid. The thought of -stealing out again to meet Mr. Pym was apparently further off than Asia. - -I have said that I was in London at this time, staying with Miss Deveen. -It was curious that I should be so during those dreadful events that -were so soon to follow. Connected with the business that kept me and Mr. -Brandon in town, was a short visit made us by the Squire. Not that the -Squire need have come; writing would have done; but he was nothing loth -to do so: and it was lovely weather. He stayed with Mr. Brandon at his -hotel in Covent Garden; and we thought he meant to make a week of it. -The Squire was as fond of the sights and the shops as any child. - -I went down one morning to breakfast with them at the Tavistock, and -there met Jack Tanerton. Later, we started to take a look at a famous -cricket-match that was being played at Lord's. In crossing the -Marylebone Road, we met Sir Dace Fontaine. - -His lodgings were close by, he said, and he would have us go in. It was -the day I have just told you of; when Verena sat, good as gold, by her -sister's side, trying the new netting-stitch. - -The girls were in a sort of boudoir, half-way up the stairs. The French -would, I suppose, call it the entresol: a warm-looking room, with -stained glass in the windows, and a rich coloured carpet. Coralie -and Vera were, as usual, dressed alike, in delicate summer-muslins. -Vera--how pretty she looked!--had blue ribbon in her hair: her blue -eyes laughed at seeing us, a pink flush set off her dimples. - -"When do you sail, Captain Tanerton?" abruptly asked Sir Dace, suddenly -interrupting the conversation. - -"On Thursday, all being well," answered Jack. - -"Do you take out the same mate?--that Pym?" - -"I believe so; yes, Sir Dace." - -We had to go away, or should not find standing-room on the -cricket-ground. Sir Dace said he would accompany us, and called out to -Ozias to bring his hat. Before the hat came, he thought better of it, -and said he would not go; those sights fatigued him. I did not know what -had taken place until later, or I might have thought he stayed at home -to guard Verena. He gave us a cordial invitation to dinner in the -evening, we must all go, he said; and Mr. Brandon was the only one of -us who declined. - -"I am very busy," said Jack, "but I will contrive to get free by seven -this evening." - -"Very busy indeed, when you can spend the day at Lord's!" laughed -Verena. - -"I am not going to Lord's," said Jack. Which was true. "I have come up -this way to see an invalid passenger who is going out in my ship." - -"Oh," quoth Vera, "I thought what a nice idle time you were having of -it. Mind, Johnny Ludlow, that you take me in to dinner to-night. I have -something to tell you." - -Close upon the dinner-hour named, seven, the Squire and I were again at -Sir Dace Fontaine's. Tanerton's cab came dashing up at the same moment. -Coralie was in the drawing-room alone, her white dress and herself -resplendent in coral ornaments. Sir Dace came in, and the Squire began -telling him about the cricket-match, saying he ought to have been there. -Presently Sir Dace rang the bell. - -"How is it that dinner's late?" he asked sternly of Ozias--for Sir Dace -liked to be served to the moment. - -"The dinner only wait for Miss Verena, sir," returned Ozias, "She no -down yet." - -Sir Dace turned round sharply to look at the sofa behind him, where -I sat with Coralie, talking in an undertone. He had not noticed, I -suppose, but that both sisters were there. - -"Let Miss Verena be told that we wait for her," he said, waving his hand -to Ozias. - -Back came Ozias in a minute or two. "Miss Verena, she no upstairs, sir. -She no anywhere." - -Of all the frowns that ever made a face ugly, the worst sat on Sir Dace -Fontaine's, as he turned to Coralie. - -"Have you let her go out?" he asked. - -"Why of course she is not out, papa," answered Coralie, calm and smiling -as usual. - -"Let Esther go into Miss Verena's room, Ozias, and ask her to come down -at once." - -"Esther go this last time, Miss Coralie. She come down and say, Ozias, -Miss Verena no upstairs at all; she go out." - -"How dare----" began Sir Dace; but Coralie interrupted him. - -"Papa, I will go and see. I am sure Verena cannot be out; I am sure she -is _not_. She went into her room to dress when I went into mine. She -came to me while she was dressing asking me to lend her my pearl comb; -she had just broken one of the teeth of her own. She meant to come down -to dinner then and was dressing for it: she had no thought of going -out." - -Coralie halted at the door to say all this, and then ran up the stairs. -She came down crest-fallen. Verena had stolen a march on them. In Sir -Dace Fontaine's passionate anger, he explained the whole to us, taking -but a few short sentences to do it. Verena had been beguiled into a -marriage engagement with Edward Pym: he, Sir Dace, had forbidden her to -go out of the house to meet him; and, as it appeared, she had set his -authority at defiance. They were no doubt tramping off now to some place -of amusement; a theatre, perhaps: the past evening they had gone to -Madame Tussaud's. "Will you take in Miss Fontaine, Squire?" concluded -Sir Dace, with never a break between that and the explanation. - -How dark and sullen he looked, I can recall even now. Deprived of my -promised partner, Verena, I went down alone. Sir Dace following with -Jack, into whose arm he put his own. - -"I wish you joy of your chief officer, Captain Tanerton!" cried he, a -sardonic smile on his lips. - -It must have been, I suppose, about nine o'clock. We were all back in -the drawing-room, and Coralie had been singing. But somehow the song -fell flat; the contretemps about Verena, or perhaps the sullenness it -had left on Sir Dace, produced a sense of general discomfort; and nobody -asked for another. Coralie took her dainty work-box off a side-table, -and sat down by me on the sofa. - -"I may as well take up my netting, as not," she said to me in an -undertone. "Verena began a new collar to-day--which she will be six -months finishing, if she ever finishes it at all. She dislikes the work; -I love it." Netting was the work most in vogue at that time. Mrs. -Todhetley had just netted herself a cap. - -"Do you think we shall see your sister to-night?" I asked of Coralie in -a whisper. - -"Of course you will, if you don't run away too soon. She'll not come in -later than ten o'clock." - -"Don't you fancy that it has put out Sir Dace very much?" - -Coralie nodded. "It is something new for papa to attempt to control us; -and he does not like to find he _can't_. In this affair I take his part; -not Verena's. Edward Pym is not a suitable match for her in any way. For -myself, I dislike him." - -"I don't much like him, either; and I am sure Captain Tanerton does not. -Your sister is in love with him, and can see no fault. Cupid's eyes are -blind, you know." - -"I don't know it at all," she laughed. "My turn with Cupid has not yet -come, Johnny Ludlow. I do not much think Cupid could blind me, though he -may be blind himself. If--why, what's this?" - -Slowly lifting the lid of the box, which had been resting on her lap -unopened, she saw a sealed note there, lying uppermost, above the -netting paraphernalia. It was addressed to herself, in Verena's -handwriting. Coralie opened it with her usual deliberation. - - "DEAR CORALIE, - - "As I find you and papa intend to keep me a prisoner, and as I do - not choose to be kept a prisoner, and do not think you have any - right to exercise this harsh control over me, I am leaving home for - a few days. Tell papa that I shall be perfectly safe and well taken - care of, even if I could not take care of myself--which I _can_, as - you must know. - - "Ever yours, - "VERA." - -Coralie laughed just a little. It seemed as if nothing ever put her out: -she did know that Verena could, as the note phrased it, take care of -herself. She went up to her father, who was standing by the fire talking -with the Squire and Tanerton. Sir Dace, fresh from a hot country, was -always chilly, as I have said before, and kept up a big fire whether it -was warm or cold. - -"Papa, here is a note from Verena. I have just found it in my work-box. -Would you like to see what she says?" - -Sir Dace put his coffee-cup on the mantelpiece, and took the note from -Coralie. I never saw any expression like that of his face as he read. I -never saw any face go so _darkly_ white. Evidently he did not take the -news in the same light way that Coralie did. - -A cry broke from him. Staggering back against the shelf, he upset a vase -that stood at the corner. A beautiful vase of Worcester china, with a -ground of delicate gilt tracery, and a deliciously-painted landscape -standing out from it. It was not at the vase, lying in pieces on the -fender, we looked, but at Sir Dace. His face was contorted; his eyes -were rolling. Tanerton, ever ready, caught his arm. - -"Help me to find her, my friends!" he gasped, when the threatened fit -had passed. "Help me this night to find my daughter! As sure as we are -living, that base man will marry her to-morrow, if we do not, and then -it will be too late." - -"Goodness bless me, yes!" cried the Squire, brushing his hair the wrong -way, his good old red face all excitement, "Let us start at once! -Johnny, you come with me. Where can we go first?" - -That was the question for them all--where to go? London was a large -place; and to set out to look for a young lady in it, not knowing where -to look, was as bad as looking for the needle in the bottle of hay. - -"She may be at that villain's place," panted Sir Dace, whose breath -seemed to be all wrong. "Where does he live? You know, I suppose," -appealing to Jack. - -"No, I don't," said Jack. "But I can find out. I dare say it is in Ship -Street. Most of----" - -"Where is Ship Street?" interrupted the Squire, looking more helpless -than a lunatic. - -"Ship Street, Tower Hill," explained Jack; and I dare say the Squire was -as wise as before. "Quite a colony of officers live there, while their -vessels are lying in St. Katherine's Docks. Ship Street lies handy, you -see; they have to be on board by six in the morning." - -"I knew a young fellow who lodged all the way down at Poplar, because it -was near to his ship," contended the Squire. - -"No doubt. His ship must have been berthed in the East India Docks; they -are much further off. I will go away at once, then. But," added Jack, -arresting his steps, and turning to Sir Dace, "don't you think it may -be as well to question the household? Your daughter may have left some -indication of her movements." - -Jack's thought was not a bad one. Coralie rang the bell for their own -maid, Esther, a dull, silent kind of young woman. But Esther knew -nothing. She had not helped Miss Verena to dress that evening, only Miss -Coralie. Miss Verena said she did not want her. She believed Maria saw -her go out. - -Maria, the housemaid, was called: a smart young woman, with curled hair -and a pink bow in her cap. Her tale was this. While the young ladies -were dressing for dinner, she entered the drawing-room to attend to the -fire, and found it very low. She went on her knees to coax it up, when -Miss Verena came in in her white petticoat, a little shawl on her neck. -She walked straight up to Miss Fontaine's work-box, opened it and shut -it, and then went out of the room again. - -"Did she speak to you?" asked John Tanerton. - -"Yes, sir. Leastways she made just a remark--'What, that fire out -again?' she said. That was all, sir." - -"Go on," sharply cried Sir Dace. - -"About ten minutes later, I was at the front-door, letting out the -water-rate--who is sure to call, as my missis told him, at the most -ill-convenient time--when Miss Verena came softly down the stairs with -her bonnet and mantle on. I felt surprised. 'Don't shut me in, Maria, -when I want to go out,' she said to me in a laughing sort of way, and I -pulled the door back and begged her pardon. That was all, sir." - -"How was she dressed?" asked Coralie. - -"I couldn't say," answered the girl; "except that her clothes were dark. -Her black veil was down over her face; I noticed that; and she had a -little carpet-bag in her hand." - -So there we were, no wiser than before. Verena had taken flight, and it -was impossible to say whither. - -They were for running all over the world. The Squire would have started -forthwith, and taken the top of the Monument to begin with. John -Tanerton, departing on his search to find Pym's lodgings, found we all -meant to attend him, including Ozias. - -"Better let me go alone," said Jack. "I am Pym's master at sea, and can -perhaps exercise some little authority on shore. Johnny Ludlow can go -with me." - -"And you, papa, and Mr. Todhetley might pay a visit to Madame -Tussaud's," put in Coralie, who had not lost her equanimity the least -in the world, seeming to look upon the escapade as more of a joke than -otherwise. "They will very probably be found at Madame Tussaud's: it is -a safe place of resort when people want to talk secrets and be under -shelter." - -There might be reason in what Coralie said. Certainly there was no need -for a procession of live people and two cabs to invade the regions of -Tower Hill. So Jack, buttoning his light over-coat over his dinner -toggery, got into a hansom with me, and the two old gentlemen went off -to see the kings and queens. - -"Drive like the wind," said Jack to the cabman. "No. 23, Ship Street, -Tower Hill." - -"I thought you did not know his number," I said, as we went skimming -over the stones. - -"I do not know Pym's: am not sure that he puts up in Ship Street. My -second mate, Mark Ferrar, lives at No. 23, and I dare say he can direct -me to Pym's." - -Mark Ferrar! The name struck on my memory. "Does Ferrar come from -Worcester, do you know, Jack? Is he related to the Battleys of Crabb?" - -"It is the same," said Jack. "I have heard his history. One of his -especial favourites is Mr. Johnny Ludlow." - -"How strange!--strange that he should be in your ship! Does he do well? -Is he a good sailor?" - -"First-rate. Ferrar is really a superior young man, steady and -painstaking, and has got on wonderfully. As soon as he qualifies for -master, which will be in another year or two, he will be placed in -command, unless I am mistaken. Our owners see what he is, and push him -forward. They drafted him into my ship two years ago." - -How curious it was! Mark Ferrar, the humble charity-boy, the _frog_, who -had won the heart of poor King Sanker, rising thus quickly towards the -top of the tree! I had always liked Mark; had seen how trustworthy he -was. - -Our cab might fly like the wind; but Tower Hill seemed a long way off in -spite of it. Dashing into Ship Street at last, I looked about me, and -saw a narrow street with narrow houses on either side, narrow doors that -somehow did not look upright, and shutters closed before the downstairs -windows. - -No. 23. Jack got out, and knocked at the door. A young boy opened it, -saying he believed Mr. Ferrar was in his parlour. - -You had to dive down a step to get into the passage. I followed Jack in. -The parlour-door was on the right, and the boy pushed it open. A smart, -well-dressed sailor sat at the table, his head bent over books and -papers, apparently doing exercises by candle-light. - -It was Mark Ferrar. His honest, homely face, with the wide mouth and -plain features, looked much the same; but the face was softened into--I -had almost said--that of a gentleman. Mark finished the sentence he was -writing, looked up, and saw his captain. - -"Oh, sir, is it you?" he said, rising. "I beg your pardon." - -"Busy at your books, I see, Mr. Ferrar?" - -Mark smiled--the great, broad, genuine smile I so well remembered. "I -had to put them by for other books, while I was studying to pass for -chief, sir. That done, I can get to them again with an easy conscience." - -"To be sure. Can you tell me where Mr. Pym lodges?" - -"Close by: a few doors lower down. But I can show you the house, sir." - -"Have you forgotten me, Mark?" I asked, as he took up his cap to come -with us. - -An instant's uncertain gaze; the candle was behind him, and my face in -the shade. His own face lighted up with a glad light. - -"No, sir, that indeed I have not, I can never forget Mr. Johnny Ludlow. -But you are about the last person, sir, I should have expected to see -here." - -In the moment's impulse, he had put out his hand to me; then, -remembering, I suppose, what his position was in the old days, drew it -back quickly. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said, with the same honest -flush that used to be for ever making a scarlet poppy of his face. But -I was glad to shake hands with Mark Ferrar. - -"How are all your people at Worcester, Mark?" I asked, as we went down -the street. - -"Quite well, thank you, sir. My old father is hearty yet, and my brother -and sister are both married. I went down to see them last week, and -stayed a day or two." - -The greatest change in Ferrar lay in his diction. He spoke as we spoke. -Associating now with men of education, he had taken care to catch up -their tone and accent; and he was ever, afloat or ashore, striving to -improve himself. - -Ferrar opened Pym's door without knocking, dived down the step, for -the houses were precisely similar, and entered the parlour. He and Pym -occupied the same apartments in each house: the parlour and the little -bed-room behind it. - -The parlour was in darkness, save for what light came into it from the -street gas-lamp, for these shutters were not closed. Ferrar went into -the passage and shouted out for the landlady, Mrs. Richenough. I thought -it an odd name. - -She came in from the kitchen at the end of the passage, carrying a -candle. A neat little woman with grey hair and a puckered face; the -sleeves of her brown gown were rolled up to the elbows, and she wore a -check apron. - -"Mr. Pym, sir?" she said, in answer to Ferrar. "He dressed hisself and -went out when he'd swallowed down his tea. He always do go out, sir, the -minute he's swallowed it." - -"Do you expect him back to-night?" questioned Jack. - -"Why yes, sir, I suppose so," she answered, "he mostly comes in about -eleven." - -"Has any young lady been here this evening, ma'am?" blandly continued -Jack. "With Mr. Pym?--or to inquire for him?" - -Mrs. Richenough resented the question. "A young lady!" she repeated, -raising her voice. "Well, I'm sure! what next?" - -"Take care: it is our captain who speaks to you," whispered Ferrar -in her ear; and the old woman dropped a curtsy to Jack. Captains are -captains with the old landladies in Ship Street. - -"Mr. Pym's sister--or cousin," amended Jack. - -"And it's humbly asking pardon of you, sir. I'm sure I took it to mean -one of them fly-away girls that would like to be running after our young -officers continual. No, sir; no young lady has been here for Mr. Pym, or -with him." - -"We can wait a little while to see whether he comes in, I presume, -ma'am," said Jack. - -Intimating that Mr. Pym's captain was welcome to wait the whole night if -he pleased, Mrs. Richenough lighted the lamp that stood on the table, -shut the shutters, and made Jack another curtsy as she withdrew. - -"Do you wish me to remain, sir?" asked Mark. - -"Not at all," was the captain's answer. "There will be a good deal to do -to-morrow, Mr. Ferrar: mind you are not late in getting on board." - -"No fear, sir," replied Ferrar. - -And he left us waiting. - - -III. - -The dwellings in Ship Street, Tower Hill, may be regarded as desirable -residences by the young merchant-seamen whose vessels are lying in the -neighbouring clocks, but they certainly do not possess much attraction -for the general eye. - -Seated in Edward Pym's parlour, the features of the room gradually -impressed themselves upon my mind, and they remain there still. They -would have remained, I think, without the dreadful tragedy that was so -soon to take place in it. It was weary work waiting. Captain Tanerton, -tired with his long and busy day, was nodding asleep in the opposite -chair, and I had nothing to do but look about me. - -It was a small room, rather shabby, the paper of a greenish cast, the -faded carpet originally red: and the bedroom behind, as much as could -be seen of it through the half-open door, looked smaller and poorer. -The chairs were horsehair, the small table in the middle had a purple -cloth on it, on which stood the lamp, that the landlady had just -lighted. A carved ivory ornament, representing a procession of -priests and singers, probably a present to Mrs. Richenough from some -merchant-captain, stood under a glass shade on a bracket against the -wall; the mantelpiece was garnished with a looking-glass and some -china shepherds and shepherdesses. A monkey-jacket of Pym's lay -across the back of a chair; some books and his small desk were on the -chiffonier. In the rooms above, as we learnt later, lodged a friend of -Pym's, one Alfred Saxby, who was looking out for a third mate's berth. - -At last Pym came in. Uncommonly surprised he seemed to see us sitting -there, but not at all put out: he thought the captain had come down on -some business connected with the ship. Jack quietly opened the ball; -saying what he had to say. - -"Yes, sir. I do know where Miss Verena Fontaine is, but I decline to -say," was Pym's answer when he had listened. - -"No, sir, nothing will induce me to say," he added to further -remonstrance, "and you cannot compel me. I am under your authority at -sea, Captain Tanerton, but I am not on shore--and not at all in regard -to my private affairs. Miss Verena Fontaine is under the protection of -friends, and that is quite enough." - -Enough or not enough, this was the utmost we could get from him. His -captain talked, and he talked, each of them in a civilly-cold way; but -nothing more satisfactory came of it. Pym wound up by saying the young -lady was his cousin, and he could take care of her without being -interfered with. - -"Do you trust him, Johnny Ludlow?" asked Jack, as we came away. - -"I don't trust him on the whole; not a bit of it. But he seems to speak -truth in saying she is with friends." - -And, as the days went on, bringing no tidings of Verena, Sir Dace -Fontaine grew angry as a raging tiger. - -When a ship is going out of dock, she is more coquettish than a beauty -in her teens. Not in herself, but in her movements. Advertised to sail -to-day, you will be told she'll not start until to-morrow; and when -to-morrow comes the departure will be put off until the next day, -perhaps to the next week. - -Thus it was with the _Rose of Delhi_. From some uncompromising -exigencies, whether connected with the cargo, the crew, the brokers, or -any other of the unknown mysteries pertaining to ships, the day that -was to have witnessed her departure--Thursday--did not witness it. The -brokers, Freeman and Co., let it transpire on board that she would go -out of dock the next morning. About mid-day Captain Tanerton presented -himself at their office in Eastcheap. - -"I shall not sail to-morrow--with your permission," said he to Mr. James -Freeman. - -"Yes, you will--if she's ready," returned the broker. "Gould says she -will be." - -"Gould may think so; I do not. But, whether she be ready or not, Mr. -Freeman, I don't intend to take her out to-morrow." - -The words might be decisive words, but the captain's tone was genial -as he spoke them, and his frank, pleasant smile sat on his face. Mr. -Freeman looked at him. They valued Captain Tanerton as they perhaps -valued no other master in their employ, these brothers Freeman; but -James had a temper that was especially happy in contradiction. - -"I suppose you'd like to say that you won't go out on a Friday!" - -"That's just it," said Jack. - -"You are superstitious, Captain Tanerton," mocked the broker. - -"I am not," answered Jack. "But I sail with those who are. Sailors -are more foolish on this point than you can imagine: and I believe--I -believe in my conscience--that ships, sailing on a Friday, have come to -grief through their crew losing heart. No matter what impediment is met -with--bad weather, accidents, what not--the men say at once it's of no -use, we sailed on a Friday. They lose their spirit, and their energy -with it; and I say, Mr. Freeman, that vessels have been lost through -this, which might have otherwise been saved. I will not go out of dock -to-morrow; and I refuse to do it in your interest as much as in my own." - -"Oh, bother," was all James Freeman rejoined. "You'll have to go if -she's ready." - -But the words made an impression. James Freeman knew what sailors were -nearly as well as Jack knew: and he could not help recalling to memory -that beautiful ship of Freeman Brothers, the _Lily of Japan_. The _Lily_ -had been lost only six months ago; and those of her crew, who were -saved, religiously stuck to it that the calamity was brought about -through having sailed on a Friday. - -The present question did not come to an issue. For, on the Friday -morning, the _Rose of Delhi_ was not ready for sea; would not be ready -that day. On the Saturday morning she was not ready either; and it -was finally decided that Monday should be the day of departure. On -the Saturday afternoon Captain Tanerton ran down to Timberdale for -four-and-twenty hours; Squire Todhetley, his visit to London over, -travelling down by the same train. - -Verena Fontaine had not yet turned up, and Sir Dace was nearly crazy. -Not only was he angry at being thwarted, but one absorbing, special -fear lay upon him--that she would come back a married woman. Pym was -capable of any sin, he told the Squire and Coralie, even of buying the -wedding-ring; and Verena was capable of letting it be put on her finger. -"No, papa," dissented Coralie in her equable manner, "Vera is too fond -of money and of the good things money buys, to risk the loss of the best -part of her fortune. She will not marry Pym until she is of age; be sure -of that. When he has sailed she will come home safe and sound, and tell -us where she has been." - -Captain Tanerton went down, I say, to Timberdale. He stayed at the -Rectory with his wife and brother until the Sunday afternoon, and then -returned to London. The _Rose of Delhi_ was positively going out on -Monday, so he had to be back--and, I may as well say here, that Jack, -good-natured Jack, had invited me to go in her as far as Gravesend. - -During that brief stay at Timberdale, Jack was not in his usual spirits. -His wife, Alice, noticed it, and asked him whether anything was the -matter. Not anything whatever, Jack readily answered. In truth there was -not. At least, anything he could talk of. A weight lay on his spirits, -and he could not account for it. The strong instinct, which had seemed -to warn him against sailing with Pym again, had gradually left him since -he knew that Pym was to sail, whether or not. In striving to make -the best of it, he had thrown off the feeling: and the unaccountable -depression that weighed him down could not arise from that cause. It was -a strange thing altogether, this; one that never, in all his life, had -he had any experience of; but it was not less strange than true. - - * * * * * - -_Monday._--The _Rose of Delhi_ lay in her place in the freshness of the -sunny morning, making ready to go out of dock with the incoming tide. I -went on board betimes: and I thought I had never been in such a bustling -scene before. The sailors knew what they were about. I conclude, but to -me it seemed all confusion. The captain I could not see anywhere; but -his chief officer, Pym, seemed to be more busy than a certain common -enemy of ours is said to be in a gale of wind. - -"Is the captain not on board?" I asked of Mark Ferrar, as he was -whisking past me on deck. - -"Oh no, sir; not yet. The captain will not come on board till the last -moment--if he does then." - -The words took me by surprise. "What do you mean, by saying 'If he does -then'?" - -"He has so much to do, sir; he is at the office now, signing the bills -of lading. If he can't get done in time he will join at Gravesend when -we take on some passengers. The captain is not wanted on board when we -are going out of dock, Mr. Johnny," added Ferrar, seeing my perplexed -look. "The river-pilot takes the ship out." - -He pointed to the latter personage, just then making his appearance on -deck. I wondered whether all river-pilots were like him. He was broad -enough to make two ordinarily stout people; and his voice, from long -continuous shouting, had become nothing less than a raven's croak. - -At the last moment, when the ship was getting away, and I had given the -captain up, he came on board. How glad I was to see his handsome, kindly -face! - -"I've had a squeak for it, Johnny," he laughed, as he shook my hand: -"but I meant to go down with you if I could." - -Then came all the noise and stir of getting away: the croaking of the -pilot alone distinguishable to my uninitiated ears. "Slack away the -stern-line"--he called it starn. "Haul in head-rope." "Here, carpenter, -bear a hand, get the cork-fender over the quarter-gallery." "What are -you doing aft there?--why don't you slack away that stern-line?" Every -other moment it seemed to me that we were going to pitch into the craft -in the pool, or they into us. However, we got on without mishap. - -Captain Tanerton was crossing the ship, after holding a confab with the -pilot, when a young man, whom he did not recognize, stepped aside out -of his way, and touched his cap. The captain looked surprised, for the -badge on the cap was the one worn by his own officers. - -"Who are you?" he asked. - -"Mr. Saxby, if you please, sir." - -"Mr. Saxby! What do you do here?" - -"Third mate, if you please, sir," repeated the young man. "Your third -mate, Mr. Jones, met with an accident yesterday; he broke his leg; and -my friend, Pym, spoke of me to Mr. Gould." - -Captain Tanerton was not only surprised, but vexed. First, for the -accident to Jones, who was a very decent young fellow; next, at his -being superseded by a stranger, and a friend of Pym's. He put a few -questions, found the new man's papers were in order, and so made the -best of it. - -"You will find me a good and considerate master, Mr. Saxby, if you do -your duty with a will," he said in a kind tone. - -"I hope I shall, sir; I'll try to," answered the young man. - -On we went swimmingly, in the wake of the tug-boat; but this desirable -tranquillity was ere long destined to be marred. - -On coming up from the state-room, as they called it, after regaling -ourselves on a cold collation, the captain was pointing out to me -something on shore, when one of the crew approached hastily, and touched -his cap. I found it was the carpenter: a steady-looking man, who was -fresh to the ship, having joined her half-an-hour before starting. - -"Beg pardon, sir," he began. "Might I ask you when this ship was pumped -out last?" - -"Why, she is never pumped out," replied the captain. - -"Well, sir," returned the man, "it came into my head just now to sound -her, and I find there's two feet of water in the hold." - -"Nonsense," said Jack: "you must be mistaken. Why, she has never made a -cupful of water since she was built. We have to put water in her to keep -her sweet." - -"Any way, sir, there's two feet o' water in her now." - -The captain looked at the man steadily for a moment, and then thought -it might be as well to verify the assertion--or the contrary--himself, -being a practical man. Taking the sounding-rod from the carpenter's -hand, he wiped it dry with an old bag lying near, and then proceeded to -sound the well. Quite true: there were two feet of water. No time lost -he. Ordering the carpenter to rig the pumps, he called all hands to man -them. - -For a quarter-of-an-hour, or twenty minutes, the pumps were worked -without intermission; then the captain sounded, as before, doing it -himself. There was no diminution of water--it stood at the same level as -before pumping. Upon that, he and the carpenter went down into the hold, -to listen along the ship's sides, and discover, if they could, where -the water was coming in. Five minutes later, Jack was on deck again, his -face grave. - -"It is coming in abreast of the main hatchway on the starboard side; we -can hear it distinctly," he said to the pilot. "I must order the ship -back again: I think it right to do so." And the broad pilot, who seemed -a very taciturn pilot, made no demur to this, except a grunt. So the -tug-boat was ordered to turn round and tow us back again. - -"Where's Mr. Pym?" cried the captain. "Mr. Pym!" - -"Mr. Pym's in the cabin, sir," said the steward, who chanced to be -passing. - -"In the cabin!" echoed Jack, in an accent that seemed to imply the -cabin was not Mr. Pym's proper place just then. "Send him to me, if -you please, steward." - -"Yes, sir," replied the steward. But he did not obey with the readiness -exacted on board ship. He hesitated, as if wanting to say something -before turning away. - -No Pym came. Jack grew impatient, and called out an order or two. Young -Saxby came up, touching his cap, according to rule. - -"Do you want me, sir?" - -"I want Mr. Pym. He is below. Ask him to come to me instantly." - -It brought forth Pym. Jack's head was turned away for a moment, and I -saw what he did not. That Pym had a fiery face, and walked as if his -limbs were slipping from under him. - -"Oh, you are here at last, Mr. Pym--did you not receive my first -message?" cried Jack, turning round. "The cargo must be broken out to -find the place of leakage. See about it smartly: there's no time to -waste." - -Pym had caught hold of something at hand to enable him to stand steady. -He had lost his wits, that was certain; for he stuttered out an answer -to the effect that the cargo might be--hanged. - -The captain saw his state then. Feeling a need of renovation possibly, -after his morning's exertions, Mr. Pym had been making free, a great -deal too much so, with the bottled ale below, and had finished up with -brandy-and-water. - -The cargo might be hanged! - -Captain Tanerton, his brow darkening, spoke a sharp, short, stern -reprimand, and ordered Mr. Pym to his cabin. - -What could have possessed Pym unless it might be the spirit that was in -the brandy, nobody knew. He refused to obey, broke into open defiance, -and gave Captain Tanerton sauce to his face. - -"Take him below," said the captain quietly, to those who were standing -round. "Mr. Ferrar, you will lock Mr. Pym's cabin-door, if you please, -and bring me the key." - -This was done, and Mr. Pym encaged. He kicked at his cabin-door, and -shook it; but he could not escape: he was a prisoner. He swore for a -little while at the top of his voice; then he commenced some uproarious -singing, and finally fell on his bed and went to sleep. - -Hands were set to work to break out the cargo, which they piled on deck; -and the source of the leakage was discovered. It seemed a slight thing, -after all, to have caused so much commotion--nothing but an old treenail -that had not been properly plugged-up. I said so to Ferrar. - -"Ah, Mr. Johnny," was Ferrar's answering remark, his face and tone -strangely serious, "slight as it may seem to you, it might have sunk us -all this night, had we chanced to anchor off Gravesend." - - * * * * * - -What with the pumps, that were kept at work, and the shifting of the -cargo, and the hammering they made in stopping up the leak, we had -enough to do this time. And about half-past three o'clock in the -afternoon the brave ship, which had gone out so proudly with the tide, -got back ignominiously with the end of it, and came to an anchor outside -the graving-dock, there not being sufficient water to allow of her -entering it. The damage was already three-parts repaired, and the ship -would make her final start on the morrow. - -"'Twas nothing but a good Providence could have put it into my head to -sound the ship, sir," remarked the carpenter, wiping his hot face, as he -came on deck for something or other he needed. "But for that, we might -none of us have seen the morning's sun." - -Jack nodded. These special interpositions of God's good care are not -rare, though we do not always recognize them. And yet, but for that -return back, the miserable calamity so soon to fall, would not have had -the chance to take place. - -Captain Tanerton caused himself to be rowed ashore, first of all -ordering the door of his prisoner to be unfastened. I got into the -waterman's wherry with him, for I had nothing to stay on board for. And -a fine ending it was to my day's pleasuring! - -"Never mind, Johnny," he said, as we parted. "You can come with us again -to-morrow, and I hope we shall have a more lucky start." - -Captain Tanerton went straight to the brokers', saw Mr. James Freeman, -and told him he would _not_ take out Edward Pym. If he did, the man's -fate would probably be that of irons from Gravesend to Calcutta. - -And James Freeman, a thorough foe to brandy-and-water when taken at -wrong times, listened to reason, and gave not a word of dissent. He -there and then made Ferrar chief mate, and put another one second in -Ferrar's place; a likely young man in their employ who was waiting -for a berth. This perfectly satisfied Captain Tanerton, under the -circumstances. - -The captain was then rowed back to his ship. By that time it was five -o'clock. He told Ferrar of the change; who thanked him heartily, a glow -of satisfaction rising to his honest face. - -"Where's Pym?" asked the captain. "He must take his things out of the -ship." - -"Pym is not on board, sir. Soon after you left, he came up and went -ashore: he seemed to have pretty nearly slept off the drink. Sir Dace -Fontaine is below," added Ferrar, dropping his voice. - -"Sir Dace Fontaine! Does he want me?" - -"He wanted Mr. Pym, sir. He has been looking into every part of the -ship: he is looking still. He fancies his daughter is concealed on -board." - -"Oh, nonsense!" cried the captain; "he can't fancy that. As if Miss -Fontaine would come down here--and board ships!" - -"She was on board yesterday, sir." - -"What!" cried the captain. - -"Mr. Pym brought her on board yesterday afternoon, sir," continued -Ferrar, his voice as low as it could well go. "He was showing her about -the ship." - -"How do you know this, Mr. Ferrar?" - -"I was here, sir. Expecting to sail last week, I sent my traps on board. -Yesterday, wanting a memorandum-book out of my desk, I came down for it. -That's how I saw them." - -Captain Tanerton, walking forward to meet Sir Dace, knitted his brow. -Was Mr. Pym drawing the careless, light-headed girl into mischief? Sir -Dace evidently thought so. - -"I tell you, Captain Tanerton, she is quite likely to be on board, -concealed as a stow-away," persisted Sir Dace, in answer to the -captain's assurance that Verena was not, and could not be in the ship. -"When you are safe away from land, she will come out of hiding and they -will declare their marriage. That they are married, is only too likely. -He brought her on board yesterday afternoon when the ship was lying in -St. Katharine's Dock." - -"Do you know that he did?" cried Jack, wondering whence Sir Dace got his -information. - -"I am told so. As I got up your ladder just now I inquired of the first -man I saw, whether a young lady was on board. He said no, but that a -young lady had come on board with Mr. Pym yesterday afternoon to see the -ship. The man was your ship-keeper in dock." - -"How did you hear we had got back to-day, Sir Dace?" - -"I came down this afternoon to search the ship before she sailed--I was -under a misapprehension as to the time of her going out. The first thing -I heard was, that the _Rose of Delhi_ had gone and had come back again. -Pym is capable, I say, of taking Verena out." - -"You may be easy on this point, Sir Dace," returned Jack. "Pym does not -go out in the ship: he is superseded." And he gave the heads of what had -occurred. - -It did not tend to please Sir Dace. Edward Pym on the high seas would -be a less formidable adversary than Edward Pym on land: and perhaps in -his heart of hearts Sir Dace did not really believe his daughter would -become a stow-away. - -"Won't you help me to find her? to _save_ her?" gasped Sir Dace, in -pitiful entreaty. "With this change--Pym not going out--I know not what -trouble he may not draw her into. Coralie says Verena is not married; -but I--Heaven help me! I know not what to think. I must find Pym this -night and watch his movements, and find her if I can. You must help me." - -"I will help you," said warm-hearted Jack--and he clasped hands upon it. -"I will undertake to find Pym. And, that your daughter is not on board, -Sir Dace, I pass you my word." - -Sir Dace stepped into the wherry again, to be rowed ashore and get home -to his dinner--ordered that evening for six o'clock. In a short while -Jack also quitted the ship, and went to Pym's lodgings in Ship Street. -Pym was not there. - -Mr. Pym had come in that afternoon, said his landlady, Mrs. Richenough, -and startled her out of her seven senses; for, knowing the ship had left -with the day's tide, she had supposed Mr. Pym to be then off Gravesend, -or thereabouts. He told her the ship had sprung a leak and put back -again. Mr. Pym had gone out, she added, after drinking a potful of -strong tea. - -"To sober him," thought the captain. "Do you expect him back to sleep, -Mrs. Richenough?" - -"Yes, I do, sir. I took the sheets off his bed this morning, and I've -just been and put 'em on again. Mr. Saxby's must be put on too, for he -looked in to say he should sleep here." - -Where to search for Pym, Jack did not know. Possibly he might have gone -back to the ship to offer an apology, now that he was sobered. Jack was -bending his steps towards it when he met Ferrar: who told him Pym had -not gone back. - -Jack put on his considering-cap. He hardly knew what to do, or how to -find the fugitives: with Sir Dace, he deemed it highly necessary that -Verena should be found. - -"Have you anything particular to do to-night, Mr. Ferrar?" he suddenly -asked. And Ferrar said he had not. - -"Then," continued the captain, "I wish you would search for Pym." -And, knowing Ferrar was thoroughly trustworthy, he whispered a few -confidential words of Sir Dace Fontaine's fear and trouble. "I am going -to look for him myself," added Jack, "though I'm sure I don't know in -what quarter. If you do come across him, keep him within view. You can -tell him also that his place on the _Rose of Delhi_ is filled up, and he -must take his things out of her." - - * * * * * - -Altogether that had been a somewhat momentous day for Mr. Alfred -Saxby--and its events for him were not over yet. He had been appointed -to a good ship, and the ship had made a false start, and was back again. -An uncle and aunt of his lived at Clapham, and he thought he could not -do better than go down there and regale them with the news: we all -naturally burn to impart marvels to the world, you know. However, when -he reached his relatives' residence, he found they were out; and not -long after nine o'clock he was back at Mrs. Richenough's. - -"Is Mr. Pym in?" he asked of the landlady; who came forward rubbing her -eyes as though she were sleepy, and gave him his candle. - -"Oh, he have been in some little time, sir. And a fine row he's been -having with his skipper," added Mrs. Richenough, who sometimes came off -the high ropes of politeness when she had disposed of her supper beer. - -"A row, has he!" returned Saxby. "Does not like to have been -superseded," he added to himself. "I must say Pym was a fool to-day--to -go and drink, as he did, and to sauce the master." - -"Screeching out at one another like mad, they've been," pursued Mrs. -Richenough. "He do talk stern, that skipper, for a young man and a -good-looking one." - -"Is the captain in there now?" - -"For all I know. I did think I heard the door shut, but it might have -been my fancy. Good-night, sir. Pleasant dreams." - -Leaving the candle in Saxby's hands, she returned to her kitchen, which -was built out at the back. He halted at the parlour-door to listen. No -voices were to be heard then; no sounds. - -"Pym may have gone to bed--I dare say his head aches," thought Saxby: -and he opened the door to see whether the parlour was empty. - -Why! what was it?--what was the matter? The young man took one startled -look around and then put down the candle, his heart leaping into his -mouth. - -The lamp on the table threw its bright light on the little room. Some -scuffle appeared to have taken place in it. A chair was overturned; the -ivory ornament with its glass shade had been swept from its stand to the -floor: and by its side lay Edward Pym--dead. - -Mr. Alfred Saxby, third mate of that good ship, the _Rose of Delhi_, -might be a sufficiently self-possessed individual when encountering -sudden surprises at sea; but he certainly did not show himself to be so -on shore. When the state of affairs had sufficiently impressed itself on -his startled senses, he burst out of the room in mortal terror, shouting -out "murder." - -There was nobody in the house to hear him but Mrs. Richenough. She came -forward, slightly overcome by drowsiness; but the sight she saw woke her -up effectually. - -"Good mercy!" cried she, running to the prostrate man. "Is he dead?" - -"He looks dead," shivered Mr. Saxby, hardly knowing whether he was not -dead himself. - -They raised Pym's head, and put a pillow under it. The landlady wrung -her hands. - -"We must have a doctor," she cried: "but I can see he is dead. This -comes of that quarrel with his captain: I heard them raving frightfully -at one another. There has been a scuffle here--see that chair. Oh! and -look at my beautiful ivory knocked down!--and the shade all broke to -atoms!" - -"I'll fetch Mr. Ferrar," cried Saxby, feeling himself rather powerless -to act; and with nobody to aid him but the gabbling woman. - -Like mad, Saxby tore up the street, burst in at Mark Ferrar's open door -and went full butt against Mark himself; who was at the moment turning -quickly out of it. - -"Take care, Saxby. What are you about?" - -"Oh, for Heaven's sake do come, Mr. Ferrar! Pym is dead. He is lying -dead on the floor." - -The first thing Ferrar did was to scan his junior officer narrowly, -wondering whether he could be quite sober. Yes, he seemed to be that; -but agitated to trembling, and his face as pale as death. The next -minute Ferrar was bending over Pym. Alas, he saw too truly that life was -extinct. - -"It's his skipper that has done it, sir," repeated the landlady. - -"Hush, Mrs. Richenough!" rebuked Ferrar. "Captain Tanerton has not done -this." - -"But I heard 'em screeching and howling at one another, sir," persisted -Mrs. Richenough. "Their quarrel must have come to blows." - -"I do not believe it," dissented Ferrar. "Captain Tanerton would not be -capable of anything of the kind. Fight with a man who has served under -him!--you don't understand things, Mrs. Richenough." - -Saxby had run for the nearest medical man. Ferrar ran to find his -captain. He knew that Captain Tanerton intended to put up at a small -hotel in the Minories for the night. - -To this hotel went Ferrar, and found Captain Tanerton. Tired with his -evening's search after Pym, the captain was taking some refreshment, -before going up to Sir Dace Fontaine's--which he had promised, in -Sir Dace's anxiety, to do. He received Ferrar's report--that Pym was -dead--with incredulity: did not appear to believe it: but he betrayed no -embarrassment, or any other guilty sign. - -"Why, I came straight here from Pym," he observed. "It's hardly twenty -minutes since I left him. He was all right then--except that he had been -having more drink." - -"Old Mother Richenough says, sir, that Pym and you had a loud quarrel." - -"Say that, does she," returned the captain carelessly. "Her ears must -have deceived her, Mr. Ferrar." - -"A quarrel and fight she says, sir. I told her I knew better." - -Captain Tanerton took his cap and started with Ferrar for Ship Street, -plunging into a reverie. Presently he began to speak--as if he wished to -account for his own movements. - -"When you left me, Mr. Ferrar--you know"--and here he exchanged a -significant glance with his new first mate--"I went on to Ship Street, -and took a look at Pym's room. A lamp was shining on the table, and his -landlady had the window open, closing the shutters. This gave me an -opportunity of seeing inside. Pym I saw; but not--not anyone else." - -Again Captain Tanerton's tone was significant. Ferrar appeared to -understand it perfectly. It looked as though they had some secret -understanding between them which they did not care to talk of openly. -The captain resumed. - -"After fastening the shutters, Mrs. Richenough came to the door--for a -breath of air, she remarked, as she saw me: and she positively denied, -in answer to my questions, that any young lady was there. Mr. Pym had -never had a young lady come after him at all, she protested, whether -sister or cousin, or what not." - -"Yes, sir," said Ferrar: for the captain had paused. - -"I went in, and spoke to Pym. But, I saw in a moment that he had been -drinking again. He was not in a state to be reasoned with, or talked to. -I asked him but one question, and asked it civilly: would he tell me -where Verena Fontaine was. Pym replied in an unwilling tone; he was -evidently sulky. Verena Fontaine was at home again with her people; and -he had not been able, for that reason, to see her. Thinking the ship -had gone away, and he with it, Verena had returned home early in the -afternoon. That was the substance of his answer." - -"But I--I don't know whether that account can be true, sir," hesitated -Ferrar. "I was not sure, you know, sir, that it was the young lady; I -said so----" - -"Yes, yes, I understood that," interrupted the captain quickly. "Well, -it was what Pym said to me," he added, after a pause: "one hardly knows -what to believe. However, she was not there, so far as I could ascertain -and judge; and I left Pym and came up here to my hotel. I was not two -minutes with him." - -"Then--did no quarrel take place, sir?" cried Ferrar, thinking of the -landlady's story. - -"Not an angry word." - -At this moment, as they were turning into Ship Street, Saxby, who seemed -completely off his head, ran full tilt against Ferrar. It was all over, -he cried out in excitement, as he turned back with them: the doctor -pronounced Pym to be really dead. - -"It is a dreadful thing," said the captain. "And, seemingly, a -mysterious one." - -"Oh, it is dreadful," asserted young Saxby. "What will poor Miss Verena -do? I saw her just now," he added, dropping his voice. - -"Saw her where?" asked the captain, taking a step backwards. - -"In the place where I've just met you, sir," replied Saxby. "I was -running past round the corner into the street, on my way home from -Clapham, when a young lady met and passed me, going pretty nearly as -quick as I was. She had her face muffled in a black veil, but I am -nearly sure it was Miss Verena Fontaine. I thought she must be coming -from Pym's lodgings here." - -Captain Tanerton and his chief mate exchanged glances of intelligence -under the light of the street gas-lamp. The former then turned to Saxby. - -"Mr. Saxby," said he, "I would advise you not to mention this little -incident. It would not, I am sure, be pleasant to Miss Verena Fontaine's -friends to hear of it. And, after all, you are not sure that it was -she." - -"Very true, sir," replied Saxby. "I'll not speak of it again." - -"You hear, sir," answered Ferrar softly, as Saxby stepped on to open -the house-door. "This seems to bear out what I said. And, by the way, -sir, I also saw----" - -"Hush!" cautiously interrupted the captain--for they had reached the -door, and Mrs. Richenough stood at it. - -And what Mr. Ferrar further saw, whatever it might be, was not heard -by Captain Tanerton. There was no present opportunity for private -conversation: and Ferrar was away in the morning with the _Rose of -Delhi_. - - * * * * * - -After parting with Captain Tanerton on leaving the ship, I made my way -to the Mansion House, took an omnibus to Covent Garden, and called at -the Tavistock to tell Mr. Brandon of the return of the ship. Mr. Brandon -kept me to dinner. About eight o'clock I left him, and went to the -Marylebone Road to see the Fontaines. Coralie was in the drawing-room -alone. - -"Is it you, Johnny Ludlow!" she gaily cried, when old Ozias showed me -in. "You are as welcome as flowers in May. Here I am, without a soul to -speak to. You must have a game at chess with me." - -"Your sister is not come home, then?" - -"Not she. I thought it likely she would come, as soon as the ship's head -was turned seaward--I told you so. But she has not. And now the ship's -back again, I hear. A fine time you must have had of it!" - -"We just had. But how did you know?" - -"From papa. Papa betook himself to the docks this afternoon, to assure -himself, I presume, that the _Rose of Delhi_ was gone. And my belief is, -Johnny, that he will work himself into a nervous fever," Coralie broke -off to say, in her equable way, as she helped me to place the pieces. -"When he got there, he found the ship was back again. This put him out a -little, as you may judge; and something else put him out more. He heard -that Vera went on board with Pym yesterday afternoon when the ship was -lying in St. Katherine's Docks. Upon that, what notion do you suppose he -took up? I have first move, don't I?" - -"Certainly. What notion did he take up?" The reader must remember that -I knew nothing of Sir Dace's visit to the ship. - -"Why, that Vera might be resolving to convert herself into a stowaway, -and go out with Pym and the ship. Poor papa! He went searching all over -the vessel. He must be off his head." - -"Verena would not do that." - -"Do it?" retorted Coralie. "She'd be no more likely to do it than to go -up a chimney, as the sweeps do. I told papa so. He brought me this news -when he came home to dinner. And he might just as well have stayed away, -for all he ate." - -Coralie paused to look at her game. I said nothing. - -"He could only drink. It was as if he had a fierce thirst upon him. When -the sweets came on, he left the table and shut himself in his little -library. I sent Ozias to ask if he would have a cup of tea or coffee -made; papa swore at poor Ozias, and locked the door upon him. When -Verena does appear I'd not say but he'll beat her." - -"No, no: not that." - -"But, I tell you he is off his head. He is still shut up: and nobody -dare go near him when he gets into a fit of temper. It is so silly of -papa! Verena is all right. But this disobedience, you see, is something -new to him." - -"You can't move that bishop. It leaves your king in check." - -"So it does. The worst item of news remains behind," added Coralie. "And -that is that Pym does not sail with the ship." - -"I should not think he would now. Captain Tanerton would not take him." - -"Papa told me Captain Tanerton had caused him to be superseded. Was Pym -very much the worse for what he took, Johnny? Was he very insolent? You -must have seen it all?" - -"He had taken quite enough. And he was about as insolent as a man can -be." - -"Ferrar is appointed to his place, papa says; and a new man to -Ferrar's." - -"Ferrar is! I am glad of that: very. He deserves to get on." - -"But Ferrar is not a gentleman, is he?" objected Coralie. - -"Not in one sense. There are gentlemen and gentlemen. Mark Ferrar is -very humble as regards birth and bringing-up. His father is a journeyman -china-painter at one of the Worcester china-factories; and Mark got -his learning at St. Peter's charity-school. But every instinct Mark -possesses is that of a refined, kindly, modest gentleman; and he -has contrived to improve himself so greatly by dint of study and -observation, that he might now pass for a gentleman in any society. -Some men, whatever may be their later advantages, can never throw off -the common tone and manner of early habits and associations. Ferrar -has succeeded in doing it." - -"If Pym stays on shore it may bring us further complication," mused -Coralie. "I should search for Verena myself then--and search in -earnest. Papa and old Ozias have gone about it in anything but a likely -manner." - -"Have you any notion where she can be?" - -"Just the least bit of notion in the world," laughed Coralie. "It -flashed across me the other night where she might have hidden herself. -I don't know it. I have no particular ground to go upon." - -"You did not tell Sir Dace?" - -"Not I," lightly answered Coralie. "We two sisters don't interfere with -one another's private affairs. I did keep back a letter of Vera's; one -she wrote to Pym when we first left home; but I have done so no more. -Here comes some tea at last!" - -"I should have told," I continued in a low tone. "Or taken means myself -to see whether my notion was right or wrong." - -"What did it signify?--when Pym was going away in a day or two. Check to -you, Johnny Ludlow." - -That first game, what with talking and tea-drinking, was a long one. I -won it. When Ozias came in for the tea-cups Coralie asked him whether -Sir Dace had rung for anything. No, the man answered; most likely his -master would remain locked in till bed-time; it was his way when any -great thing put him out. - -"I don't think I can stay for another game," I said to Coralie, as she -began to place the men again. - -"Are you in such a hurry?" cried Coralie, glancing round at the clock: -which said twenty minutes to ten. - -I was not in any hurry at all that night, as regarded myself: I had -thought she might not care for me to stay longer. Miss Deveen and -Cattledon had gone out to dinner some ten miles away, and were not -expected home before midnight. So we began a fresh game. - -"Why! that clock must have stopped!" - -Chancing to look at it by-and-by, I saw that it stood at the same -time--twenty minutes to ten. I took out my watch. It said just ten -minutes past ten. - -"What does it signify?" said Coralie. "You can stay here till twenty -minutes to twelve if you like--and be whirled home in a cab by midnight -then." - -That was true. If---- - -"Good gracious!" exclaimed Coralie. - -She was looking at the door with surprised eyes. There stood Verena, -her bonnet on; evidently just come in. - -Verena tripped forward, bent down, and kissed her sister. "Have you been -desperately angry, Coral?" she lightly asked, giving me her hand to -shake. "I know papa has." - -"_I_ have not been angry," was Coralie's equable answer: "but you have -acted childishly, Verena. And now, where have you been?" - -"Only in Woburn Place, at Mrs. Ball's," said Verena, throwing off her -bonnet, and bringing her lovely flushed face close to the light as she -sat down. "When I left here that evening--and really, Johnny, I was -sorry not to stay and go in to dinner with _you_," she broke off, with -a smile--"I went straight to our old lodgings, to good old Mother Ball. -'They are frightful tyrants at home,' I said to her, 'I'm not sure but -they'll serve me as Bluebeard did his wives; and I want to stay with you -for a day or two.' There's where I have been all the time, Coral; and I -wondered you and papa did not come to look for me." - -"It is where I fancied you might be," returned Coral. "But I only -thought of it on Saturday night. Does that mean check, Johnny?" - -"Check and mate, mademoiselle." - -"Oh, how wicked you are!" - -"Mrs. Ball has been more careful of me than she'd be of gold," went on -Vera, her blue eyes dancing. "The eldest daughter, Louise, is at home -now: she teaches music in a school: and, if you'll believe me, Coral, -the old mother would never let me stir out without Louise. When Edward -Pym came up in the evening to take me for a walk, Louise must go with -us. 'I feel responsible to your papa and sister, my dear,' the old woman -would say to me. Oh, she was a veritable dragon." - -"Was Louise with you when you went on board the _Rose of Delhi_ -yesterday afternoon?" cried Coralie, while I began to put away the -chessmen. - -Verena opened her eyes. "How _did_ you hear of that? No, we tricked -Louise for once. Edward had fifty things to say to me, and he wanted me -alone. After dinner he proposed that we should go to afternoon service. -I made haste, and went out with him, calling to Louise that she'd catch -us up before we reached the church, and we ran off in just the contrary -direction. "I should like to show you my ship," Edward said; and we -went down in an omnibus. Mrs. Ball shook her head when we got back, and -said I must never do it again. As if I should have the chance, now -Edward's gone!" - -Coralie glanced at her. "He _is_ gone, I suppose?" - -"Yes," sighed Vera. "The ship left the docks this morning. He took leave -of me last night." - -Coralie looked doubtful. She glanced again at her sister under her -eyelids. - -"Then--if Edward Pym is no longer here to take walks with you, Vera, how -is it you came home so late to-night?" - -"Because I have been to a concert," cried Vera, her tone as gay as a -lark's. "Louise and I started to walk here this afternoon. I wanted you -to see her; she is really very nice. Coming through Fitzroy Square, she -called upon some friends of hers who live there, the Barretts--he is a -professor of music. Mrs. Barrett was going to a concert to-night and she -said if we would stay she'd take us. So we had tea with her and went to -it, and they sent me home in a cab." - -"You seem to be taking your pleasure!" remarked Coralie. - -"I had such an adventure downstairs," cried Verena, dropping her voice -after a pause of thought. "Nearly fell into the arms of papa." - -"What--now?" - -"Now; two minutes ago. While hesitating whether to softly tinkle the -kitchen-bell and smuggle myself in and up to my room, or to storm the -house with a bold summons, Ozias drew open the front-door. He looked -so glad to see me, poor stupid old fellow. I was talking to him in the -passage when I heard papa's cough. 'Oh, hide yourself, Missee Vera,' -cried Ozias, 'the master, he so angry;' and away I rushed into papa's -little library, seeing the door of it open----" - -"He has come out of it, then!" interjected Coralie. - -"I thought papa would go upstairs," said Vera. "Instead of that, he came -on into the room. I crept behind the old red window-curtains, and----" - -"And what?" asked Coralie, for Verena made a sudden pause. - -"Groaned out with fright, and nearly betrayed myself," continued Verena. -"Papa stared at the curtains as if he thought they were alive, and then -and there backed out of the room. Perhaps he feared a ghost was there. -He was looking so strange, Coralie." - -"All your fault, child. Since the night you went away he has looked more -like a maniac than a rational man, and acted like one. I have just said -so to Johnny Ludlow." - -"Poor papa! I will be good and tractable as an angel now, and make it up -to him. And--why, Coralie, here are visitors." - -We gazed in surprise. It is not usual to receive calls at bedtime. Ozias -stood at the door showing in Captain Tanerton. Behind him was Alfred -Saxby. - -The captain's manner was curious. No sooner did he set eyes on us than -he started back, as if he thought we might bite him. - -"Not here. Not the ladies. I told you it was Sir Dace I wanted," he said -in quick sentences to Ozias. "Sir Dace alone." - -Ozias went back down the stairs, and they after him, and were shown into -the library. It was a little room nearly opposite the front-entrance, -and underneath the room called the boudoir. You went down a few stairs -to it. - -Verena turned white. A prevision of evil seized her. - -"Something must be the matter," she shivered, laying her hand upon my -arm. "Did you notice Captain Tanerton's face? I never saw him look like -that. And what does he do here? Where is the ship? And oh, Johnny"--and -her voice rose to a shriek--"where's Edward Pym?" - -Alas! we soon knew what the matter was--and where Edward Pym was. -Dead. Murdered. That's what young Saxby called it. Sir Dace, looking -frightfully scared, started with them down to Ship Street. I went also; -I could not keep away. George was to sit up for me at home if I were -late. - -"For," as Miss Deveen had said to me in the morning, laughingly, -"there's no telling, Johnny, at what unearthly hour you may get back -from Gravesend." - - -IV. - -It was a dreadful thing to have happened. Edward Pym found dead; and no -one could tell for a certainty who had been the author of the calamity. - -He had died of a blow dealt to him, the doctors said: it had struck him -behind the left ear. Could it be possible that he had fallen of himself, -and struck his head against something in falling, was a question put to -the doctors--and it was Captain Tanerton who put it. It perhaps might -be possible, the medical men answered, but not at all probable. Mr. Pym -could not have inflicted the blow upon himself, and there was no piece -of furniture in the room, so far as they saw, that could have caused the -injury, even though he had fallen upon it. - -The good luck of the _Rose of Delhi_ seemed not to be in the ascendant. -Her commander could not sail with her now. Neither could her -newly-appointed third mate, Alfred Saxby. So far as might be ascertained -at present, Captain Tanerton was the last man who had seen Pym alive; -Alfred Saxby had found him dead; therefore their evidence would be -required at the official investigation. - -Ships, however, cannot be lightly detained in port when their time for -sailing comes: and on the day following the events already told of, the -_Rose of Delhi_ finally left the docks, all taut and sound, the only one -of her old officers, sailing in her, being Mark Ferrar. The brokers were -put out frightfully at the detention of Tanerton. A third mate was soon -found to replace Saxby: a master not so easily. They put in an elderly -man, just come home in command of one of their ships. Put him in for -the nonce, hoping Captain Tanerton would be at liberty to join her at -Dartmouth, or some other place down channel. - -On this same day, Tuesday, the investigation into the events of that -fatal Monday, as regarded Edward Pym, was begun. Not the coroner's -inquest: that was called for the morrow: but an informal inquiry -instituted by the brokers and Sir Dace Fontaine. In a back-room of the -office in Eastcheap, the people met; and--I am glad to say--I was one -of them, or I could not have told you what passed. Sir Dace sat in the -corner, his elbow resting on the desk and his hand partly covering his -face. He did not pretend to feel the death as an affectionate uncle -would have felt it; still Pym was his nephew, and there could be no -mistake that the affair was troubling him. - -Mrs. Richenough, clean as a new pin, in her Sunday gown and close -bonnet, a puzzled look upon her wrinkled face, told what she knew--and -was longer over it than she need have been. Mr. Pym, who lodged in her -parlour floor, had left her for good, as she supposed, on the Monday -morning, his ship, the _Rose of Delhi_, being about to go out of dock. -Mr. Saxby, who had lodged in the rooms above Mr. Pym, got appointed to -the same ship, and he also left. In the afternoon she heard that the -ship had got off all right: a workman at the docks told her so. Later, -who should come to the door but Mr. Pym--which naturally gave her great -surprise. He told her the ship had sprung a leak and had put back; but -they should be off again with the next day's tide, and he should have to -be abroad precious early in the morning to get the cargo stowed away -again---- - -"What time was this?" interrupted Mr. Freeman. - -"About half-past four, I fancy, sir. Mr. Pym spoke rather thick--I saw -he had been taking a glass. He bade me make him a big potful of strong -tea--which I did at once, having the kettle on the fire. He drank it, -and went out." - -"Go on, Mrs. Richenough." - -"An hour afterwards, or so, his captain called, wanting to know where -he was. Of course, sirs, I could not say; except that he had had a big -jorum of tea, and was gone out." - -Captain Tanerton spoke up to confirm this. "I wanted Pym," he said. -"This must have been between half-past five and six o'clock." - -"About nine o'clock; or a bit earlier, it might be--I know it was dark -and I had finished my supper--Mr. Pym came back," resumed the landlady. -"He seemed in an ill-humour, and he had been having more to drink. -'Light my lamp, Mother Richenough,' says he roughly, 'and shut the -shutters: I've got a letter to write.' I lighted the lamp, and he got -out some paper of his that was left in the table-drawer, and the ink, -and sat down. After closing the shutters I went to the front-door, and -there I saw Captain Tanerton. He asked me----" - -"What did he ask you?" cried Mr. Freeman's lawyer, for she had come to -a dead standstill. - -"Well, the captain asked me whether any young lady had been there. He -had asked the same question afore, sir: Mr. Pym's cousin, or sister, I -b'lieve he meant. I told him No, and he went into the parlour to Mr. -Pym." - -"What then?" - -"Well, gentlemen, I went back to my kitchen, and shut myself in by my -bit o' fire; and, being all lonely like, I a'most dozed off. Not quite; -they made so much noise in the parlour, quarrelling." - -"Quarrelling?" cried the lawyer. - -"Yes, sir; and were roaring out at one another like wolves. Mr. ----" - -"Stay a moment, ma'am. How long was it after you admitted Captain -Tanerton that you heard this quarrelling?" - -"Not above three or four minutes, sir. I'm sure of that. 'Mr. Pym's -catching it from his captain, and he is just in the right mood to take -it unkindly,' I thought to myself. However, it was no business of mine. -The sounds soon ceased, and I was just dozing off again, when Mr. Saxby -came home. He went into the parlour to see Mr. Pym, and found him lying -dead on the floor." - -A silent pause. - -"You are sure, ma'am, it was Captain Tanerton who was quarrelling with -him?" cried the lawyer, who asked more questions than all the rest put -together. - -"Of course I am sure," returned Mrs. Richenough. "Why, sir, how could it -be anybody else? Hadn't I just let in Captain Tanerton to him? Nobody -was there but their two selves." - -Naturally the room turned to Jack. He answered the mute appeal very -quietly. - -"It was not myself that quarrelled with Pym. No angry word of any kind -passed between us. Pym had been drinking; Mrs. Richenough is right in -that. He was not in a state to be reproved or reasoned with, and I came -away at once. I did not stay to sit down." - -"You hear this, Mrs. Richenough?" - -"Yes, sir, I do; and I am sure the gentleman don't speak or look like -one who could do such a deed. But, then, I heard the quarrelling." - -An argument indisputable to her own mind. Sir Dace looked up and put a -question for the first time. He had listened in silence. His dark face -had a wearied look on it, and he spoke hardly above a whisper. - -"Did you know the voice to be that of Captain Tanerton, Mistress -Landlady? Did you recognize it for his!" - -"I knew the voice couldn't be anybody else's, sir. Nobody but the -captain was with Mr. Pym." - -"I asked you whether you _recognized_ it?" returned Sir Dace, knitting -his brow. "Did you know by its tone that it was Captain Tanerton's?" - -"Well, no, sir, I did not, if you put it in that way. Captain Tanerton -was nearly a stranger to me, and the two shut doors and the passage was -between me and him. I had only heard him speak once or twice before, -and then in a pleasant, ordinary voice. In this quarrel his voice was -raised to a high, rough pitch; and in course I could not know it for -his." - -"In point of fact, then, it comes to this: You did _not_ recognize the -voice for Captain Tanerton's." - -"No, sir; not, I say, if you put it in that light." - -"Let me put it in this light," was Sir Dace Fontaine's testy rejoinder: -"Had three or four people been with Mr. Pym in his parlour, you could -not have told whose voice it was quarrelling with him? You would not -have known?" - -"That is so, sir. But, you see, I knew it was his captain that was -with him." - -Sir Dace folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, his -cross-questioning over. Mrs. Richenough was done with for the present, -and Captain Tanerton entered upon his version of the night's events. - -"I wished particularly to see Mr. Pym, and went to Ship Street in search -of him, as I have already said. He was not there. Later, I went down -again----" - -"I beg your pardon, Captain Tanerton," interrupted the lawyer; "what -time do you make it--that second visit?" - -"It must have been nearly nine o'clock. Mr. Pym was at home, and I went -into his parlour. He sat at the table writing, or preparing to write. I -asked him the question I had come to ask, and he answered me. Scarcely -anything more passed between us. He was three-parts tipsy. I had -intended to tell him that he was no longer chief mate of my ship--had -been superseded; but, seeing his condition, I did not. I can say -positively that I was not more than two minutes in the room." - -"And you and he did not quarrel?" - -"We did not. Neither were our voices raised. It is very probable, in his -then condition, that he would have attempted to quarrel had he known he -was discharged; but he did not know it. We were perfectly civil to each -other; and when I wished him good-night, he came into the passage and -shut the front-door after me." - -"You left no one with him?" - -"No one; so far as I saw. I can answer for it that no one was in the -parlour with us: whether any one was in the back room I cannot say. I -do not think so." - -"After that, Captain Tanerton?" - -"After that I went straight to my hotel in the Minories, and ordered -tea. While taking it, Mr. Ferrar came in and told me Edward Pym was -dead. I could not at first believe it. I went back to Ship Street and -found it too true. In as short a time as I could manage it, I went to -carry the news to Sir Dace Fontaine, taking young Saxby with me." - -Jack had spoken throughout in the ready, unembarrassed manner of one who -tells a true tale. But never in all my life had I seen him so quiet and -subdued. He was like one who has some great care upon him. The other -hearers, not knowing Jack as I knew him, would not notice this; though -I cannot answer for it that one of them did not James Freeman. He never -took his eyes off Jack all the while; peered at him as if he were a -curiosity. It was not an open stare; more of a surreptitious one, taken -stealthily from under his eyebrows. - -Some testimony as to Pym's movements that afternoon was obtained from -Mrs. Ball, the lawyer having already been to Woburn Place to get it. -She said that young Pym came to her house between five and six o'clock -nearer six than five, she thought, and seemed very much put out and -disappointed to find Miss Verena Fontaine had left for her own home. -He spoke of the ship's having sprung a leak and put back again, but he -believed she would get out again on the morrow. Mrs. Ball did not notice -that he had been drinking; but one of her servants met him in the street -after he left the house, heard him swearing to himself, and saw him -turn into a public-house. If he remained in it until the time he next -appeared in Ship Street, his state then was not to be wondered at. - -This was about all that had been gathered at present. A great deal of -talking took place, but no opinion was expressed by anybody. Time enough -for that when the jury met on the morrow. As we were turning out of the -back-room, the meeting over, Mr. Freeman put his hand upon Jack, to -detain him. Jack, in his turn, detained me. - -"Captain Tanerton," he said, in a grave whisper, "do you remember making -a remark to me not long ago, in this, my private room--that if we -persisted in sending Pym out with you in the ship, there would be murder -committed?" - -"I believe I do," said Jack, quietly. "They were foolish words, and -meant nothing." - -"I do not like to remember them," pursued Mr. Freeman. "As things have -turned out, it would have been better that you had not used them." - -"Perhaps so," answered Jack. "They have done no harm, that I know of." - -"They have been singularly verified. The man has been murdered." - -"Not on board the _Rose of Delhi_." - -"No. Off it." - -"I should rather call it death by misadventure," said Jack, looking -calmly at the broker. "At the worst, done in a scuffle; possibly in a -fall." - -"Most people, as I think you will find, will call it murder, Captain -Tanerton." - -"I fear they will." - -Mr. Freeman stood before Jack, waiting--at least it struck me so--to -hear him add, "But I did not commit it"--or words to that effect. I -waited too. Jack never spoke them: he remained silent and still. Since -the past day his manner had changed. All the light-hearted ease had gone -out of it; the sunny temperament seemed exchanged for one of thought and -gloom. - - * * * * * - -Fine tidings to travel down to Timberdale! - -On Wednesday, the day following this, the Squire stood at the gate of -Crabb Cot after breakfast, looking this way and that. Dark clouds were -chasing each other over the face of the sky, now obscuring the sun, now -leaving it to shine out with intense fierceness. - -"It won't do to-day," cried the Squire. "It's too windy, Joe. The fish -would not bite." - -"They'd bite fast enough," said Tod, who had set his mind upon a day's -fishing, and wanted the Squire to go with him. - -"Feel that gust, Joe! Why, if--halloa, here comes Letsom!" - -Colonel Letsom was approaching at the pace of a steam-engine, his mild -face longer than usual. Tod laughed. - -The colonel, never remembering to say How d'ye do, or to shake hands, -dragged two letters out of his pocket, all in a flurry. - -"Such fearful news, Todhetley!" he exclaimed. "Pym--you remember that -poor Pym?" - -"What should hinder me?" cried the Squire. "A fine dance we had, -looking for him and Verena Fontaine the other night in London! What of -Pym!" - -"He is dead!" gasped the colonel. "Murdered." - -The pater took off his spectacles, thinking they must affect his -hearing, and stared. - -"And it is thought," added the colonel, "that--that Captain Tanerton did -it." - -"Good mercy, Letsom! You can't mean it." - -Colonel Letsom's answer was to read out portions of the two letters. One -of them was written to his daughter Mary Ann by Coralie Fontaine; three -sheets full. She gave much the same history of the calamity that has -been given above. It could not have been done by any hand but Captain -Tanerton's, she said; though of course not intentionally; nobody thought -that: her father, Sir Dace, scorned any worse idea. Altogether, it was -a dreadful thing; it had struck Verena into a kind of wild despair, -and bewildered them all. And in a postscript she added what she had -apparently forgotten to say before--that Captain Tanerton denied it. - -Tod looked up, a flush on his face. "One thing may be relied upon, -colonel--that if Tanerton did do it, he will avow it. He would never -deny it." - -"This other letter is from Sir Dace," said the colonel, after putting -Coralie's aside. And he turned round that we might look over his -shoulder while he read it. - -It gave a much shorter account than Coralie's; a _lighter_ account, as -if he took a less grave view of the affair; and it concluded with these -words: "Suspicion lies upon Tanerton. I think unjustly. Allowing that -he did do it, it could only have been done by a smartly-provoked blow, -devoid of ill-intention. No one knows better than myself how quarrelsome -and overbearing that unfortunate young man was. But I, for one, believe -what Tanerton says--that he was not even present when it happened. I am -inclined to think that Pym, in his unsteady state, must in some way have -fallen when alone, and struck his head fatally." - -"Sir Dace is right; I'll lay my fortune upon it," cried Tod warmly. - -"Don't talk quite so fast about your fortune, Joe; wait till you've got -one," rebuked the pater. "I must say it is grievous news, Letsom. It has -upset me." - -"I am off now to show the letters to Paul," said the colonel. "It will -be but neighbourly, as he is a connection of the Fontaines." - -Shaking hands, he turned away on the road to Islip. The Squire, leaning -on the gate, appeared to be looking after him: in reality he was deep in -a brown study. - -"Joe," said he, in a tone that had a sound of awe in it, "this is -curious, taken in conjunction with what Alice Tanerton told us yesterday -morning." - -"Well, it does seem rather queer," conceded Tod. "Something like the -dream turning up trumps." - -"Trumps?" retorted the pater. - -"Truth, then. Poor Alice!" - -A singular thing had happened. Especially singular, taken in conjunction -(as the Squire put it) with this unfortunate news. And when the reader -hears the whole, though it won't be just yet, he will be ready to call -out, It is not true. But it is true. And this one only fact, with its -truth and its singularity, induced me to recount the history. - - * * * * * - -On Tuesday morning, the day after the calamity in Ship Street--you -perceive that we go back a day--the Squire and Tod turned out for a -walk. They had no wish to go anywhere in particular, and their steps -might just as well have been turned Crabb way as Timberdale way--or, -for that matter, any other way. The morning was warm and bright: they -strolled towards the Ravine, went through it, and so on to Timberdale. - -"We may as well call and see how Herbert Tanerton is, as we are here," -remarked the Squire. For Herbert had a touch of hay-fever. He was always -getting something or other. - -The Rector was better. They found him pottering about his garden; -that prolific back-garden from which we once saw--if you don't forget -it--poor, honest, simple-minded Jack bringing strawberries on a -cabbage-leaf for crafty Aunt Dean. The suspected hay-fever turned out -to be a bit of a cold in the head: but the Rector could not have -looked more miserable had it been in the heart. - -"What's the matter with you now?" cried the Squire, who never gave in -to Herbert's fancies. - -"Matter enough," he growled in answer: "to have a crew of ridiculous -women around you, no better than babies! Here's Alice in a world of a -way about Jack, proclaiming that some harm has happened to him." - -"What harm? Does she know of any?" - -"No, she does not know of any," croaked Herbert, flicking a growing -gooseberry off a bush with the rake. "She says a dream disclosed it to -her." - -The pater stared. Tod threw up his head with a laugh. - -"You might have thought she'd got her death-warrant read out to her, so -white and trembling did she come down," continued Herbert in an injured -tone. "She had dreamt a dream, foreshadowing evil to Jack, she began to -tell us--and not a morsel of breakfast could she touch." - -"But that's not like Alice," continued the Squire. "She is too sensible: -too practical for such folly." - -"It's not like any rational woman. And Grace would have condoled with -her! Women infect each other." - -"What was the dream?" - -"Some nonsense or other, you may be sure. I would not let her relate it, -to me, or to Grace. Alice burst into tears and called me hard-hearted. -I came out here to get away from her." - -"For goodness' sake don't let her upset herself over a rubbishing dream, -Tanerton," cried the Squire, all sympathy. "She's not strong, you know, -just now. I dreamt one night the public hangman was appointed to take my -head off; but it is on my shoulders yet. You tell her that." - -"Yesterday was the day Jack was to sail," interrupted Tod. - -"Of course it was," acquiesced the Rector: "he must be half-way down the -channel by this time. If---- Here comes Alice!" he broke off. "I shall -go. I don't want to hear more of such stuff." - -He went on down the garden in a huff, disappearing behind the -kidney-beans. Alice, wearing a light print gown and black silk apron, -her smooth brown hair glossy as ever, and her open face as pretty, shook -hands with them both. - -"And what's this we hear about your tormenting yourself over a dream?" -blundered the Squire. Though whether it was a blunder to say it, I know -not; or whether, but for that, she would have spoken: once the ice is -broken, you may plunge in easily. "My dear, I'd not have thought it of -_you_." - -Alice's face took a deeper gravity, her eyes a far-off look. "It is -quite true, Mr. Todhetley," she sighed. "I have been very much troubled -by a dream." - -"Tell it us, Alice," said Tod, his whole face in a laugh. "What was it -about?" - -"That you may ridicule it?" she sighed. - -"Yes," he answered. "Ridicule it out of you." - -"You cannot do that," was her quiet answer: and Tod told me in later -days that it rather took him aback to see her solemn sadness. "I should -like to relate it to you, Mr. Todhetley. Herbert would not hear it, or -let Grace." - -"Herbert's a parson, you know, my dear, and parsons think they ought to -be above such things," was the Squire's soothing answer. "If it will -ease your mind to tell it me---- Here, let us sit down under the -pear-tree." - -So they sat down on the bench under the blossoms of the pear-tree, the -pater admonishing Tod to behave himself; and poor Alice told her dream. - -"I thought it was the present time," she began. "This very present day, -say, or yesterday; and that Jack was going to sea in command----" - -"But, my dear, he always goes in command." - -"Of course. But in the dream the point was especially presented to my -mind--that he was going out _in command_. He came to me the morning of -the day he was to sail, looking very patient, pale, and sorrowful. It -seemed that he and I had had some dispute, causing estrangement, the -previous night: it was over then, and I, for one, repented of the -coldness." - -"Well, Alice?" broke in Tod: for she had stopped, and was gazing out -straight before her. - -"I wish I could show to you how _real_ all this was," she resumed. "It -was more as though I were wide awake, and enacting it. I never had so -vivid a dream before; never in all my life." - -"But why don't you go on?" - -"Somebody had been murdered: some man. I don't know who it was--or -where, or how. Jack was suspected. Jack! But it seemed that it could not -be brought home to him. We were in a strange town; at least, it was -strange to me, though it seemed that I had stayed in it once before, -many years ago. Jack was standing before me all this while, you -understand, in his sadness and sorrow. It was not he who had told me -what had happened. I seemed to have known it already. Everybody knew -it, everybody spoke of it, and we were in cruel distress. Suddenly I -remembered that when I was in the town the previous time, the man who -was murdered had had a bitter quarrel with another man, a gentleman: -and a sort of revelation came over me that this gentleman had been the -murderer. I went privately to some one who had authority in the ship, -and said so; I think her owner. He laughed at me--did I know how high -this gentleman was, he asked; the first magnate in the town. That he had -done it I felt sure; surer than if I had seen it done; but no one would -listen to me--and in the trouble I awoke." - -"_That's_ not much to be troubled at," cried the Squire. - -"The trouble was terrible; you could not feel such in real life. But I -have not told all. Presently I got to sleep again, and found myself in -the same dream. I was going through the streets of the town in an open -carriage, the ship's owner with me----" - -"Was the ship the _Rose of Delhi_?" - -"I don't know. The owner, sitting with me in the carriage, was not -either of the owners of the _Rose of Delhi_, whom I know well; this -was a stranger. We were going over a bridge. Walking towards us on the -pavement, I saw two gentlemen arm-in-arm: one an officer in a dusky old -red uniform and cocked-hat; the other an _evil_-looking man who wore a -long brown coat. He walked along with his eyes on the ground. I knew him -by intuition--that it was the man who had had the quarrel years before, -and who had done the murder now. 'There's the gentleman you would have -accused,' said my companion before I could speak, pointing to this man: -'he stands higher in position than anybody else in the town.' They -walked on in their security, and we drove on in our pain. I ought to say -in my pain, for I alone felt it. Oh, I cannot tell you what it was--this -terrible pain; not felt so much, it seemed, because my husband could not -be cleared, as for _his_ sadness and sorrow. Nothing like it, I say, can -ever be felt on earth." - -"And what else, Alice?" - -"That is all," she sighed. "I awoke for good then. But the pain and the -fear remain with me." - -"Perhaps, child, you are not very well?--been eating green gooseberries, -or some such trash. Nothing's more likely to give one bad dreams than -unripe fruit." - -"Why should the dream have left this impression of evil upon me--this -weight of fear?" cried Alice, never so much as hearing the pater's -irreverent suggestion. "If it meant nothing, if it were not come as a -warning, it would pass from my mind as other dreams pass." - -Not knowing what to say to this, the Squire said nothing. He and Tod -both saw how useless it would be; no argument could shake her faith in -the dream, and the impression it had left. - -The Squire, more easily swayed than a child, yet suspecting nothing of -the news that was on its way to Timberdale, quitted the Rectory and went -home shaking his head. Alice's solemn manner had told upon him. "I can't -make much out of the dream, Joe," he remarked, as they walked back -through the Ravine; "but I don't say dreams are always to be ridiculed, -since we read of dreams sent as warnings in the Bible. Anyhow, I hope -Jack will make a good voyage. He has got home safe and sound from other -voyages: why should he not from this one?" - -Before that day was over, they saw Alice again. She walked over to Crabb -Cot in the evening with her little girl--a sprightly child with Jack's -own honest and kindly eyes. Alice put a sealed paper into the Squire's -hand. - -"I know you will think me silly," she said to him, in a low tone: -"perhaps gone a little out of my senses; but, as I told you this -morning, nothing has ever impressed me so greatly and so unpleasantly -as this dream. I cannot get it out of my mind for a moment; every -hour, as it goes by, only serves to render it clearer. I have written -it down here, every particular, more minutely than I related it to -you this morning, and I have sealed it up, you see; and I am come to -ask you to keep it. Should my husband ever be accused, it may serve -to----" - -"Now, child, don't you talk nonsense," interrupted the pater. "Accused -of what?" - -"I don't know. I wish I did. I hope you will pardon me, Mr. Todhetley," -she went on, in deprecation; "but indeed there lies upon me a dread--an -apprehension that startles me. I dare say I express myself badly; but -it is there. And, do you know, Jack has lately experienced the same -sensation; he told me so on Sunday. He said it was like an instinct of -coming evil." - -"Then that accounts for it," cried the Squire, considerably relieved, -and wondering how Jack could be so silly, if she was. "If your husband -told you that, Alice, of course the first thing you'd do would be to go -and dream of it." - -"Perhaps so. What he said made no impression on me; he laughed as he -said it: I don't suppose it made much on him. Please keep the paper." - -The Squire carried the paper upstairs and locked it up in the little old -walnut bureau in his bedroom. He told Alice where he had put it. And -she, declining any refreshment, left again with little Polly for -Timberdale Rectory. - -"Has Herbert come to?" asked Tod laughingly, as he went to open the gate -for her. - -"Oh dear, no," answered Alice. "He never will, if you mean as to hearing -me tell the dream." - -They had a hot argument after she left: Mrs. Todhetley maintaining that -some dreams were to be regarded as sacred things; while Tod ridiculed -them with all his might, asserting that there never had been, and never -could be anything in them to affect sensible people. The Squire, now -taking one side, now veering to the other, remained in a state of -vacillation, something like Mahomet's coffin hovering between earth -and heaven. - -And, you will now readily understand that when the following morning, -Wednesday, Colonel Letsom brought the Squire the news of Pym's death, -calling it murder, and that Jack was suspected, and the ship had gone -out without him, this dream of Alice Tanerton's took a new and not at -all an agreeable prominence. Even Tod, sceptical Tod, allowed that it -was "queer." - -On this same morning, Wednesday, Alice received a letter from her -husband. He spoke of the mishap to the ship, said that she had put back, -and had again gone out; he himself being detained in London on business, -but he expected to be off in a day or two and join her at some place -down channel. But not a word did he say of the cause of his detention, -or of the death of Edward Pym. She heard it from others. - -With this confirmation, as it seemed, of her dream, Alice took it up -more warmly. She went over to the old lawyer at Islip, John Paul, -recounted the dream to him, and asked what she was to do. Naturally, -old Paul told her "nothing:" and he must have laughed in his sleeve as -he said it. - - * * * * * - -The good ship, _Rose of Delhi_, finally went away with all her sails set -for the East; but John Tanerton went not with her. - -The inquest on the unfortunate young man, Pym, was put off from time to -time, and prolonged and procrastinated. Captain Tanerton had to wait its -pleasure; the ship could not. - -The case presented difficulties, and the jury could not see their way to -come to a verdict. Matters looked rather black against Captain Tanerton; -that was not denied; but not sufficiently black, it would seem, for -the law to lay hold of him. At any rate, the law did not. Perhaps the -persistent advocacy of Sir Dace Fontaine went some way with the jury. -Sir Dace gave it as his strong opinion that his misguided nephew, being -the worse for drink, had fallen of himself, probably with his head on -the iron fender, and that Captain Tanerton's denial was a strictly true -one. The end finally arrived at was--that there was not sufficient -evidence to show how the death was caused. - -At the close of the investigation Jack went down to Timberdale. Not -the open-hearted, ready-handed Jack of the old days, but a subdued, -saddened man who seemed to have a care upon him. The foolish speech he -had thoughtlessly made to Mr. Freeman preceded him: and Herbert -Tanerton--always looking on the darkest side of everything and -everybody, considered it a proof that Jack had done the deed. - -Timberdale (including Crabb) held opposite opinions; half of it taking -Captain Tanerton's side, half the contrary one. As to the Squire, he was -more helpless than an old sheep. He had always liked Jack, had believed -in him as in one of us: but, you see, when one gets into trouble, faith -is apt to waver. A blow, argued the pater in private, is so easily given -in the heat of passion. - -"A pretty kettle of fish this is," croaked Herbert to Jack, on his -brother's arrival. - -"Yes, it is," sighed Jack. - -"The ship's gone without you, I hear." - -"She had to go. Ships cannot be delayed to await the convenience of one -man: you must know that, Herbert." - -"How came you to do it, John?" - -"To do what?" asked Jack. "To stay? It was no fault of mine. I was one -of the chief witnesses, and the coroner would not release me." - -"You know what I mean. Not that. How came you to do it, I ask?" - -"To do what?" repeated Jack. - -"Kill Pym." - -Jack's face took a terrible shade of pain as he looked at his brother. -"I should have thought, Herbert, that you, of all people, might have -judged me better than that." - -"I don't mean to say you did it deliberately; that you meant to do it," -returned the Rector in his coldest manner. "But that was a very awkward -threat of yours--that if the brokers persisted in sending Pym out with -you, there'd be murder committed. Very incautious!" - -"You can't mean what you say; you cannot surely reflect on what you -would imply--that I spoke those words with intention!" flashed Jack. - -"You did speak them--and they were verified," contended Herbert. Just -the same thing, you see, that Mr. Freeman had said to Jack in London. -Poor Jack! - -"How did you hear that I had said anything of the kind?" - -"Somebody wrote it to Timberdale," answered the parson, crustily. There -could be no question that the affair had crossed him more than anything -that had ever happened in this world. "I think it was Coralie Fontaine." - -"I am deeply sorry I ever spoke them, Herbert--as things have turned -out." - -"No doubt you are. The tongue's an evil and dangerous member. Let us -drop the subject: the less it is recurred to now, the better." - -Captain Tanerton saw how it was--that all the world suspected him, -beginning with his brother. - -And he certainly did not do as much to combat the feeling as he might -have done. This was noticed. He did not assert his innocence strenuously -and earnestly. He said he was not guilty, it's true, but he said it too -quietly. A man accused of so terrible a crime would move heaven and -earth to prove the charge false--if false it were. Jack denied his -guilt, but denied it in a very tame fashion. And this had its effect -upon his upholders. - -There could be no mistaking that some inward trouble tormented him. His -warm, genial manners had given place to thoughtfulness and care. Was -Jack guilty?--his best friends acknowledged the doubt now, in the depths -of their heart. Herbert Tanerton was worrying himself into a chronic -fever: chiefly because disgrace was reflected on his immaculate self, -Jack being his brother. Squire Todhetley, meeting Jack one day in -Robert Ashton's cornfield, took Jack's hands in his, and whispered that -if Jack did strike the blow unwittingly, he knew it was all the fault of -that unhappy, cross-grained Pym. In short, the only person who retained -full belief in Jack was his wife. Jack had surely done it, said -Timberdale under the rose, but done it unintentionally. - -Alice related her dream to Jack. Not being given to belief in dreams, -Jack thought little of it. Nothing, in fact. It was no big, evil-faced -man who harmed Pym, he answered, shaking his head; and he seemed to -speak as one who knew. - -Timberdale was no longer a pleasant resting-place for John Tanerton, -and he quitted it for Liverpool, with Alice and their little girl. -Aunt Dean received him coolly and distantly. The misfortune had put -her out frightfully: with Jack's income threatened, there would be -less for herself to prey upon. She told him to his face that if he -wanted to correct Pym, he might have waited till they got out to sea: -blows were not thought much of on board ship. - -The next day Jack paid a visit to the owners, and resigned his command. -For, he was still attached ostensibly to the _Rose of Delhi_, though -another master had temporarily superseded him. - -"Why do you do this?" asked Mr. Charles Freeman. "We can put you into -another ship, one going on a shorter voyage, and when your own comes -home you can take her again." - -"No," said Jack. "Many thanks, though, for your confidence in me. All -the world seems to believe me guilty. If I were guilty I am not fit to -command a ship's crew." - -"But you were not guilty?" - -More emphatically than Jack had yet spoken upon the affair, he spoke -now: and his truthful, candid eyes went straight into those of his -questioner. - -"_I was not._ Before Heaven, I say it." - -Charles Freeman heaved a sigh of relief. He liked Jack, and the matter -had somewhat troubled him. - -"Then, Captain Tanerton--I fully believe you--why not reconsider your -determination, and remain on active service? The _Shamrock_ is going to -Madras; sails in a day or two; and you shall have her. She'll be home -again before the _Rose of Delhi_. For your own sake I think you should -do this--to still rancorous tongues." - -Jack sighed. "I can't feel free to go," he said. "This suspicion has -troubled me more than you can imagine. I must get some employment on -shore." - -"You should stand up before the world and assert your innocence in this -same emphatic manner," returned the owner. "Why have you not done it?" - -Jack's voice took a tone of evasion at once. "I have not cared to do -it." - -Charles Freeman looked at him. A sudden thought flashed into his mind. - -"Are you screening some one, Captain Tanerton?" - -"How can you ask such a question?" rejoined Jack. But the deep and -sudden flush that rose with the words, gave fresh food for speculation -to Mr. Freeman. He dropped his voice. - -"Surely it was not Sir Dace Fontaine who--who killed him? The uncle and -nephew were not on good terms." - -Jack's face and voice brightened again--he could answer this with his -whole heart. "No, no," he impressively said, "it was not Sir Dace -Fontaine. You may at least rely upon that." - - * * * * * - -When I at length got back to Crabb, the Fontaines were there. After the -inquest, they had gone again to Brighton. Poor Verena looked like a -ghost, I thought, when I saw her on the Sunday in their pew at church. - -"It has been a dreadful thing," I said to her, as we walked on together -after service; "but I am sorry to see you look so ill." - -"A dreadful thing!--ay, it has, Johnny Ludlow," was her answer, spoken -in a wail. "I expect it will kill some of us." - -Sir Dace looked ill too. His furtive eyes had glanced hither and thither -during the service, like a man who has a scare upon him; but they seemed -ever to come back to Verena. - -Not another word was said by either of us until we were near the barn. -Then Verena spoke. - -"Where is John Tanerton?" - -"In Liverpool, I hear." - -"Poor fellow!" - -Her tone was as piteous as her words, as her looks. All the bloom had -gone from her pretty face; its lips were white, dry, and trembling. -In Coralie there was no change; her smiles were pleasant as ever, her -manners as easy. The calamity had evidently passed lightly over her; as -I expect most things in life did pass. - -Saying good-morning at the turning, Sir Dace and Verena branched off to -Maythorn Bank. Coralie lingered yet, talking with Mr. Todhetley. - -"My dear, how ill your father is looking!" exclaimed the Squire. - -"He does look ill," answered Coralie. "He has never been quite the same -since that night in London. He said one day that he could not get the -sight of Pym out of his mind--as he saw him lying on the floor in Ship -Street." - -"It must have been a sad sight." - -"Papa is also, I think, anxious about Verena," added Coralie. "She has -taken the matter to heart in quite an unnecessary manner; just, I'm -sure, as if she intended to die over it. That must vex papa: I see him -glancing at her every minute in the day. Oh, I assure you I am the only -cheerful one of the family now," concluded Coralie, lightly, as she ran -away to catch the others. - -That was the last we saw of them that year. On the morrow we left for -Dyke Manor. - - * * * * * - -In the course of the autumn John Tanerton ran up to Timberdale from -Liverpool. It had come to his knowledge that the Ash Farm, belonging to -Robert Ashton, was to let--Grace had chanced to mention it incidentally -when writing to Alice--and poor Jack thought if he could only take it -his fortune was made. He was an excellent, practical farmer, and knew he -could make it answer. But it would take two or three thousand pounds to -stock the Ash Farm, and Jack had not as many available shillings. He -asked his brother to lend him the money. - -"I always knew you were deficient in common sense," was the Rector's -sarcastic rejoiner to the request. "Three thousand pounds! What next?" - -"It would be quite safe, Herbert: you know how energetic I am. And I -will pay you good interest." - -"No doubt you will--when I lend it you. You have a cheek!" - -"But----" - -"That will do; don't waste breath," interrupted Herbert, cutting him -short. And he positively refused the request--refused to listen to -another word. - -Strolling past Maythorn Bank that same afternoon, very much down in -looks and spirits, Jack saw Sir Dace Fontaine. He was leaning over his -little gate, looking just as miserable as Jack. For Sir Dace to look out -of sorts was nothing unusual; for Jack it was. Sir Dace asked what was -amiss: and Jack--candid, free-spoken, open-natured Jack--told of his -disappointment in regard to the Ash Farm: his brother not feeling -inclined to advance him the necessary money to take it--three thousand -pounds. - -"I wonder you do not return to the sea, Captain Tanerton," cried Sir -Dace. - -"I do not care to return to it," was Jack's answer. - -"Why?" - -"I shall never go to sea again, Sir Dace," he said in his candour. - -"Never go to sea again!" - -"No. At any rate, not until I am cleared. While this dark cloud of -suspicion lies upon me I am not fit to take the command of others. Some -windy night insubordinate men might throw the charge in my teeth." - -"You are wrong," said Sir Dace, his countenance taking an angry turn. -"You know, I presume, your own innocence--and you should act as if you -knew it." - -He turned back up the path without another word, entered his house, -and shut the door. Jack walked slowly on. Presently he heard footsteps -behind him, looked round, and saw Verena Fontaine. They had not met -since the time of Pym's death, and Jack thought he had never seen such a -change in any one. Her bright colour was gone, her cheeks were wasted--a -kind of dumb despair sat in her once laughing blue eyes. All Jack's -pity--and he had his share of it--went out to her. - -"I heard a little of what you said to papa at the garden-gate, Captain -Tanerton--not much of it. I was in the arbour. _Why_ is it that you will -not yet go to sea again? What is it you wait for?" - -"I am waiting until I can stand clear in the eyes of men," answered -Jack, candid as usual, but somewhat agitated, as if the topic were a -sore one. "No man with a suspicion attaching to him should presume to -hold authority over other men." - -"I understand you," murmured Verena. "If you stood as free from -suspicion with all the world as you are in my heart, and--and"--she -paused from emotion--"and I think in my father's also, you would have no -cause to hesitate." - -Jack took a questioning glance at her; at the sad, eager eyes that were -lifted beseechingly to his. "It is kind of you to say so much," he -answered. "It struck me at the time of the occurrence that you could -not, did not, believe me guilty." - -Verena shivered. As if his steady gaze were too much for her, she turned -her own aside towards the blue sky. - -"Good-bye," she said faintly, putting out her hand. "I only wanted to -say this--to let you know that I believe in your innocence." - -"Thank you," said Jack, meeting her hand. "It is gratifying to hear that -_you_ do me justice." - -He walked quietly away. She stood still to watch him. And of all the -distressed, sad, _aching_ countenances ever seen in this world, few -could have matched that of Miss Verena Fontaine. - - -V. - -Spring sunshine, bright and warm to-day, lay on Timberdale. Herbert -Tanerton, looking sick and ill, sat on a bench on the front lawn, -holding an argument with his wife, shielded from outside gazers by the -clump of laurel-trees. We used to say the Rector's illnesses were all -fancy and temper; but it seemed to be rather more than that now. Worse -tempered he was than ever; Jack's misfortunes and Jack's conduct annoyed -him. During the past winter Jack had taken some employment at the -Liverpool Docks, in connection with the Messrs. Freeman's ships. -Goodness knew of what description it was, Herbert would say, turning -up his nose. - -A day or two ago Jack made his appearance again at the Rectory; had -swooped down upon it without warning or ceremony, just as he had in the -autumn. Herbert did not approve of that. He approved still less of the -object which had brought Jack at all. Jack was tired of the Liverpool -Docks; the work he had to do was not congenial to him; and he had now -come to Timberdale to ask Robert Ashton to make him his bailiff. Not -being able to take a farm on his own account, Jack thought the next best -thing would be to take the management of one. Robert Ashton would be -parting with his bailiff at Midsummer, and Jack would like to drop into -the post. Anything much less congenial to the Rector's notions, Jack -could hardly have pitched upon. - -"I can see what it is--Jack is going to be a thorn in my side for ever," -the Rector was remarking to his wife, who sat near him, doing some -useful work. "He never had any idea of the fitness of things. A bailiff, -now!--a servant!" - -"I wish you would let him take a farm, Herbert--lend him the money to -stock one." - -"I know you do; you have said so before." - -Grace sighed. But when she had it on her conscience to say a thing she -said it. - -"Herbert, you know--you know I have never thought it fair that we should -enjoy all the income we do; and----" - -"What do you mean by 'fair'?" interrupted Herbert. "I only enjoy my -own." - -"Legally it is yours. Rightly, a large portion of it ought to be Jack's. -It does not do us any good, Herbert, this superfluous income; you only -put it by. It does not in the slightest degree add to our enjoyment of -life." - -"Do be quiet, Grace--unless you can talk sense. Jack will get no money -from me. He ought to be at sea. What right had he to give it up? The -_Rose of Delhi_ is expected back now: let him take her again." - -"You know why he will not, Herbert. And he must do something for a -living. I wish you would not object to his engaging himself to Robert -Ashton. If----" - -"Why don't you wish anything else that's lowering and degrading? You are -as devoid of common sense as he!" retorted the parson, walking away in -a fume. - -Matters were in this state when we got back to Crabb Cot; to stop at it -for a longer or a shorter period as fate and the painters at Dyke Manor -would allow. Jack urging Robert Ashton to promise him the bailiffs -post--vacant the next Midsummer; Herbert strenuously objecting to it; -and Robert Ashton in a state of dilemma between the two. He would have -liked well enough to engage John Tanerton: but he did not like to defy -the Rector. When the Squire heard this later, his opinion vacillated, -according to custom: now leaning to Herbert's side, now to Jack's. And -the Fontaines, we found, were in all the bustle of house-moving. Their -own house, Oxlip Grange, being at length ready for them, they were -quitting Maythorn Bank. - -"Goodness bless me!" cried the Squire, coming in at dusk from a stroll -he had taken the evening of our arrival. "I never got such a turn in my -life." - -"What has given it you, sir?" - -"What has given it me, Johnny? why, Sir Dace Fontaine. I never saw any -man so changed," he went on, rubbing up his hair. "He looks like a -ghost, more than a man." - -"Is he ill?" - -"He must be ill. Sauntering down that narrow lane by Maythorn Bank, I -came upon a tall something mooning along like a walking shadow. I might -have taken it for a shadow, but that it lifted its bent head, and threw -its staring eyes straight into mine--and I protest that a shadowy -sensation crept over myself when I recognized it for Fontaine. You never -saw a face so gloomy and wan. How long is it since we saw him, Johnny?" - -"About nine months, I think, sir." - -"The man must be suffering from a wasting complaint, or else he has some -secret care that's fretting him to fiddle-strings. Mark my words, all of -you, it is one or the other." - -"Dear me!" put in Mrs. Todhetley, full of pity. "I always thought him a -gloomy man. Did you ask him whether he was ill?" - -"Not I," said the pater: "he gave me no opportunity. Had I been a -sheriffs-officer with a writ in my hand he could hardly have turned off -shorter. They had moved into the other house that day, he muttered, and -he must lock up Maythorn Bank and be after them." - -This account of Sir Dace was in a measure cleared up the next morning. -Who should come in after breakfast but the surgeon, Cole. Talking of -this and that, Sir Dace Fontaine's name came up. - -"I am on my way now to Sir Dace; to the new place," cried Cole. "They -went into it yesterday. Might have gone in a month ago, but Sir Dace -made no move to do it. He seems to have no heart left to do anything; -neither heart nor energy." - -"I knew he was ill," cried the Squire. "No mistaking that. And now, -Cole, what is it that's the matter with him?" - -"He shows symptoms of a very serious inward complaint," gravely answered -Cole. "A complaint that, if it really does set in, must prove fatal. We -have some hopes yet that we shall ward it off. Sir Dace does not think -we shall, and is in a rare fright about himself." - -"A fright, is he! That's it, then." - -"Never saw any man in such a fright before," went on Cole. "Says he's -going to die--and he does not want to die." - -"I said last night the man was like a walking shadow. And there's a kind -of scare in his face." - -Cole nodded. "Two or three weeks ago I got a note from him, asking me to -call. I found him something like a shadow, as you observe, Squire. The -cold weather had kept him indoors, and I had not chanced to see him -for some weeks. When Sir Dace told me his symptoms, I suppose I looked -grave. Combined with his wasted appearance, they unpleasantly impressed -me, and he took alarm. 'The truth,' he said, in his arbitrary way: 'tell -me the truth; only that. Conceal nothing.' Well, when a patient adjures -me in a solemn manner to tell the truth, I deem it my duty to do so," -added Cole, looking up. - -"Go on, Cole," cried the Squire, nodding approval. - -"I told him the truth, softening it in a degree--that I did not -altogether like some of the symptoms, but that I hoped, with skill and -care, to get him round again. The same day he sent for Darbyshire of -Timberdale, saying we must attend him conjointly, for two heads were -better than one. Two days later he sent for somebody else--no other than -Mr. Ben Rymer." - -We all screamed out in surprise. "Ben Rymer!" - -"Ay," said Cole, "Ben Rymer. Ben has got through and is a surgeon now, -like the rest of us. And, upon my word, I believe the fellow has his -profession thoroughly in hand. He will make a name in the world, the -chances for it being afforded him, unless I am mistaken." - -Something like moisture stood in the Squire's good old eyes. "If his -father, poor Rymer, had but lived to see it!" he softly said. "Anxiety, -touching Ben, killed him." - -"So we three doctors make a pilgrimage to Sir Dace regularly everyday; -sometimes together, sometimes apart," added Cole. "And, of the three of -us, I believe the patient likes young Rymer best--has most confidence in -him." - -"Shall you cure him?" - -"Well, we do not yet give up hope. If the disease does set in, it -will----" - -"What?" - -"Run its course quickly." - -"An instant yet, Cole," cried the Squire, stopping the surgeon as he -was turning away. "You have told us nothing. How does the parish get -on?--and the people? How is Letsom?--and Crabb generally? Tanerton--how -is he?--and Timberdale? Coming here fresh, we are thirsting for news." - -Cole laughed. He knew the pater liked gossip as much as any old woman: -and the reader must understand that, as yet, we had not heard any, -having reached Crabb Cot late the previous afternoon. - -"There is no particular news, Squire," said he. "Letsom is well; so is -Crabb. Herbert Tanerton's not well. He is in a crusty way over Jack." - -"He is always in a way over something. Where is Jack?" - -"Jack's here, at the Rectory; just come to it. Robert Ashton's bailiff -is about to take a farm on his own account, and Jack came rushing over -from Liverpool to apply for the post." - -Tod, who had been too much occupied with his fishing-flies to take much -heed before, set up a shrill whistle at this. "How will the parson like -that?" he asked. - -"The parson does not like it at all. Whether he will succeed in -preventing it, is another matter," concluded Cole. And, with that, he -made his escape. - -Close upon the surgeon's departure, Colonel Letsom came in; he had heard -of our arrival. It was a pity, he said, the two brothers should be at -variance. Jack wanted the post--he must make a living somehow; and the -Rector was in a way over it; not quite mad, but next door to it; Ashton -of course not knowing what to do between them. From that subject, he -began to speak of the Fontaines. - -A West Indian planter, one George Bazalgette, had been over on a visit, -he said, and had spent Christmas at Maythorn Bank; his object being to -induce Verena to accept him as her husband. Verena would not listen to -him, and he wasted his eloquence in vain. She made no hesitation in -vowing to him that her affections were buried in the grave of Edward -Pym. - -"Fontaine told me confidentially in London that he intended she _should_ -have Bazalgette," remarked the Squire. "It was the evening we went -looking for her at that wax-work place." - -"Ay; but Fontaine is changed," returned the colonel: "all his old -domineering ways are gone out of him. When Bazalgette was over here, he -did not attempt even to persuade her: she must take her own course, he -said. So poor Bazalgette went back as he came--wifeless. It was a pity." - -"Why?" - -"Because this George Bazalgette was a nice fellow," replied Colonel -Letsom. "An open-hearted, fine-looking, generous man, and desperately in -love with her. Miss Verena will not readily find his compeer in a summer -day's march." - -"As old as Adam, I suppose, colonel," interjected Tod. - -"Yes--if you choose to put Adam's age down at three or four and thirty," -laughed the colonel, as he took his leave. - -To wait many hours, once she was at Crabb, without laying in a stock -of those delectable "family pills," invented by the late Thomas Rymer, -would have been quite beyond the philosophy of Mrs. Todhetley. That -first morning, not ten minutes after Colonel Letsom left us, taking the -Squire with him, she despatched me to Timberdale for a big box of them. -Tod would not come: said he had his flies to see to. - -Dashing through the Ravine and out on the field beyond it, I came upon -Jack Tanerton. Good old Jack! The Squire had said Sir Dace was changed: -I saw that Jack was. He looked taller and thinner, and the once beaming -face had care upon it. - -"Where are you bound for, Jack?" - -"Not for any place in particular. Just sauntering about." - -"Walk my way, then. I am going to Rymer's." - -"It is such nonsense," cried Jack, speaking of his brother, after we had -plunged a bit into affairs. "Calling it derogatory, and all the rest of -it! I could be just as much of a gentleman as Ashton's bailiff as I am -now. Everybody knows me. He gives a good salary, and there's a pretty -house; and I have also my own small income. Alice and I and the little -ones should be as happy as the day's long. If I give in to Herbert and -don't take it, I don't see what I am to turn to." - -"But, Jack, why do you give up the sea?" I asked. And Jack told me what -he had told others: he should never take command again until he was a -free man. - -"Don't you think you are letting that past matter hold too great an -influence over you?" I presently said. "You must be conscious of your -own innocence--and yet you seem as sad and subdued as though you were -guilty!" - -"I am subdued because other people think me guilty!" he answered. -"Changed? I am. It is that which has changed me; not the calamity -itself." - -"Jack, were I you, I should stand up in the face and eyes of all the -world, and say to them, 'Before God, I did not kill Pym.' People would -believe you then. But you don't do it." - -"I have my reasons for not doing it, Johnny Ludlow. God knows what they -are; He knows all things. I dare say I may be set right with the world -in time: though I don't see how it is to be done." - -A smart young man, a new assistant, was behind the counter at Ben -Rymer's, and served me with the pills. Coming out, box in hand, we met -Ben himself. I hardly knew him, he was so spruce. His very hair and -whiskers were trimmed down to neatness and looked of a more reasonable -colour; his red-brown beard was certainly handsome, and his clothes were -well cut. - -"Why, he has grown into a dandy, Jack," I said, after we had stood a -minute or two, talking with the surgeon. - -"Yes," said Jack, "he is going in for the proprieties of life now. Ben -may make a gentleman yet--and a good man to boot." - -That same afternoon, it chanced that the Squire met Ben Rymer. Striding -along in his powerful fashion, Ben came full tilt round the sharp corner -that makes the turning to the Islip Road, and nearly ran over the pater. -Ben had been to Oxlip Grange. - -"So, sir," cried the pater, stopping him, "I hear you are in practice -now, and intend to become a respectable man. It's time you did." - -"Ay, at last," replied Ben good-humouredly. "It is a long lane, Squire, -that has no turning." - -"Don't you lapse back again, Mr. Ben." - -"Not if I know it, sir. I hope I shall not." - -"It was anxiety on your score, you know, that troubled your good -father's mind in dying." - -"If it did not bring his death on," readily conceded Ben, his light tone -changing. "I know it all, Squire--and have felt it." - -"Look here," cried the Squire, catching at Ben's button-hole, which had -a lovely lily-of-the-valley in it, "there was nothing on earth your poor -patient father prayed for so earnestly as for your welfare; that you -might be saved for time and eternity. Now I don't believe such prayers -are ever lost. So you will be helped on your way if you bear steadfastly -onwards." - -Giving the young man's hand a wring, the Squire turned off on his way. -In half-a-minute he was back again. - -"Hey, Mr. Benjamin?--here. How is Sir Dace Fontaine? I suppose you have -just left him?" - -So Ben had to come back at the call. To the pater's surprise he saw his -eyes were moist. - -"He is worse, sir, to-day; palpably worse." - -"Will he get over it?" - -Ben gave his head an emphatic shake, which somehow belied his words: -"Cole and Darbyshire think there is hope yet, Squire." - -"And you do not; that's evident. Well, good-day." - - * * * * * - -The next move in this veritable drama was the appearance of Alice -Tanerton and her six-months-old baby at Timberdale. Looking upon the -Rectory as almost her home--it had been Jack's for many years of his -life--Alice came to it without the ceremony of invitation: the object -of her coming now being to strive to induce Herbert to let her husband -engage himself to Robert Ashton. And this visit of Alice's was destined -to bring about a most extraordinary event. - -One Wednesday evening when Jack and his wife were dining with us--and -that troublesome baby, which Alice could not, as it seemed, stir abroad -without, was in the nursery squealing--Alice chanced to say that she had -to go to Islip the following day, her mother having charged her to see -John Paul the lawyer, concerning a little property that she, Aunt Dean, -held in Crabb. It would be a tremendously long walk for Alice from -Timberdale, especially as she was not looking strong, and Mrs. Todhetley -proposed that I should drive her over in the pony-carriage: which Alice -jumped at. - -Accordingly, the next morning, which was warm and bright, I took the -pony-carriage to the Rectory, picked up Alice, and then drove back -towards Islip. As we passed Oxlip Grange, which lay in our way, Sir Dace -Fontaine was outside in the road, slowly pacing the side-path. I thought -I had never seen a man look so ill: so _down_ and gloomy. He raised his -eyes, as we came up, to give me a nod. I was nodding back again, when -Alice screamed out and startled me. She started the pony too, which -sprang on at a tangent. - -"Johnny! Johnny Ludlow!" she gasped, her face whiter than death and her -lips trembling like an aspen leaf, "did you see that man? Did you see -him?" - -"Yes. I was nodding to him. What is the matter?" - -"It was the man I saw in my dream: the man who had committed the murder -in it." - -I stared at her, wondering whether she had lost her wits. - -"Do you remember the description I gave of that man?" she continued, -in excitement. "_I_ do. I wrote it down at the time, and Mr. Todhetley -holds it, sealed up. Every word, every particular is in my memory now, -as I saw him in my dream. 'A tall, evil-looking, dark man in a long -brown coat, who walked with his eyes fixed on the ground.' I tell you, -Johnny Ludlow, _that is the man_." - -Her vehemence infected me. I looked round after Sir Dace. He was -turning this way now. Certainly the description seemed like enough. -His countenance just now did look an evil one; and he was tall and he -was dark, and he wore a long brown coat this morning, nearly reaching -to his heels, and his eyes were fixed on the ground as he walked. - -"But what if his looks do tally with the man you saw in your dream, -Alice? What of it?" - -"What of it!" she echoed, vehemently. "_What of it!_ Why, don't you see, -Johnny Ludlow? This man must have killed Edward Pym." - -"Hush, Alice! It is impossible. This is Sir Dace Fontaine." - -"I do not care who he is," was her impulsive retort. "As surely as that -Heaven is above us, Edward Pym got his death at the hand of this man. My -dream revealed it to me." - -I might as well have tried to stem a torrent as to argue with her; so I -drove on and held my tongue. Arrived at the office of Paul and Chandler, -I following her in, leaving a boy with the pony outside. Alice pounced -upon old Paul with the assertion: Sir Dace Fontaine was the evil and -guilty man she had seen in her dream. Considering that Paul was a sort -of cousin to Sir Dace's late wife, this was pretty well. Old Paul stared -at her as I had done. Her cheeks were hectic, her eyes wildly earnest. -She recalled to the lawyer's memory the dream she had related to him; -she asserted in the most unqualified manner that Dace Fontaine was -guilty. Tom Chandler, who was old Paul's partner and had married his -daughter Emma, came into the room in the middle of it, and took his -share of staring. - -"It must be investigated," said Alice to them. "Will you undertake it?" - -"My dear young lady, one cannot act upon a fancy--a dream," cried old -Paul: and there was a curious sound of compassionate pity in his voice, -which betrayed to Alice the gratifying fact that he was regarding her as -a monomaniac. - -"If you will not act, others will," she concluded at last, after -exhausting her arguments in vain. And she came away with me in -resentment, having totally forgotten all about her mother's business. - -To Crabb Cot then--she _would_ go--to take counsel with the Squire. He -told her to her face she was worse than a lunatic to suspect Sir Dace; -and he would hardly get out the sealed packet at all. It was opened at -last, and the dream, as written down in it by herself at the time, read. - -"John Tanerton, my husband, was going to sea in command," it began. -"He came to me the morning of the day they were to sail, looking very -patient, pale and sorrowful: more so than any one, I think, could look -in life. He and I seemed to have had some estrangement the previous -night that was not remembered by either of us now, and I, for one, -repented of it. Somebody was murdered (though I could not tell how this -had been revealed to me), some man; Jack was suspected by all people, -but they could not bring it home to him. We were in some strange town; -strangers in it; though I, as it seemed to me, had been in it once, -many years before. All this while, Jack was standing before me in his -sadness and sorrow, mutely appealing to me, as it seemed, to clear him. -Everybody was talking of it and glancing at us askance, everybody -shunned us, and we were in cruel distress. Suddenly I remembered that -when I was in the town before, the man now murdered had had a bitter -quarrel with another man, a gentleman of note in the town; and a -conviction came over me, powerful as a revelation, that it was he who -had now committed the murder. I left Jack, and told this to some one -connected with the ship, its owner, I think. He laughed at the words, -saying that the gentleman I would accuse was of high authority in the -town, one of its first magnates. That he had done it, however high he -might be, I felt perfectly certain; but nobody would listen to me; -nobody would heed so improbable a tale: and, in the trouble this -brought me, I awoke. _Such_ trouble! Nothing like it could be felt in -real life. - -"That was dream the first. - -"I lay awake for some little time thinking of it, and then went to sleep -again: and this was dream the second. - -"The dream seemed to recommence from where it had left off. It was -afternoon. I was in a large open carriage, going through the streets -of the town, the ship's owner (as I say I think he was) sitting beside -me. In passing over a bridge we saw two gentlemen walking towards us -arm-in-arm on the footpath, one of them an officer in a dusky old red -uniform and cocked hat, the other a tall, evil-looking dark man, who -wore a long brown coat and kept his eyes on the ground. Though I had -never seen him in my life before, I _knew_ it was the guilty man; he had -killed the other, committed the crime in secret: but ere I could speak, -he who was sitting with me said, 'There's the gentleman you would have -accused this morning. He stands before everybody else in the town. Fancy -your accusing _him_ of such a thing!' It seemed to me that I did not -answer, could not answer for the pain. That he was guilty I knew, and -not Jack, but I had no means of bringing it home to him. He and the man -in uniform walked on in their secure immunity, and I went on in the -carriage in my pain. The pain awoke me. - -"And now it only remains for me to declare that I have set down this -singular dream truthfully, word for word; and I shall seal it up and -keep it. It may be of use if any trouble falls upon Jack, as the dream -seems to foretell--and of some trouble in store for him he has already -felt the shadow. So strangely vivid a dream, and the intense pain -it brought and leaves with me, can hardly have visited me for -nothing.--ALICE TANERTON." - -That was all the paper said. The Squire, poring through his good old -spectacles over it, shook his head as Alice pointed out the description -of the guilty man, how exactly it tallied with the appearance of Sir -Dace Fontaine; but he only repeated Paul the lawyer's words, "One cannot -act upon a dream." - -"It was Sir Dace; it was Sir Dace," reiterated Alice, clasping her hands -piteously. "I am as sure of it as that I hope to go to heaven." And I -drove her home in the belief. - -There ensued a commotion. Not a commotion to be told to the parish, but -a private one amidst ourselves. I never saw a woman in such a fever of -excitement as Alice Tanerton was in from that day, or any one take up a -matter so warmly. - -Captain Tanerton did not adopt her views. He shook his head, and said -Sir Dace it _could not_ have been. Sir Dace was at his house in the -Marylebone Road at the very hour the calamity happened off Tower Hill. -I followed suit, hearing out Jack's word. Was I not at the Marylebone -Road that evening myself, playing chess with Coralie?--and was not Sir -Dace shut up in his library all the time, and never came out of it? - -Alice listened, and looked puzzled to death. But she held to her own -opinion. And when a fit of desperate obstinacy takes possession of a -woman without rhyme or reason, you cannot shake it. As good try to argue -with the whistling wind. She did not pretend to see how it could have -been, she said, but Sir Dace was guilty. And she haunted Paul and -Chandler's office at Islip, praying them to take the matter up. - -At length, to soothe her, and perhaps to prevent her carrying it -elsewhere, they promised they would. And of course they had to make some -show of doing it. - -One evening Tom Chandler came to Crabb Cot and asked to see me alone. -"I want you to tell me all the particulars you remember of that fatal -night," he began, when I went to him in the Squire's little room. "I -have taken down Captain Tanerton's testimony, and I must have yours, -Johnny." - -"But, are you going to stir in it?" - -"We must do something, I suppose. Paul thinks so. I am going to London -to-morrow on other matters, and shall use the opportunity to make an -inquiry or two. It is rather a strange piece of business altogether," -added Mr. Chandler, as he took his place at the table and drew the -inkstand towards him. "John Tanerton is innocent. I feel sure of that." - -"How strongly Mrs. Tanerton has taken it up!" - -"Pretty well for that," answered Tom Chandler, a smile on his -good-natured face. "She told us yesterday in the office that it must be -the consciousness of guilt which has worried Sir Dace to a skeleton. Now -then, we'll begin." - -He dotted down my answers to his questions, also what I voluntarily -added. Then he took a sheet of paper from his pocket, closely written -upon, and compared its statements--they were Tanerton's--with mine. -Putting his finger on the paper to mark a place, he looked at me. - -"Did Sir Dace speak of Pym or of Captain Tanerton that night, when you -were playing chess with Miss Fontaine?" - -"Sir Dace did not come into the drawing-room. He had left the -dinner-table in a huff to shut himself up in his library, Miss Fontaine -said; and he stayed in it." - -"Then you did not see Sir Dace at all that night?" - -"Oh yes, later--when Captain Tanerton and young Saxby came up to tell -him of the death. We then all went down to Ship Street together. You -have taken that down." - -"True," said Chandler. "Well, I cannot make much out of it as it -stands," he concluded, folding the papers and putting them in his -pocket-book. "What do you say is the number of the house in the -Marylebone Road?" - -I told him, and he went away, wishing he could accept my offer of -staying to drink tea with us. - -"Look here, Chandler," I said to him at the front-door: "why don't you -take down Sir Dace Fontaine's evidence, as well as mine and Tanerton's?" - -"I have done it," he answered. "I was with Sir Dace to-day. Mrs. -Tanerton's suspicions are of course--absurd," he added, making a pause, -as if at a loss for a suitable word, "but for her peace of mind, poor -lady, we would like to pitch upon the right individual if we can. And as -yet he seems to be a myth." - - * * * * * - -The good ship, _Rose of Delhi_, came gaily into port, and took up her -berth in St. Katharine's Docks as before; for she had been chartered -for London. Her owners, the Freemans, wrote at once from Liverpool to -Captain Tanerton, begging him to resume command. Jack wrote back, and -declined. - - * * * * * - -How is it that whispers get about! Do the birds in the air carry -them?--or the winds of heaven? In some cases it seems impossible that -anything else can have done it. Paul and Chandler, John Tanerton and his -wife, the Squire and myself: we were the only people cognizant of the -new suspicion that Alice was striving to cast on Sir Dace, one and all -of us had kept silent lips: and yet, the rumour got abroad. Sir Dace -Fontaine was accused of knowing more about Pym's death than he ought to -know, and Tom Chandler was in London for the purpose of investigating -it. This might not have mattered very much for ordinary ears, but it -reached those of Sir Dace. - -Coralie Fontaine heard it from Mary Ann Letsom. In Mary Ann's -indignation at the report, she spoke it out to Coralie; and Coralie, -laughing at the absurdity of the thing, repeated it to Sir Dace. How -_he_ received it, or what he said about it, did not transpire. - -A stagnant kind of atmosphere seemed to hang over us just then, like the -heavy, unnatural calm that precedes the storm. Sir Dace got weaker day -by day, more of a shadow; Herbert Tanerton and his brother were still at -variance, so far as Jack's future was concerned; and Mr. Chandler seemed -to have taken up his abode in London for good. - -"Does he _never_ mean to come back?" demanded Alice one day of the -Squire: and her lips and cheeks were red with fever as she asked it. The -truth was, that some cause of Paul and Chandler's then on at Westminster -was prolonging itself out--even when it did begin--unconscionably. - -One morning I met Ben Rymer as he was leaving Oxlip Grange. Coralie -Fontaine had walked with him to the gate, talking earnestly, their two -heads together. Ben shook hands with her and came out, looking as grave -as a judge. - -"How is Sir Dace?" I asked him. "Getting on?" - -"Getting off," responded Ben. "For that's what it will be now; and not -long first, unless he mends." - -"Is he worse?" - -"He is nearly as bad as he can be, to be alive. And yesterday, he must -needs go careering off to Islip by himself to transact some business -with Paul the lawyer! He was no more fit for it than--than _this_ is," -concluded Ben, giving a flick to his silk umbrella as he marched off. -Ben went in for silk umbrellas now: in the old days a cotton one would -have been too good for him. - -"I am so sorry to hear Sir Dace is no better," I said to Coralie -Fontaine, who had waited at the gate to speak to me. - -Coralie shook her head. Some deep feeling sat in her generally passive -face: the tears stood in her eyes. - -"Thank you, Johnny Ludlow. It is very sad. I feel sure Mr. Rymer has -given up all hope, though he does not say so to me. Verena looks nearly -as ill as papa. I wish we had never come to Europe!" - -"Sir Dace exerts himself too greatly, Mr. Rymer says." - -"Yes; and worries himself also. As if his affairs needed as much as a -thought!--I am sure they must be just as straight and smooth as yonder -green plain. He had to see Mr. Paul yesterday about some alteration -in his will, and went to Islip, instead of sending for Paul here. -I thought he would have died when he got home. Papa has a strange -restlessness upon him. Good-bye, Johnny. I'd ask you to come in but -that things are all so miserable." - - * * * * * - -It was late in the evening, getting towards bedtime. Mrs. Todhetley had -gone upstairs with the face-ache, Tod was over at old Coney's, and I and -the Squire were sitting alone, when Thomas surprised us by showing in -Tom Chandler. We did not know he was back from London. - -"Yes, I got back this evening," said he, as he sat down near the lamp, -and spread some papers out on the table. "I am in a bit of a dilemma, -Mr. Todhetley; and I am come here at this late hour to put it before -you." - -Chandler's voice had dropped to a mysterious whisper; his eyes were -glancing at the door to make sure it was shut. The Squire pushed up -his spectacles and drew his chair nearer. I sat on the opposite side, -wondering what was coming. - -"That suspicion of Alice Tanerton's--that Sir Dace killed Pym," went on -Chandler, his left hand resting on the papers, his eyes on the Squire's. -"I think it was a true one." - -"A what?" cried the pater. - -"A true one. That Sir Dace did kill him." - -"Goodness bless me!" gasped the Squire, his good old face taking a -lighter tint. "What on earth do you mean, man?" - -"Well, I mean just that," answered Chandler. "And I feel myself to be, -in consequence, in an uncommonly awkward position. One can't well accuse -Sir Dace, a man close upon the grave; and Paul's relative in addition. -And yet, Captain Tanerton must be cleared." - -"I can't make top or tail of what you mean, Tom Chandler!" cried the -Squire, blinking like a bewildered owl. "Don't you think you are -dreaming?" - -"Wish I was," said Tom, "so far as this business goes. Look here. I'll -begin at the beginning and go through the story. You'll understand it -then." - -"It's more than I do now. Or Johnny, either. Look at him!" - -"When Mrs. John Tanerton brought to us that accusation of Sir Dace, on -the strength of her dream," began Chandler, after glancing at me, "I -thought she must have turned a little crazy. It was a singular dream; -there's no denying that; and the exact resemblance to Sir Dace Fontaine -of the man she saw in it, was still more singular: so much so, that -I could not help being impressed by it. Another thing that strongly -impressed me, was Captain Tanerton's testimony: from the moment I heard -it and weighed his manner in giving it, I felt sure of his innocence. -Revolving these matters in my own mind, I resolved to go to Sir Dace and -get him to give me his version of the affair; not in the least endorsing -in my own mind her suspicion of him, or hinting at it to him, you -understand; simply to get more evidence. I went to Sir Dace, heard what -he had to say, and brought away with me a most unpleasant doubt." - -"That he was guilty?" - -"That he might be. His manner was so confused, himself so agitated when -I first spoke. His hands trembled, his lips grew white, He strove to -turn it off, saying I had startled him, but I felt a very queer doubt -arising in my mind. His narrative had to be drawn from him; it was -anything but clear, and full of contradictions. 'Why do you come to me -about this?' he asked: 'have you heard anything?' 'I only come to ask -you for information,' was my answer: 'Mrs. John Tanerton wants the -matter looked into. If her husband is not guilty, he ought to be cleared -in the face of the world.' 'Nobody thinks he was guilty,' retorted Sir -Dace in a shrill tone of annoyance. 'Nobody was guilty: Pym must have -fallen and injured himself.' I came away from the interview, as I tell -you, with my doubts very unpleasantly stirred," resumed Chandler; "and -it caused me to be more earnest in looking after odds and ends of -evidence in London than I otherwise might have been." - -"Did you pick up any?" - -"Ay, I did. I turned the people at the Marylebone lodgings inside out, -so to say; I found out a Mrs. Ball, where Verena Fontaine had hidden -herself; and I quite haunted Dame Richenough's in Ship Street, Tower -Hill. There I met with Mark Ferrar. A piece of good fortune, for he told -me something that----" - -"What was it?" gasped the Squire, eagerly. - -"Why this--and a most important piece of evidence it is. That night, not -many minutes before the fatal accident must have occurred, Ferrar saw -Sir Dace Fontaine in Ship Street, watching Pym's room. He was standing -in an entry on the opposite side of the street, gazing across at Pym's. -This, you perceive, disproves one fact testified to--that Sir Dace spent -that evening shut up in his library at home. Instead of that he was -absolutely down on the spot." - -The Squire rubbed his face like a helpless man. "Why could not Ferrar -have said so at the time?" he asked. - -"Ferrar attached no importance to it; he thought Sir Dace was but -looking over to see whether his daughter was at Pym's. But Ferrar had no -opportunity of giving testimony: he sailed away the next morning in the -ship. Nothing could exceed his astonishment when I told him in London -that Captain Tanerton lay under the suspicion. He has taken Crabb on his -way to Worcester to support this testimony if needful, and to impart it -privately to Tanerton." - -"Well, it all seems a hopeless puzzle to me," returned the pater. "Why -on earth did not Jack speak out more freely, and say he was not guilty?" - -"I don't know. The fact, that Sir Dace did go out that night," continued -Chandler, "was confirmed by one of the maids in the Marylebone -Road--Maria; a smart girl with curled hair. She says Sir Dace had not -been many minutes in the library that night, to which he went straight -from the dinner-table in a passion, when she saw him leave it again, -catch up his hat with a jerk as he passed through the hall, and go out -at the front-door. It was just after Ozias had been to ask him whether -he would take some coffee, and got sent away with a flea in his ear. -Whether or not Sir Dace came in during the evening, Maria does not know; -he may, or may not, have done so, but she did see him come home in a cab -at ten o'clock, or soon after it. She was gossipping with the maids at a -house some few doors off, when a cab stopped near to them, Sir Dace got -out of it, paid the man, and walked on to his own door. Maria supposed -the driver had made a mistake in the number. So you see there can be no -doubt that Sir Dace was out that night." - -"He was certainly in soon after ten," I remarked. "Verena came home -about that time, and she saw him downstairs." - -"Don't you bring _her_ name up, Johnny," corrected the Squire. "That -young woman led to all the mischief. Running away, as she did--and -sending us off to that wax-work show in search of her! Fine figures they -cut, some of those dumb things!" - -"I found also," resumed Chandler, turning over his papers, on which he -had looked from time to time, "that Sir Dace met with one or two slight -personal mishaps that night. He sprained his wrist, accounting for it -the next morning by saying he had slipped in getting into bed; and he -lost a little piece out of his shirt-front." - -"Out of his shirt front!" - -"Just here," and Chandler touched the middle button of his shirt. "The -button-hole and a portion of the linen round it had been torn away. -Nothing would have been known of that but for the laundress. She brought -the shirt back before putting it into water, lest it should be said -she had done it in the washing. Maria remembered this, and told me. A -remarkably intelligent girl, that." - -"Did Maria--I remember the girl--suspect anything?" asked the Squire. - -"Nothing whatever. She does not now; I accounted otherwise for my -inquiries. Altogether, what with these facts I have told you, and a few -minor items, and Ferrar's evidence, I can draw but one conclusion--that -Sir Dace Fontaine killed Pym." - -"I never heard such a strange thing!" cried the pater. "And what's to be -done?" - -"That's the question," said Chandler. "What _is_ to be done?" And he -left us with the doubt. - - * * * * * - -Well, it turned out to be quite true; but I have not space here to go -more into detail. Sir Dace Fontaine was guilty, and the dream was a true -dream. - -"Did you suspect him?" the Squire asked privately of Jack, who was taken -into counsel the next day. - -"No, I never suspected Sir Dace," Jack answered. "I suspected some one -else--Verena." - -"No!" - -"I did. About half-past eight o'clock that night, Ferrar had seen a -young lady--or somebody dressed as one--watching Pym's house from the -opposite entry: just where, it now appears, he later saw Sir Dace. -Ferrar thought it was Verena Fontaine. A little later, in fact just -after the calamity must have occurred, Alfred Saxby also saw a young -lady running from the direction of the house, whom he also took to be -Verena. Ferrar and I came to the same conclusion--I don't know about -Saxby--that Verena must have been present when it happened. _I_ thought -that, angry at the state Pym was in, she might have given him a push in -her vexation, perhaps inadvertently, and that he fell. Who knew?" - -"But Verena was elsewhere that evening, you know; at a concert." - -"I knew she said so; but I did not believe it. Of course I know now that -both Ferrar and Saxby were mistaken; that it was somebody else they saw, -who bore, one must imagine, some general resemblance to her." - -"Well, I think you might have known better," cried the Squire. - -"Yes, I suppose I ought to. But, before the inquest had terminated, I -chanced to be alone with Verena; and her manner--nay, her words, two or -three she said--seemed to imply her guilt, and also a consciousness that -I must be aware of it. I had no doubt at all from that hour." - -"And is it for that reason, consideration for her, that you have -partially allowed suspicion to rest upon yourself?" pursued the Squire, -hotly. - -"Of course. How could I be the means of throwing it upon a defenceless -girl?" - -"Well, John Tanerton, you are a chivalrous goose!" - -"Verena must have known the truth all along." - -"_That's_ not probable," contended the Squire. "And Chandler wants to -know what is to be done." - -"Nothing all all, that I can see," answered Jack. "Sir Dace is not in a -condition to have trouble thrown upon him." - -Good Jack! generous Jack! There are not many such self-denying spirits -in the world. - -And what would have been done is beyond guessing, had Sir Dace not -solved the difficulty himself. Solved it by dying. - -But I must first tell of a little matter that happened. Although we had -heard what we had, one could not treat the man cavalierly, and the -Squire--just as good at heart as Jack--went up to make inquiries at -Oxlip Grange, as usual. One day he and Colonel Letsom strolled up -together, and were asked to walk in. Sir Dace wished to see them. - -"If ever you saw a living skeleton, it's what he is," cried the Squire -to us when he came home. "It is in the nature of the disease, I believe, -that he should be. Dress him up in his shroud, and you'd take him for -nothing but bones." - -Sir Dace was in the easy-chair by his bedroom fire, Coralie sitting -with him. By his side stood a round table with papers and letters upon -it. - -"I am glad you have chanced to call," he said to them, as he sent -Coralie away. "I wanted my signature witnessed by some one in -influential authority. You are both county magistrates." - -"The signature to your will," cried the Squire, falling to that -conclusion. - -"Not my will," answered Sir Dace. "That is settled." - -He turned to the table, his long, emaciated, trembling fingers singling -out a document that lay upon it. "This is a declaration," he said, -"which I have written out myself, being of sound mind, you perceive, and -which I wish to sign in your presence. I testify that every word written -in it is truth; I, a dying man, swear that it is so, before God." - -His shaky hands scrawled his signature, Dace Fontaine; and the Squire -and Colonel Letsom added theirs to it. Sir Dace then sealed up the -paper, and made them each affix his seal also. He then tottered to a -cabinet standing by the bed's head, and locked it up in it. - -"You will know where to find it when I am gone," he said. "I wish some -one of you to read it aloud, after the funeral, to those assembled here. -When my will shall have been read, then read this." - -On the third day after this, at evening, Sir Dace Fontaine died. We -heard no more about anything until the day of the funeral, which took -place on the following Monday. Sir Dace left a list of those he wished -invited to it, and they went. Sir Robert Tenby, Mr. Brandon, Colonel -Letsom and his eldest son; the parsons of Timberdale, Crabb, and Islip; -the three doctors who had attended him; old Paul and Tom Chandler; -Captain Tanerton, and ourselves. - -He was buried at Islip, by his own directions. And when we got back to -the Grange, after leaving him in the cold churchyard, Mr. Paul read out -the will. Coralie and Verena sat in the room in their deep mourning. -Coralie's eyes were dry, but Verena sobbed incessantly. - -Apart from a few legacies, one of which was to his servant Ozias, his -property was left to his two daughters, in equal shares. The chief -legacy, a large one, was left to John Tanerton--three thousand pounds. -You should have seen Jack's face of astonishment as he heard it. Herbert -looked as if he could not believe his ears. And Verena glanced across -at Jack with a happy flush. - -"Papa charged me, just before he died, to say that a sealed paper of his -would be found in his private cabinet, which was to be read out now," -spoke Coralie, in the pause which ensued, as old Paul's voice ceased. -"He said Colonel Letsom and Mr. Todhetley would know where to find it," -she added; breaking down with a sob. - -The paper was fetched, and old Paul was requested to read it. So he -broke the seals. - -You may have guessed what it was: a declaration of his guilt--if -guilt it could be called. In a straightforward manner he stated the -particulars of that past night: and the following is a summary of them. - -Sir Dace went out again that night after dinner, not in secret, or -with any idea of secrecy; it simply chanced, he supposed, that no one -saw him go. He was too uneasy about Verena to rest; he fully believed -her to be with Pym; and he went down to Ship Street. Before entering -the street he dismissed the cab, and proceeded cautiously to -reconnoitre, believing that if he were seen, Pym would be capable of -concealing Verena. After looking about till he was tired, he took up -his station opposite Pym's lodgings--which seemed to be empty--and -stayed, watching, until close upon nine o'clock, when he saw Pym enter -them. Before he had time to go across, the landlady began to close the -shutters; while she was doing it, Captain Tanerton came up, and went -in. Captain Tanerton came out in a minute or two, and walked quickly -back up the street: he, Sir Dace, would have gone after him to ask him -whether Verena was indoors with Pym, or not, but the captain's steps -were too fleet for him. Sir Dace then crossed over, opened the -street-door, and entered Pym's parlour. A short, sharp quarrel ensued. -Pym was in liquor, and--consequently--insolent. In the heat of passion -Sir Dace--he was a strong man then--seized Pym's arm, and shook him. -Pym flew at him in return like a tiger, twisted his wrist round, and -tore his shirt. Sir Dace was furious then; he struck him a powerful -blow on the head--behind the ear no doubt, as the surgeons testified -afterwards--and Pym fell. Leaving him there, Sir Dace quitted the house -quietly, never glancing at the thought that the blow could be fatal. -But, when seated in a cab on the way home, the idea suddenly occurred -to him--what if he had killed Pym? The conviction, though he knew -not why, or wherefore, that he had killed him, took hold of him, and -he went into his house, a terrified man. The rest was known, the -manuscript went on to say. He allowed people to remain in the belief -that he had not been out-of-doors that night: though how bitterly he -repented not having declared the truth at the time, none could know, -save God. He now, a dying man, about to appear before that God, who had -been full of mercy to him, declared that this was the whole truth, and -he further declared that he had no intention whatever of injuring Pym; -all he thought was, to knock him down for his insolence. He hoped the -world would forgive him, though he had never forgiven himself; and -he prayed his daughters to forgive him, especially Verena. He would -counsel her to return to the West Indies, and marry George Bazalgette. - -That ended the declaration: and an astounding surprise it must have been -to most of the eager listeners. But not one ventured to make any comment -on it, good or bad. The legacy to John Tanerton was understood now. -Verena crossed the room as we were filing out, and put her two hands -into his. - -"I have had a dreadful fear upon me that it was papa," she whispered -to him, the tears running down her cheeks. "Nay, worse than a fear: a -conviction. I think you have had the same, Captain Tanerton, and that -you have generously done your best to screen him; and I thank you with -my whole heart." - -"But, indeed," began Jack--and pulled himself up, short. - -"Let me tell you all," said Verena. "I saw papa come in that night: I -mean to our lodgings in the Marylebone Road, so I knew he had been out. -It was just past ten o'clock: Ozias saw him too--but he is silent and -faithful. I did not want papa to see me; fate, I suppose, made me -back into that little room, papa's library, until he should have gone -upstairs. He did not go up; he came into the room: and I hid myself -behind the window curtain. I cannot describe to you how strange papa -looked; _dreadful_; and he groaned and flung up his arms as one does in -despair. It frightened me so much that I said nothing to anybody. Still -I had not the key to it: I thought it must be about me: and the torn -shirt--for I saw that, and saw him button his coat over it--I supposed -he had, himself, done accidentally. I drew one of the glass doors softly -open, got out that way, and up to the drawing-room. Then you came in -with the news of Edward's death. At first, for a day or so, I thought -as others did--that suspicion lay on you. But, gradually, all these -facts impressed themselves on my mind in their startling reality; and I -felt, I saw, it could have been no other than he--my poor father. Oh, -Captain Tanerton, forgive him! Forgive me!" - -"There's nothing to forgive; I am sorry it has come out now," whispered -Jack, deeming it wise to leave it at that, and he stooped and gave her -the kiss of peace. - -So this was the end of it. Of the affair which had so unpleasantly -puzzled the world, and tried Jack. - -Jack, loyal, honest-hearted Jack, shook hands with everybody, giving a -double shake to Herbert's, and went forthwith down to Liverpool. - -"I will take the _Rose of Delhi_ again, now," he said to the Freemans. -"For this next voyage, at any rate." - -"And for many a one after it, we hope, Captain Tanerton," was their warm -answer. And Jack and his bright face went direct from the office to New -Brighton, to tell Aunt Dean. - - * * * * * - -And what became of the Miss Fontaines, you would like to ask? Well, I -have not time at present to tell you about Coralie; I don't know when I -shall have. But, if you'll believe me, Verena took her father's advice, -sailed back over the seas, and married George Bazalgette. - - - - -A CURIOUS EXPERIENCE. - - -What I am about to tell of took place during the last year of John -Whitney's life, now many years ago. We could never account for it, or -understand it: but it occurred (at least, so far as our experience of -it went) just as I relate it. - -It was not the custom for schools to give a long holiday at Easter then: -one week at most. Dr. Frost allowed us from the Thursday in Passion -week, to the following Thursday; and many of the boys spent it at -school. - -Easter was late that year, and the weather lovely. On the Wednesday in -Easter week, the Squire and Mrs. Todhetley drove over to spend the day -at Whitney Hall, Tod and I being with them. Sir John and Lady Whitney -were beginning to be anxious about John's health--their eldest son. He -had been ailing since the previous Christmas, and he seemed to grow -thinner and weaker. It was so perceptible when he got home from school -this Easter, that Sir John put himself into a flurry (he was just like -the Squire in that and in many another way), and sent an express to -Worcester for Henry Carden, asking him to bring Dr. Hastings with him. -They came. John wanted care, they said, and they could not discover any -specific disease at present. As to his returning to school, they both -thought that question might be left with the boy himself. John told them -he should prefer to go back, and laughed a little at this fuss being -made over him: he should soon be all right, he said; people were apt -to lose strength more or less in the spring. He was sixteen then, -a slender, upright boy, with a delicate, thoughtful face, dreamy, -grey-blue eyes and brown hair, and he was ever gentle, sweet-tempered, -and considerate. Sir John related to the Squire what the doctors had -said, avowing that he could not "make much out of it." - -In the afternoon, when we were out-of-doors on the lawn in the hot -sunshine, listening to the birds singing and the cuckoo calling, -Featherston came in, the local doctor, who saw John nearly every day. He -was a tall, grey, hard-worked man, with a face of care. After talking a -few moments with John and his mother, he turned to the rest of us on the -grass. The Squire and Sir John were sitting on a garden bench, some wine -and lemonade on a little table between them. Featherston shook hands. - -"Will you take some?" asked Sir John. - -"I don't mind a glass of lemonade with a dash of sherry in it," answered -Featherston, lifting his hat to rub his brow. "I have been walking -beyond Goose Brook and back, and upon my word it is as hot as -midsummer." - -"Ay, it is," assented Sir John. "Help yourself, doctor." - -He filled a tumbler with what he wanted, brought it over to the opposite -bench, and sat down by Mrs. Todhetley. John and his mother were at the -other end of it; I sat on the arm. The rest of them, with Helen and -Anna, had gone strolling away; to the North Pole, for all we knew. - -"John still says he shall go back to school," began Lady Whitney, to -Featherston. - -"Ay; to-morrow's the day, isn't it, John? Black Thursday, some of you -boys call it." - -"I like school," said John. - -"Almost a pity, though," continued Featherston, looking up and about -him. "To be out at will all day in this soft air, under the blue skies -and the sunbeams, might be of more benefit to you, Master John, than -being cooped up in a close school-room." - -"You hear, John!" cried Lady Whitney. "I wish you would persuade him to -take a longer rest at home, Mr. Featherston!" - -Mr. Featherston stooped for his tumbler, which he had lodged on the -smooth grass, and took another drink before replying. "If you and John -would follow my advice, Lady Whitney, I'd give it." - -"Yes?" cried she, all eagerness. - -"Take John somewhere for a fortnight, and let him go back to school at -the end," said the surgeon. "That would do him good." - -"Why, of course it would," called out Sir John, who had been listening. -"And I say it shall be done. John, my boy, you and your mother shall go -to the seaside--to Aberystwith." - -"Well, I don't think I should quite say that, Sir John," said -Featherston again. "The seaside would be all very well in this warm -weather; but it may not last, it may change to cold and frost. I should -suggest one of the inland watering-places, as they are called: where -there's a Spa, and a Pump Room, and a Parade, and lots of gay company. -It would be lively for him, and a thorough change." - -"What a nice idea!" cried Lady Whitney, who was the most unsophisticated -woman in the world. "Such as Pumpwater." - -"Such as Pumpwater: the very place," agreed Featherston. "Well, were -I you, my lady, I would try it for a couple of weeks. Let John take a -companion with him; one of his schoolfellows. Here's Johnny Ludlow: he -might do." - -"I'd rather have Johnny Ludlow than any one," said John. - -Remarking that his time was up, for a patient waited for him, and that -he must leave us to settle the question, Featherston took his departure. -But it appeared to be settled already. - -"Johnny can go," spoke up the Squire. "The loss of a fortnight's lessons -is not much, compared with doing a little service to a friend. Charming -spots are those inland watering-places, and Pumpwater is about the best -of them all." - -"We must take lodgings," said Lady Whitney presently, when they had done -expatiating upon the gauds and glories of Pumpwater. "To stay at an -hotel would be so noisy; and expensive besides." - -"I know of some," cried Mrs. Todhetley, in sudden thought. "If you -could get into Miss Gay's rooms, you would be well off. Do you remember -them?"--turning to the Squire. "We stayed at her house on our way -from----" - -"Why, bless me, to be sure I do," he interrupted. "Somebody had given us -Miss Gay's address, and we drove straight to it to see if she had rooms -at liberty; she had, and took us in at once. We were so comfortable -there that we stayed at Pumpwater three days instead of two." - -It was hastily decided that Mrs. Todhetley should write to Miss Gay, and -she went indoors to do so. All being well, Lady Whitney meant to start -on Saturday. - -Miss Gay's answer came punctually, reaching Whitney Hall on Friday -morning. It was addressed to Mrs. Todhetley, but Lady Whitney, as had -been arranged, opened it. Miss Gay wrote that she should be much pleased -to receive Lady Whitney. Her house, as it chanced, was then quite -empty; a family, who had been with her six weeks, had just left: so Lady -Whitney might take her choice of the rooms, which she would keep vacant -until Saturday. In conclusion, she begged Mrs. Todhetley to notice that -her address was changed. The old house was too small to accommodate the -many kind friends who patronized her, and she had moved into a larger -house, superior to the other and in the best position. - -Thus all things seemed to move smoothly for our expedition; and we -departed by train on the Saturday morning for Pumpwater. - - * * * * * - -It was a handsome house, standing in the high-road, between the parade -and the principal street, and rather different from the houses on each -side of it, inasmuch as that it was detached and had a narrow slip of -gravelled ground in front. In fact, it looked too large and handsome for -a lodging-house; and Lady Whitney, regarding it from the fly which had -brought us from the station, wondered whether the driver had made a -mistake. It was built of red-brick, with white stone facings; the door, -set in a pillared portico, stood in the middle, and three rooms, each -with a bay-window, lay one above another on both sides. - -But in a moment we saw it was all right. A slight, fair woman, in a -slate silk gown, came out and announced herself as Miss Gay. She had -a mild, pleasant voice, and a mild, pleasant face, with light falling -curls, the fashion then for every one, and she wore a lace cap, trimmed -with pink. I took to her and to her face at once. - -"I am glad to be here," said Lady Whitney, cordially, in answer to Miss -Gay's welcome. "Is there any one who can help with the luggage? We have -not brought either man or maid-servant." - -"Oh dear, yes, my lady. Please let me show you indoors, and then leave -all to me. Susannah! Oh, here you are, Susannah! Where's Charity?--my -cousin and chief help-mate, my lady." - -A tall, dark person, about Miss Gay's own age, which might be forty, -wearing brown ribbon in her hair and a purple bow at her throat, dropped -a curtsy to Lady Whitney. This was Susannah. She looked strong-minded -and capable. Charity, who came running up the kitchen-stairs, was a -smiling young woman-servant, with a coarse apron tied round her, and -red arms bared to the elbow. - -There were four sitting-rooms on the ground-floor: two in front, with -their large bay-windows; two at the back, looking out upon some bright, -semi-public gardens. - -"A delightful house!" exclaimed Lady Whitney to Miss Gay, after she had -looked about a little. "I will take one of these front-rooms for our -sitting-room," she added, entering, haphazard, the one on the right of -the entrance-hall, and putting down her bag and parasol. "This one, I -think, Miss Gay." - -"Very good, my lady. And will you now be pleased to walk upstairs and -fix upon the bedrooms." - -Lady Whitney seemed to fancy the front of the house. "This room shall be -my son's; and I should like to have the opposite one for myself," she -said, rather hesitatingly, knowing they must be the two best chambers of -all. "Can I?" - -Miss Gay seemed quite willing. We were in the room over our sitting-room -on the right of the house looking to the front. The objection, if it -could be called one, came from Susannah. - -"You can have the other room, certainly, my lady; but I think the young -gentleman would find this one noisy, with all the carriages and carts -that pass by, night and morning. The back-rooms are much more quiet." - -"But I like noise," put in John; "it seems like company to me. If I -could do as I would, I'd never sleep in the country." - -"One of the back-rooms is very lively, sir; it has a view of the turning -to the Pump Room," persisted Susannah, a sort of suppressed eagerness -in her tone; and it struck me that she did not want John to have this -front-chamber. "I think you would like it best." - -"No," said John, turning round from the window, out of which he had been -looking, "I will have this. I shall like to watch the shops down that -turning opposite, and the people who go into them." - -No more was said. John took this chamber, which was over our -sitting-room, Lady Whitney had the other front-chamber, and I had a very -good one at the back of John's. And thus we settled down. - -Pumpwater is a nice place, as you would know if I gave its proper name, -bright and gay, and our house was in the best of situations. The -principal street, with its handsome shops, lay to our right; the Parade, -leading to the Spa and Pump Room, to our left, and company and carriages -were continually passing by. We visited some of the shops and took a -look at the Pump Room. - -In the evening, when tea was over, Miss Gay came in to speak of the -breakfast. Lady Whitney asked her to sit down for a little chat. She -wanted to ask about the churches. - -"What a very nice house this is!" again observed Lady Whitney presently: -for the more she saw of it, the better she found it. "You must pay a -high rent for it, Miss Gay." - -"Not so high as your ladyship might think," was the answer; "not high at -all for what it is. I paid sixty pounds for the little house I used to -be in, and I pay only seventy for this." - -"Only seventy!" echoed Lady Whitney, in surprise. "How is it you get it -so cheaply?" - -A waggonette, full of people, was passing just then; Miss Gay seemed to -want to watch it by before she answered. We were sitting in the dusk -with the blinds up. - -"For one thing, it had been standing empty for some time, and I suppose -Mr. Bone, the agent, was glad to have my offer," replied Miss Gay, who -seemed to be as fond of talking as any one else is, once set on. "It had -belonged to a good old family, my lady, but they got embarrassed and put -it up for sale some six or seven years ago. A Mr. Calson bought it. He -had come to Pumpwater about that time from foreign lands; and he and his -wife settled down in the house. A puny, weakly little woman she was, who -seemed to get weaklier instead of stronger, and in a year or two she -died. After her death her husband grew ill; he went away for change -of air, and died in London; and the house was left to a little nephew -living over in Australia." - -"And has the house been vacant ever since?" asked John. - -"No, sir. At first it was let furnished, then unfurnished. But it had -been vacant some little time when I applied to Mr. Bone. I concluded he -thought it better to let it at a low rent than for it to stand empty." - -"It must cost you incessant care and trouble, Miss Gay, to conduct a -house like this--when you are full," remarked Lady Whitney. - -"It does," she answered. "One's work seems never done--and I cannot, at -that, give satisfaction to all. Ah, my lady, what a difference there is -in people!--you would never think it. Some are so kind and considerate -to me, so anxious not to give trouble unduly, and so satisfied with all -I do that it is a pleasure to serve them: while others make gratuitous -work and trouble from morning till night, and treat me as if I were -just a dog under their feet. Of course when we are full I have another -servant in, two sometimes." - -"Even that must leave a great deal for yourself to do and see to." - -"The back is always fitted to the burden," sighed Miss Gay. "My father -was a farmer in this county, as his ancestors had been before him, -farming his three hundred acres of land, and looked upon as a man -of substance. My mother made the butter, saw to the poultry, and -superintended her household generally: and we children helped her. -Farmers' daughters then did not spend their days in playing the piano -and doing fancy work, or expect to be waited upon like ladies born." - -"They do now, though," said Lady Whitney. - -"So I was ready to turn my hand to anything when hard times came--not -that I had thought I should have to do it," continued Miss Gay. "But my -father's means dwindled down. Prosperity gave way to adversity. Crops -failed; the stock died off; two of my brothers fell into trouble and it -cost a mint of money to extricate them. Altogether, when father died, -but little of his savings remained to us. Mother took a house in the -town here, to let lodgings, and I came with her. She is dead, my lady, -and I am left." - -The silent tears were running down poor Miss Gay's cheeks. - -"It is a life of struggle, I am sure," spoke Lady Whitney, gently. "And -not deserved, Miss Gay." - -"But there's another life to come," spoke John, in a half-whisper, -turning to Miss Gay from the large bay-window. "None of us will be -overworked _there_." - -Miss Gay stealthily wiped her cheeks. "I do not repine," she said, -humbly. "I have been enabled to rub on and keep my head above water, -and to provide little comforts for mother in her need; and I gratefully -thank God for it." - - * * * * * - -The bells of the churches, ringing out at eight o'clock, called us up in -the morning. Lady Whitney was downstairs, first. I next. Susannah, who -waited upon us, had brought up the breakfast. John followed me in. - -"I hope you have slept well, my boy," said Lady Whitney, kissing him. "I -have." - -"So have I," I put in. - -"Then you and the mother make up for me, Johnny," he said; "for I have -not slept at all." - -"Oh, John!" exclaimed his mother. - -"Not a wink all night long," added John. "I can't think what was the -matter with me." - -Susannah, then stooping to take the sugar-basin out of the side-board, -rose, turned sharply round and fixed her eyes on John. So curious an -expression was on her face that I could but notice it. - -"Do you not think it was the noise, sir?" she said to him. "I knew that -room would be too noisy for you." - -"Why, the room was as quiet as possible," he answered. "A few carriages -rolled by last night--and I liked to hear them; but that was all over -before midnight; and I have heard none this morning." - -"Well, sir, I'm sure you would be more comfortable in a backroom," -contended Susannah. - -"It was a strange bed," said John. "I shall sleep all the sounder -to-night." - -Breakfast was half over when John found he had left his watch upstairs, -on the drawers. I went to fetch it. - -The door was open, and I stepped to the drawers, which stood just -inside. Miss Gay and Susannah were making the bed and talking, too busy -to see or hear me. A lot of things lay on the white cloth, and at first -I could not see the watch. - -"He declares he has not slept at all; _not at all_," Susannah was saying -with emphasis. "If you had only seconded me yesterday, Harriet, they -need not have had this room. But you never made a word of objection; you -gave in at once." - -"Well, I saw no reason to make it," said Miss Gay, mildly. "If I were to -give in to your fancies, Susannah, I might as well shut up the room. -Visitors must get used to it." - -The watch had been partly hidden under one of John's neckties. I caught -it up and decamped. - -We went to church after breakfast. The first hymn sung was that one -beginning, "Brief life." - - "Brief life is here our portion; - Brief sorrow, short-lived care. - The life that knows no ending, - The tearless life, is _there_." - -As the verses went on, John touched my elbow: "Miss Gay," he whispered; -his eyelashes moist with the melody of the music. I have often thought -since that we might have seen by these very moods of John--his thoughts -bent upon heaven more than upon earth--that his life was swiftly -passing. - -There's not much to tell of that Sunday. We dined in the middle of the -day; John fell asleep after dinner; and in the evening we attended -church again. And I think every one was ready for bed when bedtime came. -I know I was. - -Therefore it was all the more surprising when, the next morning, John -said he had again not slept. - -"What, not at all!" exclaimed his mother. - -"No, not at all. As I went to bed, so I got up--sleepless." - -"I never heard of such a thing!" cried Lady Whitney. "Perhaps, John, you -were too tired to sleep?" - -"Something of that sort," he answered. "I felt both tired and sleepy -when I got into bed; particularly so. But I had no sleep: not a wink. I -could not lie still, either; I was frightfully restless all night; just -as I was the night before. I suppose it can't be the bed?" - -"Is the bed not comfortable?" asked his mother. - -"It seems as comfortable a bed as can be when I first lie down in it. -And then I grow restless and uneasy." - -"It must be the restlessness of extreme fatigue," said Lady Whitney. "I -fear the journey was rather too much for you my dear." - -"Oh, I shall be all right as soon as I can sleep, mamma." - -We had a surprise that morning. John and I were standing before a -tart-shop, our eyes glued to the window, when a voice behind us called -out, "Don't they look nice, boys!" Turning round, there stood Henry -Carden of Worcester, arm-in-arm with a little white-haired gentleman. -Lady Whitney, in at the fishmonger's next door, came out while he was -shaking hands with us. - -"Dear me!--is it you?" she cried to Mr. Carden. - -"Ay," said he in his pleasant manner, "here am I at Pumpwater! Come all -this way to spend a couple of days with my old friend: Dr. Tambourine," -added the surgeon, introducing him to Lady Whitney. Any way, that was -the name she understood him to say. John thought he said Tamarind, and I -Carrafin. The street was noisy. - -The doctor seemed to be chatty and courteous, a gentleman of the old -school. He said his wife should do herself the honour of calling upon -Lady Whitney if agreeable; Lady Whitney replied that it would be. He and -Mr. Carden, who would be starting for Worcester by train that afternoon, -walked with us up the Parade to the Pump Room. How a chance meeting like -this in a strange place makes one feel at home in it! - -The name turned out to be Parafin. Mrs. Parafin called early in the -afternoon, on her way to some entertainment at the Pump Room: a chatty, -pleasant woman, younger than her husband. He had retired from practice, -and they lived in a white villa outside the town. - -And what with looking at the shops, and parading up and down the public -walks, and the entertainment at the Pump Room, to which we went with -Mrs. Parafin, and all the rest of it, we felt uncommonly sleepy when -night came, and were beginning to regard Pumpwater as a sort of Eden. - - * * * * * - -"Johnny, have you slept?" - -I was brushing my hair at the glass, under the morning sun, when John -Whitney, half-dressed, and pale and languid, opened my door and thus -accosted me. - -"Yes; like a top. Why? Is anything the matter, John?" - -"See here," said he, sinking into the easy-chair by the fireplace, "it -is an odd thing, but I have again not slept. I _can't_ sleep." - -I put my back against the dressing-table and stood looking down at him, -brush in hand. Not slept again! It _was_ an odd thing. - -"But what can be the reason, John?" - -"I am beginning to think it must be the room." - -"How can it be the room?" - -"I don't know. There's nothing the matter with the room that I can see; -it seems well-ventilated; the chimney's not stopped up. Yet this is the -third night that I cannot get to sleep in it." - -"But _why_ can you not get to sleep?" I persisted. - -"I say I don't know why. Each night I have been as sleepy as possible; -last night I could hardly undress I was so sleepy; but no sooner am I in -bed than sleep goes right away from me. Not only that: I grow terribly -restless." - -Weighing the problem this way and that, an idea struck me. - -"John, do you think it is nervousness?" - -"How can it be? I never was nervous in my life." - -"I mean this: not sleeping the first night, you may have got nervous -about it the second and third." - -He shook his head. "I have been nothing of the kind, Johnny. But look -here: I hardly see what I am to do. I cannot go on like this without -sleep; yet, if I tell the mother again, she'll say the air of the place -does not suit me and run away from it----" - -"Suppose we change rooms to-night, John?" I interrupted. "I can't think -but you would sleep here. If you do not, why, it must be the air of -Pumpwater, and the sooner you are out of it the better." - -"You wouldn't mind changing rooms for one night?" he said, wistfully. - -"Mind! Why, I shall be the gainer. Yours is the better room of the two." - -At that it was settled; nothing to be said to any one about the bargain. -We did not want to be kidnapped out of Pumpwater--and Lady Whitney had -promised us a night at the theatre. - -Two or three more acquaintances were made, or found out, that day. Old -Lady Scott heard of us, and came to call on Lady Whitney; they used to -be intimate. She introduced some people at the Pump Room. Altogether, it -seemed that we should not lack society. - -Night came; and John and I went upstairs together. He undressed in his -own room, and I in mine; and then we made the exchange. I saw him into -my bed and wished him a good-night. - -"Good-night, Johnny," he answered. "I hope you will sleep." - -"Little doubt of that, John. I always sleep when I have nothing to -trouble me. A very good-night to _you_." - -I had nothing to trouble me, and I was as sleepy as could be; and yet, -I did not and could not sleep. I lay quiet as usual after getting into -bed, yielding to the expected sleep, and I shut my eyes and never -thought but it was coming. - -Instead of that, came restlessness. A strange restlessness quite foreign -to me, persistent and unaccountable. I tossed and turned from side to -side, and I had not had a wink of sleep at day dawn, nor any symptom of -it. Was I growing nervous? Had I let the feeling creep over me that I -had suggested to John? No; not that I was aware of. What could it be? - -Unrefreshed and weary, I got up at the usual hour, and stole silently -into the other room. John was in a deep sleep, his calm face lying still -upon the pillow. Though I made no noise, my presence awoke him. - -"Oh, Johnny!" he exclaimed, "I have had _such_ a night." - -"Bad?" - -"No; _good_. I went to sleep at once and never woke till now. It has -done me a world of good. And you?" - -"I? Oh well, I don't think I slept quite as well as I did here; it was -a strange bed," I answered, carelessly. - -The next night the same plan was carried out, he taking my bed; I his. -And again John slept through it, while I _did not sleep at all_. I said -nothing about it: John Whitney's comfort was of more importance than -mine. - -The third night came. This night we had been to the theatre, and had -laughed ourselves hoarse, and been altogether delighted. No sooner was I -in bed, and feeling dead asleep, than the door slowly opened and in came -Lady Whitney, a candle in one hand, a wineglass in the other. - -"John, my dear," she began, "your tonic was forgotten this evening. I -think you had better take it now. Featherston said, you know---- Good -gracious!" she broke off. "Why, it is Johnny!" - -I could hardly speak for laughing, her face presented such a picture of -astonishment. Sitting up in bed, I told her all; there was no help for -it: that we had exchanged beds, John not having been able to sleep in -this one. - -"And do you sleep well in it?" she asked. - -"No, not yet. But I feel very sleepy to-night, dear Lady Whitney." - -"Well, you are a good lad, Johnny, to do this for him; and to say -nothing about it," she concluded, as she went away with the candle and -the tonic. - -Dead sleepy though I was, I could not get to sleep. It would be simply -useless to try to describe my sensations. Each succeeding night they had -been more marked. A strange, discomforting restlessness pervaded me; a -feeling of uneasiness, I could not tell why or wherefore. I saw nothing -uncanny, I heard nothing; nevertheless, I felt just as though some -uncanny presence was in the room, imparting a sense of semi-terror. Once -or twice, when I nearly dozed off from sheer weariness, I started up in -real terror, wide awake again, my hair and face damp with a nameless -fear. - -I told this at breakfast, in answer to Lady Whitney's questions: John -confessed that precisely the same sensations had attacked him the three -nights he lay in the bed. Lady Whitney declared she never heard the -like; and she kept looking at us alternately, as if doubting what could -be the matter with us, or whether we had taken scarlet-fever. - -On this morning, Friday, a letter came from Sir John, saying that -Featherston was coming to Pumpwater. Anxious on the score of his son, he -was sending Featherston to see him, and take back a report. "I think he -would stay a couple of days if you made it convenient to entertain him, -and it would be a little holiday for the poor hard-worked man," wrote -Sir John, who was just as kind-hearted as his wife. - -"To be sure I will," said Lady Whitney. "He shall have that room; I dare -say he won't say he cannot sleep in it: it will be more comfortable for -him than getting a bed at an hotel. Susannah shall put a small bed into -the back-room for Johnny. And when Featherston is gone, I will take the -room myself. I am not like you two silly boys--afraid of lying awake." - -Mr. Featherston arrived late that evening, with his grey face of care -and his thin frame. He said he could hardly recall the time when he had -had as much as two days' holiday, and thanked Lady Whitney for receiving -him. That night John and I occupied the back-room, having conducted -Featherston in state to the front, with two candles; and both of us -slept excellently well. - -At breakfast Featherston began talking about the air. He had always -believed Pumpwater to have a rather soporific air, but supposed he must -be mistaken. Any way, it had kept him awake; and it was not a little -that did that for him. - -"Did you not sleep well?" asked Lady Whitney. - -"I did not sleep at all; did not get a wink of it all night long. Never -mind," he added with a good-natured laugh, "I shall sleep all the -sounder to-night." - -But he did not. The next morning (Sunday) he looked grave and tired, and -ate his breakfast almost in silence. When we had finished, he said he -should like, with Lady Whitney's permission, to speak to the landlady. -Miss Gay came in at once: in a light fresh print gown and black silk -apron. - -"Ma'am," began Featherston, politely, "something is wrong with that -bedroom overhead. What is it?" - -"Something wrong, sir?" repeated Miss Gay, her meek face flushing. -"Wrong in what way, sir?" - -"I don't know," answered Featherston; "I thought perhaps you could tell -me: any way, it ought to be seen to. It is something that scares away -sleep. I give you my word, ma'am, I never had two such restless nights -in succession in all my life. Two such _strange_ nights. It was not only -that sleep would not come near me; that's nothing uncommon you may say; -but I lay in a state of uneasy, indescribable restlessness. I have -examined the room again this morning, and I can see nothing to induce -it, yet a cause there must undoubtedly be. The paper is not made of -arsenic, I suppose?" - -"The paper is pale pink, sir," observed Miss Gay. "I fancy it is the -green papers that have arsenic in them." - -"Ay; well. I think there must be poison behind the paper; in the paste, -say," went on Featherston. "Or perhaps another paper underneath has -arsenic in it?" - -Miss Gay shook her head, as she stood with her hand on the back of a -chair. Lady Whitney had asked her to sit down, but she declined. "When -I came into the house six months ago, that room was re-papered, and -I saw that the walls were thoroughly scraped. If you think there's -anything--anything in the room that prevents people sleeping, and--and -could point out what it is, I'm sure, sir, I should be glad to remedy -it," said Miss Gay, with uncomfortable hesitation. - -But this was just what Featherston, for all he was a doctor, could not -point out. That something was amiss with the room, he felt convinced, -but he had not discovered what it was, or how it could be remedied. - -"After lying in torment half the night, I got up and lighted my candle," -said he. "I examined the room and opened the window to let the cool -breeze blow in. I could find nothing likely to keep me awake, no -stuffed-up chimney, no accumulation of dust, and I shut the window and -got into bed again. I was pretty cool by that time and reckoned I should -sleep. Not a bit of it, ma'am. I lay more restless than ever, with the -same unaccountable feeling of discomfort and depression upon me. Just as -I had felt the night before." - -"I am very sorry, sir," sighed Miss Gay, taking her hand from the chair -to depart. "If the room is close, or anything of that----" - -"But it is not close, ma'am. I don't know what it is. And I'm sure I -hope you will be able to find it out, and get it remedied," concluded -Featherston as she withdrew. - -We then told him of our experience, John's and mine. It amazed him. -"What an extraordinary thing!" he exclaimed. "One would think the room -was haunted." - -"Do you believe in haunted rooms, sir?" asked John. - -"Well, I suppose such things are," he answered. "Folks say so. If -haunted houses exist, why not haunted rooms?" - -"It must lie in the Pumpwater air," said Lady Whitney, who was too -practical to give in to haunted regions, "and I am very sorry you should -have had your two nights' rest spoilt by it, Mr. Featherston. I will -take the room myself: nothing keeps me awake." - -"Did you ever see a ghost, sir?" asked John. - -"No, never. But I know those who have seen them; and I cannot disbelieve -what they say. One such story in particular is often in my mind; it was -a very strange one." - -"Won't you tell it us, Mr. Featherston?" - -The doctor only laughed in answer. But after we came out of church, when -he was sitting with me and John on the Parade, he told it. And I only -wish I had space to relate it here. - -He left Pumpwater in the afternoon, and Lady Whitney had the room -prepared for her use at once, John moving into hers. So that I had mine -to myself again, and the little bed was taken out of it. - -The next day was Monday. When Lady Whitney came down in the morning the -first thing she told us was, that she had not slept. All the curious -symptoms of restless disturbance, of inward agitation, which we had -experienced, had visited her. - -"I will not give in, my dears," she said, bravely. "It may be, you know, -that what I had heard against the room took all sleep out of me, though -I was not conscious of it; so I shall keep to it. I must say it is a -most comfortable bed." - -She "kept" to the room until the Wednesday; three nights in all; getting -no sleep. Then she gave in. Occasionally during the third night, when -she was dropping asleep from exhaustion, she was startled up from it in -sudden terror: terror of she knew not what. Just as it had been with -me and with John. On the Wednesday morning she told Susannah that they -must give her the back-room opposite mine, and we would abandon that -front-room altogether. - -"It is just as though there were a ghost in the room," she said to -Susannah. - -"Perhaps there is, my lady," was Susannah's cool reply. - - * * * * * - -On the Friday evening Dr. and Mrs. Parafin came in to tea. Our visit -would end on the morrow. The old doctor held John before him in the -lamplight, and decided that he looked better--that the stay had done -him good. - -"I am sure it has," assented Lady Whitney. "Just at first I feared he -was going backward: but that must have been owing to the sleepless -nights." - -"Sleepless nights!" echoed the doctor, in a curious tone. - -"For the first three nights of our stay here, he never slept; _never -slept at all_. After that----" - -"Which room did he occupy?" interrupted the doctor, breathlessly. "Not -the one over this?" - -"Yes, it was. Why? Do you know anything against it?" questioned Lady -Whitney, for she saw Dr. and Mrs. Parafin exchange glances. - -"Only this: that I have heard of other people who were unable to sleep -in that room," he answered. - -"But what can be amiss with the room, Dr. Parafin?" - -"Ah," said he, "there you go beyond me. It is, I believe, a fact, a -singular fact, that there is something or other in the room which -prevents people from sleeping. Friends of ours who lived in the house -before Miss Gay took it, ended by shutting the room up." - -"Is it haunted, sir?" I asked. "Mr. Featherston thought it might be." - -He looked at me and smiled, shaking his head. Mrs. Parafin nodded hers, -as much as to say _It is_. - -"No one has been able to get any sleep in that room since the Calsons -lived here," said Mrs. Parafin, dropping her voice. - -"How very strange!" cried Lady Whitney. "One might think murder had been -done in it." - -Mrs. Parafin coughed significantly. "The wife died in it," she said. -"Some people thought her husband had--had--had at least hastened her -death----" - -"Hush, Matty!" interposed the doctor, warningly. "It was all rumour, all -talk. Nothing was proved--or attempted to be." - -"Perhaps there existed no proof," returned Mrs. Parafin. "And if there -had--who was there to take it up? She was in her grave, poor woman, and -he was left flourishing, master of himself and every one about him. Any -way, Thomas, be that as it may, you cannot deny that the room has been -like a haunted room since." - -Dr. Parafin laughed lightly, objecting to be serious; men are more -cautious than women. "I cannot deny that people find themselves unable -to sleep in the room; I never heard that it was 'haunted' in any other -way," he added, to Lady Whitney. "But there--let us change the subject; -we can neither alter the fact nor understand it." - -After they left us, Lady Whitney said she should like to ask Miss Gay -what her experience of the room had been. But Miss Gay had stepped out -to a neighbour's, and Susannah stayed to talk in her place. She could -tell us more about it, she said, than Miss Gay. - -"I warned my cousin she would do well not to take this house," began -Susannah, accepting the chair to which Lady Whitney pointed. "But it is -a beautiful house for letting, as you see, my lady, and that and the -low rent tempted her. Besides, she did not believe the rumour about -the room; she does not believe it fully yet, though it is beginning to -worry her: she thinks the inability to sleep must lie in the people -themselves." - -"It has been an uncanny room since old Calson's wife died in it, has it -not, Susannah?" said John, as if in jest. "I suppose he did not murder -her?" - -"_I think he did_," whispered Susannah. - -The answer sounded so ghostly that it struck us all into silence. - -Susannah resumed. "Nobody _knew_: but one or two suspected. The wife was -a poor, timid, gentle creature, worshipping the very ground her husband -trod on, yet always in awe of him. She lay in the room, sick, for many -many months before she died. Old Sarah----" - -"What was her illness?" interrupted Lady Whitney. - -"My lady, that is more than I can tell you, more, I fancy, than any -one could have told. Old Sarah would often say to me that she did not -believe there was any great sickness, only he made it out there was, and -persuaded his wife so. He could just wind her round his little finger. -The person who attended on her was one Astrea, quite a heathenish name I -used to think, and a heathenish woman too; she was copper-coloured, and -came with them from abroad. Sarah was in the kitchen, and there was only -a man besides. I lived housekeeper at that time with an old lady on -the Parade, and I looked in here from time to time to ask after the -mistress. Once I was invited by Mr. Calson upstairs to see her, she lay -in the room over this; the one that nobody can now sleep in. She looked -so pitiful!--her poor, pale, patient face down deep in the pillow. Was -she better, I asked; and what was it that ailed her. She thought it was -not much beside weakness, she answered, and that she felt a constant -nausea; and she was waiting for the warm weather: her dear husband -assured her she would be better when that came." - -"Was he kind to her, Susannah?" - -"He seemed to be, Master Johnny; very kind and attentive indeed. He -would sit by the hour together in her room, and give her her medicine, -and feed her when she grew too weak to feed herself, and sit up at night -with her. A doctor came to see her occasionally; it was said he could -not find much the matter with her but debility, and that she seemed to -be wasting away. Well, she died, my lady; died quietly in that room; and -Calson ordered a grand funeral." - -"So did Jonas Chuzzlewit," breathed John. - -"Whispers got afloat when she was under ground--not before--that there -had been something wrong about her death, that she had not come by it -fairly, or by the illness either," continued Susannah. "But they were -not spoken openly; under the rose, as may be said; and they died away. -Mr. Calson continued to live in the house as before; but he became soon -ill. Real sickness, his was, my lady, whatever his wife's might have -been. His illness was chiefly on the nerves; he grew frightfully thin; -and the setting-in of some grave inward complaint was suspected: so if -he did act in any ill manner to his wife it seemed he would not reap -long benefit from it. All the medical men in Pumpwater were called to -him in succession; but they could not cure him. He kept growing thinner -and thinner till he was like a walking shadow. At last he shut up his -house and went to London for advice; and there he died, fourteen months -after the death of his wife." - -"How long was the house kept shut up?" asked Lady Whitney, as Susannah -paused. - -"About two years, my lady. All his property was willed away to -the little son of his brother, who lived over in Australia. Tardy -instructions came from thence to Mr. Jermy the lawyer to let the house -furnished, and Mr. Jermy put it into the hands of Bone the house-agent. -A family took it, but they did not stay: then another family took it, -and they did not stay. Each party went to Bone and told him that -something was the matter with one of the rooms and nobody could sleep in -it. After that, the furniture was sold off, and some people took the -house by the year. They did not remain in it six months. Some other -people took it then, and they stayed the year, but it was known that -they shut up that room. Then the house stayed empty. My cousin, wanting -a better house than the one she was in, cast many a longing eye towards -it; finding it did not let, she went to Bone and asked him what the rent -would be. Seventy pounds to her, he said; and she took it. Of course she -had heard about the room, but she did not believe it; she thought, as -Mr. Featherston said the other morning, that something must be wrong -with the paper, and she had the walls scraped and cleaned and a fresh -paper put on." - -"And since then--have your lodgers found anything amiss with the room?" -questioned Lady Whitney. - -"I am bound to say they have, my lady. It has been the same story -with them all--not able to get to sleep in it. One gentleman, an old -post-captain, after trying it a few nights, went right away from -Pumpwater, swearing at the air. But the most singular experience we have -had was that of two little girls. They were kept in that room for two -nights, and each night they cried and screamed all night long, calling -out that they were frightened. Their mother could not account for it; -they were not at all timid children, she said, and such a thing had -never happened with them before. Altogether, taking one thing with -another, I fear, my lady, that something _is_ wrong with the room. Miss -Gay sees it now: but she is not superstitious, and she asks _what_ it -can be." - -Well, that was Susannah's tale: and we carried it away with us on the -morrow. - -Sir John Whitney found his son looking all the better for his visit to -Pumpwater. Temporarily he was so. Temporarily only; not materially: for -John died before the year was out. - - * * * * * - -Have I heard anything of the room since, you would like to ask. Yes, a -little. Some eighteen months later, I was halting at Pumpwater for a few -hours with the Squire, and ran to the house to see Miss Gay. But the -house was empty. A black board stood in front with big white letters on -it TO BE LET. Miss Gay had moved into another house facing the Parade. - -"It was of no use my trying to stay in it," she said to me, shaking her -head. "I moved into the room myself, Master Johnny, after you and my -Lady Whitney left, and I am free to confess that I could not sleep. I -had Susannah in, and she could not sleep; and, in short, we had to go -out of it again. So I shut the room up, sir, until the year had expired, -and then I gave up the house. It has not been let since, and people say -it is falling into decay." - -"Was anything ever _seen_ in the room, Miss Gay?" - -"Nothing," she answered, "or heard either; nothing whatever. The room is -as nice a room as could be wished for in all respects, light, large, -cheerful, and airy; and yet nobody can get to sleep in it. I shall never -understand it, sir." - -I'm sure I never shall. It remains one of those curious experiences that -cannot be solved in this world. But it is none the less true. - - - - -ROGER BEVERE. - - -I. - -"There's trouble everywhere. It attaches itself more or less to all -people as they journey through life. Yes, I quite agree with what you -say, Squire: that I, a man at my ease in the world and possessing no -close ties of my own, ought to be tolerably exempt from care. But I am -not so. You have heard of the skeleton in the closet, Johnny Ludlow. -Few families are without one. I have mine." - -Mr. Brandon nodded to me, as he spoke, over the silver coffee-pot. I had -gone to the Tavistock Hotel from Miss Deveen's to breakfast with him and -the Squire--who had come up for a week. You have heard of this visit of -ours to London before, and there's no need to say more about it here. - -The present skeleton in Mr. Brandon's family closet was his nephew, -Roger Bevere. The young fellow, now aged twenty-three, had been for -some years in London pursuing his medical studies, and giving perpetual -trouble to his people in the country. During this present visit Mr. -Brandon had been unable to hear of him. Searching here, inquiring there, -nothing came of it: Roger seemed to have vanished into air. This morning -the post had brought Mr. Brandon a brief note: - - "SIR, - - "Roger Bevery is lying at No. 60, Gibraltar Terrace (Islington - District), with a broken arm. - - "Faithfully yours, - "T. PITT." - -The name was spelt Bevery in the note, you observe. Strangers, deceived -by the pronunciation, were apt to write it so. - -"Well, this is nice news!" had been Mr. Brandon's comment upon the short -note. - -"Any way, you will be more at your ease now you have found him," -remarked the Squire. - -"I don't know that, Todhetley. I have found, it seems, the address of -the place where he is lying, but I have not found _him_. Roger has been -going to the bad this many a day; I expect by this time he must be -nearing the journey's end." - -"It is only a broken arm that he has, sir," I put in, thinking what a -gloomy view he was taking of it all. "That is soon cured." - -"Don't you speak so confidently, Johnny Ludlow," reproved Mr. Brandon. -"We shall find more the matter with Roger than a broken arm; take my -word for that. He has been on the wrong tack this long while. A broken -arm would not cause him to hide himself--and that's what he must have -been doing." - -"Some of those hospital students are a wild lot--as I have heard," said -the Squire. - -Mr. Brandon nodded in answer. "When Roger came from Hampshire to -enter on his studies at St. Bartholomew's, he was as pure-hearted, -well-intentioned a young fellow as had ever been trained by an anxious -mother"--and Mr. Brandon poured a drop more weak tea out of his own -tea-pot to cover his emotion. "Fit for heaven, one might have thought: -any way, had been put in the road that leads to it. Loose, reckless -companions got hold of him, and dragged him down to their evil ways." - -Breakfast over, little time was lost in starting to find out Gibraltar -Terrace. The cab soon took us to it. Roger had been lying there more -than a week. Hastening up that way one evening, on leaving the hospital, -to call upon a fellow-student, he was knocked down by a fleet hansom -rounding the corner of Gibraltar Terrace. Pitt the doctor happened to be -passing at the time, and had him carried into the nearest house: one he -had attended patients in before. The landlady, Mrs. Mapping, showed us -upstairs. - -(And she, poor faded woman, turned out to have been known to the Squire -in the days long gone by, when she was pretty little Dorothy Grape. -But I have told her story already, and there's no need to allude to it -again.) - -Roger lay in bed, in a small back-room on the first-floor; a mild, fair, -pleasant-looking young man with a white bandage round his head. Mr. Pitt -explained that the arm was not absolutely broken, but so much contused -and inflamed as to be a worse hurt. This would not have kept him in -bed, however, but the head had also been damaged, and fever set in. - -"So this is where he has lain, hiding, while I have been ransacking -London for him!" remarked Mr. Brandon, who was greatly put out by the -whole affair; and perhaps the word "hiding" might have more truth in it -than even he suspected. - -"When young Scott called last night--a fellow-student of your nephew's -who comes to see him and bring him changes of clothes from his -lodgings--he said you were making inquiries at the hospital and had -left your address," explained Pitt. "So I thought I ought to write to -you, sir." - -"And I am much obliged to you for doing it, and for your care of him -also," said Mr. Brandon. - -And presently, when Pitt was leaving, he followed him downstairs to Mrs. -Mapping's parlour, to ask whether Roger was in danger. - -"I do not apprehend any, now that the fever is subsiding," answered -Pitt. "I can say almost surely that none will arise if we can only keep -him quiet. That has been the difficulty throughout--his restlessness. It -is just as though he had something on his mind." - -"What should he have on his mind?" retorted Mr. Brandon, in contention. -"Except his sins. And I expect _they_ don't trouble him much." - -Pitt laughed a little. "Well, sir, he is not in any danger at present. -But if the fever were to come back again--and increase--why, I can't -foresee what the result might be." - -"Then I shall send for Lady Bevere." - -Pitt opened his eyes. "Lady Bevere!" he repeated. "Who is she?" - -"Lady Bevere, sir, is Roger's mother and my sister. I shall write -to-day." - -Mr. Brandon had an appointment with his lawyers that morning and went -out with the Squire to keep it, leaving me with the patient. "And take -care you don't let him talk, Johnny," was his parting injunction to me. -"Keep him perfectly quiet." - -That was all very well, and I did my best to obey orders; but Roger -would not be kept quiet. He was for ever sighing and starting, now -turning to this side, now to that, and throwing his undamaged arm up -like a ball at play. - -"Is it pain that makes you so restless?" I asked. - -"Pain, no," he groaned. "It's the bother. The pain is nothing now to -what it was." - -"Bother of what?" - -"Oh--altogether. I say, what on earth brought Uncle John to London just -now?" - -"A matter connected with my property. He is my guardian and trustee, you -know." To which answer Bevere only groaned again. - -After taking a great jorum of beef-tea, which Mrs. Mapping brought up -at mid-day, he was lying still and tranquil, when there came a loud -knock at the street-door. Steps clattered up the stairs, and a tall, -dark-haired young man put his head into the room. - -"Bevere, old fellow, how are you? We've been so sorry to hear of your -mishap!" - -There was nothing alarming in the words and they were spoken gently; or -in the visitor either, for he was good-looking; but in a moment Bevere -was sitting bolt upright in bed, gazing out in fright as though he saw -an apparition. - -"What the deuce has brought you here, Lightfoot?" he cried, angrily. - -"Came to see how you were getting on, friend," was the light and -soothing answer, as the stranger drew near the bed. "Head and arm -damaged, I hear." - -"Who told you where to find me?" - -"Scott. At least, he----" - -"Scott's a false knave then! He promised me faithfully not to tell a -soul." And Bevere's inflamed face and passionate voice presented a -contrast to his usual mild countenance and gentle tones. - -"There's no need to excite yourself," said the tall young man, sitting -down on the edge of the bed and taking the patient's hand. "Dick Scott -let fall a word unawares--that Pitt was attending you. So I came up to -Pitt's just now and got the address out of his surgery-boy." - -"Who else heard the chance word?" - -"No one else. And I'm sure you know that you may trust me. I wanted -to ask if I could do anything for you. How frightened you look, old -fellow!" - -Bevere lay down again, painfully uneasy yet, as was plain to be seen. - -"I didn't want any one to find me out here," he said. "If some--some -people came, there might be the dickens to pay. And Uncle John is up -now, worse luck! He does not understand London ways, and he is the -strictest old guy that ever wore silver shoe-buckles--you should see him -on state occasions. Ask Johnny Ludlow there whether he is strait-laced -or not; he knows. Johnny, this is Charley Lightfoot: one of us at -Bart's." - -Charley turned to shake hands, saying he had heard of me. He then set -himself to soothe Bevere, assuring him he would not tell any one where -he was lying, or that he had been to see him. - -"Don't mind my temper, old friend," whispered Bevere, repentantly, -his blue eyes going out to the other's in sad yearning. "I am a bit -tried--as you'd admit, if all were known." - -Lightfoot departed. By-and-by the Squire and Mr. Brandon returned, and -Mrs. Mapping gave us some lunch in her parlour. When the Squire was -ready to leave, I ran up to say good-bye to Roger. He gazed at me -questioningly, eyes and cheeks glistening with fever. "Is it true?" he -whispered. - -"Is what true?" - -"That Uncle John has written for my mother?" - -"Oh yes, that's true." - -"Good Heavens!" murmured Bevere. - -"Would you not like to see her?" - -"It's not that. She's the best mother living. It is--for fear--I didn't -_want_ to be found out lying here," he broke off, "and it seems that all -the world is coming. If it gets to certain ears, I'm done for." - -Scarlet and more scarlet grew his cheeks. His pulse must have been -running up to about a hundred-and-fifty. - -"As sure as you are alive, Roger, you'll bring the fever on again!" - -"So much the better. I do--save for what I might say in my ravings," he -retorted. "So much the better if it carries me off! There'd be an end to -it all, then." - -"One might think you had a desperate secret on your conscience," I said -to him in my surprise. "Had set a house on fire, or something as good." - -"And I have a secret; and it's something far more dreadful than setting -a house on fire," he avowed, recklessly, in his distress. "And if it -should get to the knowledge of Uncle John and the mother--well, I tell -you, Johnny Ludlow, I'd rather die than face the shame." - -Was he raving now?--as he had been on the verge of it, in the fever, -a day or two ago. No, not by the wildest stretch of the fancy could I -think so. That he had fallen into some desperate trouble which must be -kept secret, if it could be, was all too evident. I thought of fifty -things as I went home and could not fix on one of them as likely. Had he -robbed the hospital till?--or forged a cheque upon its house-surgeon? -The Squire wanted to know why I was so silent. - -When I next went to Gibraltar Terrace Lady Bevere was there. Such a nice -little woman! Her face was mild, like Roger's, her eyes were blue and -kind as his, her tones as genial. As Mary Brandon she had been very -pretty, and she was pleasing still. - -She had married a lieutenant in the navy, Edmund Bevere. Her people did -not like it: navy lieutenants were so poor, they said. He got on better, -however, than the Brandons had thought for; got up to be rear-admiral -and to be knighted. Then he died; and Lady Bevere was left with a lot of -children and not much to bring them up on. I expect it was her brother, -Mr. Brandon, who helped to start them all in life. She lived in -Hampshire, somewhere near Southsea. - -In a day or two, when Roger was better and sat up in blankets -in an easy-chair, Mr. Brandon and the Squire began about his -shortcomings--deeming him well enough now to be tackled. Mr. Brandon -demanded where his lodgings were, for their locality seemed to be a -mystery; evidently with a view of calling and putting a few personal -questions to the landlady; and Roger had to confess that he had had no -particular lodgings lately; he had shared Dick Scott's. This took Mr. -Brandon aback. No lodgings of his own!--sharing young Scott's! What was -the meaning of it? What did he do with all the money allowed him, if he -could not pay for rooms of his own? And to the stern questioning Roger -only answered that he and Scott liked to be together. Pitt laughed a -little to me when he heard of this, saying Bevere was too clever for the -old mentors. - -"Why! don't you believe he does live with Scott?" I asked. - -"Oh, he may do that; it's likely enough," said Pitt. "But medical -students, running their fast career in London, are queer subjects, let -me tell you, Johnny Ludlow; they don't care to have their private -affairs supervised." - -"All of them are not queer--as you call it, Pitt." - -"No, indeed," he answered, warmly: "or I don't know what would become of -the profession. Many of them are worthy, earnest fellows always, steady -as old time. Others pull up when they have had their fling, and make -good men: and a few go to the bad altogether." - -"In which class do you put Roger Bevere?" - -Pitt took a minute to answer. "In the second, I hope," he said. "To -speak the truth, Bevere somewhat puzzles me. He seems well-intentioned, -anxious, and can't have gone so far but he might pull-up if he could. -But----" - -"If he could! How do you mean?" - -"He has got, I take it, into the toils of a fast, bad set; and he -finds their habits too strong to break through. Any way without great -difficulty." - -"Do you think he--drinks?" I questioned, reluctantly. - -"No mistake about that," said Pitt. "Not so sharply as some of them do, -but more than is good for him." - -I'm sure if Roger's pulling-up depended upon his mother, it would have -been done. She was so gentle and loving with him; never finding fault, -or speaking a harsh word. Night and morning she sat by the bed, holding -his hands in hers, and reading the Psalms to him--or a prayer--or a -chapter in the Bible. I can see her now, in her soft black gown and -simple little white lace cap, under which her hair was smoothly braided. - - * * * * * - -Whatever doubts some of us might be entertaining of Roger, nothing -unpleasant in regard to him transpired. Dreaded enemies did not find -him out, or come to besiege the house; though he never quite lost his -undercurrent of uneasiness. He soon began to mend rapidly. Scott visited -him every second or third day; he seemed to be fully in his confidence, -and they had whisperings together. He was a good-natured, off-hand kind -of young man, short and thick-set. I can't say I much cared for him. - -The Squire had left London. I remained on with Miss Deveen, and went -down to Gibraltar Terrace most days. Lady Bevere was now going home and -Mr. Brandon with her. Some trouble had arisen about the lease of her -house in Hampshire, which threatened to end in a lawsuit, and she -wanted him to see into it. They fixed upon some eligible lodgings for -Roger near Russell Square, into which he would move when they left. He -was sufficiently well now to go about; and would keep well, Pitt said, -if he took care of himself. Lady Bevere held a confidential interview -with the landlady, about taking care of her son Roger. - -And she gave a last charge to Bevere himself, when taking leave of him -the morning of her departure. The cab was at the door to convey her and -Mr. Brandon to Waterloo Station, and I was there also, having gone -betimes to Gibraltar Terrace to see the last of them. - -"For my sake, my dear," pleaded Lady Bevere, holding Roger to her, as -the tears ran down her cheeks: "you will do your best to keep straight -for my sake!" - -"I will, I will, mother," he whispered back in agitation, his own eyes -wet; "I will keep as straight as I can." But in his voice there lay, to -my ear, a ring of hopeless despair. I don't know whether she detected -it. - -She turned and took my hands. She and Mr. Brandon had already exacted a -promise from me that once a-week at least, so long as I remained in -London, I would write to each of them to give news of Roger's welfare. - -"You will be sure not to forget it, Johnny? I am very anxious about -him--his health--and--and all," she added in a lowered voice. "I am -always fearing lest I did not do my duty by my boys. Not but that I ever -tried to do it; but somehow I feel that perhaps I might have done it -better. Altogether I am full of anxiety for Roger." - -"I will be sure to write to you regularly as long as I am near him, dear -Lady Bevere." - - * * * * * - -It was on a Tuesday morning that Lady Bevere and Mr. Brandon left -London. In the afternoon Roger was installed in his new lodgings by Mr. -Pitt, who had undertaken to see him into them. He had the parlour and -the bed-chamber behind it. Very nice rooms they were, the locality and -street open and airy; and the landlady, Mrs. Long, was a comfortable, -motherly woman. Where his old lodgings had been situated, he had never -said even to me: the Squire's opinion was (communicated in confidence to -Mr. Brandon), that he had played up "Old Gooseberry" in them, and was -afraid to say. - -I had meant to go to him on the Wednesday, to see that the bustle of -removal had done him no harm; but Miss Deveen wanted me, so I could not. -On the Thursday I got a letter from the Squire, telling me to do some -business for him at Westminster. It took me the whole of the day: that -is, the actual business took about a quarter-of-an-hour, and waiting to -see the people (lawyers) took the rest. This brought it, you perceive, -to Friday. - -On that morning I mounted to the roof of a city omnibus, which set me -down not far off the house. Passing the parlour-windows to knock at the -door, I saw in one of them a card: "Apartments to let." It was odd, I -thought, they should put it in a room that was occupied. - -"Can I see Mr. Bevere?" I asked of the servant. - -"Mr. Bevere's gone, sir." - -"Gone where? Not to the hospital?" For he was not to attempt to go there -until the following week. - -"He is gone for good, sir," she answered. "He went away in a cab -yesterday evening." - -Not knowing what to make of this strange news, hardly believing it, I -went into the parlour and asked to see the landlady--who came at once. -It was quite true: Bevere had left. Mrs. Long, who, though elderly, was -plump and kindly, sat down to relate the particulars. - -"Mr. Bevere went out yesterday morning, sir, after ordering his -dinner--a roast fowl--for the same hour as the day before; two o'clock. -It was past three, though, before he came in: and when the girl brought -the dinner-tray down, she said Mr. Bevere wanted to speak to me. I came -up, and then he told me he was unexpectedly obliged to leave--that he -might have to go into the country that night; he didn't yet know. Well, -sir, I was a little put out: but what could I say? He paid me what was -due and the rent up to the week's end, and began to collect his things -together: Sarah saw him cramming them into his new portmanteau when she -brought his tea up. And at the close of the evening, between the lights, -he had a cab called and went away in it." - -"Alone?" - -"Quite alone, sir. On the Wednesday afternoon Dr. Pitt came to see him, -and that same evening a young man called, who stayed some time; Scott, -I think the name was; but nobody at all came yesterday." - -"And you do not know where Mr. Bevere is?--where he went to?" - -"Why no, sir; he didn't say. The cab might have taken him to one of the -railway-stations, for all I can tell. I did not ask questions. Of course -it is not pleasant for a lodger to leave you in that sudden manner, -before he has well been three days in the house," added Mrs. Long, -feelingly, "especially with the neighbours staring out on all sides, and -I might have asked him for another week's rent in lieu of proper notice; -but I couldn't be hard with a well-mannered, pleasant young gentleman -like Mr. Bevere--and with his connections, too. I'm sure when her -ladyship came here to fix on the rooms, she was that kind and affable -with me I shall never forget it--and talked to me so lovingly about -him--and put half-a-crown into Sarah's hand when she left! No, sir, I -couldn't be hard upon young Mr. Bevere." - -Mrs. Long had told all she knew, and I wished her good-day. Where to -now? I deliberated, as I stood on the doorstep. This sudden flight -looked as though Roger wanted to avoid people. If any one was in the -secret of it, it would be Richard Scott, I thought; and I turned my -steps to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. - -I suppose I interrupted Scott at some critical performance, for he came -to me with his coat-cuffs turned up and no wristbands on. - -"Glad to see you, I'm sure," cried he; "thought it might be an -out-patient. Bevere?--oh, do you want him?" he ran on, not giving -himself time to understand me perfectly, or pretending at it. "Bevere is -at his new lodgings near Russell Square. He will not be back here until -next week." - -"But he is not at his new lodgings," I said. "He has left them." - -"Left!" cried Scott, staring. - -"Left for good, bag and baggage. Gone altogether." - -"Gone where?" asked Scott. - -"That's what I have come to ask you. I expect you know." - -Scott's face presented a puzzle. I wondered whether he was as innocent -as he looked. - -"Let us understand one another," said he. "Do you tell me that Bevere -has left his _new_ lodgings?" - -"He has. He left them last night. Ran away from them, as one may say." - -"Why, he had only just got into them! Were the people sharks? I was with -him on Wednesday night: he did not complain of anything then." - -"He must have left, I fancy, for some private reason of his own. Don't -you _know_ where he is gone, Scott? You are generally in his -confidence." - -"Don't know any more than the dead." - -To dispute the declaration was not in my power. Scott seemed utterly -surprised, and said he should go to Mrs. Long's the first leisure moment -he had, to see if any note or message had been left for him. But I had -already put that question to the landlady, and she answered that neither -note nor message of any kind had been left for anybody. So there we -were, nonplussed, Scott standing with his hands in his pockets. Make the -best of it we would, it resolved itself into nothing more than this: -Bevere had vanished, leaving no clue. - -From thence I made my way to Mr. Pitt's little surgery near Gibraltar -Terrace. The doctor was alone in it, and stood compounding pills behind -the counter. - -"Bevere run away!" he exclaimed at my first words. "Why, what's the -meaning of that? _I_ don't know anything about it. I was going to see -him this afternoon." - -With my arms on the counter, my head bending towards him, I recounted -to Pitt the particulars Mrs. Long had given me, and Scott's denial of -having any finger in the pie. The doctor gave his head a twist. - -"Says he knows no more than the dead, does he! That may be the case; or -it may _not_. Master Richard Scott's assertions go for what they are -worth with me where Bevere's concerned: the two are as thick as thieves. -I'll find him, if I can. What do you say?--that Bevere would not conceal -himself from me? Look here, Johnny Ludlow," continued Pitt rapidly, -bringing forward his face till it nearly touched mine, and dropping his -voice to a low tone, "that young man must have got into some dangerous -trouble, and has to hide himself from the light of day." - -Leaving Pitt to make his patients' physic, I went out into the world, -not knowing whether to seek for Bevere in this quarter or in that. But, -unless I found him, how could I carry out my promise of writing to Lady -Bevere? - -I told Miss Deveen of my dilemma. She could not help me. No one could -help, that I was able to see. There was nothing for it but to wait -until the next week, when Bevere might perhaps make his appearance at -the hospital. I dropped a note to Scott, asking him to let me know of it -if he did. - -But of course the chances were that Bevere would not appear at the -hospital: with need to keep his head en cachette, he would be no more -safe there than in Mrs. Long's rooms: and I might have been hunting for -him yet, for aught I can tell, but for coming across Charley Lightfoot. - -It was on the following Monday. He was turning out of the -railway-station near Miss Deveen's, his uncle, Dr. Lightfoot, being -in practice close by. Telling him of Roger Bevere's flight, which he -appeared not to have heard of, I asked if he could form any idea where -he was likely to have got to. - -"Oh, back to the old neighbourhood that he lived in before his accident, -most likely," carelessly surmised Lightfoot, who did not seem to think -much of the matter. - -"And where is that?" - -"A goodish distance from here. It is near the Bell-and-Clapper Station -on the underground line." - -"The Bell-and-Clapper Station!" - -Lightfoot laughed. "Ironically called so," he said, "from a bell at the -new church close by, that claps away pretty well all day and all night -in the public ears." - -"Not one of our churches?" - -"Calls itself so, I believe. I wouldn't answer for it that its clergy -have been licensed by a bishop. Bevere lived somewhere about there; I -never was at his place; but you'll easily find it out." - -"How? By knocking at people's doors and inquiring for him?" - -Lightfoot put on his considering-cap. "If you go to the refreshment-room -of the Bell-and-Clapper Station and ask his address of the girls there," -said he, "I dare say they can give it you. Bevere used to be uncommonly -fond of frequenting their company, I believe." - -Running down to the train at once I took a ticket for the -Bell-and-Clapper Station, and soon reached it. It was well named: the -bell was clanging away with a loud and furious tongue, enough to drive -a sick man mad. What a dreadful infliction for the houses near it! - -Behind the counter in the refreshment-room stood two damsels, -exchanging amenities with a young man who sat smoking a cigar, his legs -stretched out at ease. Before I had time to speak, the sound of an -up-train was heard; he drank up the contents of a glass that stood at -his elbow, and went swiftly out. - -It was a pretty looking place: with coloured decanters on its shelves -and an array of sparkling glass. The young women wore neat black gowns, -and might have looked neat enough altogether but for their monstrous -heads of hair. That of one in particular was a sight to be seen, and -must have been copied from some extravagant fashion plate. She was -dark and handsome, with a high colour and a loud voice, evidently a -strong-minded young woman, perfectly able to take care of herself. The -other girl was fair, smaller and slighter, with a somewhat delicate -face, and a quiet manner. - -"Can you give me the address of Mr. Roger Bevere?" I asked of this -younger one. - -The girl flushed scarlet, and looked at her companion, who looked back -again. It was a curious sort of look, as much--I thought--as to say, -what are we to do? Then they both looked at me. But neither spoke. - -"I am told that Mr. Bevere often comes here, and that you can give me -his address." - -"Well, sir--I don't think we can," said the younger one, and her speech -was quite proper and modest. "We don't know it, do we, Miss Panken?" - -"Perhaps you'll first of all tell me who it was that said we could give -it you," cried Miss Panken, in tones as strong-minded as herself, and as -though she were by a very long way my superior in the world. - -"It was one of his fellow-students at the hospital." - -"Oh--well--I suppose we can give it you," she concluded. "Here, I'll -write it down. Lend me your pencil, Mabel: mine has disappeared. There," -handing me the paper, "if he is not there, we can't tell you where he -is." - -"Roger Bevary, 22, New Crescent," was what she wrote. I thanked her and -went out, encountering two or three young men who rushed in from another -train and called individually for refreshment. - -New Crescent was soon found, but not Bevere. The elderly woman-servant -who answered me said Mr. Bevere formerly lived with them, but left about -eighteen months back. He had not left the neighbourhood, she thought, -as she sometimes met him in it. She saw him only the past Saturday night -when she was out on an errand. - -"What, this past Saturday!" I exclaimed. "Are you certain?" - -"To be sure I am, sir. He was smoking a pipe and looking in at the -shop windows. He saw me and said, Good-night, Ann: he was always very -pleasant. I thought he looked ill." - -Back I went to the refreshment-room. Those girls knew his address well -enough, but for some reason would not give it--perhaps by Bevere's -orders. Two young men were there now, sipping their beer, or whatever -it was, and exchanging compliments with Miss Panken. I spoke to her -civilly. - -"Mr. Bevere does not live at New Crescent: he left it eighteen months -ago. Did you not know that? I think you can give me his address if you -will." - -_She did not answer me at all._ It may be bar-room politeness. Regarding -me for a full minute superciliously from my head to my boots, she slowly -turned her shoulders the other way, and resumed her talk with the -customers. - -I spoke then to the other, who was wiping glasses. "It is in Mr. -Bevere's own interest that I wish to find him; I wish it very -particularly indeed. He lives in this neighbourhood; I have heard that: -if you can tell me where, I shall be very much obliged to you." - -The girl's face looked confused, timid, full of indecision, as if she -knew the address but did not know whether to answer or not. By this time -I had attracted attention, and silence fell on the room. Strong-minded -Miss Panken came to the relief of her companion. - -"Did you call for a glass of ale?" she asked me, in a tone of incipient -mockery. - -"Nor for soda?--nor bitters?--not even cherry-brandy?" she ran on. "No? -Then as you don't seem to want anything we supply here, perhaps you'll -take yourself off, young man, and leave space for them that do. Fancy -this room being open to promiscuous inquirers, and us young ladies being -obliged to answer 'em!" added Miss Panken affably to her two friends. -"I'd like to see it!" - -Having thus put me down and turned her back upon me, I had nothing to -wait for, and walked out of the lady's presence. The younger one's eyes -followed me with a wistful look. I'm sure she would have given the -address had she dared. - -After that day, I took to haunt the precincts of the Bell-and-Clapper, -believing it to be my only chance of finding Bevere. Scott had a brief -note from him, no address to it, stating that he was not yet well enough -to resume his duties; and this note Scott forwarded to me. A letter also -came to me; from Lady Bevere asking what the matter was that I did not -write, and whether Roger was worse. How _could_ I write, unless I found -him? - -So, all the leisure time that I could improvise I spent round about the -Bell-and-Clapper. Not inside the room, amid its manifold attractions: -Circe was a wily woman, remember, and pretty bottles are insidious. That -particular Circe, also, Miss Panken, might have objected to my company -and ordered me out of it. - -Up one road, down another, before this row of houses and that, I hovered -for ever like a walking ghost. But I saw nothing of Bevere. - -Luck favoured me at last. One afternoon towards the end of the week, I -was standing opposite the church, watching the half-dozen worshippers -straggling into it, for one of its many services, listening to the -irritating ding-dong of its bell, and wondering the noise was put up -with, when suddenly Richard Scott came running up from the city train. -Looking neither to the right nor the left, or he must inevitably have -seen me, he made straight for a cross-road, then another, and presently -entered one of a row of small houses whose lower rooms were on a level -with the ground and the yard or two of square garden that fronted them. -"Paradise Place." I followed Scott at a cautious distance. - -"Bevere lives there!" quoth I, mentally. - -Should I go in at once boldly, and beard him? While deliberating--for -somehow it goes against my nature to beard anybody--Scott came striding -out and turned off the other way: which led to the shops. I crossed over -and went in quietly at the open door. - -The parlour, small and shabby as was Mrs. Mapping's in Gibraltar -Terrace, was on the left, its door likewise open. Seated at a table, -taking his tea, was Roger Bevere; opposite to him, presiding over the -ceremonies, sat a lady who must unquestionably have been first-cousin -to those damsels at the Bell-and-Clapper, if one might judge by the -hair. - -"Roger!" I exclaimed. "What a dance you have led us!" - -He started up with a scarlet face, his manner strangely confused, his -tongue for the moment lost. And then I saw that he was without his coat, -and his arm was bandaged. - -"I was going to write to you," he said--an excuse invented on the spur -of the moment, "I thought to be about before now, but my arm got bad -again." - -"How was that?" - -"Well, I hurt it, and did not pay attention to it. It is properly -inflamed now." - -I took a seat on the red stuff sofa without being invited, and Bevere -dropped into his chair. The lady at the tea-tray had been regarding me -with a free, friendly, unabashed gaze. She was a well-grown, attractive -young woman, with a saucy face and bright complexion, fine dark eyes, -and full red lips. Her abundant hair was of the peculiar and rare colour -that some people call red and others gold. As to her manners, they were -as assured as Miss Panken's, but a great deal pleasanter. I wondered who -she was and what she did there. - -"So this is Johnny Ludlow that I've heard tell of!" she exclaimed, -catching up my name from Bevere, and sending me a gracious nod. "Shall -I give you a cup of tea?" - -"No, thank you," was my answer, though all the while as thirsty as a -fish, for the afternoon was hot. - -"Oh, you had better: don't stand on ceremony," she said, laughing. -"There's nothing like a good cup of tea when the throat's dry and the -weather's baking. Come! make yourself at home." - -"Be quiet, Lizzie," struck in Bevere, his tone ringing with annoyance -and pain. "Let Mr. Ludlow do as he pleases." And it struck me that he -did not want me to take the tea. - -Scott came in then, and looked surprised to see me: he had been out to -get something for Bevere's arm. I felt by intuition that he had known -where Bevere was all along, that his assumption of ignorance was a -pretence. He and the young lady seemed to be upon excellent terms, as -though they had been acquainted for ages. - -The arm looked very bad: worse than it had at Gibraltar Terrace. I -stood by when Scott took off the bandages. He touched it here and there. - -"I tell you what, Bevere," he said: "you had better let Pitt see to this -again. He got it right before; and--I don't much like the look of it." - -"Nonsense!" returned Bevere. "I don't want Pitt here." - -"I say nonsense to that," rejoined Scott. "Who's Pitt?--he won't hurt -you. No good to think you can shut yourself up in a nutshell--with such -an arm as this, and--and--" he glanced at me, as if he would say, "and -now Ludlow has found you out." - -"You can do as much for the arm as Pitt can," said Bevere, fractiously. - -"Perhaps I could: but I don't mean to try. I tell you, Bevere, I do -not like the look of it," repeated Scott. "What's more, I, not being a -qualified practitioner yet, would not take the responsibility." - -"Well, I will go to Pitt to-morrow if I'm no better and can get my coat -on," conceded Bevere. "Lizzie, where's the other bandage?" - -"Oh, I left it in my room," said Lizzie; and she ran up the stairs in -search of it. - -So she lived there! Was it her home, I wondered; or Bevere's; or their -home conjointly? The two might have vowed eternal friendship and set up -housekeeping together on a platonic footing. Curious problems do come -into fashion in the great cities of this go-ahead age; perhaps that one -had. - -Scott finished dressing the arm, giving the patient sundry cautions -meanwhile; and I got up to leave. Lizzie had stepped outside and was -leaning over the little wooden entrance-gate, chanting a song to herself -and gazing up and down the quiet road. - -"What am I to say to your mother?" I said to Bevere in a low tone. "You -knew I had to write to her." - -"Oh, say I am all right," he answered. "I have written to her myself -now, and had two letters from her." - -"How do the letters come to you? Here?" - -"Scott gets them from Mrs. Long's. Johnny"--with a sharp pressure of -the hand, and a beseeching look from his troubled blue eyes--"be a good -fellow and don't talk. _Anywhere._" - -Giving his hand a reassuring shake, and lifting my hat to the lady at -the gate as I passed her, I went away, thinking of this complication and -of that. In a minute, Scott overtook me. - -"I think you knew where he was, all along," I said to him; "that your -ignorance was put on." - -"Of course it was," answered Scott, as coolly as you please. "What would -you? When a fellow-chum entrusts confidential matters to you and puts -you upon your honour, you can't betray him." - -"Oh, well, I suppose not. That damsel over there, Scott--is she his -sister, or his cousin, or his aunt?" - -"You can call her which you like," replied Scott, affably. "Are you very -busy this afternoon, Ludlow?" - -"I am not busy at all." - -"Then I wish you would go to Pitt. I can't spare the time. I've a heap -of work on my shoulders to-day: it was only the pressing note I got -from Bevere about his arm that brought me out of it. He is getting a bit -doubtful himself, you see; and Pitt had better come to it without loss -of time." - -"Bevere won't thank me for sending Pitt to him. You heard what he said." - -"Nonsense as to Bevere's thanks. The arm is worse than he thinks for. In -my opinion, he stands a good chance of losing it." - -"No!" I exclaimed in dismay. "Lose his arm!" - -"Stands a chance of it," repeated Scott. "It will be his own fault. A -week yesterday he damaged it again, the evening he came back here, and -he has neglected it ever since. You tell Pitt what I say." - -"Very well, I will. I suppose the account Bevere gave to his mother and -Mr. Brandon--that he had been living lately with you--was all a fable?" - -Scott nodded complaisantly, striding along at the pace of a -steam-engine. "Just so. He couldn't bring them down upon him here, you -know." - -I did not exactly know. And thoughts, as the saying runs, are free. - -"So he hit upon the fable, as you call it, of saying he had shared -my lodgings," continued Scott. "Necessity is a rare incentive to -invention." - -We had gained the Bell-and-Clapper Station as he spoke: two minutes yet -before the train for the city would be in. Scott utilized the minutes by -dashing to the bar for a glass of ale, chattering to Miss Panken and the -other one while he drank it. Then we both took the train; Scott going -back to the hospital--where he fulfilled some official duty beyond that -of ordinary student--and I to see after Pitt. - - -II. - -Roger Bevere's arm proved obstinate. Swollen and inflamed as I had never -seen any arm yet, it induced fever, and he had to take to his bed. -Scott, who had his wits about him in most ways, had not spoken a minute -too soon, or been mistaken as to the probable danger; while Mr. Pitt -told Roger every time he came to dress it, beginning with the first -evening, that he deserved all he got for being so foolhardy as to -neglect it: as a medical man in embryo, he ought to have foreseen the -hazard. - -It seemed to me that Roger was just as ill as he was at Gibraltar -Terrace, when they sent for his mother: if not worse. Most days I got -down to Paradise Place to snatch a look at him. It was not far, taking -the underground-railway from Miss Deveen's. - -I made the best report I could to Lady Bevere, telling -nothing--excepting that the arm was giving a little trouble. If she -got to learn the truth about certain things, she would think the -letters deceitful. But what else could I do?--I wished with all my -heart some one else had to write them. As Scott had said to me about -the flitting from Mrs. Long's (the reason for which or necessity, I -was not enlightened upon yet), I could not betray Bevere. Pitt assured -me that if any unmanageable complications arose with the arm, both -Lady Bevere and Mr. Brandon should be at once telegraphed for. A fine -complication it would be, of another sort, if they did come! How about -Miss Lizzie? - -Of all the free-and-easy young women I had ever met with, that same -Lizzie was the freest and easiest. Many a time have I wondered Bevere -did not order her out of the room when she said audacious things to him -or to me--not to say out of the house. He did nothing of the kind; he -lay passive as a bird that has had its wings clipped, all spirit gone -out of him, and groaning with bodily pain. Why on earth did he allow -her to make his house her abode, disturbing it with her noise and her -clatter? Why on earth--to go on further--did he rent a house at all, -small or large? No one else lived in it, that I saw, except a little -maid, in her early teens, to do the work. Later I found I was mistaken: -they were only lodgers: an old landlady, lame and quiet, was in the -kitchen. - -"Looks fearfully bad, don't he?" whispered Lizzie to me on one occasion -when he lay asleep, and she came bursting into the room for her bonnet -and shawl. - -"Yes. Don't you think you could be rather more quiet?" - -"As quiet as a lamb, if you like," laughed Lizzie, and crept out on -tiptoe. She was always good-humoured. - -One afternoon when I went in, Lizzie had a visitor in the parlour. Miss -Panken! The two, evidently on terms of close friendship, were laughing -and joking frantically; Lizzie's head, with its clouds of red-gold hair, -was drawn close to the other head and the mass of black braids adorning -it. Miss Panken sat sipping a cup of tea; Lizzie a tumbler of hot water -that gave forth a suspicious odour. - -"I've got a headache, Mr. Johnny," said she: and I marvelled that she -did not, in her impudence, leave the "Mr." out. "Hot gin-and-water is -the very best remedy you can take for it." - -Shrieks of laughter from both the girls followed me upstairs to Roger's -bedside: Miss Panken was relating some joke about her companion, Mabel. -Roger said his arm was a trifle better. It always felt so when Pitt had -been to it. - -"Who is it that's downstairs now?" he asked, fretfully, as the bursts of -merriment sounded through the floor. "Sit down, Johnny." - -"It's a girl from the Bell-and-Clapper refreshment-room. Miss Panken -they call her." - -Roger frowned. "I have told Lizzie over and over again that I wouldn't -have those girls encouraged here. What can possess her to do it?" And, -after saying that, he passed into one of those fits of restlessness that -used to attack him at Gibraltar Terrace. - -"Look here, Roger," I said, presently, "couldn't you--pull up a bit? -Couldn't you put all this nonsense away?" - -"Which nonsense?" he retorted. - -"What would Mr. Brandon say if he knew it? I'll not speak of your -mother. It is not nice, you know; it is not, indeed." - -"Can't you speak out?" he returned, with intense irritation. "Put what -away?" - -"Lizzie." - -I spoke the name under my breath, not liking to say it, though I had -wanted to for some time. All the anger seemed to go out of Roger. He lay -still as death. - -"_Can't_ you, Roger?" - -"Too late, Johnny," came back the answer in a whisper of pain. - -"Why?" - -"She is my wife." - -I leaped from my chair in a sort of terror. "No, no, Roger, don't say -that! It cannot be." - -"But it _is_," he groaned. "These eighteen months past." - -I stood dazed; all my senses in a whirl. Roger kept silence, his face -turned to the pillow. And the laughter from below came surging up. - -I had no heart affection that I was aware of, but I had to press my hand -to still its thumping as I leaned over Roger. - -"Really married? Surely married?" - -"As fast and sure as the registrar could marry us," came the smothered -answer. "We did not go to church." - -"Oh, Roger! _How_ came you to do it?" - -"Because I was a fool." - -I sat down again, right back in the chair. Things that had puzzled me -before were clearing themselves now. _This_ was the torment that had -worried his mind and prolonged, if not induced, the fever, when he first -lay ill of the accident; this was the miserable secret that had gone -well-nigh to disturb the brain: partly for the incubus the marriage -entailed upon him, partly lest it should be found out. It had caused him -to invent fables in more ways than one. Not only had he to conceal his -proper address from us all when at Gibraltar Terrace, especially from -his mother and Mr. Brandon; but he had had to scheme with Scott to keep -his wife in ignorance altogether--of his accident and of where he was -lying, lest Lizzie should present herself at his bedside. To account for -his absence from home, Scott had improvised a story to her of Roger's -having been despatched by the hospital authorities to watch a case of -illness at a little distance; and Lizzie unsuspiciously supplied Scott -with changes of raiment and other things Roger needed from his chest of -drawers. - -This did for a time. But about the period of Roger's quitting Gibraltar -Terrace, Lizzie unfortunately caught up an inkling that she was being -deceived. Miss Panken's general acquaintance was numerous, and one day -one of them chanced to go into the bar-room of the Bell-and-Clapper, -and to mention, incidentally, that Roger Bevere had been run over by a -hansom cab, and was lying disabled in some remote doctor's quarters--for -that's what Scott told his fellow-students. Madam Lizzie rose in -rebellion, accused Scott of being no gentleman, and insisted upon her -right to be enlightened. So, to stop her from making her appearance at -St. Bartholomew's with inconvenient inquiries, and possibly still more -inconvenient revelations, Roger had promptly to quit the new lodgings at -Mrs. Long's, and return to the old home near the Bell-and-Clapper. But -I did not learn these particulars at first. - -"Who knows it, Roger?" I asked, breaking the silence. - -"Not one of them but Scott," he answered, supposing I alluded to the -hospital. "I see Pitt has his doubts." - -"But they know--some of them--that Lizzie is here!" - -"Well? So did you, but you did not suspect further. They think of course -that--well, there's no help for what they think. When a fellow is in -such a position as mine, he has to put up with things as they come. I -can't quite ruin myself, Johnny; or let the authorities know what an -idiot I've been. Lizzie's aunt knows it; and that's enough at present; -and so do those girls at the Bell-and-Clapper--worse luck!" - -It was impossible to talk much of it then, at that first disclosure; I -wished Roger good-afternoon, and went away in a fever-dream. - -My wildest surmises had not pictured this dismal climax. No, never; for -all that Mistress Lizzie's left hand displayed a plain gold ring of -remarkable thickness. "She would have it thick," Roger said to me later. -Poor Roger! poor Roger! - -I felt it like a blow--like a blow. No good would ever come of it--to -either of them. Worse than no good to him. It was not so much the -unsuitableness of the girl's condition to his; it was the girl herself. -She would bring him no credit, no comfort as long as she lived: what -happiness could he ever find with her? I had grown to like Roger, with -all his faults and failings, and it almost seemed to me, in my sorrow -for him, as if my own life were blighted. - -It might not have been quite so bad--not _quite_--had Lizzie been a -different girl. Modest, yielding, gentle, like that little Mabel I had -seen, for instance, learning to adapt her manners to the pattern of her -husband's; had she been that, why, in time, perhaps, things might have -smoothed down for him. But Lizzie! with her free and loud manners, her -off-hand ways, her random speech, her vulgar laughs! Well, well! - -How was it possible she had been able to bring her fascinations to bear -upon him--he with his refinement? One can but sit down in amazement and -ask how, in the name of common-sense, such incongruities happen in the -world. She must have tamed down what was objectionable in her to sugar -and sweetness while setting her cap at Bevere; while he--he must have -been blind, physically and mentally. But no sooner was the marriage over -than he awoke to see what he had done for himself. Since then his time -had been principally spent in setting up contrivances to keep the truth -from becoming known. Mr. Brandon had talked of his skeleton in the -closet: he had not dreamt of such a skeleton as this. - -"Must have gone in largely for strong waters in those days, and been in -a chronic state of imbecility, I should say," observed Pitt, making his -comments to me confidentially. - -For I had spoken to him of the marriage, finding he knew as much as I -did. "I shall never be able to understand it," I said. - -"_That's_ easy enough. When Circe and a goose sit down to play chess, -no need to speculate which will win the game." - -"You speak lightly of it, Mr. Pitt." - -"Not particularly. Where's the use of speaking gravely now the deed's -done? It is a pity for Bevere; but he is only one young man amidst many -such who in one way or another spoil their lives at its threshold. -Johnny Ludlow, when I look about me and see the snares spread abroad -in this great metropolis by night and by day, and at the crowds of -inexperienced lads--they are not much better--who have to run to and fro -continually, I marvel that the number of those who lose themselves is -not increased tenfold." - -He had changed his tone to one solemn enough for a judge. - -"I cannot _think_ how he came to do it," I argued. "Or how such a one as -Bevere, well-intentioned, well brought up, could have allowed himself to -fall into what Mr. Brandon calls loose habits. How came he to take to -drinking ways, even in a small degree?" - -"The railway refreshment-bars did that for him, I take it," answered -Pitt. "He lived up here from the first, by the Bell-and-Clapper, and I -suppose found the underground train more convenient than the omnibus. Up -he'd rush in a morning to catch--say--the half-past eight train, and -would often miss it by half-a-minute. A miss is as good as a mile. -Instead of cooling his heels on the draughty and deserted platform, he -would turn into the refreshment-room, and find there warmth and sociable -company in the shape of pretty girls to chat with: and, if he so minded, -a glass of something or other to keep out the cold on a wintry morning." - -"As if Bevere would!--at that early hour!" - -"Some of them do," affirmed Pitt. "Anyway, that's how Bevere fell into -the habit of frequenting the bar-room of the Bell-and-Clapper. It lay -so handy, you see; right in his path. He would run into it again of an -evening when he returned: he had no home, no friends waiting for him, -only lodgings. There----" - -"I thought Bevere used to board with a family," I interrupted. - -"So he did at first; and very nice people they were: Mr. Brandon took -care he should be well placed. That's why Bevere came up this way at -all: it was rather far from the hospital, but Mr. Brandon knew the -people. In a short time, however, the lady died, the home was broken up, -and Bevere then took lodgings on his own account; and so--there was no -one to help him keep out of mischief. To go on with what I was saying. -He learnt to frequent the bar-room at the Bell-and-Clapper: not only to -run into it in a morning, but also on his return in the evening. He had -no sociable tea or dinner-table waiting for him, you see, with pleasant -faces round it. All the pleasant faces he met were those behind the -counter; and there he would stay, talking, laughing, chaffing with the -girls, one of whom was Miss Lizzie, goodness knows how long--the places -are kept open till midnight." - -"It had its attractions for him, I suppose--what with the girls and the -bottles." - -Pitt nodded. "It has for many a one besides him, Johnny. Roger had to -call for drink; possibly without the slightest natural inclination for -anything, he had perforce to call for it; he could hardly linger there -unless he did. By-and-by, I reckon, he got to like the drink; he -acquired the taste for it, you see, and habit soon becomes second -nature; one glass became two glasses, two glasses three. This went on -for a time. The next act in the young man's drama was, that he allowed -himself to glide into an entanglement of some sort with one of the said -girls, Miss Lizzie Field, and was drawn in to marry her." - -"How have you learnt these particulars?" - -"Partly from Scott. They are true. Scott has a married brother living up -this way, and is often running up here; indeed at one time he lived with -him, and he and Bevere used to go to and fro to St. Bartholomew's in -company. Yes," slowly added the doctor, "that refreshment-room has been -the bane of Roger Bevere." - -"And not of Scott?" - -"It did Scott no good; you may take a vow of that. But Scott has some -plain, rough common-sense of his own, which kept him from going too far. -He may make a good man yet; and a name also, for he possesses all the -elements of a skilful surgeon. Bevere succumbed to the seductions of the -bar-room, as other foolish young fellows, well-intentioned at heart, -but weak in moral strength, have done, and will do again. Irresistible -temptations they present, these places, to the young men who have to -come in contact with them. If the lads had to go out of their way to -seek the temptation, they might never do it; but it lies right in their -path, you perceive, and they can't pass it by. Of course I am not -speaking of all young men; only of those who are deficient in moral -self-control. To some, the Bell-and-Clapper bar-room presents no more -attraction than the Bell-and-Clapper Church by its side; or any other -of such rooms, either." - -"Is there not any remedy for this state of things?" - -Pitt shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose not," he said. "Since I pulled -up from drinking, I have been unable to see what these underground -railway-rooms are needed for: why a man or woman, travelling for -half-an-hour, more or less, must needs be provided with places to drink -in at both ends of the journey and all the middles. Biscuits and buns -are there as well, you may say--serving an excuse perhaps. But for one -biscuit called for, there are fifty glasses of ale, or what not. Given -the necessity for the rooms," added Pitt, with a laugh, "I should do -away with the lady-servers and substitute men; which would put an end -to three parts of the attraction. No chance of _that_ reformation." - -"Because it would do away with three parts of the custom," I said, -echoing his laugh. - -"Be you very sure of that, Johnny Ludlow. However, it is no business of -mine to find fault with existing customs, seeing that I cannot alter -them," concluded the doctor. - -What he said set me thinking. Every time I passed by one of these -stations, so crowded with the traffic of young city men, and saw the -bottles arrayed to charm the sight, their bright colours gleaming and -glistening, and looked at the serving-damsels, with their bedecked -heads, arrayed to charm also, I knew Pitt must be right. These rooms -might bring in grist to their owners' mill; but it struck me that I -should not like, when I grew old, to remember that I had owned one. - - * * * * * - -Roger Bevere's arm began to yield to treatment, but he continued very -ill in himself; too ill to get up. Torment of mind and torment of body -are a bad complication. - -One afternoon when I was sitting with him, sundry quick knocks -downstairs threatened to disturb the doze he was falling into--and Pitt -had said that sleep to him just now was like gold. I crept away to stop -it. In the middle of the parlour, thumping on the floor with her cotton -umbrella--a huge green thing that must have been the fellow, when made, -to Sairey Gamp's--stood Mrs. Dyke, a stout, good-natured, sensible -woman, whom I often saw there. Her husband was a well-to-do coachman, -whose first wife had been sister to Lizzie's mother, and this wife was -their cousin. - -"Where's Lizzie, sir?" she asked. "Out, I suppose?" - -"Yes, I think so. I saw her with her bonnet on." - -"The girl's out, too, I take it, or she'd have heard me," remarked Mrs. -Dyke, as she took her seat on the shabby red sofa, and pushed her bonnet -back from her hot and comely face. "And how are we going on up there, -sir?"--pointing to the ceiling. - -"Very slowly. He cannot get rid of the fever." - -She lodged the elegant umbrella against the sofa's arm and turned -sideways to face me. I had sat down by the window, not caring to go back -and run the risk of disturbing Roger. - -"Now come, sir," she said, "let us talk comfortable: you won't mind -giving me your opinion, I dare say. I have looked out for an opportunity -to ask it: you being what you are, sir, and his good friend. Them -two--they don't hit it off well together, do they?" - -Knowing she must allude to Bevere and his wife, I had no ready answer -at hand. Mrs. Dyke took silence for assent. - -"Ah, I see how it is. I thought I must be right; I've thought it for -some time. But Lizzie only laughs in my face, when I ask her. There's -no happiness between 'em; just the other thing; I told Lizzie so only -yesterday. But they can't undo what they have done, and there's nothing -left for them, sir, but to make the best of it." - -"That's true, Mrs. Dyke. And I think Lizzie might do more towards it -than she does. If she would only----" - -"Only try to get a bit into his ways and manners and not offend him with -hers," put in discerning Mrs. Dyke, when I hesitated, "He is as nice a -young gentleman as ever lived, and I believe has the making in him of a -good husband. But Lizzie is vulgar and her ways are vulgar; and instead -of checking herself and remembering that he is just the opposite, and -that naturally it must offend him, she lets herself grow more so day by -day. I know what's what, sir, having been used to the ways of gentry -when I was a young woman, for I lived cook for some years in a good -family." - -"Lizzie's ways are so noisy." - -"Her ways are noisy and rampagious," assented Mrs. Dyke, "more -particularly when she has been at her drops; and noise puts out a sick -man." - -"Her drops!" I repeated, involuntarily, the word calling up a latent -doubt that lay in my mind. - -"When girls that have been in busy employment all day and every day, -suddenly settle down to idleness, they sometimes slip into this habit or -that habit, not altogether good for themselves, which they might never -else have had time to think of," remarked Mrs. Dyke. "I've come in here -more than once lately and seen Lizzie drinking hot spirits-and-water in -the daytime: I know you must have seen the same, sir, or I'd not mention -it--and beer she'll take unlimited." - -Of course I had seen it. - -"I think she must have learnt it at the counter; drinking never was in -our family, and I never knew that it was in her father's," continued -Mrs. Dyke. "But some of the young women, serving at these bars, get to -like the drink through having the sight and smell of it about 'em all -day long." - -That was more than likely, but I did not say so, not caring to continue -that branch of the subject. - -"The marriage was a misfortune, Mrs. Dyke." - -"For him I suppose you gentlemen consider it was," she answered. "It -will be one for her if he should die: she'd have to go back to work -again and she has got out o' the trick of it. Ah! she thought grand -things of it at first, naturally, marrying a gentleman! But unequal -marriages rarely turn out well in the long run. I knew nothing of it -till it was done and over, or I should have advised her against it; my -husband's place lay in a different part of London then--Eaton Square -way. Better, perhaps, for Lizzie had she gone out to service in the -country, like her sister." - -"Did she always live in London?" - -"Dear, no, sir, nor near it; she lived down in Essex with her father -and mother. But she came up to London on a visit, and fell in love with -the public life, through getting to know a young woman who was in it. -Nothing could turn her, once her mind was set upon it; and being sharp -and clever, quick at figures, she got taken on at some wine-vaults -in the city. After staying there awhile and giving satisfaction, she -changed to the refreshment-room at the Bell-and-Clapper. Miss Panken -went there soon after, and they grew very intimate. The young girl left, -who had been there before her; very pretty she was: I don't know what -became of her. At some of the counters they have but one girl; at -others, two." - -"It is a pity girls should be at them at all--drawing on the young men! -I am speaking generally, Mrs. Dyke." - -"It is a pity the young men should be so soft as to be drawn on by -them--if you'll excuse my saying it, sir," she returned, quickly. "But -there--what would you? Human nature's the same all the world over: Jack -and Jill. The young men like to talk to the girls, and the girls like -very much to talk to the young men. Of course these barmaids lay -themselves out to the best advantage, in the doing of their hair and -their white frills, and what not, which is human nature again, sir. Look -at a young lady in a drawing-room: don't she set herself off when she is -expecting the beaux to call?" - -Mrs. Dyke paused for want of breath. Her tongue ran on fast, but it told -of good sense. - -"The barmaids are but like the young ladies, sir; and the young fellows -that congregate there get to admire them, while sipping their drops at -the counter; if, as I say, they are soft enough. When the girls get hold -of one softer than the rest, why, perhaps one of them gets over him so -far as to entrap him to give her his name--just as safe as you hook and -land a fish." - -"And I suppose it has a different termination sometimes?" - -Honest Mrs. Dyke shook her head. "We won't talk about that, sir: I can't -deny that it may happen once in a way. Not often, let's hope. The young -women, as a rule, are well-conducted and respectable: they mostly know -how to take care of themselves." - -"I should say Miss Panken does." - -Mrs. Dyke's broad face shone with merriment. "Ain't she impudent? Oh -yes, sir, Polly Panken can take care of herself, never fear. But it's -not a good atmosphere for young girls to be in, you see, sir, these -public bars; whether it may be only at a railway counter, or at one of -them busy taverns in the town, or at the gay places of amusement, the -manners and morals of the girls get to be a bit loose, as it were, and -they can't help it." - -"Or anybody else, I suppose." - -"No, sir, not as things are; and it's just a wrong upon them that they -should be exposed to it. They'd be safer and quieter in a respectable -service, which is the state of life many of 'em were born to--though a -few may be superior--and better behaved, too: manners is sure to get a -bit corrupted in the public line. But the girls like their liberty; -they like the free-and-easy public life and its idleness; they like the -flirting and the chaffing and the nonsense that goes on; they like to be -dressed up of a day as if they were so many young ladies, their hair -done off in bows and curls and frizzes, and their hands in cuffs and -lace-edgings; now and then you may see 'em with a ring on. That's a -better life, they think, than they'd lead as servants or shop-women, or -any of the other callings open to this class of young women: and perhaps -it is. It's easier, at any rate. I've heard that some quite superior -young people are in it, who might be, or were, governesses, and couldn't -find employment, poor young ladies, through the market being so -overstocked. Ah, it is a hard thing, sir, for a well-brought-up young -woman to find lady-like employment nowadays. One thing is certain," -concluded Mrs. Dyke, "that we shall never have a lack of barmaids in -this country until a law is passed by the legislature--which, happen, -never will be passed--to forbid girls serving in these places. There'd -be less foolishness going on then, and a deal less drinking." - -These were Pitt's ideas over again. - -A loud laugh outside, and Lizzie came running in. "Why, Aunt Dyke, are -you there!--entertaining Mr. Johnny Ludlow!" she exclaimed, as she threw -herself into a chair. "Well, I never. And what _do_ you two think I am -going to do to-morrow?" - -"Now just you mind your manners, young woman," advised the aunt. - -"I am minding them--don't you begin blowing-up," retorted Lizzie, her -face brimming over with good-humour. - -"You might have your things stole; you and the girl out together," said -Mrs. Dyke. - -"There's nothing to steal but chairs and tables. I'm sure I'm much -obliged to you both for sitting here to take care of them. You'll -never guess what I am going to do," broke off Lizzie, with shrieks -of laughter. "I am going to take my old place again at the -Bell-and-Clapper, and serve behind the counter for the day: Mabel -Falkner wants a holiday. Won't it be fun!" - -"Your husband will not let you; he would not like it," I said in my -haste, while Mrs. Dyke sat in open-mouthed amazement. - -"And I shall put on my old black dress; I've got it yet; and be a -regular barmaid again. A lovely costume, that black is!" ironically ran -on Lizzie. "Neat and not gaudy, as the devil said when he painted his -tail pea-green. You need not look as though you thought I had made -acquaintance with him and heard him say it, Mr. Johnny; I only borrowed -it from one of Bulwer's novels that I read the other day." - -If I did not think that, I thought Madam Lizzie had been making -acquaintance this afternoon with something else. "Drops!" as Mrs. Dyke -called it. - -"There I shall be to-morrow, at the old work, and you can both come and -see me at it," said Lizzie. "I'll treat you more civilly, Mr. Johnny, -than Polly Panken did." - -"But I say that your husband will not allow you to go," I repeated to -her. - -"Ah, he's in bed," she laughed; "he can't get out of it to stop me." - -"You are all on the wrong tack, Lizzie girl," spoke up the aunt, -severely. "If you don't mind, it will land you in shoals and quicksands. -How dare you think of running counter to what you know your husband's -wishes would be?" - -She received this with a louder laugh than ever. "He will not know -anything about it, Aunt Dyke. Unless Mr. Johnny Ludlow here should tell -him. It would not make any difference to me if he did," she concluded, -with candour. - -And as I felt sure it would not, I held my tongue. - -By degrees, as the days went on, Roger got about again, and when I -left London he was back at St. Bartholomew's. Other uncanny things had -happened to me during this visit of mine, but not one of them brought -with it so heavy a weight as the thought of poor Roger Bevere and his -blighted life. - -"His health may get all right if he will give up drinking," were the -last words Pitt said to me. "He has promised to do so." - - * * * * * - -The weather was cold and wintry as we began our railway journey. From -two to three years have gone on, you must please note, since the time -told of above. Mr. Brandon was about to spend the Christmas with his -sister, Lady Bevere--who had quitted Hampshire and settled not far from -Brighton--and she had sent me an invitation to accompany him. - -We took the train at Evesham. It was Friday, and the shortest day in the -year; St. Thomas, the twenty-first of December. Some people do not care -to begin a journey on a Friday, thinking it bodes ill-luck: I might have -thought the same had I foreseen what was to happen before we got home -again. - -London reached, we met Roger Bevere at the Brighton Station, as agreed -upon. He was to travel down with us. I had not seen him since the time -of his illness in London, except for an hour once when I was in town -upon some business for the Squire. Nothing had transpired to his -friends, so far as I knew, of the fatal step he had taken; that was a -secret still. - -I cannot say I much liked Roger's appearance now, as he sat -opposite me in the railway-carriage, leaning against the arm of the -comfortably-cushioned seat. His fair, pleasant face was gentle as ever, -but the once clear blue eyes no longer looked very clear and did not -meet ours freely; his hands shook, his fingers were restless. Mr. -Brandon did not much like the signs either, to judge by the way he -stared at him. - -"Have you been well lately, Roger?" - -"Oh yes, thank you, Uncle John." - -"Well, your looks don't say much for you." - -"I am rather hard-worked," said Roger. "London is not a place to grow -rosy in." - -"Do you like your new work?" continued Mr. Brandon. For Roger had done -with St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and was outdoor assistant to a surgeon -in private practice, a Mr. Anderson. - -"I like it better than the hospital work, Uncle John." - -"Ah! A fine idea that was of yours--wanting to set up in practice -for yourself the minute you had passed. Your mother did well to send -the letter to me and ask my advice. Some of you boys--boys, and no -better--fresh from your hospital studies, screw a brass-plate on your -door, announcing yourselves to the world as qualified surgeons. A few of -you go a step further and add M.D." - -"Many of us take our degree as physician at once, Uncle John," said -Roger. "It is becoming quite the custom." - -"Just so: the custom!" retorted Mr. Brandon, cynically. "Why didn't -_you_ do it, and modestly call yourself Dr. Bevere? In my former days, -young man, when some ultra-grave ailment necessitated application to a -physician, we went to him in all confidence, knowing that he was a man -of steady years, of long-tried experience, whose advice was to be relied -upon. Now, if you are dying and call in some Dr. So-and-so, you may find -him a young fellow of three or four and twenty. As likely as not only an -M.B. in reality, who has arrogated to himself the title of Doctor. For I -hear some of them do it." - -"But they think they have a right to be called so, Uncle John. The -question----" - -"What right?" sharply demanded Mr. Brandon. "What gives it them?" - -"Well--courtesy, I suppose," hesitated Roger. - -"Oh," said Mr. Brandon. - -I laughed. His tone was so quaint. - -"Yes, you may laugh, Johnny Ludlow--showing your thoughtlessness! -There'll soon be no modesty left in the world," he continued; "there'll -soon be no hard, plodding work. Formerly, men were content to labour -on patiently for years, to attain success, whether in fame, fortune, -or for a moderate competency. Now they must take a leap into it. -Tradespeople retire before middle-age, merchants make colossal fortunes -in a decade, and (to leave other anomalies alone) you random young -hospital students spring into practice full-fledged M.D.'s." - -"The world is changing, Uncle John." - -"It is," assented Mr. Brandon. "I'm not sure that we shall know it -by-and-by." - -From Brighton terminus we had a drive of two or three miles across -country to get to Prior's Glebe--as Lady Bevere's house was named. It -was old-fashioned and commodious, and stood in a large square garden -that was encircled by a thick belt of towering shrubs. Nothing was to be -seen around it but a huge stretch of waste land; half a-mile-off, rose a -little church and a few scattered cottages. "The girls must find this -lively!" exclaimed Roger, taking a comprehensive look about him as we -drove up in the twilight. - -Lady Bevere, kind, gentle, simple-mannered as ever, received us -lovingly. Mr. Brandon kissed her, and she kissed me and Roger. It was -the first Christmas Roger had spent at home since rushing into that mad -act of his; he had always invented some excuse for declining. The eldest -son, Edmund, was in the navy; the second, George, was in the Church; -Roger was the third; and the youngest, John, had a post in a merchant's -house in Calcutta. Of the four girls, only the eldest, Mary, and the -youngest were at home. The little one was named Susan, but they called -her Tottams. The other two were on a visit to their aunt, the late Sir -Edmund Bevere's sister. - -Dinner was waiting when we got in, and I could not snatch half a word -with Roger while making ready for it. He and I had two little rooms -opening to each other. But when we went upstairs for the night we could -talk at will; and I put my candle down on his chest of drawers. - -"How are things going with you, Roger?" - -"Don't talk of it," he cried, with quite a burst of emotion. "Things -cannot be worse than they are." - -"I fancy you have not pulled up much, as Pitt used to call it, have you, -old friend? Your hands and your face tell tales." - -"How can I pull up?" he retorted. - -"You promised that you would." - -"Ay. Promised! When all the world's against a fellow, he may not be -able to keep his promises. Perhaps may not care to." - -"How is Lizzie?" I said then, dropping my voice. - -"Don't talk of her," repeated Bevere, in a tone of despair; despair if -I ever heard it. It shut me up. - -"Johnny, I'm nearly done over; sick of it all," he went on. "You don't -know what I have to bear." - -"Still--as regards yourself, you might pull up," I persisted, for to -give in to him, and his mood and his ways, would never do. "You might -if you chose, Bevere." - -"I suppose I might, if I had any hope. But there's none; none. People -tell us that as we make our bed so we must lie upon it. I made mine in -an awful fashion years ago, and I must pay the penalty." - -"I gather from this--forgive me, Bevere--that you and your wife don't -get along together." - -"Get along! Things with her are worse than you may think for. -She--she--well, _she_ has not done her best to turn out well. Heaven -knows I'd have tried _my_ best; the thing was done, and nothing else was -left for us: but she has not let me. We are something like cat-and-dog -now, and I am not living with her." - -"No!" - -"That is, I inhabit other lodgings. She is at the old place. I am with a -medical man in Bloomsbury, you know. It was necessary for me to be near -him, and six months ago I went. Lizzie acquiesced in that; the matter -was obvious. I sometimes go to see her; staying, perhaps, from Saturday -to Monday, and come away cursing myself." - -"Don't. _Don't_, Bevere." - -"She has taken to drink," he whispered, biting his agitated lips. "For -pretty near two years now she has not been a day sober. As Heaven hears -me, I believe _not one day_. You may judge what I've had to bear." - -"Could nothing be done?" - -"I tried to do it, Johnny. I coaxed, persuaded, threatened her by turns, -but she would not leave it off. For four months in the autumn of last -year, I did not let a drop of anything come into the house; drinking -water myself all the while--for her sake. It was of no use: she'd go out -and get it: every public-house in the place knows her. I'd come home -from the hospital in the evening and find her raving and rushing about -the rooms like a mad woman, or else lying incapable on the bed. Believe -me, I tried all I could to keep her straight; and Mrs. Dyke, a good, -motherly woman, you remember, did her best to help me; but she was too -much for both of us, the demon of drink had laid too fast hold of her." - -"Does she come bothering you at your new lodgings?" - -"She doesn't know where to come," replied Bevere; "I should not dare to -tell her. She thinks I am in the doctor's house, and she does not know -where that is. I have told her, and her Aunt Dyke has told her, that if -ever she attempts to come after me there, I shall stop her allowance. -Scott--you remember Richard Scott!" - -"Of course." - -"Well, Scott lives now near the Bell-and-Clapper: he is with a surgeon -there. Scott goes to see her for me once a-week, or so, and brings me -news of her. I declare to you, Johnny Ludlow, that when I first catch -sight of his face I turn to a cold shiver, dreading what he may have to -say. And you talk about pulling up! With such a wife as that, one is -thankful to drown care once in a way." - -"I--I suppose, Roger, nothing about her has ever come out _here_?" - -He started up, his face on fire. "Johnny, lad, if it came out here--to -my mother--to all of them--I should die. Say no more. The case is -hopeless, and I am hopeless with it." - -Any way, it seemed hopeless to talk further then, and I took up my -candle. "Just one more word, Roger: Does Lizzie know you have come down -here? She might follow you." - -His face took a look of terror. The bare idea scared him. "I say, don't -you invent impossible horrors," gasped he. "She _couldn't_ come; she -has never heard of the place in connection with me. She has never heard -anything about my people, or where they live, or don't live, or whether -I have any. Good-night." - -"Good-night, Roger." - - -III. - -People say you can never sleep well in a strange bed. I know I did not -sleep well, but very badly, that first night at Lady Bevere's. It was -not the fault of the bed, or of its strangeness; it was Roger's trouble -haunting me. - -He did not seem to have slept well either, to judge by his looks when I -went into his room in the morning. His fair, pleasant face was pale; his -lips trembled, the blue eyes had torment in their depths. - -"I have had a bad dream," he said, in answer to a remark I made. "An -awful dream. It came to me in my last sleep this morning; and morning -dreams, they say, come true. I'm afraid I have you to thank for it, -Johnny." - -"Me!" - -"You suggested last night, startling me well-nigh out of my senses by -it, that Lizzie might follow me down here. Well, I dreamt she did so. -I saw her in the dining-room, haranguing my mother, her red-gold hair -streaming over her shoulders and her arms stretched wildly out. Uncle -John stood in a corner of the room, looking on." - -I felt sorry, and told him so: of course my speaking had prompted the -dream. He need not fear. If Lizzie did not know he had come down here, -or that his family lived here, or anything about them, she could not -follow him. - -"You see shadows where no shadows are, Roger." - -"When a man spoils his life on its threshold, it is all shadow; past, -present, and future." - -"Things may mend, you know." - -"Mend!" he returned: "how can they mend? They may grow worse; never -mend. My existence is one long torment. Day by day I live in dread of -what may come: of her bringing down upon herself some public disgrace -and my name with it. No living being, man or woman, can imagine what -it is to me; the remorse for my folly, the mortification, the shame. I -believe honestly that but for a few things instilled into me at my -mother's knee in childhood, I should have put an end to myself." - -"It is a long lane that has no turning." - -"Lanes have different outlets: bad as well as good." - -"I think breakfast must be ready, Roger." - -"And I started with prospects so fair!" he went on. "Never a thought or -wish in my heart but to fulfil honestly the duties that lay in my way to -the best of my power, to God and to man. And I should have done it, but -for---- Johnny Ludlow," he broke off, with a deep breath of emotion, -"when I see other young fellows travelling along the same wrong road, -once earnest, well-meaning lads as I was, not turning aside of their own -wilful, deliberate folly, but ensnared to it by the evil works and ways -they encounter in that teeming city, my soul is wrung with pity for -them. I sometimes wonder whether God will punish them for what they can -hardly avoid; or whether He will not rather let His anger fall on those -who throw temptations in their way." - -Poor Roger, poor Roger! Mr. Brandon used to talk of the skeleton in -_his_ closet: he little suspected how terrible was the skeleton in -Roger's. - -Lady Bevere kept four servants: for she was no better off, except for a -little income that belonged to herself, than is many another admiral's -widow. An upper maid, Harriet, who helped to wait, and did sewing: a -housemaid and a cook; and an elderly man, Jacob, who had lived with them -in the time of Sir Edmund. - -During the afternoon of this day, Saturday, Roger and I set off to walk -to Brighton with the two girls. Not by the high-road, but by a near way -(supposed to cut off half the distance) across a huge, dreary, flat -marsh, of which you could see neither the beginning nor the end. In -starting, we had reached the gate at the foot of the garden, when -Harriet came running down the path. She was a tall, thin, civil young -woman, with something in her voice or in her manner of speaking that -seemed to my ear familiar, though I knew not how or why. - -"Miss Mary," she said, "my lady asks have you taken umbrellas, if you -please. She thinks it will snow when the sun goes down." - -"Yes, yes; tell mamma we have them," replied Mary: and Harriet ran back. - -"How was it the mother came to so lonely a spot as this?" questioned -Roger, as we went along, the little one, Tottams, jumping around me. -"You girls must find it lively?" - -Mary laughed as she answered. "We _do_ find it lively, Roger, and we -often ask her why she came. But when mamma and George looked at the -place, it was a bright, hot summer's day. They liked it then: it has -plenty of rooms in it, you see, though they are old-fashioned; and the -rent was so very reasonable. Be quiet, Tottams." - -"So reasonable that I should have concluded the place had a ghost in -it," said Roger. - -"George's curacy was at Brighton in those days, you know, Roger: that is -why we came to the neighbourhood." - -"And George had left for a better curacy before you had well settled -down here! Miss Tottams, if you pull at Johnny Ludlow like that, I shall -send you back by yourself." - -"True. But we like the place very well now we are used to it, and we -know a few nice people. One family--the Archers--we like very much. Six -daughters, Roger; one of them, Bessy, would make you a charming wife. -You will have to marry, you know, when you set up in practice. They are -coming to us next Wednesday evening." - -My eye caught Roger's. I did not intend it. Caught the bitter expression -in it as he turned away. - -Brighton reached, we went on the pier. Then, while they did some -commissions for Lady Bevere at various shops, I went to the post-office, -to register two letters for Mr. Brandon. Tottams wanted to keep with me, -but they took her, saying she'd be too troublesome. The letters -registered, I came out of the office, and was turning away, when some -one touched me on the arm. - -"Mr. Ludlow, I think! How are you?" - -To my surprise it was Richard Scott. He seemed equally surprised to see -me. I told him I had come down with Roger Bevere to spend Christmas week -at Prior's Glebe. - -"Lucky fellow!" exclaimed Scott, "I have to go back to London and -drudgery this evening: came down with my governor last night for an -operation to-day. Glad to say it's all well over." - -But a thought had flashed into my mind: I ought not to have said so -much. Drawing Scott out of the passing crowd, I spoke. - -"Look here, Scott: you must be cautious not to say that Bevere's down -here. You must not speak of it." - -"Speak where?" asked Scott, turning his head towards me. He had put his -arm within mine as we walked along. "Where?" - -"Oh--well--up with you, you know--in Bevere's old quarters. Or--or in -the railway-room at the Bell-and-Clapper." - -Scott laughed. "_I_ understand. Madam Lizzie might be coming after him -to his mother's. But--why, what an odd thing!" - -Some thought seemed to have struck him suddenly. He paused in his walk -as well as in his speech. - -"I dare say it was nothing," he added, going on again. "Be at ease as -to Bevere, Ludlow. I should as soon think of applying to him a lighted -firebrand." - -"But what is it you call odd?" I asked, feeling sure that, whatever it -might be, it was connected with Bevere. - -"Why, this," said Scott. "Last night, when we got here, I left my -umbrella in the carriage, having a lot of other things to see to of my -own and the governor's. I went back as soon as I found it out, but could -hear nothing of it. Just now I went up again and got it"--slightly -showing the green silk one he held in his hand. "A train from London -came in while I stood there, bringing a heap of passengers. One of them -looked like Lizzie." - -I could not speak from consternation. - -"Having nothing to do while waiting for my umbrella to be brought, I was -watching the crowd flock out of the station," continued Scott. "Amidst -it I saw a head of red-gold hair, just like Lizzie's. I could not see -more of her than that; some other young woman's head was close to hers." - -"But do you think it was Lizzie?" - -"No, I do not. So little did I think it that it went clean out of my -mind until you spoke. It must have been some accidental resemblance; -nothing more; red-gold hair is not so very uncommon. There's nothing to -bring her down to Brighton." - -"Unless she knows that he is here." - -"That's impossible." - -"What a wretched business it is altogether!" - -"You might well say that if you knew all," returned Scott. "She drinks -like a fish. Like a fish, I assure you. Twice over she has had a -shaking-fit of three days' duration--I suppose you take me, Ludlow--had -to be watched in her bed; the last time was not more than a week ago. -She'll do for herself, if she goes on. It's an awful clog on Bevere. The -marriage in itself was a piece of miserable folly, but if she had been a -different sort of woman and kept herself steady and cared for him----" - -"The problem to me is, how Bevere could have been led away by such a -woman." - -"Ah, but you must not judge of that by what she is now. She was a very -attractive girl, and kept her manners within bounds. Just the kind of -girl that many a silly young ape would lose his head for; and Bevere, -I take it, lost his heart as well as his head." - -"Did you know of the marriage at the time?" - -"Not until after it had taken place." - -"They could never have pulled well together as man and wife; two people -so opposite as they are." - -"No, I fancy not," answered Richard Scott, looking straight out before -him, but as though he saw nothing. "She has not tried at it. Once -his wife, safe and sure, she thought she had it all her own way--as -of course in one sense she had, and could give the reins to her -inclination. Nothing that Bevere wanted her to do, would she do. He -wished her to give up all acquaintance with the two girls at the -Bell-and-Clapper; but not she. He----" - -"Is Miss Panken flourishing?" - -"Quite," laughed Scott, "The other one came to grief--Mabel Falkner." - -"Did she! I thought she seemed rather nice." - -"She was a very nice little girl indeed, as modest as Polly Panken is -impudent. The one could take care of herself; the other couldn't--or -didn't. Well, Mabel fell into trouble, and of course lost her post. -Madam Lizzie immediately gave her house-room, setting Bevere, who -forbade it, at defiance. What with grief and other disasters, the girl -fell sick there; had an illness, and had to be kept I don't know how -long. It put Bevere out uncommonly." - -"Is this lately?" - -"Oh no; last year. Lizzie---- By the way," broke off Scott, stopping -again and searching his pocket, "I've got a note from her for Bevere. -You can give it him." - -The words nearly seared away my senses. A note from Lizzie to Bevere! -"Why, then, she must know he is here!" I cried. - -"You don't understand," quietly said Scott, giving me a note from his -pocket-book. "A day or two ago, I met Lizzie near the Bell-and-Clapper. -She----" - -"She is well enough to be out, then!" - -"Yes. At times she is as well as you are. Well, I met her, and she began -to give me a message for her husband, which I could not then wait to -hear. So she sent this note to me later, to be delivered to him when we -next met. I had not time to go to him yesterday, and here the note is -still." - -It was addressed "Mr. Bevary." I pointed out the name to Scott. - -"Does she not know better, think you?" - -"Very likely not," he answered. "A wrong letter, more or less, in a -name, signifies but little to one of Lizzie's standard of education. It -is not often, I expect, she sees the name on paper, or has to write it. -Fare you well, Ludlow. Remember me to Bevere." - -Scott had hardly disappeared when they met me. I said nothing of having -seen him. After treating Tottams to some tarts and a box of bonbons, we -set off home again; the winter afternoon was closing, and it was nearly -dark when we arrived. Getting Roger into his room, I handed him the -note, and told him how I came by it. He showed me the contents. - - "DEAR ROGER, - - "When you where last at home, you said you should not be able to - spend Christmas with me, so I am thinking of trying a little jaunt - for myself. I am well now and mean to keep so, and a few days in - the country air may help me and set me up prime. I inscribe this to - let you know, and also to tell you that I shall pay my journey with - the quarter's rent you left, so you must send or bring the sum - again. Aunt Dyke has got the rumaticks fine, she can't come - bothering me with her lectures quite as persistent as usual. - Wishing you the compliments of the season, I remain, - - "Your affectionate wife, - "LIZZIE." - -"Gone into Essex, I suppose; she has talked sometimes of her cousin -there," was all the remark made by Bevere. And he set the note alight, -and sent it blazing up the chimney. Of course I did not mention Scott's -fancy about the red-gold hair. - - * * * * * - -Sunday. We crossed the waste land in the morning to the little church I -have spoken of. A few cottages stood about it, and a public-house with -a big sign, on which was painted a yellow bunch of wheat, and the words -The Sheaf o' Corn. It was bitterly cold weather, the wind keen and -cutting, the ground a sort of grey-white from a sprinkling of snow that -had fallen in the night. I suppose they don't, as a rule, warm these -rural churches, from want of means or energy, but I think I never felt -a church so cold before. Mr. Brandon said it had given him a chill. - -In the evening, after tea, we went to church by moonlight. Not all of -us this time. Mr. Brandon stayed away to nurse his chill, and Roger on -the plea of headache. The snow was beginning to come down smartly. The -little church was lighted with candles stuck in tin sconces nailed to -the wall, and was dim enough. Lady Bevere whispered to me that the -clergyman had a service elsewhere in the afternoon, so could only hold -his own in the evening. - -It was snowing with a vengeance when we came out--large flakes half as -big as a shilling, and in places already a foot deep. We made the best -of our way home, and were white objects when we got there. - -"Ah!" remarked Mr. Brandon, "I thought we should have it. Hope the wind -will go down a little now." - -The girls and their mother went upstairs to take off their cloaks. I -asked Mr. Brandon where Roger was. He turned round from his warm seat by -the fire to answer me. - -"Roger is outside, enjoying the benefit of the snow-storm. That young -man has some extraordinary care upon his conscience, Johnny, unless I -am mistaken," he added, his thin voice emphatic, his eyes throwing an -inquiry into mine. - -"Do you fancy he has, sir?" I stammered. At which Mr. Brandon threw a -searching look at me, as if he had a mind to tax me with knowing what it -was. - -"Well, you had better tell him to come in, Johnny." - -Roger's great-coat, hanging in the hall, seemed to afford an index that -he had not strayed beyond the garden. The snow, coming down so thick and -fast but a minute or two ago, had temporarily ceased, following its own -capricious fashion, and the moon was bright again. Calling aloud to -Roger as I stood on the door-step, and getting no answer, I went out to -look for him. - -On the side of the garden facing the church, was a little entrance-gate, -amid the clusters of laurels and other shrubs. Hearing footsteps -approach this, and knowing all were in from church, for the servants got -back before we did, I went down the narrow cross-path leading to it, and -looked out. It was not Roger, but a woman. A lady, rather, by what the -moonbeams displayed of her dress, which looked very smart. As she seemed -to be making for the gate, I stepped aside into the shrubs, and peered -out over the moor for Roger. The lady gave a sharp ring at the bell, -and old Jacob came from the side-door of the house to answer it. - -"Is this Prior's Glebe?" she asked--and her voice gave an odd thrill to -my pulses, for I thought I recognized it. - -"Yes, ma'am," said Jacob. - -"Lady Beveer's, I think." - -"That's near enough," returned Jacob, familiar with the eccentricities -of pronunciation accorded to the name. "What did you please to want?" - -"I want Miss Field." - -"Miss Field!" echoed the old man. - -"Harriet Field. She lives here, don't she? I'd like to see her." - -"Oh--Harriet! I'll send her out," said he, turning away. - -The more I heard of the voice, the greater grew my dismay. Surely it -was that of Roger's wife! Was it really she that Scott had seen at the -station? Had she come after Roger? Did she know he was here? I stood -back amid the sheltering laurels, hardly daring to breathe. Waiting -there, she began a little dance, or shuffle of the feet, perhaps to warm -herself, and broke into a verse of a gay song. "As I live, she's not -sober!" was the fear that flashed across me. Harriet, her things still -on, just as she came in from church, came swiftly to the gate. - -"Well, Harriet, how are you?" - -"Why, Lizzie!--it's never you!" exclaimed Harriet, after an amazed stare -at the visitor. - -"Yes, it's me. I thought I'd come over and see you. That old man was -polite though, to leave me standing here." - -"But where have you come from? And why are you so late?" - -"Oh, I'm staying at Brighton; came down on the spree yesterday. I'm -late because I lost my way on this precious moor--or whatever it calls -itself--and got a mile, or so, too far. When the snow came on--and ain't -it getting deep!--I turned into a house to shelter a bit, and here I am. -A man that was coming out of church yonder directed me to the place -here." - -She must have been at The Sheaf o' Corn. What if she had chanced to ask -the route of _me_! - -"You got my letter, then, telling you I had left my old place at -Worthing, and taken service here," said Harriet. - -"I got it safe enough; it was directed to the Bell-and-Clapper room," -returned Lizzie. "What a stick of a hand you do write! I couldn't -decipher whether your new mistress was Lady Beveen or Lady Beveer. I had -thought you never meant to write to me again." - -"Well, you know, Lizzie, that quarrel between us years back, after -father and mother died, was a bitter one; but I'm sure I don't want to -be anything but friendly for the future. You haven't written, either. I -never had but that one letter from you, telling me you had got married, -and that he was a gentleman." - -"And you wrote back asking whether it was true, or whether I had jumped -over the broomstick," retorted Lizzie, with a laugh. "You always liked -to be polite to me, Harriet." - -"Do you ever see Uncle Dyke up in London, Lizzie?" - -"And Aunt Dyke too--she's his second, you know. They are both -flourishing just now with rheumatism. He has got it in his chest, and -she in her knees--tra, la, la, la! I say, are you not going to invite me -in?" - -Lizzie's conversation had been interspersed with laughs and antics. I -saw Harriet look at her keenly. "Was it a public-house you took shelter -in, Lizzie?" she asked. - -"As if it could have been a private one! That's good." - -"Is your husband with you at Brighton? I suppose you _are_ married, -Lizzie?" - -"As safe as that you are an old maid--or going on for one. My husband's -a doctor and can't leave his patients. I came down with a friend of -mine, Miss Panken; she has to go back to-night, but I mean to stay over -Christmas-Day. I'll tell you all about my husband if you'll be civil -enough to take me indoors." - -"I can't take you in to-night, Lizzie. It's too late, for one thing, and -we must not have visitors on a Sunday. But you can come over to tea -to-morrow evening; I'm sure my lady won't object. Come early in the -afternoon. And look here," added Harriet, dropping her voice, "don't -_drink_ anything beforehand; come quiet and decent." - -"Who has been telling you that I do drink?" demanded Lizzie, in a sharp -tone. - -"Well, nobody has told me. But I can see it. I hope it's not a practice -with you; that's all." - -"A practice! There you go! It wouldn't be you, Harriet, if you didn't -say something unpleasant. One must take a sup of hot liquor when -benighted in such freezing snow as this. And I did not put on my warm -cloak; it was fine and bright when I started." - -"Shall I lend you one? I'll get it in a minute. Or a waterproof?" - -"Thanks all the same, no; I shall walk fast, I don't feel cold--and I -should only have the trouble of bringing it back to-morrow afternoon. -I'll be here by three o'clock. Good-night, Harriet." - -"Good-night, Lizzie. Go round to that path that branches off from our -front-gate; keep straight on, and you can't miss the way." - -I had heard it all; every syllable; unable to help it. The least rustle -of the laurels might have betrayed me. Betrayed me to Lizzie. - -What a calamity! She did not appear to have come down after Roger, did -not appear to know that he was connected with Lady Bevere--or that the -names were the same. But at the tea-table the following evening she -would inevitably learn all. Servants talk of their masters and their -doings. And to hear Roger's name would be ruin. - -I found Roger in his chamber. "Uncle Brandon was putting inconvenient -questions to me," he said, "so I got away under pretence of looking at -the weather. How cold you look, Johnny!" - -"I am cold. I went into the garden, looking for you, and I had a fright -there." - -"Seen a ghost?" returned he, lightly. - -"Something worse than a ghost. Roger, I have some disagreeable news for -you." - -"Eh?--what?" he cried, his fears leaping up: indeed they were very -seldom _down_. "They don't suspect anything, do they? What is it? Why do -you beat about the bush?" - -"I should like to prepare you. If----" - -"Prepare me!" sharply interrupted Roger, his nerves all awry. "Do you -think I am a girl? Don't I live always in too much mental excruciation -to need preparation for any mortal ill?" - -"Well, Lizzie's down here." - -In spite of his boast, he turned as white as the counterpane on his bed. -I sat down and told him all. His hair grew damp as he listened, his face -took the hue of despair. - -"Heaven help me!" he gasped. - -"I suppose you did not know Harriet was her sister?" - -"How was I to know it? Be you very sure Lizzie would not voluntarily -proclaim to me that she had a sister in service. What wretched luck! Oh, -Johnny, what is to be done?" - -"Nothing--that I see. It will be sure to come out over their tea -to-morrow. Harriet will say 'Mr. Roger's down here on a visit, and has -brought Mr. Johnny Ludlow with him'--just as a little item of gossip. -And then--why, then, Lizzie will make but one step of it into the family -circle, and say 'Roger is my husband.' It is of no use to mince the -matter, Bevere," I added, in answer to a groan of pain; "better look the -worst in the face." - -The worst was a very hopeless worst. Even if we could find out where -she was staying in Brighton, and he or I went to her to try to stop her -coming, it would not avail; she would come all the more. - -"You don't know her depth," groaned Roger. "She'd put two and two -together, and jump to the right conclusion--that it is my home. No, -there's nothing that can be done, nothing; events must take their -course. Johnny," he passionately added, "I'd rather die than face the -shame." - -Lady Bevere's voice on the stairs interrupted him. "Roger! Johnny! Why -don't you come down? Supper's waiting." - -"I can't go down," he whispered. - -"You must, Roger. If not, they'll ask the reason why." - - * * * * * - -A fine state of mental turbulence we were in all day on Monday. Roger -dared not stir abroad lest he should meet her and have to bring her home -clinging to his coat-tails. Not that much going abroad was practicable, -save in the beaten paths. Snow had fallen heavily all night long. But -the sky to-day was blue and bright. - -With the afternoon began the watching and listening. I wonder whether -the reader can picture our mental state? Roger had made a resolve that -as soon as Lizzie's foot crossed the threshold, he would disclose all to -his mother, forestalling her tale. Indeed, he could do nothing less. -Says Lord Byron, "Whatever sky's above me, here's a heart for every -fate." I fear we could not then have said the same. - -Three o'clock struck. Roger grew pale to the lips as he heard it. I am -not sure but I did. Four o'clock struck; and yet she did not come. The -suspense, the agony of those few afternoon hours brought enough pain for -a lifetime. - -At dusk, when she could not have known me at a distance, I went out to -reconnoitre, glad to go somewhere or do something, and prowled about -under shelter of the dark shrubs, watching the road. She was not in -sight anywhere; coming from any part; though I stayed there till I was -blue with cold. - -"Not in a state to come, I expect," gasped Roger, when I got in, and -reported that I could see nothing of her, and found him still sitting -over the dining-room fire. - -He gave a start as the door was flung open. It was only Harriet, with -the tea-tray and candles. We had dined early. George, the clergyman, -was expected in the evening, and Lady Bevere thought it would be more -sociable if we all took supper with him. Tottams followed the tea-tray, -skipping and singing. - -"I wish it was Christmas-Eve every day!" cried the child. "Cook's making -such a lot of mince pies and cakes in the kitchen." - -"Why, dear me, somebody has been drawing the curtains without having -shut the shutters first!" exclaimed Harriet, hastening to remedy the -mistake. - -I could have told her it was Roger. As the daylight faded and the fire -brightened, he had shut out the window, lest dreaded eyes should peer -through it and see him. - -"Your sister's not come yet, Harriet!" said Tottams. For the advent of -Harriet's expected visitor was known in the household. - -"No, Miss Tottams, she is not," replied Harriet, "I can't think why, -unless she was afraid of the snow underfoot." - -"There's no snow to hurt along the paths," contended Tottams. - -"Perhaps she'd not know that," said Harriet. "But she may come yet; it -is only five o'clock--and it's a beautiful moon." - -Roger got up to leave the room and met Lady Bevere face to face. She -caught sight of the despair on his, for he was off his guard. But off -it, or on it, no one could fail to see that he was ill at ease. Some -young men might have kept a smooth countenance through it all, for -their friends and the world; Roger was sensitive to a degree, refined, -thoughtful, and could not hide the signs of conflict. - -"What is it that is amiss with him, Johnny?" Lady Bevere said, coming -to me as I stood on the hearthrug before the fire, Tottams having -disappeared with Harriet. "He looks wretchedly ill; _ill with care_, -as it seems to me; and he cannot eat." - -What could I answer? How was it possible, with those kind, candid blue -eyes, so like Roger's, looking confidingly into mine, to tell her that -nothing was amiss? - -"Dear Lady Bevere, do not be troubled," I said at length. "A little -matter has been lately annoying Roger in London, and--and--I suppose he -cannot forget it down here." - -"Is it money trouble?" she asked. - -"Not exactly. No; it's not money. Perhaps Roger will tell you himself. -But please do not say anything to him unless he does." - -"Why cannot you tell me, Johnny?" - -Had Madam Lizzie been in the house, rendering discovery inevitable, I -would have told her then, and so far spared Roger the pain. But she was -not; she might not come; in which case perhaps the disclosure need not -be made--or, at any rate, might be staved off to a future time. Lady -Bevere held my hands in hers. - -"You know what this trouble is, Johnny; all about it?" - -"Yes, that's true. But I cannot tell it you. I have no right to." - -"I suppose you are right," she sighed. "But oh, my dear, you young -people cannot know what such griefs are to a mother's heart; the dread -they inflict, the cruel suspense they involve." - -And the evening passed on to its close, and Lizzie had not come. - -A little circumstance occurred that night, not much to relate, but not -pleasant in itself. George, a good-looking young clergyman, got in -very late and half-frozen--close upon eleven o'clock. He would not -have supper brought back, but said he should be glad of some hot -brandy-and-water. The water was brought in and put with the brandy on -a side-table. George mixed a glass for himself, and Roger went and -mixed one. By-and-bye, when Roger had disposed of that, he went back -to mix a second. Mr. Brandon glided up behind him. - -"No, Roger, not in your mother's house," he whispered, interposing a -hand of authority between Roger and the brandy. "Though you may drink -to an unseemly extent in town, you shall not here." - -"Roger got some brandy-and-water from mamma this afternoon," volunteered -Miss Tottams, dancing up to them. She had been allowed to sit up to help -dress the rooms; and, of all little pitchers, she had the sharpest ears. -"He said he felt sick, Uncle John." - -They came back to the fire and sat down again, Roger looking in truth -sick; sick almost unto death. - -Mr. Brandon went up to bed; Lady Bevere soon followed, and we began -the rooms, Harriet and Jacob coming in to help. Roger exclaimed at the -splendid heaps of holly. Of late years he had seen only the poor scraps -they get in London. - - * * * * * - -"A merry Christmas to you, Roger!" - -"Don't, Johnny! Better that you should wish me dead." - -The bright sun was shining into his room as I entered it on this -Christmas morning: Roger stood brushing his hair at the glass. He looked -very ill. - -"How can I look otherwise?" retorted poor Roger. "Two nights and not -a wink of sleep!--nothing but fever and apprehension and intolerable -restlessness. And you come wishing me a merry Christmas!" - -Well, of course it did sound like a mockery. "I will wish you a happier -one for next year, then, Roger. Things may be brighter then." - -"How can they be?--with that dreadful weight that I must carry about -with me for life? Do you see this?"--sweeping his hand round towards the -window. - -I saw nothing but the blessed sunlight--and said so. - -"That's it," he answered: "that blessed sunlight will bring her here -betimes. With a good blinding snowfall, or a pelting downpour of cats -and dogs, I might have hoped for a respite. What a Christmas offering -for my mother! I say!--don't go away for a minute--did you hear Uncle -John last night about the brandy?" - -I nodded. - -"It is not that I _like_ drink, or care for it for drinking's sake; -I declare it to you, Johnny Ludlow; but I take it, and must take it, -to drown care. With that extra glass last night, I might have got to -sleep--I don't know. Were my mind at ease, I should be as sober as you -are." - -"But don't you see, Roger, that unless you pull up now, while you _can_, -you may not be able to do it later." - -"Oh yes, I see it all," he carelessly said. "Well, it no longer matters -much what becomes of me. There's the breakfast-bell. You can go on, -Johnny." - -The rooms looked like green bowers, for we had not spared either our -pains or the holly-branches, and it would have been as happy a -Christmas-Day as it was a bright one, but for the sword that was hanging -over Roger Bevere's head. Neither he nor I could enjoy it. He declined -to go to church with us, saying he felt ill: the truth being that he -feared to meet Lizzie. Not to attend divine service on Christmas-Day was -regarded by Mr. Brandon as one of the cardinal sins. To my surprise he -did not remonstrate with Roger in words: but he looked the more. - -Lady Bevere's dinner hour on Christmas-Day was four o'clock, which -gave a good long evening. Roger ate some turkey and some plum-pudding, -mechanically; his ears were listening for the dreaded sound of the -door-bell. We were about half-way through dinner, when there came a peal -that shook the house. Lady Bevere started in her chair. I fancy Roger -went nearly out of his. - -"Why, who can be coming here now--with such a ring as that?" she -exclaimed. - -"Perhaps it is Harriet's sister!" cried the little girl, in her sharp, -quick way. "Do you think it is, Harriet?" - -"She's free enough for it," returned Harriet, in a vexed tone. "I told -her she might come yesterday, Miss Tottams, my lady permitting it, but I -did not tell her she might come to-day." - -I glanced at Roger. His knife and fork shook in his hands; his face wore -the hue of the grave. I was little less agitated than he. - -Another respite. It was only a parcel from the railway-station, which -had been delayed in the delivery. And the dinner went on. - -And the evening went on too, as the past one went on--undisturbed. -Later, when some of us were playing at snap-dragon in the little -breakfast-room, Harriet came in to march Miss Tottams off to bed. - -"Your sister did not come after all, did she, Harriet?" said Mary. - -"No, Miss Mary. She's gone back to London," continued Harriet, after a -pause. "Not enough life for her, I dare say, down here." - -Roger glanced round. He did not dare ask whether Harriet knew she was -gone back, or only supposed it. - -Mary laughed. "Fond of life, is she?" - -"She always was, Miss Mary. She is married to a gentleman. At least, -that is her account of him: he is a medical man, she says. But it may be -he is only a medical man's assistant." - -"Did she go back yesterday, or to-day?" I inquired, carelessly. "She -would have a cold journey." - -"Yesterday, if she's gone at all, sir," replied Harriet: "she'd hardly -travel on Christmas-Day. If not, she'll be here to-morrow." - -Roger groaned--and turned it off with a desperate cough, as though the -raisins burnt his throat. - - * * * * * - -The next day came, Wednesday, again clear, cold, and bright. At -breakfast George and Mary agreed to walk to Brighton. "You will come -too," said George, looking at us. - -I said nothing. Roger shook his head. Of all places in the known world -he'd not have ventured into Brighton, and run the risk of meeting _her_, -perambulating its streets. - -"No!--why, it will be a glorious walk," remonstrated George. - -"Don't care for it this morning," shortly answered Roger. "I'm sure -Johnny doesn't." - -Mr. Brandon came, if I may so put it, to the rescue. "I shall take a -walk myself, and you two may go with me," said he to us. "I should like -to see what the country looks like yonder"--pointing to the unknown -regions beyond the little church. And as this was just in the opposite -direction to Brighton, Roger made no objection, and we set off soon -after breakfast. The sky overhead was blue and clear, the snow on the -ground dazzlingly white. - -The regions beyond the church were the same as these: a -long-stretched-out moor of flat dreariness. Mr. Brandon walked on. -"We shall come to something or other in time," said he. Walking with -him meant walking when he was in the mood for it. - -A mile or two onwards, more or less, a small settlement loomed into -view, with a pound and a set of rusty stocks, and an old-fashioned inn, -its swinging sign, The Rising Sun, as splendid as that other sign nearer -Prior's Glebe: and it really appeared to us as if all the inhabitants -had turned out to congregate round the inn-door. - -"What's to do, I wonder?" cried Mr. Brandon: "seems to be some -excitement going on." When near enough he inquired whether anything was -amiss, and the whole throng answered together. - -A woman had been found that morning frozen to death in the snow, and had -been carried into The Rising Sun. A young woman wearing smart clothes, -added a labourer, as the rest of the voices died away: got benighted, -perhaps, poor thing, and lost her way, and so lay down to die; seemed to -have been dead quite a day or two, if not more. The missis at The Sheaf -o' Corn yonder had been over, and recognized her as having called in -there on Sunday night and had some drink. - -Why, as the man spoke, should the dread thought have flashed into my -mind--was it Lizzie? Why should it have flashed simultaneously into -Roger's? Had Lizzie lost her way that past Sunday night--and sunk down -into some sheltered nook to rest awhile, and so sleep and then death -overtook her? Roger glanced at me with frightened eyes, a dawn of horror -rising to his countenance. - -"I will just step in and take a look at her," I said, and bore on -steadily for the door of the inn, deaf for once to Mr. Brandon's -authoritative call. What did I want looking at dead women, he asked: was -the sight so pleasant? No, it was not pleasant, I could have answered -him, and I'd rather have gone a mile away from it; but I went in for -Roger's sake. - -The innkeeper--an elderly man, with a bald head and red nose--came -forward, grumbling that for the past hour or two it had been sharp work -to keep out the crowd, all agape to see the woman. I asked him to let me -see her, assuring him it was not out of idle curiosity that I wished it. -Believing me, he acquiesced at once; civilly remarking, as he led the -way through the house, that he had sent for the police, and expected -them every minute. - -On the long table of a bleak-looking outer kitchen, probably used only -in summer, lay the dead. I took my look at her. - -Yes, it was Lizzie. Looking as peaceful as though she had only just gone -to sleep. Poor thing! - -"Do you recognize her, sir? Did you think you might?" - -I shook my head in answer. It would not have done to acknowledge it. -Thanking him, I went out to Roger. Mr. Brandon fired off a tirade of -reproaches at me, and said he was glad to see I had turned white. - -"_Yes_," I emphatically whispered to Roger in the midst of it. "Go you -in, and satisfy yourself." - -Roger disappeared inside the inn. Mr. Brandon was so indignant at the -pair of us, that he set off at a sharp pace for home again, I with him, -Roger presently catching us up. Twice during the walk, Roger was taken -with a shivering-fit, as though sickening for the ague. Mr. Brandon held -his tongue then, and recommended him, when we got in, to put himself -between some hot blankets. - -In the dead woman's pocket was found Harriet Field's address; and a -policeman presented himself at Prior's Glebe with the news of the -calamity and to ask what Harriet knew of her. Away went Harriet to The -Rising Sun, and recognized the dead. It was her sister, she said; she -had called to see her on Sunday night, having walked over from Brighton, -and must have lost her way on the waste land in returning. What name, -was the next question put; and, after a moment's hesitation, Harriet -answered "Elizabeth Field." Not feeling altogether sure of the marriage, -she said nothing about it. - -Will you accuse Roger Bevere of cowardice for holding aloof; for keeping -silence? Then you must accuse me for sanctioning it. He _could_ not -bring himself to avow all the past shame to his mother. And what end -would it answer now if he did?--what good effect to his poor, wretched, -foolish wife? None. - -"Johnny," he said to me, with a grasp of his fevered hand, "is it wrong -to feel as if a great mercy had been vouchsafed me?--is it _wicked_? -Heaven knows, I pity her fate; I would have saved her from it if I -could. Just as I'd have kept her from her evil ways, and tried to be a -good husband to her--but she would not let me." - -They held an inquest upon her next day: or, as the local phraseology of -the place put it, "Sat upon the body of Elizabeth Field." The landlady -of The Sheaf o' Corn was an important witness. - -She testified that the young woman came knocking at the closed door of -the inn on the Sunday evening during church time, saying she had lost -her way. Nobody was at home but herself and the servant-girl, her -husband having gone to church. They let her in. She called for a good -drop of drink--brandy-and-water--while sitting there, and was allowed to -have it, though it was out of serving hours, as she declared she was -perishing with cold. Before eight o'clock, she left, and was away about -half-an-hour. Then she came back again, had more to drink, and bought a -pint bottle of brandy, to carry, as she told them, home to her lodgings, -and she got the girl to draw the cork, saying her rooms did not -possess a corkscrew. She took the bottle away with her. Was she tipsy? -interposed the coroner at this juncture. Not very, the witness replied, -not so tipsy but that she could walk and talk, but she had had quite -enough. She went away, and they saw her no more. - -Harriet's evidence, next given, did not amount to much. The deceased, -her younger sister, had lived for some years in London, but she did not -know at what address latterly; she used to serve at a refreshment-bar, -but had left it. Until the past Sunday night, when Lizzie called -unexpectedly at Prior's Glebe, they had not met for five or six years: -it was then arranged that Lizzie should come to drink tea with her the -next afternoon: but she never came. Felt convinced that the death was -pure accident, through her having lost her way in the snow. - -With this opinion the room agreed. Instead of taking the direct path -to Brighton, as Harriet had enjoined, she must have turned back -The Sheaf o' Corn for more drink. And that she had wandered in a wrong -direction, upon quitting it, across the waste land, there could not be -any doubt; or that she had sat down, or _fallen_ down, possibly from -fatigue, in the drift where she was found. The brandy bottle lay near -her, _empty_. Whether she died of the brandy, or of the exposure to -the cold night, might be a question. The jury decided that it was the -latter. - -And nothing whatever had come out touching Roger. - -Harriet had already given orders for a decent funeral, in the -neighbouring graveyard. It took place on the afternoon of the following -day, Friday. By a curious little coincidence, George Bevere was asked to -take the service, the incumbent being ill with a cold. It afforded a -pretext for Roger's attending. He and I walked quietly up in the wake -of George, and stood at the grave together. Harriet thanked us for it -afterwards: she looked upon it as a compliment paid to herself. - -"Scott shall forward to her every expense she has been put to as soon as -I am back in London," said Roger to me. "He will know how to manage it." - -"Shall you tell Mrs. Dyke?" - -"To be sure I shall. She is a trustworthy, good woman." - -Our time at Prior's Glebe was up, and we took our departure from it on -the Saturday morning; another day of intense cold, of dark blue skies, -and of bright sunshine. George left with us. - -"My dear, you will try--you will _try_ to keep straight, won't you; -to be what you ought to be," whispered Lady Bevere in the bustle of -starting, as she clasped Roger's hands in the hall, tears falling from -her eyes: all just as it was that other time in Gibraltar Terrace. "For -my sake, dear; for my sake." - -"I shall do now, mother," he whispered back, meeting her gaze through -his wet eyelashes, his manner strangely solemn. "God has been very good -to me, and I--I will try from henceforth to do my best in all ways." - - * * * * * - -And Roger kept his word. - - - - -KETIRA THE GIPSY. - - -I. - -"I tell you what it is, Abel. You think of everybody else before -yourself. The Squire says there's no sense in it." - -"No sense in what, Master Johnny?" - -"Why, in supplying those ill-doing Standishes with your substance. -Herbs, and honey, and medicine--they are always getting something or -other out of you." - -"But they generally _need_ it, sir." - -"Well, they don't deserve it, you know. The Squire went into a temper -to-day, saying the vagabonds ought to be left to starve if they did not -choose to work, instead of being helped by the public." - -Our hen-roosts had been robbed, and it was pretty certain that one or -other of the Standish brothers was the thief. Perhaps all three had a -hand in it. Chancing to pass Abel Carew's garden, where he was at work, -I turned in to tell him of the raid; and stayed, talking. It was -pleasant to sit on the bench outside the cottage-window, and watch him -tend his roots and flowers. The air was redolent of perfume; the bees -were humming as they sailed in the summer sunshine from herb to herb, -flower to flower; the dark blue sky was unclouded. - -"Just look at those queer-looking people, Abel! They must be gipsies." - -Abel let his hands rest on his rake, and lifted his eyes to the common. -Crossing it, came two women, one elderly, one very young--a girl, in -fact. Their red cloaks shone in the sun; very coarse and sunburnt straw -hats were tied down with red kerchiefs. That they belonged to the gipsy -fraternity was apparent at the first glance. Pale olive complexions, the -elder one's almost yellow, were lighted up with black eyes of wonderful -brilliancy. The young girl was strikingly beautiful; her features -clearly cut and delicate, as though carved from marble, her smooth and -abundant hair of a purple black. The other's hair was purple black also, -and had not a grey thread in it. - -"They must be coming to tell our fortunes, Abel," I said jestingly. For -the two women seemed to be making direct for the gate. - -No answer from Abel, and I turned to look at him. He was gazing at the -coming figures with the most intense gaze, a curious expression of -inquiring doubt on his face. The rake fell from his hand. - -"My search is ended," spoke the woman, halting at the gate, her -glittering black eyes scanning him intently. "You are Abel Carew." - -"Is it Ketira?" he asked, the words dropping from him in slow -hesitation, as he took a step forward. - -"Am I so much changed that you need doubt it for a moment?" she -returned: and her tone and accent fell soft and liquid; her diction was -of the purest, with just the slightest foreign ring in it. "Forty years -have rolled on since you and I met, Abel Carew; but I come of a race -whose faces do not change. As we are in youth, so we are in age--save -for the inevitable traces left by time." - -"And this?" questioned Abel, as he looked at the girl and drew back his -gate. - -"She is Ketira also; my youngest and dearest. The youngest of sixteen -children, Abel Carew; and every one of them, save herself, lying under -the sod." - -"What--dead?" he exclaimed. "Sixteen!" - -"Fifteen are dead, and are resting in peace in different lands: ten of -them died in infancy ere I had well taken my first look at their little -faces. She is the sixteenth. See you the likeness?" added the gipsy, -pointing to the girl's face; as she stood, modest and silent, a -conscious colour tingeing her olive cheeks, and glancing up now and -again through her long black eyelashes at Abel Carew. - -"Likeness to you, Ketira?" - -"Not to me: though there exists enough of it between us to betray that -we are mother and daughter. To him--her father." - -And, while Abel was looking at the girl, I looked. And in that moment -it struck me that her face bore a remarkable likeness to his own. The -features were of the same high-bred cast, pure and refined; you might -have said they were made in the same mould. - -"I see; yes," said Abel. - -"He has been gone, too, this many a year; as you, perhaps, may know, -Abel; and is with the rest, waiting for us in the spirit-land. Kettie -does not remember him, it is so long ago. There are only she and I left -to go now. Kettie----" - -She suddenly changed her language to one I did not understand. Neither, -as was easy to be seen, did Abel Carew. Whether it was Hebrew, or -Egyptian, or any other rare tongue, I knew not; but I had never in my -life heard its sounds before. - -"I am telling Kettie that in you she may see what her father was--for -the likeness in your face and his, allowing for the difference of age, -is great." - -"Does Kettie not speak English?" inquired Abel. - -"Oh yes, I speak it," answered the girl, slightly smiling, and her tones -were soft and perfect as those of her mother. - -"And where have you been since his death, Ketira? Stationary in Ai----" - -He dropped his voice to a whisper at the last word, and I did not catch -it. I suppose he did not intend me to. - -"Not stationary for long anywhere," she answered, passing into the -cottage with a majestic step. I lifted my hat to the women--who, for all -their gipsy dress and origin, seemed to command consideration--and made -off. - -The arrival of these curious people caused some commotion at Church -Dykely. It was so rare we had any event to enliven us. They took up -their abode in a lonely cottage no better than a hut (one room up and -one down) that stood within that lively place, the wilderness on the -outskirts of Chanasse Grange; and there they stayed. How they got a -living nobody knew: some thought the gipsy must have an income, others -that Abel helped them. - -"She was very handsome in her youth," he said to me one day, as if he -wished to give some explanation of the arrival I had chanced to witness. -"Handsomer and finer by far than her daughter is; and one who was very -near of kin to me married her--_would_ marry her. She was a born gipsy, -of what is called a high-caste tribe." - -That was all he said. For Abel's sake, who was so respected, Church -Dykely felt inclined to give respect to the women. But, when it was -discovered that Ketira would tell the fortune of any one who cared to -go surreptitiously to her lonely hut, the respect cooled down. "Ketira -the gipsy," she was universally called: nobody knew her by any other -name. The fortune-telling came to the ears of Abel, arousing his -indignation. He went to Ketira in distress, begging of her to cease -such practices--but she waved him majestically out of the hut, and -bade him mind his own business. Occasionally the mother and daughter -shut up their dwelling and disappeared for weeks together. It was -assumed they went to attend fairs and races, camping out with the -gipsy fraternity. Kettie at all times and seasons was modest and good; -never was an unmaidenly look seen from her, or a bold word heard. In -appearance and manner and diction she might have been a born lady, and -a high-bred one. Graceful and innocent was Kettie; but heedless and -giddy, as girls are apt to be. - -"Look there, Johnny!" - -We were at Worcester races, walking about on the course. I turned at -Tod's words, and saw Ketira the gipsy, her red cloak gleaming in the -sun, just as it had gleamed that day, a year before, on Dykely Common. -For the past month she had been away, and her cottage shut up. - -She stood at the open door of a carriage, reading the hand of the lady -inside it. A notable object was Ketira on the course, with her quaint -attire, her majestic figure, her fine olive-dark features, and the fire -of her brilliant eyes. What good or ill luck she was promising, I know -not; but I saw the lady turn pale and snatch her hand away. "You cannot -_know_ what you tell me," she cried in a haughty tone, sharp enough and -loud enough to be heard. - -"Wait and see," rejoined Ketira, turning away. - -"So you have come here to see the fun, Ketira," I said to her, as she -was brushing by me. During the past year I had seen more of her than -many people had, and we had grown familiar; for she, as she once -expressed it, "took" to me. - -"The fun and the business; the pleasure and the wickedness," she -answered, with a sweep of the hand round the course. "There's plenty of -it abroad." - -"Is Kettie not here?" I asked: and the question made her eyes glare. -Though, why, I was at a loss to know, seeing that a race-ground is the -legitimate resort of gipsies. - -"Kettie! Do you suppose I bring Kettie to _these_ scenes--to be gazed at -by this ribald mass?" - -"Well, it is a rabble, and a good one," I answered, looking at the -crowd. - -"Nay, boy," said she, following my glance, "it's not the rabble Kettie -need fear, as you count rabble; it's their betters"--swaying her arms -towards the carriages, and the dandies, their owners or guests; some of -whom were balancing themselves on the steps to talk to the pretty girls -within, and some were strolling about the enclosed paddock, forbidden -ground but to the "upper few." "Ketira is too fair to be shown to -_them_." - -"They would not eat her, Ketira." - -"No, they would not eat her," she replied in a dreamy tone, as if her -thoughts were elsewhere. - -"And I don't see any other harm they could do her, guarded by you." - -"Boy," she said, dropping her voice to an impressive whisper, and -lightly touching my arm with her yellow hand, "I have read Kettie's fate -in the stars, and I see that there is some great and grievous peril -approaching her. It _may_ be averted; there's just a chance that it may: -meanwhile I am encompassing her about with care, guarding her as the -apple of my eye." - -"And if it should not be averted?" I asked in the moment's impulse, -carried away by the woman's impressive earnestness. - -"Then woe be to those who bring the evil upon her!" - -"And of what nature is the evil?" - -"I know not," she replied, her eyes taking again their dreamy, far-off -look. "Woe is me!--for I know it not." - -"How do you do, Ludlow? Not here alone, are you?" - -A good-looking young fellow, Hyde Stockhausen, had reined in his horse -to ask the question: giving at the same time a keen glance to the gipsy -woman and then a half-smile at me, as if he suspected I was having my -fortune told. - -"The rest are on the course somewhere. The Squire is driving old -Jacobson about." - -As Hyde nodded and rode on, I chanced to see Ketira's face. It was -stretched out after him with the most eager gaze on it, a defiant look -in her black eyes. I thought Stockhausen must have offended her. - -"Do you know him?" I asked involuntarily. - -"I never saw him before; but I don't like him," she answered, showing -her white and gleaming teeth. "Who is he?" - -"His name is Stockhausen." - -"I don't like him," she repeated in a muttering tone. "He is an enemy. -I don't like his look." - -Considering that he was a well-looking man, with a pleasant face and gay -blue eyes, a face that no reasonable spirit could take umbrage at, I -wondered to hear her say this. - -"You must have a peculiar taste in looks, Ketira, to dislike his." - -"You don't understand," she said abruptly: and, turning away, -disappeared in the throng. - -Only once more did I catch sight of Ketira that day. It was at the lower -end of Pitchcroft, near the show. She was standing in front of a booth, -staring at a group of horsemen who seemed to have met and halted there, -one of whom was young Stockhausen. Again the notion crossed me that he -must in some way have affronted her. It was on him her eyes were fixed: -and in them lay the same curious, defiant expression of antagonism, -mingled with fear. - -Hyde Stockhausen was the step-son of old Massock of South Crabb. The -Stockhausens had a name in Worcestershire for dying off, as I have told -the reader before. Hyde's father had proved no exception. After his -death the widow married Massock the brickmaker, putting up with the -man's vulgarity for the sake of his riches. It took people by surprise: -for she had been a lady always, as Miss Hyde and as Mrs. Stockhausen; -one might have thought she would rather have put up with a clown from -Pershore fair than with Massock the illiterate. Hyde Stockhausen was -well educated: his uncle, Tom Hyde the parson, had taken care of that. -At twenty-one he came into some money, and at once began to do his best -to spend it. He was to have been a parson, but could not get through at -Oxford, and gave up trying for it. His uncle quarrelled with him then: -he knew Hyde had not _tried_ to pass, and that he openly said nobody -should make a parson of _him_. After the quarrel, Hyde went off to see -what the Continent was like. He stayed so long that the world at home -thought he was lost. For the past ten or eleven months he had been back -at his mother's at South Crabb, knocking about, as Massock phrased it to -the Squire one day. Hyde said he was "looking-out" for something to do: -but he was quite easy as to the future, feeling sure his old uncle would -leave him well off. Parson Hyde had never married; and had plenty of -money to bequeath to somebody. As to Hyde's own money, that had nearly -come to an end. - -Naturally old Massock (an ill-conditioned kind of man) grew impatient -over this state of things, reproaching Hyde with his idle habits, which -were a bad example for his own sons. And only just before this very day -that we were on Worcester racecourse, rumours reached Church Dykely that -Stockhausen was coming over to settle there and superintend certain -fields of brick-making, which Massock had recently purchased and -commenced working. As if Massock could not have kept himself and his -bricks at South Crabb! But it was hardly likely that Hyde, really a -gentleman, would take to brick-making. - -We did not know much of him. His connection with Massock had kept people -aloof. Many who would have been glad enough to make friends with Hyde -would not do it as long as he had his home at Massock's. His mother's -strange and fatal marriage with the man (fatal as regarded her place in -society) told upon Hyde, and there's no doubt he must have felt the -smart. - - * * * * * - -The rumour proved to be correct. Hyde Stockhausen took up his abode at -Church Dykely, as overseer, or clerk, or manager--whatever might be -the right term for it--of the men employed in his step-father's brick -operations. The pretty little house, called Virginia Cottage, owned by -Henry Rimmer, which had the Virginia creeper trailing up its red walls, -and flowers clustering in its productive garden, was furnished for him; -and Hyde installed himself in it as thoroughly and completely as though -he had entered on brick-making for life. Some people laughed. "But it's -only while I am turning myself round," he said, one day, to the Squire. - -Hyde soon got acquainted with Church Dykely, and would drop into -people's houses of an evening, laughing over his occupation, and saying -he should be able to make bricks himself in time. His chief work seemed -to be in standing about the brick-yard watching the men, and in writing -and book-keeping at home. Old Massock made his appearance once a month, -when accounts and such-like items were gone over between them. - -When it was that Hyde first got on speaking terms with Kettie, or -where, or how, I cannot tell. So far as I know, nobody could tell. It -was late in the autumn when Ketira and her daughter came back to their -hut; and by the following early spring some of us had grown accustomed -to seeing Hyde and Kettie together in an evening, snatching a short -whisper or a five-minutes' walk. In March, I think it was, she and -Ketira went away again, and returned in May. - -The twenty-ninth of May was at that time kept as a holiday in -Worcestershire, though it has dropped out of use as such in late years. -In Worcester itself there was a grand procession, which country people -went in to see, and a special service in the cathedral. We had service -also at Church Dykely, and the villagers adorned their front-doors with -immense oak boughs, sprays of which we young ones wore in our jackets, -the oak-balls and leaves gilded. I remember one year that the big bough -(almost a tree) which Henry Rimmer had hoisted over his sign, the -"Silver Bear," came to grief. Whether Rimmer had not secured it as -firmly as usual, or that the cords were rotten, down came the huge bough -with a crash on old Mr. Stirling's head, who chanced to be coming out of -the inn. He went on at Rimmer finely, vowing his neck was broken, and -that Rimmer ought to be hung up there himself. - -On this twenty-ninth of May I met Kettie. It was on the common, near -Abel Carew's. Kettie had caught up the fashion of the place, and wore a -little spray of oak peeping out from between the folds of her red cloak. -And I may as well say that neither she nor her mother ever went out -without the cloak. In cold and heat, in rain and sunshine, the red cloak -was worn out-of-doors. - -"Are you making holiday to-day, Kettie?" - -"Not more than usual; all days are the same to us," she answered, in her -sweet, soft voice, and with the slightly foreign accent that attended -the speech of both. But Kettie had it more strongly than her mother. - -"You have not gilded your oak-ball." - -Kettie glanced down at the one ball, nestling amid its green leaves. -"I had no gilding to put on it, Mr. Johnny." - -"No! I have some in my pocket. Let me gild it for you." - -Her teeth shone like pearls as she smiled and held out the spray. How -beautiful she was! with those delicate features and the large dark -eyes!--eyes that were softer than Ketira's. Taking the little paper -book from my pocket, and some of the gilt leaf from between its tissue -leaves, I wetted the oak-ball and gilded it. Kettie watched intently. - -"Where did you get it all from?" she asked, meaning the gilt leaf. - -"I bought it at Hewitt's. Don't you know the shop? A stationer's; next -door to Pettipher the druggist's. Hewitt does no end of a trade in these -leaves on the twenty-ninth of May." - -"Did you buy it to gild oak-balls for yourself, sir?" - -"For the young ones at home: Hugh and Lena. There it is, Kettie." - -Had it been a ball of solid gold that I put into her hand, instead of -a gilded oak-ball, Kettie could not have shown more intense delight. -Her cheeks flushed; the wonderful brilliancy that joy brought to her -eyes caused my own eyes to turn away. For her eighteen years she was -childish in some things; very much so, considering the experience that -her wandering life must (as one would suppose) have brought her. In -replacing the spray within her cloak, Kettie dropped something out of -her hand--apparently a small box folded in paper. I picked it up. - -"Is it a fairing, Kettie? But this is not fair time." - -"It is--I forget the name," she replied, looking at me and hesitating. -"My mother is ill; the pains are in her shoulder again; and my uncle -Abel has given me this to rub upon it, the same that did her good -before. I cannot just call the name to mind in the English tongue." - -"Say it in your own." - -She spoke a very outlandish word, laughed, and turned red again. -Certainly there never lived a more modest girl than Kettie. - -"Is it liniment?--ointment?" - -"Yes, it is that, the last," she said: "Abel calls it so. I thank you -for what you have done for me, sir. Good-day." - -To show so much gratitude for that foolish bit of gilt leaf on her -oak-ball! It illumined every line of her face. I liked Kettie: liked her -for her innocent simplicity. Had she not been a gipsy, many a gentleman -might have been proud to make her his wife. - -Close upon that, it was known that Ketira was laid up with rheumatism. -The weather came in hot, and the days went on: and Kettie and Hyde were -now and then seen together. - -One evening, on leaving Mrs. Scott's, where we had been to arrange with -Sam to go fishing with us on the morrow, Tod said he would invite Hyde -Stockhausen to be of the party; so we took Virginia Cottage on our road -home, and asked for Hyde. - -"Not at home!" retorted Tod, resenting the old woman's answer, as though -it had been a personal affront. "Where is he?" - -"Master Hyde has only just stepped out, sir; twenty minutes ago, or so," -said she, pleadingly excusing the fact. Which was but natural: she had -been Hyde's nurse when he was a child; and had now come here to do for -him. "I dare say, sir, he be only walking about a bit, to get the fresh -air." - -Tod whistled some bars of a tune thoughtfully. He did not like to be -crossed. - -"Well, look here, Mrs. Preen," said he. "Some of us are going to fish in -the long pond on Mr. Jacobson's grounds to-morrow: tell Mr. Hyde that -if he would like to join us, I shall be happy to see him. Breakfast, -half-past eight o'clock; sharp." - -In turning out beyond the garden, I could not help noticing how pretty -and romantic was the scene. A good many trees grew about that part, -thick enough almost for a wood in places; and the light and shade, cast -by the moon on the grass amidst them, had quite a weird appearance. It -was a bright night; the moon high in the sky. - -"Is that Hyde?" cried Tod. - -Halting for a moment in doubt, he peered out over the field to the -distance. Some one was leisurely pacing under the opposite trees. _Two_ -people, I thought: but they were completely in the shade. - -"I think it is Hyde, Tod. Somebody is with him." - -"Just wait another instant, lad, and they'll be in that patch of -moonlight by the turning." - -But they did not go into that patch of moonlight. Just before they -reached it (and the two figures were plain enough now) they turned back -again and took the narrow inlet that led to Oxlip Dell. Whoever it was -with Hyde had a hooded cloak on. Was it a red one? Tod laughed. - -"Oh, by George, here's fun! He has got Kettie out for a moonlight -stroll. Let's go and ask them how they enjoy it." - -"Hyde might not like us to." - -"There you are again, Johnny, with your queer scruples! Stuff and -nonsense! Stockhausen can't have anything to say to Kettie that all the -world may not hear. I want to tell him about to-morrow." - -Tod made off across the grass for the inlet, I after him. Yes, there -they were, promenading Oxlip Dell in the flickering light, now in the -shade, now in the brightest of the moonbeams; Hyde's arm hugging her red -cloak. - -Tod gave a grunt of displeasure. "Stockhausen must be doing it for -pastime," he said; "but he ought not to be so thoughtless. Ketira the -gipsy would give the girl a shaking if she knew: she----" - -The words came to an abrupt ending. There stood Ketira herself. - -She was at the extreme end of the inlet amid the trees, holding on by -the trunk of one, round which her head was cautiously pushed to view -the promenaders. Comparatively speaking, it was dark just here; but I -could see the strangely-wild look in the gipsy's eyes: the woe-begone -expression of her remarkable face. - -"It is coming," she said, apparently in answer to Tod's remarks, which -she could not have failed to hear. "It is coming quickly." - -"What is coming?" I asked. - -"The fate in store for her. And it's worse than death." - -"If you don't like her to walk out by moonlight, why not keep her -in?--not that there can be any harm in it," interposed Tod. "If you -don't approve of her being friendly with Hyde Stockhausen," he went on -after a pause, for Ketira made no answer, "why don't you put a stop to -it?" - -"Because she has her mother's spirit and her mother's _will_" cried -Ketira. "And she likes to have her own way: and I fear, woe's me! that -if I forced her to mine, things might become worse than they are even -now: that she might take some fatal step." - -"I am going home," said Tod at this juncture, perhaps fancying -the matter was getting complicated: and, of all things, he hated -complications. "Good-night, old lady. We heard you were in bed with -rheumatism." - -He set off back, up the narrow inlet. I said I'd catch him up: and -stayed behind for a last word with Ketira. - -"What did you mean by a fatal step?" - -"That she might leave me and seek the protection of the Tribe. We -have had words about this. Kettie says little, but I see the signs of -determination in her silent face. 'I will not have you meet or speak to -that man,' I said to her this morning--for she was out with him last -evening also. She made me no reply: but--you see--how she has obeyed! -Her heart's life has been awakened, and by _him_. There's only one -object to whom she clings now in all the whole earth; and that is to -him. I am nothing." - -"He will not bring any great harm upon her: you need not fear that of -Hyde Stockhausen." - -"Did I say he would?" she answered fiercely, her black eyes glaring and -gleaming. "But he will bring _sorrow_ on her and rend her heart-strings. -A man's fancies are light as the summer wind, fickle as the ocean waves: -but when a woman loves it is for life; sometimes for death." - -Hyde and Kettie had disappeared at the upper end of the dell, taking the -way that in a minute or two would bring them out in the open fields. -Ketira turned back along the narrow path, and I with her. - -"I knew he would bring some ill upon me, that first moment when I saw -him on Worcester race-ground," resumed Ketira in a low tone of pain. -"Instinct warned me that he was an enemy. And what ill can be like that -of stealing my young child's heart! Once a girl's heart is taken--and -taken but to be toyed with, to be flung back at will--her day-dreams in -this life are over." - -Emerging into the open ground, the first thing we saw was the pair of -lovers about to part. They were standing face to face: Hyde held both -her hands while speaking his last words, and then bent suddenly down, as -if to whisper them. Ketira gave a sharp cry at that, perhaps she fancied -he was stealing a kiss, and lifted her right hand menacingly. The girl -ran swiftly in the direction of her home--which was not far off--and -Hyde strode, not much less quickly, towards his. Ketira stood as still -as a stone image, watching him till he disappeared within his gate. - -"There's no harm in it," I persuasively said, sorry to see her so full -of trouble. But she was as one who heard not. - -"No harm at all, Ketira. I dare answer for it that a score of lads and -lasses are out. Why should we not walk in the moonlight as well as the -sunlight? For my part, I should call it a shame to stay indoors on this -glorious night." - -"An enemy, an enemy! A grand gentleman, who will leave her to pine -her heart away! What kind of man is he, that Hyde Stockhausen?" she -continued, turning to me fiercely. - -"Kind of man? A pleasant one. I have not heard any ill of him." - -"Rich?" - -"No. Perhaps he will be rich some time. He makes bricks, you know, now. -That is, he superintends the men." - -"Yes, I know," she answered: and I don't suppose there was much -connected with Hyde she did not know. Looking this way, looking that, -she at length began to walk, slowly and painfully, towards Hyde's gate. -The thought had crossed me--why did she not take Kettie away on one of -their long expeditions, if she dreaded him so much. But the rheumatism -lay upon her still too heavily. - -Flinging open the gate, she went across the garden, not making for the -proper entrance, but for a lighted room, whose French-window stood open -to the ground. Hyde was there, just sitting down to supper. - -"Come in with me," she said, turning her head round to beckon me on. - -But I did not choose to go in. It was no affair of mine that I should -beard Hyde in his den. Very astonished indeed must he have been, when -she glided in at the window, and stood before him. I saw him rise from -his chair; I saw the astounded look of old Deborah Preen when she came -in with his supper ale in a jug. - -What they said to one another, I know not. I did not wish to listen: -though it was only natural I should stay to see the play out. Just as -natural as it was for Preen to come stealing round through the kidney -beans to the front-garden, an anxious look on her face. - -"What does that old gipsy woman want with the young master, Mr. Ludlow? -Is he having his fortune told?" - -"I shouldn't wonder. Wish some good genius would tell mine!" - -The interview seemed to have been short and sharp. Ketira was coming out -again. Hyde followed her to the window. Both were talking at once, and -the tail of the dispute reached our ears. - -"I repeat to you that you are totally mistaken," Hyde was saying. "I -have no 'designs,' as you put it, on your daughter, good or bad; no -design whatever. She is perfectly free to go her own way, for me. My -good woman, you have no cause to adjure me in that solemn manner. -Sacred? 'Under Heaven's protection?' Well, so she may be. I hope she is. -Why should I wish to hinder it? I don't wish to, I don't intend to. You -need not glare so." - -Ketira, outside the window now, turned and faced him, her great eyes -fixed on him, her hand raised in menace. - -"Do not forget that. I have warned you, Hyde Stockhausen. By the Great -Power that regulates all things, human and divine, I affirm that I speak -the truth. If harm in any shape or of any kind comes to my child, my -dear one, my only one, through you, it will cost you more than you would -now care to have foretold." - -"Bless my heart!" faintly ejaculated old Preen. And she drew away, and -backed for shelter into the bean rows. - -Ketira brushed against me as she passed, taking no notice whatever; left -the garden, and limped away. Hyde saw me swinging through the gate. - -"Are you there, Johnny?" he said, coming forward. "Did you hear that old -gipsy woman?" And in a few words I told him all about it. - -"Such a fuss for nothing!" he exclaimed. "I'm sure I wish no ill to the -girl. Kettie's very nice; bright as the day: and I thought no more harm -of strolling a bit with her in the moonlight than I should think it if -she were my sister." - -"But she is not your sister, you see, Hyde. And old Ketira does not like -it." - -"I'll take precious good care to keep Kettie at arm's-length for the -future; make you very sure of that," he said, in a short, fractious -tone. "I don't care to be blamed for nothing. Tell Todhetley I can't -spare the time to go fishing to-morrow--wish I could. Good-night." - - * * * * * - -A fine commotion. Church Dykely up in arms. Kettie had disappeared. - -About a fortnight had gone on since the above night, during which period -Ketira's rheumatism took so obstinate a turn that she had the felicity -of keeping her bed. And one morning, upon Duffham's chancing to pay his -visit to her before breakfast, for he was passing the hut on his way -home from an early patient, he found the gipsy up and dressed, and just -as wild as a lioness rampant. Kettie had gone away in the night. - -"Where's she gone to?" naturally asked Duffham, leaning on his cane, and -watching the poor woman; who was whirling about like one demented, her -rheumatism forgotten. - -"Ah, where's she gone to?--where?" raved old Ketira. "When I lay down -last night, leaving her to put the plates away and to follow me up when -she had done it, I dropped asleep at once. All night long I never woke; -the pain was easier, all but gone, and I had been well-nigh worn out -with it. 'Why, what's the time, Kettie?' I said to her in our own -tongue, when I opened my eyes and saw the sun was high. She did not -answer, and I supposed she had gone down to get the breakfast. I called, -and called; in vain. I began to put my clothes on; and then I found that -she had not lain down that night; and--woe's me! she's gone." - -Duffham could not make anything of it; it was less in his line than -rheumatism and broken legs. Being sharp-set for his breakfast, he came -away, telling Ketira he would see her again by-and-by. - -And, shortly afterwards, he chanced to meet her. Coming out on his round -of visits, he encountered Ketira near Virginia Cottage. She had been -making a call on Hyde Stockhausen. - -"He baffles me," she said to the doctor: and Duffham thought if ever -a woman's face had the expression "baffled" plainly written on it, -Ketira's had then. "I don't know what to make of him. His speech is -fair: but--there's the instinct lying in my heart." - -"Why, you don't suppose, do you, that Mr. Stockhausen has stolen the -child?" questioned Duffham, after a good pause of thought. - -"And by whom do _you_ suppose the child has been stolen, if not by him?" -retorted the gipsy. - -"Nay," said Duffham, "I should say she has not been stolen at all. It -is difficult to steal girls of her age, remember. Last night was fine; -the stars were bright as silver: perhaps, tempted by it, she went out -a-roaming, and you will see her back in the course of the day." - -"I suspect him," repeated Ketira, her great black eyes flashing their -anger on Hyde's cottage. "He acts cleverly; but, I suspect him." - -Drawing her scarlet cloak higher on her shoulders, she bent her steps -towards Oxlip Dell. Duffham was turning on his way, when old Abel Crew -came up. We called him "Crew," you know, at Church Dykely. - -"Are you looking for Kettie?" questioned Duffham. - -"I don't know where to look for her," was Abel's answer. "This morning -I was out before sunrise searching for rare herbs: the round I took -was an unusually large one, but I did not see anything of the child. -Ketira suspects that Mr. Stockhausen must know where she is." - -"And do you suspect he does?" - -"It is a question that I cannot answer, even to my own mind," replied -Abel. "That they were sometimes seen talking and walking together, is -certain; and, so far, he may be open to suspicion. But, sir, I know -nothing else against him, and I cannot think he would wish to hurt her. -I am on my way to ask him." - -Interested by this time in the drama, Duffham followed Abel to Virginia -Cottage. Hyde Stockhausen was in the little den that he made his -counting-house, adding up columns of figures in a ledger, and stared -considerably upon being thus pounced upon. - -"I wonder what next!" he burst forth, turning crusty before Abel had got -out half a sentence. "That confounded old gipsy has just been here with -her abuse; and now you have come! She has accused me of I know not what -all." - -"Of spiriting away her daughter," put in Duffham; who was standing back -against the shelves. - -"But I have not done it," spluttered Hyde, talking too fast for -convenience in his passion. "If I had spirited her away, as you call it, -here she would be. Where could I spirit her to?--up into the air, or -below the ground?" - -"That's just the question--where is she?" rejoined Duffham, gently -swaying his big cane. - -"How should I know where she is?" retorted Hyde. "If I had 'spirited' -her away--I must say I like that word!--here she'd be. Do you suppose I -have got her in my house?--or down at the brick-kilns?" - -Abel, since his first checked sentence, had been standing quietly and -thoughtfully, giving his whole attention to Hyde, as if wanting to see -what he was made of. For the second time he essayed to speak. - -"You see, sir, we do not know that she is not here. We have your word -for it; but----" - -"Then you had better look," interrupted Hyde, adding something about -"insolence" under his breath. "Search the house. You are welcome to. Mr. -Duffham can show you about it; he knows all its turnings and windings." - -What could have been in old Abel's thoughts did not appear on the -surface; but he left the room with just a word of respectful apology for -accepting the offer. Hyde, who had made it at random in his passion, -never supposing it would be caught at, threw back his head disdainfully, -and sent a contemptuous word after him. But when Duffham moved off in -the same direction, he was utterly surprised. - -"Are _you_ going to search?" - -"I thought you meant me to be his pilot," said Duffham, as cool as you -please. "There's not much to be seen. I expect, but the chairs and -tables." - -Any way, Kettie was not to be seen. The house was but a small one, with -no surreptitious closets or cupboards, or other hiding-places. All the -rooms and passages stood open to the morning sun, and never a suspicious -thing was in them. - -Hyde had settled to his accounts again when they got back. He did not -condescend to turn his head or notice the offenders any way. Abel waited -a moment, and then spoke. - -"It may seem to you that I have done a discourteous thing in availing -myself of your offer, Mr. Stockhausen; if so, I crave your pardon for -it. Sir, you cannot imagine how seriously this disappearance of the -child is affecting her mother. Let it plead my excuse." - -"It cannot excuse your suspicion of me," returned Hyde, pausing for a -moment in his adding up. - -"In all the ends of this wide earth there lies not elsewhere a shadow of -clue to any motive for her departure. At least, none that we can gather. -The only ground for thinking of you, sir, is that you and she have been -friendly. For all our sakes, Mr. Stockhausen, I trust that she will be -found, and the mystery cleared up." - -"Don't you think you had better have the brick-kilns visited--as well -as my house?" sarcastically asked Hyde. But Abel, making no rejoinder, -save a civil good-morning, departed. - -"And now I'll go," said Duffham. - -"The sooner the better," retorted Hyde, taking a penful of ink and -splashing some of it on the floor. - -"There's no cause for you to put yourself out, young man." - -"I think there is cause," flashed Hyde. "When you can come to my house -with such an accusation as this!--and insolently search it!" - -"The searching was the result of your own proposal. As to an accusation, -none has been made in my hearing. Kettie has mysteriously disappeared, -and it is only natural her people should wish to know where she is, and -to look for her. You take up the matter in a wrong light, Mr. Hyde." - -"I don't know anything of Kettie"--in an injured tone; "I don't want to. -It's rather hard to have her vagaries put upon my back." - -"Well, you have only to tell them you don't in an honest manner; I dare -say they'll believe you. Abel Carew is one of the most reasonable men I -ever knew; sensible, too. Try and find the child yourself; help them to -do it, if you can see a clue; make common cause with them." - -"You would not like to be told that you had 'spirited' somebody away, -more than I like it," grumbled Hyde; who, thoroughly put out, was hard -to bring round. "I'm sure you are as likely to turn kidnapper as I am. -It must be a good two weeks since anybody saw me speak to the girl." - -"I shall have my patients thinking I am kidnapped if I don't get off to -them," cried Duffham. "Mrs. Godfrey's ill, and she is the very essence -of impatience. Good-day." - -Thoroughly at home in the house, Duffham made no ceremony of departing -by the back-door, it being more convenient for the road he was going. -Deborah Preen was washing endive at the pump in the yard. She turned -round to address Duffham as he was passing. - -"Has the master spoke to you about his throat, sir?" - -"No," said Duffham, halting. "What is amiss with his throat?" - -"He has been given to sore throats all his life, Dr. Duffham. Many's the -time I have had him laid up with them when he was a child. Yesterday he -was quite bad with one, sir; and so he is this morning." - -"Perhaps that's why he's cross," remarked Duffham. - -"Cross! and enough to make him cross!" returned she, taking up the -implication warmly. "I ask your pard'n, sir, for speaking so to you; but -I'd like to know what gentleman could help being cross when that yellow -gipsy comes to attack him with her slanderous tongue, and say to him, -Have you come across to my hut in the night and stole my daughter out of -it?" - -"You think your master did not go across and commit the theft?" - -"I know he did not," was Preen's indignant answer. "He never stirred out -of his own home, sir, all last night; he was nursing his throat indoors. -At ten o'clock he went to bed, and I took him up a posset after he was -in it. Well, sir, I was uneasy, for I don't like these sore throats, -and between two and three o'clock I crept into his room and found him -sleeping quietly; and I was in again this morning and woke him up with -a cup o' tea." - -"A pretty good proof that he did not go out," said Duffham. - -"He never was as much as out of his bed, sir. The man that sleeps -indoors locked up the house last night, and opened it again this -morning. Ketira the gipsy would be in gaol if she got her deservings!" - -"I wonder where the rest of us would be if we got ours!" quoth Duffham. -"I suppose I had better go back and take a look at this throat!" - -To see the miserable distress of Ketira that day, and the despair -upon her face as she dodged about between Virginia Cottage and the -brickfields, was like a gloomy picture. - -"Do you remember telling me once that you feared Kettie might run away -to the tribe?" I asked, meeting her on one of these wanderings in the -afternoon. "Perhaps that is where she is gone?" - -The suggestion seemed to offend her mortally. "Boy, I know better," she -said, facing round upon me fiercely. "With the tribe she would be safe, -and I at rest. The stars never deceive me." - -And, when the sun went down that night and the stars came out, the -environs of Virginia Cottage were still haunted by Ketira the gipsy. - - -II. - -You would not have known the place again. Virginia Cottage, the -unpretending little homestead, had been converted into a mansion. Hyde -Stockhausen had built a new wing at one end, and a conservatory at the -other; and had put pillars before the rustic porch, over which the -Virginia creeper climbed. - -We heard last month about Ketira the gipsy: and of the unaccountable -disappearance of her daughter, Kettie; and of the indignant anger -displayed by Hyde Stockhausen when it was suggested that he might have -kidnapped her. Curiously enough, within a few days of that time, Hyde -himself disappeared from Church Dykely: not in the mysterious manner -that Kettie had, but openly and with intention. - -The inducing cause of Hyde's leaving, as was stated and believed, was -a quarrel with his step-father, Massock. It chanced that the monthly -settling-day, connected with the brickfields, fell just after Kettie -vanished. Massock came over for it as usual, and was overbearing as -usual; and perhaps Hyde, already in a state of inward irritation, was -less forbearing than usual. Any way, ill-words arose between them. -Massock accused Hyde of neglecting his interests, and of being too much -of a gentleman to look after the work and the men. Hyde retorted: one -word led to another, and there ensued a serious quarrel. The upshot was, -that Hyde threw up his post. Vowing he would never again have anything -to do with old Massock or his precious bricks as long as he lived, he -packed up a small portmanteau and quitted Church Dykely there and then, -to the intense tribulation of his ancient nurse and servant, Deborah -Preen. - -"Leave him alone," said Massock roughly. "He'll be back safe enough in -a day or two." - -"Where is he gone?" asked Ketira the gipsy: who, hovering still around -Virginia Cottage, had seen Hyde's exit with his portmanteau. - -Massock stared at her, and at her red cloak: she had penetrated to his -presence to ask the question. He had never before seen Ketira; never -heard of her. - -"What is it to you?" he demanded, in his coarse manner. "Who are _you_? -Do you come here to tell his fortune? Be off, old witch!" - -"His fortune may be told sooner than you care to hear it--if you are -anything to him," was the gipsy's answer. And that same night she -quitted Church Dykely herself, wandering away to be lost in the "wide -wide world." - -Massock's opinion, that Hyde would return in a day or two, proved to be -a mistaken one. Rimmer, at the Silver Bear, got a letter from a lawyer -in Worcester, asking him to release Mr. Stockhausen from Virginia -Cottage--which Hyde had taken for three years. But, this, Rimmer refused -to do. So Hyde had to make the best of his bargain: and every quarter, -as the quarters went on, the rent was punctually remitted to Henry -Rimmer by the lawyer: who gave, however, no clue to his client's place -of abode. It was said that Hyde had been reconciled to his uncle, Parson -Hyde (now getting into his dotage), and was by him supplied with funds. - -One fine evening, however, in the late spring, when not very far short -of a twelvemonth had elapsed, Hyde astonished Deborah Preen by his -return. After a fit of crying, to show her joy, Deborah brought him in -some supper and stood by while he ate it, telling him the news of what -had transpired in the village since he left. - -"Are those beautiful brickfields being worked still?" he asked. - -"'Deed but they are then, Master Hyde. A sight o' bricks seems to be -made at 'em. Pitt the foreman, he have took your place as manager, sir, -and keeps the accounts." - -"Good luck to him!" said Hyde, drinking a glass of ale. "That queer old -lady in the red cloak: what has become of her?" - -"What, that gipsy hag?" cried Preen. "She's dead, sir." - -"Dead!" - -"Yes, sir, dead: and a good riddance, too. She went away the very night -you went, Mr. Hyde, and never came back again. A week or two ago Abel -Carew got news that she was dead." - -(Shortly before this, some wandering gipsies had set up their camp -within a mile or two of Church Dykely. Abel Carew, never having had news -of Ketira since her departure, went to them to make inquiries. At first -the gipsies seemed not to understand of whom he was speaking; but upon -his making Ketira clear to them, they told him she had been dead about a -month; of her daughter, Kettie, they knew nothing.) - -"She's not much loss," observed Hyde in answer to Deborah: and his face -took a brighter look, as though the news were a relief--Preen noticed -it. "The old gipsy was as mad as a March hare." - -"And ten times more troublesome than one," put in Preen. "Be you come -home to stay, master?" - -"I dare say I shall," replied Hyde. "As good settle down here as -elsewhere: and there'd be no fun in paying two rents." - -So we had Hyde Stockhausen amidst us once more. He did not intend to -take up with brickmaking again, but to live as a gentleman. His uncle -made him an allowance, and he was going to be married. Abel Carew -questioned him about Kettie one day when they met on the common, asking -whether he had seen her. Never, was the reply of Hyde. So that what -with the girl's prolonged disappearance and her mother's death, it was -assumed that we had done with the two gipsies for ever. - -Hyde was engaged to a Miss Peyton. A young lady just left an orphan, -whom he had met only six weeks ago at some seaside place. He had fallen -in love with her at first sight, and she with him. She had two or three -hundred a-year: and Hyde, there was little doubt, would come into all -his uncle's money; so he saw no reason why he should not make Virginia -Cottage comfortable for her, and went off to the Silver Bear, to talk to -Henry Rimmer about it. - -The result was, that improvements were put in hand without delay. A -wing (consisting of a handsome drawing-room downstairs, and a bed and -dressing-room above) was added to the cottage on one side; on the -other side, Hyde built a conservatory. The house was also generally -embellished and set in order, and some new furniture brought in. And I -think if ever workmen worked quickly, these did; for the alterations -seemed no sooner to be begun than they were done. - -"So you have sown your wild oats, Master Hyde," remarked the Squire one -day in passing, as he stood to watch the finishing touches, then being -put to the outside of the house. - -"Don't know that I ever had many to sow, sir," said Hyde, nodding to me. - -"And what sort of a young lady is this wife that you are about to bring -home?" went on the pater. - -Hyde's face took a warm flush and his lips parted with a half-smile; -which proved what she was to him. "You will see, sir," he said in -answer. - -"When is the wedding to be?" - -"This day week." - -"This day week!" echoed the Squire, surprised: and Hyde, who seemed to -have spoken incautiously, looked vexed. - -"I did not intend to say as much; my thoughts were elsewhere," he -observed. "Don't mention it again, Mr. Todhetley. Even old Deborah has -not been told." - -"I'll take care, lad. But it is known all over the place that the -wedding is close at hand." - -"Yes: but not the day." - -"When do you go away for it?" - -"On Saturday." - -"Well, good luck to you, lad! By the way, Hyde," continued the Squire, -"what did they do about that drain in the yard? Put a new pipe?" - -"Yes," said Hyde, "and they have made a very good job of it. Will you -come and see it?" - -Pipes and drains held no attraction for me. While the pater went through -the house to the yard, I strolled outside the front-gate and across -to the little coppice to wait for him. It was shady there: the hot -midsummer sun was ablaze to-day. - -And I declare that a feather might almost have knocked me down. There, -amidst the trees of the coppice, like a picture framed round by green -leaves, stood Ketira the gipsy. Or Ketira's ghost. - -Believing that she was dead and buried, I might have believed it to -be the latter, but for the red cloth cloak: _that_ was real. She was -staring at Hyde's house with all the fire of her glittering eyes, -looking as though she were consumed by some inward fever. - -"Who lives there now?" she abruptly asked me without any other greeting, -pointing her yellow forefinger at the house. - -"The cottage was empty ever so long," I carelessly said, some instinct -prompting me not to tell too much. "Lately the workmen have been making -alterations in it. How is Kettie? Have you found her?" - -She lifted her two hands aloft with a gesture of despair: but left me -unanswered. "These alterations: by whom are they made?" - -But the sight of the Squire, coming forth alone, served as an excuse for -my making off. I gave her a parting nod, saying I was glad to see her -again in the land of the living. - -"Ketira the gipsy is here, sir." - -"No!" cried the pater in amazement. "Why do you say that, Johnny?" - -"She is here in the coppice." - -"Nonsense, lad! Ketira's dead, you know." - -"But I have just seen her, and spoken to her." - -"Then what did those gipsy-tramps mean by telling Abel Carew that she -had died?" cried the Squire explosively, as he marched across the few -yards of greensward towards the coppice. - -"Abel did not feel quite sure at the time that he and they were not -talking of two persons. That must have been the case, sir." - -We were too late. Ketira was already half-way along the path that led to -the common: no doubt on her road to pay a visit to Abel Carew. And I can -only relate what passed there at second hand. Between ourselves, Ketira -was no favourite of his. - -He was at his early dinner of bread-and-butter and salad when she walked -in and astonished him. Abel, getting over his surprise, invited her to -partake of the meal; but she just waved her hand in refusal, as much as -to say that she was superior to dinner and dinner-eating. - -"Have you found Kettie?" was his next question. - -"It is the first time a search of mine ever failed," she replied, -beginning to pace the little room in agitation, just as a tiger paces -its confined cage. "I have given myself neither rest nor peace since I -set out upon it; but it has not brought me tidings of my child." - -"It must have been a weary task for you, Ketira. I wish you would break -bread with me." - -"I was helped." - -"Helped!" repeated Abel. "Helped by what?" - -"I know not yet, whether angel or devil. It has been one or the -other:--according as he has, or has not, played me false." - -"As who has played you false?" - -"Of whom do you suppose I speak but _him_?" she retorted, standing to -confront Abel with her deep eyes. "Hyde Stockhausen has in some subtle -manner evaded me: but I shall find him yet." - -"Hyde Stockhausen is back here," quietly observed Abel. - -"Back here! Then it is no false instinct that has led _me_ here," she -added in a low tone, apparently communing with herself. "Is Ketira with -him?" - -"No, no," said Abel, vexed at the question. "Kettie has never come back -to the place since she left it." - -"When did _he_ come?" - -"It must be about two months ago." - -"He is in the same dwelling-house as before! For what is he making it so -grand?" - -"It is said to be against his marriage." - -"His marriage with Ketira?" - -"With a Miss Peyton; some young lady he has met. Why do you bring up -Ketira's name in conjunction with this matter--or with him?" - -She turned to the open casement, and stood there, as if to inhale the -sweet scent of Abel's flowers, and listen to the hum of his bees. Her -face was working, her strange eyes were gleaming, her hands were clasped -to pain. - -"I know what I know, Abel Carew. Let him look to it if he brings home -any other wife than my Ketira." - -"Nay," remonstrated peaceful old Abel. "Because a young man has -whispered pretty words in a maiden's ear, and given her, it may be, a -moonlight kiss, that does not bind him to marry her." - -"And would I have wished to bind him had it ended there?" flashed the -gipsy. "No; I should have been thankful that it _had_ so ended. I hated -him from the first." - -"You have no proof that it did not so end, Ketira." - -"No proof; none," she assented. "No tangible proof that I could give -to you, her father's brother, or to others. But the proof lies in the -fatal signs that show themselves to me continually, and in the unerring -instinct of my own heart. If the man puts another into the place that -ought to be hers, let him look to it." - -"You may be mistaken, Ketira. I know not what the signs you speak of -can be: they may show themselves to you but to mislead; and nothing is -more deceptive than the fancies of one's imagination. Be it as it may, -vengeance does not belong to us. Do not _you_ put yourself forward to -work young Stockhausen ill." - -"I work him ill!" retorted the gipsy. "You are mistaking me altogether. -It is not I who shall work it. I only see it--and foretell it." - -"Nay, why speak so strangely, Ketira? It cannot be that you----" - -"Abel Carew, talk not to me of matters that you do not understand," -she interrupted. "I know what I know. Things that I am able to see are -hidden from you." - -He shook his head. "It is wrong to speak so of Hyde Stockhausen--or of -any one. He may be as innocent in the matter as you or I." - -"But I tell you that he is not. And the conviction of it lies -here"--striking herself fiercely on the breast. - -Abel sighed, and began to put his dinner-plates together. He could not -make any impression upon her, or on the notion she had taken up. - -"Do you know what it is to have a breaking heart, Abel Carew?" she -asked, her voice taking a softer tone that seemed to change it into a -piteous wailing. "A broken heart one can bear; for all struggle is over, -and one has but to put one's head down on the green earth and die. But -a breaking heart means continuous suffering; a perpetual torture that -slowly saps away the life; a never-ending ache of soul and of spirit, -than which nothing in this world can be so hard to battle with. And for -twelve months now this anguish has been mine!" - -Poor Ketira! Mistaken or not mistaken, there could be no question that -her trouble was grievous to bear; the suspense, in which her days were -passed, well-nigh unendurable. - - * * * * * - -This, that I have told, occurred on Thursday morning. Ketira quitted -Abel Carew only to bend her steps back towards Virginia Cottage, and -stayed hovering around the house that day and the next. One or another, -passing, saw her watching it perpetually, herself partly hidden. Now -peeping out from the little coppice; now tramping quickly past the gate, -as though she were starting off on a three-mile walk; now stealing to -the back of the house, to gaze at the windows. There she might be seen, -in one place or another, like a haunting red dragon: her object, as was -supposed, being to get speech of Hyde Stockhausen. She did not succeed. -Twice she went boldly to the door, knocked, and asked for him. Deborah -Preen slammed it in her face. It was thought that Hyde, who then knew of -her return and that the report of her death was false, must be on the -watch also, to avoid her. If he wanted to go abroad and she was posted -at the back, he slipped out in front: when he wished to get in again -and caught sight of her red cloak illumining the coppice, he made a dash -in at the back-gate, and was lost amid the kidney beans. - -By this time the state of affairs was known to Church Dykely: a rare -dish of nuts for the quiet place to crack. Those of us who possessed -liberty made pleas for passing by Virginia Cottage to see the fun. Not -that there was much to see, except a glimpse of the red cloak in this -odd spot or in that. - -"Stockhausen must be silly!" cried the Squire. "Why does he not openly -see the poor woman and inquire what it is she wants with him? The idea -of his shunning her in this absurd way! What does he mean by it, I -wonder?" - -Now, before telling more, I wish to halt and say a word. That much -ridicule will be cast on this story by the intelligent reader, is as -sure as that apples grow in summer. Nevertheless, I am but relating what -took place. Certain things in it were curiously strange; not at all -explainable hitherto: possibly never to be explained. I chanced to be -personally mixed up with it, so to say, in a degree; from its beginning, -when Ketira and her daughter first appeared at Abel Carew's, to its -ending, which has yet to be told. For that much I can vouch--I mean what -I was present at. But you need not accord belief to the whole, unless -you like. - -Chance, and nothing else, caused me to be sent over this same evening to -Mr. Duffham's. It was Friday, you understand; and the eve of the day -Hyde Stockhausen would depart preparatory to his marriage. One of our -maids had been ailing for some days with what was thought to be a bad -cold: as she did not get better, but grew more feverish, Mrs. Todhetley -decided to send for the doctor, if only as a measure of precaution. - -"You can go over to Mr. Duffham's for me, Johnny," she said, as we got -up from tea--which meal was generally taken at the manor close upon -dinner, somewhat after the fashion that the French take their tasse de -café. "Ask him if he will be so kind as to call in to see Ann when he is -out to-morrow morning." - -Nothing loth was I. The evening was glorious, tempting the world -out-of-doors, calm and beautiful, but very hot yet. The direct way to -Duffham's from our house was not by Virginia Cottage: but, as a matter -of course, I took it. Going along at tip-top speed until I came within -sight of it, I then slackened to a snail's pace, the better to take -observations. - -There's an old saying, that virtue is its own reward. If any virtue -existed in my choosing this circuitous and agreeable route, I can only -say that for once the promise was at fault, for I was _not_ rewarded. -Were Hyde Stockhausen's house a prison, it could not have been much more -closely shut up. The windows were closed on that lovely midsummer night; -the doors looked tight as wax. Not a glimpse could I catch of as much as -the bow of Deborah Preen's mob-cap atop of the short bedroom blinds; and -Hyde might have been over in Africa for all that could be seen of him. - -Neither (for a wonder) was there any trace of Ketira the gipsy. Her red -cloak was nowhere. Had she obtained speech of Hyde, and so terminated -her watch, or had she given it up in despair? Any way, there was nothing -to reward me for having come that much out of my road, and I went on, -whistling dolorously. - -But, hardly had I got past the premises and was well on the field-path -beyond, when I met Duffham. Giving him the message from home, which -he said he would attend to, I enlarged on the disappointment just -experienced in seeing nothing of anybody. - -"Shut up like a jail, is it?" quoth Duffham. "I have just had a note -from Stockhausen, asking me to call there. His throat's troubling him -again, he says: wants me to give him something that will cure him by -to-morrow." - -I had turned with the doctor, and went walking with him up the garden, -listening to what he said. But I meant to leave him when we reached the -door. He began trying it. It was fastened inside. - -"I dare say you can come in and see Hyde, Johnny. What do you want with -him?" - -"Not much; only to wish him good luck." - -"Is your master afraid of thieves that he bolts his doors?" cried -Duffham to old Preen when she let us in. - -"'Twas me fastened it, sir; not master," was her reply. "That gipsy -wretch have been about yesterday and to-day, wanting to get in. I've got -my silver about, and don't want it stolen. Mr. Hyde's mother and Massock -have been here to dinner; they've not long gone." - -Decanters and fruit stood on the table before Hyde. He started up to -shake hands, appearing very much elated. Duffham, more experienced than -I, saw that he had been taking quite enough wine. - -"So you have had your stepfather here!" was one of the doctor's first -remarks. "Been making up the quarrel, I suppose." - -"He came of his own accord; I didn't invite him," said Hyde, laughing. -"My mother wrote me word that they were coming--to give me their good -wishes for the future." - -"Just what Johnny Ludlow here says he wants to give," said Duffham: -though I didn't see that he need have brought my words up, and made a -fellow feel shy. - -"Then, by Jove, you shall drink them in champagne!" exclaimed Hyde. He -caught up a bottle of champagne that stood under the sideboard, from -which the wire had been removed, and would have cut the string but for -the restraining hand of Duffham. - -"No, Hyde; you have had rather too much as it is." - -"I swear to you that I have not had a spoonful. It has not been opened, -you see. My mother refused it, and Massock does not care for champagne: -he likes something heavier." - -"If you have not taken champagne, you have taken other wine." - -"Sherry at dinner, and port since," laughed Hyde. - -"And more of it than is good for you." - -"When Massock sits down to port wine he drinks like a fish," returned -Hyde, still laughing. "Of course I had to make a show of drinking with -him. I wished the port at Hanover." - -By a dexterous movement, he caught up a knife and cut the string. Out -shot the cork with a bang, and he filled three of the tumblers that -stood on the sideboard with wine and froth--one for each of us. "Your -health, doctor," nodded he, and tossed off his own. - -"It will not do your throat good," said Duffham, angrily. "Let me look -at the throat." - -"Not until you and Johnny have wished me luck." - -We did it, and drank the wine. Duffham examined the throat; and told -Hyde, for his consolation, that it was not in a state to be trifled -with. - -"Oh, it's nothing," said Hyde carelessly. "But I don't want it to be -bad to-morrow when I travel, and I thought perhaps you might be able to -give me something or other to set it to rights to-night. I start at ten -to-morrow morning." - -"Sore throats are not cured so easily," retorted Duffham. "You must have -taken cold." - -Telling him he would send in a gargle and a cooling draught, and that -he was to go to bed soon, Duffham rose to leave. Hyde opened the -glass-doors of the room that we might pass out that way, and stepped -over the threshold with us. Talking with Duffham, he strolled onwards -towards the gate. - -"About three weeks, I suppose," he said, in answer to the query of how -long he meant to be away. "If Mabel----" - -Gliding out of the bushy laurels on one side the path, and planting -herself right in front of us, came Ketira the gipsy. Her face looked -yellower than ever in the twilight of the summer's evening; her piercing -black eyes fiercer. Hyde was taken aback by the unexpected encounter. He -started a step back. - -"Where's my daughter, Hyde Stockhausen?" - -"Go away," he said, in the contemptuous tone one might use to a dog. "I -don't know anything of your daughter." - -"Only tell me where she is, that I may find her. I ask no more." - -"I tell you that I do not know anything of her. You must be mad to think -it. Get along with you!" - -"Hyde Stockhausen, you lie. _You do know where she is; you know that it -is with you she has been._ Heaven hears me say it: deny it if you dare." - -His face looked whiter than death. Just for an instant he seemed unable -to speak. Ketira changed her tone to one of plaintive wailing. - -"She was my one little ewe lamb. What had she or I done to you that you -should come as a spoiler to the fold? I _prayed_ you not. Make her your -wife, and I will yet bless you. It is not too late. Do not break her -heart and mine." - -Hyde had had time to rally his courage. A man full of wine can generally -call some up, even in the most embarrassing of situations. He scornfully -asked the gipsy whether she had come out of Bedlam. Ketira saw how hard -he was--that there was no hope. - -"It is said that you depart to-morrow to bring home a bride, Hyde -Stockhausen. _I counsel you not to do it._ For your own sake, and for -the young woman's sake, I bid you beware. The marriage will not bring -good to you or to her." - -That put Hyde in a towering passion. His words came out with a splutter -as he spurned her from him. - -"Cease your folly, you senseless old beldame! Do you dare to threaten -me? Take yourself out of my sight instantly, before I fetch my -horsewhip. And, if ever you attempt to molest me again, I will have you -sent to the treadmill." - -Ketira stood looking at him while he spoke, never moving an inch. As -his voice died away she lifted her forefinger in warning. And anything -more impressive than her voice, than her whole manner--anything more -startlingly defiant than her countenance, I never wish to see. - -"It is well; I go. But listen to me, Hyde Stockhausen; mark what I say. -Only three times shall you see me again in life. But each one of those -times you shall have cause to remember; and after the last of them you -will not need to see me more." - -It was a strange threat. That she made it, Duffham could, to this day, -corroborate. Pulling her red cloak about her shoulders, she went swiftly -through the gate, and disappeared within the opposite coppice. - -Hyde smiled; his good humour was returning to him. One can be brave -enough when an enemy turns tail. - -"Idiotic old Egyptian!" he exclaimed lightly. "What on earth ever made -her take the fancy into her head, that I knew what became of Kettie, I -can't imagine. I wonder, Duffham, some of you people in authority here -don't get her confined as a lunatic!" - -"We must first of all find that she is a lunatic," was Duffham's dry -rejoinder. - -"Why, what else is she?" - -"Not that." - -"She is; and a dangerous one," retorted Hyde. - -"Nonsense, man! Gipsies have queer ways and notions; and--and--are not -to be judged altogether as other people," added the doctor, finishing -off (as it struck me) with different words from those he had been about -to say. "Good-night; and don't take any more of that champagne." - -Hyde returned indoors, and we walked away, not seeing a sign of the red -cloak anywhere. - -"I must say I should not like to be attacked in this manner, were I -Hyde," I remarked to Duffham. "How obstinate the old gipsy is!" - -"Ah," replied Duffham. "I'd sooner believe her than him." - -The words surprised me, and I turned to him quickly. "Why do you say -that, sir?" - -"Because I do say it, Johnny," was the unsatisfactory answer. "And now -good-evening to you, lad, for I must send the physic in." - -"Just a word, please, Mr. Duffham. Do you know where that poor Kettie -is?--and did you know that Hyde Stockhausen stole her?" - -"No, to both your questions, Johnny Ludlow." - - * * * * * - -Everybody liked Hyde's wife. A fragile girl with a weak voice, who -looked as if a strong wind would blow her away. Duffham feared she was -not strong enough to make old days. - -Virginia Cottage flourished. Parson Hyde had died and left all his -fortune to Hyde: who had now nothing to do but take care of his wife and -his money, and enjoy life. Before the next summer came round, Hyde had a -son and heir. A fine little shaver, with blue eyes like Hyde's, and good -lungs. His mother was a long while getting about again: and then she -looked like a shadow, and had a short, hacking kind of cough. Hyde wore -a grave face at times, and would say he wished Mabel could get strong. - -But Hyde was regarded with less favour than formerly. People did not -scruple to call him "villain." And one Sunday, when Mr. Holland told -us in his sermon that man's heart was deceitful above all things and -desperately wicked, the congregation wondered whether he meant it -especially for Stockhausen. For the truth had come out. - -When Hyde departed to keep his marriage engagement, Ketira the gipsy had -again disappeared from Church Dykely. In less than a month afterwards, -Abel Carew received a letter from her. She had found Kettie: and she had -found that her own instincts against Hyde Stockhausen were not mistaken -ones. For all his seeming fair face and his indignant denials, it was he -who had been the thief. - -"Of all brazen-faced knaves, that Stockhausen must be the worst!--an -adept in cunning, a lying hypocrite!" exploded the Squire. - -"I suspected him at the time," said Duffham. - -"You did! What were your grounds for it?" - -"I had no particular grounds. His manner did not appear to me to be -satisfactory; that was all. Of course I was not sure." - -"He is a base man," concluded the Squire. And from that time he turned -the cold shoulder on Hyde. - -But time is a sure healer of wounds; a softener of resentment. As it -passed on, we began to forget Hyde's dark points, and to remember his -good qualities. Any way, Ketira the gipsy and Ketira's daughter passed -out of memory, just as they had passed out of sight. - -Suddenly we heard that Abel Carew was preparing to go on a journey. I -went off to ask him where he was bound for. - -"I am going to see _them_, Master Johnny," he replied. "I don't know how -they are off, sir, and it is my duty to see. The child is ill: and I -fear they may be wanting assistance, which Ketira is too proud to write -and ask for." - -"Kettie ill! What is the matter with her?" - -Abel shook his head. "I shall know more when I get there, sir." - -Abel Carew locked up his cottage and began his pilgrimage into -Hertfordshire with a staff and a wallet, intending to walk all the way. -In a fortnight he was back again, bringing with him a long face. - -"It is sad to see the child," he said to me, as I sat in his room -listening to the news. "She is no more like the bonnie Kettie that we -knew here, than a dead girl's like a living one. Worn out, bent and -silent, she sits, day after day and week after week, and her mother -cannot rouse her. She has sat so all along." - -"But what is the matter with her?" - -"She is slowly dying, sir." - -"What of?" - -"A broken heart." - -"Oh dear!" said I; believing I knew who had broken it. - -"Yes," said Abel, "_he_. He won her heart's best love, Master Johnny, -and she pines for him yet. Ketira says it was his marriage that struck -her the death-blow. A few weeks she may still linger, but they won't be -many." - -Very sorry did I feel to hear it: for Ketira's sake as well as Kettie's. -The remembrance of the day I had gilded the oak-ball, and her wonderful -gratitude for it, came flashing back to me. - -And there's nothing more to add to this digression. Except that Kettie -died. - -The tidings did not appear to affect Hyde Stockhausen. All his thoughts -were given to his wife and child. Old Abel had never reproached him by -as much as a word: if by chance they met, Abel avoided looking at him, -or turned off another way. - -When the baby was six months old and began to cut his teeth, he did -not appear inclined to do it kindly. He grew thin and cross; and the -parents, who seemed to think no baby ever born could come up to this -one, began to be anxious. Hyde worshipped the child ridiculously. - -"The boy will do well enough if he does not get convulsions," Duffham -said in semi-confidence to some people over his surgery counter. "If -_they_ come on--why, I can't answer for what the result might be. Fat? -Yes, he is a great deal too fat: they feed him up so." - -The surgeon was sitting by his parlour-fire one snowy evening shortly -after this, when Stockhausen burst upon him in a fine state of -agitation; arms working, breath gone. The baby was in a fit. - -"Come, come; don't you give way," cried the doctor, believing Hyde was -going into a fit on his own account. "We'll see." - -Out of one convulsion into another went the child that night: but in a -few days it was better; thought to be getting well. Mr. and Mrs. -Stockhausen in consequence felt themselves in the seventh heaven. - -"The danger is quite past," observed Hyde, walking down the snowy path -with Duffham, one morning when the doctor had been paying a visit; and -Hyde rubbed his hands in gleeful relief, for he had been like a crazed -lunatic while the child lay ill. "Duffham, if that child had died, I -think _I_ should have died." - -"Not a bit of it," said Duffham. "You are made of tougher stuff." - -He was about to open the garden-gate as he spoke. But, suddenly -appearing there to confront them stood Ketira the gipsy. A moment's -startled pause ensued. Duffham spoke kindly to her. Hyde recoiled a step -or two; as if the sight had frightened him. - -"You may well start back," she said to the latter, taking no notice of -Duffham's civility. "I told you, you should not see me many times in -life, Hyde Stockhausen, but that when you did, I should be the harbinger -of evil. Go home, and meet it." - -Turning off under the garden-hedge, without another word, she -disappeared from their view as suddenly as she had come into it. Hyde -Stockhausen made a feint of laughing. - -"The woman is more mad than ever," he said. "Decidedly, Duffham, she -ought to be in confinement." - -Never an assenting syllable gave Duffham. He was looking as stern as -a judge. "What's that?" he suddenly exclaimed, turning sharply to the -house. - -A maid-servant was flying down the path. Deborah Preen stood at the -door, crying and calling as if in some dire calamity. Hyde rushed -towards her, asking what was amiss. Duffham followed more slowly. The -baby had got another attack of convulsions. - -And this time it was for death. - - * * * * * - -When these events were happening, Great Malvern was not the overgrown, -fashionable place it is now; but a quiet little spot with only a few -houses in it, chiefly clustering under the highest of the hills. Amid -these houses, one bright May day, Hyde Stockhausen went, seeking -lodgings. - -Hyde had not died of the loss of the baby. For here he was, alive and -well, nearly eighteen months afterwards. That it had been a sharp trial -for him nobody doubted; and for his wife also. And when a second baby -came to replace the first, it brought them no good, for it did not live -a week. - -That was in March: two months ago: and ever since Mrs. Stockhausen -had been hovering between this world and the next. A fever and other -ailments had taken what little strength she had out of her. _This_, -to Hyde Stockhausen, was a worse affliction than even the loss of the -children, for she was to him as the very apple of his eye. When somewhat -improving, the doctors recommended Malvern. So Hyde had brought her to -it with a nurse and old Deborah; and had left them at the Crown Hotel -while he looked for lodgings. - -He found them in one of the houses down by the abbey. Some nice rooms, -quite suitable. And to them his wife was taken. For a very few days -afterwards she seemed to be getting better: and then all the bad -symptoms returned. A doctor was called in. He feared she might not -rally again; that the extreme debility might prevent it: and he said -as much to Hyde in private. - -Anything more unreasonable than the spirit in which Hyde met this, the -Malvern doctor had never seen. - -"You are a fool," said Hyde. "Begging your pardon, sir, I should think -you don't know your profession. My wife is fifty pounds better than she -was at Church Dykely. How can you take upon yourself to say she will not -rally?" - -"I said she might not," replied the surgeon, who happened to possess a -temper mild as milk. "I hope she will with all my heart. I shall do my -best to bring it about." - -It was an anxious time. Mrs. Stockhausen fluctuated greatly: to-day able -to sit up in an easy-chair; to-morrow too exhausted to be lifted out of -bed. But, one morning she did seem to be ever so much better. Her cheeks -were pink, her lips had a smile. - -"Ah," said the doctor cheerfully when he went in, "we shall do now, I -hope. You are up early to-day." - -"I felt so much better that I wanted to get up and surprise you," she -answered in quite a strong voice--for her. "And it was so warm, and the -world looked so beautiful. I should like to be able to mount one of -those donkeys and go up the hill. Hyde says that the view, even from St. -Ann's well, is charming." - -"So it is," assented the surgeon. "Have you never seen it?" - -"No, I have not been to Malvern before." - -This was the first day of June. Hyde would not forget the date to the -last hour of his life. It was hot summer weather: the sun came in at the -open window, touching her hair and her pale forehead as she lay back in -the easy-chair after the doctor left; a canary at a neighbouring house -was singing sweetly; the majestic hills, with their light and shade, -looked closer even than they were in reality. Hyde began to lower the -blind. - -"Don't, please, Hyde." - -"But, my darling, the sun will soon be in your eyes." - -"I shall like it. Is it not a lovely day! I think it is that which has -put new life into me." - -"And we shall soon have you up the hill, where we can sit and look -all over everywhere. On one or two occasions, when the atmosphere was -rarefied to an unusual degree, I have caught the silver line of the -Bristol Channel." - -"How pleasant it will be, Hyde! To sit there with you, and to know that -I am getting well!" - -Early in the afternoon, when Mabel lay down to rest, Hyde went strolling -up the hill, for the first time since his present stay at Malvern. He -got as far as St. Ann's; drank a tumbler of the water, and then paced -about, hither and thither, to the right and left, not intending to -ascend higher that day. If he went to the summit, Mabel might be awake -before he got home again; and he would not have lost five minutes of her -waking moments for a mine of gold. Looking at his watch, he sat down on -a bench that was backed by some dark trees. - -"Yes," he mused, "it will be delightful to sit about here with Mabel, -and show her the different points of interest in the landscape. -Worcester Cathedral, and St. Andrew's Spire; and the Bristol----" - -Some stir behind caused him to turn his head. The words froze on his -tongue. There stood Ketira the gipsy. She had been sitting or lying -amidst the trees, wrapped in her red cloak. Hyde's look of startled -dread was manifest. She saw it; and accosted him. - -"We meet again, Hyde Stockhausen. Ah, you have cause to fear!--your face -may well whiten to the shivering hue of snow at sight of me! You are -alone in the world now--as you left my daughter to be. Once more we -shall see one another. Till then farewell." - -Recovering his equanimity when left alone, Hyde betook himself down the -zig-zag path towards the village, calling the gipsy all the wicked names -in the dictionary, and feeling tempted to give her into custody. - -At his home, he was met by a commotion. The nurse wore a scared face; -Deborah Preen, wringing her hands, burst out sobbing. - -Mabel was dead. Had died in a fainting-fit. - - * * * * * - -Leaving his wife in her grave at Malvern, Hyde Stockhausen returned to -Church Dykely. We hardly knew him. - -A more changed man than Hyde was from that time the world has -never seen. He walked about like a melancholy maniac, hands in his -coat-pockets, eyes on the ground, steps dragging; looking just like -one who has some great remorse lying upon his conscience and is being -consumed by the past. The most wonderful thing in the eyes of Church -Dykely was, that he grew religious: came to church twice on Sunday, -stayed for the Sacrament, was good to the poor, gentle and kindly to -all. Mr. Holland observed to the Squire that Stockhausen had become a -true Christian. He made his will, and altogether seemed to be tired of -life. - -"Go you, Johnny, and ask him to come over to us sometimes in an evening; -tell him it will be a break to his loneliness," said the Squire to me -one day. "Now that the poor fellow is ill and repentant, we must let -bygones be bygones. I hear that Abel Carew spent half-an-hour sociably -with him yesterday." - -I went off as directed. Summer had come round again, for more than a -year had now passed since Mabel's death, and the Virginia creeper on -the cottage walls was all alight with red flowers. Hyde was pacing his -garden in front of it, his head bent. - -"Is it you, Johnny?" he said, in the patient, gentle tone he now always -used, as he held his hand out. He was more like a shadow than a man; his -face drawn and long, his blue eyes large and dark and sad. - -"We should be so glad if you would come," I added, after giving the -message. "Mrs. Todhetley says you make yourself too much of a stranger. -Will you come this evening?" - -He shook his head slightly, clasping my hand the while, his own feeling -like a burning coal, and smiling the sweetest and saddest smile. - -"You are all too good for me; too considerate; better far than I -deserve. No, I cannot come to you this evening, Johnny: I have not the -spirits for it; hardly the strength. But I will come one evening if I -can. Thank them all, Johnny, for me." - -And he did come. But he could not speak much above a whisper, so -weak and hollow had his voice grown. And of all the humble-minded, -kindly-spirited individuals that ever sat at our tea-table, the chiefest -was Hyde Stockhausen. - -"I fear he is going the way of all the Stockhausens," said Mrs. -Todhetley afterwards. "But what a beautiful frame of mind he is in!" - -"Beautiful, you call it!" cried the pater. "The man seems to me to be -eating his heart out in some impossible atonement. Had I set fire to the -church and burnt up all the congregation, I don't think it could have -subdued me to that extent." - -Of all places, where should I next meet Hyde but at Worcester races! We -knew that he had been worse lately, that his mother had come to Virginia -Cottage to be with him at the last, and that there was no further hope. -Therefore, to see Hyde this afternoon, perched on a tall horse on -Pitchcroft, looked more like magic than reality. - -"_You_ at the races, Hyde!" - -"Yes; but not for pleasure," he answered, smiling faintly; and looking -so shadowy and weak that it was a marvel how he could stick on the -horse. "I am in search of one who is growing too fond of these scenes. -I want to find him--and to say a few last words to him." - -"If you mean Jim Massock"--for I thought it could be nobody but young -Jim--"I saw him yonder, down by the shows. He was drinking porter -outside a booth. How are you, Hyde?" - -"Oh, getting on slowly," he said, with a peculiar smile. - -"Getting on! It looks to me to be the other way." - -Turning his horse quickly round, after nodding to me, in the direction -of the shows and drinking booths, he nearly turned it upon a tall, gaunt -skeleton in a red cloak--Ketira the gipsy. She must have sprung out of -the crowd. - -But oh, how ill she looked! Hyde was strangely altered; but not as she -was. The yellow face was shrivelled and shrunken, the fire had left -her eyes. Hyde checked his horse; but the animal turned restive. He -controlled it with his hand, and sat still before Ketira. - -"Yes, look at me," she burst forth. "_For the last time._ The end is -close at hand both for you and for me. We shall meet Kettie where we are -going." - -He leaned from his horse to speak to her: his voice a low sad wail, his -words apparently those of deprecating prayer. Ketira heard him quietly -to the end, gazing into his face, and then slowly turned away. - -"Fare you well, Hyde Stockhausen. Farewell for ever." - -Before leaving the course Hyde had an accident. While talking to Jim -Massock, some drums and trumpets struck up their noise at a neighbouring -show; the horse started violently, and Hyde was thrown. He thought he -was not much hurt and mounted again. - -"What else could you expect?" demanded Duffham, when Hyde got back to -Virginia Cottage. "You have not strength to sit a donkey, and you must -go careering off to Worcester races on a fiery horse!" - -But the fall had done Hyde some inward damage, and it hastened the end. -He died that day week. - -"Some men's sins go before them to Judgment, and some follow after," -solemnly said Mr. Holland the next Sunday from the pulpit. "He who is -gone from among us had taken his to his Saviour--and he is now at rest." - - * * * * * - -"All chance and coincidence," pronounced Duffham, talking over the -strange threat of Ketira the gipsy and its stranger working out. "Yes; -chance, I say, each of the three times. The woman, happening to be at -hand, must have known by common report that the child was in peril; -she may have learnt at Malvern that the wife was dying; and any goose -with eyes in its head might have read coming death on _his_ face that -afternoon on Pitchcroft. That's all about it, Johnny." - -Very probably. The reader can exercise his own judgment. I only know it -all happened. - - - - -THE CURATE OF ST. MATTHEW'S. - - -I. - -"No, Johnny Ludlow, I shall not stay at home, and have the deeds sent up -and down by post. I know what lawyers are; so will you, some time: this -letter to be read and answered to-day; that paper to be digested and -despatched back to-morrow--anything to enchance their bill of costs. I -intend to be in London, on the spot; and so will you be, Mr. Johnny." - -So said Mr. Brandon to me, as we sat in the bay-window at Crabb Cot, at -which place we were staying. _I_ was willing enough to go to London; -liked the prospect beyond everything; but he was not well, and I thought -of the trouble to him. - -"Of course, sir, if you consider it necessary we should be there. -But----" - -"Now, Johnny Ludlow, I have told you my decision," he interrupted, -cutting me short in all the determination of his squeaky little voice. -"You go with me to London, sir, and we start on Monday morning next; and -I dare say we shall be kept there a week. I know what lawyers are." - -This happened when I came of age, twenty-one; but I should not be of age -as to my property for four more years: until then, Mr. Brandon remained -my arbitrary guardian and trustee, just as strictly as he had been. -Arbitrary so far as doing the right thing as trustee went, not suffering -me, or any one else, to squander a shilling. One small bit of property -fell to me now; a farm; and old Brandon was making as much legal -commotion over the transfer of it from his custody to mine, as though it -had been veined with gold. For this purpose, to execute the deeds of -transfer, he meant to take up his quarters in London, to be on the spot -with the lawyers who had it in hand, and to carry me up with him. - -And what great events trivial chances bring about! Chances, as they are -called. These "chances" are all in the hands of one Divine Ruler, who -is ever shaping them to further His own wise ends. But for my going to -London that time and staying there--however, I'll not let the cat out of -the bag. - -He stayed with us at Crabb Cot until the Monday, when we started for -London; the Squire and Tod coming to the station to see us off. Mr. -Brandon wore a nankeen suit, and had a green veil in readiness. A green -veil, if you'll believe me! The sun was under a cloud just then; had -been for the best part of the morning; but if it came out fiercely--Tod -threw up his arms behind old Brandon's back, and gave me a grin and a -whisper. - -"I wouldn't be you for something, Johnny; he'll be taken for a lunatic." - -"And mind you take care of yourself, sir," put in the Squire, to me. -"London is a dreadful place; full of temptations; and you are but an -inexperienced boy, Johnny. Be cautious and watchful, lad; don't pick up -any strange acquaintances in the streets; sharpers are on the watch to -get you into conversation, and then swindle you out of all the money in -your pockets. Be sure don't forget the little hamper for Miss Deveen; -and----" - -The puffing of the engine, as we started, drowned the rest. We reached -Paddington, smoothly and safely--and old Brandon did not once put on the -veil. He took a cab to the Tavistock Hotel, and I another cab to Miss -Deveen's. - -For she had asked me to stay with her. Hearing of my probable visit to -town through a letter of Helen Whitney's, she, ever kind, wrote at once, -saying, if I did go, I must make her house my home for the time, and -that it would be a most delightful relief to the stagnation she and Miss -Cattledon had been lately enjoying. Of course that was just her pleasant -way of putting it. - -The house looked just as it used to look; the clustering trees of the -north-western suburb were as green and grateful to the tired eye as of -yore; and Miss Deveen, in grey satin, received me with the same glad -smile. I knew I was a favourite of hers; she once said there were few -people in the world she liked as well as she liked me--which made me -feel proud and grateful. "I should leave you a fortune, Johnny," she -said to me that same day, "but that I know you have plenty of your own." -And I begged her not to do anything of the kind; not to think of it: -she must know a great many people to whom her money would be a Godsend. -She laughed at my earnestness, and told me I should be unselfish to the -end. - -We spent a quiet evening. The grey-haired curate, Mr. Lake, who had come -in the first evening I ever spent at Miss Deveen's, years ago, came in -again by invitation. "He is so modest," she had said to me, in those -long-past years, "he never comes without being invited:" and he was -modest still. His hair had been chestnut-coloured once; it was half -grey and half chestnut now; and his face and voice were gentle, and his -manners kindly. Cattledon was displaying her most gracious behaviour, -and thinnest waist; one of the roses I had brought up with the -strawberries was sticking out of the body of her green silk gown. -For at least half-a-dozen years she had been setting her cap at the -curate--and I think she must have been endowed with supreme patience. - -"If you do not particularly want me this morning, Miss Deveen, I think -I will go over to service." - -It was the next morning, and after breakfast. Cattledon had been -downstairs, giving the orders for dinner--and said this on her return. -Every morning she went through the ceremony of asking whether she was -wanted, before attiring herself for church. - -"Not I," cried Miss Deveen, with a half-smile. "Go, and welcome, -Jemima!" - -I stood at the window listening to the ting-tang: the bell of St. -Matthew's Church could be called nothing else: and watched her pick her -way across the road, just deluged by the water-cart. She wore a striped -fawn-coloured gown, cut straight up and down, which made her look all -the thinner, and a straw bonnet and white veil. The church was on -the other side of the wide road, lower down, but within view. Some -stragglers went into it with Cattledon; not many. - -"Does it pay to hold the daily morning service?" - -"Pay?" repeated Miss Deveen, looking at me with an arch smile. And I -felt ashamed of my inadvertent, hasty word. - -"I mean, is the congregation sufficient to repay the trouble?" - -"The congregation, Johnny, usually consists of some twenty people, a few -more, or a few less, as may chance; and they are all young ladies," she -added, the smile deepening to a laugh. "At least, unmarried ones; some -are as old as Miss Cattledon. Two of them are widows of thirty-five: -they are especially constant in attendance." - -"They go after the curate," I said, laughing with Miss Deveen. "One year -when Mr. Holland was ill, down with us, he had to take on a curate, and -the young ladies ran after him." - -"Yes, Johnny, the young ladies go after the curates; we have two of -them. Mr. Lake is the permanent curate; he has been here, oh, twelve or -thirteen years. He does the chief work, in the church and out of it; we -have a great many poor, as I think you know. The other curate is changed -at least every year, and is generally a young deacon, fresh from -college. Our Rector is fond of giving young men their title to orders. -The young fellow we have now is a nobleman's grandson, with more money -in his pocket to waste on light gloves and hair-wash than poor Mr. Lake -dare spend on all his living." - -"Mr. Lake seems to be a very good man." - -"A better man never lived," returned Miss Deveen warmly, as she got -up from the note she was writing, and came to my side. "Self-denying, -anxious, painstaking; a true follower of his Master, a Christian to -the very depths of his heart. He is one of those unobtrusive men whose -merits are kept hidden from the world in general, who are content to -work on patiently and silently in their path of duty, looking for no -promotion, no reward here, because it seems to lie so very far away -from their track." - -"Is Mr. Lake poor?" - -"Mr. Lake has just one hundred pounds a-year, Johnny. It was what Mr. -Selwyn offered him when he first came, and it has never been increased. -William Lake told me one day," added Miss Deveen, "that he thought the -hundred a-year riches then. He was not a very young man; turned thirty; -but his stipend in the country had been only fifty pounds a-year. To -have it doubled all at once, no doubt did seem like riches." - -"Why does not the Rector raise it?" - -"The Rector says he can't afford to do it. I believe Mr. Lake once -plucked up courage to ask him for a small increase: but it was of no -use. The living is worth six hundred a-year, out of which the senior -curate's stipend has to be paid; and Mr. Selwyn's family is expensive. -His two sons are just leaving college. So, poor Mr. Lake has just -plodded on with his hundred a-year, and made it do. The Rector wishes -he could raise it; he knows his worth. During this prolonged illness -of Mr. Selwyn's he has been most indefatigable." - -"Is Mr. Selwyn ill?" - -"Not very ill, but ailing. He has been so for two years. He generally -preaches on a Sunday morning, but that is about all the duty he has been -able to take. Mr. Lake is virtually the incumbent; he does everything, -in the church and out of it." - -"Without the pay," I remarked. - -"Without the pay, Johnny. His hundred a-year, however, seems to suffice -him. He never grumbles at it, never complains, is always contented and -cheerful: and no doubt will be contented with it to the end." - -"But--if he has no more than that, and no expectation of more, how is -it that the ladies run after him? They can't expect him to marry upon -a hundred a-year." - -"My dear Johnny, let a clergyman possess nothing but the white surplice -on his back, the ladies would trot at his heels all the same. It comes -naturally to them. They trust to future luck, you see; promotion is -always possible, and they reckon upon it. I'm sure the way Mr. Lake gets -run after is as good as a play. This young lady sends him a pair of -slippers, her own work; that one embroiders a cushion for him: Cattledon -painted a velvet fire-screen for him last year--'Oriental tinting.' You -never saw a screen so gorgeous." - -"Do you think he has--has--any idea of Miss Cattledon?" - -"Just as much as he has of me," cried Miss Deveen. "He is kind and -polite to her; as he is, naturally, to every one; but you may rely upon -it he never gave her a word or a look that would be construed into -anything warmer." - -"How silly she must be!" - -"Not more silly than the rest are. It is a mania, Johnny, and they -all go in for it. Jemima Cattledon--stupid old thing!--cherishes hopes -of Mr. Lake: a dozen others cherish the same. Most of them are worse -than she is, for they course about the parish after him all day long. -Cattledon never does that: with all her zeal, she does not forget that -she is a gentlewoman; she meets him here, at my house, and she goes to -church to see and hear him, but she does not race after him." - -"Do you think he is aware of all this pursuit?" - -"Well, he must be, in a degree; William Lake is not a simpleton. But the -very hopelessness of his being able to marry must in his mind act as a -counterbalance, and cause him to look upon it as a harmless pastime. How -could he think any one of them in earnest, remembering his poor hundred -pounds a-year?" - -Thus talking, the time slipped on, until we saw the congregation coming -out of church. The service had taken just three-quarters-of-an-hour. - -"Young Chisholm has been reading the prayers to-day; I am sure of that," -remarked Miss Deveen. "He gabbles them over as fast as a parrot." - -The ladies congregated within the porch, and without: ostensibly to -exchange compliments with one another; in reality to wait for the -curates. The two appeared together: Mr. Lake quiet and thoughtful; Mr. -Chisholm, a very tall, slim, empty-headed young fellow, smiling here, -and shaking hands there, and ready to chatter with the lot. - -For full five minutes they remained stationary. Some important subject -of conversation had evidently been started, for they stood around Mr. -Lake, listening to something he was saying. The pew-opener, a woman in -a muslin cap, and the bell-ringer, an old man in a battered hat, halted -on the outskirts of the throng. - -"One or other of those damsels is sure to invent some grave question -to discuss with him," laughed Miss Deveen. "Perhaps Betty Smith has -been breaking out again. She gives more trouble, with her alternate -repentings and her lapsings to the tap-room, than all the rest of the -old women put together." - -Presently the group dispersed; some going one way, some another. Young -Chisholm walked off at a smart pace, as if he meant to make a round of -morning calls; the elder curate and Miss Cattledon crossed the road -together. - -"His way home lies past our house," remarked Miss Deveen, "so that he -often does cross the road with her. He lives at Mrs. Topcroft's." - -"Mrs. Topcroft's! What a curious name." - -"So it is, Johnny. But she is a curiously good woman--in my opinion; -worth her weight in gold. Those young ladies yonder turn up their noses -at her, calling her a 'lodging-letter.' They are jealous; that's the -truth; jealous of her daughter, Emma Topcroft. Cattledon, I know, thinks -the young girl the one chief rival to be feared." - -Mr. Lake passed the garden with a bow, raising his hat to Miss Deveen; -and Cattledon came in. - -I went off, as quick as an omnibus could take me, to the Tavistock, -being rather behind time, and preparing for a blowing-up from Mr. -Brandon in consequence. - -"Are you Mr. Ludlow, sir?" asked the waiter. - -"Yes." - -"Then Mr. Brandon left word that he was going down to Lincoln's Inn, -sir; and if he is not back here at one o'clock precisely, I was to say -that you needn't come down again till to-morrow morning at ten." - -I went into the Strand, and amused myself with looking at the shops, -getting back to the hotel a few minutes after one. No; Mr. Brandon -had not come in. All I could do was to leave Miss Deveen's note of -invitation to dine with her--that day, or any other day that might be -more convenient, or every day--and tell the man to be sure to give it -him. - -Then I went into the National Gallery, after getting some Bath buns at -a pastrycook's. It was between five and six when I returned to Miss -Deveen's. Her carriage had just driven up; she and Cattledon were -alighting from it. - -"I have a little commission to do yet at one of the shops in the -neighbourhood, and I may as well go about it now," remarked Miss Deveen. -"Will you go with me, Johnny?" - -Of course I said I would go; and Miss Cattledon was sent indoors to -fetch a small paper parcel that lay on the table in the blue room. - -"It contains the patterns of some sewing silks that I want to get," she -added to me, as we stood waiting on the door-steps. "If----" - -At that moment, out burst the ting-tang. Miss Deveen suddenly broke off -what she was saying, and turned to look at the church. - -"Do they have service at this hour?" I asked. - -"Hush, Johnny! That bell is not going for service. Some one must be -dead." - -In truth, I heard that, even as she spoke. Three times three it struck -out, followed by the sharp, quick strokes. - -"That's the passing-bell!" exclaimed Cattledon, coming quickly from the -hall with the little packet in her hand. "Who _can_ be dead? It hardly -rings out once in a year." - -For, it appeared, the bell at St. Matthew's did not in general toll for -the dead: was not expected to do so. Our bell at Church Dykely rang for -any one who could pay for it. - -Waiting there on the steps, we saw Mr. Lake coming from the direction -of the church. Miss Deveen walked down the broad path of her small -front-garden, and stood at the gate to wait for him. - -"Who is it?" she asked. - -"Oh, it is a grievous thing!" he cried, in answer, his gentle face pale, -his blue eyes suppressing their tears. "It is no other than my dear -Rector; my many years' friend!" - -"The Rector!" gasped Miss Deveen. - -"Indeed it is. The complaint he suffered from has increased its symptoms -lately, but no one thought of attaching to them the slightest danger. At -two o'clock to-day he sent for me, saying he felt very ill. I found him -so when I got there; ill, and troubled. He had taken a turn for the -worse; and death--death," added Mr. Lake, pausing to command his voice, -"was coming on rapidly." - -Miss Deveen had turned as white as her point-lace collar. - -"He was troubled, you say?" she asked. - -"In such a case as this--meeting death face to face unexpectedly--it is -hardly possible not to be troubled, however truly we may have lived in -preparation for it," answered the sad, soft voice of the curate. "Mr. -Selwyn's chief perplexity lay in the fact that he had not settled his -worldly affairs." - -"Do you mean, not made his will?" - -"Just so," nodded Mr. Lake; "he had meant to do so, he said to me, but -had put it off from time to time. We got a lawyer in, and it was soon -done; and--and--I stayed on with him afterwards to the end." - -"Oh dear, it is a piteous tale," sighed Miss Deveen. "And his wife and -daughters are away!" - -"They went to Oxford last Saturday for a week; and the two sons are -there, as you know. No one thought seriously of his illness. Even this -morning, when I called upon him after breakfast, though he said he was -not feeling well, and did not look well, such a thing as danger never -occurred to me. And now he is dead!" - - * * * * * - -Never did a parson's death cause such a stir in a parish as poor Mr. -Selwyn's did in this. A lively commotion set in. People flew about to -one another's houses like chips in a gale of wind. Not only was the -sorrow to himself to be discussed, but the uncertainty as to what would -happen now. Some six months previously a church not far off, St. -Peter's, which had rejoiced in three energetic curates, and as many -daily services, suddenly changed its incumbent; the new one proved to be -an elderly man with wife and children, who did all the duty himself, and -cut off the curates and the week-day prayers. What if the like calamity -should happen to St. Matthew's! - -I was away most of the following day with Mr. Brandon, so was not in the -thick of it, but the loss was made up for in the evening. - -"Of course it is impossible to say who will get the living," cried Mrs. -Jonas, one of the two widows already mentioned, who had been dining with -Miss Deveen. "I know who ought to--and that is our dear Mr. Lake." - -"'Oughts' don't go for much in this world," growled Dr. Galliard, a -sterling man, in spite of his gruffness. He had recently brought -Cattledon out of a bilious attack, and ran in this evening to see -whether the cure lasted. "They go for nothing in the matter of Church -patronage," continued he. "If Lake had his deserts, he'd be made -incumbent of this living to-morrow: but he is as likely to get it as I -am to get the Lord Chancellor's seals." - -"Who would have done as Mr. Lake has done--given himself up solely and -wholly to the duties of the church and the poor, for more years than I -can count?" contended Mrs. Jonas, who was rich and positive, and wore -this evening a black gauze dress, set off with purple grapes, and a -spray of purple grapes in her black hair. "I say the living is due to -him, and the Lord Chancellor ought to present him with it." - -Dr. Galliard gave a short laugh. He was a widower, and immensely -popular, nearly as much so as Mr. Lake. "Did you ever know a curate -succeed to a living under the circumstances?" he demanded. "The Lord -Chancellor has enough friends of his own, waiting to snap up anything -that falls; be sure of that, Mrs. Jonas." - -"Some dean will get it, I shouldn't wonder," cried Cattledon. For at -this time we were in the prime old days when a Church dignitary might -hold half-a-dozen snug things, if he could drop into them. - -"Just so; a dean or some other luminary," nodded the doctor. "It is the -province of great divines to shine like lights in the world, and of -curates to toil on in obscurity. Well--God sees all things: and what is -wrong in this world may be set right in the next." - -"You speak of the Lord Chancellor," quietly put in Miss Deveen: "the -living is not in his gift." - -"Never said it was--was speaking generally," returned the doctor. "The -patron of the living is some other great man, nobleman, or what not, -living down in the country." - -"In Staffordshire, I think," said Miss Deveen, with hesitation, not -being sure of her memory. "He is a baronet, I believe; but I forget his -name." - -"All the same, ma'am: there's no more chance for poor Lake with him than -with the Lord Chancellor," returned Dr. Galliard. "Private patrons are -worse beset, when a piece of preferment falls in, than even public -ones." - -"Suppose the parish were to get up a petition, setting forth Mr. Lake's -merits and claims, and present it to the patron?" suggested Mrs. Jonas. -"Not, I dare say, that it would be of much use." - -"Not the slightest use; you may rely upon that," spoke the doctor, in -his decisive way. "Lake's best chance is to get taken on by the new man, -and stand out for a higher salary." - -Certainly it seemed to be his best and only chance of getting any good -out of the matter. But it was just as likely he would be turned adrift. - -The next day we met Mrs. Jonas in the King's Road. She had rather a down -look as she accosted Miss Deveen. - -"No one seems willing to bestir themselves about a petition; they say -it is so very hopeless. And there's a rumour abroad that the living is -already given away." - -"To whom is it given?" asked Miss Deveen. - -"Well, not to a Very Reverend Dean, as Miss Cattledon suggested last -night, but to some one as bad--or good: one of the Canons of St. Paul's. -I dare say it's true. How hard it is on Mr. Lake! How hard it must seem -to him!" - -"He may stay here as curate, then." - -"Never you expect that," contended Mrs. Jonas, her face reddening with -her zeal. "These cathedral luminaries have invariably lots of their own -circle to provide for." - -"Do you not think it will seem hard on Mr. Lake?" I said to Miss Deveen, -as we left the little widow, and walked on. - -"I do, Johnny Ludlow. I do think he ought to have it; that in right -and justice no one has so great a claim to it as he," she impressively -answered. "But, as Dr. Galliard says, 'oughts' go for nothing in Church -patronage. William Lake is a good, earnest, intellectual man; he has -grown grey in the service of the parish, and yet, now that the living -is vacant, he has no more chance of it than that silly young Chisholm -has--not half as much, I dare say, if the young fellow were only in -priest's orders. It is but a common case: scores of curates who have to -work on, neglected, to their lives' end could testify to it. Here we -are, Johnny. This is Mrs. Topcroft's." - -Knocking at the house-door--a small house standing ever so far back from -the road--we were shown by a young servant into a pleasant parlour. Emma -Topcroft, a merry, bright, laughing girl, of eighteen or nineteen, sat -there at work with silks and black velvet. If I had the choice given me -between her and Miss Cattledon, thought I, as Mr. Lake seems to have, I -know which of the two I should choose. - -"Mamma is making a rice-pudding in the kitchen," she said, spreading her -work out on the table for Miss Deveen to see. - -"You are doing it very nicely, Emma. And I have brought you the fresh -silks. I could not get them before: they had to send the patterns into -town. Is the other screen begun?" - -"Oh yes; and half done," answered Emma, briskly, as she opened the -drawer of a-work-table, and began unfolding another square of velvet -from its tissue paper. "I do the sober colours in both screens first, -and leave the bright ones till last. Here's the mother." - -Mrs. Topcroft came in, turning down her sleeves at the wrist; a little -woman, quite elderly. I liked her the moment I saw her. She was homely -and motherly, with the voice and manners of a lady. - -"I came to bring Emma the silks, and to see how the work was getting -on," said Miss Deveen as she shook hands. "And what a grievous thing -this is about Mr. Selwyn!" - -Mrs. Topcroft lifted her hands pityingly. "It has made Mr. Lake quite -ill," she answered; "I can see it. And"--dropping her voice--"they say -there will be little, or nothing, for Mrs. Selwyn and the children." - -"Yes, there will; though perhaps not much," corrected Miss Deveen. "Mrs. -Selwyn has two hundred a-year of her own. I happen to know it." - -"I am very thankful to hear that: we were fearing the worst. I wonder," -added Mrs. Topcroft, "if this will take Mr. Lake from us?" - -"Probably. We cannot tell yet. People are saying he ought to have the -living if it went by merit: but there's not any hope of that." - -"Not any," acquiesced Mrs. Topcroft, shaking her head. "It does seem -unjust: that a clergyman should wear out all his best days toiling for -a church, and be passed over at last as not worth a consideration." - -"It is the way of the world." - -"No one knows his worth," went on Mrs. Topcroft, "So patient, so good, -so self-denying; and so anxious for the poor and sick, and for all the -ill-doers who seem to be going wrong. I don't believe there are many -men in this world so good as he. All he can scrape and save out of his -narrow income he gives away, denying himself necessaries to be able to -do it: Mr. Selwyn, you know, has given nothing. It has been said he -grudged even the communion money." - -That was Mrs. Topcroft's report of Mr. Lake; and she ought to know. -He had boarded with her long enough. He had the bedroom over the best -parlour; and the little den of a back-parlour was given over to his own -use, in which he saw his parishioners and wrote his sermons. - -"They come from the same village in the West of England," said Miss -Deveen to me as we walked homewards. "Mr. Lake's father was curate of -the place, and Mrs. Topcroft's people are the doctors: her brothers are -in practice there now. When she was left a widow upon a very slender -income, and settled down in this little house, Mr. Lake came to board -with her. He pays a guinea a-week only; but Mrs. Topcroft has told me -that it pays her amply, and she could not have got along without it. -The housekeeping is, of necessity, economical: and that suits the -pocket on both sides." - -"I like Mrs. Topcroft. And she seems quite a lady, though she is poor." - -"She is quite a lady, Johnny. Her husband was a civil engineer, very -clever: but for his early death he might have become as renowned as his -master, Sir John Rennie. The son; he is several years older than Emma; -is in the same profession, steady and diligent, and he gains a fair -salary now, which of course helps his mother. He is at home night and -morning." - -"Do you suppose that Mr. Lake thinks of Emma?" - -Miss Deveen laughed--as if the matter were a standing joke in her mind. -"I do not suppose it, Johnny. I never saw the smallest cause to lead me -to suppose it: she is too much of a child. Such a thing never would have -been thought of but for the jealous suspicions of the parish--I mean of -course our young ladies in it. Because Emma Topcroft is a nice-looking -and attractive girl, and because Mr. Lake lives in her companionship, -these young women must needs get up the notion. And they despise the -Topcrofts accordingly, and turn the cold shoulder on them." - -It had struck me that Emma Topcroft must be doing those screens for Miss -Deveen. I asked her. - -"She is doing them for me in one sense, Johnny," was the answer. "Being -an individual of note, you see"--and Miss Deveen laughed again--"that -is, my income being known to be a good one, and being magnified by the -public into something fabulous, I have to pay the penalty of greatness. -Hardly a week passes but I am solicited to become the patroness of some -bazaar, not to speak of other charities, or at least to contribute -articles for sale. So I buy materials and get Emma Topcroft to convert -them into nicknacks. Working flowers upon velvet for banner-screens, -as she is doing now; or painting flowers upon cardboard for baskets or -boxes, which she does nicely, and various other things. Two ends are -thus served: Emma makes a pretty little income, nearly enough for her -clothes, and the bazaars get the work when it is finished, and sell it -for their own benefit." - -"It is very good of you, Miss Deveen." - -"_Good!_ Nay, don't say that, Johnny," she continued, in a reproving -tone. "Those whom Heaven has blessed with ample means must remember that -they will have to render an account of their stewardship. Trifles, such -as these, are but odds and ends, not to be thought of, beside what I -ought to do--and try to do." - -That same evening Mr. Lake came in, unexpectedly. He called to say -that the funeral was fixed for Saturday, and that a portion of the -burial-service would be read in the church here, before starting for -the cemetery: Mrs. Selwyn wished it so. - -"I hear that the parish began to indulge a hope that you would be -allowed to succeed Mr. Selwyn," Miss Deveen observed to him as he was -leaving; "but----" - -"I!" he exclaimed, interrupting her in genuine surprise, a transient -flush rising to his face. "What, succeed to the living! How could any -one think of such a thing for a moment? Why, Miss Deveen, I do not -possess any interest: not the slightest in the world. I do not even know -Sir Robert Tenby. It is not likely that he has ever heard my name." - -"Sir Robert Tenby!" I cried, pricking up my ears. "Is Sir Robert Tenby -the patron?" - -"Yes. His seat is in Worcestershire?" - -"Do you know him, Johnny?" asked Miss Deveen. - -"A little; not much. Bellwood is near Crabb Cot. I used often to see his -wife when she was Anne Lewis: we were great friends. She was a very nice -girl." - -"A _girl_, Johnny! Is she younger than he is?" - -"Young enough to be his daughter." - -"But I was about to say," added Miss Deveen to the curate, "that I fear -there can be no chance for you, if this report, that the living is -already given away, be correct. I wish it had been otherwise." - -"There could be no chance for me in any case, dear Miss Deveen; there's -no chance for any one so unknown and obscure as I am," he returned, -suppressing a sigh as he shook her hand. "Thank you all the same for -your kind wishes." - -How long I lay awake that night I don't care to recall. An extraordinary -idea had taken possession of me. If some one would only tell Sir Robert -Tenby of the merits of this good man, he might be so impressed as to -give him the living. We were not sure about the Canon of St. Paul's: he -might be a myth, as far as our church went. - -Yes, these ideas were all very well; but who would presume to do it? The -mice, you know, wanted to bell the cat, but none of them could be got to -undertake the task. - -Down I went in the morning to Mr. Brandon as soon as breakfast was over. -I found him in his sitting-room at _his_ breakfast: dry toast, and tea -without milk; a yellow silk handkerchief thrown cornerwise over his -head, and his face looking green. He had a bilious attack coming on, he -said, and thought he had taken a slight cold. - -Now I don't want to disparage Mr. Brandon's merits. In some things he -was as good as gold. But when he fell into these fanciful attacks he was -not practically worth a rush. It was hardly a propitious moment for the -scheme I had in my head; but, unfortunately, there was no time to lose: -I must speak then, or not at all. Down I sat, and told my tale. Old -Brandon, sipping his tea by spoonfuls, listened, and stared at me with -his little eyes. - -"And you have been getting up in your brain the Utopian scheme that -Sir Robert Tenby would put this curate into the living! and want me to -propose it to him! Is _that_ what you mean, young man?" - -"Yes, sir. Sir Robert would listen to you. You are friendly with him, -and he is in town. Won't you, please, do it?" - -"Not if I know it, Johnny Ludlow. Solicit Robert Tenby to give the -living to a man I never heard of: a man I know nothing about! What -notions you pick up!" - -"Mr. Lake is so good and so painstaking," I urged. "He has been working -all these years----" - -"You have said all that before," interrupted old Brandon, shifting the -silk handkerchief on his head more to one side. "_I_ can't answer for -it, you know. And, if I could, I should not consider myself justified -in troubling Sir Robert." - -"What I thought was this, sir: that, if he got to know all Mr. Lake is, -he might be _glad_ to give him the living: glad of an opportunity to -do a good and kind act. I did not think of your asking him to give the -living; only to tell him of Mr. Lake, and what he has done, and been. He -lives only in Upper Brook Street. It would not be far for you to go, -sir." - -"I should not go if he lived here at the next door, Johnny Ludlow: -should not be justified in going on such an errand. Go yourself." - -"I don't like to, sir." - -"He wouldn't eat you; he'd only laugh at you. Robert Tenby would excuse -in a silly lad what he might deem impertinence from me. There, Johnny; -let it end." - -And there it had to end. When old Brandon took up an idea he was hard as -adamant. - -I stood at the hotel door, wishing I could screw up courage to call at -Sir Robert's, but shrinking from it terribly. Then I thought of poor Mr. -Lake, and that there was no one else to tell about him; and at last I -started, for Upper Brook Street. - -"Is Lady Tenby at home?" I asked, when I got to the door. - -"Yes, sir." And the man showed me into a room where Lady Tenby sat, -teaching her little boy to walk. - -She was just the same kind and simple-mannered woman that she had been -as Anne Lewis. Putting both her hands into mine, she said how glad -she was to see me in London, and held out the child to be kissed. I -explained my errand, and my unwillingness to come; saying I could -venture to tell her all about it better than I could tell Sir Robert. - -She laughed merrily. "He is not any more formidable than I am, Johnny; -he is not the least bit so in the world. You shall see whether he -is"--opening the door of the next room. "Robert," she called out in -glee, "Johnny Ludlow is here, and is saying you are an ogre. He wants -to tell you something, and can't pluck up courage to do it." - -Sir Robert Tenby came in, the _Times_ in his hand, and a smile on -his face: the same kind, rugged, homely face that I knew well. He -shook hands with me, asking if I wanted his interest to be made -prime-minister. - -And somehow, what with their kindness and their thorough, cordial -homeliness, I lost my fears. In two minutes I had plunged into the tale, -Sir Robert sitting near me with his elbow on the table, and Anne beside -him, her quiet baby on her knee. - -"I thought it so great a pity, sir, that you should not hear about Mr. -Lake: how hard he has worked for years, and what a good and self-denying -man he is," I concluded at last, after telling what Miss Deveen thought -of him, and what Mrs. Topcroft said. "Not, of course, that I could -presume to suggest such a thing, sir, as that you should bestow upon him -the living--only to let you know there was a man so deserving, if--if -it was not given already. It is said in the parish that the living is -given." - -"Is this Mr. Lake a good preacher?" asked Sir Robert, when I paused. - -"They say he is one of the best and most earnest of preachers, sir. I -have not heard him; Mr. Selwyn generally preached." - -"Does he know of your application to me?" - -"Why, no, Sir Robert, of course not! I could not have had the face to -tell any one I as much as wished to make it. Except Mr. Brandon. I spoke -to him because I wanted him to come instead of me." - -Sir Robert smiled. "And he would not come, I suppose?" - -"Oh dear, no: he asked me whether I thought we lived in Utopia. He said -I might come if I chose--that what would be only laughed at in a silly -boy like me, might be deemed impertinence in him." - -The interview came to an end. Anne said she hoped I should dine with -them while I was in town--and Mr. Brandon also, Sir Robert added; and -with that I came out. Came out just as wise as I had gone in; for -never a word of hope did Sir Robert give. For all he intimated to the -contrary, the living might be already in the hands of the Canon of St. -Paul's. - -Two events happened the next day, Saturday. The funeral of the Rector, -and the departure of Miss Cattledon for Chelmsford, in Essex. An aunt -of hers who lived there was taken dangerously ill, and sent for her by -telegram. Mr. Brandon came up to dine with us in the evening---- But -that's neither here nor there. - - * * * * * - -I sat in Miss Deveen's pew at church with herself on the Sunday morning; -she wore black silk out of respect to the late Rector. Mr. Lake and the -young deacon, who had a luxuriant crop of yellow hair, had put on black -gloves. The church was full; all the world and his wife seemed to have -come to it; and the parsons' surplices stood on end with starch. - -Mr. Lake was in the reading-desk; it caused, I think, some -surprise--could that yellow-haired nonentity of a young dandy be going -to preach? He stood at the communion-table, looking interesting, and -evidently suffering from a frightful cold: which cold, as we found -later, was the reason that Mr. Lake took nearly all the service himself. - -What a contrast they were! The simpering, empty-faced young deacon, who -was tall and slender as a lamp-post, and had really not much more brains -than one; and the thoughtful, earnest, middle-aged priest, with the -sad look on his gentle face. Nothing could be more impressive than his -reading of the prayers; they were prayed, not read: and his voice was -one of those persuasive, musical voices you don't often hear. If Sir -Robert Tenby could but hear this reading! I sighed, as Mr. Lake went -through the Litany. - -Hardly had the thought crossed my mind, when some commotion in the -church caused most of us to turn round: a lady was fainting. But for -that, I might never have seen what I did see. In the next pew, right -behind ours, sat Sir Robert and Lady Tenby. So surprised was I that I -could not for the moment believe my eyes, and simply stared at them. -Anne caught the look, and smiled at me. - -Was it a good omen? I took it to be one. If Sir Robert had no thought of -Mr. Lake, or if the living was already given to that canon, why should -he have come all this way to hear him? I recalled the Sunday, years ago -now, when Sir Robert had sat in his own pew at Timberdale, listening -attentively to Herbert Tanerton's reading and preaching, deliberating -within his mind--I know I thought so then--whether he should bestow upon -him the living of Timberdale, or not; whether Herbert was worthy of it. -Sir Robert did give it to him: and I somehow took it for an earnest that -he might give this one to Mr. Lake. - -Meanwhile Mr. Lake ascended the pulpit-stairs in his black gown, and -began his sermon: supremely unconscious that the patron of the church -was just in front of him, looking and listening. No one present knew Sir -Robert and Lady Tenby. - -You should have heard that sermon: all its earnest eloquence, its sound -piety, its practical application, and its quiet, impressive delivery. It -was not exactly a funeral sermon; but when he spoke of the late Rector, -who had been so unexpectedly taken away, and whose place in this world -could know him no more, hardly a dry eye was in the church: and if he -himself had not once or twice paused to call up his equanimity, his own -eyes would not have been dry, either. I was glad Sir Robert heard it. It -was a sermon to be remembered for all time. - -Miss Deveen waited in her pew until the people had mostly gone; she did -not like being in a crowd. The Tenbys waited also. In the porch Anne put -her hand upon my arm, speaking in a whisper. - -"That is Miss Deveen, I suppose, Johnny? What a nice face she has! What -a fine, handsome woman she is! How good she looks!" - -"She is good; very. I wish I might introduce her to you." - -"That's just what I was going to ask you to do, Johnny. My husband would -like to speak with her." - -I did it outside in the churchyard. After speaking together for a minute -or two, Miss Deveen invited them to step into her house, pointing to it -that they might see it was close by. Sir Robert walked on by her side, I -behind with Anne. An open carriage was pacing in the road, the servants -wearing the Tenby livery: people turned to look at it, wondering whose -grand carriage it was. As we went slowly onwards Mr. Lake overtook us. -He did not stop, only lifted his hat to Miss Deveen in passing: but she -arrested him to ask after Mrs. Selwyn. - -"Oh, she is very ill, very sad," he answered, in a tone as if the sorrow -were his own. "And at present I fear there's nothing for her but to -bear; to bear as she best may: not yet can she open her heart to -consolation." - -Miss Deveen said no more, and he walked on. It struck me she had only -stopped him that Sir Robert might see him face to face. Being a shrewd -woman, it could not be but that she argued good from this unexpected -visit. And she knew I had been to them. - -They would not stay to take lunch; which was on the table when we went -in. Anne said she must get home to her baby: not the young shaver I saw; -a little girl a month or two old. Sir Robert spared a few minutes to -shut himself up in the drawing-room with Miss Deveen; and then the -carriage whirled them off. - -"I hope he was asking you about Mr. Lake?" I said impulsively. - -"That is just what he was asking, Johnny," replied Miss Deveen. "He -came here this morning, intending to question me. He is very favourably -impressed with William Lake; I can see that: and he said he had never -heard a better sermon, rarely one as good." - -"I dare say that canon of St. Paul's is all an invention! Perhaps Mrs. -Jonas went to sleep and dreamt it." - -"It is certainly not fact," laughed Miss Deveen. "Sir Robert tells me he -does not as much as know any one of the canons by sight." - -"He did not tell you he should give it to Mr. Lake?" - -"No, Johnny: neither did he give me any grounds for supposing that -he would. He is a very cautious man; I can see that; conscientiously -wishing to do right, and act for the best. We must say nothing of this -abroad, remember." - - * * * * * - -The Reverend William Lake sat down to his breakfast on Monday morning, -as the clock was striking half-past nine. He had been called out to -baptize a sick baby and pray by its dying mother. Pouring himself out a -cup of tea, buttering his first slice of dry toast, and cracking his -egg, for that's what his breakfast consisted of, he took up a letter -lying on the table, which had come by the morning post. Opening it -presently, he found it to contain a request from Sir Robert Tenby that -he would call upon him that morning at eleven o'clock, in Upper Brook -Street. - -"Sir Robert Tenby cannot know of our daily service," thought the -clergyman, after reading the note twice over, and wondering what he -was wanted for; he having no knowledge of the tide of affairs: no more -notion that Sir Robert had been at the church the previous day than that -the man in the moon was there. "I must ask Chisholm to take the service -this morning." - -Accordingly, his breakfast over, and a sprucer coat put on, he went to -the deacon's lodgings--handsome rooms in a good house. That young divine -was just beginning breakfast, the table being laid with toasted ham and -poached eggs, and potted meats, and hot, buttered muffins, and all kinds -of nice things, presenting a contrast to the frugal one Mr. Lake had -just got up from. - -"Took an extra snooze in bed to nurse myself," cried the young man, in -half-apology for the lateness of the meal, as he poured out a frothing -cup of chocolate. "My cold?--oh, it's better." - -"I am glad of that," said Sir. Lake. "I want you to take the service -this morning." - -"What, do it all!" - -"If you will be so good. I have a note here from Sir Robert Tenby, -asking me to call upon him at eleven o'clock. I can't think what he -wants." - -"Sir Robert Tenby? That's the patron! Oh, I dare say it's only to talk -about the Selwyns; or to tell you to take the duty until some one's -appointed to the living." - -"Ay," replied Mr. Lake. And he had no other thought, no idea of -self-benefit, when he started off to walk to Upper Brook Street. - -An hour later, seated in Sir Robert's library, enlightenment came to -him. After talking with him for some time, questioning him of his -Church views and principles, hearing somewhat of his past career and of -what he had formerly done at Cambridge, to all of which he gave answers -that were especially pleasing to the patron's ear, Sir Robert imparted -to him the astounding fact that he--_he!_--was to be the new Rector. - -William Lake sat, the picture of astonishment, wondering whether his -ears were playing him false. - -"_I!_" he exclaimed, scarcely above his breath. "I never thought of -myself. I can hardly believe--believe--pardon me, Sir Robert--is there -no mistake?" - -"No mistake so far as I am concerned," replied Sir Robert, suppressing a -smile. "I have heard of your many years' services at St. Matthew's, and -of your worth. I do not think I could bestow it upon one who deserves it -better than you--if as well. The living is yours, if you will accept -it." - -"You are very kind, sir," gasped the curate, not in the least recovering -his senses. "May I presume to ask who it is that has been so kind as to -speak of me?" - -"The person from whom I first heard of you was young Johnny Ludlow," -smiled Sir Robert. "Mr. Johnny presented himself to me here last Friday, -in a state of mental commotion, not having been able to get any one else -to come, evidently thinking, though not saying, that I should commit an -act of singular injustice if the living did not find its way to one who, -by dint of his hard and earnest work, so richly deserved it." - -The tears stood in William Lake's eyes. "I can only thank you, -sir, truly and fervently. I have no other means of testifying my -gratitude--save by striving ever to do my duty untiringly, under my -Lord and Master." - -"I am sure you will do it," spoke Sir Robert, impulsively--and he was -not a man of impulse in general. "You are not a married man, I believe?" - -A faint red light came into the curate's cheeks. "I have not had the -means to marry, Sir Robert. It has seemed to me, until this morning, -that I never should have them." - -"Well, you can marry now," was the laughing rejoinder; "I dare say you -will." And the faint light deepened to scarlet, as the curate heard it. - -"Shall you give him the living, Robert?" asked Anne, when Mr. Lake had -departed. - -"Yes, love." - - -II. - -When lawyers get a case into their hands, no living conjurer can divine -when their clients will get it out again. The hardest problem in Euclid -was never more difficult to solve than that. Mr. Brandon came up to -town on the Monday morning, bringing me with him; he thought we might -be detained a few days, a week at the utmost; yet the second week was -now passing, and nothing had been done; our business seemed to be no -forwarder than it was at the beginning. The men of law in Lincoln's Inn -laid the blame on the conveyancers; the conveyancers laid it on the -lawyers. Any way, the upshot was the same--we were kept in London. The -fact to myself was uncommonly pleasant, though it might be less so to -Mr. Brandon. - -The astounding news--that the Reverend William Lake was to have St. -Matthew's--and the return of Miss Cattledon from her visit to the sick -lady at Chelmsford, rejoiced the ears and eyes of the parish on one and -the same day. It was a Wednesday. Miss Cattledon got home in time for -dinner, bringing word that her relative was better. - -"Has anything been heard about the living?" she inquired, sitting, -bonnet in hand, before going up to dress. - -Miss Deveen shook her head. In point of fact, we had heard nothing at -all of Sir Robert Tenby or his intentions since Mr. Lake's interview -with him, and she was not going to tell Cattledon of that, or of Sir -Robert's visit on the Sunday. - -But, as it appeared, the decision had been made public that afternoon, -putting the whole parish into a ferment. Dinner was barely over when Dr. -Galliard rushed in with the news. - -"Only think of it!" he cried. "Such a piece of justice was never heard -of before. Poor Lake has not the smallest interest in the world; and how -Sir Robert Tenby came to pick him out is just a marvel. Such a stir it -is causing! It's said--I don't know with what truth--that he came up -here on Sunday morning to hear Lake preach. Mrs. Herriker saw a fine -barouche draw up, high-stepping horses and powdered servants; a lady and -gentleman got out of it and entered the church. It is thought now they -might have been Sir Robert and Lady Tenby." - -"I shouldn't wonder but they were," remarked Miss Deveen. - -"Has Mr. Lake _really_ had the living given to him?" questioned -Cattledon, her eyes open with surprise, her thin throat and waist all -in a tremor, and unable to touch another strawberry. - -"Really and truly," replied the doctor. "Chisholm tells me he has just -seen the letter appointing him to it." - -"Dear me!" cried Cattledon, quite faintly. "_Dear_ me! How very thankful -we all ought to be--for Mr. Lake's sake." - -"I dare say _he_ is thankful," returned the doctor, swallowing down the -rest of his glass of wine, and preparing to leave. "Thank you, no, Miss -Deveen; I can't stay longer: I have one or two sick patients on my hands -to-night, and must go to them--and I promised Mrs. Selwyn to look in -upon her. Poor thing! this terrible loss has made her really ill. -By-the-by," he added, turning round on his way from the room, "have -you heard that she has decided upon her plans, and thinks of leaving -shortly?" - -"No--has she?" returned Miss Deveen. - -"Best thing for her, too--to be up and doing. She has the chance of -taking to a little boys' preparatory school at Brighton; small and -select, as the advertisements have it. Some relative of hers has kept it -hitherto, has made money by it, and is retiring----" - -"Will Mrs. Selwyn like _that_--to be a schoolmistress?" interrupted -Cattledon, craning her neck. - -"Rather than vegetate upon her small pittance," returned the doctor -briskly. "She is an active, capable woman; has all her senses about her. -Better teach little boys, and live and dress well, than enjoy a solitary -joint of meat once a-week and a turned gown once a-year--eh, Johnny -Ludlow?" - -He caught up his hat, and went out in a bustle. I laughed. Miss Deveen -nodded approvingly; not at my laugh, but at Mrs. Selwyn's resolution. - -The stir abroad might have been pretty brisk that evening; we had Dr. -Galliard's word for it: it could have been nothing to what set in the -next day. The poor, meek curate--who, however good he might have been to -run after, could hardly have been looked upon as an eligible, bonâ-fide -prospect--suddenly converted into a rich Rector: six hundred a-year and -a parsonage to flourish in! All the ladies, elder and younger, went into -a delightful waking-sleep and dreamed dreams. - -"Such a mercy!" was the cry; "_such_ a mercy! We might have had some -dreadful old drony man here, who does not believe in daily services, -and wears a wig on his bald head. Now Mr. Lake, though his hair is -getting a little grey, has a most luxuriant and curly crop of it. -Beautiful whiskers too." - -It was little Daisy Dutton said that, meeting us in the Park road; she -was too young and frivolous to know better. Miss Deveen shook her head -at her, and Daisy ran on with a laugh. We were on our way to Mrs. -Topcroft's, some hitch having arisen about the frames for Emma's -screens. - -Emma was out, however; and Mrs. Topcroft came forward with tears in her -eyes. - -"I can hardly help crying since I heard it," she said, taking her -handkerchief out of the pocket of her black silk apron. "It must be -such a reward to him after his years of work--and to have come so -unsought--so unexpectedly! I am sure Sir Robert Tenby must be a good -man." - -"I think he is one," said Miss Deveen. - -"Mr. Lake deserves his recompense," went on Mrs. Topcroft. "No one can -know it as I do. Poor Mr. Selwyn knew--but he is gone. I think God's -hand must have been in this," she reverently added. "These good and -earnest ministers deserve to be placed in power for the sake of those -over whom they have charge. I have nothing to say against Mr. Selwyn, -but I am sure the parish will find a blessing in Mr. Lake." - -"You will lose him," remarked Miss Deveen. - -"Yes, and I am sorry for it; but I should be selfish indeed to think of -that. About the screens," continued Mrs. Topcroft; "perhaps you would -like to see them--I am sorry Emma is out. One, I know, is finished." - -Not being especially interested in the screens, I stepped into the -garden, and so strolled round to the back of the house. In the little -den of a room, close to the open window, sat Mr. Lake writing. He stood -up when he saw me and held out his hand. - -"It is, I believe, to you that I am indebted for the gift bestowed upon -me," he said in a low tone of emotion, as he clasped my hand, and a wave -of feeling swept over his face. "How came you to think of me--to be so -kind? I cannot thank you as I ought." - -"Oh, it's nothing; indeed, I did nothing--so to say," I stammered, quite -taken aback. "I heard people say what a pity it was you stood no chance -of the living, after working so hard in it all these years; so, as I -knew Sir Robert, and knew very well Lady Tenby, I thought it would do -no harm if I just told them of it." - -"And it has borne fruit. And very grateful I am: to you, and to Sir -Robert--and to One who holds all things, great and small, in His hands. -Do you know," he added, smiling at me and changing his tone to a lighter -one, "it seems to me nothing less than a romance." - -This was Thursday. The next day Mr. Lake paid a visit to the -bishop--perhaps to go through some formality connected with his -appointment, but I don't know--and on the following Sunday morning he -"read himself in." No mistake about his being the Rector, after that. It -was a lovely day, and Mr. Brandon came up in time for service. After he -knew all about it--that I had actually gone to Sir Robert, and that Mr. -Lake had the living--he asked me five or six hundred questions, as -though he were interested, and now he had come up to hear him preach. - -You should have seen how crowded the church was. The ladies were in full -force and flutter. Cattledon got herself up in a new bonnet; some of -them had new rigging altogether. Each individual damsel looked upon the -Rector as her especial prize, sure to be her own. Mr. Lake did every -scrap of the duty himself, including the reading of the articles; that -delightful young deacon's cold had taken a turn for the worse, through -going to a water-party, and he simply couldn't hear himself speak. Poor -Mrs. Selwyn and her daughter sat in their pew to-day, sad as the crape -robes they wore. - -Did you ever feel nervous when some one belonging to you is going to -preach--lest he should not come up to expectation, or break down, or -anything of that sort? Mr. Lake did not belong to me, but a nervous -feeling came over me as he went into the pulpit. For Mr. Brandon was -there with his critical ears. I had boasted to him of Mr. Lake's -preaching; and felt sensitively anxious that it should not fall short. - -I need not have feared. It was a very short sermon, the services had -been so long, but wonderfully beautiful. You might have heard a pin drop -in the church, and old Brandon himself never stirred hand or foot. -At the end of the pew sat he, I next to him; his eyes fixed on the -preacher, his attitude that of one who is absorbed in what he hears. -Just a few words Mr. Lake spoke of himself, of the new relation between -himself and his hearers; very quiet, modest words hearing the ring of -truth and good-fellowship. - -"That man would do his duty in whatever position of life he might be -placed," pronounced old Brandon, as we got out. "Robert Tenby's choice -has been a good and wise one." - -"Thanks to Johnny Ludlow, here," said Miss Deveen, laughing. - -"I don't say but what Johnny Ludlow has his head on his shoulders -the right way. He means to do well always, I believe; and does do it -sometimes." - -Which I am sure was wonderful praise, conceded by old Brandon, calling -to my face no end of a colour. And, if you'll believe me, he put his arm -within mine; a thing he had never done before; and walked so across the -churchyard. - -The next week was a busy one. What with Mrs. Selwyn's preparations for -going away, and what with the commotion caused by the new state of -things, the parish had plenty on its hands. Mr. Lake had begged Mrs. -Selwyn not to quit the Rectory until it should be quite and entirely -convenient to her; if he got into it six or twelve months hence, he -kindly urged, it would be time enough for him. But Mrs. Selwyn, while -thanking him for his consideration, knowing how earnestly he meant it, -showed him that she was obliged to go. She had taken to the school at -Brighton, and had to enter upon it as speedily as might be. A few days -afterwards she had vacated the Rectory, and her furniture was packed -into vans to be carried away. Some women went into the empty house to -clean it down; that it might be made ready for its new tenant. Poor Mr. -Selwyn had repaired and decorated the house only the previous year, -little thinking his tenure of it would be so short. - -Then began the fun. The polite attentions to Mr. Lake, as curate, had -been remarkable; to Mr. Lake, as Rector, they were unique. Mrs. -Topcroft's door was besieged with notes and parcels. The notes contained -invitations to teas and dinners, the parcels small offerings to himself. -A person about to set up housekeeping naturally wants all kinds of -articles; and the ladies of St. Matthew's were eager to supply -contributions. Slippers fell to a discount, purses and silk watch-guards -ditto. More useful things replaced them. Ornamental baskets for the -mantelpiece, little match-boxes done in various devices, card-racks -hastily painted, serviette rings composed of coloured beads, pincushions -and scent-mats for the dressing-table, with lots more things that I -can't remember. These were all got up on the spur of the moment; more -elaborate presents, that might take weeks to complete, were put in hand. -In vain Mr. Lake entreated them not to do these things; not to send -_anything_; not to trouble themselves about him, assuring them it made -him most uncomfortable; that he preferred not to receive presents of any -kind: and he said it so emphatically, they might see he was in earnest. -All the same. He might as well have talked to the moon. The ladies -laughed, and worked on. - -"Mrs. Topcroft, I think you had better refuse to take the parcels in," -he said to her one day, when a huge packet had arrived, which proved -to be a market-basket, sent conjointly by three old maiden sisters. "I -don't wish to be rude, or do anything that would hurt kind people's -feelings: but, upon my word, I should like to send all the things back -again with thanks." - -"They would put them into the empty Rectory if I did not take them in," -returned Mrs. Topcroft. "The only way to stop it is to talk to the -ladies yourself. Senseless girls!" - -Mr. Lake did talk--as well, and as impressively as he knew how. It made -not the slightest impression; and the small presents flocked in as -before. Mrs. Jonas did not brew a "blessed great jug of camomile-tea," -as did one of the admirers of Mr. Weller, the elder; but she did brew -some "ginger-cordial," from a valued receipt of her late husband, the -colonel, and sent it, corked up in two ornamental bottles, with her best -regards. The other widow, Mrs. Herriker, was embroidering a magnificent -table-cover, working against time. - -We had the felicity of tasting the ginger-cordial. Mrs. Jonas gave a -small "at home," and brought out a bottle of it as we were leaving. -Cattledon sniffed at her liqueur-glass surreptitiously before drinking -it. - -"The chief ingredient in that stuff is rum," she avowed to me as we -walked home, stretching up her neck in displeasure. "_Pine-apple rum!_ -My nose could not be mistaken." - -"The cordial was very good," I answered. "Rum's not a bad thing, Miss -Cattledon." - -"Not at all bad, Johnny," laughed Miss Deveen. "An old sailor-uncle of -mine, who had been round the world and back again more times than he -could count, looked upon it as the panacea for all earthly ills." - -"Any way, before I would lay myself out to catch Mr. Lake, as that widow -woman does, and as some others are doing, I would hide my head for -ever," retorted Cattledon. And, to give her her due, though she did look -upon the parson as safe to fall to her own lot, she did not fish for -him. No presents, large or small, went out from her hands. - -That week we dined in Upper Brook Street. Miss Deveen, Mr. Brandon, the -new Rector, and I; and two strange ladies whom we did not previously -know. Mr. Brandon took Anne in to dinner; she put me on her left hand at -table, and told me she and Sir Robert hoped I should often go to see -them at Bellwood. - -"My husband has taken such a fancy to you, Johnny," she whispered. "He -does rather take likes and dislikes to people--just as I know you do. He -says he took a great liking to me the first time he ever spoke to me. -Do you remember it, Johnny?--you were present. We were kneeling in the -parlour at Maythorn Bank. You were deep in that child's book of mine, -'Les contes de ma bonne,' and I had those cuttings of plants, which I -had brought from France, spread out on newspapers on the carpet, when -Sir Robert came in at the glass-doors. That was the first time he spoke -to me; but he had seen me at Timberdale Church the previous day. Papa -and I and you walked over there: and a very hot day it was, I remember." - -"That Sir Robert should take a liking to you, Anne, was only a matter of -course; other people have done the same," I said, calling her "Anne" -unconsciously, my thoughts back in the past. "But I don't understand why -he should take a liking to me." - -"Don't you?" she returned. "I can tell you that he has taken it--a -wonderful liking. Why, Johnny, if my little baby-girl were twenty years -older, you would only need to ask and have her. I'm not sure but he'd -offer her to you without asking." - -We both laughed so, she and I, that Sir Robert looked down the table, -inquiring what our mirth was. Anne answered that she would not forget to -tell him later. - -"So mind, Johnny, that you come to Bellwood as often as you please -whenever you are staying at Crabb Cot. Robert and I would both like it." - -And perhaps I may as well mention here that, although the business -which had brought Mr. Brandon to London was concluded, he did not -go home. When that event would take place, or how long it would be, -appeared to be hidden in the archives of the future. For a certain -matter had arisen to detain him. - -Mr. Brandon had a nephew in town, a young medical student, of whom you -once heard him say that he was "going to the bad." By what we learnt -now, the young fellow appeared to have gone to it; and Mr. Brandon's -prolonged stay was connected with this. - -"I shall see you into a train at Paddington, Johnny," he said to me, -"and you must make your way home alone. For all I know, I may be kept -here for weeks." - -But Miss Deveen would not hear of this. "Mr. Brandon remains on for his -own business, Johnny, and you shall remain for my pleasure," she said -to me in her warm manner. "I had meant to ask Mr. Brandon to leave you -behind him." - -And that is how I was enabled to see the play played out between the -ladies and the new Rector. I did wonder which of them would win the -prize; I would not have betted upon Cattledon. It also caused me to see -something of another play that was being played in London just then; not -a comedy but a tragedy. A fatal tragedy, which I may tell of sometime. - - * * * * * - -All unexpectedly a most distressing rumour set in; and though none knew -whence it arose, a conviction of its truth took the parish by storm. Mr. -Lake was about to be married! Distressing it was, and no mistake: for -each individual lady had good cause to know that _she_ was not the -chosen bride, being unpleasantly conscious that Mr. Lake had not asked -her to be. - -Green-eyed jealousy seized upon the community. They were ready to rend -one another's veils. The young ladies vowed it must be one or other -of those two designing widows; Mrs. Jonas and Mrs. Herriker, on their -parts, decided it was one of those minxes of girls. What with lady-like -innuendos pitched at each other personally, and sharp hints levelled -apparently at the air, all of which provoked retort, the true state of -the case disclosed itself pretty clearly to the public--that neither -widows nor maidens were being thought of by Mr. Lake. - -And yet--that the parson had marriage in view seemed to be certain; the -way in which he was furnishing his house proved it. No end of things -were going into it--at least, if vigilant eyes might be believed--that -could be of no use to a bachelor-parson. There must be a lady in the -case--and Mr. Lake had not a sister. - -With this apparent proof of what was in the wind, and with the -conviction that not one of themselves had been solicited to share his -hearth and home--as the widow Herriker poetically put it--the world -was at a nonplus; though polite hostilities were not much less freely -exchanged. Suddenly the general ill-feeling ceased. One and all -metaphorically shook hands and made common cause together. A frightful -conviction had set in--it must be Emma Topcroft. - -Miss Cattledon was the first to scent the fox. Cattledon herself. -She--but I had better tell it in order. - -It was Monday morning, and we were at breakfast: Cattledon pouring out -the coffee, and taking anxious glances upwards through the open window -between whiles. What could be seen of the sky was blue enough, but -clouds, some dark, some light, were passing rapidly over it. - -"Are you fearing it will rain, Miss Cattledon?" - -"I am, Johnny Ludlow. I thought," she added, turning to Miss Deveen, "of -going after that chair this morning, if you have no objection, and do -not want me." - -"Go by all means," returned Miss Deveen. "It is time the chair went, -Jemima, if it is to go at all. Take Johnny with you: he would like the -expedition. As for myself, I have letters to write that will occupy me -the whole morning." - -Miss Cattledon wished to buy an easy-chair that would be comfortable for -an aged invalid: her sick aunt at Chelmsford. But, as Miss Cattledon's -purse was not as large as her merits, she meant to get a second-hand -chair: which are often just as good as new. Dr. Galliard, who knew all -about invalid-chairs and everything else, advised her to go to a certain -shop in Oxford Street, where they sold most kinds of furniture, old and -new. So we agreed to go this same morning. Cattledon, however, would not -miss the morning service; trust her for that. - -"It might do _you_ no harm to attend for once, Johnny Ludlow." - -Thus admonished, I went over with her, and reaped the benefit of the -young deacon's ministry. Mr. Lake did not make his appearance at all: -quite an unusual omission. I don't think it pleased Cattledon. - -"We had better start at once, Johnny Ludlow," she said to me as we came -out; and her tone might have turned the very sweetest of cream to curds -and whey. "Look at those clouds! I believe it _is_ going to rain." - -So we made our way to an omnibus, then on the point of starting, got in, -and were set down at the shop in Oxford Street. Cattledon described what -she wanted; and the young man invited us to walk upstairs. - -Dodging our way dexterously through the things that crowded the shop, -and up the narrow staircase, we reached a room that seemed, at first -sight, big enough to hold half the furniture in London. - -"This way, ma'am," said the young man who had marshalled us up. -"Invalid-chairs," he called out, turning us over to another young man, -who came forward--and shot downstairs again himself. - -Cattledon picked her way in and out amidst the things, I following. -Half-way down the room she stopped to admire a tall, inlaid cabinet, -that looked very beautiful. - -"I never come to these places without longing to be rich," she whispered -to me with a sigh, as she walked on. "One of the pleasantest interludes -in life, Johnny Ludlow, must be to have a good house to furnish and -plenty of money to---- Dear me!" - -The extreme surprise of the exclamation following the break off, caused -me to look round. We were passing a side opening, or wing of the room; a -wing that seemed to be filled with bedsteads and bedding. Critically -examining one of the largest of these identical bedsteads stood the -Reverend William Lake and Emma Topcroft. - -So entranced was Cattledon that she never moved hand or foot, simply -stood still and gazed. They, absorbed in their business, did not see us. -The parson seemed to be trying the strength of the iron, shaking it with -his hand; Emma was poking and patting at the mattress. - -"Good Heavens!" faintly ejaculated Cattledon; and she looked as if about -to faint. - -"The washhand-stands are round this way, and the chests of drawers -also," was called out at this juncture from some unknown region, and I -knew the voice to be Mrs. Topcroft's. "You had better come if you have -fixed upon the beds. The double stands look extremely convenient." - -Cattledon turned back the way she had come, and stalked along, her head -in the air. Straight down the stairs went she, without vouchsafing a -word to the wondering attendant. - -"But, madam, is there not anything I can show you?" he inquired, -arresting her. - -"No, young man, not anything. I made a mistake in coming here." - -The young man looked at the other young man down in the shop, and tapped -his finger on his forehead suggestively. They thought her crazy. - -"Barefaced effrontery!" I heard her ejaculate to herself: and I knew she -did not allude to the young men. But never a word to me spoke she. - -Peering about, on this side the street and on that, she espied another -furniture shop, and went into it. Here she found the chair she wanted; -paid for it, and gave directions for it to be sent to Chelmsford. - -That what we had witnessed could have but one meaning--the speedy -marriage of Mr. Lake with Emma Topcroft--Cattledon looked upon as a dead -certainty. Had an astrologer who foretells the future come forth to read -the story differently, Cattledon would have turned a deaf ear. Mrs. -Jonas happened to be sitting with Miss Deveen when we arrived home; and -Cattledon, in the fulness of her outraged heart, let out what she had -seen. She had felt so sure of Mr. Lake! - -Naturally, as Mrs. Jonas agreed, it could have but one meaning. She took -it up accordingly, and hastened forth to tell it. Ere the sun went down, -it was known from one end of the parish to the other that Emma Topcroft -was to be Mrs. Lake. - -"A crafty, wicked hussy!" cried a chorus of tongues. "She, with that -other woman, her mother, to teach her, has cast her spells over the poor -weak man, and he has been unable to escape!" - -Of course it did seem like it. It continued to seem like it as the week -went on. Never a day dawned but the parson and Emma went to town by an -omnibus, looking at things in this mart, buying in that. It became known -that they had chosen the carpets: Brussels for the sitting-rooms, colour -green; drugget for the bed-chambers, Turkey pattern: Mrs. Jonas fished -it out. How that impudent girl could have the face to go with him upon -such errands, the parish could not understand. It's true Mrs. Topcroft -always made one of the party, but what of that? - -Could anything be done? Any means devised to arrest the heresy and save -him from his dreadful fate? Sitting nose and knees together at one -another's houses, their cherished work all thrown aside, the ladies -congregated daily to debate the question. They did not quite see their -way clear to warning the parson that Emma was neither more nor less than -a Mephistopheles in petticoats. They would have assured herself of the -fact with the greatest pleasure had that been of any use. How sly he -was, too--quite unworthy of his cloth! While making believe to be a poor -man, he must have been putting by a nice nest-egg; else how could he buy -all that furniture? - -Soon another phase of the affair set in: one that puzzled them -exceedingly. It came about through an ebullition of temper. - -Mrs. Jonas had occasion to call upon the Rector one afternoon, -concerning some trouble that turned up in the parish: she being a -district visitor and presiding at the mothers' meetings. Mr. Lake was -not at home. Emma sat in the parlour alone stitching away at new -table-cloths and sheets. - -"He and mamma went out together after dinner," said Emma, leaving her -work to hand a chair to Mrs. Jonas. "I should not wonder if they are -gone to the house. The carpets were to be laid down to-day." - -She looked full at Mrs. Jonas as she said it, never blushing, never -faltering. What with the bold avowal, what with the sight of the sheets -and the table-linen, and what with the wretched condition of affairs, -the disappointment at heart, the discomfort altogether, Mrs. Jonas lost -her temper. - -"How dare you stand there with a bold face and acknowledge such a thing -to me, you unmaidenly girl?" cried the widow, her anger bubbling over as -she dashed away the offered chair. "The mischief you are doing poor Mr. -Lake is enough, without boasting of it." - -"Good gracious!" exclaimed Emma, opening her eyes wide, and feeling more -inclined to laugh than to cry, for her mood was ever sunny, "what _am_ I -doing to him?" - -How Mrs. Jonas spoke out all that was in her mind, she could never -afterwards recall. Emma Topcroft, gazing and listening, could not -remain ignorant of her supposed fault now; and she burst into a fit of -laughter. Mrs. Jonas longed to box her ears. She regarded it as the very -incarnation of impudence. - -"Marry me! _Me!_ Mr. Lake! My goodness!--what _can_ have put such a -thing into all your heads?" cried Emma, in a rapture of mirth. "Why, he -is forty-five if he's a day! He wouldn't think of me: he couldn't. He -came here when I was a little child: he does not look upon me as much -else yet. Well, I never!" - -And the words came out in so impromptu a fashion, the surprise was so -honestly genuine, that Mrs. Jonas saw there must be a mistake somewhere. -She took the rejected chair then, her fears relieved, her tones -softened, and began casting matters about in her mind; still not seeing -any way out of them. - -"Is it your mother he is going to marry?" cried she, the lame solution -presenting itself to her thoughts, and speaking it out on the spur of -the moment. It was Emma's turn to be vexed now. - -"Oh, Mrs. Jonas, how can you!" she cried with spirit. "My poor old -mother!" And somehow Mrs. Jonas felt humiliated, and bit her lips in -vexation at having spoken at all. - -"He evidently _is_ going to be married," she urged presently, returning -to the charge. - -"He is not going to marry me," said Emma, threading her needle. "Or to -marry my mother either. I can say no more than that." - -"You have been going to London with him to choose some furniture: -bedsteads, and carpets and things," contended Mrs. Jonas. - -"Mamma has gone with him to choose it all: Mr. Lake would have been -finely taken in, with his inexperience. As to me, I wanted to go too, -and they let me. They said it would be as well that young eyes should -see as well as theirs, especially the colours of the carpets and the -patterns of the crockery-ware." - -"What a misapprehension it has been!" gasped Mrs. Jonas. - -"Quite so--if you mean about me," agreed Emma. "I like Mr. Lake very -much; I respect him above every one in the world; but for anything -else--such a notion never entered my head: and I am sure it would not -enter his." - -Mrs. Jonas, bewildered, but intensely relieved, wished Emma -good-afternoon civilly, and went away to enlighten the world. A reaction -set in: hopes rose again to fever heat. If it was neither Emma Topcroft -nor her mother, why, it must be somebody else, argued the ladies, old -and young, and perhaps she was not chosen yet: and the next day they -were running about the parish more than ever. - -Seated in her drawing-room, in her own particular elbow-chair, in the -twilight of the summer's evening, was Miss Deveen. Near to her, telling -a history, his voice low, his conscious face slightly flushed, sat -the Rector of St. Matthew's. The scent from the garden flowers came -pleasantly in at the open window; the moon, high in the heavens, was -tinting the trees with her silvery light. One might have taken them for -two lovers, sitting there to exchange vows, and going in for romance. - -Miss Deveen was at home alone. I was escorting that other estimable -lady to a "penny-reading" in the adjoining district, St. Jude's, at -which the clergy of the neighbourhood were expected to gather in -full force, including the Rector of St. Matthew's. It was a special -reading, sixpence admission, got up for the benefit of St. Jude's -vestry fire-stove, which wanted replacing with a new one. Our parish, -including Cattledon, took up the cause with zeal, and would not have -missed the reading for the world. We flocked to it in numbers. - -Disappointment was in store for some of us, however, for the -Rector of St. Matthew's did not appear. He called, instead, on Miss -Deveen, confessing that he had hoped to find her alone, and to get -half-an-hour's conversation with her: he had been wishing for it for -some time, as he had a tale to tell. - -It was a tale of love. Miss Deveen, listening to it in the soft -twilight, could but admire the man's constancy of heart and his -marvellous patience. - -In the West of England, where he had been curate before coming to -London, he had been very intimate with the Gibson family--the medical -people of the place. The two brothers were in partnership, James and -Edward Gibson. Their father had retired upon a bare competence, for -village doctors don't often make fortunes, leaving the practice to these -two sons. The rest of his sons and daughters were out in the world--Mrs. -Topcroft was one of them. William Lake's father had been the incumbent -of this parish, and the Lakes and the Gibsons were ever close friends. -The incumbent died; another parson was appointed to the living; and -subsequently William Lake became the new parson's curate, upon the -enjoyable stipend of fifty pounds a-year. How ridiculously improvident -it was of the curate and Emily Gibson to fall in love with one another, -wisdom could testify. They did; and there was an end of it, and went in -for all kinds of rose-coloured visions after the fashion of such-like -poor mortals in this lower world. And when he was appointed to the -curacy of St. Matthew's in London, upon a whole one hundred pounds -a-year, these two people thought Dame Fortune was opening her favours -upon them. They plighted their troth solemnly, and exchanged broken -sixpences. - -Mr. Lake was thirty-one years of age then, and Emily was nineteen. He -counted forty-five now, and she thirty-three. Thirty-three! Daisy Dutton -would have tossed her little impertinent head, and classed Miss Gibson -with the old ladies at the Alms Houses, who were verging on ninety. - -Fourteen summers had drifted by since that troth-plighting; and the -lovers had been living--well, not exactly upon hope, for hope seemed to -have died out completely; and certainly not upon love, for they did not -meet: better say, upon disappointment. Emily, the eldest daughter of the -younger of the two brothers, was but one of several children, and her -father had no fortune to give her. She kept the house, her mother being -dead, and saw to the younger children, patiently training and teaching -them. And any chance of brighter prospects appeared to be so very -hopeless, that she had long ago ceased to look for it. - -As to William Lake, coming up to London full of hope with his rise in -life, he soon found realization not answer to expectation. He found that -a hundred a-year in the metropolis, did not go so very much further than -his fifty pounds went in the cheap and remote village. Whether he and -Emily had indulged a hope of setting up housekeeping on the hundred -a-year, they best knew; it might be good in theory, it was not to be -accomplished in practice. It's true that money went further in those -days than it goes in these; still, without taking into calculation -future incidental expenses that marriage might bring in its train, they -were not silly enough to risk it. - -When William Lake had been five years at St. Matthew's, and found he -remained just as he was, making both ends meet upon the pay, and saw no -prospect of being anywhere else to the end, or of gaining more, he wrote -to release Emily from her engagement. The heartache at this was great on -both sides, not to be got over lightly. Emily did not rebel; did not -remonstrate. A sensible, good, self-enduring girl, she would not for the -world have crossed him, or added to his care; if he thought it right -that they should no longer be bound to one another, it was not for her -to think differently. So the plighted troth was recalled and the broken -sixpences were despatched back again. Speaking in theory, that is, you -understand: practically, I don't in the least know whether the sixpences -were returned or kept. It must have been a farce altogether, taken at -the best: for they had just gone on silently caring for each other; -patiently bearing--perhaps in a corner of their hearts even slightly -hoping--all through these later years. - -Miss Deveen drew a deep breath as the Rector's voice died away in -the stillness of the room. What a number of these long-enduring, -silently-borne cases the world could tell of, and how deeply she pitied -them, was very present to her then. - -"You are not affronted at my disclosing all this so fully, Miss Deveen?" -he asked, misled by her silence. "I wished to----" - -"Affronted!" she interposed. "Nay, how could I be? I am lost in the deep -sympathy I feel--with you and with Emily Gibson. What a trial it has -been!--how hopeless it must have appeared. You will marry now." - -"Yes. I could not bring myself to disclose this abroad prematurely," -he added; "though perhaps I ought to have done it before beginning to -furnish the house. I find that some of my friends, suspecting something -from that fact, have been wondering whether I was thinking of Emma -Topcroft. Though indeed I feel quite ashamed to repeat to you any idea -that is so obviously absurd, poor child!" - -Miss Deveen laughed. "How did you hear that?" she asked. - -"From Emma herself. She heard of it from--from--Mrs. Jonas, I think--and -repeated it to me, and to her mother, in the highest state of glee. To -Emma, it seemed only fun: she is young and thoughtless." - -"I conclude Emma has known of your engagement?" - -"Only lately. Mrs. Topcroft knew of it from the beginning: Emily is her -niece. She knew also that I released Emily from the engagement years -ago, and she thought I did rightly, my future being so hopeless. But how -very silly people must be to suppose I could think of that child Emma! I -must set them right." - -"Never mind the people," cried Miss Deveen. "Don't set them right until -you feel quite inclined to do so. As to that, I believe Emma has done -it already. How long is it that you and Emily have waited for one -another?" - -"Fourteen years." - -"Fourteen years! It seems half a lifetime. Do not let another day go on, -Mr. Lake; marry at once." - -"That was one of the points on which I wished to ask your opinion," he -rejoined, his tones hesitating, his face shrinking from the moonlight. -"Do you think it would be wrong of me to marry--almost directly? Would -it be at all unseemly?" - -"Wrong? Unseemly?" cried Miss Deveen. "In what way?" - -"I hardly know. It may appear to the parish so very hurried. And it is -so short a time since my kind Rector died." - -"Never mind the parish," reiterated Miss Deveen. "The parish would fight -at your marriage, though it were put off for a twelvemonth; be sure of -that. As to Mr. Selwyn, he was no relative of yours. Surely you have -waited long enough! Were I your promised wife, sir, I wouldn't have you -at all unless you married me to-morrow morning." - -They both laughed a little. "Why should the parish fight at my marriage, -Miss Deveen?" he suddenly asked. - -"Why?" she repeated; thinking how utterly void of conceit he was, how -unconscious he had been all along in his modesty. "Oh, people always -grumble at everything, you know. If you were to remain single, they -would say you ought to marry; and if you marry, they will think you -might as well have remained single. _Don't_ trouble your head about the -parish, and don't tell any one a syllable beforehand if you'd rather -not. _I_ shouldn't." - -"You have been so very kind to me always, Miss Deveen, and I have felt -more grateful than I can say. I hope--I hope you will like my wife. I -hope you will allow me to bring her here, and introduce her to you." - -"I like her already," said Miss Deveen. "As to your bringing her -here, if she lived near enough you should both come here to your -wedding-breakfast. What a probation it has been!" - -The tears stood in his grey eyes. "Yes, it has been that; a trial hardly -to be imagined. I don't think we quite lost heart, either she or I. Not -that we have ever looked to so bright an ending as this; but we knew -that God saw all things, and we were content to leave ourselves in His -hands." - -"I am sure that she is good and estimable! One to be loved." - -"Indeed she is. Few are like her." - -"Have you never met--all these fourteen years?" - -"Yes; three or four times. When I have been able to take a holiday I -have gone down there to my old Rector; he was always glad to see me. It -has not been often, as you know," he added. "Mr. Selwyn could not spare -me." - -"I know," said Miss Deveen. "He took all the holidays, and you all the -work." - -"He and his family seemed to need them," spoke the clergyman from his -unselfish heart. "Latterly, when Emily and I have met, we have only -allowed it to be as strangers." - -"Not quite as strangers, surely!" - -"No, no; I used the word thoughtlessly. I ought to have said as -friends." - -"Will you pardon me for the question I am about to ask you, and not -attribute it to impertinent curiosity?" resumed Miss Deveen. "How have -you found the money to furnish your house? Or are you doing it on -credit?" - -His whole face lighted up with smiles. "The money is Emily's, dear Miss -Deveen. Her father, Edward Gibson, sent me his cheque for three hundred -pounds, saying it was all he should be able to do for her, but he hoped -it might be enough for the furniture." - -Miss Deveen took his hands in hers as he rose to leave. "I wish you both -all the happiness that the world can give," she said, in her earnest -tones. "And I think--I feel sure--Heaven's blessing will rest upon you." - - * * * * * - -We turned out from the penny-reading like bees from a hive, openly -wondering what could have become of Mr. Lake. Mrs. Jonas hoped his head -was not splitting--she had seen him talking to Miss Cattledon long -enough in the afternoon in that hot King's Road to bring on a sunstroke. -Upon which Cattledon retorted that the ginger-cordial might have -disagreed with him. With the clearing up as to Emma Topcroft, these -slight amenities had recommenced. - -Miss Deveen sat reading by lamp-light when we arrived home. Taking off -her spectacles, she began asking us about the penny-reading; but never -a hint gave she that she had had a visitor. - -Close upon this Mr. Lake took a week's holiday, leaving that interesting -young deacon as his substitute, and a brother Rector to preach on the -Sunday morning. No one could divine what on earth he had gone out for, -as Mrs. Herriker put it, or what part of the world he had betaken -himself to. Miss Deveen kept counsel; Mrs. Topcroft and Emma never -opened their lips. - -The frightful truth came out one morning, striking the parish all of a -heap. They read it in the _Times_, amongst the marriages. "The Reverend -William Lake, Rector of St. Matthew's, to Emily Mary, eldest daughter of -Edward Gibson, Member of the Royal College of Surgeons." Indignation set -in. - -"I have heard of gay deceivers," gasped Miss Barlow, who was at the -least as old as Cattledon, and sat in the churchwarden's pew at church, -"but I never did hear of deceit such as this. And for a clergyman to be -guilty of it!" - -"I'm glad I sent him a doll," giggled Daisy Dutton. "I dare say it is a -doll he has gone and married." - -This was said in the porch, after morning prayers. Whilst they were all -at it, talking as fast as they could talk, Emma Topcroft chanced to -pass. They pounced upon her forthwith. - -"Married! Oh yes, of course he is married; and they are coming home on -Saturday," said Emma, in response. - -"Is she a doll?" cried Daisy. - -"She is the nicest girl you ever saw," returned Emma; "though of course -not much of a girl now; and they have waited for one another fourteen -years." - -Fourteen years! Thoughts went back, in mortification, to slippers and -cushions. Mrs. Jonas cast regrets to her ginger-cordial. - -"Of course he has a right to be engaged--and to have slyly kept it to -himself, making believe he was a free man: but to go off surreptitiously -to his wedding without a word to any one!--I don't know what _he_ may -call it," panted Mrs. Herriker, in virtuous indignation, "_I_ call it -conduct unbefitting a gentleman. He could have done no less had he been -going to his hanging." - -"He would have liked to speak, I think, but could not get up courage -for it; he is the shyest man possible," cried Emma. "But he did not go -off surreptitiously: some people knew of it. Miss Deveen knew--and Dr. -Galliard knew--and we knew--and I feel nearly sure Mr. Chisholm knew, he -simpered so the other day when he called for the books. I dare say -Johnny Ludlow knew." - -All which was so much martyrdom to Jemima Cattledon, listening -with a face of vinegar. Miss Deveen!--and Johnny Ludlow!--and those -Topcrofts!--while _she_ had been kept in the dark! She jerked up her -skirts to cross the wet road, inwardly vowing never to put faith in -surpliced man again. - -We went to church on Sunday morning to the sound of the ting-tang. -Mr. Lake, looking calm and cool as usual, was stepping into the -reading-desk: in the Rector's pew sat a quiet-looking and quietly -dressed young lady with what Miss Deveen called, then and afterwards, -a sweet face. Daisy Dutton took a violent fancy to her at first-sight: -truth to say, so did I. - -Our parish--the small knot of week-day church-goers in it--could not -get over it at all. Moreover, just at this time they lost Mr. Chisholm, -whose year was up. Some of them "went over" to St. Jude's in a body; -that church having recently set up daily services, and a most desirable -new curate who could "intone." "As if we would attend that slow old St. -Matthew's now, to hear that slow old parson Lake!" cried Mrs. Herriker, -craning her neck disparagingly. - -The disparagement did not affect William Lake. He proved as -indefatigable as Rector as he had been as curate, earning the golden -opinions he deserved. And he and his wife were happy. - -But he would persist in declaring that all the good which had come to -him was owing to me; that but for my visit to London at that critical -time, Sir Robert Tenby would never have heard there was such a man as -himself in the world. - -"It is true, Johnny," said Miss Deveen. "But you were only the humble -instrument in the hand of God." - - - - -MRS. CRAMP'S TENANT - - -I. - -It was autumn weather, and we had just arrived at Crabb Cot. When you -have been away from a familiar place, whether it may be only for days, -or whether it may be for weeks or months or years, you are eager on -returning to it to learn what has transpired during your absence, -concerning friends or enemies, the parish or the public. - -Bob Letsom ran in that first evening, and we had him to ourselves; the -Squire and Mrs. Todhetley were still in the dining-room. I asked after -Coralie Fontaine. - -"Oh, Coralie's all right," said he. - -"Do the old ladies go on at her still?" cried Tod. - -Bob laughed. "I think they've stopped that, finding it hopeless." - -When Sir Dace Fontaine died, now eighteen months ago, the two girls, -Coralie and Verena, were left alone. Verena shortly went back to the -West Indies to marry George Bazalgette, Coralie remained at Oxlip -Grange. Upon that, all the old ladies in the place, as Tod had -ungallantly put it, beginning with Bob's mother, set on to lecture -her: telling her she must not continue to live alone, she must take a -companion of mature age. Why must she not live alone, Coralie returned: -she had old Ozias to protect her from robbers, and her maid-servants -to see to her clothes and her comforts. Because it was not proper, -said the old ladies. Coralie laughed at that, and told them not to be -afraid; she could take care of herself. And apparently she did. She -had learnt to be independent in America; could not be brought to -understand English stiffness and English pride: and she would go off -to London and elsewhere for a week or two at a time, just as though -she had been sixty years of age. - -"I have an idea she will not be Coralie Fontaine much longer," continued -Letsom. - -"Who will she be, then?" - -"Coralie Rymer." - -"You can't mean that she is going to take up with Ben!" - -"Well, I fancy so. Some of us thought they were making up to one another -before Sir Dace died--when Ben was attending him. Don't you recollect -how much old Fontaine liked Ben?--he'd have had him by his side always. -Ben's getting on like a house on fire; has unusual skill in surgery and -is wonderful at operations: he performed a very critical one upon old -Massock this summer, and the man is about again as sturdy and impudent -as ever." - -"Does Ben live down here entirely?" - -"He goes up to London between whiles--in pursuit of his studies and the -degrees he means to take. He is there now. Oh, he'll get on. You'll -see." - -"Well, what else, Letsom?" cried Tod. "You have told us no news about -anybody yet." - -"Because there's none to tell." - -"How do those two old dames get on--the Dennets?" - -"Oh, they are gone off to some baths in Germany for a twelvemonth, with -suppressed gout, and their house is let to a mysterious tenant." - -"Mysterious in what way?" - -"Well, nobody sees her, and she keeps the doors bolted and barred. The -Dennets left it all in Mrs. Cramp's hands, being intimate with her, for -they started in a hurry, and she put it into a new agent's hands at -Worcester, and he put an advertisement in the papers. Some lady answered -it, a stranger; she agreed to all conditions by letter, took possession -of the house, and has shut herself up as if something uncanny were -inside it. Mrs. Cramp does not like it at all; and queer rumours are -beginning to go about." - -"What's her name?" - -"Nobody knows." - -The house spoken of was North Villa, where Jacob Chandler used to live. -When the Chandlers went down in the world it was taken on lease by the -Miss Dennets, two steady middle-aged sisters. - -The first visit we paid the following morning was to Oxlip Grange, to -see Coralie. Meeting the Squire on the way he said he would go with us. -North Villa lies not far from us, soon after you turn into the Islip -Road, and the Grange is about a quarter-of-a-mile farther on. I took a -good stare at the villa in passing. Two of the upstairs windows were -open, but the mysterious tenant was not to be seen. - -Old Ozias was in the Grange garden, helping the gardener; it was how he -professed to fill up his time; and the door was opened by a tall, smart -maid, with curled hair and pink bows in her cap. Where had I seen her? -Why, at the lodgings in the Marylebone Road in London! She was Maria, -who had been housemaid there during the enacting of that tragedy. - -Coralie Fontaine sat in her pretty parlour, one opening from the large -drawing-room, flirting a paper hand-screen between her face and the -fire, which she would have, as Sir Dace used to, whether it might be -cold weather or hot. Small and pale, her black hair smooth and silky, -her dark eyes meeting ours honestly, her chin pointed, her pretty teeth -white, she was not a whit changed. Her morning dress was white, with -scarlet ribbons, and she was downright glad to see us. The Squire -inquired after Verena. - -"She is quite well," replied Coralie. "At least, she would be but for -grumbling." - -"What has she to grumble about, my dear?" - -"Nothing," said Coralie. - -"Then why does she do it? Dear me! Is her husband not kind to her?" - -Coralie laughed at the notion. "He is too kind, Mr. Todhetley. Kindness -to people is George Bazalgette's weakness, especially to Verena. Her -grievance lies in George's sister, Magnolia Bazalgette." - -"What a splendacious name!" interrupted Tod. "Magnolia!" - -"She was named after the estate, Magnolia Range, a very beautiful place -and one of the finest properties on the island," said Coralie. "Magnolia -lives with George, it was always her home, you see; and Verena does -not take kindly to her. She complains that Magnolia domineers over the -household and over herself. It is just one of Verena's silly fancies; -she always wants to be first and foremost; and I have written her one -or two sharp letters." - -"Coralie," I said here, "is not the girl, who showed us in, Maria?--she -who used to live in those lodgings in London?" - -Coralie nodded. "The last time I was staying in London, Maria came to -me, saying she had left her place and was in want of one. I engaged her -at once. I like the girl." - -"She is an uncommonly smart girl in the way of curls and caps," remarked -Tod. - -"I like smart people about me," laughed Coralie. - -Who should come in then but Mrs. Cramp. _She_ was smart. A flounced gown -of shiny material, green in one light, red in another, and a purple -bonnet with white strings. She was Stephen Cramp's widow, formerly Mary -Ann Chandler; her speech was honest and homely, and her comely face wore -a look of perplexity. - -"I don't much like the look of things down yonder," she began, nodding -her head in the direction of North Villa and as she sat down her -flounces went up, displaying her white cotton stockings and low, tied -shoes. "I have been calling there again, and I can't get in." - -"Nobody can get in," said Coralie. - -"They have put a chain on the door, and they answer people through it. -No chain was ever there before, as long as I have known the house. I -paid no attention to the things people were saying," continued Mrs. -Cramp; "but I did not much like something I heard last night. I'll see -the lady, I said to myself this morning, and down to the house I went, -walked up the garden, and----" - -"But what is it that people have been saying, Mrs. Cramp?" struck in the -Squire. "These boys have heard something or other." - -"What's said is, that there's something queer about the lady," replied -Mrs. Cramp. "I can't make it out myself, Squire. Some people say she's -pig-faced." - -"_Pig-faced!_" - -"Well, they do. Last night I heard she was black. And, putting two and -two together, as one can't help doing in such a case, I don't like that -report at all." - -The Squire stared--and began thinking. He believed he knew what Mrs. -Cramp meant. - -"Well, I went there, and rang," she resumed. "And they opened the door -a couple of inches and talked to me over the chain: some sour-faced -woman-servant of middle age. I told her I had come to see my tenant--her -mistress; she answered that her mistress could not be seen, and shut the -door in my face." - -Mrs. Cramp untied her white satin bonnet-strings, tilted back her -bonnet, caught up the painted fan, fellow to the one Coralie was -handling, and fanned herself while she talked. - -"As long as it was said the lady was pig-faced and hid herself from -people's eyes accordingly, I thought little of it, you understand, -Squire; but if she is black, that's a different matter. It sets one -fearing that some scandal may come of it. The Miss Dennets would drop -down in a fit on the spot if they heard _that_ person had got into their -house." - -Coralie laughed. - -"Ah, my dear, you careless young people make jokes of things that would -fret us old ones to fiddle-strings," reproved Mrs. Cramp. "The four -Indians may be with her, you know, and most likely are, concealed in -cupboards. You don't know what such desperate characters might do--break -into your house here some dark night and kill you in your bed. It is not -a pleasant thing, is it, Squire?" - -"That it's not, if it be as you put it," assented he, growing hot. - -"Look here, Mrs. Cramp," interposed Tod. "If the lady has never been -seen, how can it be known she is black, or pig-faced?" - -"I've never treated the pig-faced report as anything but rubbish," -answered Mrs. Cramp; "but I'll tell you, Mr. Joseph, how it has come out -that she's black. I heard from Susan Dennet yesterday morning, and she -asked whether any letters were lying at home for her or Mary. So I sent -my servant Peggy last evening to inquire--a stupid thing of a girl she -is, comes from over beyond Bromyard. Peggy went to the kitchen-door--and -they have a chain there as well as to the other--and was told that no -letters had come for the Miss Dennets. It was growing dark, and Peggy, -who had never been on the premises before, mistook the path, and turned -into one that took her to the latticed arbour. Many a time have I sat -there in poor Jacob's days, with the Malvern Hills in the distance." - -"So have I, Mary Ann," added the Squire, calling her unconsciously by -her Christian name, his thoughts back in the time when they were boy and -girl together. - -"Peggy found her mistake then, and was turning back, when there stood in -her path a black woman, who must have followed her down: black face, -black hands, all black. What's more, she was wrapped round in yellow; -a _shroud_, Peggy declares, but the girl was quite beyond herself with -fright, and could not be expected to know shrouds from cloaks in the -twilight. The woman stood stock still, never speaking, only staring; -and Peggy tore back in her terror, and fell into the arms of a -railway-porter, just then bringing a parcel from the station. 'Goodness -help us!' she shrieked out, 'there's a blackamore in the path yonder:' -and the girl came home more dead than alive. That is how I've learnt the -mysterious lady is black," summed up Mrs. Cramp; "and knowing what we do -know, I don't like it." - -Neither did the Squire. And Mrs. Cramp departed in a flutter. We all -liked her, in spite of her white stockings and shoes. - - * * * * * - -Some few months before this, a party of strangers appeared one morning -at Worcester, and took handsome lodgings there. Four fashionable-looking -gentlemen, with dark skins and darker hair; natives, apparently, of some -remote quarter of the globe, say Asia or Africa, whose inhabitants are -of a fine copper colour; and one lady, understood to be their sister, -who was darker than they were--almost quite black. Two rather elderly -and very respectable English servants, man and wife, were in their -train. They lived well, these people, regardless of cost: had sumptuous -dishes on their table, choice fruits, hot-house flowers. They made no -acquaintance whatever in the town, rarely went abroad on foot, but took -an airing most days in a large old rumbling open barouche, supplied by -the livery stables. Worcester, not less alive to curiosity than is any -other city, grew to be all excitement over these people, watched their -movements with admiration, and called them "The Indians." The lady was -seen in the barouche but once, enveloped in a voluminous yellow mantle, -the hood of which was drawn over her face. It transpired that she was -not in good health, and one evening, when she had a fainting-fit, a -doctor was called in to her. His report to the town the next day -was that she was really a coloured woman, very much darker than her -brothers, with the manners and culture of a lady, but strikingly -reserved. After a sojourn of about two months, the party, servants and -all, quitted their lodgings, giving the landlady only an hour's notice, -to spend, as they gave out, a week at Malvern. They paid their bill in -full, asked permission to leave two or three of their heaviest trunks -with her, and departed. - -But they did not go to Malvern. It was not discovered where they did go. -Nothing more was seen of them; nothing certain heard. The trunks they -had left proved to be empty; some accounts owing in the town came in -to be paid. All this looked curious. By-and-by a frightful rumour -arose--that these people had been mixed up in some dreadful crime: one -report said forgery, another murder. It was affirmed that Scotland -Yard had been looking for them for months, and that they had disguised -themselves as Indians (to quote the word Worcester used) to avert -detection. But some observant individuals maintained that they were -Indians (to use the word again), that no disguise or making-up could -have converted their faces to what they were. Nothing more had as yet -been heard of them, saving that a sum of money, enough to cover the -small amount of debts left behind, was transmitted to the landlady -anonymously. Excitement had not yet absolutely died away in the town. -It was popularly supposed that the Indians were lying concealed in -some safe hiding-place, perhaps not far distant. - -And now, having disclosed this strange episode, the fame of which had -gone about the county, you will be able to understand Mrs. Cramp's -consternation. It appeared to be only too probable that the hiding-place -was North Villa: of the lady in the yellow mantle, at any rate, whether -her four brothers were with her or not. - - -II. - -I sat, perched on the fence of the opposite field, as though waiting -for some one, whistling softly, and taking crafty looks at North Villa, -for our curiosity as to its doings grew with the days, when a fine, -broad-shouldered, well-dressed gentleman came striding along the road, -flicking his cane. - -"Well, Johnny!" - -At the first moment I did not know him, I really did not; he looked too -grand a gentleman for Benjamin Rymer, too handsome. It was Ben, however. -The improvement in him had been going on gradually for some years now; -and Ben, in looks, in manner, ay, and in conduct, could hold his own -with the best in the land. - -"I did not know you were down here," I said, meeting his offered hand. -Time was when he would not have presumed to hold out his hand to me -unsolicited, boy though I was in those old days: he might have thought -nothing of offering it to a nabob now. - -"I got down yesterday," said Ben. "Glad enough to have taken my M.D., -and to have done with London." - -"I thought you did not mean to take a physician's degree." - -"I did not, as I chiefly go in for surgery. But when I considered that -my life will probably be spent in this country place, almost as a -general practitioner, I thought it best to take it. It gives one a -standing, you see, Ludlow. And so," he added laughing, "I am Dr. Rymer. -What are you sitting here for, Johnny? Watching that house?" - -"Have you heard about it?" I asked. - -"Coralie--Miss Fontaine--told me of it when I was with her last evening. -Is there anything to be seen?" - -"Nothing at all. I have been here for twenty minutes and have not caught -a glimpse of any one, black or white. Yesterday, when Salmon's boy took -some grocery there, he saw the black lady peeping at him behind the -blind." - -"It seems a strange affair altogether," remarked Ben. "The sudden -appearance of the people at Worcester, that was strange, as was their -sudden disappearance. If it be in truth they who are hiding themselves -here, I can't say much for their wisdom: they are too near to the old -scene." - -"I wonder you don't set up in London," I said to Ben as we walked -onwards. - -"It is what I should like to do of all things," he replied in a tone of -eagerness, "and confine my practice wholly to surgery. But my home must -be here. Circumstances are stronger than we are." - -"Will it be at Oxlip Grange?" I quietly asked. - -Ben turned his head to study my face, and what he read there told tales. -"I see," he said, "you know. Yes, it will be at Oxlip Grange. That has -been settled a long while past." - -"I wish you every happiness; all good luck." - -"Thank you, Johnny." - -We were nearing the place in question when Mrs. Cramp turned out of its -small iron gate, that stood beside the ornamental large ones, in her -bewitching costume of green and purple. "And how are you, Mr. Benjamin?" -she asked. "Come down for good?" - -"Yes." - -"And he is Dr. Rymer now, Mrs. Cramp," I added. - -"I am glad to hear it," said she warmly, "and I'll shake your hand on -the strength of it," and she gave his hand a hearty shake. "At one time -you said you never would take a doctor's degree." - -"So I did," said Ben. "But somebody wished me to take it." - -"Your mother, I guess,"--though, for my part, I did not suppose it was -his mother. "Any way, you'll do well now." - -"I hope so," answered Ben. "You look fluttered, Mrs. Cramp." - -"I'm more fluttered than I care to be; I am living in a chronic state of -flutter," avowed Mrs. Cramp. "It's over that tenant of mine; that woman -down yonder," pointing towards North Villa. - -"Why should you flutter yourself over her?" he remonstrated. "She is not -your tenant." - -"Indeed but she is my tenant. To all intents and purposes she is my -tenant. The Miss Dennets left the house in my hands." - -"How was it you did not have references with her, Mrs. Cramp?" - -"That donkey of an agent never asked for any," retorted she. "He was -thrown off his guard, he says, by her sending him the first month's rent -in advance, and telling him she had only one or two old servants, and no -children, and the furniture would be as much cared for as if it were -made of gold. Last night she sends to me the advance rent for next -month, though it's not due for two days yet, and that has fluttered me, -I can tell you, Mr. Benjamin, for I was hoping she wouldn't pay, and -that I might be able to get her out. I am now going there with the -receipt, and to try again to get to see her: the woman who left the -money never waited for one. Afraid of being catechised, I take it." - -Picking up her green skirts she sailed down the road. Coralie Fontaine -was leaning over the little gate, and opened it as we approached. A -beautiful cashmere shawl, all scarlet and gold, contrasted with her -white dress, and her drooping gold ear-drops glittered in the autumn -sun. She made a dainty picture, and I saw Dr. Benjamin's enraptured -eyes meet hers. If they were not over head and ears in love with one -another, never you trust me again. - -"Mrs. Cramp is in a way," cried Coralie, as we strolled with her up the -garden, amidst its old-fashioned flowers, all bloom and sweetness. "I'm -sure that black lady is as good as a play to us." - -"News came to me this morning from my sister," said Benjamin. "She -and the Archdeacon are coming home; he has not been well, and has six -months' leave of absence." - -"Do they bring the children?" asked Coralie. - -"As if they'd leave _them_! Why, Coralie, those two small damsels are -the very light of Margaret's eyes--to judge by her letters; and of -Sale's too, I shouldn't wonder. Margaret asks me to take lodgings for -them. I think Mrs. Boughton's might be large enough--where Sale lodged -in the old days." - -"Lodgings!" indignantly exclaimed Coralie. "I do think you Europeans, -you English, are the most inhospitable race on the face of the earth! -Your only sister, whom you have not seen for years, of whom you are very -fond, is coming back to her native place with her husband and children -for a temporary stay, and you can talk of putting them into lodgings? -For shame, Benjamin!" - -"But what else am I to do?" questioned he, good-humouredly laughing at -her. "I have only one bedroom and one sitting-room of my own, the two -about as large as a good-sized clothes-closet; I cannot invite a man and -his wife and two children to share them, and he an archdeacon! There -wouldn't be space to turn round in." - -"Let them come here," said Coralie. - -"Thank you," he said, after a few moments' hesitation: and it struck me -he might be foreseeing difficulties. "But--they will not be here just -yet." - -He had some patients at Islip, and went on there; I said adieu to -Coralie and walked homewards, thinking of the ups and downs of life. -Presently Mrs. Cramp's green gown loomed into view; her face red, her -bonnet awry. I saw she had not met with any luck. - -"No, I have _not_," she said. "I walked up into their porch as bold as -you please, Johnny Ludlow, and I knocked and I rang, letting 'em think -it was the Queen come, if they would. And when the woman with the sour -face opened the door an inch, she just took the receipt from me; but as -to seeing her mistress, I might as well have asked to see the moon. And -I heard a scuffle, as if people were listening. Oh, it's those Indians: -trust me for that." - -Away she went, without further ceremony, and I went back to the ups and -downs of earthly life. - -It was not so very long ago that Thomas Rymer had lain on his death-bed, -brought to it by the troubles of the world, and by the anxiety for his -children, for whom no career seemed to present itself, saving that of -hard, mean, hopeless drudgery: if not something worse for Benjamin. -But how things had changed! Benjamin, pulling himself up from his -ill-doings, was--what he was. A man respected; clever, distinguished, -with probably a great career of usefulness before him, and about to be -married to a charming girl of large fortune. While Margaret, whom her -father had so loved, so pitied, was the wife of a man high in the -Church, and happy as a queen. For, as you have gathered, the Reverend -Isaac Sale, who had given up Herbert Tanerton's humble curacy to go out -as chaplain to the Bahama Islands, had been made an archdeacon. Ups and -downs, ups and downs! they make the sum and substance of existence. -Glancing at the blue sky, over which fleecy white clouds were softly -drifting, I lost myself in wondering whether Thomas Rymer could look -down and still see his children here. - -The chemist's shop at Timberdale had been sold by Benjamin Rymer to the -smart young man who had carried it on during his absences, one James -Boom, said to be Scotch. Benjamin had his rooms there at present; -good-sized closets, he has just called them; and took his meals -with Mr. Boom. Mrs. Rymer, the mother (having appropriated all the -purchase-money), had set up her home in Birmingham amidst her old -friends and relatives, and Benjamin had covenanted to allow her money -yearly from his practice. - - * * * * * - -Public commotion increased. It spread to Oxlip Grange. One night, Ozias -was sitting back amidst the laurels at the side of the house to smoke -his pipe, when Maria came out to ask him what he had done with the best -tea-tray, which they couldn't find. As she stood a moment while he -reflected, there came two figures softly creeping round from the -front--women. One wore a close bonnet and full dark cloak, the other was -altogether enveloped in some shapeless garment that might be yellow -by daylight, out of which a jet-black face and jet-black hands shone -conspicuously in the rays of the stars. Maria, very much frightened, -grasped hold of the old man's shoulder. - -The pipe trembled in his hand: he had a mortal dread of assassins and -housebreakers. "No speaky, no speaky," whispered he. "We watch, you and -me. They come hurt Missee." - -The figures made for the lighted window of the large drawing-room, which -was at the end of this side of the house. Coralie was sitting alone -within it, expecting visitors to tea. The blind was not drawn quite -down, and they stooped to peer in, and remained there as if glued to -the window. Maria could stand it no longer, but in creeping away, she -rustled the laurels frightfully: we are sure to make the most noise, you -know, when we want to be silent. The women looked round, and there came -from them a rattling hiss, like that of a snake. With a scream, Maria -made for the refuge of the kitchen-door; Ozias flew after her, dropping -his pipe. - -It must have disturbed the women. For just about then, when the Squire, -holding my arm, arrived at Miss Fontaine's gate, they were coming out: -two disguised figures, who went swiftly down the road. - -"Mercy be good to us!" cried the Squire, aghast. He had drawn back in -politeness to let them pass through the gate, and had found the black -face come nearly into contact with his own. "Johnny, lad, that must be -Mrs. Cramp's tenant and her servant!" - -They brushed past Mrs. Todhetley coming along with Tod. Maria and Ozias -were in the drawing-room when we got in, talking like wild things. The -other guests soon arrived, Dr. Rymer, Mrs. Cramp, and Tom Chandler and -his wife from Islip. Ozias gave an opinion that Missee (meaning Coralie) -was about to be assassinated in her bed. - -At this Coralie laughed. She had no fear, but she did not like it. "I -cannot see what they could possibly want, looking in at me!" she cried. -"It was very rude." - -"They want Missee's diamonds," spoke Ozias. "Missee got great lot beauty -diamonds, lot other beauty jewels; black woman come in this night--next -night--after night--who know which--and smother Missee and take dem -all." - -Poor Mrs. Cramp, sitting in the biggest arm-chair, her sandalled shoes -stretched on a footstool, was quite taken out of herself with dismay. -The Squire rubbed his face incessantly, asking what was to be done. Dr. -Rymer said nothing in regard to what was to be done; but he gave his -head an emphatic nod, as if he knew. - -The next morning he presented himself at North Villa, and asked to see -its tenant. The woman-servant denied him--over the chain. Ben insisted -upon his card and his request being taken in. After a battle of words, -she took them in, shutting the door in his face the while; and the -doctor cooled his heels in the porch for five minutes. As she drew the -door open again, he caught sight of a black face twisted round the -sitting-room door-post to peep at him, a black hand, with rings on it, -grasping it. She saw him looking at her, and disappeared like a shot. -The message brought out by the servant was that her mistress was an -invalid, unable to see visitors: if Dr. Rymer had any business with her, -he must be good enough to convey it by letter. - -"Very well," said the doctor, in his decisive way: "I warn you and your -mistress not again to intrude on Miss Fontaine's premises, as you did -last night. If you do, you must take the consequences." - -At this, the woman stared as if it were so much Greek to her. She -answered that she had not been on Miss Fontaine's premises, then or -ever; had not been out-of-doors at all the previous night. And Ben -thought by her tone she was speaking truth. - -"It was one of those Indian brothers disguised in a cloak and bonnet," -said we all when we heard this. And Coralie's servants took to watching -through the livelong night at the upper windows, turn and turn about, -growing thin from dread of the assassins. - -Altogether, what with one small item and another, Mrs. Cramp's tenant -kept us alive. A belief had prevailed that the woman-servant was the -same who had attended the Indians; but this was dispelled. A housemaid -of ours, Nancy, a flighty sort of girl, often in hot water with her -elders thereby, whose last service had been with old Lawyer Cockermouth, -at Worcester, was out on an errand when she met this woman and -recognized her for an old acquaintance. During Nancy's service with -the lawyer she had been there as the cook-housekeeper. - -"It is Sarah Stone, ma'am, and nobody else!" cried Nancy, running in to -tell the news to Mrs. Todhetley. "She left for her temper, soon after I -left; I heard say that old Miss Cockermouth wouldn't put up with it any -longer." - -"Are you sure it is the same, Nancy?" asked Mrs Todhetley. - -"Why, ma'am, I know Sarah Stone as well as I know my own mother. 'What, -is it _you_ that's living here with that there black lady?' I says to -her. 'What is it to you whether I'm living with a black lady or a white -'un,' she answers me, crustily: 'just mind your own affairs, Nancy -Dell.' 'Well,' says I, 'there's a pretty talk about her; it's not me -that would like to serve a wild Indian'--and that set Sarah Stone off at -a strapping pace, ma'am." - -Thus things went on. North Villa seeming to grow more isolated day by -day, and its inmates more mysterious. When the rent for the next month -was nearly due, Mrs. Cramp found it left at her house as before: and -poor Mrs. Cramp felt fit to have a fever. - -One evening, early in November, Mr. Cole, the surgeon of Crabb, was seen -to go into North Villa. He was seen to go again the following morning, -and again in the afternoon, and again in the evening. It transpired that -the black lady was alarmingly ill. - -Naturally, it put the parish up in arms. We made a rush for Cole, -wanting to ask him five hundred things. Cole, skimming along the ground -like a lamplighter, avoided us all; and the first to succeed in pouncing -upon him was Miss Timmens, the schoolmistress. Very downright and -honest, she was in the habit of calling a spade a spade, and poured out -her questions one upon another. They had met by the yellow barn. - -"Well, no," answers Cole, when he could get a word in, "I don't think -that any murderer is at North Villa; do not see one about, but there's a -baby." "A baby!" shrieks Miss Timmens, as she pushed back the bunches of -black curls from her thin cheeks with their chronic redness, "a baby!" -"Yes, a baby," says Cole, "a new baby." "Good mercy!" cries she, "a -baby! a black baby! Is it a boy or a girl, Mr. Cole?" "It's a boy," -says Cole. "_Good_ mercy! a black boy!--what an extraordinary sight -it must be!" Cole says nothing to this; only looks at her as meek as -a lamb. "And now, between ourselves, doctor," goes on Miss Timmens, -confidentially, "did you see the Indians there?--those men?" "Did not -see any man at all," answers Cole, "saw no sign of a man being there." -"Ah, of course they'd take their precautions to keep out of sight," -nodded Miss Timmens, thinking old Cole uncommonly stupid to-day. "And -how do you relish attending on a black patient, doctor? And what's she -like?" "Why," answers Cole, "black patients are much the same as white -ones; have the same number of arms and legs and fingers." "Oh, indeed," -says Miss Timmens, quite sharply; and she wishes Cole good-day. And that -was the best that could be got out of Cole. - -The doctor's visits were watched with the most intense interest; three -times a-day at first, then twice a-day, then once; and then they ceased -altogether. - -"Black lady on her legs again?" says Ben Rymer, meeting Cole about this -time. "Quite so," answers Cole. "Mind that you get paid, sir," says Ben, -with a laugh. "No need to mind that," returns Cole, "five sovereigns -were put into my hand when the child was born." "By the black lady?" -asks Ben, opening his eyes: for two guineas was the crack fee in our -parts. "Yes, it _was_ the black lady who gave it me," says Cole with -emphasis: "and that, she took care to say, was not to include subsequent -attendance. Wish you the same luck in your next case, Rymer." - -Rymer thanked him and went off laughing. He was getting on in his -practice like a house on fire, his fame rising daily. - -"How do you like it--his setting up here?" confidentially questioned the -Squire of Darbyshire, the doctor at Timberdale. - -"Plenty of room for both of us," replied Darbyshire, "and I am not as -young as I was. It rather strikes me, though, Squire, it is not exactly -at Timberdale that Rymer will pitch his tent." - -The next exciting event had nothing to do with North Villa. It was the -arrival of Archdeacon Sale with his wife and children. They did not go -to Coralie's. Herbert Tanerton opened his heart, and carried them off to -the Rectory from the railway-station. That was so like Herbert! Had Sale -remained a poor curate he might have gone to the workhouse and taken -Margaret with him; being an archdeacon Herbert chose to make much of -him. Margaret was not altered, she was loving and gentle as ever; with -the same nice face, and poor Thomas Rymer's sad, sweet eyes shining from -it. - -Of course the first thing confided to the Bahama travellers was the -mystery at North Villa. The Archdeacon took a sensible view of it. "As -long as the black lady does not molest you," he said, "why trouble -yourselves about her?" - -After that we had a bit of a lull. Nothing exciting occurred. Saving a -report that two of the Indians were seen taking the air in the garden of -North Villa, each with a formidable stick in his hand. But it turned out -that they were two tramps who had gone in to beg. - - -III. - -I thought it would have come to a quarrel. The Squire maintained his -view and Coralie maintained hers. They talked at each other daily, -neither giving way. - -Christmas-Day was approaching, and it had pleased Miss Fontaine to -project a sumptuous dinner for it, to be given at Oxlip Grange to all -her special friends. The Squire protested he never heard of anything so -unreasonable. He did not dine out of his own house on Christmas-Day, and -she must come to Crabb Cot. - -The third week in December had set in, when one evening, as we rose from -table, the Squire impulsively declared he would go and finally have it -out with her. - -Meaning Coralie. Settling himself into his great-coat, he called to me -to go after him. In the Islip Road we overtook Cole, walking fast also. -He had been sent for to the baby at North Villa, he said; and we left -him at the gate. - -Coralie was in her favourite little parlour, reading by lamplight. The -Squire sat down by the fire in a flutter, and began remonstrating about -the Christmas dinner. Coralie only laughed. - -"It is unreasonable, dear Mr. Todhetley, even to propose our going to -you. Think of the number! I wish to have everybody. The Archdeacon and -his wife, and Dr. Rymer, and Mrs. Cramp, and the Letsoms, and Tom -Chandler and Emma, and of course, her father, old Mr. Paul, as he is -some relation of mine, and---- Why, that's a carriage driving up! I -wonder who has come to-night?" - -Another minute, and old Ozias rushed in with a beaming face, hardly able -to get his words out for excitement. - -"Oh, Missee, Missee, it Massa George; come all over wide seas from -home,"--and there entered a fine man with a frank and handsome -face--George Bazalgette. - -"Where's Verena?" he exclaimed, after kissing Coralie and shaking hands -genially with the Squire, though they had never met before. - -Coralie looked surprised. "Verena?" she repeated. "Is she not with you?" - -"She is not with me; I wish she was. Where is she, Coralie?" - -"But how should I know where she is?" retorted Coralie, looking up at -Mr. Bazalgette. - -"Is she not staying with you? Did she not come over to you?" - -"Certainly not," said Coralie. "I have not seen Verena since she went -out, sixteen months ago. Neither have I heard from her lately. What is -it that you mean, George?" - -George Bazalgette stood back against the book-case, and told us what he -meant. Some weeks ago--nay, months--upon returning to Magnolia Range -after a week's absence at his other estate across the country, he found -Verena flown. She left a note for him, saying she did not get on well -with Magnolia, and was going to stay a little while with Mrs. Dickson. -He felt hurt that Verena had not spoken openly to him about Magnolia, -but glad that she should have the change, as she had not been well of -late. Mrs. Dickson was his aunt and lived in a particularly healthy part -of one of the adjoining islands. Time passed on; he wrote to Verena, but -received no answer to his letters, and he concluded she was so put out -with Magnolia that she would not write. By-and-by he thought it was time -to see after her, and journeyed to Mrs. Dickson's. Mrs. Dickson was -absent, gone to stay with some friends at St. Thomas, and the servants -did not know when she would return. He supposed, as a matter of course, -that she had taken Verena with her, and went back home. Still the time -passed; no news of Verena, no letters, and he proceeded again to Mrs. -Dickson's. Then, to his unbounded astonishment, he found that Verena -had only stayed with her one week, and had taken the mail-packet for -Southampton on her way to stay with her sister at Oxlip Grange. Giving -a blessing to Mrs. Dickson for not having written to inform him of all -this, and for having kept his letters to Verena by that young lady's -arbitrary command, he came off at once to England. - -"Good gracious!" exclaimed Coralie. "She did not come here." - -The fine colour on George Bazalgette's face, which retained its -freshness though he did live in a hot climate, lost its brightness. - -"She would be the least likely to come here, of all places," pursued -Coralie. "In the last answer I ever sent her, after a letter of -complaints to me, hinting that she thought of coming here for a time, -I scolded her sharply and assured her I should despatch her back to you -the next day." - -"What am I to do?" he exclaimed. "Where look for her?" - -Not caring to intrude longer, we took our departure, the Squire shaking -his head dubiously over Mrs. George Bazalgette's vagaries. "It was the -same thing," he said, "when she was Verena Fontaine, as you remember, -Johnny, and what a good fellow her husband seems to be.--Halloa! Why, -that's Cole again!" - -He was coming out of North Villa. "You are back soon!" he cried. And we -told him of the arrival of George Bazalgette. - -Cole seemed to stare with all his eyes as he listened. I could see them -in the starlight. "What will he do if he can't find her here?" he asked -of me. "Do you know, Johnny Ludlow?" - -"Go back by the first and fleetest ship to turn Mrs. Dickson inside-out. -He thinks she and Verena have played him a trick in letting him come -over. How did you find the black baby?" - -"Found nothing the matter with it," growled Cole. "These young mothers -are so fanciful!" - -We left him standing against the gate, supposing that he had to go -higher up. And what happened then, I can only tell you by hearsay. - -Cole, propping his back against the spikes, turned his face up to the -stars, as if he were taking counsel of them. Counsel he needed from -somebody or something, for he was in a dilemma. - -"Well, I'll chance it," he thought, when he had got pretty cold. "It -seems the right thing to do." - -Walking briskly to Oxlip Grange, he asked to see Mr. Bazalgette; and -after whispering a few words into that gentleman's ear, brought him -out to North Villa. "You stand behind me, so as not to be seen," he -directed, ringing the bell. - -"I'm coming in again," said he to Sarah Stone, when she pulled the door -back about an inch. So she undid the chain; the doctor was privileged, -and he slipped in, Mr. Bazalgette behind him. Sarah, the faithful, was -for showing fight. - -"It is all right," said Cole. "Not yet, sir"--putting out his arm to -bar Mr. Bazalgette's passage. "You go in first, to your mistress, Sarah, -and say that a gentleman is waiting to see her: just landed from the -West Indies." - -But the commotion had attracted attention, and a young lady, not black, -but charmingly white, appeared at the parlour-door, a black head behind -her. - -"George!" she shrieked. And the next moment flew into his arms, sobbing -and crying, and kissing him. Cole decamped. - -That past evening in November, when Cole received a message that his -services were needed at North Villa, he went expecting to be introduced -to a black lady. A black lady in truth showed him in; or, to be correct, -a lady's black attendant, and he saw--Verena Fontaine. - -That is, Verena Bazalgette. She put Cole upon his honour, not to -disclose her secret, and told him a long string of her sister-in-law's -iniquities, as touching lecturing and domineering, and that she had left -home intending to come over for a time to Coralie. Whilst staying with -Mrs. Dickson before sailing, a letter was forwarded to her from Magnolia -Grange. It was from Coralie; and it convinced Verena that Coralie's -would be no safe refuge, that she would be sent out of it at once back -to her husband. She sailed, as projected, allowing Mrs. Dickson to think -she was still coming to her sister. Upon landing at Southampton she went -on to a small respectable inn at Worcester, avoiding the larger hotels -lest she should meet people who knew her. Seeing the advertisement of -North Villa to let, she wrote to the agent, and secured it. To be near -Coralie seemed like a protection, though she might not go to her. Next -she answered an advertisement from a cook (inserted by Sarah Stone), -and engaged her, binding her to secrecy. The woman, though of crusty -temper, was honest and trustworthy, and espoused the cause of her young -mistress, and was zealously true to her. She carried in to her the -various reports that were abroad, of the Indians and the black lady, -and all the rest of it; causing Verena bursts of laughter, the only -divertisement she had in her imprisoned life: she did not dare to go out -lest she should be recognized and the news carried to Coralie. Dalla, -a faithful native servant who had been left in the West Indies and -returned to Verena when she married George Bazalgette, attended her on -her solitary voyage. She it was who was black, not Verena. And the night -they stole into the premises of Oxlip Grange it was done with the hope -of getting a sly peep at Coralie's face; both of them were longing for -it. Hearing the stir in the shrubs, Dalla had hissed; her thoughts were -back in her own land, and it was her mode of startling away four-footed -night animals there. - -George Bazalgette was very angry with his wife, more especially so at -her having absented herself at that uncertain time, and he declared to -her that he would put her away from him for good if ever she attempted -such a thing again. With tears enough to float a ship, Verena gave him -her solemn promise that she never would leave him again. Never again: -she had been too miserable this time, and the baby had nearly frightened -her to death, for she had not expected him so soon and had meant to go -back for it. - - * * * * * - -The Squire could not hold out now, and the Christmas dinner was at -Coralie's. We went over to Timberdale Church in the morning, a lot of -us, to hear the Archdeacon preach. Herbert gave up the pulpit to him, -taking the prayers himself. He was a plain little man, as you knew -before, and he gave us a plain sermon, but it was one of those that are -worth their weight in gold. Lady Tenby whispered that to me as we came -out. "And oh, Johnny," she said, "we are so glad he has got on! We -always liked Isaac Sale." - -It was a grand dinner-party, though not as many were present as Coralie -wanted. The Letsoms did not care to leave their own fireside, or old -Paul, or the Chandlers. Verena was the life of it, laughing and joking -and parading about with her baby, who had been christened "George" the -day before, Mrs. Cramp having been asked to be its godmother. - -"Which I think was very pretty of them, Mr. Johnny," she said to me -after dinner; "and I'm proud of standing to it." - -"It was in recompense for the worry I've given you, you dear old thing!" -whispered Verena, as she pulled Mrs. Cramp's chair backwards and kissed -her motherly forehead. "You'll never have such a tenant again--for -worry." - -"Never, I hope, please Heaven!" assented Mrs. Cramp. "And I'm sure I -shall never see a black woman without shivering. Now, my dear, you just -put my chair down; you'll have me backwards. Hold it, will you, Mr. -Johnny!" - -"What dishes of talk you'll get up about me with Susan Dennet!" went on -Verena, the chair still tilted. "We are going back home the beginning of -the year, do you know. George got his letters to-day." - -"And what about that young lady over there--that Miss Magnolia?" asked -Mrs. Cramp. - -Verena let the chair fall in ecstasy, and her tone was brimful of -delight. "Oh, that's the best news of all! Magnolia is going to be -married: she only waits for George to get back to give her away. I must -say this is a delightful Christmas-Day!" - -On the thirty-first of December, the last day in the year, Coralie was -married to Dr. Rymer. Archdeacon Sale, being Benjamin's brother-in-law, -came over to Islip Church to tie the knot. _Her_ brother-in-law, George -Bazalgette, gave her away. The breakfast was held at Coralie's, Verena -presiding in sky-blue satin. - -And amidst the company was a lady some of us had not expected to -see--Mrs. Rymer. She had scarlet ringlets (white feathers setting them -off to-day) and might be vulgar to her fingers'-ends, but she was -Benjamin's mother, and Coralie had privately sent for her. - -"You have my best wishes, Mr. Benjamin," said the Squire, drawing Ben -aside while Coralie was putting on her travelling attire; "and I'd be -glad with all my heart had your father lived to see it." - -"So should I be, Squire." - -"Look here," whispered the Squire, holding him by the button-hole, "did -you ever tell her of that--that--you know--that past trouble?" - -"Of the bank-note, you mean," said Ben. "I told her of that long ago, -and everything else that could tell against me. Believe me, Mr. -Todhetley, though my faults were many in the days gone by, I could not -act dishonourably by my dear wife; no, nor by any one else now." - -The Squire nodded with a beaming face, and pressed Ben's hand. - -"And let me thank you now, sir, for your long-continued kindness, your -expressions of esteem for my poor father and of goodwill to me," said -Ben, with emotion. "I have not talked of it, but I have felt it." - -They started away in their new close carriage, amidst a shower of rice -and old shoes; and we finished up the revels in the evening with a -dance and a fiddle, the Squire leading out Mrs. Cramp. Then came a cold -supper. - -The noise had reached its height, and the champagne was going about, -when the Squire interrupted with a "Hush, hush!" and the babel ceased. -The clock on the mantelpiece was striking twelve. As the last stroke -vibrated on the air, its echo alone breaking the silence, the Squire -rose and lifted his hands-- - -"A Happy New Year to us all, my friends! May God send His best blessings -with it!" - - * * * * * - -It may as well be added, in the interests of peace and quietness, that -those Indians had not committed any crime at all; it had been invented -by rumour, as Worcester discovered later. They were only inoffensive -strangers, travelling about to see the land. - - -THE END. - - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. - - - - -"I care not how often murders and other mysteries form the foundation of -plots, if they give us such novels as these."--HARRIET MARTINEAU. - -"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 Three Million Copies._ - - EAST LYNNE. _540th Thousand._ - THE CHANNINGS. _200th Thousand._ - MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES. _160th Thousand._ - THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. _110th Thousand._ - LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS. _125th Thousand._ - VERNER'S PRIDE. _95th Thousand._ - ROLAND YORKE. _150th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. First Series. _55th Thousand._ - MILDRED ARKELL. _85th Thousand._ - ST. MARTIN'S EVE. _84th Thousand._ - TREVLYN HOLD. _70th Thousand._ - GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. _83rd Thousand._ - THE RED COURT FARM. _85th Thousand._ - WITHIN THE MAZE. _140th Thousand._ - ELSTER'S FOLLY. _65th Thousand._ - LADY ADELAIDE. _65th Thousand._ - OSWALD CRAY. _60th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. Second Series. _40th Thousand._ - ANNE HEREFORD. _60th Thousand._ - DENE HOLLOW. _65th Thousand._ - EDINA. _50th Thousand._ - A LIFE'S SECRET. _70th Thousand._ - COURT NETHERLEIGH. _51st Thousand._ - BESSY RANE. _50th Thousand._ - THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS. _57th Thousand._ - ORVILLE COLLEGE. _44th Thousand._ - POMEROY ABBEY. _53rd Thousand._ - THE HOUSE OF HALLIWELL. _30th Thousand._ - THE STORY OF CHARLES STRANGE. _27th Thousand._ - ASHLEY. _20th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. Third Series. _23rd Thousand._ - LADY GRACE. _26th Thousand._ - ADAM GRAINGER. _20th Thousand._ - THE UNHOLY WISH. _20th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. Fourth Series. _20th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. Fifth Series. _15th Thousand._ - JOHNNY LUDLOW. Sixth Series. - - - LONDON: - MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED. - - - - -Transcriber's Note - - -For this txt-version italics were surrounded with _underscores_, words -in Old English font with +signs+, and small capitals changed to all -capitals. - -Errors in punctuation were corrected silently. Also the following -corrections were made, on page - - 38 "Ellen" changed to "Ellin" (Ellin, unable to control) - 58 "unreason ble" changed to "unreasonable" (One of your - unreasonable dislikes, Johnny?) - 83 "waistcot" changed to "waistcoat" (took a card from his - waistcoat-pocket) - 91 "thown" changed to "thrown" (and thrown his head back) - 130 "ather" changed to "Father" (to the end of my days, Father.) - 134 "succeeeded" changed to "succeeded" (had succeeded to his late - father's post) - 161 "Mr." changed to "Mrs." (Mrs. Cramp found him in the latticed - arbour) - 161 "imposssible" changed to "impossible" (would be impossible for - me to leave) - 231 "Afred" changed to "Alfred" (one Alfred Saxby, who was) - 290 "secresy" changed to "secrecy" (or with any idea of secrecy) - 294 "to morrow" changed to "to-morrow" (to-morrow's the day) - 296 "of" added (the houses on each side of it) - 329 "Beverie" changed to "Bevere" (get my coat on," conceded Bevere.) - 353 "where" changed to "were" (When you were last at home) - 381 "obtinate" changed to "obstinate" (took so obstinate a turn - that) - 447 "Mr." changed to "Mrs." (Mrs. Topcroft and Emma never). - -Otherwise the original was preserved, including inconsistent spelling -and hyphenation. - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Johnny Ludlow, Fourth Series, by Mrs. Henry Wood - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHNNY LUDLOW, FOURTH SERIES *** - -***** This file should be named 40940-8.txt or 40940-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/9/4/40940/ - -Produced by David Edwards, eagkw and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -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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