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diff --git a/40963.txt b/40963.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7dd59dd..0000000 --- a/40963.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15460 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Johnny Ludlow, Sixth 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, Sixth Series - -Author: Mrs. Henry Wood - -Release Date: October 7, 2012 [EBook #40963] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHNNY LUDLOW, SIXTH 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. - - _SIXTH SERIES_ - - +London+ - MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED - NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1899 - - - - - LONDON: - PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, - STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - THE MYSTERY AT NUMBER SEVEN-- - I.--MONTPELLIER-BY-SEA 1 - II.--OWEN, THE MILKMAN 26 - - CARAMEL COTTAGE-- - I.--EDGAR RESTE 54 - II.--DISAPPEARANCE 76 - III.--DON THE SECOND 101 - - A TRAGEDY-- - I.--GERVAIS PREEN 126 - II.--IN THE BUTTERY 152 - III.--MYSTERY 178 - IV.--OLIVER 204 - - IN LATER YEARS 230 - - THE SILENT CHIMES-- - I.--PUTTING THEM UP 257 - II.--PLAYING AGAIN 284 - III.--RINGING AT MIDDAY 313 - IV.--NOT HEARD 341 - V.--SILENT FOR EVER 370 - - - - - "God sent his Singers upon earth - With songs of sadness and of mirth, - That they might touch the hearts of men, - And bring them back to heaven again." - LONGFELLOW. - - - - -JOHNNY LUDLOW - - - - -THE MYSTERY AT NUMBER SEVEN - - -I.--MONTPELLIER-BY-SEA - -"Let us go and give her a turn," cried the Squire. - -Tod laughed. "What, all of us?" said he. - -"To be sure. All of us. Why not? We'll start to-morrow." - -"Oh dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Todhetley, dismay in her mild tones. "Children -and all?" - -"Children and all; and take Hannah to see to them," said the Squire. -"You don't count, Joe: you will be off elsewhere." - -"We could never be ready," said the Mater, looking the image of -perplexity. "To-morrow's Friday. Besides, there would be no time to -write to Mary." - -"_Write to her!_" cried the Squire, turning sharply on his heel as he -paced the room in his nankeen morning-coat. "And who do you suppose is -going to write to her? Why, it would cause her to make all sorts of -preparation, put her to no end of trouble. A pretty conjurer you'd make! -We will take her by surprise: that's what we will do." - -"But if, when we got there, we should find her rooms are let, sir?" said -I, the possibility striking me. - -"Then we'll go into others, Johnny. A spell at the seaside will be a -change for us all." - -This conversation, and the Squire's planning-out, arose through a letter -we had just received from Mary Blair--poor Blair's widow, if you have -not forgotten him, who went to his end through that Gazette of Jerry's. -After a few ups and downs, trying at this thing for a living, trying at -that, Mrs. Blair had now settled in a house at the seaside, and opened a -day-school. She hoped to get on in it in time, she wrote, especially if -she could be so fortunate as to let her drawing-room to visitors. The -Squire, always impulsive and good-hearted, at once cried out that _we_ -would go and take it. - -"It will be doing her a good turn, you see," he ran on; "and when -we leave I dare say she'll find other people ready to go in. Let's -see"--picking up the letter to refer to the address--"No. 6, Seaboard -Terrace, Montpellier-by-Sea. Whereabouts is Montpellier-by-Sea?" - -"Never heard of it in my life," cried Tod. "Don't believe there is such -a place." - -"Be quiet, Joe. I fancy it lies somewhere towards Saltwater." - -Tod flung back his head. "Saltwater! A nice common place that is!" - -"Hold your tongue, sir. Johnny, fetch me the railway guide." - -Upon looking at the guide, it was found there; "Montpellier-by-Sea;" the -last station before getting to Saltwater. As to Saltwater, it might be -common, as Tod said; for it was crowded with all sorts of people, but it -was lively and healthy. - -Not on the next day, Friday, for it was impossible to get ready in such -a heap of a hurry, but on the following Tuesday we started. Tod had left -on the Saturday for Gloucestershire. His own mother's relatives lived -there, and they were always inviting him. - -"Montpellier-by-Sea?" cried the railway clerk in a doubting tone as we -were getting the tickets. "Let's see? Where is that?" - -Of course that set the Squire exploding. What right had clerks to -pretend to issue tickets unless they knew their business? The clerk in -question coolly ran his finger down the railway list he had turned to, -and then gave us the tickets. - -"It is a station not much frequented, you see," he civilly observed. -"Travellers mostly go on to Saltwater." - -But for the train being due, and our having to make a rush for the -platform, the Squire would have waited to give the young man a piece of -his mind. "Saltwater, indeed!" said he. "I wonder the fellow does not -issue his edict as to where people shall go and where they shan't go." - -We arrived in due time at our destination. It was written up as large as -life on a white board, "Montpellier-by-Sea." A small roadside station, -open to the country around; no signs of sea or of houses to be seen; a -broad rural district, apparently given over entirely to agriculture. -On went the whistling train, leaving the group of us standing by our -luggage on the platform. The Squire was staring about him doubtfully. - -"Can you tell me where Seaboard Terrace is?" - -"Seaboard Terrace?" repeated the station-master. "No, sir, I don't know -it. There's no terrace of that name hereabouts. For that matter there -are no terraces at all--no houses in fact." - -The Squire's face was a picture. He saw that (save a solitary farm -homestead or two) the country was bare of dwelling-places. - -"This is Montpellier-by-Sea?" he questioned at last. - -"Sure enough it is, sir. Munpler, it's called down here." - -"Then Seaboard Terrace must be _somewhere_ in it--somewhere about. What -a strange thing!" - -"Perhaps the gentlefolks want to go to Saltwater?" spoke up one of the -two porters employed at the little station. "There's lots of terraces -there. Here, Jim!"--calling to his fellow--"come here a minute. He'll -know, sir; he comes from Saltwater." - -Jim approached, and settled the doubt at once. He knew Seaboard Terrace -very well indeed; it was at Saltwater; just out at the eastern end of -it. - -Yes, it was at Saltwater. And there were we, more than two miles off -it, on a broiling hot day, when walking was impracticable, with all our -trunks about us, and no fly to be had, or other means of getting on. The -Squire went into one of his passions, and demanded why people living at -Saltwater should give their address as Montpellier-by-Sea. - -He had hardly patience to listen to the station-master's -explanation--who acknowledged that we were not the first travelling -party that had been deluded in like manner. Munpler (as he and the rest -of the natives persisted in calling it) was an extensive, straggling -rural parish, filled with farm lands; an arm of it extended as far -as Saltwater, and the new buildings at that end of Saltwater had -rechristened themselves Montpellier-by-Sea, deeming it more aristocratic -than the common old name. Had the Squire been able to transport the -new buildings, builders and all, he had surely done it on the spot. - -Well, we got on to Saltwater in the evening by another train, and to -No. 6, Seaboard Terrace. Mary Blair was just delighted. - -"If I had but known you were coming, if you had only written to me, I -would have explained that it was Saltwater Station you must get out at, -not Montpellier," she cried in deprecation. - -"But, my dear, why on earth do you give in to a deception?" stormed the -Squire. "Why call your place Montpellier when it's Saltwater?" - -"I do what other people do," she sighed; "I was told it was Montpellier -when I came here. Generally speaking, I have explained, when writing -to friends, that it is really Saltwater, in spite of its fine name. I -suppose I forgot it when writing to you--I had so much to say. The -people really to blame are those who named it so." - -"And that's true, and they ought to be shown up," said the Squire. - -Seaboard Terrace consisted of seven houses, built in front of the sea a -little beyond the town. The parlours had bay windows; the drawing-rooms -had balconies and verandahs. The two end houses, Nos. 1 and 7, were -double houses, large and handsome, each of them being inhabited by a -private family; the middle houses were smaller, most of them being let -out in lodgings in the season. Mary Blair began talking that first -evening as we sat together about the family who lived in the house next -door to her, No. 7. Their name was Peahern, she said, and they had been -so very, very kind to her since she took her house in March. Mr. Peahern -had interested himself for her and got her several pupils; he was much -respected at Saltwater. "Ah, he is a good man," she added; "but----" - -"I'll call and thank him," interrupted the Squire. "I am proud to shake -hands with such a man as that." - -"You cannot," she said; "he and his wife have gone abroad. A great -misfortune has lately befallen them." - -"A great misfortune! What was it?" - -I noticed a sort of cloud pass over Mary Blair's face, a hesitation in -her manner before she replied. Mrs. Todhetley was sitting by her on the -sofa; the Squire was in the armchair opposite them, and I at the table, -as I had sat at our tea-dinner. - -"Mr. Peahern was in business once--a wholesale druggist, I believe; but -he made a fortune, and retired some years ago," began Mary. "Mrs. -Peahern has bad health and is a little lame. She was very kind to me -also--very good and kind indeed. They had one son--no other children; I -think he was studying for the Bar; I am not sure; but he lived in -London, and came down here occasionally. My young maid-servant, Susan, -got acquainted with their servants, and she gathered from their gossip -that he, Edmund Peahern, a very handsome young man, was in some way a -trouble to his parents. He was down at Easter, and stayed three weeks; -and in May he came down again. What happened I don't know; I believe -there was some scene with his father the day he arrived; anyway, Mr. -Peahern was heard talking angrily to him; and that night he--he died." - -She had dropped her voice to a whisper. The Squire spoke. - -"Died! Was it a natural death?" - -"No. A jury decided that he was insane; and he was buried here in the -churchyard. Such a heap of claims and debts came to light, it was said. -Mr. Peahern left his lawyer to pay them all, and went abroad with his -poor wife for change of scene. It has been a great grief to me. I feel -so sorry for them." - -"Then, is the house shut up?" - -"No. Two servants are left in it--the two housemaids. The cook, who had -lived with them five and twenty years and was dreadfully affected at the -calamity, went with her mistress. Nice, good-natured young women are -these two that are left, running in most days to ask if they can do -anything for me." - -"It is good to have such neighbours," said the Squire. "And I hope -you'll get on, my dear. How came you to be at this place at all?" - -"It was through Mr. Lockett," she answered--the clergyman who had -been so much with her husband before he died, and who had kept up a -correspondence with her. Mr. Lockett's brother was in practice as a -doctor at Saltwater, and they thought she might perhaps do well if she -came to it. So Mary's friends had screwed a point or two to put her -into the house, and gave her besides a ten-pound note to start with. - - * * * * * - -"I tell you what it is, young Joe: if you run and reve yourself into -that scarlet heat, you shan't come here with me again." - -"But I like to race with the donkeys," replied young Joe. "I can run -almost as fast as they, Johnny. I like to see the donkeys." - -"Wouldn't it be better to ride a donkey, lad?" - -He shook his head. "I have never had a ride but once," he answered: -"I've no sixpences for it. That once Matilda treated me. She brings me -on the sands." - -"Who is Matilda?" - -"Matilda at No. 7--Mr. Peahern's." - -"Well, if you are a good boy, young Joe, and stay by me, you shall have -a ride as soon as the donkeys come back." - -They were fine sands. I sat down on a bench with a book; little Joe -strained his eyes to look after the donkeys in the distance, cantering -off with some young shavers like himself on their backs, their -nursemaids walking quickly after them. Poor little Joe!--he had the -gentlest, meekest face in the world, with his thoughtful look and nice -eyes--waited and watched in quiet patience. The sands were crowded with -people this afternoon; organs were playing, dancing dolls exhibiting; -and vessels with their white sails spread glided smoothly up and down on -the sparkling sea. - -"And will you really pay the sixpence?" asked the little fellow -presently. "They won't let me get on for less." - -"Really and truly, Joe. I'll take you for a row in a boat some calm day, -if mamma will allow you to go." - -Joe looked grave. "I don't _much_ like the water, please," said he, -timidly. "Alfred Dale went on it in a boat and fell in, and was nearly -drowned. He comes to mamma's school." - -"Then we'll let the boats alone, Joe. There's Punch! He is going to set -himself up yonder: wouldn't you like to run and see him?" - -"But I might miss the donkeys," answered Joe. - -He stood by me quietly, gazing in the direction taken by the donkeys; -evidently they were his primary attraction. The other child, Mary, who -was a baby when her father died (poor Baked Pie, as we boys used to call -him at Frost's), was in Wales with Mrs. Blair's people. They had taken -the child for a few months, until she saw whether she should get along -at Saltwater. - -But we thought she would get along. Her school was a morning school for -little boys of good parentage, all of whom paid liberal terms; and she -would be able to let her best rooms for at least six months in the year. - -"There's Matilda! Oh, there's Matilda!" - -It was quite a loud shout for little Joe. Looking up, I saw him rush to -a rather good-looking young woman, neatly dressed in a black-and-white -print gown and small shawl of the same, with black ribbons crossed on -her straw bonnet. Servants did not dress fine enough to set the Thames -on fire in those days. Joe dragged her triumphantly up to me. She was -one of the housemaids at No. 7. - -"It's Matilda," he said; and the young woman curtsied. "And I am going -to have a donkey-ride, Matilda; Mr. Johnny Ludlow's going to give the -sixpence for me!" - -"I know you by sight, sir," observed Matilda to me. "I have seen you go -in and out of No. 6." - -She had a pale olive complexion, with magnificent, melancholy dark eyes. -Many persons would have called her handsome. I took a sort of liking for -the girl--if only for her kindness to poor little fatherless Joe. In -manner she was particularly quiet, subdued, and patient. - -"You had a sad misfortune at your house not long ago," I observed to -her, at a loss for something to say. - -"Oh, sir, don't talk of it, please!" she answered, catching her breath. -"I seem to have had the shivers at times ever since. It was me that -found him." - -Up cantered the donkeys; and presently away went Joe on the back of -one, Matilda attending him. The ride was just over, and Joe beginning -to enlarge on its delights to me, when another young woman, dressed -precisely similar to Matilda, even to the zigzag white running pattern -on the prim gown, and the black cotton gloves, was seen making her way -towards us. She was nice-looking also, in a different way--fair, with -blue eyes, and a laughing, arch face. - -"Why, there's Jane Cross!" exclaimed Matilda. "What in the world have -you come out for, Jane? Have you left the house safe?" - -"As if I should leave it unsafe!" lightly retorted the one they had -called Jane Cross. "The back door's locked, and here's the key of the -front"--showing a huge key. "Why shouldn't I go out if you do, Matilda? -The house is none so lively a one now, to stop in all alone." - -"And that's true enough," was Matilda's quiet answer. "Little master -Joe's here; he has been having a donkey-ride." - -The two servants, fellow-housemaids, strolled off towards the sea, -taking Joe with them. At the edge of the beach they encountered Hannah, -who had just come on with our two children, Hugh and Lena. The maids sat -down for a gossip, while the children took off their shoes and stockings -to dabble in the gently rising tide. - -And that was my introductory acquaintanceship with the servant-maids at -No. 7. Unfortunately it did not end there. - - * * * * * - -Twilight was coming on. We had been out and about all day, had dined as -usual at one o'clock (not to give unnecessary trouble), and had just -finished tea in Mrs. Blair's parlour. It was where we generally took -tea, and supper also. The Squire liked to sit in the open bay window -and watch the passers-by as long as ever a glimmer of daylight lasted; -and he could not see them so well in the drawing-room above. I was at -the other corner of the bay window. The Mater and Mary Blair were on -their favourite seat, the sofa, at the end of the room, both knitting. -In the room at the back, Mary held her morning school. - -I sat facing towards the end house, No. 7. And I must here say that -during the last two or three weeks I had met the housemaids several -times on the sands, and so had become quite at home with each of them. -Both appeared to be thoroughly well-conducted, estimable young women; -but, of the two, I liked Jane Cross best; she was always so lively and -pleasant-mannered. One day she told me why No. 7 generally called her by -her two names--which I had thought rather odd. It appeared that when she -entered her place two years before, the other housemaid was named Jane, -so they took to call her by her full name, Jane Cross. That housemaid -had left in about a twelvemonth, and Matilda had entered in her place. -The servants were regarded as equals in the house, not one above the -other, as is the case in many places. These details will probably be -thought unnecessary and uncalled for, but you will soon see why I -mention them. This was Monday. On the morrow we should have been three -weeks at Saltwater, and the Squire did not yet talk of leaving. He was -enjoying the free-and-easy life, and was as fond as a child of picking -up shells on the sands and looking at Punch and the dancing dolls. - -Well, we sat this evening in the bay window as usual, I facing No. 7. -Thus sitting, I saw Matilda cross the strip of garden with a jug in her -hand, and come out at the gate to fetch the beer for supper. - -"There goes Jane Cross," cried the Squire, as she passed the window. -"Is it not, Johnny?" - -"No, sir, it's Matilda." But the mistake was a very natural one, for -the girls were about the same height and size, and were usually dressed -alike, the same mourning having been supplied to both of them. - -Ten minutes or so had elapsed when Matilda came back: she liked a gossip -with the landlady of the Swan. Her pint jug was brimful of beer, and she -shut the iron gate of No. 7 after her. Putting my head as far out at the -window as it would go, to watch her indoors, for no earthly reason but -that I had nothing else to do, I saw her try the front door, and then -knock at it. This knock she repeated three times over at intervals, each -knock being louder than the last. - -"Are you shut out, Matilda?" I called out. - -"Yes, sir, it seems like it," she called back again, without turning her -head. "Jane Cross must have gone to sleep." - -Had she been a footman with a carriage full of ladies in court trains -behind him, she could not have given a louder or longer knock than she -gave now. There was no bell to the front door at No. 7. But the knock -remained unanswered and the door unopened. - -"Matilda at No. 7 is locked out," I said, laughing, bringing in my head -and speaking to the parlour generally. "She has been to fetch the beer -for supper, and can't get in again." - -"The beer for supper?" repeated Mrs. Blair. "They generally go out at -the back gate to fetch that, Johnny." - -"Anyhow, she took the front way to-night. I saw her come out." - -Another tremendous knock. The Squire put his good old nose round the -window-post; two boys and a lady, passing by, halted a minute to look -on. It was getting exciting, and I ran out. She was still at the door, -which stood in the middle of the house, between the sitting-rooms on -each side. - -"So you have got the key of the street, Matilda!" - -"I can't make it out," she said; "what Jane Cross can be about, or why -the door should be closed at all. I left it on the latch." - -"Somebody has slipped in to make love to her. Your friend, the milkman, -perhaps." - -Evidently Matilda did not like the allusion to the milkman. Catching a -glimpse of her face by the street lamp, I saw it had turned white. The -milkman was supposed to be paying court at No. 7, but to which of the -two maids gossip did not decide. Mrs. Blair's Susan, who knew them well, -said it was Matilda. - -"Why don't you try the back way?" I asked, after more waiting. - -"Because I know the outer door is locked, sir. Jane Cross locked it just -now, and that's why I came out this front way. I can try it, however." - -She went round to the road that ran by the side of the house, and tried -the door in the garden wall. It was fastened, as she had said. Seizing -the bell-handle, she gave a loud peal--another, and another. - -"I say, it seems odd, though," I cried, beginning to find it so. "Do you -think she can have gone out?" - -"I'm sure I don't know, sir. But--no; it's not likely, Master Johnny. I -left her laying the cloth for our supper." - -"Was she in the house alone?" - -"We are always alone, sir; we don't have visitors. Anyway, none have -been with us this evening." - -I looked at the upper windows of the house. No light was to be seen in -any of them, no sign of Jane Cross. The lower windows were hidden from -view by the wall, which was high. - -"I think she must have dropped asleep, Matilda, as you say. Suppose you -come in through Mrs. Blair's and get over the wall?" - -I ran round to tell the news to our people. Matilda followed me slowly; -I thought, reluctantly. Even in the dim twilight, as she stood at our -gate in hesitation, I could see how white her face was. - -"What are you afraid of?" I asked her, going out again to where she -stood. - -"I hardly know, Master Johnny. Jane Cross used to have fits. Perhaps she -has been frightened into one now." - -"What should frighten her?" - -The girl looked round in a scared manner before replying. Just then I -found my jacket-sleeve wet. Her trembling hands had shaken a little of -the ale upon it. - -"If she--should have seen Mr. Edmund?" the girl brought out in a -horrified whisper. - -"Seen Mr. Edmund! Mr. Edmund who?--Mr. Edmund Peahern? Why, you don't -surely mean his ghost?" - -Her face was growing whiter. I stared at her in surprise. - -"We have always been afraid of seeing something, she and me, since last -May; we haven't liked the house at night-time. It has often been quite a -scuffle which of us should fetch the beer, so as not to be the one left -alone. Many a time I have stood right out at the back door while Jane -Cross has gone for it." - -I began to think her an idiot. If Jane Cross was another, why, perhaps -she had frightened herself into a fit. All the more reason that somebody -should see after her. - -"Come along, Matilda; don't be foolish; we'll both get over the wall." - -It was a calm, still summer evening, almost dark now. All the lot of us -went out to the back garden, I whispering to them what the girl had said -to me. - -"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Todhetley, who had a sort of fellow-feeling for -ghosts. "It has been very lonely for the young women; and if Jane Cross -is subject to fits, she may be lying in one at this moment." - -The wall between the gardens was nothing like as high as the outer one. -Susan brought out a chair, and Matilda could have got over easily. But -when she reached the top, she stuck there. - -"I can't go on by myself; I dare not," she said, turning her frightened -face towards us. "If Mr. Edmund is there----" - -"Don't be a goose, girl!" interrupted the Squire, in doubt whether to -laugh or scold. "Here, I'll go with you. Get on down. Hold the chair -tight for me, Johnny." - -We hoisted him over without damage. I leaped after him, and Susan, -grinning with delight, came after me. She supposed that Jane Cross had -slipped out somewhere during Matilda's absence. - -The door faced the garden, and the Squire and Susan were the first -to enter. There seemed to be no light anywhere, and the Squire went -gingerly picking his way. I turned round to look for Matilda, who had -hung back, and found her with her hand on the trellis-work of the porch, -and the beer splashing over in her fear. - -"I say, look here, Matilda; you must be a regular goose, as the Squire -says, to put yourself into this fright before you know whether there's -any cause for it. Susan says she has only stepped out somewhere." - -She put up her hand and touched my arm, her lips the colour of chalk. - -"Only last night that ever was, Mr. Johnny, as we were going up the -staircase to bed, we heard a sound in the room as we passed it. It was -just like a groan. Ask Jane Cross, else, sir." - -"What room?" - -"Mr. Edmund's; where he did it. She has heard him to-night, or seen him, -or something, and has fallen into a fit." - -The kitchen was on the right of the passage. Susan, knowing the ways of -the house, soon lighted a candle. On a small round table was spread a -white cloth, some bread and cheese, and two tumblers. A knife or two had -seemingly been flung on it at random. - -"Jane Cross! Jane Cross!" shouted the Squire, going forward towards the -front hall, Susan following with the candle. It was a good-sized hall; -I could see that, with a handsome well-staircase at this end of it. - -"Halloa! What's this? Johnny! Susan!--all of you come here! Here's -somebody lying here. It must be the poor girl. Goodness bless my heart! -Johnny, help me to raise her!" - -Still and white she was lying, underneath the opening of the staircase. -Upon lifting her head, it fell back in a curious manner. We both backed -a little. Susan held the candle nearer. As its light fell on the -upturned face, the girl shrieked. - -"She is in a fit," cried Matilda. - -"God help her!" whispered the Squire. "I fear this is something worse -than a fit. We must have a doctor." - -Susan thrust the candlestick into my hand, and ran out at the back door, -saying she'd fetch Mr. Lockett. Back she came in a moment: the garden -gate was locked, and the key not in it. - -"There's the front door, girl," stuttered the Squire, angry with her for -returning, though it was no fault of hers. He was like one off his head, -and his nose and cheeks had turned blue. - -But there could be no more exit by the front door than by the back. It -was locked, and the key gone. Who had done these things? what strange -mystery was here? Locking the poor girl in the house to kill her! - -Matilda, who had lighted another candle, found the key of the back gate -lying on the kitchen dresser. Susan caught it up, and flew away. It was -a most uncomfortable moment. There lay Jane Cross, pale and motionless, -and it seemed that we were helpless to aid her. - -"Ask that stupid thing to bring a pillow or a cushion, Johnny! Ghosts, -indeed! The idiots that women are!" - -"What else has done it? what else was there to hurt her?" remonstrated -Matilda, bringing up the second candle. "She wouldn't fall into a fit -for nothing, sir." - -And now that more light was present, we began to see other features of -the scene. Nearly close to Jane Cross lay a work-basket, overturned, a -flat, open basket, a foot and a half square. Reels of cotton, scissors, -tapes, small bundles of work tied up, and such-like things lay scattered -around. - -The Squire looked at these, and then at the opening above. "Can she have -fallen down the well?" he asked, in a low tone. And Matilda, catching -the words, gave a cry of dismay, and burst into tears. - -"A pillow, girl! A pillow, or a cushion!" - -She went into one of the sitting-rooms and brought out a sofa-cushion. -The Squire, going down on his knees, for he was not good at stooping, -told me to slip it under while he raised the head. - -A sound of feet, a sudden flash of light from a bull's-eye, and a -policeman came upon the scene. The man was quietly passing on his beat -when met by Susan. In her excitement she told him what had happened, and -sent him in. We knew the man, whose beat lay at this end of Saltwater; -a civil man, named Knapp. He knelt down where the Squire had just been -kneeling, touching Jane Cross here and there. - -"She's dead, sir," he said. "There can be no mistake about that." - -"She must have fallen down the well of the staircase, I fear," observed -the Squire. - -"Well--yes; perhaps so," assented the man in a doubtful tone. "But what -of this?" - -He flung the great light in front of poor Jane Cross's dress. A small -portion of the body, where the gown fastened in front, had been torn -away, as well as one of the wristbands. - -"It's no fall," said the man. "It's foul play--as I think." - -"Goodness bless me!" gasped the Squire. "Some villains must have got in. -This comes of that other one's having left the front door on the latch." -But I am not sure that any of us, including himself, believed she could -be really dead. - -Susan returned with speed, and was followed by Mr. Lockett. He was -a young man, thirty perhaps, pale and quiet, and much like what I -remembered of his brother. Poor Jane Cross was certainly dead, he -said--had been dead, he thought, an hour. - -But this could scarcely have been, as we knew. It was not, at the very -utmost, above twenty-five minutes since Matilda went out to fetch the -beer, leaving her alive and well. Mr. Lockett looked again, but thought -he was not mistaken. When a young doctor takes up a crotchet, he likes -to hold to it. - -A nameless sensation of awe fell upon us all. Dead! In that sudden -manner! The Squire rubbed up his head like a helpless lunatic; Susan's -eyes were round with horror; Matilda had thrown her apron over her face -to hide its grief and tears. - -Leaving her for the present where she was, we turned to go upstairs. I -stooped to pick up the overturned basket, but the policeman sharply told -me to let all things remain as they were until he had time to look into -them. - -The first thing the man did, on reaching the landing above, was to open -the room doors one by one, and throw his bull's-eye light into them. -They were all right, unoccupied, straight and tidy. On the landing of -the upper floor lay one or two articles, which seemed to indicate that -some kind of struggle had taken place there. A thimble here, a bodkin -there, also the bit that had been torn out of the girl's gown in front, -and the wristband from the sleeve. The balustrades were very handsome, -but very low; on this upper landing, dangerously low. These bedrooms -were all in order; the one in which the two servants slept, alone -showing signs of occupation. - -Downstairs went Knapp again, carrying with him the torn-out pieces, to -compare them with the gown. It was the print gown I had often seen Jane -Cross wear, a black gown with white zigzag lines running down it. -Matilda was wearing the fellow to it now. The pieces fitted in exactly. - -"The struggle must have taken place upstairs: not here," observed the -doctor. - -Matilda, questioned and cross-questioned by the policeman, gave as -succinct an account of the evening as her distressed state allowed. We -stood round the kitchen while she told it. - -Neither she nor Jane Cross had gone out at all that day. Monday was -rather a busy day with them, for they generally did a bit of washing. -After tea, which they took between four and five o'clock, they went -up to their bedroom, it being livelier there than in the kitchen, the -window looking down the side road. Matilda sat down to write a letter -to her brother, who lived at a distance; Jane Cross sat at the window -doing a job of sewing. They sat there all the evening, writing, working, -and sometimes talking. At dusk, Jane remarked that it was getting -blind man's holiday, and that she should go on downstairs and lay the -supper. Upon that, Matilda finished her letter quickly, folded and -directed it, and followed her down. Jane had not yet laid the cloth, -but was then taking it out of the drawer. "You go and fetch the beer, -Matilda," she said: and Matilda was glad to do so. "You can't go that -way: I have locked the gate," Jane called out, seeing Matilda turning -towards the back; accordingly she went out at the front door, leaving it -on the latch. Such was her account; and I have given it almost verbatim. - -"On the latch," repeated the policeman, taking up the words. "Does that -mean that you left it open?" - -"I drew it quite to, so that it looked as if it were shut; it was a -heavy door, and would keep so," was Matilda's answer. "I did it, not to -give Jane the trouble to open it to me. When I got back I found it shut -and could not get in." - -The policeman mused. "You say it was Jane Cross who locked the back door -in the wall?" - -"Yes," said Matilda. "She had locked it before I got downstairs. We -liked to lock that door early, because it could be opened from the -outside--while the front door could not be." - -"And she had not put these things on the table when you went out for the -beer?"--pointing to the dishes. - -"No: she was only then putting the cloth. As I turned round from taking -the beer-jug from its hook, the fling she gave the cloth caused the air -to whiffle in my face like a wind. She had not begun to reach out the -dishes." - -"How long were you away?" - -"I don't know exactly," she answered, with a moan. "Rather longer than -usual, because I took my letter to the post before going to the Swan." - -"It was about ten minutes," I interposed. "I was at the window next -door, and saw Matilda go out and come back." - -"Ten minutes!" repeated the policeman. "Quite long enough for some -ruffian to come in and fling her over the stairs." - -"But who would do it?" asked Matilda, looking up at him with her poor -pale face. - -"Ah, that's the question; that's what we must find out," said Knapp. -"Was the kitchen just as it was when you left it?" - -"Yes--except that she had put the bread and cheese on the table. And the -glasses, and knives," added the girl, looking round at the said table, -which remained as we had found it, "but not the plates." - -"Well now, to go to something else: Did she bring her work-basket -downstairs with her from the bedroom when she remarked to you that she -would go and put the supper on?" - -"No, she did not." - -"You are sure of that?" - -"Yes. She left the basket on the chair in front of her where it had been -standing. She just got up and shook the threads from off her gown, and -went on down. When I left the room the basket was there; I saw it. And -I think," added the girl, with a great sob, "I think that while laying -the supper she must have gone upstairs again to fetch the basket, and -must have fallen against the banisters with fright, and overbalanced -herself." - -"Fright at what?" asked Knapp. - -Matilda shivered. Susan whispered to him that they were afraid at night -of seeing the ghost of Mr. Edmund Peahern. - -The man glanced keenly at Matilda for a minute. "Did you ever see it?" -he asked. - -"No," she shuddered. "But there are strange noises, and we think it is -in the house." - -"Well," said Knapp, coughing to hide a comical smile, "ghosts don't tear -pieces out of gowns--that ever I heard of. I should say it was something -worse than a ghost that has been here to-night. Had this poor girl any -sweetheart?" - -"No," said Matilda. - -"Have you one?" - -"No." - -"Except Owen the milkman." - -A red streak flashed into Matilda's cheeks. I knew Owen: he was Mrs. -Blair's milkman also. - -"I think Owen must be your sweetheart or hers," went on Knapp. "I've -seen him, often enough, talking and laughing with you both when bringing -the afternoon's milk round. Ten minutes at a stretch he has stayed in -this garden, when he need not have been as many moments." - -"There has been no harm: and it's nothing to anybody," said Matilda. - -The key of the front door was searched for, high and low; but it could -not be found. Whoever locked the door, must have made off with the key. -But for that, and for the evidences of the scuffle above and the pieces -torn out of the gown, we should have thought Matilda's opinion was -correct: that Jane Cross had gone upstairs for her basket, and through -some wretched accident had pitched over the balustrades. Matilda could -not relinquish the notion. - -"It was only a week ago that ever was--a week ago this very day--that -Jane Cross nearly fell over there. We were both running upstairs, trying -in sport which should get first into our bedroom; and, in jostling one -another on the landing, she all but overbalanced herself. I caught hold -of her to save her. It's true--if it were the last word I had to speak." - -Matilda broke down, with a dreadful fit of sobbing. Altogether she -struck me as being about as excitable a young woman as one could meet in -a summer day's journey. - -Nothing more could be made out of it this evening. Jane Cross had met -her death, and some evil or other must have led to it. The police took -possession of the house for the night: and Matilda, out of compassion, -was brought to ours. To describe the Mater's shock and Mary Blair's, -when they heard the news, would be beyond me. - -All sorts of conjectures arose in the neighbourhood. The most popular -belief was that some person must have perceived the front door open, -and, whether with a good or a bad intention, entered the house; that he -must have stolen upstairs, met Jane Cross on the top landing, and flung -her down in a scuffle. That he must then have let himself out at the -front door and locked it after him. - -Against this theory there were obstacles. From the time of Matilda's -leaving the house till her return, certainly not more than ten minutes -had elapsed, perhaps not quite as much, and this was a very short space -of time for what had been done in it. Moreover the chances were that I, -sitting at the next window, should have seen any one going in or out; -though it was not of course certain. I had got up once to ring the bell, -and stayed a minute or two away from the window, talking with Mary Blair -and the Mater. - -Some people thought the assassin (is it too much to call him so?) had -been admitted by Jane Cross herself; or he might have been in hiding in -the garden before she locked the door. In short, the various opinions -would fill a volume. - -But suspicion fell chiefly upon one person--and that was Thomas Owen the -milkman. Though, perhaps, "suspicion" is too strong a word to give to -it--I ought rather to say "doubt." These Owens were originally from -Wales, very respectable people. The milk business was their own; and, -since the father's death, which happened only a few months before, the -son had carried it on in conjunction with his mother. He was a young man -of three or four and twenty, with a fresh colour and open countenance, -rather superior in manners and education. The carrying out the milk -himself was a temporary arrangement, the boy employed for it being ill. -That he had often lingered at No. 7, laughing with the two young women, -was well known; he had also been seen to accost them in the street. Only -the previous day, he and Matilda had stayed talking in the churchyard -after morning service when everybody else had left it; and he had -walked up nearly as far as Seaboard Terrace with Jane Cross in the -evening. A notion existed that he had entered the house on the Monday -evening, for who else was it likely to have been, cried everybody. -Which was, of course, logic. At last a rumour arose--arose on the -Tuesday--that Owen had been _seen_ to leave the house at dusk on the -fatal evening; that this could be proved. If so, it looked rather black. -I was startled, for I had liked the man. - -The next day, Wednesday, the key was found. A gardener who did up the -gardens of the other end house, No. 1, every Wednesday, was raking the -ground underneath some dwarf pines that grew close against the front -railings, and raked out a big door-key. About a dozen people came -rushing off with it to No. 7. - -It was the missing key. It fitted into the door at once, locked and -unlocked it. When the villain had made his way from the house after -doing the mischief, he must have flung the key over amidst the pines, -thinking no doubt it would lie hidden there. - -The coroner and jury assembled; but they could not make more of the -matter than we had made. Jane Cross had died of the fall down the -well-staircase, which had broken her neck; and it was pretty evident she -had been flung down. Beyond the one chief and fatal injury, she was not -harmed in any way; not by so much as a scratch. Matilda, whose surname -turned out to be Valentine, having got over the first shock, gave her -testimony with subdued composure. She was affected at parts of it, and -said she would have saved Jane Cross's life with her own: and no one -could doubt that she spoke the truth. She persisted in asserting her -opinion that there had been no scuffle, in spite of appearances; but -that the girl had been terrified in some way and had accidentally fallen -over. - -When Matilda was done with, Thomas Owen took her place. He was all -in black, having dressed himself to come to the inquest and wearing -mourning for his father; and I must say, looking at him now, you'd never -have supposed he carried out milk-pails. - -Yes, he had known the poor young woman in question, he readily said in -answer to questions; had been fond of chaffing with the two girls a bit, -but nothing more. Meant nothing by it, nothing serious. Respected both -of them; regarded them as perfectly well-conducted young women.--Was -either of them his sweetheart? Certainly not. Had not courted either of -them. Never thought of either of them as his future wife: should not -consider a servant eligible for that position--at least, his mother -would not. Of the two, he had liked Jane Cross the best. Did not know -anything whatever of the circumstances attending the death; thought it a -most deplorable calamity, and was never more shocked in his life than -when he heard of it. - -"Is there any truth in the report that you were at the house on Monday -evening?" asked the coroner. - -"There is no truth in it." - -"I see him come out o' No. 7: I see him come out o' the side door in the -garden wall," burst forth a boy's earnest voice from the back of the -room. - -"You saw me _not_ come out of it," quietly replied Thomas Owen, turning -round to see who it was that had spoken. "Oh, it is you, is it, Bob -Jackson! Yes, you came running round the corner just as I turned from -the door." - -"You _were_ there, then?" cried the coroner. - -"No, sir. At the door, yes; that's true enough; but I was not inside -it. What happened was this: on Monday I had some business at a -farmhouse near Munpler, and set out to walk over there early in the -evening. In passing down the side road by No. 7, I saw the two maids -at the top window. One of them--I think it was Jane Cross--called out -to ask me in a joking kind of way whether I was about to pay them -a visit; I answered, not then, but I would as I came back if they -liked. Accordingly, in returning, I rang the bell. It was not -answered, and I rang again with a like result. Upon that, I went -straight home to my milk books, and did not stir out again, as my -mother can prove. That is the truth, sir, on my oath; and the whole -truth." - -"What time was this?" - -"I am not quite sure. It was getting dusk." - -"Did you see anything of the young women this second time?" - -"Not anything." - -"Or hear anything?--Any noise?" - -"None whatever. I supposed that they would not come to the door to me -because it was late: I thought nothing else. I declare, sir, that this -is all I know of the matter." - -There was a pause when he concluded. Knapp, the policeman, and another -one standing by his side, peered at Owen from under their eyebrows, -as if they did not put implicit faith in his words: and the coroner -recalled Matilda Valentine. - -She readily confirmed the statement of his having passed along the side -road, and Jane Cross's joking question to him. But she denied having -heard him ring on his return, and said the door-bell had not rung at all -that night. Which would seem to prove that Owen must have rung during -the time she had gone out for the beer. - -So, you perceive, the inquest brought forth no more available light, and -had to confess itself baffled. - -"A fine termination this is to our pleasure," cried the Squire, -gloomily. "I don't like mysteries, Johnny. And of all the mysteries I -have come across in my life, the greatest mystery is this at No. 7." - - - - -THE MYSTERY AT NUMBER SEVEN - - -II.--OWEN, THE MILKMAN - -It was a grand sea to-day: one of the grandest that we had seen at -Saltwater. The waves were dancing and sparkling like silver; the blue -of the sky was deeper than a painter's ultramarine. But to us, looking -on it from Mrs. Blair's house in Seaboard Terrace, its brightness and -beauty were dimmed. - -"For you see, Johnny," observed the Squire to me, his face and tone -alike gloomy--outward things take their impress from the mind--"with -that dreadful affair at the next door jaundicing one's thoughts, the sea -might as well be grey as blue, and the sky lowering with thunder-clouds. -I repeat that I don't like mysteries: they act on me like a fit of -indigestion." - -The affair just was a mystery; to us, as to all Saltwater. More than a -week had elapsed since the Monday evening when it took place, and poor -Jane Cross now lay buried in the windy graveyard. On this said Monday -evening, the two servant maids, Jane Cross and Matilda Valentine (left -in the house, No. 7, Seaboard Terrace, during the absence of the family -abroad), had been pursuing their ordinary occupations. While Jane Cross -was laying the cloth for supper in the kitchen, Matilda went out to -fetch the usual pint of ale. On her return she could not get in. When -admittance was obtained, Jane Cross lay dead in the hall, having fallen -down the well of the staircase. Evidences of a scuffle on the upper -landing could be traced, making it apparent that the fall was not -accidental; that she had been flung down. Some doubt attached to Owen, -the milkman, partly from his previous intimacy with the girls, chiefly -because he had been seen leaving the back door of the house somewhere -about the time it must have occurred. What Owen said was, that he had -rung twice at the door, but his ring was not answered. - -Matilda was to be pitied. The two young women had cared a good deal for -one another, and the shock to Matilda was serious. The girl, now staying -in our house, had worn a half-dazed look ever since, and avoided No. 7 -as though it had the plague. Superstition in regard to the house had -already been rife in both the servants' minds, in consequence of the -unhappy death in it of their master's son, Edmund Peahern, some weeks -back: and if Matilda had been afraid of seeing one ghost before (as she -had been) she would now undoubtedly expect to see two of them. - -On this same morning, as I stood with the Squire looking at the sea from -the drawing-room window of No. 6, Matilda came in. Her large dark eyes -had lost their former sparkle, her clear olive skin its freshness. She -asked leave to speak to Mrs. Todhetley: and the Mater--who sat at the -table adding up some bills, for our sojourn at Saltwater was drawing -towards its close--told her, in a kindly tone, to speak on. - -"I am making bold to ask you, ma'am, whether you could help me to find a -place in London," began Matilda, standing between the door and the table -in her black dress. "I know, ma'am, you don't live in London, but a long -way off it; Mrs. Blair has told me so, Master Johnny Ludlow also: but -I thought perhaps you knew people there, and might be able to hear of -something." - -The Mater looked at Matilda without answering, and then round at us. -Rather strange it was, a coincidence in a small way, that we had had a -letter from London from Miss Deveen that morning, which had concluded -with these lines of postscript: "Do you chance to know of any nice, -capable young woman in want of a situation? One of my housemaids is -going to leave." - -Naturally this occurred to the Mater's mind when Matilda spoke. "What -kind of situation do you wish for?" she asked. - -"As housemaid, ma'am, or parlour-maid. I can do my duty well in either." - -"But now, my girl," spoke up the Squire, turning from the window, "why -need you leave Saltwater? You'd never like London after it. This is a -clear, fresh, health-giving place, with beautiful sands and music on -them all day long; London is nothing but smoke and fogs." - -Matilda shook her head. "I could not stay here, sir." - -"Nonsense, girl. Of course what has happened _has_ happened, and it's -very distressing; and you, of all people, must feel it so: but you will -forget it in time. If you don't care to go back to No. 7 before Mr. and -Mrs. Peahern come home----" - -"I can never go back to No. 7, sir," she interrupted, a vehemence that -seemed born of terror in her subdued voice. "Never in this world. I -would rather die." - -"Stuff and nonsense!" said the Squire, impatiently. "There's nothing the -matter with No. 7. What has happened in it won't happen again." - -"It is an unlucky house, sir; a haunted house," she contended with -suppressed emotion. "And it's true that I would rather die outright than -go back to live in it; for the terror of being there would slowly kill -me. And so, ma'am," she added quickly to Mrs. Todhetley, evidently -wishing to escape the subject, "I should like to go away altogether from -Saltwater; and if you can help me to hear of a place in London, I shall -be very grateful." - -"I will consider of it, Matilda," was the answer. And when the girl had -left the room the Mater asked us what we thought about recommending her -to Miss Deveen. We saw no reason against it--not but that the Squire put -the girl down as an idiot on the subject of haunted houses--and Miss -Deveen was written to. - -The upshot was, that on the next Saturday Matilda bade farewell to -Saltwater and departed for Miss Deveen's, the Squire sarcastically -assuring her that _that_ house had no ghosts in it. We should be -leaving, ourselves, the following Tuesday. - -But, before that day came, it chanced that I saw Owen, the milkman. It -was on the Sunday afternoon. I had taken little Joe Blair for a walk -across the fields as far as Munpler (their Montpellier-by-Sea, you -know), and in returning met Thomas Owen. He wore his black Sunday -clothes, and looked a downright fine fellow, as usual. There was -something about the man I could not help liking, in spite of the doubt -attaching to him. - -"So Matilda Valentine is gone, sir," he observed, after we had exchanged -a few sentences. - -"Yes, she went yesterday," I answered, putting my back against the -field fence, while young Joe went careering about in chase of a yellow -butterfly. "And for my part, I don't wonder at the girl's not liking to -stay at Saltwater. At least, in Seaboard Terrace." - -"I was told this morning that Mr. and Mrs. Peahern were on their way -home," he continued. - -"Most likely they are. They'd naturally want to look into the affair for -themselves." - -"And I hope with all my heart they will be able to get some light out -of it," returned Owen, warmly. "I mean to do _my_ best to bring out the -mystery, sir; and I sha'n't rest till it's done." - -His words were fair, his tone was genuine. If it was indeed himself -who had been the chief actor in the tragedy, he carried it off well. -I hardly knew what to think. It is true I had taken a bit of a fancy -to the man, according to my usual propensity to take a fancy, or the -contrary; but I did not know much about him, and not anything of -his antecedents. As he spoke to me now, his tone was marked, rather -peculiar. It gave me a notion that he wanted to say more. - -"Have you any idea that you will be able to trace it out?" - -"For my own sake I should like to get the matter cleared up," he added, -not directly answering my question. "People are beginning to turn the -cold shoulder my way: one woman asked me to my face yesterday whether I -did it. No, I told her, I did not do it, but I'd try and find out who -did." - -"You are sure you heard and saw nothing suspicious that night when you -rang the bell and could not get in, Owen?" - -"Not then, sir; no. I saw no light in the house and heard no noise." - -"You have not any clue to go by, then?" - -"Not much, sir, yet. But I can't help thinking somebody else has." - -"Who is that?" - -"Matilda." - -"Matilda!" I repeated, in amazement. "Surely you can't suspect that -she--that she was a party to any deed so cruel and wicked!" - -"No, no, sir, I don't mean that; the young women were too good friends -to harm one another: and whatever took place, took place while Matilda -was out of the house. But I can't help fancying that she knows, or -suspects, more of the matter than she will say. In short, that she is -screening some one." - -To me it seemed most unlikely. "Why do you judge so, Owen?" - -"By her manner, sir. Not by much else. But I'll tell you something that -I saw. On the previous Wednesday when I left the afternoon milk at that -tall house just beyond Seaboard Terrace, the family lodging there told -me to call in the evening for the account, as they were leaving the next -day. Accordingly I went; and was kept waiting so long before they paid -me that it was all but dark when I came out. Just as I was passing the -back door at No. 7, it was suddenly drawn open from the inside, and a -man stood in the opening, whispering with one of the girls. She was -crying, for I heard her sobs, and he kissed her and came out, and the -door was hastily shut. He was an ill-looking man; so far at least as his -clothes went; very shabby. His face I did not see, for he pulled his -slouching round hat well over his brows as he walked away rapidly, and -the black beard he wore covered his mouth and chin." - -"Which of the maids was it?" - -"I don't know, sir. The next day I chaffed them a bit about it, but -they both declared that nobody had been there but the watchmaker, Mr. -Renninson, who goes every Wednesday to wind up the clocks, and that it -must have been him I saw, for he was late that evening. I said no more; -it was no business of mine; but the man I saw go out was just about as -much like Renninson as he was like me." - -"And do you fancy----" - -"Please wait a minute, sir," he interrupted, "I haven't finished. Last -Sunday evening, upon getting home after service, I found I had left my -prayer-book in church. Not wishing to lose it, for it was the one my -father always used, I went back for it. However, the church was shut up, -so I could not get in. It was a fine evening, and I took a stroll round -the churchyard. In the corner of it, near to Mr. Edmund Peahern's tomb, -they had buried poor Jane Cross but two days before--you know the spot, -sir. Well, on the flat square of earth that covers her grave, stood -Matilda Valentine, the greatest picture of distress you can imagine, -tears streaming down her cheeks. She dried her eyes when she saw me, and -we came away together. Naturally I fell to talking of Jane Cross and the -death. 'I shall do as much as lies in my power to bring it to light,' -I said to Matilda; 'or people may go on doubting me to the end. And I -think the first step must be to find out who the man was that called in -upon you the previous Wednesday night.' Well, sir, with that, instead of -making any answering remark as a Christian would, or a rational being, -let us say, Matilda gives a smothered shriek and darts away out of the -churchyard. I couldn't make her out; and all in a minute a conviction -flashed over me, though I hardly know why, that she knew who was the -author of the calamity, and was screening him; or at any rate that she -had her suspicions, if she did not actually know. And I think so still, -sir." - -I shook my head, not seeing grounds to agree with Owen. He resumed: - -"The next morning, between nine and ten, I was in the shop, putting a -pint of cream which had been ordered into a can, when to my surprise -Matilda walked in, cool and calm. She said she had come to tell me that -the man I had seen leave the house was her brother. He had fallen into -trouble through having become security for a fellow workman, had had all -his things sold up, including his tools, and had walked every step of -the way--thirty miles--to ask her if she could help him. She did help -him as far as she could, giving him what little money she had by her, -and Jane Cross had added ten shillings to it. He had got in only -at dusk, she said, had taken some supper with them, and left again -afterwards, and that she was letting him out at the gate when I must -have been passing it. She did not see me, for her eyes were dim with -crying: her heart felt fit to break in saying farewell. That was the -truth, she declared, and that her brother had had no more to do with -Jane's death than she or I had; he was away again out of Saltwater the -same night he came into it." - -"Well? Did you not believe her?" - -"No, sir," answered Owen, boldly. "I did not. If this was true, why -should she have gone off into that smothered shriek in the churchyard -when I mentioned him, and rush away in a fright?" - -I could not tell. Owen's words set me thinking. - -"I did not know which of the two girls it was who let the man out that -Wednesday night, for I did not clearly see; but, sir, the impression on -my mind at the moment was, that it was Jane Cross. Jane Cross, and not -Matilda. If so, why does she tell me this tale about her brother, and -say it was herself?" - -"And if it was Jane Cross?" - -Owen shook his head. "All sorts of notions occur to me, sir. Sometimes -I fancy that the man might have been Jane's sweetheart, that he might -have been there again on the Monday night, and done the mischief in -a quarrel; and that Matilda is holding her tongue because it is her -brother. Let the truth be what it will, Matilda's manner convinces me of -one thing: that there's something she is concealing, and that it is half -frightening her wits out of her.----You are going to leave Saltwater, I -hear, sir," added the young man in a different tone, "and I am glad to -have the opportunity of saying this, for I should not like you to carry -away any doubt of me. I'll bring the matter to light if I can." - -Touching his hat, he walked onwards, leaving my thoughts all in a -whirligig. - -Was Owen right in drawing these conclusions?--or was he purposely giving -a wrong colouring to facts, and seeking craftily to throw suspicion -off himself? It was a nice question, one I could make neither top nor -tail of. But, looking back to the fatal evening, weighing this point, -sifting that, I began to see that Matilda showed more anxiety, more -terror, than she need have shown _before_ she knew that any ill had -happened. Had she a prevision, as she stood at the door with the jug of -ale in her hand, that some evil might have chanced? Did she leave some -individual in the house with Jane Cross when she went to the Swan to get -the ale?--and was it her brother? Did she leave OWEN in the house, and -was she screening him? - - * * * * * - -"Why, Matilda! Is it you?" - -It was fourteen months later, and autumn weather, and I had just arrived -in London at Miss Deveen's. My question to Matilda, who came into my -dressing-room with some warm water to wash off the travelling dust, was -not made in surprise at seeing _her_, for I supposed she was still in -service at Miss Deveen's, but at seeing the change in her. Instead of -the healthy and, so to say, handsome girl known at Saltwater, I saw a -worn, weary, anxious-looking shadow, with a feverish fire in her wild -dark eyes. - -"Have you been ill, Matilda?" - -"No, sir, not at all. I am quite well." - -"You have grown very thin." - -"It's the London air, sir. I think everybody must get thin who lives in -it." - -Very civilly and respectfully, but yet with an unmistakable air of -reticence, spoke she. Somehow the girl was changed, and greatly changed. -Perhaps she had been grieving after Jane Cross? Perhaps the secret of -what had happened (if in truth Matilda knew it) lay upon her with too -heavy a weight? - -"Do you find Matilda a good servant?" I asked of Miss Deveen, later, -she and I being alone together. - -"A very good servant, Johnny. But she is going to leave me." - -"Is she? Why?" - -Miss Deveen only nodded, in answer to the first query, passing over the -last. I supposed she did not wish to say. - -"I think her so much altered." - -"In what way, Johnny?" - -"In looks: looks and manner. She is just a shadow. One might say she had -passed through a six months' fever. And what a curious light there is in -her eyes!" - -"She has always impressed me with the idea of having some great care -upon her. None can mistake that she is a sorrowful woman. I hear that -the other servants accuse her of having been 'crossed in love,'" added -Miss Deveen, with a smile. - -"She is thinner even than Miss Cattledon." - -"And that, I daresay you think, need not be, Johnny! Miss Cattledon, by -the way, is rather hard upon Matilda just now: calls her a 'demon.'" - -"A demon! Why does she?" - -"Well, I'll tell you. Though it is only a little domestic matter, one -that perhaps you will hardly care to hear. You must know (to begin with) -that Matilda has never made herself sociable with the other servants -here; in return they have become somewhat prejudiced against her, and -have been ready to play her tricks, tease her, and what not. But you -must understand, Johnny, that I knew nothing of the state of affairs -below; such matters rarely reach me. My cook, Hall, was especially at -war with Matilda: in fact, I believe there was no love lost between -the two. The girl's melancholy--for at times she does seem very -melancholy--was openly put down by the rest to the assumption that she -must have had some love affair in which the swain had played her false. -They were continually worrying her on this score, and it no doubt -irritated Matilda; but she rarely retorted, preferring rather to leave -them and take refuge in her room." - -"Why could they not let her alone?" - -"People can't let one another alone, as I believe, Johnny. If they did, -the world would be pleasanter to live in than it is." - -"And I suppose Matilda got tired at last, and gave warning?" - -"No. Some two or three weeks ago it appears that, by some means or -other, Hall obtained access to a small trunk; one that Matilda keeps -her treasures in, and has cautiously kept locked. If I thought Hall -had opened this trunk with a key of her own, as Matilda accuses her of -doing, I would not keep the woman in my house another day. But she -declares to me most earnestly--for I had her before me here to question -her--that Matilda, called suddenly out of her chamber, left the trunk -open there, and the letter, of which I am about to tell you, lying, also -open, by its side. Hall says that she went into the room--it adjoins her -own--for something she wanted, and that all she did--and she admits this -much--was to pick up the letter, carry it downstairs, read it to the -other servants, and make fun over it." - -"What letter was it?" - -"Strictly speaking, it was only part of a letter: one begun but not -concluded. It was in Matilda's own hand, apparently written a long time -ago, for the ink was pale and faded, and it began 'Dearest Thomas Owen. -The----'" - -"Thomas Owen!" I exclaimed, starting in my chair. "Why, that is the -milkman at Saltwater." - -"I'm sure I don't know who he is, Johnny, and I don't suppose it -matters. Only a few lines followed, three or four, speaking of some -private conversation that she had held with him on coming out of church -the day before, and of some reproach that she had then made to him -respecting Jane Cross. The words broke suddenly off there, as if the -writer had been interrupted. But why Matilda did not complete the letter -and send it, and why she should have kept it by her all this time, must -be best known to herself." - -"Jane Cross was her fellow-servant at Mr. Peahern's. She who was killed -by falling down the staircase." - -"Yes, poor thing, I remembered the name. But, to go on. In the evening, -after the finding of this letter, I and Miss Cattledon were startled by -a disturbance in the kitchen. Cries and screams, and loud, passionate -words. Miss Cattledon ran down; I stayed at the top of the stairs. She -found Hall, Matilda, and one of the others there, Matilda in a perfect -storm of fury, attacking Hall like a maniac. She tore handfuls out of -her hair, she bit her thumb until her teeth met in it: Hall, though -by far the bigger person of the two, and I should have thought the -stronger, had no chance against her; she seemed to be as a very reed in -her hands, passion enduing Matilda with a strength perfectly unnatural. -George, who had been out on an errand, came in at the moment, and by his -help the women were parted. Cattledon maintains that Matilda, during the -scene, was nothing less than a demon; quite mad. When it was over, the -girl fell on the floor utterly exhausted, and lay like a dead thing, -every bit of strength, almost of life, gone out of her." - -"I never could have believed it of Matilda." - -"Nor I, Johnny. I grant that the girl had just cause to be angry. How -should we like to have our private places rifled, and their contents -exhibited to and mocked at by the world; contents which to us seem -sacred? But to have put herself into that wild rage was both unseemly -and unaccountable. Her state then, and her state immediately afterwards, -made me think--I speak it with all reverence, Johnny--of the poor people -in holy writ from whom the evil spirits were cast out." - -"Ay. It seems to be just such a case, Miss Deveen." - -"Hall's thumb was so much injured that a doctor had to come daily to it -for nine or ten days," continued Miss Deveen. "Of course, after this -climax, I could not retain Matilda in my service; neither would she -have remained in it. She indulged a feeling of the most bitter hatred -to the women servants, to Hall especially--she had not much liked them -before, as you may readily guess--and she said that nothing would induce -her to remain with them, even had I been willing to keep her. So she has -obtained a situation with some acquaintances of mine who live in this -neighbourhood, and goes to it next week. That is why Matilda leaves me, -Johnny." - -In my heart I could not help being sorry for her, and said so. She -looked so truly, terribly unhappy! - -"I am very sorry for her," assented Miss Deveen. "And had I known the -others were making her life here uncomfortable, I should have taken -means to stop their pastime. Of the actual facts, with regard to the -letter, I cannot be at any certainty--I mean in my own mind. Hall is a -respectable servant, and I have never had cause to think her untruthful -during the three years she has lived with me: and she most positively -holds to it that the little trunk was standing open on the table and -the letter lying open beside it. Allowing that it was so, she had, of -course, no right to touch either trunk or letter, still less to take the -letter downstairs and exhibit it to the others, and I don't defend her -conduct: but yet it is different from having rifled the lock of the -trunk and taken the letter out." - -"And Matilda accuses her of doing that?" - -"Yes: and, on her side, holds to it just as positively. What Matilda -tells me is this: On that day it chanced that Miss Cattledon had paid -the women servants their quarter's wages. Matilda carried hers to her -chamber, took this said little trunk out of her large box, where she -keeps it, unlocked it and put the money into it. She disturbed nothing -in the trunk; she says she had wrapped the sovereigns in a bit of -paper, and she just slipped them inside, touching nothing else. She was -shutting down the lid when she heard herself called to by me on the -landing below. She waited to lock the box but not to put it up, leaving -it standing on the table. I quite well remembered calling to the girl, -having heard her run upstairs. I wanted her in my room." - -Miss Deveen paused a minute, apparently thinking. - -"Matilda has assured me again and again that she is quite sure she -locked the little trunk, that there can be no mistake on that point. -Moreover, she asserts that the letter in question was lying at the -bottom of the trunk beneath other things, and that she had not taken -it out or touched it for months and months." - -"And when she went upstairs again--did she find the little trunk open -or shut?" - -"She says she found it shut: shut and locked just as she had left it; -and she replaced it in her large box, unconscious that any one had been -to it." - -"Was she long in your room, Miss Deveen?" - -"Yes, Johnny, the best part of an hour. I wanted a little sewing done -in a hurry, and told her to sit down there and then and do it. It was -during this time that the cook, going upstairs herself, saw the trunk, -and took the opportunity to do what she did do." - -"I think I should feel inclined to believe Matilda. Her tale sounds the -more probable." - -"I don't know that, Johnny. I can hardly believe that a respectable -woman, as Hall undoubtedly is, would deliberately unlock a -fellow-servant's box with a false key. Whence did she get the key to -do it? Had she previously provided herself with one? The lock is of -the most simple description, for I have seen the trunk since, and Hall -might possess a key that would readily fit it: but if so, as the woman -herself says, how could she know it? In short, Johnny, it is one -woman's word against another's: and, until this happened, I had deemed -each of them to be equally credible." - -To be sure there was reason in that. I sat thinking. - -"Were it proved to have been as Matilda says, still I could not keep -her," resumed Miss Deveen. "Mine is a peaceable, well-ordered household, -and I should not like to know that one, subject to insane fits of -temper, was a member of it. Though Hall in that case would get her -discharge also." - -"Do the people where Matilda is going know why she leaves?" - -"Mrs. and Miss Soames. Yes. I told them all about it. But I told them -at the same time, what I had then learnt--that Matilda's temper had -doubtlessly been much tried here. It would not be tried in their house, -they believed, and took her readily. She is an excellent servant, -Johnny, let who will get her." - -I could not resist the temptation of speaking to Matilda about this, an -opportunity offering that same day. She came into the room with some -letters just left by the postman. - -"I thought my mistress was here, sir," she said, hesitating with the -tray in her hand. - -"Miss Deveen will be here in a minute: you can leave the letters. So you -are going to take flight, Matilda! I have heard all about it. What a -silly thing you must be to put yourself into that wonderful tantrum!" - -"She broke into my box, and turned over its contents, and stole my -letter to mock me," retorted Matilda, her fever-lighted eyes taking a -momentary fierceness. "Who, put in my place, would not have gone into -a tantrum, sir?" - -"But she says she did not break into it." - -"As surely as that is heaven's sun above us, she _did it_, Mr. Johnny. -She has been full of spite towards me for a long time, and she thought -she would pay me out. I did but unlock the box, and slip the little -paper of money in, and I locked it again instantly and brought the key -away with me: I can never say anything truer than that, sir: to make a -mistake about it is not possible." - -No pen could convey the solemn earnestness with which she spoke. Somehow -it impressed me. I hoped Hall would get served out. - -"Yes, the wrong has triumphed for once. As far as I can see, sir, it -often does triumph. Miss Deveen thinks great things of Hall, but she is -deceived in her; and I daresay she will find her out sometime. It was -Hall who ought to have been turned away instead of me. Not that I would -stay here longer if I could." - -"But you like Miss Deveen?" - -"Very much indeed, sir; she is a good lady and a kind mistress. She -spoke very well indeed of me to the new family where I am going, and -I daresay I shall do well enough there.--Have you been to Saltwater -lately, sir?" she added, abruptly. - -"Never since. Do you get news from the place?" - -She shook her head. "I have never heard a word from any soul in it. I -have written to nobody, and nobody has written to me." - -"And nothing more has come out about poor Jane Cross. It is still a -mystery." - -"And likely to be one," she replied, in a low tone. - -"Perhaps so. Do you know what Owen the milkman thought?" - -She had spoken the last sentence or two with her eyes bent, fiddling -with the silver waiter. Now they were raised quickly. - -"Owen thought that you could clear up the mystery if you liked, Matilda. -At least, that you possessed some clue to it. He told me so." - -"Owen as good as said the same to me before I left," she replied, after -a pause. "He is wrong, sir: but he must think it if he will. Is he--is -he at Saltwater still?" - -"For all I know to the contrary. This letter, that the servants here -got at, was one you were beginning to write to Owen. Did----" - -"I would rather not talk of that letter, Mr. Johnny: my private affairs -concern myself only," she interrupted--and went out of the room like a -shot. - - * * * * * - -Had anyone told me that during this short visit of mine in London I -should come across the solution of the mystery of that tragedy enacted -at No. 7, I might have been slow to credit it. Nevertheless, it was to -be so. - -Have you ever noticed, in going through life, that events seem to carry -a sequence in themselves almost as though they bore in their own hands -the guiding thread that connects them from beginning to end? For a time -this thread will seem to be lost; to lie dormant, as though it had -snapped, and the course of affairs it was holding to have disappeared -for good. But lo! up peeps a little end when least expected, and we -catch hold of it, and soon it grows into a handful; and what we had -thought lost is again full of activity and gradually works itself out. -Not a single syllable, good or bad, had we heard of that calamity at -Saltwater during the fourteen months which had passed since. The thread -of it lay dormant. At Miss Deveen's it began to steal up again: Matilda, -and her passion, and the letter she had commenced to Thomas Owen were to -the fore: and before that visit of mine came to an end, the thread had, -strange to say, unwound itself. - -I was a favourite of Miss Deveen's: you may have gathered that from past -papers. One day, when she was going shopping, she asked me to accompany -her and not Miss Cattledon: which made that rejected lady's face all the -more like vinegar. So we set off in the carriage. - -"Are we going to Regent Street, Miss Deveen?" - -"Not to-day, Johnny. I like to encourage my neighbouring tradespeople, -and shall buy my new silk here. We have excellent shops not far off." - -After a few intricate turnings and windings, the carriage stopped before -a large linendraper's, which stood amidst a colony of shops nearly a -mile from Miss Deveen's. George came round to open the door. - -"Now what will you do, Johnny?" said Miss Deveen. "I daresay I shall be -half an hour in here, looking at silks and calico; and I won't inflict -that penalty on you. Shall the carriage take you for a short drive the -while, or will you wait in it?--or walk about?" - -"I will wait in the street here," I said, "and come in to you when I am -tired. I like looking at shops." And I do like it. - -The next shop to the linendraper's was a carver and gilder's: he had -some good pictures displayed in his window; at any rate, they looked -good to me: and there I took up my station to begin with. - -"How do you do, sir? Have you forgotten me?" - -The words came from a young man who stood at the next door, close to me, -causing me to turn quickly to him from gazing at the pictures. No, I had -not forgotten him. I knew him instantly. It was Owen, the milkman. - -After a few words had passed, I went inside. It was a large shop, well -fitted up with cans and things pertaining to a milkman's business. The -window-board was prettily set off with moss, ferns, a bowl containing -gold and silver fish, a miniature fountain, and a rush basket of fresh -eggs. Over the door was his own name, Thomas Owen. - -"You are living here, Owen?" - -"Yes, sir." - -"But why have you left Saltwater?" - -"Because, Mr. Johnny, the place looked askance at me. People, in their -own minds, set down that miserable affair at No. 7 to my credit. Once or -twice I was hooted at by the street boys, asking what I had done with -Jane Cross. My mother couldn't stand that, and I couldn't stand it, so -we just sold our business at Saltwater, and bought this one here. And -a good change it has been, in a pecuniary point of view: this is an -excellent connection, and grows larger every day." - -"I'm sure I am glad to hear it." - -"At first, mother couldn't bear London: she longed for the country air -and the green fields: but she is reconciled to it now. Perhaps she'll -have an opportunity soon of going back to see her own old Welsh -mountains, and of staying there if it pleases her." - -"Then I should say you are going to be married, Owen." - -He laughed and nodded. "You'll wish me good luck, won't you, sir? She's -the only daughter at the next door, the grocer's." - -"That I will. Have you discovered anymore of that mysterious business, -Owen?" - -"At Saltwater? No, sir: not anything at all that could touch the matter -itself. But I have heard a good bit that bears upon it." - -"Do you still suspect that Matilda could tell if she chose?" - -"I suspect more than that, sir." - -The man's words were curiously significant. He had a bit of fern in his -hand, and his fresh, open, intelligent face was bent downwards, as if he -wanted to see what the leaf was made of. - -"I am not sure, sir. It is but suspicion at the best: but it's an -uncommonly strong one." - -"Won't you tell me what you mean? You may trust me." - -"Yes, I am sure I may," he said, promptly. "And I think I will tell -you--though I have never breathed it to mortal yet. I think Matilda did -it herself." - -Backing away from the counter in my surprise, I upset an empty milk-can. - -"Matilda!" I exclaimed, picking up the can. - -"Mr. Johnny, with all my heart I believe it to have been so. I have -believed it for some time now." - -"But the girls were too friendly to harm one another. I remember you -said so yourself, Owen." - -"And I thought so then, sir. No suspicion of Matilda had occurred to me, -but rather of the man I had seen there on the Wednesday. I think she -must have done it in a sudden passion; not of deliberate purpose." - -"But now, what are your reasons?" - -"I told you, sir, as I daresay you can recall to mind, that I should -do what lay in my power to unravel the mystery--for it was not at all -agreeable to have it laid at my door. I began, naturally, with tracing -out the doings of that night as connected with No. 7. Poor Jane Cross -had not been out of doors that night, and so far as I knew had spoken to -no one save to me from the window; therefore of her there seemed nothing -to be traced: but of Matilda there was. Inquiring here and there, I bit -by bit got a few odds and ends of facts together. I traced out the exact -time, almost to a minute, that I rang twice at the door-bell at No. 7, -and was not answered; and the time that Matilda entered the Swan to get -the supper beer. Pretty nearly half an hour had elapsed between the -first time and the second." - -"Half an hour!" - -"Not far short of it. Which proved that Matilda must have been indoors -when I rang, though she denied it before the coroner, and it was taken -for granted that I had rung during her absence to fetch the beer. And -you knew, sir, that her absence did not exceed ten minutes. Now why did -not Matilda answer my ring? Why did she not candidly say that she had -heard the ring, but did not choose to answer it? Well, sir, that gave -rise to the first faint doubt of her: and when I recalled and dwelt on -her singular manner, it appeared to me that the doubt might pass into -grave suspicion. Look at her superstitious horror of No. 7. She never -would go into the house afterwards!" - -I nodded. - -"Two or three other little things struck me, all tending to strengthen -my doubts, but perhaps they are hardly worth naming. Still, make the -worst of it, it was only suspicion, not certainty, and I left Saltwater, -holding my tongue." - -"And is this all, Owen?" - -"Not quite, sir. Would you be so good as to step outside, and just look -at the name over the grocer's door?" - -I did so, and read Valentine. "John Valentine." The same name as -Matilda's. - -"Yes, sir, it is," Owen said, in answer to me. "After settling here we -made acquaintance with the Valentines, and by-and-by learnt that they -are cousins of Matilda's. Fanny--my wife that is to be--has often talked -to me about Matilda; they were together a good bit in early life; and -by dint of mentally sifting what she said, and putting that and that -together, I fancy I see daylight." - -"Yes. Well?" - -"Matilda's father married a Spanish woman. She was of a wild, -ungovernable temper, subject to fits of frenzy; in one of which fits -she died. Matilda has inherited this temper; she is liable to go into -frenzies that can only be compared to insanity. Fanny has seen her -in two only; they occur at rare intervals; and she tells me that she -truly believes the girl is mad--mad, Mr. Johnny--during the few minutes -that they last." - -The history I had heard of her mad rage at Miss Deveen's flashed over -me. Temporarily insane they had thought her there. - -"I said to Fanny one day when we were talking of her," resumed Owen, -"that a person in that sort of uncontrollable passion, might commit any -crime; a murder, or what not. 'Yes,' Fanny replied, 'and not unlikely to -do it, either: Matilda has more than once said that she should never die -in her bed.' Meaning----" - -"Meaning what?" I asked, for he came to a pause. - -"Well, sir, meaning, I suppose, that she might sometime lay violent -hands upon herself, or upon another. I can't help thinking that -something must have put her into one of these rages with Jane Cross, -and that she pushed or flung the poor girl over the stairs." - -Looking back, rapidly recalling signs and tokens, I thought it might -have been so. Owen interrupted me. - -"I shall come across her sometime, Mr. Johnny. These are things that -don't hide themselves for ever: at least, not often. And I shall tax -her with it to her face." - -"But--don't you know where she is?" - -"No, I don't sir. I wish I did. It was said that she came up to take -a situation in London, and perhaps she is still in it. But London's a -large place, I don't know what part of it she was in, and one might as -well look for a needle in a bundle of hay. The Valentines have never -heard of her at all since she was at Saltwater." - -How strange it seemed;--that she and they were living so near one -another, and yet not to be aware of it. Should I tell Owen? Only for -half a moment did the question cross me. _No_: most certainly not. It -might be as he suspected; and, with it all, I could only pity Matilda. -Of all unhappy women, she seemed the unhappiest. - -Miss Deveen's carriage bowled past the door to take her up at the -linendraper's. Wishing Owen good-day, I was going out, but drew back to -make room for two people who were entering: an elderly woman in a close -bonnet, and a young one with a fair, pretty and laughing face. - -"My mother and Fanny, sir," he whispered. - -"She is very pretty, very nice, Owen," I said, impulsively. "You'll be -sure to be happy with her." - -"Thank you, sir; I think I shall. I wish you had spoken a word or two to -her, Mr. Johnny: you'd have seen how nice she is." - -"I can't stay now, Owen. I'll come again." - -Not even to Miss Deveen did I speak of what I had heard. I kept thinking -of it as we drove round Hyde Park, and she told me I was unusually -silent. - - * * * * * - -The thread was unwinding itself more and more. Once it had begun to -lengthen, I suppose it had to go on. Accident led to an encounter -between Matilda and Thomas Owen. Accident? No, it was this same thread -of destiny. There's no such thing as accident in the world. - -During the visit to the linendraper's, above spoken of, Miss Deveen -bought a gown for Matilda. Feeling in her own heart sorry for the girl, -thinking she had been somewhat hardly done by in her house, what with -Hall and the rest of them, she wished to make her a present on leaving, -as a token of her good-will. But the quantity of stuff bought proved not -to be sufficient: Miss Deveen had doubted the point when it was cut off, -and told Matilda to go herself and get two yards more. This it was, this -simple incident, that led to the meeting with Owen. And I was present at -it. - -The money-order office of the district was situated amidst this colony -of shops. In going down there one afternoon to cash an order, I overtook -Matilda. She was on her way to buy the additional yards of stuff. - -"I suppose I am going right, sir?" she said to me. "I don't know much -about this neighbourhood." - -"Not know much about it! What, after having lived in it more than a -year!" - -"I have hardly ever gone out; except to church on a Sunday," she -answered. "And what few articles I've wanted in the dress line, I have -mostly bought at the little draper's shop round the corner." - -Hardly had the words left her lips, when we came face to face with -Thomas Owen. Matilda gave a sort of smothered cry, and stood still, -gazing at him. What they said to one another in that first moment, I did -not hear. Matilda had a frightened look, and was whiter than death. -Presently we were all walking together towards Thomas Owen's, he having -invited Matilda to go and see his home. - -But there was another encounter first. Standing at the grocer's door -was pretty Fanny Valentine. She and Matilda recognized each other, and -clasped hands. It appeared to me that Matilda did it with reluctance, -as though it gave her no pleasure to meet her relatives. She must have -known how near they lived to Miss Deveen's, and yet she had never sought -them out. Perhaps the very fact of not wishing to see them had kept her -from the spot. - -They all sat down in the parlour behind the shop--a neat room. Mrs. Owen -was out; her son produced some wine. I stood up by the bookcase, telling -them I must be off the next minute to the post-office. But the minutes -passed, and I stayed on. - -How he led up to it, I hardly know; but, before I was prepared for -anything of the kind, Thomas Owen had plunged wholesale into the subject -of Jane Cross, recounting the history of that night, in all its minute -details, to Fanny Valentine. Matilda, sitting back on the far side of -the room in an armchair, looked terror-stricken: her face seemed to be -turning into stone. - -"Why do you begin about that, Thomas Owen?" she demanded, when words at -length came to her. "It can have nothing to do with Fanny." - -"I have been wishing to tell it her for some little time, and this seems -to be a fitting opportunity," he answered, coolly resolute. "You, being -better acquainted with the matter than I, can correct me if I make any -blunders. I don't care to keep secrets from Fanny: she is going to be my -wife." - -Matilda's hands lifted themselves with a convulsive movement and fell -again. Her eyes flashed fire. - -"_Your wife?_" - -"If you have no objection," he replied. "My dear old mother goes into -Wales next month, and Fanny comes here in her place." - -With a cry, faint and mournful as that of a wounded dove, Matilda put -her hands before her face and leaned back in her chair. If she had in -truth loved Thomas Owen, if she loved him still, the announcement must -have caused her cruel pain. - -He resumed his narrative; assuming as facts what he had in his own mind -conceived to have been the case, and by implication, but not directly, -charging Matilda with the crime. It had a dreadful effect upon her; her -agitation increased with every word. Suddenly she rose up in the chair, -her arms lifted, her face distorted. One of those fits of passion had -come on. - -We had a dreadful scene. Owen was powerful, I of not much good, but we -could not hold her. Fanny ran sobbing into her own door and sent in two -of the shopmen. - -It was the climax in Matilda Valentine's life. One that perhaps might -have been always looked for. From that hour she was an insane woman, -her ravings interspersed with lucid intervals. During one of these, she -disclosed the truth. - -She had loved Thomas Owen with a passionate love. Mistaking the gossip -and the nonsense that the young man was fond of chattering to her and -Jane Cross, she believed her love was returned. On the day preceding the -tragedy, when talking with him after morning service, she had taxed him -with paying more attention to Jane Cross than to herself. Not a bit -of it, he had lightly answered; he would take her for a walk by the -seashore that evening if she liked to go. But, whether he had meant it, -or not, he never came, though Matilda dressed herself in readiness. On -the contrary, he went to church, met Jane there, and walked the best -part of the way home with her. Matilda jealously resented this; her mind -was in a chaos; she began to suspect that it was Jane Cross he liked, -not herself. She said a word or two upon the subject to Jane Cross the -next day, Monday; but Jane made sport of it--laughed it off. So the -time went on to evening, when they were upstairs together, Jane sewing, -Matilda writing. Suddenly Jane Cross said that Thomas Owen was coming -along, and Matilda ran to the window. They spoke to him as he passed, -and he said he would look in as he returned from Munpler. After -Matilda's letter to her brother was finished, she began a note to Thomas -Owen, intending to reproach him with not keeping his promise to her -and for joining Jane Cross instead. It was the first time she had ever -attempted to write to him; and she stuck her work-box with the lid open -behind the sheet of paper that Jane Cross might not see what she was -doing. When it grew dusk, Jane Cross remarked that it was blind man's -holiday and she would go on down and lay the supper. In crossing the -room, work-basket in hand, she passed behind Matilda, glanced at her -letter, and saw the first words of it, "Dearest Thomas Owen." In sport, -she snatched it up, read the rest where her own name was mentioned, and -laughingly began, probably out of pure fun, to teaze Matilda. "Thomas -Owen your sweetheart!" she cried, running out on to the landing. "Why, -he is mine. He cares more for my little finger than for----" Poor girl! -She never finished her sentence. Matilda, fallen into one of those -desperate fits of passion, had caught her up and was clutching her like -a tiger-cat, tearing her hair, tearing pieces out of her gown. The -scuffle was brief: almost in an instant Jane Cross was falling headlong -down the well of the staircase, pushed over the very low balustrades by -Matilda, who threw the work-basket after her. - -The catastrophe sobered her passion. For a while she lay on the landing -in a sort of faint, all strength and power taken out of her as usual by -the frenzy. Then she went down to look after Jane Cross. - -Jane was dead. Matilda, not unacquainted with the aspect of death, saw -that at once, and her senses pretty nearly deserted her again with -remorse and horror. She had never thought or wished to kill Jane Cross, -hardly to harm her, she liked her too well: but in those moments of -frenzy she had not the slightest control over her actions. Her first act -was to run and lock the side door in the garden wall, lest anyone should -come in. How she lived through the next half-hour, she never knew. Her -superstitious fear of seeing the dead Edmund Peahern in the house was -strong--and now there was another! But, with all her anguish and her -fear, the instinct of self-preservation was making itself heard. What -must she do? How could she throw the suspicion off herself? She could -not run out of the house and say, "Jane Cross has fallen accidentally -over the stairs; come and look to her"--for no one would have believed -it to be an accident. And there were the pieces, too, she had clutched -out of the gown! Whilst thus deliberating the gate-bell rang, putting -her into a state of the most intense terror. It rang again. Trembling, -panting, Matilda stood cowering in the kitchen, but it did not ring a -third time. This was, of course, Thomas Owen. - -Necessity is the mother of invention. Something she _must_ do, and her -brain hastily concocted the plan she should adopt. Putting the cloth and -the bread and cheese on the table, she took the jug and went out at the -front door to fetch the usual pint of ale. A moment or two she stood -at the front door, peering up and down the road to make sure that no -one was passing. Then she slipped out, locking the door softly; and, -carrying the key concealed in the hollow of her hand, she threw it -amidst the shrubs at No 1. _Now_ she could not get into the house -herself; she would not have entered it alone for the world: people must -break it open. All along the way to the post-office, to which she really -did go, and then to the Swan, she was mentally rehearsing her tale. And -it succeeded in deceiving us all, as the reader knows. With regard to -the visit of her brother on the Wednesday, she had told Thomas Owen the -strict truth; though, when he first alluded to it in the churchyard, her -feelings were wrought up to such a pitch that she could only cry out -and escape. But how poor Matilda contrived to live on and carry out her -invented story, how she bore the inward distress and repentance that -lay upon her, we shall never know. A distress, remorse, repentance that -never quitted her, night or day; and which no doubt contributed to -gradually unhinge her mind, and throw it finally off its balance. - -Such was the true history of the affair at No. 7, which had been so -great a mystery to Saltwater. The truth was never made public, save to -the very few who were specially interested in it. Matilda Valentine is -in an asylum, and likely to remain there for life; whilst Thomas Owen -and his wife flourish in sunshine, happy as a summer day is long. - - - - -CARAMEL COTTAGE - - -I.--EDGAR RESTE - - -I - -It was early in August, and we were at Dyke Manor, for the Squire had -let us go home from school for the Worcester races. We had joined him -at Worcester the previous day, Tuesday, driving home with him in the -evening. To-morrow, Thursday, he would drive us over to the course -again; to-day, Wednesday, the horses would have rest; and on Friday we -must return to school. - -Breakfast was over, the Squire gone out, and the few minutes' -Bible-reading to us--which Mrs. Todhetley never forgot, though Tod did -not always stay in for it, but he did this morning--came to an end. -Hannah appeared at the door as she closed the Book. - -"Miss Barbary's come, ma'am," she said. - -"Run, my dear," cried Mrs. Todhetley to Lena. - -"I don't want to," said Lena, running to the open window instead, and -nearly pitching head-foremost through it: upon which Hannah captured -her and carried her off. - -"Who on earth is Miss Barbary?" questioned Tod. "Any relation to the man -at Caramel Cottage?" - -"His daughter," said Mrs. Todhetley. "She comes to teach Lena French." - -"Hope she's less of a shady character than her father!" was Tod's free -comment. - -A year or two before this, a stranger had made his appearance at Church -Dykely, and put up at the Silver Bear. He was a gentlemanly-looking man -of perhaps forty years, tall, slender, agile, with thin, distinguished -features, an olive skin, black hair, and eyes of a peculiar shade of -deep steel-blue. People went into raptures over his face, and called it -beautiful. And so it was; but to my thinking it had a look in it that -was the opposite of beautiful; any way, the opposite of good. They said -it was my fancy at home: but Duffham owned to the same fancy. His name, -as he wrote it down one day at the Silver Bear, was Pointz Barbary. -After a week's stay at the inn, he, finding, I suppose, that the -neighbourhood suited him, looked out for a little place to settle down -upon, and met with it in Caramel Cottage, a small dwelling near to us, -on the property called Caramel's Farm. The cottage was then to be let, -and Mr. Barbary went into it. - -Some items of his past history came out by degrees; it is hard to say -how, for he told none himself. Now and then some former friend or other -came to pay him a short visit; and it may be that these strangers talked -about him. - -Pointz Barbary, a gentleman by descent, and once of fairly good -substance, had been a great traveller, had roved pretty nearly all over -the world. The very few relatives he possessed lived in Canada--people -of condition, it was said--and his own property (what was left of it) -was also there. He had been married twice. First to a young lady in -France; her friends (English) having settled there for economy's sake. -She died at the end of the year, leaving him a little girl, that the -mother's people at once took to. Next he married a Miss Reste, daughter -of Colonel Reste, in her Majesty's service. A few years later she also -died--died of consumption--leaving him a widower and childless. It's -true he had his first wife's daughter, but she lived in France with her -mother's sister, so he did not get much benefit from her. - -Mr. Barbary was poor. No mistake about that. The interest of his first -wife's money brought him in fifty-two pounds yearly, and this he would -enjoy till his death, when it went to his daughter. Miss Reste had -brought him several thousand pounds; but he and she had lived away, and -not a stiver remained of it. His own means had also been spent lavishly; -and, so far as was known, he had but the two and fifty pounds a year to -live upon at Caramel Cottage, with a chance remittance from Canada now -and again. - -He made no acquaintance at Church Dykely, and none was made with him. -Civilly courteous in a rather grand and haughty way when he met people, -so far as a few remarks went, touching the weather or the crops, and -similar safe topics, he yet kept the world at a distance. As the time -went on it was thought there might be a reason for this. Whispers -began to circulate that Mr. Barbary's doings were not orthodox. He was -suspected of poaching, both in game and fish, and a strong feeling of -shyness grew up against him. - -Some few months prior to the present time--August--his daughter came -to Caramel Cottage. Her aunt in France was dead, and she had no home -henceforth but her father's. That I and Tod had not seen or heard of -her until now, was owing to the midsummer holidays having been spent at -Crabb Cot. The vacation over, and Mrs. Todhetley back at Dyke Manor, she -found herself called upon by Miss Barbary. Hearing that Mrs. Todhetley -wished her little girl to begin French, she had come to offer herself as -teacher. The upshot was that she was engaged, and came for a couple of -hours every morning to drill French into Lena. - -"What's she like?" asked Tod of the mother, upon her explaining this. -"Long and thin and dark, like Barbary, and disagreeable with a -self-contained reticence?" - -"She is not the least like him in any way," was Mrs. Todhetley's -answer. "She is charmingly simple--good, I am sure, and one of the most -open-natured girls I ever met. 'I wish to do it for the sake of earning -a little money,' she said to me, when asking to come. 'My dear father -is not rich, and if I can help him in ever so small a way I shall be -thankful.' The tears almost came into her eyes as she spoke," added Mrs. -Todhetley; "she quite won my heart." - -"She seems to think great things of that respectable parent of hers!" -commented Tod. - -"Oh, yes. Whatever may be the truth as to his failings, _she_ sees none -in him. And, my dears, better that it should be so. She earns a little -money of me, apart from teaching Lena," added Mrs. Todhetley. - -"What at?" asked Tod. "Teaching _you_?" - -The mother shook her head with a smile. "I found out, Joseph, that she -is particularly skilful at mending old lace. I have some that needs -repairing. She takes it home and does it at her leisure--and you cannot -imagine how grateful she is." - -"How old is she?" - -"Nineteen--close upon twenty, I think she said," replied the mother. -And there the conversation ended, for Mrs. Todhetley had to go to the -kitchen to give the daily orders. - -The morning wore on. We went to Church Dykely and were back again -by twelve o'clock. Tod had got Don on the lawn, making him jump for -biscuit, when the dog rushed off, barking, and we heard a scream. A -young lady in a straw hat and a half-mourning cotton dress was running -away from him, she and Lena having come out of the house together. - -"Come here, Don," said Tod in his voice of authority, which the good -Newfoundland dog never disobeyed. "How dare you, sir? Johnny, lad, I -suppose that's Miss Barbary." - -I had forgotten all about her. A charming girl, as the mother had said, -slight and graceful, with a face like a peach blossom, dimpled cheeks, -soft light-brown hair and dark-blue eyes. Not the hard, steel-blue eyes -that her father had: sweet eyes, these, with a gentle, loving look in -them. - -"You need not be afraid of the dog," cried Tod, advancing to where she -stood, behind the mulberry tree. "Miss Barbary, I believe?"--lifting his -cap. - -"Yes," she said in a frank tone, turning her frank face to him; "I am -Katrine Barbary. It is a very large dog--and he barks at me." - -Large he was, bigger than many a small donkey. A brave, faithful, -good-tempered dog, he, and very handsome, his curly white coat marked -out with black. Gentle to friends and respectable strangers, Don was at -mortal enmity with tramps and beggars: we could not cure him of this, so -he was chained up by day. At night he was unchained to roam the yard at -will, but the gate was kept locked. Had he got out, he might have pinned -the coat of any loose man he met, but I don't believe he would have -bitten him. A good fright Don would give, but not mortal injury. At -least, we had never yet known him to do that. - -Lena ran up in her short pink frock, her light curls flying. "Miss -Barbary is always afraid when she hears Don bark," she said to us. "She -will not go near the yard; she thinks he'll bite her." - -"I will teach you how to make friends with him," said Tod: "though he -would never hurt you, Miss Barbary. Come here and pat his head whilst -I hold him; call him by his name gently. Once he knows you, he would -protect you from harm with his life." - -She complied with ready obedience, though the roses left her cheeks. -"There," said Tod, loosing the dog, and letting her pat him at leisure, -"see how gentle he is; how affectionately he looks up at you!" - -"Please not to think me very silly!" she pleaded earnestly, as though -beseeching pardon for a sin. "I have never been used to dogs. We do not -keep dogs in France. At least very few people do. Oh dear!" - -Something that she carried in her left hand wrapped in paper had dropped -on to the lawn. Don pounced upon it. "Oh, please take it from him! -please, please!" she cried in terror. Tod laughed, and extricated the -little parcel. - -"It has some valuable old lace in it of Mrs. Todhetley's," she explained -as she thanked him. "I am taking it home to mend." - -"You mend old lace famously, I hear," said Tod, as we walked with her to -the entrance gate. - -"Yes, I think I do it nearly as well as the nuns who taught me." - -"Have you been in a convent?" - -"Only for my education. I was an externe--a daily pupil. My aunt lived -next door to it. I went every morning at eight o'clock and returned home -at six in the evening to supper." - -"Did you get no dinner?" asked Tod. - -She took the question literally. "I had dinner and collation at school; -breakfast and supper at home. That was the way in our town with the -externes at the convent. We were Protestants, you see, so my aunt liked -me to be at home on Sundays. Thank you for teaching Don to know me: and -now I will say good morning to you." - -I was holding the gate open for her to pass out, when Ben Gibbon went -by, a gun carelessly held over his shoulder. He touched his hat to us, -and we gave him a slight nod in reply. Miss Barbary said "Good day, Mr. -Gibbon." - -Tod drew down his displeased lips. He had already taken a liking to -the girl--so had I, for that matter--she was a true lady, and Mr. Ben -Gibbon, a brother to the gamekeeper at Chavasse Grange, could not boast -of a particularly shining character. - -"Do you know _him_, Miss Barbary?" asked Tod. "Be quiet, Don!" he cried -to the dog, which had begun to growl when he saw Gibbon. - -"He comes to our house sometimes to see papa. Please pardon me for -keeping you waiting," she added to me, as I still held back the gate. -"That gun is pointed this way and it may go off." - -Tod was amused. "You seem to dread guns as much as you dread dogs, Miss -Barbary. I will walk home with you," he said, as she at last came -through, the gun having got to a safe distance. - -"Oh, but----" she was beginning, and then stopped in confusion, blushing -hotly, and looking at both of us. "I should like it; but----would it be -proper?" - -"Proper!" echoed Tod, staring, and then bursting into a fit of laughter -long and loud. "Oh dear! why, Miss Barbary, you must be French all over! -Johnny, you can come, too. Lena, run back again; you have not any hat -on." - -Crossing the road to take the near field way, we went along the path -that led beside the hedge, and soon came in view of Caramel Cottage; -it was only a stone's throw, so to say, from our house. An uncommonly -lonely look it had, buried there amidst many trees, with the denser -trees of the Grove close beyond it. We asked her whether she did not -find it dull here. - -"At first I did, very; I do still a little: it is so different from the -lively town I have lived in, where we knew all the people, and they knew -us. But we shall soon be more lively," she resumed, after a pause. "A -cousin is coming to stay with us." - -"Indeed," said Tod. "Is it a lady or a gentleman?" - -"Oh, it is a gentleman--Edgar Reste. He is not my cousin by kin; not -really related to me; but papa says he will be as my cousin, as my -brother even, and that he is very nice. Papa's last wife was Miss Reste, -and he is her nephew. He is a barrister in London, and he has been much -overworked, and he is coming here to-morrow for rest and country air." - -Within the low green gate of the little front garden of Caramel Cottage -stood Mr. Barbary, in his brown velveteen shooting coat and breeches of -the same, that became him and his straight lithe limbs so well. Every -time I saw him the beauty of his face struck me afresh; but so did the -shifty expression of his eyes. - -"There's papa!" exclaimed the girl, her dimples lighting up. "And--why, -there's a gentleman with him--a stranger! I wonder who it is?" - -I saw him as he came from the porch down the narrow garden-path. A -slight, slender young man of middle height and distinguished air, with a -pale, worn, nice-looking face, and laughing, luminous dark brown eyes. -Yes, I saw Edgar Reste for the first time at this his entrance at -Caramel Cottage, and it was a thing to be thankful for that I could not -then foresee the nameless horror his departure from it (I may as well -say his disappearance) was to shadow forth. - -"How do you do?" said Mr. Barbary to us, courteously civil. "Katrine, -here's a surprise for you: your cousin is come. Edgar, this is my little -girl.--Mr. Reste," he added, by way of introduction generally. - -Mr. Reste lifted his hat, bowed slightly, and then turned to Katrine -with outstretched hand. She met it with a hot blush, as if strange young -men did not shake hands with her every day. - -"We did not expect you quite so soon," she gently said, to atone for her -first surprise. - -"True," he answered. "But I felt unusually out of sorts yesterday, and -thought it would make no difference to Mr. Barbary whether I came to-day -or to-morrow." - -His voice had a musical ring; his manner was open and honest. He might -be Pointz Barbary's nephew by marriage, but I am sure he was not by -nature. - -"They'll fall in love with one another, those two; you'll see," said -Tod to me as we went home. "Did you mark his pleased face when he spoke -to her, Johnny--and how she blushed?" - -"Oh, come, Tod! they tell me I am fanciful. What are you?" - -"Not fanciful with your fancies, lad. As to you, Mr. Don"--turning to -the dog, which had done nothing but growl while we stood before -Barbary's gate, "unless you mend your manners, you shall not come out -again. What ails you, sir, to-day?" - - -II - -If love springs out of companionship, why then, little wonder that it -found its way into Caramel Cottage. They were with each other pretty -nearly all day and every day, that young man and that young woman; and -so--what else was to be expected? - -"We must try and get you strong again," said Mr. Barbary to his guest, -who at first, amidst other adverse symptoms, could eat nothing. No -matter what dainty little dish old Joan prepared, Mr. Reste turned from -it. - -Mr. Barbary had taken to old Joan with the house. A little, dark, active -woman, she, with bright eyes and a mob-cap of muslin. She was sixty -years old; quick, capable, simple and kindly. We don't get many such -servants now-a-days. One defect Joan had--deafness. When a voice was -close to her, it was all right; at a distance she could not hear it at -all. - -"How long is it that you have been ailing, Cousin Edgar?" asked Miss -Barbary, one day when they were sitting together. - -"Oh, some few weeks, Cousin Katrine," he answered in a tone to imitate -hers--and then laughed. "Look here, child, don't call me 'Cousin Edgar!' -For pity's sake, don't!" - -"I know you are not my true cousin," she said, blushing furiously. - -"It's not that. If we were the nearest cousins that can be, it would -still be silly." Objectionable, was the word he had all but used. "It is -bad taste; has not a nice sound to cultivated ears--as I take it. I am -Edgar, if you please; and you are Katrine." - -"In France we say 'mon cousin,' or 'ma cousine,' when speaking to one," -returned Katrine. - -"But we are not French; we are English." - -"Well," she resumed, as her face cooled down--"why did you not take rest -before? and what is it that has made you ill?" - -He shook his head thoughtfully. The parlour window, looking to the -front, was thrown up before them. A light breeze tempered the summer -heat, wafting in sweetness from the homely flowers and scented shrubs. -The little garden was crowded with them, as all homely gardens were -then. Roses, lilies, columbines, stocks, gillyflowers, sweet peas, sweet -Williams, pinks white and red, tulips, pansies (or as they were then -generally called, garden-gates), mignonette, bachelor's buttons, and -lots of others, sweet or not sweet, that I can't stay to recall: and -clusters of marjoram and lavender and "old-man" and sweet-briar, and -jessamines white and yellow, and woodbine, and sweet syringa; and -the tall hollyhock, and ever true but gaudy sunflower--each and all -flourished there in their respective seasons. Amidst the grand -"horticulture," as it is phrased, of these modern days, it is a pleasure -to lose one's self in the memories of these dear old simple gardens. -Sometimes I get wondering if we shall ever meet them again--say in -Heaven. - -They sat there at the open window enjoying the fragrance. Katrine had -made a paper fan, and was gently fluttering it to and fro before her -flushed young face. - -"I have burnt the candle at both ends," continued Mr. Reste. "That is -what's the matter with me." - -"Y--es," hesitated she, not quite understanding. - -"At law business all day, and at literary work the best part of the -night, year in and year out--it has told upon me, Katrine." - -"But why should you do both?" asked Katrine. - -"Why? Oh, because--because my pocket is a shallow pocket, and has, -moreover, a hole in it." - -She laughed. - -"Not getting briefs showered in upon me as one might hope my merits -deserve--I know not any young barrister who does--I had to supplement my -earnings in that line by something else, and I took to writing. _That_ -is up-hill work, too; but it brings in a few shillings now and again. -One must pay one's way, you know, Katrine, if possible; and with some of -us it is apt to be a rather extravagant way." - -"Is it with you?" she asked, earnestly. - -"It _was_. I squandered money too freely at first. My old uncle gave me -a fair sum to set up with when my dinners were eaten and I was called; -and I suppose I thought the sum would never come to an end. Ah! we buy -our experience dearly." - -"Will not the old uncle give you more?" - -"Not a stiver--this long while past. He lives in India, and writing to -ask him does no good. And he is the only relative left to me in the -world." - -"Except papa." - -Edgar Reste lifted his eyebrows. "Your father is not my relative, young -lady. His late wife was my aunt; my father's sister." - -"Did your father leave you no money, when he died?" - -"Not any. He was a clergyman with a good benefice, but he lived up to -his income and did not save anything. No, I have only myself to lean on. -Don't know whether it will turn out to be a broken reed." - -"If I could only help you!" breathed Katrine. - -"You are helping me more than I can say," he answered, impulsively. -"When with you I have a feeling of rest--of peace. And that's what I -want." - -Which avowal brought a hot blush again to Miss Katrine's cheek and a -curious thrill somewhere round about her heart. - - * * * * * - -Time went on. Before much of it had elapsed, they were in love with one -another for ever and for ever, with that first love that comes but once -in a lifetime. That is, in secret; it was not betrayed or spoken of by -either of them, or intended to be. Mr. Reste, Barrister-at-law (and -briefless), could as soon have entertained thoughts of setting up a -coach-and-four, as of setting up a wife. He had not a ghost of the means -necessary at present, he saw not the smallest chance yet of attaining -them. Years and years and years might go by before that desirable -pinnacle in the social race was reached; and it might never be reached -at all. It would be the height of dishonour, as he considered, to -persuade Katrine Barbary into an engagement, which might never be -fulfilled. How could he condemn her to wear out her heart and her life -and her days in loneliness, sighing for him, never seeing him--he at -one end of the world, she at the other? for that's how, lover-like, he -estimated the distance between this and the metropolis. So he never let -a word of his love escape him, and he guarded his looks, and treated -Katrine as his little cousin. - -And she? Be you sure, she was as reticent as he. An inexperienced young -maiden, scrupulously and modestly brought up, she kept her secret -zealously. It is true she could not help her blushes, or the tell-tale -thrilling of her soft voice; but Edgar Reste was not obliged to read -them correctly. - -Likely enough he could penetrate, as the weeks wore on, some of the ins -and outs in the private worth of Mr. Barbary. In fact, he _did_ do so. -He found that gentleman rather addicted to going abroad at night when -reasonable people were in bed and asleep. Mr. Barbary gave him his views -upon the subject. Poaching, he maintained, was a perfectly legitimate -and laudable occupation. "It's one to be proud of, instead of the -contrary," he asserted, one September day, when they were in the -gun-room together. "_Proud of_, Edgar." - -"For a gentleman?" laughed Mr. Reste, who invariably made light of the -subject. And he glanced at his host curiously from between his long dark -eyelashes and straight, fine eyebrows; at the dark, passive, handsome -face, at the long slender fingers, busy over the lock of his favourite -gun. - -"For a gentleman certainly. Why should common men usurp all its benefit? -The game laws are obnoxious laws, and it behoves us to set them at -naught." - -Another amused laugh from Mr. Reste. - -"Who hesitates to do a bit of smuggling?" argued the speaker. "Answer -me that, Reste. Nobody. Nobody, from a prince to a peasant, from poor -Jack Tar to his superfine commander, but deems it meritorious to cheat -the Customs. When a man lands here or yonder with a few contraband -things about him, and gets them through safely, do his friends and -acquaintances turn the cold shoulder upon him? Not a bit of it; they -regard it as a fine feather in his cap." - -"Oh, no doubt." - -"Poaching is the same thing. It is also an amusement. Oh, it is grand -fun, Edgar Reste, to be out on a fine night and dodge the keepers!" -continued Mr. Barbary, with enthusiasm. "The spice of daring in it, of -danger, if you choose to put it that way, stimulates the nerves like -wine." - -"Not quite orthodox, though, mon ami." - -"Orthodox be hanged. Stolen pleasures are sweetest, as we all know. You -shall go out with me some night, Edgar, and judge for yourself." - -"Don't say but I will--just to look on--if you'll ensure my getting back -in safety," said the barrister, in a tone that might be taken for jest -or earnest, assent or refusal. - -"Back in safety!" came the mocking echo, as if to get back in safety -from midnight poaching were a thing as sure as the sun. "We'll let a -week or two go on; when shooting first comes in the keepers are safe -to be on the alert; and then I'll choose a night for you." - -"All right. I suppose Katrine knows nothing of this?" - -Mr. Barbary lodged his gun in the corner against the wainscot, and -turned to look at the barrister. "Katrine!" he repeated, in surprised -reproach. "Why, _no_. And take care that you don't tell her." - -Mr. Reste nodded. - -"She is the most unsuspicious, innocent child in regard to the ways of -the naughty world that I've ever met with," resumed Barbary. "I don't -think she as much as knows what poaching means." - -"I wonder you should have her here," remarked the younger man, -reflectively. - -"How can I help it? There's nowhere else for her to be. She is too -old to be put to school; and if she were not, I have not the means to -pay for her. It does not signify; she will never suspect anything," -concluded Mr. Barbary. - -Please do not think Caramel Cottage grand enough to possess a regular -"gun-room." Mr. Barbary called it so, because he kept his two guns in -it, also his fishing-tackle and things of that sort. Entering at the -outer porch and over the level door-sill, to the narrow house-passage, -the parlour lay on the left, and was of pretty good size. The gun-room -lay on the right; a little square room with bare boards, unfurnished -save for a deal table, a chair or two, and a strong cupboard let into -the wall, which the master of the house kept locked. Behind this room -was the kitchen, which opened into the back yard. This yard, on the -kitchen side, was bounded by dwarf wooden palings, having a low gate in -their midst. Standing at the gate and looking sideways, you could see -the chimneys of Dyke Manor. On the opposite side, the yard was enclosed -by various small outbuildings and adjuncts belonging to a cottage -homestead. A rain-water barrel stood in the corner by the house; an -open shed next, in which knives were cleaned and garden tools kept; -then came the pump; and lastly, a little room called the brewhouse, used -for washing and brewing, and for cooking also during the worst heat of -summer. A furnace was built beside the grate, and its floor was paved -with square red bricks. Beyond this yard, quite open to it, lay a long -garden, well filled with vegetables and fruit trees, and enclosed by a -high hedge. Upstairs were three bed chambers. Mr. Barbary occupied the -largest and best, which was over the parlour; the smaller one over the -gun-room had been assigned to Edgar Reste, both of them looking front; -whilst Katrine's room was above the kitchen, looking to the yard and the -garden. Old Joan slept in a lean-to loft in the roof. There is a reason -for explaining all this. - - -III - -He had looked like a ghost when we went to school after the races; he -looked like a hale, hearty man when we got home from the holidays at -Michaelmas and to eat the goose. Of course he had had pretty near eight -weeks' spell of idleness and country air at Caramel Cottage. To say the -truth, we felt surprised at his being there still. - -"Well, it _is_ longer than I meant to stay," Mr. Reste admitted, when -Tod said something of this, "The air has done wonders for me." - -"Why longer? The law courts do not open yet." - -"I had thoughts of going abroad. However, that can stay over for next -year." - -"Have you had any shooting?" - -"No. I don't possess a licence." - -It was on the tip of Tod's tongue, as I could well see, to ask why he -did not take out a licence, but he checked it. This little colloquy was -held at the Manor gate on Saturday, the day after our return. Miss -Barbary was leaving Lena at the usual time, and he had come strolling -across the field to meet her. They went away together. - -"What did I tell you, Johnny?" said Tod, turning to me, as soon as they -were out of hearing. "It is a regular case of over-head-and-ears: cut -and dried and pickled." - -"I don't see what you judge by, Tod." - -"_Don't you!_ You'll be a muff to the end, lad. Fancy a fine young -fellow like Reste, a man of the world, staying on at that pokey little -place of Barbary's unless he had some strong motive to keep him there! -I dare say he pays Barbary well for the accommodation." - -"I dare say Barbary could not afford to entertain him unless he did." - -"He stops there to make love to her. It must be a poor look-out, though, -for Katrine, pretty little dimpled girl! As much chance of a wedding, -I should say, as of a blue moon." - -"Why not?" - -"Why not! Want of funds. I'd start for London, if I were you, Johnny, -and set the Thames on fire. A man must be uncommonly hard up when he -lets all the birds go beside him for want of taking out a licence." - -They were walking onwards slowly, Mr. Reste bending to talk to her. -And of course it will be understood that a good deal of that which I -have said, and am about to say, is only related from what came to my -knowledge later on. - -"Is it true that you had meant to go abroad this year?" Katrine was -asking him. - -"Yes, I once thought of it," he answered. "I have friends living at -Dieppe, and they wanted me to go to them. But I have stayed on here -instead. Another week of it, ten days perhaps, and then I must leave -Worcestershire and you, Katrine." - -"But why?" - -"Why, to work, my dear little girl. That is getting in arrears -shamefully. We are told that all work and no play makes Jack a dull -boy; but all play and no work would have worse results for Jack than -dullness. Ah, Katrine, what a world this might be if we could only do -as we like in it!" - -"When shall you come again?" - -"Perhaps never," he answered, incautiously. - -"Never!" she repeated, her face turning white before she could hide it -from him. It was a great shock. - -"Katrine, my dear," he said with some emotion, his tones low and -earnest, "I could stay at Caramel Cottage for my whole life and never -wish to quit it, unless I carried somebody else away from it with me. -But there are things which a poor man, a man without money in the -present or prospect of it in the future, may not as much as glance at: -he must put the temptation from him and hold it at arm's length. I -had a dream the other night," he added, after a pause: "I thought I -was a Q.C. and stood in my silk, haranguing a full bench of judges at -Westminster--who listened to me with attentive suavity. When I awoke I -burst out laughing." - -"At the contrast it presented to reality?" she breathed. - -"Just at that. If I were only making enough to set up a snug little nest -of a home, though ever so small, it would be--something: but I am not. -And so, Katrine, you see that many things I would do I cannot do; cannot -even think of. And there it lies, and there it ends." - -"Yes, I see, Edgar," she answered, softly sighing. - -"Shall you miss me when I am gone?" - -Some queer feeling took her throat; she could not speak. Mr. Reste -stopped to pick a little pale blue-bell that grew under the hedge. - -"I do not know how I shall bear with the loneliness then," she said in -answer, seemingly more to herself than to him, or to the blue sky right -before her, on which her eyes were fixed. "And I shall be more afraid -when you are no longer in the house." - -"Afraid!" he exclaimed, turning to her in blank surprise. "What are you -afraid of, Katrine?" - -"It--it is all so solitary for me.... Old Joan is too deaf to be talked -to much; and papa is either at work in the garden or shut up in the -gun-room, busy with his things. Please don't laugh at my childishness!" - -She had paused, just to get over her embarrassment, the avowal having -slipped from her unwittingly. The fact was, poor Katrine Barbary had -been rudely awakened from her state of innocent security. Some days -back, when in the cottage hut of Mary Standish, for Katrine liked to go -about and make friends with the people, that ill-doing husband of -Mary's, Jim, chanced to be at home. Jim had just been had up before the -magistrates at Alcester on some suspicion connected with snares and -gins, but there was no certain proof forthcoming, and he had to be -discharged. Katrine remarked that if she were Jim she should leave -off poaching, which must be a very dreadful thing, and frightfully -hazardous. Mr. Jim replied that it was not a dreadful thing, nor -hazardous either, for them that knew what they were about, and he -referred her to her father for confirmation of this assertion. One word -led to another. Jim Standish, his ideas loose and lawless, never thought -to hurt the young lady by what he disclosed, for he was kind enough when -he had no motive to be the contrary, but when Katrine left the hut, she -carried with her the terrible knowledge that her father was as fond of -poaching as the worst of them. Since then she had lived in a state of -chronic terror. - -"Yes, it must be very solitary for you," assented Mr. Reste in a grave -tone, and he had no idea that her answer was an evasive one, or its -lightness put on; "but I cannot help you, Katrine. Should you ever need -counsel, or--or protection in any way, apply for it to your friends at -Dyke Manor. They seem kind, good people, and would be strong to aid." - -Turning in at the little side gate as he spoke, they saw Mr. Barbary at -work in the garden. He was digging up a plot of ground some seven or -eight feet square under the branches of the summer-apple tree, which -grew at this upper end of the garden, nearly close to the yard. - -"What is he going to plant there, I wonder?" listlessly spoke Mr. Reste, -glancing at the freshness of the turned-up mould. - -"Winter cabbages, perhaps; but I am sure I don't know," returned -Katrine. "I do not understand the seasons for planting vegetables as -papa does." - -This, as I have just said, was on Saturday. We saw Mr. Reste and Katrine -at church the next day: a place Barbary did not often trouble with -his presence; and walked with them, on coming out, as far as the two -ways lay. Our people liked the look of Edgar Reste, but had not put -themselves forward to make much acquaintance with him, on account of -Barbary. One Tuesday, when the Squire was driving to Alcester, he had -overtaken Mr. Reste walking thither to have a look at the market, and -he invited him to a seat in the carriage. They drove in and drove back -together, and had between the times a snack of bread and cheese at the -Angel. The Squire took quite a fancy to the young barrister, and openly -said to him he wished he was staying anywhere but at Caramel Cottage. - -"You are thinking of leaving soon, I hear," said the Squire, as we -halted in a group when parting, on this same walk from church. - -"In about a week," replied Mr. Reste. "I may go on Saturday next; -certainly not later than the following Monday." - -"Shall you like a drive to Evesham between this and then?" went on the -Squire. "I am going over there one of these days." - -"I shall like it very much indeed." - -"Then I will let you know which day I go. Good-bye." - -"Good-bye," answered Mr. Reste, lifting his hat in salute to us all, as -he walked on with Katrine. - -Am I lingering over these various trifling details? I suppose it will -seem so. But the truth is, a dreadful part of the story is coming on (as -poor Katrine said of the poaching) and my pen holds back from it. - - * * * * * - -A day or two had gone on. It was Tuesday morning, warm and bright with -sunshine. Katrine sat in the parlour at Caramel Cottage, pouring out the -coffee at the breakfast-table. - -"Will you take some ham, Katrine?" - -"No, thank you, papa; I have no appetite." - -"No appetite! nonsense!" and Mr. Barbary put a slice of ham on her -plate. "Do you feel inclined for a walk as far as Church Leet this -morning, Edgar?" - -"I don't mind," said Mr. Reste. "About three miles, is it not?" - -"Three miles across the fields as straight as the crow flies. I want to -see a man who lives there. He--why, that's Pettipher coming here!--the -postman," broke off Mr. Barbary. Letters were not written every day -then, and very few found their way to Caramel Cottage. - -Old Joan went to the door, and then came in. She was like a picture. A -dark-blue linsey gown down to her ancles, neat black stockings and low, -tied shoes, a check apron, and a bow of black ribbon perched in front -behind the flapping border of her white muslin mob-cap. - -"Pettipher says 'tis for the gentleman," said Joan, putting the letter, -a thick one, on the table by Mr. Reste. - -"Why, it is from Amphlett!" he exclaimed, as he took it up, looking at -the great sprawling writing. "What on earth has he got to say?" - -Opening the letter, a roll of bank-notes fell out. Mr. Reste stared at -them with intense curiosity. - -"Is it your ship come in?" asked Katrine gaily: for he was wont to say -he would do this or that when "his ship came home." - -"No, Katrine; not much chance of that. Let me see what he says." - -"'Dear Reste,--I enclose you my debt at last. The other side have come -to their senses, and given in, and paid over to me instalment the first. -Thank you, old friend; you are a good fellow never to have bothered me. -Let me know your movements when you write back; I ask it particularly. -Ever yours, W. A.' - -"Well, I never expected that," cried Mr. Reste, as he read the words -aloud. - -"Money lent by you, Edgar?" asked Mr. Barbary. - -"Yes; three or four years ago. I had given it up as a bad job. Never -thought he would gain his cause." - -"What cause? Who is he?" - -"Captain Amphlett, of the Artillery, and an old friend of mine. As to -the cause, it was some injustice that his avaricious relatives involved -him in, and he had no resource but to bring an action. I am glad he has -gained it; he is an honest fellow, no match for them in cunning." - -Mr. Reste was counting the notes while he spoke; six of them for ten -pounds each. Katrine happened to look at her father, and was startled -at the expression of his face--at the grasping, covetous, _evil_ regard -he had fixed upon the notes. She felt frightened, half sick, with some -vague apprehension. Mr. Reste smoothed the notes out one by one, and -laid them open on the breakfast cloth in a little stack. While doing -this, he caught Mr. Barbary's covetous look. - -"You'd like such a windfall yourself," he said laughingly to his host. - -"I should. For _that_ a man might be tempted to smother his -grandmother." - -Katrine instinctively shuddered, though the avowal was given in a half -jesting tone. A prevision of evil seized her. - - - - -CARAMEL COTTAGE - - -II.--DISAPPEARANCE - - -I - -October was setting in beautifully. Some people say it is the most -lovely month in the year when the skies are blue and genial. - -Seated at the breakfast-table at Caramel Cottage that Tuesday morning, -with the window thrown open to the warm, pleasant air, the small party -of three might have enjoyed that air, but for being preoccupied with -their own reflections. Edgar Reste was thinking of the bank-notes which -the postman had just brought him in Captain Amphlett's letter; Katrine -Barbary sat shrinking from the vague fear imparted to her by the curious -avowal her father had made in language not too choice, as his covetous -eyes rested on the money: "For that, a man might be tempted to smother -his grandmother." While Mr. Barbary had started instantly up and flung -the window higher, as if in the silence that followed the words, they -had struck back upon himself unpleasantly, and he sought to divert -attention from them. - -"A grand day for the outlying crops," he remarked, his lithe, slender -form, his pale, perfect features showing out well in the light of the -brilliant morning. "But most of the grain is in, I think. We shall have -a charming walk to Church Leet, Edgar." - -"Yes," assented Mr. Reste, as he folded the notes together and placed -them in his pocket-book. There were six of them for L10 each. - -Breakfast over, Katrine set off for Dyke Manor that morning as usual, to -talk to Lena in French, and teach her to read it. She stayed luncheon -with us. Chancing to say that her father and his guest were gone to -Church Leet, Mrs. Todhetley kept her. - -At four o'clock, when Katrine went home, she found they had returned, -and were then shut up in the gun-room. Katrine could hear the hum of -their voices, with now and again a burst of merry laughter from Edgar -Reste. - -"Have they had dinner?" she enquired of Joan. - -"Ay, sure they have, Miss Katrine. They got back at two o'clock, and I -prepared the dinner at once." - -I had lent Katrine that afternoon the "Vicar of Wakefield,"--which she -said she had never read; one could hardly believe such a thing of an -English girl, but I suppose it was through her having lived over in -France. Taking it into the back garden, she sat down on a rustic bench, -one or two of which stood about. By-and-by Edgar Reste came out and sat -down beside her. - -"Had you a nice walk to-day?" she asked. - -"Very," he answered. "What a quaint little village Church Leet is! -Hardly to be called a village, though. Leet Hall is a fine old place." - -"Yes, I have heard so. I have not seen it." - -"Not seen it! Do you mean to say, Katrine, that you have never been to -Church Leet?" - -"Not yet. Nobody has ever invited me to go, and I cannot walk all that -way by myself, you know." - -He was sitting sideways, his left arm leaning on the elbow of the bench, -his kindly, luminous brown eyes fixed on her fair pretty face, all -blushes and dimples. Ah, if fortune had but smiled upon him!--if he -might but have whispered to this young girl, who had become so dear to -him, of the love that filled his whole heart! - -"Suppose you walk over with me one of these fine days before I leave?" -he continued. "It won't be too far for you, will it?" - -"Oh no. I should like to go." - -"There is the prettiest churchyard you ever saw, to rest in. And such -a quaint little church, covered with ivy. The Rectory, standing by, is -quite a grand mansion in comparison with the church." - -"And the church has a history, I believe." - -"Ay, as connected with the people of the Hall and the Rectory; and with -its own chimes, that never played, I hear, but disaster followed. We -will go then, Katrine, some afternoon between now and Saturday." - -Her face fell; she turned it from him. "_Must_ you leave on Saturday, -Edgar?" - -"My dear little cousin, yes. Cousins in name, you know we are, though -not in reality." - -"You did say you might stay until Monday." - -"Ay, my will would be good to stay till Monday, and many a Monday after -it: but you see, Katrine, I have neglected my work too long, and I -cannot break into another week. So you must please make the most of me -until Saturday," he added playfully, "when I shall take the evening -train." - -"You English do not care to travel on a Sunday, I notice." - -"We English! Allow me to remind Mademoiselle that she is just as much -English as are the rest of us." - -Katrine smiled. - -"My good mother instilled all kinds of old-world notions into me, -Katrine. Amongst them was that of never doing week-day work on a Sunday -unless compelled by necessity." - -"Do you never work on a Sunday--at your reviews and writings, and all -that?" - -"Never. I am sure it would not bring me luck if I did. Suppose we fix -Thursday for walking to Church Leet?" - -"That will do nicely. Unless--Squire Todhetley invited you to go with -him to Evesham one day, you know," broke off Katrine. "He may just fix -upon Thursday." - -"In that case we will take our walk on Friday." - -A silence ensued. Their hearts were very full, and that makes speech -reticent. Katrine glanced now and again at the pages of the "Vicar of -Wakefield," which lay in her lap, but she did not read it. As to the -barrister, he was looking at her; at the face that had become so dear to -him. They might never meet again, nothing on earth might come of the -present intimacy and the sweet burning longings, but he knew that he -should remember her to the end of time. A verse of one of Moore's -melodies passed through his mind: unconsciously he began to hum it: - - "O, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot - Which first love traced; - Still it, lingering, haunts the greenest spot - On memory's waste." - -"Here comes Joan to say tea is ready," interrupted Katrine. - -They strolled indoors slowly, side by side. The tea-tray waited in the -parlour. Mr. Barbary came in from the gun-room, and they all sat down to -the table. - -After tea he went back to the gun-room, Mr. Reste with him, leaving -Katrine alone. She had the candles lighted and began to mend a piece of -Mrs. Todhetley's valuable old lace. Presently Joan came in to ask a -question. - -"Miss Katrine, is it the brace of partridges or the pheasants that are -to be cooked for supper? Do you know?" - -"No, that I don't," said Katrine. "But I can ask." - -Putting down her work, she went to the gun-room and gently opened the -door. Upon which, she heard these remarkable words from Mr. Reste: - -"I wouldn't hesitate at all if it were not for the moon." - -"The moon makes it all the safer," contended Mr. Barbary. "Foes can't -rush upon one unawares when the moon's shining. I tell you this will be -one of the best possible nights for you." - -"Papa, papa," hurriedly broke in Katrine, speaking through the dusk of -twilight, "is Joan to cook the pheasants or the partridges?" - -"The pheasants," he answered sharply. "Shut the door." - -So the pheasants were dressed for supper, and very nice they proved with -their bread-sauce and rich gravy. Mr. Barbary especially seemed to enjoy -them; his daughter did not. - -Poor Katrine's senses were painfully alert that night, as she lay -listening after getting to bed. The words she had overheard in the -gun-room seemed to her to bear but one meaning--that not only was her -father going abroad into the wilds of danger, but Edgar Reste also. They -had gone to their respective rooms early, soon after she went to hers; -but that might be meant as a blind and told nothing. - -By-and-by, she caught a sound as of the stairs creaking. Mr. Reste and -her father were both creeping down them. Katrine flew to her window and -peeped behind the blind. - -They went out together by the back door. The bright moonbeams lay full -upon the yard. Mr. Reste seemed to be attired like her father, in high -leggings and a large old shooting-coat, no doubt borrowed plumes. Each -of them carried a gun, and they stole cautiously out at the little side -gate. - -"Oh," moaned the unhappy Katrine, "if papa would but take better care -of himself! If he would but leave off doing this most dreadful and -dangerous thing!" - -Whether Katrine fell asleep after that, or not, she could never decide: -it appeared as though but a short time had elapsed, when she was -startled by a sharp sound outside, close to the house. It might have -been the report of a gun, but she was not sure. This was followed by -some stir in the yard and covert talking. - -"They are bringing in the game they have shot," thought Katrine, "but -oh, I am thankful they have got back safely!" And she put the pillow -over her head and ears, and lay shivering. - - * * * * * - -Squire Todhetley was as good and lenient a man at heart as could be -found in our two counties, Warwickshire and Worcestershire; fonder of -forgiving sins and sinners than of bringing them to book, and you have -not read of him all these years without learning it. But there was one -offence that stirred his anger up to bubbling point, especially when -committed against himself. And that was poaching. - -So that, when we got downstairs to breakfast at Dyke Manor on the -following morning, Wednesday, and were greeted with the news that some -poachers had been out on our land in the night, and had shot at the -keepers, it was no wonder the Squire went into a state of commotion, -and that the rest of us partook of it. - -"Johnny, tell Mack to fetch Jones; to bring him here instantly," fumed -he. "Those Standishes have been in this work!" - -I went to carry the orders to Mack in the yard. In passing back, after -giving them, I saw that the dog-kennel was empty and the chain lying -loose. - -"Where's Don?" I asked. "Who has taken him out?" - -"Guess he have strayed out of hisself, Master Johnny," was Mack's -answer. "He was gone when I come on this morning, sir, and the gate -were standing wide open." - -"Gone then?--and the gate open? Where's Giles?" - -But, even as I put the question, I caught sight of Giles at the stable -pump, plunging his head and face into a pail of water. So I knew what -had been the matter with _him_. Giles was a first-rate groom and a good -servant, and it was very seldom indeed that he took more than was good -for him, but it did happen at intervals. - -Old Jones arrived in obedience to the summons, and stood on his fat -gouty legs in the hall while the Squire talked to him. The faith he put -in that old constable was surprising, whose skill and discernment were -about suited to the year One. - -His tale of the night's doings, as confirmed by other tales, was not -very clear. At least, much satisfaction could not be got out of it. Some -poachers congregated on a plot of land called Dyke's Neck--why it should -have been so named nobody understood--were surprised by the keepers -early in the night. A few stray shots were interchanged, no damage -being done on either side, and the poachers made off, escaping not only -scot-free but unrecognised. This last fact bore the keenest sting of -all, and the Squire paced the hall in a fury. - -"You must unearth them," he said to Jones: "don't tell me. They can't -have buried themselves, the villains!" - -"No need to look far for 'em, Squire," protested Jones. "It's them -jail-birds, the three Standishes. If it's not, I'll eat my head." - -"Then why have you not taken up the three Standishes?" retorted the -Squire. "Of course it is the Standishes." - -"Well, your honour, because I can't get at 'em," said Jones helplessly. -"Jim, he is off somewhere; and Dick, he swears through thick and thin -that he was never out of his bed last night; and t'other, Tom, ain't -apperiently at home at all just now. I looked in at their kitchen on my -way here, and that was all I could get out of Mary." - -It was at this juncture that Katrine arrived, preparatory to her -morning's work with Lena. Old Jones and the Squire, still in the hall, -were chanting a duet upon the poachers' iniquity, and she halted by me -to listen. I was sitting on the elbow of the carved-oak settle. Katrine -looked pale as a sheet. - -Girls, thought I, do not like to hear of these things. For I knew -nothing then of her fears that the offenders had been her father and Mr. -Reste. - -"If the poachers had been taken, sir--what then?" she said tremblingly -to the Squire, in a temporary lull of the voices. - -"What then, Miss Barbary? Why then they would have been lodged in gaol, -and the neighbourhood well rid of them," was the impulsive answer. - -"Snug and safe, miss," put in old Jones, shuffling on his gouty legs in -his thick white stockings, "a-waiting to stand their trial next spring -assizes at Worcester. Which it would be transportation for 'em, I -hope--a using o' their guns indeed!" - -"Were they known at all?" gasped Katrine. "And might not the gamekeepers -have shot _them_? Perhaps have killed them?" - -"Killed 'em or wounded 'em, like enough," assented Jones, "and it would -be a good riddance of such varmint, as his worship says, miss. And a -misfortin it is that they be _not_ known. Which is an odd thing to my -mind, sir, considering the lightness o' the night: and I'd like to find -out whether them there keepers did their duty, or didn't do it." - -"I can't see the dog anywhere, father," interrupted Tod, dashing in at -this moment in a white heat, for he had been racing about in search of -Don. - -"What, is the dog off?" exclaimed old Jones. - -"Yes, he is," said Tod. "And if those poachers have stolen him, I'll try -and get them hanged." - -Leaving us to our commotion, Katrine Barbary passed on to the nursery -with Lena, where the lessons were taken. This straying away of Don made -one of the small calamities of the day. Giles, put to the torture of -confession, admitted that he remembered unchaining Don the past night -as usual, but could not remember whether or not he locked the gate. Of -course the probability was that he left it wide open, Mack having found -it so in the morning. So that Mr. Don, finding himself at liberty, might -have gone out promenading as early in the night as he pleased. Giles was -ready to hang himself with vexation. The dog was a valuable animal; a -prize for any tramp or poacher, for he could be sold at a high price. - -We turned out on our different quests; old Jones after the poachers, I -and Tod after Don: and the morning wore on. - -Katrine went home at midday. This news of the night encounter between -the keepers and the poachers had thrown her into a state of anxious -pain--though of course the reader fully understands that I am, so far, -writing of what I knew nothing about until later. That her father and -Edgar Reste had been the poachers of the past night she could not doubt, -and a dread of the discovery which might ensue lay upon her with a sick -fear. The Standishes might have been included in the party; more than -likely they were; Ben Gibbon also. Mr. Jim Standish had contrived to let -Katrine believe that they were all birds of a feather, tarred with the -same brush. But how could Edgar Reste have allowed himself to be drawn -into it even for one night? She could not understand that. - -Entering Caramel Cottage by its side gate, Katrine found Joan seated -in the kitchen, slicing kidney beans for dinner. Her father was in his -favourite den, the gun-room, Mr. Reste was out. When she left in the -morning, neither of them had quitted his respective chamber, an entirely -unusual thing. - -"How late you are with those beans, Joan!" listlessly observed Katrine. - -"The master sent me to the Silver Bear for a bottle of the best brandy, -and it hindered me," explained Joan. "They were having a fine noise -together when I got back," she added, dropping her voice. - -"Who were?" quickly cried Katrine. - -"The master and Mr. Reste. Talking sharply at one another, they were, -like two savages. I could hear 'em through my deafness. Ben Gibbon was -here when I went out, but he'd gone when I came in with the brandy." - -What with one thing and another, Katrine felt more uncomfortable than an -oyster out of its shell. Mr. Reste came in at dinner-time, and she saw -nothing amiss then, except that he and her father were both unusually -silent. - -Afterwards they went out together, and Katrine hoped that the -unpleasantness between them was at an end. - -She was standing at the front gate late in the afternoon, looking up and -down the solitary road, which was no better than a wide field path, when -Tod and I shot out of the dark grove by Caramel's Farm, and made up to -her. - -"You look hot and tired," she said to us. - -"So would you, Miss Barbary, if you had been scouring the fields in -search of Don, as we have," answered Tod, who was in a desperate mood. - -At that moment Mr. Barbary came swinging round the corner of the short -lane that led to the high-road, his guest following him. They nodded to -us and went in at the gate. - -"You do not happen to have seen anything of our Newfoundland dog to-day, -I suppose, Mr. Barbary?" questioned Tod. - -"No, I have not," he answered. "My daughter mentioned to me that he had -strayed away." - -"Strayed away or been stolen," corrected Tod. "The dog was a favourite, -and it has put my father out more than you'd believe. He thinks the -Standishes may have got him: especially if it is they who were out in -the night." - -"Shouldn't wonder but they have," said Mr. Barbary. - -Standing by in silence, I had been wondering what had come to Mr. Reste. -He leaned against the porch, listening to this, arms folded, brow -lowering, face dark, not a bit like his own pleasant self. - -"I am about the neighbourhood a good deal; I'll not fail to keep a -look-out," said Mr. Barbary, as we were turning away. "He was a fine -dog, and might prove a temptation to the Standishes; but I should be -inclined to think it more likely that he has strayed to a distance than -that they have captured him. They might find a difficulty in concealing -a large, powerful dog such as he is." - -"Not they; they are deep enough for any wicked action," concluded Tod, -as we went onwards. - -It was tea-time then at Caramel Cottage, and they sat down to take it. -Mr. Barbary was sociable and talked of this and that; Edgar Reste spoke -hardly a word; Katrine busied herself with the teapot and cups. At dusk -Ben Gibbon came in, and Katrine was sent to bear Joan company in the -kitchen. Brandy and whisky were put upon the table, Joan being called to -bring in hot and cold water. They sat drinking, as Katrine supposed, and -talking together in covert tones for two hours, when Gibbon left; upon -which Katrine was graciously told by her father she might return to the -parlour. Her head ached badly, she felt ill at ease, and when supper was -over went up to bed. But she could not get to sleep. - -About eleven o'clock, as she judged it to be, loud and angry sounds -arose. Her father and Mr. Reste had renewed their dispute--whatever its -cause might be. By-and-by, when it was at its height, she heard Mr. -Reste dash out at the back door; she heard her father dash after him. In -the yard there seemed to be a scuffle, more hot words, and then a sudden -silence. Katrine rose and stole to the window to look. - -She could not see either of them. But a noise in the kitchen beneath, -as if the fire-irons were thrown down, seemed to say they had come back -indoors. Another minute and her father came out with a lighted lantern -in his hand; she wondered why, as it was moonlight. He crossed the yard -and went into the back kitchen, or brewhouse, as it was more often -called, and Katrine, hoping the quarrel was over, got into bed again. -Presently the back door was shut with a bang that shook the room, and -footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, and afterwards all was quiet -until morning. - -As on the past morning, so it was on this. When Katrine got downstairs -she found that neither her father nor Mr. Reste was up. She breakfasted -alone, and set off for the Manor afterwards. - -But, as it chanced, she was to have partial holiday that day. Lena -complained of a sore throat; she was subject to sore throats; so Miss -Barbary was released when the lesson was half over, and returned home. - -Going to her room to take her bonnet off, she found Joan busy there. -From the window she saw her father at work at the far end of the garden. -This was Thursday, the day of the projected walk to Church Leet, and -very lovely weather. But Mr. Reste had not said anything about it since -the Tuesday afternoon. - -"Is Mr. Reste gone out, Joan?" - -"Mr. Reste is gone, Miss Katrine." - -"Gone where?" asked she. - -"Gone away; gone back to London," said Joan. Upon which Katrine, staring -at the old woman, inquired what she meant. - -It appeared that Mr. Barbary had left his chamber close upon Katrine's -departure, and sat down to breakfast. When he had finished he called -Joan to take the things away. She inquired whether they had not better -be left for Mr. Reste. He answered that Mr. Reste was gone. "What, gone -away back to London?" Joan cried, in surprise; and her master said, -"Yes." "You might just have knocked me down with a feather, Miss -Katrine, I was that took to," added Joan now, in relating this. "Never -to say good-bye to me, nor anything!" - -Katrine, thinking there was somebody else he had not said good-bye to, -could hardly speak from amazement. "When did he go, Joan? Since -breakfast? Or was he gone when I went out?" - -"Well, I don't know," pondered Joan; "it seems all a moither in my head; -as if I couldn't put this and that together. I never saw nor heard -anything of him at all this morning, and I find his bed has not been -slept in, which looks as if he went last night. It's odd, too, that he -didn't say he was going, and it's odd he should start off to London at -midnight. Your papa is in one of his short tempers, Miss Katrine, and -I've not dared to ask him about it." - -Katrine, as she listened, felt perfectly bewildered. Why had he taken -his departure in this strange manner? What for? What had caused him to -do it? Joan had told all she knew, and it was of no use questioning her -further. - -Mr. Reste's chamber door stood open; Katrine halted at it and looked in. -Why! he seemed to have taken nothing with him! His coats were hanging -up; trifles belonging to him lay about on chairs; on the side shelf -stood his little portable desk--and she had heard him say that he never -travelled without that desk, it went with him wherever he went. Opening -a drawer or two, she saw his linen, his neckties, his handkerchiefs. -What was the meaning of it all? Could he have been recalled to London in -some desperate hurry? But no letter or summons of any kind had come to -Caramel Cottage, so far as she knew, except the letter from Captain -Amphlett on Tuesday morning, and that one had not recalled him. - -"There be two pairs of his boots in the kitchen," said Joan. "He has -took none with him but them he's got on." - -"I _must_ ask papa about it," cried the puzzled Katrine. - -Mr. Barbary was at the bottom of the garden working away at the celery -bed in his shirt sleeves; his coat lay across the cucumber-frame. - -"What brings you home now?" he cried out, looking up as Katrine drew -near. - -"The little girl is not well. Papa," she added, her voice taking a -timid, shrinking tone, she hardly knew why, "Joan says Mr. Reste is -gone." - -"Well?" - -"But why has he left so suddenly, without saying anything about it?" - -"He could do so if he pleased. He was at liberty to go or stay." - -Katrine could not dispute that. She hardly liked to say more, her -father's answers were so curt and cross. - -"He must have gone unexpectedly, papa." - -"Unexpectedly! Not at all. He has been talking of going all the week." - -Katrine paused. "Is he coming back, papa?" - -"Not that I know of." - -"But he has not taken any of his things." - -"I am going to pack his things and send them after him." - -"But----_when_ did he go, papa?" - -Mr. Barbary, who had kept on working, drew himself bolt upright. Letting -his hands rest on the handle of his spade, he looked sternly into -Katrine's face. - -"He went last night." - -"He----he never told me he was going. He never said anything about it." - -"And why should he tell you?" demanded Mr. Barbary. "It was enough that -he told me. He thought he had been quite long enough away from his work, -and that it was high time to go back to it. I thought the same. That's -all, Katrine; you need not inquire further. And now you can go indoors." - -She walked slowly up the narrow path, conscious that some mystery must -lie behind this. Joan was standing in the yard, outside the back-kitchen -door, trying to pull it open. - -"This here back'us door's locked!" exclaimed Joan, in her country -vernacular. "I want the spare jack out; t'other's given way at last." - -"It can't be locked," dissented Katrine. "It never is." - -"Well, I've never known the door locked afore; but 'tis now, Miss -Katrine. I noticed it was shut to all day yesterday, but I didn't try -it." - -"It is only stuck," said Katrine, laying hold of the high old-fashioned -bow handle which served to lift the latch inside; and she shook it well. - -"What's that? What are you about?" called out Mr. Barbary, dashing up -the path like a flash of lightning. "Let the door alone." - -"Joan says it is locked, papa," said Katrine, frightened by his manner. - -"And what if it is? I have locked up some--some wine there that came in. -How dare you meddle with the places I choose to keep closed?" - -"It's the other jack I want out, sir," said Joan, hearing imperfectly. - -"You can't have the other jack." - -"But, master, the old jack's broke clean in two, and it's time to put -the lamb down." - -"Cut it into chops," he cried, waving them both off, and standing, -himself, before the door, as if to guard it, with a white, imperious, -passionate face. - -Single-minded old Joan went indoors, marvelling a little--such a bit of -a trouble for him to have opened the back'us door and given her out the -jack! Katrine followed, marvelling very much. She did not believe in the -wine: felt sure no wine had come in; they never had any; what was it -that was locked up there? All in a moment a thought flashed over her -that it might be game: poached game: pheasants and partridges and hares. -But, upon that thought came another: why should the spoil have been -brought in on Tuesday night when it had never (as she believed) been -brought before? Just a little came in for their own use, nothing more. - - -II - -That day, Thursday, we had news of Don. And we had it in this way. -Tobias Jellico--who had a small draper's shop at Evesham, and went about -the country with a pack, out of which he seduced unwary ladies to buy -finery, more particularly some of our ladies living in Piefinch Cut--was -at Church Dykely to-day on one of his periodical visitations. We did not -like the man or his trade; but that's neither here nor there. Hearing -that the Squire's dog was lost, he at once said he had seen Dick -Standish that morning in Bengeworth (a portion of Evesham) with a large -Newfoundland dog. White-and-brown, he called it; which was a mistake, -for Don was white and black; but Jellico might not know colours. It was -Mr. Duffham who brought us this news in the afternoon: he had been sent -for to Lena, whose throat was getting worse. Duffham heard it from -Perkins the butcher, to whom Jellico told it. - -I don't know which item pleased the Squire most: that Don was found, or -that the guilt of Tuesday night was traced home to the Standishes; for -the three brothers had in general a certain gentleman's own luck, and -were rarely caught. - -"Don went out roaming, through that villain Giles unloosing him and -leaving the yard gate open," decided the Squire, in his excitement. "The -dog must have sprung upon them; he has a mortal enmity to tramps and -poachers, you know, Duffham; and the Standishes captured him. I'll send -a message to the police at Evesham at once, to look after Mr. Dick, and -go over myself in the morning." - -"Anyway, I'm glad the dog's found," said Duffham. "But what an idiot -Dick Standish must be to allow himself to be seen with the dog in the -public streets." - -"Johnny," said the Squire, turning to me as he was leaving the room to -send a man galloping on horseback to the Evesham police, "you run over -to Caramel Cottage. Make my compliments to young Reste; say that I am -going to drive to Evesham to-morrow morning, and shall be happy to take -him if he likes to accompany me. I offered to drive him over some day -before he left, but this bother has caused me to delay it. Shall start -at nine o'clock, tell him." - -About the time the Squire was charging me with this message, Katrine -Barbary was sitting in the homely garden at Caramel Cottage, amidst the -fruit trees, the vegetables, and the late flowers. The October sunlight -fell on her pretty face, that somehow put you in mind of a peach with -its softest bloom upon it. - -Katrine was striving to see daylight out of a mass of perplexity, of -which I then knew nothing, and she could not discern a single ray. Why -should that fine young barrister, Edgar Reste, staying with them so -peacefully for several weeks past, and fully intending to stay this -week out--why should he have run away by night, leaving behind him an -atmosphere of mystery? This question would never leave Katrine's mind by -night or by day. - -Sitting there in the afternoon sun, she was running over mentally, for -the tenth time or so, the details of the affair. One or two of them -might have looked somewhat shady to a suspicious observer; to Katrine -they presented only a web of perplexity. She felt sure that when she -went to bed on the Wednesday night he had no thought of leaving; and yet -it seemed that he did leave. When Joan rose in the early morning, he had -disappeared--vanished, as may be said. The puzzle that Katrine could not -solve was this: why had he gone away in haste so great that he could not -take his clothes with him? and why had he gone at all in an unexpected, -stealthy way, saying nothing to anybody? - -"It looks just as though he had run away to escape some imminent danger, -with not a minute to spare," mused Katrine. - -At this moment Katrine met with an interruption to her thoughts in the -shape of me. Catching a glimpse of her print frock through the hedge, I -went straight in at the little side gate, without troubling the front -door. - -"Sit down, Johnny," she said, holding out her hand, and making room for -me on the bench. And as I took the seat, I said what I had come for--to -deliver the Squire's message to Mr. Reste. - -"Mr. Reste has left us," said Katrine. "He went away last night." - -"Went away last night!" I exclaimed, the news surprising me uncommonly. -"What took him off so suddenly?" - -Open-natured as the day, Katrine told me the particulars (which proved -that she had no dark fears about it as yet), of course saying nothing -about the poaching. And she did mention the quarrel. - -"It is so strange that he should leave all his things behind him--don't -you see that, Johnny?" she said. "Even that little desk, full of private -papers, is left, and he never travels without it; his boots are left." - -"He must have had some news to call him away. A letter perhaps." - -"The only letter he has had lately came on Tuesday morning," returned -Katrine. "It had a good deal of money in it in bank-notes; sixty pounds; -but it did not call him away. _Nothing_ called him away, that I can -discover. You can't think how it is worrying me; it seems just a -mystery." - -"Look here, Katrine," I said, after mentally twisting the matter this -way and that, "I've known the most unaccountable problems turn out to be -the simplest on explanation. When you hear from him, as you most likely -will in a day or two, I dare say he will tell you he was called away -unexpectedly, and had to go at once. Does not Mr. Barbary know why he -went?" - -"Well, yes; I fancy he does: he is indoors now, packing Mr. Reste's -things: but he does not tell me." - -After talking a little longer, we strolled up the path together, and had -reached the yard when Mr. Barbary suddenly opened the kitchen door to -shake the dust from a coat that seemed covered with it. His handsome -face took a haughty expression, and his slender, shapely form was drawn -up in pride as he looked sternly at me, as much as to say, "What do you -want here?" - -I turned, on my way to the side gate, to explain: that Don had been seen -at Evesham in the company of Dick Standish, that the Squire would be -driving thither on the morrow, and had thought Mr. Reste might like to -go with him. - -"Very kind of Mr. Todhetley," drawled Barbary in his stand-off manner. -"Tell him, with my compliments and thanks for his courtesy, that my -nephew has left for London." - -"Left for good, I suppose?" I said. - -"For the present, at any rate. A pressing matter of business recalled -him, and he had to attend to it without delay." - -I glanced at Katrine: there was the explanation. - -"So the dog is at Evesham!" remarked Mr. Barbary. "The Standishes are -great rogues, all three of them, and Dick's the worst. But--I think--had -you gone after him to-day, instead of delaying it until to-morrow, there -might have been more certainty of finding him. Mr. Dick may give you -leg-bail in the night." - -"The police will see he does not do that; the Squire has sent a -messenger to warn them," I replied. "I suppose you have not heard any -more rumours about the poaching on Tuesday night, Mr. Barbary?" - -"I've heard no more than was said at first--that the keepers reported -some poachers were out, and they nearly came to an encounter with the -rascals. Wish they had--and that I had seen the fun. Reste and I had -walked to Church Leet and back that day; we were both tired and went -upstairs betimes." - -To hear him coolly assert this, to see his good-looking face raised -unblushingly to the sun as he said it, must have been as a bitter farce -to Katrine, who had believed him, until a few days back, to be next door -to a saint for truth and goodness. _I_ put faith in it, not being then -behind the scenes. - -Mr. Barbary did his packing leisurely. Tea was over, and dusk set in -before the portmanteau was shut up and its direction fastened to it. -Katrine read the card. "Edgar Reste, Esq., Euston Square Station, -London. _To be left till called for._" - -Very lonely felt Katrine, sitting by herself that evening, working a -strip of muslin for a frill. _He_ was not there to talk to her in his -voice of music--for that's what she had grown to think it, like other -girls in love. She wondered whether they should ever meet again--ever, -ever? She wondered how long it would be before a letter came from him, -and whether he would write to _her_. - -Mr. Barbary appeared at supper-time, ate some cold lamb in silence, -seeming to be buried in thought, and went back to the gun-room when he -had finished. Katrine got to her work again, did a little, then put it -away for the night, and turned to the book-shelf to get a book. - -Standing to make a choice of one, Katrine was seized with consternation. -On the lower shelf, staring her right in the face, was Mr. Reste's -Bible. It had been given him by his dead father, and he set store by it. -He must have left it downstairs the previous Sunday, and Joan had put it -away on the shelves amongst the other books. - -"I wonder if papa would mind opening the portmanteau again?" thought -Katrine, as she hastened to the gun-room, and entered. - -"Papa! papa! here's Mr. Reste's Bible left out," she cried, impulsively. -"Can you put it into the portmanteau?" - -Mr. Barbary stood by the small safe in the wall, the door of which was -open. In his hand lay some bank-notes; he was holding them towards the -candle on the deal table, and seemed to be counting them. Katrine, -thinking of the Bible and of nothing else, went close to him, and her -eye fell on the notes. He flung them into the cupboard in a covert -manner, gave the door a slam, turned an angry face on Katrine, and a -sharp tongue. - -"Why do you come bursting in upon me in this boisterous fashion? I won't -have it. What? Will I undo the portmanteau to put in a Bible? No, I -won't. Keep it till he chooses to come for it." - -She shrank away frightened, softly closing the door behind her. Those -bank-notes belonged to Mr. Reste: they were the same she had seen him -put into his pocket-book two days ago. Why had he not taken them with -him?--what brought them in her father's possession? The advance shadow -of the dark trouble, soon to come, crept into Katrine Barbary's heart. - -In no mood for reading now, she went to bed, and lay trying to think it -out. What did it all mean? Had her father conjured the pocket-book by -sleight-of-hand out of Mr. Reste's keeping and _stolen_ the notes? She -strove to put the disgraceful thought away from her, and could not. The -distress brought to her by the poaching seemed as nothing to this, bad -though that was.--And would he venture abroad to-night again? - -Joan's light foot-fall passed her door, going up to her bed in the roof. -Once there, nothing ever disturbed the old servant or her deafness until -getting-up time in the morning. Katrine lay on, no sleep in her eyes; -half the night it would have seemed, but that she had learned how slowly -time passes with the restless. Still, it was a good while past twelve, -she thought, when curious sounds, as of _digging_, seemed to arise from -the garden. Sounds too faint perhaps to have been heard in the day-time, -but which penetrated to her ear unless she was mistaken, in the deep, -uncanny, undisturbed silence of the night. She sat up in bed to listen. - -There, it came again! What could it be? People did not dig up gardens at -midnight. Slipping out of bed, she drew the blind aside and peeped out. - -The night was light as day, with a bright, clear, beautiful moon: the -hunters' moon. Underneath the summer-apple tree, close at this end of -the garden, bent Mr. Barbary, digging away with all his might, his large -iron spade turning up the earth swiftly and silently. Katrine's eyes -grew wide with amazement. He had dug up that same plot of ground only a -few days ago, in readiness to plant winter greens: she and Edgar Reste -had stood looking on for a time, talking with him as to the sort of -greens he meant to put in. Why was he digging up the same ground -again?--and why was he doing it at this unearthly hour? - -It appeared to be a hole that was being dug now, for he threw the -spadefuls of mould up on each side pretty far. The ground seemed quite -soft and pliant; owing perhaps to its having been so recently turned. -As the hole grew larger; wider and longer and deeper; an idea flashed -over Katrine that it looked just as though it were meant for a grave. -Not that she thought it. - -Putting a warm shawl on her shoulders and slippers on her feet, she -sat down before the window, drew the blind up an inch or two, and kept -looking out, her curiosity greatly excited. The moon shone steadily, the -time passed, and the hole grew yet larger. Suddenly Mr. Barbary paused -in his work, and held up his head as if to listen. Did he fear, or -fancy, a noise in the field pathway outside, or in the dark grove to the -right near Caramel's Farm? Apparently so: and that he must not be seen -at his work. For he got out of the hole, left the spade in it, came with -noiseless, swift, stealthy movement up the yard, and concealed himself -in the dark tool-shed. Presently, he stole across to the little gate, -looked well about him to the right and left, and then resumed his -digging. - -Quite six feet long it soon looked to Katrine, and three or more feet -wide, and how deep she knew not. _Was it for a grave?_ The apprehension -really stole across her, and with a sick faintness. If so, if so--? A -welcome ray of possibility dawned then. Had her father (warned by this -stir that was going on, the search for poachers and their spoil) a lot -of contraband game in his possession that must be hidden away out of -sight? Perhaps so. - -It seemed to be finished now. The moon had sailed ever so far across the -sky by this time, but was still shining full upon it. Mr. Barbary crept -again to the gate and stood listening and looking up and down in the -silence of the night. Then he crossed to the brewhouse, took the key -from his pocket, unlocked it, and went inside. Katrine could see the -flash of the match as he struck a light. - -When he emerged from the brewhouse he was dragging a weight along -the ground with two strong cords. A huge, unshapely, heavy substance -enveloped in what looked like matting or sacking. Dragging it straight -over the yard to the grave, Mr. Barbary let it fall carefully in, cords -and all, and began to shovel in the mould upon it with desperate haste. - -Terror seized on Katrine. What was in that matting? All in an instant, -a little corner of the veil--that had obscured from her understanding -so much which had seemed mysterious and unfathomable--lifted itself, -bringing to her an awful conviction. Was it Edgar Reste that was being -put out of the way; buried for ever from the sight of man? Her father -must have killed him; must have done it in a passion! Katrine Barbary -cried out with a loud and bitter cry. - -Fascinated by the sight of terror, she was unable to draw her eyes away. -But the next moment they had caught sight of another object, bringing -equal terror, though of a different nature: some one, who had apparently -crept in at the gate unheard, was standing at the corner of the garden -hedge, looking on. Was it an officer of the law, come to spy upon her -father and denounce his crime? But, even as she gazed, the figure drew -back to make its exit by the gate again, and to Katrine it seemed to -take my form. - -"It is Johnny Ludlow!" she gasped. "Oh, I pray that it may be! I think -_he_ would not betray him." - -Katrine watched on. She saw the grave filled in; she saw her father -stamp it down; she saw him carry the superfluous mould to a place under -the wall, near the manure bed, and she saw him stamp that down, and then -cover it loosely with some of the manure, so that it might look like a -part of the heap. Then he seemed to be coming in, and Katrine thought it -must be nearing the dawn. - -Creeping into bed, she hid her face, that never again ought to show -itself amidst honest men, under the clothes. Some covert stir yet seemed -to be going on in the yard, as of pumping and scrubbing. Turning from -hot to cold, from cold to hot, Katrine was seized with a shivering fit. - -"And who really was it watching?" she moaned. "It looked like Johnny, -yet I can't be sure; he stood in the shade." - -But it was _me_, as the schoolboys say. And the reason of my being -there at the small, unearthly hours of the morning, together with the -conclusion of this appalling story, will be found in the next chapter. - - - - -CARAMEL COTTAGE - - -III.--DON THE SECOND - - -I - -We have a saying in England, "It never rains but it pours," as applied, -not to the rain, but to the occurrences of daily life. Dyke Manor was -generally quiet enough, but on Thursday evening--the Thursday already -told of--we were destined to have visitors. First of all, arrived Mr. -Jacobson, our neighbour at Elm Farm, with his nephew, young Harry Dene; -he had his gig put up, meaning to make an evening of it. It turned out -to be a night, or nearly so, as you will soon find. Close upon that, -Charles Stirling of the Court (my place) came in; and Mrs. Todhetley -went to the kitchen to say that we should require supper. The stirring -events of the week had brought them over--namely, the encounter on -our land between the poachers and the keepers, and the flight of the -valuable yard dog, Don, a Newfoundland. - -That afternoon, Thursday, we had heard, as may be remembered, that Don -was at Evesham, under the keeping of Mr. Dick Standish; and I had been -told by Katrine Barbary that Mr. Reste had suddenly and unexpectedly -disappeared from Caramel Cottage. Old Jacobson predicted that Dick -Standish would come to be hanged; Charles Stirling said he ought to be -transported. - -"Of course you will prosecute him, Squire?" said Charles Stirling. - -"Of course I shall," replied the Squire, warmly. "The police have him -already safe enough if they've done their duty, and I shall be over at -Evesham in the morning." - -After a jolly supper they got to their pipes, and the time went by on -wings. At least, that's what the master of Elm Farm said when the clocks -struck eleven, and he asked leave to order his gig. - -It was brought round by Giles, the groom; and we were all assembled in -the hall to speed the departure, when old Jones, the constable, burst in -upon us at the full speed of his gouty legs, his face in a white heat. - -Private information had reached Jones half an hour ago that the poachers -intended to be out again that night, but he could not learn in which -direction. - -Then commotion arose. The Squire and his friend Jacobson were like two -demented wild Indians, uncertain what was best to be done to entrap the -villains. The gig was ordered away again. - -Some time passed in discussion. In these moments of excitement one -cannot always bring one's keenest wits to the fore. Charles Stirling -offered to go out and reconnoitre; we, you may be quite sure, were eager -to second him. I went with Charles Stirling one way; Tod and Harry Dene -went another--leaving the Squire and Mr. Jacobson at the gate, listening -for shots, and conferring in whispers with old Jones. - -How long we marched about under the bright moonlight, keeping under the -shade of the trees and hedges, I cannot tell you; but when we all four -met at Dyke Neck, which lay between the Manor and the Court, we had seen -nothing. Mr. Stirling went straight home then, but we continued our -ramblings. A schoolboy's ardour is not quickly damped. - -Beating about fresh ground together for a little while, we then -separated. I went across towards the village: the other two elsewhere. -It was one of the loveliest of nights, the full moon bright as day, the -air warm and soft. But I neither saw nor heard signs of any poachers, -and I began to suspect that somebody had played a trick on the old -constable. - -I turned short back at the thought, and made, as the Americans say, -tracks for home. My nearest way was through the dense grove of trees at -the back of Caramel Farm, and I took it, though it was not the liveliest -way by any means. - -But no sooner was I beyond the grove than sounds struck on my ear in -the stillness of the night. They seemed to come from the direction of -Caramel Cottage. Darting under the side hedge, and then across the side -lane, and so under the hedge again that bound the cottage, I stole on -the grass as softly as a mouse. Poachers could not be at work there; -but an idea flashed across me that somebody had got into Mr. Barbary's -well-stocked garden, and was robbing it. - -Peering through the hedge, I saw Barbary himself. He was coming out of -the brewhouse, dragging behind him, with two cords, a huge sack of some -kind, well-filled and heavy. Opposite the open door, on the furnace, -shone a lighted horn lantern. Mr. Barbary pushed-to the door behind him, -thereby shutting out the light, dragged his burden over the yard to the -garden, and let it fall into what looked like--a freshly dug grave. - -Astonishment kept me intensely still. What did it all mean? Hardly -daring to breathe, I stole in at the gate and under the shade of the -hedge. Whatever it might contain, that sacking lay perfectly quiet, and -Mr. Barbary began to shovel in the spadefuls of earth upon it, as one -does upon a coffin. - -This was nothing for me to interfere with, and I went away silently. -It looked like a mystery, and a dark one; any way it was being done in -secret in the witching hours of the night. What the time might be I knew -not, the Squire having ordered our watches taken off before starting: -perhaps one, or two, or three o'clock. - -Tod and Harry Dene reached the gate of Dyke Manor just as I did; and we -were greeted, all three, with a storm of reproaches by the Squire and -Mr. Jacobson. What did we mean by it?--scampering off like that for -hours?--for _hours_!--Three times had the gig been brought out and put -up again! Harry was bundled headforemost into the gig, and Mr. Jacobson -drove off. - -And it turned out that my suspicion touching old Jones was right. Some -young men had played the trick upon him. I need not have mentioned it at -all, but for seeing what I did see in Barbary's garden. - -How Katrine Barbary passed that night you have seen: for, like many -another story-teller, I have had to carry you back a few hours. -Shivering and shaking, now hot, now cold, she lay, striving to reason -with herself that _it could not be_; that so dreadful a thing was not -possible; that she was the most wicked girl on earth for imagining it: -and she strove in vain. All the events of the past day or two kept -crowding into her mind one upon another in flaring colours, like the -figures in some hideous phantasmagoria. The unexpected arrival of the -bank-notes for Mr. Reste; her father's covetous look at them and his -dreadful joke; their going out together that night poaching; their -quarrelling together the next morning; their worse quarrelling at night, -and their dashing out to the yard (as if in passion) one after the -other. And, so far as Katrine could trace it, that was the very last -seen or heard of Edgar Reste. The next morning he was gone; gone in a -mysterious manner, leaving all his possessions behind him. Her father -was reticent over it; would not explain. Then came the little episode of -the locked-up brewhouse, which had never been locked before in Joan's -memory. Mr. Barbary refused to unlock it, said he had put some wine -there; told Joan she must do without the jack. What had really been -hidden in that brewhouse? Katrine felt faint at the thought. _Not wine._ -And the terrible farce of packing Mr. Reste's effects and addressing -them to Euston Square Station, London! Would they lie there for -ever--unclaimed? Alas, alas! The proofs were only too palpable. Edgar -Reste had been put out of the world for ever. She had been the shivering -witness to his secret burial. - - * * * * * - -"What's the matter, Katrine? Are you ill?" - -The inquiry was made by Mr. Barbary next day at breakfast. Sick unto -death she looked. The very bright night had given place to a showery -morning, and the rain pattered against the window-panes. - -"I have a headache," answered Katrine, faintly. - -"Better send Joan to the Manor to say you cannot attend to-day." - -"Oh, I would rather go; I must go," she said hastily. For this good girl -had been schooling herself as well as she knew how; making up her mind -to persevere in fulfilling the daily duties of her life in the best way -she should be able; lest, if she fell short abruptly, suspicion might -turn towards her father. She had wildly prayed Heaven to grant her -strength and help to bear up on her course. Not from her must come the -pointing finger of discovery. It is true that he--Edgar--was her first -and dearest love; she should never love another as she had loved him; -but she was her father's child, and held him sacred. - -"Why must you go?" demanded Mr. Barbary, as, having finished a plate of -broiled mushrooms, he began upon a couple of eggs with an appetite that -the night's work did not seem to have spoiled. - -"The air--the walk--may do me good." - -"Well, you know best, child. I suppose Todhetley be off to Evesham -after that dog of theirs," Mr. Barbary went on to remark. "Master Dick -Standish must be a bold sinner to steal the dog one day and parade the -open streets with it the next! If---- What is it now, Joan?" - -For old Joan had come in with a face of surprise. "Sir," she cried, "has -Tom Noah been at work here this morning?" - -"Not that I know of," replied Mr. Barbary. Tom Noah, an industrious -young fellow, son to Noah, the gardener, was occasionally employed by -Mr. Barbary to clean up the yard and clear the garden of its superfluous -rubbish. - -"Our back'us has been scrubbed out this morning, sir," went on Joan, -still in astonishment. "And it didn't want it. Who in the world can have -come in and gone and done it?" - -"Nonsense," said Mr. Barbary. - -"But it has, master; scrubbed clean; the flags are all wet still. And -the rain-water barrel's a'most empty, nearly every drop of water drawn -out of it! I'd not say but the yard has had a bit of a scrubbing, too, -near the garden, as well as the back'us." - -"Nonsense!" repeated Mr. Barbary, his light tone becoming irritable. -"You see it has been raining! the rain has drifted into the brewhouse, -that's all; I left the door open last night. There! go back to your -work." - -Joan was a simple-natured woman, but she was neither silly nor blind, -and she knew that what she said was true. Rapidly turning the matter -over in her mind, she came to the conclusion that Tom Noah had been in -"unbeknown to the master," and so left the subject. - -"I suppose I may take out the spare jack now, sir?" she waited to say. - -"Take out anything you like," replied Mr. Barbary. - -Afraid of her tell-tale face, Katrine had moved to the window, -apparently to look at the weather. Too well she knew who had scrubbed -out the place, and why. - -The rain had ceased when she set off on her short walk--for it was not -much more than a stone's throw to the Manor; the sun was struggling from -behind the clouds, blue sky could be seen. Alone with herself and the -open country, Katrine gave vent to her pent-up spirit, which she had -not dared to do indoors; sighs of anguish and of pain escaped her; she -wondered whether it would be wrong if she prayed to die. But some one -was advancing to meet her, and she composed her countenance. - -It was Ben Gibbon. For the past week or so, since Katrine had been -enlightened as to her father's poaching propensities, she had somehow -feared this man. He was son to the late James Gibbon, the former -gamekeeper at Chavasse Grange, and brother to the present keeper, -Richard. Of course one might expect that Mr. Benjamin would protect game -and gamekeepers; instead of which, he was known to do a little safe -poaching on his own account, and to be an idle fellow altogether. -Katrine did not like his intimacy with her father, and she could not -forget that he had passed part of that fatal evening with him and Edgar -Reste. - -"Showery weather to-day, miss," was Ben Gibbon's salutation. - -"Yes, it is," answered Katrine, with intense civility--for how could she -tell what the man might know? - -"I suppose I shall find Mr. Barbary at home?" - -"Oh, yes," faintly spoke she, and passed on her way. - - -II - -We started for Evesham under a sharp shower, the Squire driving Bob and -Blister in the large phaeton. Tod sat with him, I and the groom behind. -Not a shadow of doubt lay on any one of us that we should bring back -Don in triumph--leaving Dick Standish to be dealt with according to his -merits. But, as the Squire remarked later, we were not a match for Dick -in cunning. - -"Keep your eyes open, lads," the Squire said to us as we approached the -town. "And if you see Dick Standish, with or without the dog, jump out -and pounce upon him. You hear, Giles?" - -"No need to tell me to do it, sir," answered Giles humbly, clenching his -fists; he had been eating humble pie ever since Tuesday night. "I am -ready." - -But Dick Standish was not seen. Leaving the carriage and Giles at the -inn, we made our way to the police station. An officer named Brett -attended to us. It was curious enough, but the first person we saw -inside the station was Tobias Jellico, who had called in on some matter -of business that concerned his shop. - -"We had your message yesterday, sir," said Brett to the Squire, "and we -lost no time in seeing after Standish. But it is not your dog that he -has with him." - -"Not my dog!" repeated the Squire, up in arms at once. "Don't tell me -that, Brett. Whose dog should it be but mine? Come!" - -"Well, sir, I never saw your dog; but Tomkins, one of our men, who has -often been on duty at Church Dykely, knows it well," rejoined Brett. "We -had Standish and the dog up here, and Tomkins at once said it was not -your dog at all, so we let the man go. Mr. Jellico also says it is not -yours; I was talking to him about it now." - -"What I said was this," put in Jellico, stepping forward, and speaking -with meek deprecation. "If Squire Todhetley's dog has been described to -me correctly, the dog I saw with Standish yesterday can't be the same. -It is a great big ugly dog, with tan marks about his white coat----" - -"Ugly!" retorted the Squire, resenting the aspersion, for he fully -believed it to be Don. - -"It is not at all an ugly dog, it's a handsome dog," spoke up Brett. -"Perhaps Mr. Jellico does not like dogs." - -"Not much," confessed Jellico. - -"How came you to say yesterday at Church Dykely that it was the same -dog?" Tod asked the man. - -"If you please, sir, I didn't exactly say it was; I said I made no doubt -of it," returned Jellico, mild as new milk. "It was in this way: Perkins -the butcher was standing at his shop door as I passed down the street. -We began talking, and he told me about the poachers having been out -on the Tuesday night, and that Squire Todhetley had lost his fine -Newfoundland dog; he said it was thought the Standishes were in both -games. So then I said I had met Dick Standish with just such a dog that -morning as I was a-coming out of Evesham. I had never seen the Squire's -dog, you perceive, gentlemen; but neither Mr. Perkins nor me had any -doubt it was his." - -"And it must be mine," returned the Squire, hotly. "Send for the dog, -Brett; I will see it. Send for Standish also." - -"I'll send, sir," replied Brett, rather dubiously, "and get the man here -if he is to be had. The chances are that with all this bother Standish -has left the town and taken the dog with him." - -Brett was a talkative man, with a mottled face and sandy hair. He -despatched a messenger to see after Standish. Jellico went out at the -same time, telling Brett that his business could wait till another day. - -"I know it is my dog," affirmed the Squire to Brett while he waited. -Nothing on earth, except actual sight, would have convinced him that it -was not his. "Those loose men play all sorts of cunning tricks. Dick -Standish is full of them. I shouldn't wonder but he has _painted_ the -dog; done his black marks over with brown paint--or _green_." - -"We've a dyer in this town, Squire," related Brett; "he owns a little -white curly dog, and he dyes him as an advertisement for his colours, -and lets him run about on the pavement before the shop door. To-day the -dog will be a delicate sky-blue, to-morrow a flaming scarlet; the next -day he'll be a beautiful orange, with a green tail. The neighbours' -dogs collect round and stand looking at him from a respectful distance, -uncertain, I suppose, whether he is of the dog species, or not." - -I laughed. - -"Passing the shop the other day, I saw the dog sitting on the -door-step," ran on Brett. "He was bright purple that time. An old lady, -driving by in her chariot, caught sight of the dog and called to the -coachman to pull up. There she sat, that old lady, entranced with -amazement, staring through her eye-glass at what she took to be a -phenomenon in nature. Five minutes, full, she stared, and couldn't tear -herself away. It is true, gentlemen, I assure you." - -Mr. Dick Standish was found, and brought before us. He looked rather -more disreputable than usual, his old fustian coat out at elbows, -a spotted red handkerchief twisted loosely round his neck. The dog -was with him, _and it was not ours_. A large, fine dog, as already -described, though much less handsome than Don, and out of condition, his -curly coat a yellowish white, the marks on it of real tan colour, not -painted. - -Dick's account, after vehemently protesting he had nothing to do with -the poaching affair on Tuesday night, was never for a minute out of his -bed--was this: The dog belonged to one of the stable-helpers at Leet -Hall; but the man had determined to have the dog shot, not being -satisfied with him of late, for the animal had turned odd and uncertain -in his behaviour. Dick Standish heard of this. Understanding dogs -thoroughly, and believing that this dog only wanted a certain course of -treatment to put him right, Standish walked to Church Leet on Wednesday -morning last from Church Dykely, and asked the man, Brazer, to give him -the dog--he would take him and run all risks. Brazer refused at first; -but, after a bit, agreed to let Standish keep the dog for a time. If he -cured the dog, Brazer was to have him back again, paying Standish for -his keep and care; but if not satisfied with the dog, Standish might -keep him for good. Standish brought the dog away, and took him straight -to Evesham, walking the whole way and getting there about nine o'clock -in the evening. He was doctoring the dog well, and hoped to cure him. - -Whether this tale was true or whether it wasn't, none of us could -contradict it. But there was an appearance of fear, of shuffling in the -man's manner, which seemed to indicate that something lay behind. - -"It's every word gospel, ain't it, Rove, and no lie nowhere," cried -Standish, bending to pat the dog, while the corner of his eye was turned -to regard the aspect of the company. "You've blown me up for many things -before now, Squire Todhetley, but there's no call, sir, to accuse me -this time." - -"When did you hear about this dog of Brazer's, and who told you of it?" -inquired Tod, in his haughty way. - -"'Twas Bill Rimmer, sir; he telled me on Tuesday night," replied Dick. -"And I said to him what a shame it was to talk of destroying that there -fine dog, and that Brazer was a soft for thinking on't. And I said, -young Mr. Todhetley, that I'd be over at Church Leet first thing the -next morning, to see if he'd give the dog to me." - -"It is not my dog, I see that," spoke the Squire, breaking the silence -that followed Dick's speech; "and it may be the stableman's at Leet -Hall; that's a thing readily ascertained. Do you know where my dog is, -Dick Standish?" - -"No, I don't know, sir," replied the man in a very eager tone; "and I -never knowed at all, till fetched to this police station yesterday, that -your dog was a-missing. I'll swear I didn't." - -There was nothing more to be done, but to accept the failure, and leave -the station, after privately charging the police to keep an eye on -clever Mr. Dick Standish, his haunts, and his movements. - -In the afternoon we drove back home, not best pleased with the day's -work. A sense of having been _done_, in some way or other not at present -explicable, lay on most of us. - -It appeared that the groom shared this feeling strongly. In passing -through the yard, I came upon him in his shirt sleeves, seated outside -the stable door on an inverted bucket. His elbows on his knees and his -face in his hands, he looked the image of despair. The picture arrested -me. Mack was rubbing down the horses; a duty Giles rarely entrusted to -anybody. He was fond of Don, and had been ready to hang himself ever -since Tuesday night. - -"Why, Giles! what's the matter?" - -"Matter enough, Master Johnny, when a false villyan like that Dick -Standish can take the master, and the police their-selves, and everybody -else, in!" was his answer. "I felt as cock-sure, sir, that we should -bring home Don as I am that the sky above us is shining out blue after -the last shower." - -"But it was not Don, you see, Giles." - -"_He_ wasn't; the dog Standish had to show," returned Giles, with a -peculiar emphasis. "Dick had got up his tale all smooth and sleek, sir." - -"How do you know he had?" - -"Because he told it me over again--the one he said he had been telling -at the police station, Master Johnny. I was standing outside the inn -yard while you were all in at lunch, and Standish came by as bold as -brass, Brazer's dog, Rover, leashed to his hand." - -"I suppose it is Brazer's dog?" - -"Oh, it's Brazer's dog, that'un be," said Giles, with a deep amount of -scorn; "I know _him_ well enough." - -"Then how can it be Don? And we could not bring home another man's dog." - -Giles paused. His eyes had a far-off look in them, as if seeking for -something they could not find. - -"Master Johnny," he said, "I can't rightly grasp things. All the way -home I've been trying to put two and two together, I am trying at it -still, and I can't do it anyhow. Don't it seem odd to you, sir, that -Standish should have got Brazer's dog, Rover, into his hands just at -the very time we are suspecting he has got Don into 'em?" - -I did not know. I had not thought about it. - -"He has that dog of Brazer's as a blind. A blind, and nothing else, -sir. He has captured our dog, safe and sure, and is keeping him hid up -somewhere till the first storm of the search is over, when he'll be able -to dispose of him safely." - -I could not see Giles's drift, or how the one dog could help to conceal -the possession of the other. - -"Well, sir, I can't explain it better," he answered; "I can't fit -the pieces of the puzzle into one another in my mind _yet_. But I am -positive it is so. Dick Standish has made up the farce about Brazer's -dog and got him into his hands to throw dust in our eyes and keep us off -the scent of Don." - -I began to see the groom might be right; and that the Standishes, sly -and crafty, were keeping Don in hiding. - -Mrs. Todhetley had met us with a face of concern. Lena's throat was -becoming very bad indeed, and Mr. Duffham did not like the look of it at -all. He had already come twice that day. - -"I think, Johnny," said the mother to me, "that we had better stop Miss -Barbary's coming to-morrow; Mr. Duffham does not know but the malady may -be getting infectious. Suppose you go now to the cottage and tell her." - -So I went off to do so, and found her ill. On this same Friday -afternoon, having occasion to ask some question of her father, who was -in the garden, she found him planting greens on the plot of ground--the -_grave_--under the summer-apple tree. Before she could speak, a shudder -of terror seized her; she trembled from head to foot, turned back to the -kitchen, and sat down on the nearest chair. - -Old Joan pronounced it to be an attack of ague; Miss Katrine, she said, -must have taken a chill. Perhaps she had. It was just then that I -arrived and found her shivering in the kitchen. Joan ran up to her room -in the garret to bring down some powder she kept there, said to be a -grand remedy for ague. - -It was getting dusk then; the sun had set. To me, Katrine seemed to -be shaking with terror, not illness. Mr. Barbary, in full view of the -window, was planting the winter greens under the summer-apple tree. - -"What is it that you are frightened at?" I said, propping my back -against the kitchen mantelpiece. - -"I _must_ ask you a question, Johnny Ludlow," she whispered, panting and -shivering. "Was it you who came and stood inside the gate there in the -middle of last night?" - -"Yes it was. And I saw what Mr. Barbary was doing--_there_. I could not -make it out." - -Katrine left her chair and placed herself before me. Clasping her -piteous hands, she besought me to be silent; to keep the secret for pity -sake--to be _true_. All kinds of odd ideas stole across me. I would not -listen to them; only promised her that I would tell nothing, would be -true for ever and a day. - -"It must have been an accident, you know," she pleaded; "it must have -been an accident." - -Joan came back, and I took my departure. What on earth could Katrine -have meant? All kinds of fancies were troubling my brain, fit only for -what in these later days are called the penny dreadfuls, and I did my -best to drive them out of it. - -The next morning Katrine was really ill. Her throat was parched, her -body ached with fever. As to Lena, she was worse; and we, who ought to -have gone back to school that day, were kept at home lest we should -carry with us any infection. - -"All right," said Tod. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good." He did -not believe in the infection; told me in private that Duffham was an old -woman. - -Can any one picture, I wonder, Katrine Barbary's distress of mind, -the terrible dread that had taken possession of it? Shuddering dread, -amounting to a panic: dread of the deed itself, dread for her father, -dread of discovery. - -On the following morning, Sunday, a letter was delivered at Caramel -Cottage for Mr. Reste, the postmark being London, the writing in the -same hand as the last--Captain Amphlett's. Mr. Barbary took it away to -his gun-room; Katrine saw it, later in the day, lying on the deal-table -there, unopened. - -The next Thursday afternoon, Lena being then almost well--for children -are dying to-day and running about again to-morrow--I called at the -Cottage to ask after Katrine. We heard she had an attack of fever. The -weather was lovely again; the October sky blue as in summer, the sun hot -and bright. - -Well, she did look ill! She sat in the parlour at the open window, a -huge shawl on, and her poor face about half the size it was before. What -had it been, I asked, and she said ague; but she was much better now and -intended to be at the Manor again on Monday. - -"Sit down please, Johnny. I suppose Lena has been glad of the holiday?" - -"She just has. That young lady believes French was invented for her -especial torment. Have you heard from Mr. Reste, Katrine?----What does -he say about his impromptu flitting?" - -She turned white as a ghost, never answering, looking at me strangely. -I thought a spasm might have seized her. - -"Not yet," she faintly said. "Papa thinks--thinks he may have gone -abroad." - -While I was digesting the words, some vehicle was heard rattling up the -side lane; it turned the corner and stopped at the gate. "Why, Katrine," -I said, "it is a railway fly from Evesham!" - -A little fair man in a grey travelling-suit got out of the fly, came up -the path, and knocked at the door. Old Joan answered it and showed him -into the room. "Captain Amphlett," she said. Katrine looked ready to -die. - -"I must apologize for intruding," he began, with a pleasant voice and -manner. "My friend Edgar Reste is staying here, I believe." - -Katrine was taken with a shivering fit. The stranger looked at her with -curiosity. I said she had been ill with ague, and was about to add that -Edgar Reste had left, when Mr. Barbary came in. Captain Amphlett turned -to him and went on to explain: he was on his way to spend a little time -in one of the Midland shires, and had halted at Evesham for the purpose -of looking up Edgar Reste--from whom he had been expecting to hear more -than a week past; could not understand why he did not. Mr. Barbary, with -all the courtesy of the finished gentleman, told him, in reply to this, -that Edgar Reste had left Caramel Cottage a week ago. - -"Dear me!" cried the stranger, evidently surprised. "And without writing -to tell me. Was his departure unexpected?" - -Mr. Barbary laughed lightly. That man would have retained his calmest -presence of mind when going down in a wreck at sea. "Some matter of -business called him away, I fancy," he replied. - -"And to what part of England was he going?" asked Captain Amphlett, -after a pause. "Did he say?" - -Mr. Barbary appeared to have an impulsive answer on his lips, but closed -them before he could speak it. He glanced at me, and then turned his -head and glanced at Katrine, as if to see whether she was there, for he -was sitting with his back to her. A thought struck me that we were in -the way of his plain speaking. - -"He went to London," said Mr. Barbary. - -"To London!" echoed the Captain. "Why, that's strange. He has not come -to London, I assure you." - -"I can assure you it is where he told me he was going," said Mr. -Barbary, smiling. "And it was to London his luggage was addressed." - -"Well, it is altogether strange," repeated Captain Amphlett. "I went to -his chambers in the Temple yesterday, and Farnham, the barrister who -shares them with him, told me Reste was still in Worcestershire; he had -not heard from him for some time, and supposed he might be returning any -day now. Where in the world can he be hiding himself? Had he come to -London, as you suppose, Mr. Barbary, he would have sought me out the -first thing." - -Whiter than any ghost ever seen or heard of, had grown Katrine as she -listened. I could not take my eyes from her terrified face. - -"I do not comprehend it," resumed Captain Amphlett, looking more -helpless than a rudderless ship at sea. "Are you sure, sir, that there -is no mistake; that he was really going to London?" - -"Not at all sure; only that he said it," returned Mr. Barbary in a half -mocking tone. "One does not inquire too closely, you know, into the -private affairs of young men. We have not heard from him yet." - -"I cannot understand it at all," persisted Captain Amphlett; "or why he -has not written to me; or where he can have got to. He ought to have -written." - -"Ah, yes, no doubt," suavely remarked Mr. Barbary. "He was careless -about letter-writing, I fancy. Can I offer you any refreshment?" - -"None at all, thank you; I have no time to spare," said the other, -rising to depart. "I suppose you do not chance to know whether Reste had -a letter from me last Tuesday week?" - -"Yes, he had one. It had some bank-notes in it. He opened it here at the -breakfast table." - -Quite a relief passed over Captain Amphlett's perplexed face at the -answer. "I am glad to hear you say that, Mr. Barbary. By his not -acknowledging receipt of the money, I feared it had miscarried." - -Bidding us good afternoon, and telling Katrine (at whose sick state -he had continued to glance curiously) that he wished her better, the -stranger walked rapidly out to his fly, attended by Mr. Barbary. - -"Katrine," I asked, preparing to take my own departure, "what was there -in Captain Amphlett to frighten you?" - -"It--it was the ague," she answered, bringing out the words with a jerk. - -"Oh--ague! Well, I'd get rid of such an ague as that. Good-bye." - -But it was not ague; it was sheer fear, as common sense told me, and I -did not care to speculate upon it. An uneasy atmosphere seemed to be -hanging over Caramel Cottage altogether; to have set in with Edgar -Reste's departure. - -A day or two later our people departed for Crabb Cot for change of air -for Lena, and we returned to school, so that nothing more was seen or -heard at present of the Barbarys. - - -III - -December weather, and snow on the ground, and Caramel Cottage looking -cold and cheerless. Not so cheerless, though, as poor Katrine, who had a -blue, pinched face and a bad cough. - -"I can't get her to rouse herself, or to swallow hardly a morsel of -food," lamented Joan to Mr. Duffham. "She sits like a statty all day -long, sir, with her hands before her." - -"Sits like a statue, does she?" returned Duffham, who could see it -for himself, and for the hundredth time wondered what it was she had -upon her mind. He did his best, no doubt, in the shape of tonics and -lectures, but he could make nothing of his patient. Katrine vehemently -denied that she was worrying herself over any sweetheart--for that's -how Duffham delicately shaped his questions--and said it was the cold -weather. - -"The voyage will set her up, or--_break_ her up," decided Duffham, -who had never treated so unsatisfactory an invalid. "As to not having -anything on her mind, why she may tell that to the moon." - -Katrine was just dying of the trouble. The consciousness of what -the garden could disclose filled her with horror, whilst the fear of -discovery haunted her steps by day and her dreams by night. She could -not sleep alone, and Joan had brought her mattress down to the room and -lay on the floor. When the sun shone, Mr. Barbary would compel her to -sit or walk in the garden; Katrine would turn sick and faint at sight of -that plot of ground under the apple tree, and the winter greens growing -there. At moments she thought her father must suspect the source of her -illness; but he gave no sign of it. Since Captain Amphlett's visit, no -further inquiry had been made after Edgar Reste. Katrine lived in daily -dread of it. Now and then the neighbours would ask after him. Duffham -had said one day in the course of conversation: "Where's that young -Reste now?" "Oh, in London, working on for his silk gown," Mr. Barbary -lightly answered. Katrine marvelled at his coolness. - -Upon getting back to the Manor for Christmas we heard that Mr. Barbary -was quitting Church Dykely for Canada. "And the voyage will either kill -or cure the child," said Duffham, for it was he who gave us the news; -"she is in a frightfully weak state." - -"Is it ague still?" asked Mrs. Todhetley. - -"It is more like nerves than ague," answered Duffham. "She seems to live -in a chronic state of fear, starting and shrinking at every unexpected -sound. I can't make her out, and that's the truth; she denies having -received any shock.--So you have never found Don, Squire!" he broke off, -leaving the other subject. - -"No," said the Squire angrily. "Dick Standish has been too much for us -this time. The fellow wants hanging. Give him rope enough, and he'll do -it." - -Brazer's dog was returned to him, safe and sound, but our dog had never -come back to us, and the Squire was looking out for another. Dick -Standish protested his innocence yet; but he had gone roving the country -with that other dog, and no doubt had sold Don to somebody at a safe -distance. Perhaps had dyed him a fine gold first; as the dyer dyed his -dog at Evesham. - - * * * * * - -"Now, Miss Katrine, there's not a bit of sense in it!" - -It was Christmas Eve. Katrine was sitting in the twilight by the parlour -fire, and Joan was scolding. She had brought in a tray of tea with some -bread-and-butter; Katrine was glad enough of the tea, but said she could -not eat; she always said so now. - -"Be whipped if I can tell what has got into the child!" stormed Joan. -"Do you want to starve yourself right out?--do you want to----" - -"There's papa," interrupted Katrine, as the house door was heard to -open. "You must bring in more tea now, Joan." - -This door opened next, and some one stood looking in. Not Mr. Barbary. -Katrine gazed with dilating eyes, as the firelight flickered on the -intruder's face: and then she caught hold of Joan with an awful cry. For -he who had come in bore the semblance of Edgar Reste. - -"Why, Katrine, my dear, have you been ill?" - -Katrine burst into hysterical tears as her terror passed. She had been -taking it for Mr. Reste's apparition, you see, whereas it was Mr. Reste -himself. Joan closed the shutters, stirred the fire, and went away -to see what she could do for him in the shape of eatables after his -journey. He sat down by Katrine, and took her poor wan face to his -sheltering arms. - -In the sobbing excitement of the moment, in the strangely wonderful -relief his presence brought, Katrine breathed forth the truth; that she -had seen him, as she believed, _buried_ under the summer-apple tree; had -believed it all this time, and that it had been slowly killing her. Mr. -Reste laughed a little at the idea of his being buried, and cleared up -matters in a few brief words. - -"But why did you never write?" she asked. - -"Being at issue with Mr. Barbary, I would not write to him: and I -thought, Katrine, that the less you were reminded of me the better. I -waited in London until my luggage came up, and then went straight to -Dieppe, without having seen any one I knew; without having even shown -myself at my Chambers----" - -"But why not, Edgar?" she interrupted. Mr. Reste laughed. - -"Well, I had reasons. I had left a few outstanding accounts there, and -was not then prepared to pay them and I did not care to give a clue to -my address to be bothered with letters." - -"You did not even write to Captain Amphlett. He came here to see after -you." - -"I wrote to him from Dieppe; not quite at first, though. Buried under -the apple-tree! that _is_ a joke, Katrine!" - -It was Christmas Eve, I have said. We had gone through the snow, with -Mrs. Todhetley, to help the Miss Pages decorate the church, and the -Squire was alone after dinner, when Mr. Reste was shown in. - -"Is it you!" cried the Squire in hearty welcome. "So you have come down -for Christmas!" - -"Partly for that," answered Mr. Reste. "Partly, sir, to see you." - -"To see me! You are very good. I hope you'll dine with us to-morrow, if -Barbary will spare you." - -"Ah! I don't know about that; I'm afraid not. Anyway, I have a tale to -tell you first." - -Sitting on the other side the fire, opposite the Squire, the wine and -walnuts on the table between them, he told the tale of that past Tuesday -night. - -He had gone out with Barbary in a fit of foolishness, not intending -to do any harm to the game or to join in any harm, though Barbary had -insisted on his carrying a loaded gun. The moon was remarkably bright. -Not long had they been out, going cautiously, when on drawing near Dyke -Neck, they became aware that some poachers were already abroad, and that -the keepers were tracking them; so there was nothing for it but to steal -back again. They had nearly reached Caramel Cottage, and were making for -the side gate, when a huge dog flew up, barking. Barbary called out that -it was the Squire's dog, and---- - -"Bless me!" interjected the Squire at this. - -"Yes, sir, your dog, Don," continued Mr. Reste. "Barbary very foolishly -kicked the dog: he was in a panic, you see, lest the noise of its -barking should bring up the keepers. That kick must have enraged Don, -and he fastened savagely on Barbary's leg. I, fearing for Barbary's -life, or some lesser injury, grew excited, and fired at the dog. It -killed him." - -The Squire drew a deep breath. - -"Not daring to leave the dog at the gate, for it might have betrayed us, -we drew him across the yard to the brewhouse, and locked the door upon -him. But while doing this, Ben Gibbon passed, and thereby learnt what -had happened. The next day, Barbary and I had some bickering together. I -wanted to come to you and confess the truth openly; Barbary forbade it, -saying it would ruin him: we could bury the dog that night or the next, -he said, and nobody would ever be the wiser. In the evening, Gibbon came -in; he was all for Barbary's opinion, and opposed mine. After he left, I -and Barbary had a serious quarrel. I said I would leave there and then; -he resented it, and followed me into the yard to try to keep me. But my -temper was up, and I set off to walk to Evesham, telling him to send my -traps after me, and to direct them to Euston Square Station. I took the -first morning train that passed through Evesham for London, and made -my mind up on the journey to go abroad for a week or two. Truth to -confess," added the speaker, "I felt a bit of a coward about the dog, -not knowing what proceedings you might take if it came to light, and -I deemed it as well to be out of the way for a time. But I don't like -being a coward, Mr. Todhetley, it is a role I have never been used to, -and I came down to-day to confess all. Barbary is going away, so it will -not damage him: besides, it was really I who killed the dog, not he. And -now, sir, I throw myself upon your mercy. What do you say to me?" - -"Well, I'm sure I don't know," said the Squire, who was in a rare good -humour, and liked the young fellow besides. "It was a bad thing to -do--poor faithful Don! But it's Christmas-tide, so I suppose we must say -no more about it. Let bygones be bygones." - -Edgar Reste grasped his hand. - -"Barbary's off to Canada, we are told," said the Squire. "A better -country for him than this. He has not been thought much of in this -place, as you probably know. And it's to be hoped that poor little -maiden of his will get up her health again, which seems, by all -accounts, to be much shattered." - -"I think she'll get that up now," said Mr. Reste, with a curious smile. -"She is not going out with him, sir; she stays behind with me." - -"With you!" cried the Squire, staring. - -"I have just asked her to be my wife, and she says, Yes," said Mr. -Reste. "An old uncle of mine over in India has died; he has left me a -few hundreds a year, so that I can afford to marry." - -"I'm sure I am glad to hear it," said the Squire, heartily. "Poor Don, -though! And what did Barbary do with him?" - -"Buried him in his back garden, under the summer-apple tree." - -Coming home from our night's work at this juncture, we found, to our -surprise, a great dog fastened to the strong iron garden bench. - -"What a magnificent dog!" exclaimed Tod, while the mother sprang back in -alarm. "It is something like Don." - -It was very much like Don. Quite as large, and handsomer. - -"I shall take it in, Johnny; the Pater would like to see it, There, -mother, you go in first." - -Tod unfastened the dog and took it into the dining-room, where sat Mr. -Reste. The dog seemed a gentle creature, and went about looking at us -all with his intelligent eyes. Mrs. Todhetley stroked him. - -"Well, that is a nice dog!" cried the Squire. "Whose is it, lads?" - -"It is yours, sir, if you will accept him from me," said Mr. Reste. "I -came across him in London the other day, and thought you might like him -in place of Don. I have taught him to answer to the same name." - -"We'll call him 'Don the Second'--and I thank you heartily," said the -Squire, with a beaming face. "Good Don! Good old fellow! You shall be -made much of." - - * * * * * - -He married Katrine without much delay, taking her off to London to be -nursed up; and Mr. Barbary set sail for Canada. The bank-notes, you ask -about? Why, what Katrine saw in her father's hands were but _half_ the -notes, for Mr. Reste divided them the day they arrived, giving thirty -pounds to his host, and keeping thirty himself. And Dick Standish, -for once, had not been in the fight; and the Squire, meeting him in -the turnip-field on Christmas Day, gave him five shillings for a -Christmas-box. Which elated Dick beyond telling; and the Squire was glad -of it later, when poor Dick had gone away prematurely to the Better -Land. - -And all the sympathy Katrine had from her father, when he came to hear -about the summer-apple tree, was a sharp wish that she could have had -her ridiculous ideas shaken out of her. - - - - -A TRAGEDY - - -I.--GERVAIS PREEN - - -I - -Crabb Cot, Squire Todhetley's estate in Worcestershire, lay close to -North Crabb, and from two to three miles off Islip, both of which places -you have heard of already. Half way on the road to Islip from Crabb, a -side road, called Brook Lane, branched straight off on the left towards -unknown wilds, for the parts there were not at all frequented. Passing a -solitary homestead here and there, Brook Lane would bring you at the end -of less than two miles to a small hamlet, styled Duck Brook. - -I am not responsible for the name. I don't know who is. It was called -Duck Brook long before my time, and will be, no doubt, long after I have -left time behind me. The village rustics called it Duck Bruck. - -Duck Brook proper contains some twenty or thirty houses, mostly humble -dwellings, built in the form of a triangle, and two or three shops. A -set of old stocks for the correction of the dead-and-gone evil-doers -might be seen still, and a square pound in which to imprison stray -cattle. And I would remark, as it may be of use further on, that the -distance from Duck Brook to either Islip or Crabb was about equal--some -three miles, or so; it stood at right angles between them. Passing down -Brook Lane (which was in fact a fairly wide turnpike road) into the -high road, turning to the right would bring you to Crabb; turning to the -left, to Islip. - -Just before coming to that populous part of Duck Brook, the dwelling -places, there stood in a garden facing the road a low, wide, worn house, -its bricks dark with age, and now partly covered with ivy, which had -once been the abode of a flourishing farmer. The land on which this lay -belonged to a Captain Falkner--some hundred acres of it. The Captain was -in difficulties and, afraid to venture into England, resided abroad. - -A Mr. Preen lived in the house now--Gervais Preen, a gentleman by -descent. The Preens were Worcestershire people; and old Mr. Preen, dead -now, had left a large family of sons and daughters, who had for the most -part nothing to live upon. How or where Gervais Preen had lately lived, -no one knew much about; some people said it was London, some thought it -was Paris; but he suddenly came back to Worcestershire and took up his -abode, much to the general surprise, at this old farmhouse at Duck -Brook. It was soon known that he lived in it rent-free, having -undertaken the post of agent to Captain Falkner. - -"Agent to Captain Falkner--what a mean thing for a Preen to do!" cried -Islip and Crabb all in a breath. - -"Not at all mean; gentlemen must live as well as other people," warmly -disputed the Squire. "I honour Preen for it." And he was the first to -walk over to Duck Brook and shake hands with him. - -Others followed the Squire's example, but Mr. Preen did not seem -inclined to be sociable. He was forty-five years old then; a little -shrimp of a man with a dark face, small eyes like round black beads, and -a very cross look. He met his visitors civilly, for he was a gentleman, -but he let it be known that he and his wife did not intend to visit or -be visited. The Squire pressed him to bring Mrs. Preen to a friendly -dinner at Crabb Cot; but he refused emphatically, frankly saying that -as they could not afford to entertain in return, they should not -themselves go out to entertainments. - -Thus Gervais Preen and his wife began their career at Duck Brook, -keeping themselves to themselves, locked up in lavender, so to say, as -if they did not want the world outside to remember their existence. -Perhaps that was the ruling motive, for he owed a few debts of long -standing. One or two creditors had found him out, and were driving, it -was said, a hard bargain with him, insisting upon payment by degrees if -it could not be handed over in a lump. - -But there was one member of the family who declined to keep herself laid -up in lavender, and that was the only daughter, Jane. She came to Crabb -Cot of her own accord, and made friends with us; made friends with Mrs. -Jacob Chandler and her girls, and with Emma Paul at Islip. She was a -fair, lively, open-natured girl, and welcomed everywhere. - - * * * * * - -Mr. and Mrs. Preen and Jane were seated at the breakfast-table one fine -morning in the earliest days of spring. A space of about two years had -gone by since they first came to Duck Brook. Breakfast was laid, as -usual, in a small flagged room opening from the kitchen. A piece of cold -boiled bacon, three eggs, a home-made loaf and a pat of butter were on -the table, nothing more luxurious. Mrs. Preen, a thin woman, under the -middle height, poured out the coffee. She must once have been very -pretty. Her face was fair and smooth still, with a bright rose tint on -the cheeks, and a peevish look in her mild blue eyes. Jane's face was -very much like her mother's, but her blue eyes had no peevishness in -them as yet. Poor Mrs. Preen's life was one of rubs and crosses, had -been for a long while, and that generally leaves its marks upon the -countenance. When Mr. Preen came in he had a letter in his hand, which -he laid beside his plate, address downwards. He looked remarkably cross, -and did not speak. No one else spoke. Conversation was seldom indulged -in at meal times, unless the master chose to begin it. But in passing -something to him, Jane's eyes chanced to fall on the letter, and saw -that it was of thin, foreign paper. - -"Papa, is that from Oliver?" - -"Don't you see it is?" returned Mr. Preen. - -"And--is anything different decided?" asked Mrs Preen, timidly, as if -she were afraid of either the question or the answer. - -"What is there different to decide?" he retorted. - -"But, Gervais, I thought you wrote to say that he could not come home." - -"And he writes back to say that he must come. I suppose he must. The -house over there is being given up; he can't take up his abode in the -street. There's what he says," continued Mr. Preen, tossing the letter -to the middle of the table for the public benefit. "He will be here -to-morrow." - -A glad light flashed into Jane's countenance. She lifted her -handkerchief to hide it. - -Oliver Preen was her brother; she and he were the only children. He had -been partly adopted by a great aunt, once Miss Emily Preen, the sister -of his grandfather. She had married Major Magnus late in life, and was -left a widow. Since Oliver left school, three years ago now, he had -lived with Mrs. Magnus at Tours, where she had settled down. She was -supposed to be well off; and the Preen family--Gervais Preen and all his -hungry brothers and sisters--had cherished expectations from her. They -thought she might provide slenderly for Oliver, and divide the rest of -her riches among them. But a week or two ago she had died after a short -illness, and then the amazing fact came out that she had nothing to -leave. All Mrs. Magnus once possessed had been sunk in an annuity on her -own life. - -This was bad enough for the brothers and the sisters, but it was nothing -compared with the shock it gave to him of Duck Brook. For you see he -had to take his son back now and provide for him; and Oliver had been -brought up to do nothing. A mild young man, he, we understood, not at -all clever enough to set the Thames on fire. - -Mr. Preen finished his breakfast and left the room, carrying the letter -with him. Jane went at once into the garden, which in places was no -better than a wilderness, and ran about the sheltered paths that were -out of sight of the windows, and jumped up to catch the lower branches -of trees, all in very happiness. She and Oliver were intensely attached -to one another; she had not seen him for three years, and now they were -going to meet again. To-morrow! oh, to-morrow! To-morrow, and he would -be here! She should see him face to face! - -"Jane!" called out a stern voice, "I want you." - -In half a moment Jane had appeared in the narrow front path that led -between beds of sweet but common flowers from the entrance gate in the -centre of the palings to the door of the house, and was walking up -demurely. Mr. Preen was standing at an open window. - -"Yes, papa," she said. And Mr. Preen only answered by looking at her and -shutting down the window. - -The door opened into a passage, which led straight through to the back -of the house. On the left, as you entered, was the parlour; on the right -was the room which Mr. Preen used as an office, in which were kept -the account books and papers relating to the estate. It was a square -room, lighted by two tall narrow windows. A piece of matting covered -the middle of the floor, and on it stood Mr. Preen's large flat -writing-table, inlaid with green leather. Shelves and pigeon-holes -filled one side of the walls, and a few chairs stood about. Altogether -the room had a cold, bare look. - -It was called the "Buttery." When Mr. and Mrs. Preen first came to the -house, the old man who had had charge showed them over it. "This is the -parlour," he said, indicating the room they were then looking at; "and -this," he added, opening the door on the opposite side of the passage, -"is the Buttery." Jane laughed: but they had adopted the name. - -"I want these letters copied, Jane," said Mr. Preen, who was now sitting -at his table, his back to the fire, and the windows in front of him; and -he handed to her two letters which he had just written. - -Jane took her seat at the table opposite to him. Whenever Mr. Preen -wanted letters copied, he called upon her to do it. Jane did not much -like the task; she was not fond of writing, and was afraid of making -mistakes. - -When she had finished the letters this morning she escaped to her -mother, asking how she could help in the preparations for Oliver. They -kept one maid-servant; a capless young lady of sixteen, who wore a frock -and pinafore of a morning. There was Sam as well; a well-grown civil -youth, whose work lay chiefly out of doors. - -The day passed. The next day was passing. From an early hour Jane Preen -had watched for the guest's arrival. In the afternoon, when she was -weary of looking and looking in vain, she put on a warm shawl and her -pink sun-bonnet and went out of doors with a book. - -A little lower down, towards the Islip Road, Brook Lane was flanked on -one side by a grove of trees, too dense to admit of penetration. But -there were two straight paths in them at some distance from each other, -which would carry you to the back of the grove, and to the stream -running parallel with the highway in front; from which stream Duck -Brook derived its name. These openings in the trees were called Inlets -curiously. A few worn benches stood in front of the trees, and also -behind them, and had been there for ages. If you took your seat upon one -of the front benches, you could watch the passing and re-passing (if -there chanced to be any) on the high road; if you preferred a seat at -the back, you might contemplate the pellucid stream and the meads beyond -it, like any knight or fair damsel of romance. - -This was a favourite resort of Jane Preen's, a slight relief from the -dullness at home. She generally sat by the stream, but to-day faced the -road, for she was looking for Oliver. It was not a frequented road at -all, but I think this has been said; sometimes an hour would pass away -and not so much as a farmer's horse and cart jolt by, or a beggar -shambling on foot. - -Jane had brought out a favourite book of the day, one of Bulwer -Lytton's, which had been lent to her by Miss Julietta Chandler. Shall -we ever have such writers again? Compare a work over which a tremendous -fuss is made in the present day with one of those romances or novels of -the past when some of us were young--works written by Scott, and Bulwer, -and others I need not mention. Why, they were as solid gold compared -with silver and tinsel. - -Jane tried to lose herself in the romantic love of Lucy and Paul, or in -the passionate love-letters of Sir William Brandon, written when he was -young; and she could not do so. Her eyes kept turning, first to that way -of the road, then to this: she did not know which way Oliver would come. -By rail to Crabb station she supposed, and then with a fly onwards; -though being strange to the neighbourhood he might pitch upon any -out-of-the-way route and so delay his arrival. - -Suddenly her heart stopped beating and then coursed on to fever heat. A -fly was winding along towards her in the distance, from the direction of -Crabb. Jane rose and waited close to the path. It was not Oliver. Three -ladies and a child sat in the fly. They all stared at her, evidently -wondering who she was and what she did there. She went back to the -bench, but did not open her book again. - -It must be nearing four o'clock: she could tell it by the sun, for she -had no watch: and she thought she would go in. Slowly taking up the -book, she was turning towards home, which was close by, when upon giving -a lingering farewell look down the road, a solitary foot passenger came -into view: a gentlemanly young man, with an umbrella in his hand and a -coat on his arm. - -_Was_ it Oliver? She was not quite sure at first. He was of middle -height, slight and slender: had a mild fair face and blue eyes with a -great sadness in them. Jane noticed the sadness at once, and thought she -remembered it; she thought the face also like her own and her mother's. - -"Oliver?" - -"Jane! Why--is it you? I did not expect to find you under that peasant -bonnet, Jane." - -They clung to each other, kissing fondly, tears in the eyes of both. - -"But why are you walking, Oliver? Did you come to Crabb?" - -"Yes," he said. "I thought I might as well walk; I did not think it was -quite so far. The porter will send on my things." - -There was just a year between them; Oliver would be twenty-one in a -month, Jane was twenty-two, but did not look as much. She took his arm -as they walked home. - -As she halted at the little gate, Oliver paused in surprise and gazed -about: at the plain wooden palings painted green, which shut in the -crowded, homely garden; at the old farmhouse. - -"Is _this_ the place, Jane?" - -"Yes. You have not been picturing it a palace, have you?" - -Oliver laughed, and held back the low gate for her. But as he passed -in after her, a perceptible shiver shook his frame. It was gone in a -moment; but in that moment it had shaken him from head to foot. Jane -saw it. - -"Surely you have not caught a chill, Oliver?" - -"Not at all; I am warm with my walk. I don't know why I should have -shivered," he added. "It was like the feeling you have when people say -somebody's 'walking over your grave.'" - -Mr. Preen received his son coldly, but not unkindly; Mrs. Preen did the -same; she was led by her husband's example in all things. Tea, though -it was so early, was prepared at once, with a substantial dish for the -traveller; and they sat down to it in the parlour. - -It was a long room with a beam running across the low ceiling. A homely -room, with a coarse red-and-green carpet and horse-hair chairs. A few -ornaments of their own (for the furniture belonged to the house), relics -of better days, were disposed about; and Jane had put on the table a -glass of early primroses. The two windows, tall and narrow, answered -to those in the Buttery. Oliver surveyed the room in silent dismay: it -wore so great a contrast to the French salons at Tours to which he was -accustomed. He gave them the details of his aunt's death and of her -affairs. - -When tea was over, Mr. Preen shut himself into the Buttery; Mrs. Preen -retired to the kitchen to look after Nancy, who had to be watched, like -most young servants, as you watch a sprightly calf. Jane and Oliver went -out again, Jane taking the way to the Inlets. This time she sat down -facing the brook. The dark trees were behind them, the clear stream -flowed past in a gentle murmur; nothing but fields beyond. It was a -solitary spot. - -"What do you call this place--the Inlets?" cried Oliver. "Why is it -called so?" - -"I'm sure I don't know: because of those two openings from the road, I -suppose. I like to sit here; it is so quiet. Oliver, how came Aunt Emily -to sink all her money in an annuity?" - -"For her own benefit, of course; it nearly doubled her income. She did -it years ago." - -"And you did not know that she had nothing to leave?" - -"No one knew. She kept the secret well." - -"It is very unfortunate for _you_." - -"Yes--compared with what I had expected," sighed Oliver. "It can't be -helped, Jane, and I try not to feel disappointed. Aunt Emily in life -was very kind to me; apart from all selfish consideration I regret and -mourn her." - -"You will hardly endure this dreary place after your gay and happy life -at Tours, Oliver. Duck Brook is the fag-end of the world." - -"It does not appear to be very lively," remarked Oliver, with a certain -dry sarcasm. "How was it that the Pater came to it?" - -"Well, you know--it was a living, and we had nothing else." - -"I don't understand." - -"When Uncle Gilbert died, there was no other of our uncles, those who -were left, who could help papa; at least they said so; and I assure you -we fell into great embarrassment as the weeks went on. It was impossible -to remain in Jersey; we could pay no one; and what would have been the -ending but for papa's falling in with Captain Falkner, I can't imagine. -Captain Falkner owns a good deal of land about here; but he is in -difficulties himself and cannot be here to look after it; so he offered -papa the agency and a house to live in. I can tell you, Oliver, it was -as a godsend to us." - -"Do you mean to say that my father is an agent?" cried the young man, -his face dyed with a red flush. - -Jane nodded. "That, and nothing less. He looks after the estate and is -paid a hundred pounds a-year salary, and we live rent free. Lately he -has taken something else, something different; the agency of some new -patent agricultural implements." - -Oliver Preen looked very blank. He had been living the life of a -gentleman, was imbued with a gentleman's notions, and this news brought -him the most intense mortification. - -"He will expect you to help him in the Buttery," continued Jane. - -"In the what?" - -"The Buttery," laughed Jane. "It is the room where papa keeps his -accounts and writes his letters. Letters come in nearly every morning -now, inquiring about the new agricultural implements; papa has to answer -them, and wants some of his answers copied." - -"And he has only a hundred a year!" murmured Oliver, unable to get -over that one item of information. "Aunt Emily had from eight to nine -hundred, and lived up to her income." - -"The worst is that we cannot spend all the hundred. Papa has back debts -upon him. Have you brought home any money, Oliver?" - -"None to speak of," he answered; "there was none to bring. Aunt Emily's -next quarter's instalment would have been due this week; but she died -first, you see. She lived in a furnished house; and as to the few things -she had of her own, and her personal trinkets, Aunt Margaret Preen came -down and swooped upon them. Jane, how have you managed to put up with -the lively state of affairs here?" - -"And this lively spot--the fag-end of the world. It was Emma Paul first -called it so. I put up with it because I can't help myself, Oliver." - -"Who is Emma Paul?" - -"The daughter of Lawyer Paul, of Islip." - -"Oh," said Oliver, slightingly. - -"And the nicest girl in the world," added Jane. "But I can tell you this -much, Oliver," she continued, after a pause: "when we came first to -Duck Brook it seemed to me as a haven of refuge. Our life in Jersey had -become intolerable, our life here was peaceful--no angry creditors, no -daily applications for debts that we could not pay. Here we were free -and happy, and it gave me a liking for the place. It is dull, of course; -but I go pretty often to see Emma Paul, or to take tea at Mrs. Jacob -Chandler's, and at Crabb Cot when the Todhetleys are staying there. Sam -brings the gig for me in the evening, when I don't walk home. You will -have to bring it for me now." - -"Oh, there's a gig, is there?" - -"Papa has to keep that for his own use in going about the land: -sometimes he rides." - -"Are the debts in Jersey paid, Jane?" - -A shadow passed over her face, and her voice dropped to a whisper. - -"No. It makes me feel very unhappy sometimes, half-frightened. Of course -papa hopes he shall not be found out here. But he seems to have also two -or three old debts in this neighbourhood, and those he is paying off." - -The sun, setting right before them in a sea of red clouds, fell upon -their faces and lighted up the sadness of Oliver's. Then the red ball -sank, on its way to cheer and illumine another part of the world, -leaving behind it the changes which set in after sunset. The bright -stream became grey, the osiers bordering it grew dark. Oliver shook -himself. The whole place to him wore a strange air of melancholy. It -was early evening yet, for the month was only February; but the spring -had come in with a kindly mood, and the weather was bright. - -Rising from the bench, they slowly walked up the nearest Inlet, side by -side, and gained the high road just as a pony-chaise was passing by, an -elderly gentleman and a young lady in it; Mr. and Miss Paul. - -"Oh, papa, please pull up!" cried the girl. "There's Jane Preen." - -She leaped out, almost before the pony had stopped, and ran to the -pathway with outstretched hands. - -"How pleasant that we should meet you, Jane! Papa has been taking me -for a drive this afternoon." - -Oliver stood apart, behind his sister, looking and listening. The -speaker was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, with a -blushing, dimpled face, a smiling mouth displaying small white teeth, -shy blue eyes, and bright hair. Her straw hat had blue ribbons and her -dress was one of light silk. Never in his life, thought Oliver, had he -seen so sweet a face or heard so sweet a voice. - -"Have you been for a walk?" she asked of Jane. - -"No," answered Jane. "We have been down the Inlet, and sitting to watch -the sun set. This is my brother, Emma, of whom you have heard. He -arrived this afternoon, and has left Tours. Will you allow me to -introduce him to you? Oliver, this is Miss Paul." - -Mr. Oliver Preen was about to execute a deep bow at a respectful -distance, after the manner of the fashionable blades of Tours, and -swung off his hat to begin with; but Emma Paul, who was not fashionable -at all, but sociable, inexperienced and unpretending, held out her hand. -She liked his looks; a slender young fellow, in deep mourning, with a -fair, mild, pleasing face. - -"Papa," she said, turning to the gig, which had drawn up close to the -foot-path, "this is Mr. Oliver Preen, from France. He has come home, -Jane says." - -John Paul, a portly, elderly gentleman, with iron-grey hair and a face -that looked stern to those who did not know him, bent forward and shook -hands with the stranger. - -Emma began plunging into all sorts of gossip, for she liked nothing -better than to talk. Jane liked it too. - -"I have been telling Oliver we call Duck Brook the fag end of the -world, and that it was you who first said it," cried Jane. - -"Oh, how could you?" laughed Emma, turning her beaming face upon Oliver. -And they might have gone on for ever, if left alone; but Mr. Paul -reminded his daughter that it was growing late, and he wanted to get -home to dinner. So she lightly stepped into the low chaise, Oliver Preen -assisting her, and they drove off, Emma calling to Jane not to forget -that they were engaged to drink tea at North Villa on the morrow. - -"What's Preen going to do with that young fellow?" wondered the lawyer, -as he drove on. - -"I'm sure I don't know, papa," said Emma. "Take him into the Buttery, -perhaps." - -Old Paul laughed a little at the idea. "Not much more work there than -Preen can do himself, I expect." - -"When I last saw Jane she said she thought her brother might be coming -home. It may be only for a visit, you know." - -Old Paul nodded, and touched up the pony. - -Oliver stood in the pathway gazing after the chaise until it was out of -sight. "What a charming girl!" he cried to his sister. "I never saw one -so unaffected in all my life." - - -II - -If the reader has chanced to read the two papers entitled "Chandler and -Chandler," he may be able to recall North Villa, and those who lived in -it. - -It stood in the Islip Road--hardly a stone's throw from Crabb Cot. -Jacob Chandler's widow lived in it with her three daughters. She was -empty-headed, vain, frivolous, always on the high ropes when in company, -wanting to give people the impression that she had been as good as born -a duchess: whereas everyone knew she had sprung from small tradespeople -in Birmingham. The three daughters, Clementina, Georgiana, Julietta, -took after her, and were as fine as their names. - -But you have heard of them before--and of the wrong inflicted by -their father, Jacob Chandler, upon his brother's widow and son. The -solicitor's business at Islip had been made by the elder brother, Thomas -Chandler; he had taken Jacob into partnership, and given him a half -share without cross or coin of recompense: and when Thomas died from an -accident, leaving his only son Tom in the office to succeed him when he -should be of age, Jacob refused to carry out the behest. Ignoring past -obligations, all sense of right or wrong, he made his own son Valentine -his partner in due course of time, condemning Tom, though a qualified -solicitor, to remain his clerk. - -It's true that when Jacob Chandler lay on his death-bed, the full sense -of what he had done came home to him: any glaring injustice we may have -been committing in our lives does, I fancy, often take hold of the -conscience at that dread time: and he enjoined his son Valentine to give -Tom his due--a full partnership. Valentine having his late father's -example before him (for Jacob died), did nothing of the kind. "I'll -raise your salary, Tom," said he, "but I cannot make you my partner." -So Tom, thinking he had put up with injustice long enough, quitted -Valentine there and then. John Paul, the other Islip lawyer, was only -too glad to secure Tom for his own office; he made him his manager and -paid him a good salary. - -About two years had gone on since then. Tom Chandler, a very fine young -fellow, honest and good-natured, was growing more and more indispensable -to Mr. Paul; Valentine was growing (if the expression may be used) -downwards. For Valentine, who had been an indulged son, and only made to -work when he pleased, had picked up habits of idleness, and other habits -that we are told in our copy-books idleness begets. Gay, handsome, -pleasant-mannered, with money always in his pocket, one of those young -men sure to be courted, Valentine had grown fonder of pleasure than of -work: he liked his game at billiards; worse than that, he liked his -glass. When a client came in, ten to one but a clerk had to make a rush -to the Bell Inn opposite, to fetch his master; and it sometimes happened -that Valentine would not return quite steady. The result was, that his -practice was gradually leaving him, to be given to Mr. Paul. All this -was telling upon Valentine's mother; she had an ever-haunting dread -of the poverty which might result in the future, and was only half as -pretentious as she used to be. - -Her daughters did not allow their minds to be disturbed by anxiety as -yet; the young are less anxious than the old. When she dropped a word -of apprehension in their hearing, they good-humouredly said mamma was -fidgety--Valentine would be all right; if a little gay now it was only -what other young men were. It was a pleasant house to visit, for the -girls were gay and hospitable; though they did bedeck themselves like -so many peacocks, and put on airs and graces. - -Jane Preen found it pleasant; had found it so long ago; and she -introduced Oliver to it, who liked it because he sometimes met Emma Paul -there. It took a very short time indeed after that first meeting by the -Inlets for him to be over head and ears in love with her. Thus some -weeks went on. - -More pure and ardent love than that young fellow's for Emma was never -felt by man or woman. It filled his every thought, seemed to sanctify -his dreary days at Duck Brook, and made a heaven of his own heart. He -would meet her at North Villa, would encounter her sometimes in her -walks, now and then saw her at her own house at Islip. Not often--old -Mr. Paul did not particularly care for the Preens, and rarely gave Emma -leave to invite them. - -Emma did not care for _him_. She had not found out that he cared for -her. A remarkably open, pleasant girl in manner, to him as to all the -world, she met him always with frank cordiality--and he mistook that -natural cordiality for a warmer feeling. Had Emma Paul suspected his -love for her she would have turned from it in dismay; she was no -coquette, and all the first love of her young heart was privately given -to someone else. - -At this time there was a young man in Mr. Paul's office named Richard -MacEveril. He was a nephew of Captain MacEveril of Oak Mansion--a pretty -place near Islip. Captain MacEveril--a retired captain in the Royal -Navy--had a brother settled in Australia. When this brother died, his -only son, Richard, came over to his relatives, accompanied by a small -income, about enough to keep him in coats and waistcoats. - -The arrival very much put out Captain MacEveril. He was a good-hearted -man, but afflicted with gout in the feet, and irascible when twinges -took him. Naturally the question arose to his mind--how was he to put -Richard in the way of getting bread and cheese. Richard seemed to have -less idea of how it was to be done than his uncle and aunt had. They -told him he must go back to Australia and find a living there. Richard -objected; said he had only just left it, and did not like Australia. -Upon the captain's death, whenever that should take place, Richard would -come into a small estate of between two and three hundred a-year, of -which nothing could deprive him; for Captain MacEveril had no son; only -a daughter, who would be rich through her mother. - -Richard was a gay-mannered young fellow and much liked, but he was not -very particular. He played billiards at the Bell Inn with Valentine -Chandler, with young Scott, and with other idlers; he hired horses, and -dashed across country on their backs; he spent money in all ways. When -his own ready money was gone he went into debt, and people came to the -Captain to ask him to liquidate it. This startled and angered the old -post-captain as no twinge of gout had ever yet done. - -"Something must be done with Dick," said Mrs. MacEveril. - -"Of course it must," her husband wrathfully retorted; "but what the -deuce is it to be?" - -"Can't you get John Paul to take him into his office as a temporary -thing? It would keep him out of mischief." - -Mrs. MacEveril's suggestion bore fruit. For the present, until something -eligible should "turn up," Dick was placed in the lawyer's office as -a copying clerk. Mr. Paul made a favour of taking him in; but he and -Captain MacEveril had been close friends for many a year. Dick wrote a -bold, clear hand, good for copying deeds. - -He and Oliver became intimate. It is said that a fellow-feeling makes us -wondrous kind, and they could feel for one another. Both were down in -life, both had poverty-stricken pockets. They were of the same age, -twenty-one, and in appearance were not dissimilar--fair of face, slight -in person. - -So that Oliver Preen needed no plea for haunting Islip three or four -times a week. "He went over to see Dick MacEveril," would have been his -answer had any inquisitive body inquired what he did there: while, in -point of fact, he went hoping to see Emma Paul--if by delightful chance -he might obtain that boon. - -Thus matters were going on: Oliver, shut up the earlier part of the day -in the Buttery with his father, answering letters, and what not; in the -latter part of it he would be at Islip, or perhaps with Jane at North -Villa. Sometimes they would walk home together; or, if they could have -the gig, Oliver drove his sister back in it. But for the love he bore -Emma, he would have found his life intolerable; nothing but depression, -mortification, disappointment: but when Love takes up its abode in the -heart the dreariest lot becomes one of sunshine. - - -III - -The garden attached to North Villa was large and very old-fashioned: a -place crowded with trees and shrubs, intersected with narrow paths and -homely flowers. The Malvern hills could be seen in the distance, as -beautiful a sight in the early morning, with the lights and shadows -lying upon them, as the world can show. - -It was summer now, nearly midsummer. The garish day was fading, the -summer moon had risen, its round shield so delicately pale as to look -like silver; and Valentine Chandler was pacing the garden with Jane -Preen in the moonlight. They had been singing a duet together at the -piano, "I've wandered in dreams," and he had taken the accompaniment. He -played well; and never living man had sweeter voice than he. They were -wandering in dreams of their own, those two, had been for some time now. - -Silence between them as they paced the walk; a sort of discomforting, -ominous silence. Valentine broke it. - -"Why don't you reproach me, Jane?" - -"Do I ever reproach you?" she answered. - -"No. But you ought to do so." - -"If you would only keep your promises, Valentine!" - -Young Mr. Valentine Chandler, having stayed his steps while they spoke, -backed against the corner of the latticed arbour, which they were just -then passing. The same arbour in which his aunt, Mrs. Mary Ann Cramp, -had sat in her copper-coloured silk gown to convict her brother Jacob, -Valentine's father, of his sins against Tom Chandler, one Sunday -afternoon, not so very long gone by. - -Val did not answer. He seemed to be staring at the moon, to investigate -what it was made of. In reality he saw no moon; neither moon, nor sky -above, nor any earthly thing beneath; he only saw his own reckless folly -in his mind's clouded mirror. - -"You know you do make promises, Valentine!" - -"And when I make them I fully mean to keep them; but a lot of idle -fellows get hold of me, and--and--I _can't_," said he, in a savage tone. - -"But you might," said Jane. "If I made promises I should keep them to -you--whatever the temptation." - -"I cannot think who it is that comes tattling to you about me, Jane! Is -it Oliver?" - -"Oliver! Never. Oliver does not know, or suspect--anything." - -"Then it must be those confounded girls indoors!" - -"Nor they, either. It is not anyone in particular, Valentine; but I hear -one and another talking about you." - -"I should like to know what they say. You must tell me, Jane." - -Jane caught her breath, as if she did not like to answer. But Valentine -was waiting. - -"They say you are not steady, Val," she spoke in a whisper; "that you -neglect your business; that unless you pull up, you will go to the bad." - -For a few moments Valentine remained quite still; you might have thought -he had gone to sleep. Then he put out his hand, drew Jane gently to him, -and bent down his head to her with a long-drawn sigh. - -"I _will_ pull up, Jane. It is not as bad as story-tellers make out. But -I will pull up; I promise you; and I'll begin from this day." - -Jane Preen did not like to remind him that he had said the same thing -many times before; rather would she trust to his renewed word. When a -girl is in love, she has faith in modern miracles. - -Valentine held her to him very closely. "You believe me, don't you, my -darling?" - -"Yes," she whispered. - -Down came a voice to them from some remote path near the house, that was -anything but a whisper. "Jane! Jane Preen! Are you in the garden? or are -you upstairs with Julietta?" - -Jane stole swiftly forward. "I am here, Clementina--it is cool and -pleasant in the night air. Do you want me?" - -"Your boy is asking how long he is to wait. The horse is fresh this -evening, and won't stand." - -"Has the gig come!" exclaimed Jane, as she met Miss Clementina. "And has -Sam brought it! Why not Oliver?" - -Clementina Chandler shook her head and the yellow ribbons which adorned -it, intimating that she did not know anything about Oliver. It was the -servant boy, Sam, who had brought the gig. - -Jane hastily put on her bonnet and scarf, said good night, and was -helped into the gig by Valentine--who gave her hand a tender squeeze as -they drove off. - -"Where is Mr. Oliver?" she inquired of Sam. - -"Mr. Oliver was out, Miss Jane. As it was getting late, the missis told -me to get the gig ready, and bring it." - -After that, Jane was silent, thinking about Valentine and his renewed -promises. It might be that the air was favourable to love catching: -anyway, both the young Preens had fallen desperately into it; Jane with -Valentine Chandler and Oliver with Emma Paul. - -Duck Brook was soon reached, for the horse was swift that evening. -On the opposite side of the road to the Inlets, was a large field, in -which the grass was down and lying in cocks, the sweet smell of the hay -perfuming the air of the summer night. Leaping across this field and -then over its five-barred gate into the road, came Oliver Preen. Jane, -seeing him, had no need to wonder where he had been. - -For across this field and onwards, as straight as the crow flies, was -a near way to Islip. Active legs, such as Oliver's, might get over the -ground in twenty minutes, perhaps in less. But there was no path, or -right of way; he had to push through hedges and charge private grounds, -with other impediments attending. Thomas Chandler, Conveyancer and -Attorney-at-law, had laughingly assured Oliver that if caught using that -way, he would of a surety be had up before the justices of the peace for -trespass. - -"Stop here, Sam," said Jane. "I will get out now." - -Sam stopped the gig, and Jane got down. She joined her brother, and the -boy drove on to the stables. - -"It was too bad, Oliver, not to come for me!" she cried. - -"I meant to be home in time; I did indeed, Jane," he answered; "but -somehow the evening slipped on." - -"Were you at Mr. Paul's?" - -"No; I was with MacEveril." - -"At billiards, I suppose!--and it's very foolish of you, Oliver, for you -know you can't afford billiards." - -"I can't afford anything, Janey, as it seems to me," returned Oliver, -kicking up the dust in the road as they walked along. "Billiards don't -cost much; it's only the tables: anyway, MacEveril paid for all." - -"Has MacEveril talked any more about going away?" - -"He talks of nothing else; is full of it," answered Oliver. "His uncle -says he is not to go; and old Paul stopped him at the first half-word, -saying he could not be spared from the office. Dick says he shall start -all the same, leave or no leave." - -"Dick will be very silly to go just now, when we are about to be so -gay," remarked Jane, "There's the picnic coming off; and the dance at -Mrs. Jacob Chandler's; and no end of tea-parties." - -For just now the neighbourhood was putting on a spurt of gaiety, induced -to it perhaps by the lovely summer sunshine. Oliver's face wore a look -of gloom, and he made no answer to Jane's remark. Several matters, cross -and contrary, were trying Oliver Preen; not the least of them that he -seemed to make no way whatever with Miss Emma. - - * * * * * - -When we left school for the midsummer holidays that year, Mr. and Mrs. -Todhetley were staying at Crabb Cot. We got there on Friday, the -eleventh of June. - -On the following Monday morning the Squire went to his own small -sitting-room after breakfast to busy himself with his accounts and -papers. Presently I heard him call me. - -"Have you a mind for a walk, Johnny?" - -"Yes, sir; I should be glad of one." Tod had gone to the Whitneys for -a couple of days, and without him I felt like a fish out of water. - -"Well, I want you to go as far as Massock's. He is a regular cheat; that -man, Johnny, needs looking after---- What is it, Thomas?" - -For old Thomas had come in, a card between his fingers. "It's Mr. -Gervais Preen, sir," he said, in answer, putting the card on the -Squire's table. "Can you see him?" - -"Oh, yes, I can see him; show him in. Wait a bit, though, Thomas," broke -off the Squire. "Johnny, I expect Preen has come about that pony. I -suppose we may as well keep him?" - -"Tod said on Saturday, sir, that we should not do better," I answered. -"He tried him well, and thinks he is worth the price." - -"Ay; ten pounds, wasn't it? We'll keep him, then. Mr. Preen can come in, -Thomas." - -Some few days before this the Squire had happened to say in Preen's -hearing that he wanted a pony for the two children to ride, Hugh and -Lena. Preen caught up the words, saying he had one for sale--a very nice -pony, sound and quiet. So the pony had been sent to Crabb Cot upon -trial, and we all liked him. His name was Taffy. - -Mr. Preen came into the room, his small face cool and dark as usual; he -had driven from Duck Brook. "A fine morning," he remarked, as he sat -down; but it would be fiery hot by-and-by, too hot for the middle of -June, and we should probably pay for it later. The Squire asked if he -would take anything, but he declined. - -"What of the pony--Taffy--Squire?" went on Mr. Preen. "Do you like him?" - -"Yes, we like him very well," said the Squire, heartily, "and we mean to -keep him, Preen." - -"All right," said Mr. Preen. "You will not repent it." - -Then they fell to talking of horses in general, and of other topics. I -stayed on, sitting by the window, not having received the message for -Massock. Mr. Preen stayed also, making no move to go away; when it -suddenly occurred to the Squire--he mentioned it later--that perhaps -Preen might be waiting for the money. - -"Ten pounds, I think, was the price agreed upon," observed the Squire -with ready carelessness. "Would you like to be paid now?" - -"If it does not inconvenience you." - -The Squire unlocked his shabby old bureau, which stood against the wall, -fingered his stock of money, and brought forth a ten-pound bank-note. -This he handed to Preen, together with a sheet of paper, that he might -give a receipt. - -When the receipt was written, Mr. Preen took up the note, looked at it -for a moment or two, and then passed it back again. - -"Would you mind writing your name on this note, Squire?" - -The Squire laughed gently. "Not at all," he answered; "but why should I? -Do you think it is a bad one? No fear, Preen; I had it from the Old Bank -at Worcester." - -"No, I do not fear that," said Preen, speaking quietly. "But since a -disagreeable trouble which happened to me some years ago, I have always -liked, when receiving a bank-note, to get, if possible, the donor's name -upon it in his own handwriting." - -"What was the trouble?" - -"I was playing cards at the house of a man of fashion, who was brother -to an earl, and lived in a fashionable square at the West End of -London, and I had a ten-pound note paid me, for I won, by a man who, I -understood, had recently retired with honours from the army, a Major -D----. I will not give you his name. The next day, or next but one, -I paid this note away to a tradesman, and it was found to be forged; -cleverly forged," repeated Preen, with emphasis. - -"What did you do?" asked the Squire. - -"I got Major D.'s address from the house where we had played, carried -the note to him, and inquired what it meant and whence he got it. Will -you believe, Mr. Todhetley," added the speaker, with slight agitation, -"that the man utterly repudiated the note, saying----" - -"But how could he repudiate it?" interrupted the Squire, interested in -the tale. - -"He said it was not the note he had paid me; he stood it out in the most -impudent manner. I told him, and it was the pure truth, that it was -impossible there could be any mistake. I was a poor man, down on my luck -just then, and it was the only note I had had about me for some time -past. All in vain. He held to it that it was not the note, and there the -matter ended. I could not prove that it was the note except by my bare -word. It was my word against his, you see, and naturally I went to the -wall." - -The Squire nodded. "Who was at the loss of the money?" - -"I was. Besides that, I had the cold shoulder turned upon me. Major D. -was believed; I was doubted; some people went so far as to say I must -have trumped up the tale. For some time after that I would not take a -bank-note from any man unless he put his signature to it, and it has -grown into a habit with me. So, if you don't mind, Squire----" - -The Squire smiled goodnaturedly, drew the bank-note to him, and wrote -upon the back in a corner, "J. Todhetley." - -"There, Preen," said he, returning it, "I won't repudiate that. Couldn't -if I would." - -Mr. Preen put the note into his pocket-book, and rose to leave. We -strolled with him across the front garden to the gate, where his gig was -waiting. - -"I have to go as far as Norton; and possibly after that on to Stoulton," -he remarked, as he took the reins in his hand and got in. - -"You will have a hot drive of it," said the Squire. - -"Yes; but if one undertakes business it must be attended to," said -Preen, as he drove off. - - - - -A TRAGEDY - - -II.--IN THE BUTTERY - - -I - -The windows of the room, called the Buttery, which Mr. Preen used as an -office in his house at Duck Brook, were thrown open to the warm, pure -air. It was about the hottest part of the afternoon. Oliver Preen sat -back in his chair before the large table covered with papers, waiting in -idleness and inward rebellion--rebellion against the untoward fate which -had latterly condemned him to this dreary and monotonous life. Taking -out his pocket-handkerchief with a fling, he passed it over his fair, -mild face, which was very hot just now. - -To-day, of all days, Oliver had wanted to be at liberty, whereas he was -being kept a prisoner longer than usual, and for nothing. When Mr. Preen -rode out after breakfast in the morning he had left Oliver a couple of -letters to copy as a beginning, remarking that there was a great deal -to do that day, double work, and he should be back in half-an-hour. The -double work arose from the fact that none had been done the day before, -as Mr. Preen was out. For that day, Monday--this was Tuesday--was the -day Mr. Preen had paid us a visit at Crabb Cott, to be paid for Taffy, -the pony, and had then gone to Norton, and afterwards to Stoulton, -and it had taken him the best part of the day. So the double work was -waiting. But the half hours and the hours had passed on, and Mr. Preen -had not yet returned. It was now three o'clock in the afternoon, and -they had dined without him. - -Oliver, who did not dare to absent himself without permission, and -perhaps was too conscientious to do so, left his chair for the window. -The old garden was quite a wilderness of blossom and colour, with all -kinds of homely flowers crowded into it. The young man stretched forth -his hand and plucked a spray or two of jessamine, which grew against the -wall. Idly smelling it, he lost himself in a vision of the days gone by; -his careless, happy life at Tours, in his aunt's luxurious home, when he -had no fear of a dark future, had only to dress well and ride or drive -out, and idly enjoy himself. - -Suddenly he was brought back to reality. The sound of hoofs clattering -into the fold-yard behind the house struck upon his ear, and he knew his -father had come home. - -Ten minutes yet, or more, and then Mr. Preen came into the room, his -little dark face looking darker and more cross than usual. He had been -snatching some light refreshment, and sat down at once in his place at -the table, facing the windows; Oliver sat opposite to him. - -"What have you done?" asked he. - -"I have only copied those two letters; there was nothing else to do," -replied Oliver. - -"Could you not have looked over the pile of letters which came this -morning, to see whether there were any you could answer?" growled Mr. -Preen. - -"Why, no, father," replied Oliver in slight surprise; "I did not know I -might look at them. And if I had looked I should not have known what to -reply." - -Mr. Preen began reading the letters over at railroad speed, dictating -answers for Oliver to write, writing some himself. This took time. He -had been unexpectedly detained at the other end of Captain Falkner's -land by some business which had vexed him. Most of these letters were -from farmers and others, about the new patent agricultural implements -for which Mr. Preen had taken the agency. He wished to push the sale of -them, as it gave him a good percentage. - -The answers, addressed and stamped for the post, at length lay ready on -the table. Mr. Preen then took out his pocket-book and extracted from it -that ten-pound bank-note given him the previous morning by Mr. Todhetley -for the children's pony, the note he had got the Squire to indorse, as I -have already told. Letting the bank-note lie open before him, Mr. Preen -penned a few lines, as follows, Oliver looking on:-- - -"DEAR SIR,--I enclose you the ten pounds. Have not been able to send it -before. Truly yours, G. PREEN." - -Mr. Preen folded the sheet on which he had written this, put the -bank-note within it, and enclosed all in a good-sized business envelope, -which he fastened securely down. He then addressed it to John Paul, -Esquire, Islip, and put on a postage stamp. - -"I shall seal this, Oliver," he remarked; "it's safer. Get the candle -and the wax. Here, you can seal it," he added, taking the signet ring -from his finger, on which was engraved the crest of the Preen family. - -Oliver lighted a candle kept on a stand at the back for such purposes, -brought it to the table, and sealed the letter with a large, imposing -red seal. As he passed the ring and letter back to his father, he spoke. - -"If you are particularly anxious that the letter should reach Mr. Paul -safely, father, and of course you are so, as it contains money, why did -you not send it by hand? I would have taken it to him." - -"There's nothing safer than the post," returned Mr. Preen, "and I want -him to have it to-morrow morning." - -Oliver laughed. "I could have taken it this evening, father. I can do so -still, if you like." - -"No, it shall go by post. You want to be off to MacEveril, I suppose." - -"No, I do not," replied Oliver. "Had I been able to finish here this -morning I might have gone over this afternoon; it is too late now." - -"You had nothing to do all day yesterday," growled his father. - -"Oh, yes, I know. I am not grumbling." - -Mr. Preen put the letter into his pocket, gathered up the pile of other -letters, handed half of them to his son, for it was a pretty good heap, -and they started for the post, about three minutes' walk. - -The small shop containing the post-office at Duck Brook was kept by Mrs. -Sym, who sold sweetstuff, also tapes and cottons. Young Sym, her son, -a growing youth, delivered the letters, which were brought in by a -mail-cart. She was a clean, tidy woman of middle age, never seen out of -a muslin cap with a wide border and a black bow, a handkerchief crossed -over her shoulders, and a checked apron. - -Oliver, of lighter step than his father, reached the post-office first -and tumbled his portion of the letters into the box placed in the window -to receive them. The next moment Mr. Preen put his in also, together -with the letter addressed to Mr. Paul. - -"We are too late," observed Oliver. "I thought we should be." - -"Eh?" exclaimed Mr. Preen, in surprise, as he turned round. "Too late! -Why how can the afternoon have gone on?" he continued, his eyes falling -on the clock of the little grey church which stood beyond the triangle -of houses, the hands of which were pointing to a quarter past five. - -"If you knew it was so late why did you not say so?" he asked sharply of -his son. - -"I was not sure until I saw the clock; I only thought it must be late by -the time we had been at work," replied Oliver. - -"I might have sent you over with that letter as you suggested, had I -known it would not go to-night. I wonder whether Dame Sym would give it -back to me." - -He dived down the two steps into the shop as he spoke, Oliver following. -Dame Sym--so Duck Brook called her--stood knitting behind the little -counter, an employment she took up at spare moments. - -"Mrs. Sym, I've just put some letters into the box, not perceiving that -it was past five o'clock," began Mr. Preen, civilly. "I suppose they'll -not go to-night?" - -"Can't, sir," replied the humble post-mistress. "The bag's made up." - -"There's one letter that will hardly bear delay. It is for Mr. Paul of -Islip. If you can return it me out of the box I will send it over by -hand at once; my son will take it." - -"But it is not possible, sir. Once a letter is put into the box I dare -not give it back again," remonstrated Mrs. Sym, gazing amiably at Mr. -Preen through her spectacles, whose round glasses had a trick of -glistening when at right angles with the light. - -"You might stretch a point for once, to oblige me," returned Mr. Preen, -fretfully. - -"And I'm sure I'd not need to be pressed to do it, sir, if I could," she -cried in her hearty way. "But I dare not break the rules, sir; I might -lose my place. Our orders are not to open the receiving box until the -time for making-up, or give a letter back on any pretence whatever." - -Mr. Preen saw that further argument would be useless. She was a kindly, -obliging old body, but upright to the last degree in all that related to -her place. Anything that she believed (right or wrong) might not be done -she stuck to. - -"Obstinate as the grave," muttered he. - -Dame Sym did not hear; she had turned away to serve a child who came in -for some toffee. Mr. Preen waited. - -"When will the letter go?" he asked, as the child went out. - -"By to-morrow's day mail, sir. It will be delivered at Islip--I think -you said Islip, Mr. Preen--about half-past four, or so, in the -afternoon." - -"Is the delay of much consequence, sir?" inquired Oliver, as he and his -father turned out of the shop. - -"No," said Mr. Preen. "Only I hate letters to be delayed uselessly in -the post." - - * * * * * - -Tea was waiting when they got in. A mutton chop was served with it for -Mr. Preen, as he had lost his dinner. Jane ran downstairs, drank a cup -of tea in haste, and ran back again. She had been busy in her bedroom -all day, smartening-up a dress. A picnic was to be held on Thursday, the -next day but one; Jane and Oliver were invited to it, and Jane wanted to -look as well as other girls. - -After tea Oliver sat for ever so long at the open window, reading the -_Worcester Journal_. He then strolled out to the Inlets, sauntered -beside the brook, and presently threw himself listlessly upon one of the -benches facing it. The sun shone right upon his face there, so he tilted -his straw hat over his eyes. That did not do, and he moved to another -bench which the trees shaded. He often felt lonely and weary now; this -evening especially so; even Jane was not with him. - -His thoughts turned to Emma Paul; and a glow, bright as the declining -sun rays, shot up in his heart. As long as _she_ filled it, he could not -be all gloom. - -"If I had means to justify it I should speak to her," mused he--as he -had told himself forty times over, and forty more. "But when a fellow -has no fortune, and no prospect of fortune; when it may be seen by no -end of odd signs and tokens that he has not so much as a silver coin in -his pocket, how can he ask a girl the one great question of life? Old -Paul would send me to the right-about." - -He leaned his head sideways for a few minutes against the trunk of a -tree, gazing at the reddening sky through the green tracery of the -waving boughs; and fell to musing again. - -"If she loved me as I love her, she would be glad to wait on as things -are, hoping for better times. Lovers, who are truly attached to each -other, do wait for years and years, and are all the happier for it. -Sometimes I feel inclined to enlist in a crack regiment. The worst of -it is that a fellow rarely rises from the ranks in England to position -and honour, as he does in France; they manage things better over there. -If old Uncle Edward would only open his purse-strings and buy me a -commission, I might---- Halloa!" - -A burst of girlish laughter, and a pair of girlish arms, flung round his -neck from behind, disturbed Oliver's castles-in-the-air. Jane came round -and sat down beside him. "I thought I should find you here, Oliver," she -said. - -"Frock finished, Janey?" - -"Finished! why no," she exclaimed. "It will hardly be finished by this -time to-morrow." - -"Why, how idle you must have been!" - -"Idle? You don't understand things, or the time it takes to make an old -frock into a new one. A dressmaker might have done it in a day, but I'm -not a dressmaker, you know, Oliver." - -"Is it a silk gown?" - -"It is a mousseline-de-laine, if you chance to be acquainted with that -material," answered Janey. "It was very pretty when it was new: pale -pink and lilac blossoms upon a cream ground. But it has been washed, -and that has made it shrink, and it has to be let out everywhere and -lengthened, and the faded silk trimming has to be turned, and--oh, ever -so much work. And now, I daresay you are as wise as you were before, -Oliver." - -"I've heard of washed-out dresses," remarked Oliver. "They look like -rags, don't they?" - -"Some may. Mine won't. It has washed like a pocket-handkerchief, and it -looks as good as new." - -"Wish my coats would wash," said Oliver. "They are getting shabby, and I -want some new ones." - -Not having any consolation to administer in regard to the coats, Jane -did not take up the subject. "What have you been doing all day, Oliver?" -she asked. - -"Airing my patience in that blessed Buttery," replied he. "Never stirred -out of it at all, except for dinner." - -"I thought you wanted to get over to Islip this afternoon." - -"I might want to get over to the North Pole, and be none the nearer to -it. MacEveril was bound for some place a mile or two across fields this -afternoon, on business for the office, and I promised to go over to -walk with him. Promises, though, are like pie-crust, Janey: made to be -broken." - -Jane nodded assent. "And a promise which you are obliged to break is -sure to be one you particularly want to keep. I wish I had a pair of new -gloves, Oliver. Pale grey." - -"I wish I had half-a-dozen new pairs, for the matter of that. Just look -at those little minnows, leaping in the water. How pretty they are!" - -He went to the edge of the brook and stood looking down at the small -fry. Jane followed. Then they walked about in the Inlets, then sat down -again and watched the sunset; and so the evening wore away until they -went home. - -Jane was shut up again the following day, busy with her dress; Oliver, -as usual, was in the Buttery with his father. At twelve o'clock Mr. -Preen prepared to go out to keep an appointment at Evesham, leaving -Oliver a lot of work to do, very much to his aggravation. - -"It's a shame. It will take me all the afternoon to get through it," ran -his thoughts--and he would have liked to say so aloud. - -"You don't look pleased, young man," remarked his father. "Recollect you -will be off duty to-morrow." - -Oliver's countenance cleared; his disposition was a pleasant one, never -retaining anger long, and he set to his task with a good will. The -morrow being the day of the picnic, he would have whole holiday. - -At five o'clock the young servant carried the tea-tray into the parlour. -Presently Mrs. Preen came in, made the tea, and sat down to wait for her -son and daughter. Tired and hot, she was glad of the rest. - -Jane ran downstairs, all happiness. "Mamma, it is finished," she cried; -"quite finished. It looks so well." - -"It had need look well," fretfully retorted Mrs. Preen, who had been -unable to get at Jane for any useful purpose these two days, and -resented it accordingly. - -"When all trades fail I can turn dressmaker," said the girl, gaily. -"Where's Oliver?" - -"In the Buttery, I expect; he said he had a great deal to do there this -afternoon, and I have not seen him about," replied Mrs. Preen, as she -poured out the tea. "Not that I should have been likely to see him--shut -into that hot kitchen with the ironing." - -Jane knew this was a shaft meant for herself. At ordinary times she did -her share of the ironing. "I will tell Oliver that tea is ready, mamma," -she said, rising to go to the other room. "Why, there he is, sitting in -the shade under the walnut tree," she exclaimed, happening to look from -the window. - -"Sitting out in the cool," remarked Mrs. Preen. "I don't blame him, -poring all day long over those accounts and things. Call him in, Jane." - -"Coming," said Oliver, in response to Jane's call from the open window. - -He crossed the grass slowly, fanning himself with his straw hat. His -fair face--an unusual thing with him--was scarlet. - -"You look red-hot, Oliver," laughed his sister. - -"If it is as hot to-morrow as it is to-day we shall get a baking," -returned Oliver. - -"In this intense weather nothing makes one feel the heat like work, and -I suppose you've been hard at it this afternoon," said his mother in a -tone of compassion, for she disliked work naturally very much herself. - -"Of course; I had to be," answered Oliver. - -He and Jane sat together under the shade of the walnut tree after tea. -When it grew a little cooler they went to the Inlets, that favourite -resort of theirs; a spot destined to bear a strange significance for one -of them in the days to come; a haunting remembrance. - - -II - -The white mist, giving promise of a hot and glorious day, had hardly -cleared itself from the earth, when, at ten o'clock on the Thursday -morning, Jane and Oliver Preen set off in the gig for North Villa, both -of them as spruce as you please; Jane in that pretty summer dress she -had spent so much work over, a straw hat with its wreath of pink may -shading her fair face, Oliver with a white rose in his button-hole. The -party was first to assemble at Mrs. Jacob Chandler's, and to go from -thence in waggonettes. There had been some trouble about the gig, Mr. -Preen wanting it himself that day, or telling Jane and Oliver that he -did, and that they could walk. Jane almost cried, declaring she did not -care to arrive at North Villa looking like a milkmaid, hot and red with -walking; and Mr. Preen gave way. Oliver was to drive himself and Jane, -Sam being sent on to Crabb to bring back the gig. - -Mr. Preen did not regard the picnic with favour. Mr. Preen could not -imagine what anybody could want at one, he said, when ungraciously -giving consent to Oliver's absenting himself from that delightful -Buttery for a whole day. - -Picnics in truth are nearly all alike, and are no doubt more agreeable -to the young than to the old. This one was given conjointly by the Jacob -Chandlers, the Letsoms, the Coneys, and the Ashtons of Timberdale. A -few honorary guests were invited. I call them honorary because they had -nothing to do with finding provisions. Tod got an invitation, myself -also; and uncommonly vexed we were not to be able to arrive till late -in the afternoon. The Beeles from Pigeon Green were coming to spend -the day at Crabb Cot, and the Squire would not let us off earlier. - -The picnic was held upon Mrs. Cramp's farm, not far from Crabb, and a -charming spot for it. Gentle hills and dales, shady groves and mossy -glens surrounded the house, which was a very good one. So that it may be -said we all were chiefly Mrs. Cramp's guests. Mrs. Cramp made a beaming -hostess, and was commander-in-chief at her own tea-table. Tea was taken -in her large parlour, to save the bother of carrying things out. Dinner -had been taken in the dell, under shade of the high and wide-spreading -trees. - -They were seated at tea when we got there. Such a large company at the -long table; and such tempting things to eat! I found a seat by Emma -Paul, the prettiest girl there; Oliver Preen was next her on the other -side. Mary MacEveril made room for Tod beside her. The MacEverils were -proud, exclusive people, and Miss MacEveril privately looked down on -some of her fellow guests; but Tod was welcome; he was of her own -order. - -Two or three minutes later Tom Chandler came in; he also had not been -able to get away earlier. He shook hands with his aunt, Mrs. Cramp, -nodded to the rest of us, and deftly managed to wedge himself in between -Emma Paul and young Preen. Preen did not seem pleased, Emma did; and -made all the room she could, by crushing me. - -"I wouldn't be in your shoes to-morrow morning, young man," began Mr. -Chandler, in a serio-comic tone, as he looked at Dick MacEveril across -the table. "To leave the office to its own devices the first thing this -morning, in defiance of orders----" - -"Hang the musty old office!" interrupted MacEveril, with a genial laugh. - -Valentine Chandler had done the same by his office; pleasure first and -business later always with both of them; but Valentine was his own -master and MacEveril was not. In point of fact, Mr. Paul, not a man to -be set at defiance by his clerks, was in a great rage with Dick -MacEveril. - -I supposed the attractions of the picnic had been too powerful for Dick, -and that he thought the sooner he got to it the better. But this proved -to be a fallacy. Mrs. Cramp was setting her nephew right. - -"My dear Tom, you are mistaken. Mr. MacEveril did not come this morning; -he only got here an hour ago--like two or three more of the young men." - -"Oh, did he not, Aunt Mary Ann?" replied Tom, turning his handsome, -pleasant face upon her. - -"Yes, and if you were not at the office I should like to know what you -did with yourself all day, Dick," severely cried Miss MacEveril, bending -forward to regard her cousin. - -"I went to see the pigeon-match," said Dick, coolly. - -"To see the pigeon-match!" she echoed. "How cruel of you! You had better -not let papa know." - -"If anyone lets him know it will be yourself, Miss Mary. And suppose -you hold your tongue now," cried Dick, not very politely. - -This little passage-at-arms over, we went on with tea. Afterwards we -strolled out of doors and disposed of ourselves at will. Some of the -Chandler girls took possession of me, and I went about with them. - -When it was getting late, and they had talked me deaf, I began looking -about for Tod, and found him on a bench within the Grove. A sheltered -spot. Sitting there, you could look out, but people could not look in. -Mary MacEveril and Georgiana Chandler were with him; Oliver Preen stood -close by, leaning against the stump of a tree. I thought how sad his -look was, and wondered what made it so. - -Within view of us, but not within hearing, in a dark, narrow walk Tom -Chandler and Emma Paul were pacing side by side, absorbed evidently -in one another. The sun had set, the lovely colours in the sky were -giving place to twilight. It was the hour when matter-of-fact prosaic -influences change into romance; when, if there's any sentiment within us -it is safe to come out. - - "It is the hour when from the boughs - The nightingale's high note is heard; - It is the hour when lovers' vows - Seem sweet in every whispered word," - -as Lord Byron says. And who could discourse on love--the true ring of -it, mind you--as he did? - -"Do sing," said Tod to Miss MacEveril; and I found they had been teasing -her to do so for the last five minutes. She had a pleasant voice and -sang well. - -"I'm sure you don't care to hear me, Mr. Todhetley." - -"But I'm sure I do," answered Tod, who would flirt with pretty girls -when the fit took him. Flirt and flatter too. - -"We should have everyone coming round us." - -"Not a soul of them. They are all away somewhere, out of hearing. Do -sing me one song." - -She began at once, without more ado, choosing an old song that Mrs. -Todhetley often chose; one that was a favourite of hers, as it was of -mine: "Faithless Emma." Those songs of the old days bore, all of them, -a history. - - "I wandered once at break of day, - While yet upon the sunless sea - In wanton sighs the breeze delayed, - And o'er the wavy surface played. - Then first the fairest face I knew, - First loved the eye of softest blue, - And ventured, fearful, first to sip - The sweets that hung upon the lip - Of faithless Emma. - - So mixed the rose and lily white - That nature seemed uncertain, quite, - To deck her cheek which flower she chose, - The lily or the blushing rose. - I wish I ne'er had seen her eye, - Ne'er seen her cheeks of doubtful dye, - Nor ever, ever dared to sip - The sweets that hung upon the lip - Of faithless Emma. - - Now though from early dawn of day, - I rove alone and, anxious, stray - Till night with curtain dark descends, - And day no more its glimmering lends; - Yet still, like hers no cheek I find, - No eye like hers, save in my mind, - Where still I fancy that I sip - The sweets that hung upon the lip - Of faithless Emma." - -"I think all Emmas are faithless," exclaimed Georgiana, speaking at -random, as the last sounds of the sweet song died away. - -"A sweeping assertion, Miss Georgie," laughed Tod. - -"Any way, I knew two girls named Emma who were faithless to their -engaged lovers, and one of them's not married yet to any one else," -returned Georgie. - -"I think I know one Emma who will be true for ever and a day," cried -Tod, as he pointed significantly to Emma Paul, still walking side by -side with Tom Chandler in the distance. - -"I could have told you that before now," said Mary MacEveril. "I have -seen it for a long time, though Miss Emma will never confess to it." - -"And now, I fancy it will soon be a case," continued Tod. - -"A case!" cried Georgie. "What do you mean?" - -"A regular case; dead, and gone, and done for," nodded Tod. "Church -bells and wedding gloves, and all the rest of the paraphernalia. Looks -like it, anyhow, to-night." - -"Oh!" exclaimed Georgie, "then how sly Tom has been over it, never to -tell us! Is it really true? I shall ask Valentine." - -"The last person likely to know," said Tod. "You'll find it's true -enough, Georgie." - -"Then----" Georgie began, and broke off. "Listen!" she cried. "They are -beginning to dance on the lawn. Come, Mary." And the two girls moved -away, attracted by the scraping of the fiddle. - -Oliver Preen moved a step forward from the tree, speaking in a low, calm -tone; but his face was white as death. - -"Were you alluding to _them_?" he asked, looking across to those two -pacing about. "Why do you say it is a 'case'?" - -"Because I am sure it is one," answered Tod. "They have been in love -with one another this many a day past, those two, months and months and -years. As everyone might see who had eyes, except old Paul. That's why, -Preen." - -Oliver did not answer. He had his arm round the trunk of a tree looking -across as before. - -"And I wouldn't stake a fortune that Paul has not seen it also," went on -Tod. "All the same, I had a rumour whispered to me to-day that he sees -it now, and has said, 'Bless you, my children.' Tom Chandler is to be -made his partner and to marry Emma." - -"We are too many girls there, and want you for partners," cried Eliza -Letsom, dashing up. "Do come and dance with us, Johnny!" - -What else could I do? Or Tod, either. - -It was nearly eleven o'clock when the party separated. The waggonettes -held us all, and nice scrambling and crowding we had for seats. One of -the vehicles, after setting down some of its freight--ourselves and the -Miss Chandlers--continued its way to Duck Brook with Jane and Oliver -Preen. - -It was a lovely night. The moon had risen, and was flooding the earth -with its soft light. Jane sat looking at it in romantic reverie. -Suddenly it struck her that her brother was unusually still; he had not -spoken a single word. - -"How silent you are, Oliver. You are not asleep, are you?" - -Oliver slowly raised his bent head. "Silent?" he repeated. "One can't -talk much after a tiring day such as this." - -"I think it must be getting on for twelve o'clock," said Jane. "What a -delightfully happy day it has been!" - -"The one bad day of all my life," groaned Oliver, in spirit. But he -broke into the two lines, in pretended gaiety, that some one had sung on -the box-seat of the waggonette when leaving Mrs. Cramp's: - - "For the best of all ways to lengthen our days - Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear." - - -III - - "MY DEAR SIR,--Robert Derrick is getting troublesome. He has been - here three times in as many days, pressing for ten pounds, the - instalment of your debt now due to him. Will you be good enough to - transmit it to me, that I may pay and get rid of him. - - "Truly yours, JOHN PAUL." - -This letter, written by Lawyer Paul of Islip, came to Mr. Preen by the -Thursday morning post, just a week after the picnic. It put him into a -temper. - -"What do Paul's people mean by their carelessness?" he exclaimed -angrily, as he snatched a sheet of paper to pen the answer. - - "DEAR MR. PAUL,--I don't know what you mean. I sent the money to - you ten days ago--a bank-note, enclosed in a letter to yourself. - - "Truly yours, G. PREEN." - -Calling Oliver from his breakfast, Mr. Preen despatched this answer by -him at once to the post-office. There was no hurry whatever, since the -day mail had gone out, and it would lie in Mrs. Sym's drawer until -towards evening, but an angry man knows nothing of patience. - -The week since the picnic had not been productive of any particular -event, except a little doubt and trouble regarding Dick MacEveril. -Mr. Paul was so much annoyed, at Dick's taking French leave to absent -himself from the office that day, that he attacked him with hot words -when he entered it on the Friday morning. Dick took it very coolly--old -Paul said "insolently," and retorted that he wanted a longer holiday -than that, a whole fortnight, and that he must have it. Shortly and -sharply Mr. Paul told him he could not have it, unless he chose to have -it for good. - -Dick took him at his word. Catching up his hat and stick, he went out of -the office there and then, and had not since appeared at it. Not only -that: during the Friday he disappeared also from Islip. Nobody knew for -certain whither he had gone, or where he was: unless it might be London. -He had made no secret of what he wanted a holiday for. Some young fellow -whom he had known in Australia had recently landed at the docks and was -in London, and Dick wanted to go up to see him. - -Deprived of his friend, and deprived of his heart's love, Oliver -Preen was in a bad case. The news of Emma Paul's engagement to Thomas -Chandler, and the news that Chandler was to have a share in her father's -business, had been made public; the speedy marriage was already talked -of. No living person saw what havoc it was making of Oliver Preen. Jane -found him unnaturally quiet. He would sit by the hour together and never -say a word to her or to anyone else, apparently plunged in what might be -either profound scientific calculations or grim despondency. It was as -if he had the care of the world upon his mind, and at times there would -break from him a sudden long-drawn sigh. Poor Oliver! Earth's sunshine -had gone out for him with sweet Emma Paul. - -She had not been faithless, like the Faithless Emma of the song, for -she had never cared for anyone but Tom Chandler, had never given the -smallest encouragement to another. Oliver had only deluded himself. -To his heart, filled and blinded with its impassioned love, her open, -pleasing manners had seemed to be a response, and so he had mistaken -her. That was all. - -But this is sentiment, which the world, having grown enlightened of -late years, practically despises; and we must go on to something more -sensible and serious. - -The answer sent by Mr. Preen to John Paul of Islip brought forth an -answer in its turn. It was to the effect that Mr. Paul had not seen -anything of the letter spoken of by Mr. Preen, or of the money it was -said to contain. - -This reached Duck Brook on the Saturday morning. Mr. Preen, more puzzled -this time than angry, could not make it out. - -"Oliver," said he, "which day was it last week that I wrote that letter -to Paul of Islip, enclosing a ten-pound note?" - -"I don't remember," carelessly replied Oliver. They had not yet settled -to work, and Oliver was stretched out at the open window, talking to a -little dog that was leaping up outside. - -"Not remember!" indignantly echoed Mr. Preen. "My memory is distracted -with a host of cares, but yours has nothing to trouble it. Bring your -head in, sir, and attend to me properly." - -Oliver dutifully brought his head in, his face red with stooping. "What -was it you asked me, father? I did not quite catch it," he said. - -"I asked you if you could remember which day I sent that money to Paul. -But I think I remember now for myself. It was the day after I received -the bank-note from Mr. Todhetley. That was Monday. Then I sent the -letter to Paul with the bank-note in it on the Tuesday. You sealed it -for me." - -"I remember quite well that it was Tuesday--two days before the picnic," -said Oliver. - -"Oh, of course; a picnic is a matter to remember anything by," returned -Mr. Preen, sarcastically. "Well, Paul says he has never received either -money or letter." - -"The letter was posted----" began Oliver, but his father impatiently -interrupted him. - -"Certainly it was posted. You saw me post it." - -"It was too late for the evening's post; Dame Sym said it would go out -the next morning," went on Oliver. "Are Paul's people sure they did not -receive it?" - -"Paul tells me so. Paul is an exact man, and would not tolerate any but -exact clerks about him. He writes positively." - -"I suppose Mrs. Sym did not forget to forward it?" suggested Oliver. - -"What an idiot you are!" retorted his father, by way of being -complimentary. "The letter must have gone out safely enough." - -Nevertheless, after Mr. Preen had attended to his other letters and to -two or three matters they involved, he put on his hat and went to Mrs. -Sym's. - -The debt for which the money was owing appeared to be a somewhat -mysterious one. Robert Derrick, a man who dealt in horses, or in -anything else by which he could make money, and attended all fairs near -and far, lived about two miles from Islip. One day, about a year back, -Derrick presented himself at the office of Mr. Paul, and asked that -gentleman if he would sue Gervais Preen for a sum of money, forty -pounds, which had been long owing to him. What was it owing for, Mr. -Paul inquired; but Derrick declined to say. Instead of suing him, the -lawyer wrote to request Mr. Preen to call upon him, which Mr. Preen did. -He acknowledged that he did owe the debt--forty pounds--but, like -Derrick, he evaded the question when asked what he owed it for. Perhaps -it was for a horse, or horses, suggested Mr. Paul. No, it was for -nothing of that kind, Mr. Preen replied; it was a strictly private debt. - -An arrangement was come to. To pay the whole at once was not, Mr. Preen -said, in his power; but he would pay it by instalments. Ten pounds every -six months he would place in Mr. Paul's hands, to be handed to Derrick, -whom Mr. Preen refused to see. This arrangement Derrick agreed to. Two -instalments had already been paid, and one which seemed to have now -miscarried in the post was the third. - -"Mrs. Sym," began Mr. Preen, when he had dived into the sweet-stuff -shop, and confronted the post-mistress behind her counter, "do you -recollect, one day last week, my asking you to give me back a letter -which I had just posted, addressed to Mr. Paul of Islip, and you -refused?" - -"Yes, sir, I do," answered Mrs. Sym. "I was sorry, but----" - -"Never mind that. What I want to ask you is this: did you notice that -letter when you made up the bag?" - -"I did, sir. I noticed it particularly in consequence of what had -passed. It was sealed with a large red seal." - -"Just so. Well, Mr. Paul declares that letter has not reached him." - -"But it must have reached him," rejoined Mrs. Sym, fastening her -glittering spectacles upon the speaker's face. "It had Mr. Paul's -address upon it in plain writing, and it went away from here in the -bag with the rest of the letters." - -"The letter had a ten-pound note in it." - -Mrs. Sym paused. "Well, sir, if so, that would not endanger the letter's -safety. Who was to know it had? But letters that contain money ought to -be registered, Mr. Preen." - -"You are sure it went away as usual from here--all safe?" - -"Sure and certain, sir. And I think it must have reached Mr. Paul, if -I may say so. He may have overlooked it; perhaps let it fall into some -part of his desk, unopened. Why, some years ago, there was a great fuss -made about a letter which was sent to Captain Falkner, when he was -living at the Hall. He came here one day, complaining to me that a -letter sent to him by post, which had money in it, had never been -delivered. The trouble there was over that lost letter, sir, I couldn't -tell you. The Captain accused the post-office in London, for it was -London it came from, of never having forwarded it; then he accused me of -not sending it out with the delivery. After all, it was himself who had -mislaid the letter. He had somehow let it fall unnoticed into a deep -drawer of his writing-table when it was handed to him with other letters -at the morning's delivery; and there it lay all snug till found, hid -away amid a mass of papers. What do you think of that, sir?" - -Mr. Preen did not say. - -"In all the years I have kept this post-office I can't call to memory -one single letter being lost in the transit," she ran on, warming in her -own cause. "Why, how could it, sir? Once a letter's sent away safe in -the bag, there it must be; it can't fall out of it. Your letter was so -sent away by me, Mr. Preen, and where should it be if Mr. Paul hasn't -got it? Please tell him, sir, from me, that I'd respectfully suggest he -should look well about his desk and places." - -Evidently it was not at this side the letter had been lost--if lost it -was. Mr. Preen wished the post-mistress good morning, and walked away. -Her suggestion had impressed him; he began to think it very likely -indeed that Paul had overlooked the letter on its arrival, and would -find it about his desk, or table, or some other receptacle for papers. - -He drove over to Islip in the gig in the afternoon, taking Oliver with -him. Islip reached, he left Oliver in the gig, to wait at the door or -drive slowly about as he pleased, while he went into the office to, as -he expressed it, "have it out with Paul." - -Not at once, however, could he do that, for Mr. Paul was out; but he saw -Tom Chandler. - -The offices, situated in the heart of Islip, and not a stone's throw -from the offices of Valentine Chandler, consisted of three rooms, all on -the ground floor. The clerks' room was in front, its windows (painted -white, so that no one could see in or out) faced the street; Mr. Paul's -room lay behind it and looked on to a garden. There was also a small -slip of a room, not much better than a passage, into which Mr. Paul -could take clients whose business was very private indeed. Tom Chandler, -about to be made a partner, had a desk in Mr. Paul's room as well as one -in the clerks' room. It was at the latter that he usually sat. - -On this afternoon he was seated at his desk in Mr. Paul's room when -Gervais Preen entered. Tom received him with a smile and a hand-shake, -and gave him a chair. - -"I've come about that letter, Mr. Chandler," began the visitor; "my -letter with the ten-pound bank-note in it, which Mr. Paul denies having -received." - -"I assure you no such letter was received by us----" - -"It was addressed in a plain handwriting to Mr. Paul himself, and -protected by a seal of red wax with my crest upon it," irritably -interrupted the applicant, who hated to be contradicted. - -"Mr. Preen, you may believe me when I tell you the letter never reached -us," said Tom, a smile crossing his candid, handsome face, at the -other's irritability. - -"Then where is the letter? What became of it?" - -"I should say perhaps it was never posted," mildly suggested Tom. - -"Not posted!" tartly echoed Mr. Preen. "Why, I posted it myself; as Dame -Sym, over at Duck Brook, can testify. And my son also, for that matter; -he stood by and saw me put it into the box. Dame Sym sent it away in the -bag with the rest; she remembers the letter perfectly." - -"It never was delivered to us," said Tom, shaking his head. "If---- oh, -here is Mr. Paul." - -The portly lawyer came into the room, pushing back his iron-grey hair. -He sat down at his own desk-table; Mr. Preen drew his chair so as to -face him, and the affair was thoroughly gone into. It cannot be denied -that the experienced man of law, knowing how difficult it was to Mr. -Preen to find money for his debts and his needs, had allowed some faint -doubt to float within him in regard to this reported loss. Was it a true -loss?--or an invented one? But old Paul read people's characters, as -betrayed in their tones and faces, tolerably well; he saw that Preen was -in desperate earnest, and he began to believe his story. - -"Let me see," said he. "You posted it on Tuesday, the fifteenth. You -found it was too late for that night's post, and would not go off until -the morrow morning, when, as Dame Sym says, she despatched it. Then we -ought to have received it that afternoon--Wednesday, the sixteenth." - -"Yes," assented Mr. Preen. "Mrs. Sym wished to respectfully suggest to -you, Paul, that you might have overlooked it amidst the other letters at -the time it was delivered, and let it drop unseen into some drawer or -desk." - -"Oh, she did, did she?" cried old Paul, while Tom Chandler laughed. -"Give my respects to her, Preen, and tell her I'm not an old woman. We -don't get many letters in an afternoon, sometimes not any," he went on. -"Can you carry your memory back to that Wednesday afternoon, Chandler?" - -"I daresay I shall be able to do so," replied Tom. "Wednesday, the -sixteenth.--Was not that the day before the picnic at Aunt Cramp's?" - -"What on earth has the picnic to do with it?" sharply demanded Mr. -Preen. "All you young men are alike. Oliver could only remember the date -of my posting the letter by recalling that of the picnic. You should be -above such frivolity." - -Tom Chandler laughed. "I remember the day before the picnic for a -special reason, sir. MacEveril asked for holiday that he might go to -it. I told him he could not have the whole day, we were too busy, but -perhaps he might get half of it; upon which he said half a day was -no good to him, and gave me some sauce. Yes, that was Wednesday, the -sixteenth; and now, having that landmark to go by, I may be able to -trace back other events and the number of letters which came in that -afternoon." - -"Is MacEveril back yet?" asked Preen. - -"No," replied Paul. "The captain does not know where he is; no one does -know, that I'm aware of. Look here, Preen; as this letter appears to -be really lost, and very unaccountably, since Mrs. Sym is sure she sent -it off, and I am sure it was never delivered to me, I shall go to our -office here now, and inquire about it. Will you come with me?" - -Mr. Preen was only too glad to go to any earthly place that was likely -to afford news of his ten-pound note, for the loss would be his, and -he knew not where he should find another ten pounds to satisfy the -insatiable Derrick. - -They proceeded along the pavement together, passing Oliver, who was -slowly parading the gig up and down the street. His sad face--unusually -sad it looked--had a sort of expectancy on it as he turned his gaze from -side to side, lest by some happy chance it might catch the form of Emma -Paul. Emma might be going to marry another; but, all the same, Oliver -could not drop her out of his heart. - -They disclaimed all recollection of the letter at the post-office. Had -it been for a private individual it might have been remembered, but Mr. -Paul had too many letters to allow of that, unless something special -called attention to any one of them. Whether the letter in question had -reached them by the Islip bag, or whether it had not, they could not -say; but they could positively affirm that, if it had, it had been sent -out to Mr. Paul. - -In returning they overtook the postman on his round, with the afternoon -delivery: a young, active man, who seemed to skim over the ground, and -was honest as the day. - -"Dale," said Lawyer Paul, "there has been a letter lost, addressed -to me. I wonder whether you chanced to notice such a letter?" And he -mentioned the details of the case. - -"One day is like another to me in its round of duties, you see, sir," -observed the man. "Sealed with a big red seal, you say, sir? Well, it -might be, but that's nothing for me to go by; so many of your letters -are sealed, sir." - -The lawyer returned to his office with Mr. Preen, and entered his own -room. Tom Chandler heard them and came swiftly through the door which -opened from the clerks' department, a smile of satisfaction on his face. - -"I remember all about the letters that were brought in on Wednesday -week," said he. "I can recall the whole of the circumstances; they were -rather unusual." - - - - -A TRAGEDY - - -III.--MYSTERY - - -I - -Thomas Chandler possessed a clear, retentive memory by nature, and he -had done nothing to cloud it. After his master, Lawyer Paul--soon to be -no longer his master, but his partner--had gone out with Mr. Preen to -make inquiries at the post-office for the missing letter, he sat down to -bring his memory into exercise. - -Carrying his thoughts back to the Wednesday afternoon, some ten days -ago, when the letter ought to have been delivered at Mr. Paul's office, -and was not--at least, so far as could be traced at present--he had -little difficulty in recalling its chief events, one remembered incident -leading up to another. - -Then he passed into the front room, and spoke for some minutes with -Michael Hanborough, a steady little man of middle age, who had been with -Mr. Paul over twenty years. There was one clerk under him, Tite Batley -(full name Titus), and there had been young Richard MacEveril. The -disappearance of the latter had caused the office to be busy just now, -Michael Hanborough especially so. He was in the room alone when Mr. -Chandler entered. - -"You have not gone to tea yet, Mr. Hanborough!" - -"No, sir. I wanted to finish this deed, first. Batley's gone to his." - -"Look here, Hanborough, I want to ask you a question or two. That deed's -in no particular hurry, for I am sure Mr. Paul will not be ready to send -it off to-day," continued Mr. Chandler. "There's going to be a fuss over -that letter of Preen's, which appears to have been unaccountably lost. I -have been carrying my thoughts back to the Wednesday afternoon when it -ought to have been delivered here, and I want you to do the same. Try -and recollect anything and everything you can, connected with that -afternoon." - -"But, Mr. Chandler, the letter could not have been delivered here; Mr. -Paul says so," reasoned Michael Hanborough, turning from his desk while -he spoke and leaning his elbow upon it. - -His desk stood between the window and the door which opened from the -passage; the window being at his right hand as he sat. Opposite, beside -the other window, was Mr. Chandler's desk. A larger desk, used by -MacEveril and young Batley, crossed the lower end of the room, facing -the window; and near it was the narrow door that opened to Mr. Paul's -room. - -Thomas Chandler remained talking with Hanborough until he saw the lawyer -and Mr. Preen return, when he joined them in the other room. They -mentioned their failure at the post-office, and he then related to them -what he had been able to recall. - -Wednesday afternoon, the sixteenth of June, had been distinguished in -Mr. Paul's office by a little breeze raised by Richard MacEveril. -Suddenly looking up from his writing, he disturbed Mr. Chandler, who was -busy at his desk, by saying he expected to have holiday on the morrow -for the whole day. Hanborough was just then in Mr. Paul's room; Batley -was out. Batley had been sent to execute a commission at a distance, and -would not be back till evening. - -"Oh, indeed!" responded Tom Chandler, laughing at MacEveril's modest -request, so modestly put. "What else would you like, Dick?" - -Dick laughed too. "That will serve me for the present moment, Mr. -Chandler," said he. - -"Well, Dick, I'm sorry to deny you, but you can't have it. You have a -conscience to ask it, young man, when you know the Worcester Sessions -are close at hand, and we are so busy here we don't know which way to -turn!" - -"I mean to take it," said Dick. - -"But I don't mean you to; understand that. See here, Dick: I won't be -harder than I'm obliged; I should like to go to the pic-nic myself, -though there's no chance of that for me. Come here in good time in the -morning, get through as much work as you can, and I daresay we can let -you off at one o'clock. There!" - -This concession did not satisfy MacEveril. When Mr. Hanborough came in -from the other room he found the young man exercising his saucy tongue -upon Tom Chandler, calling him a "Martinet," a "Red Indian Freebooter," -and other agreeable names, which he may have brought with him from -Australia. Tom, ever sweet-tempered, took it all pleasantly, and bade -him go on with his work. - -That interlude passed. At half-past four o'clock MacEveril went out, as -usual, to get his tea, leaving Chandler and Hanborough in the office, -each writing at his own desk. Presently the former paused; looked -fixedly at the mortgage-deed he was engaged upon, and then got up to -carry it to the old clerk. As he was crossing the room the postman came -in, put a small pile of letters into Mr. Chandler's hand, and went out -again. Tom looked down at the letters but did not disturb them; he laid -them down upon Mr. Hanborough's desk whilst he showed him the parchment. - -"I don't much like this one clause, Hanborough," he said. "Just read -it; it's very short. Would it be binding on the other party?" - -They were both reading the clause, heads together, when Mr. Paul -was heard speaking in haste. "Chandler! Tom Chandler! Come here -directly"--and Tom turned and went at once. - -"Is Hanborough there?" cried Mr. Paul. - -"Yes, sir." - -"Tell him to come in also; no time to lose." - -Mr. Paul wanted them to witness his signature to a deed which had to go -off by the evening post. That done, he detained them for a minute upon -some other matter; after which, Hanborough left the room. Chandler -turned to follow him. - -"Bring the letters in as soon as they come," said Mr. Paul. "There may -be one from Burnaby." - -"Oh, they have come," replied Tom; and he went into the other room and -brought the letters to the lawyer. - -It was this which Tom Chandler now related to his master and to Mr. -Preen. By dint of exercising his own memory and referring to his -day-book, Mr. Paul was enabled to say that the letters that past -afternoon were four in number, and to state from whom they came. There -was no letter amongst them from Mr. Preen; none at all from Duck Brook. -So there it was: the letter seemed to have mysteriously vanished; either -out of the post bag despatched by Mrs. Sym, or else after its arrival at -Islip. The latter was of course the more probable; since, as Dame Sym -had herself remarked, once a letter was shut up in the bag, there it -must remain; it could not vanish from it. - -But, assuming this to be the case, how and where had it vanished? From -the Islip post-office? Or from the postman's hands when carrying it out -for delivery? Or from Mr. Paul's front room? - -They were yet speaking when Dale the postman walked in. He came to say -that he had been exercising his mind upon the afternoons of the past -week and could now distinguish Wednesday from the others. He recalled it -by remembering that it was the afternoon of the accident in the street, -when a tax-cart was overturned and the driver had broken his arm; and he -could positively say that he had that afternoon delivered the letters to -Mr. Chandler himself. - -"Yes, yes, we remember all that ourselves, Dale," returned Mr. Paul, -somewhat testily. "The thing we want you to remember is, whether you -observed amidst the letters one with a large red seal." - -Dale shook his head. "No, sir, I did not. The letters lay one upon -another, address upwards, and I took no particular notice of them. There -were four or five of them, I should think." - -"Four," corrected the lawyer. "Well, that's all, Dale, for the present. -The letter is lost, and we must consider what to do in the matter." - -Yes, it was all very well to say that to Dale, but what _could_ they do? -How set about it? To begin with, Preen did not know the number of the -note, but supposed he might get it from Mr. Todhetley. He stayed so long -in discussion with the lawyer, that his son, waiting in the gig outside, -grew tired and the horse impatient. - -Oliver was almost ready to die of weariness, when an acquaintance of his -came out of the Bell. Fred Scott; a dashing young fellow, who had more -money than brains. - -"Get up," said Oliver. And Scott got into the gig. - -They were driving slowly about and talking fast, when two young ladies -came into view at the end of the street. Oliver threw the reins to his -friend, got out in a trice and met them. No need to say that one of them -was Emma Paul. - -"I beg your pardon," said Oliver to her, lifting his hat from his -suddenly flushed face, as he shook hands with both of them. "I left two -books at your house yesterday: did you get them? The servant said you -were out." - -"Oh, yes, I had them; and I thank you very much," answered Emma, with a -charming smile: whilst Mary MacEveril went away to feast her eyes at the -milliner's window. "I have begun one of them already." - -"Jane said you would like to read them; and so--I--I left them," -returned Oliver, with the hesitating shyness of true love. - -"It is very kind of you, Sir. Oliver, to bring them over, and I am sorry -I was not at home," said Emma. "When are you and Jane coming to see me?" - -With her dimpled face all smiles, her blue eyes beaming upon him, her -ready handshake still tingling in his pulses, her cordial tones telling -of pleasure, how could that fascinated young man do otherwise than -believe in her? The world might talk of her love for Tom Chandler: he -did not and would not believe it held a grain of truth. Oh, if he could -but know that she loved _him_! Mary MacEveril turned. - -"Emma, are you not coming? We have that silk to match, you know." - -With another handshake, another sweet smile, she went away with Mary. -Oliver said adieu, his heart on his lips. All his weariness was gone, -lost in a flood of sunshine. - -Mr. Preen was seen, coming along. Scott got out of the gig, and Oliver -got into it. Preen took his seat and the reins, and drove off. - -Mr. Paul went home to dinner at the usual hour that evening, but the -clerks remained beyond the time for closing. Work had been hindered, and -had to be done. Batley was the first to leave; the other two lingered -behind, talking of the loss. - -"It is the most surprising thing that has happened for a long while," -remarked Hanborough. He had locked his desk and had his hat and gloves -at his elbow. "That letter has been stolen, Mr. Chandler; it has not -been accidentally lost." - -"Ay," assented Tom. "Stolen--I fear--from here. From this very room that -you and I are standing in, Hanborough." - -"My suspicions, sir, were directed to the Islip post-office." - -"I wish mine were," said Tom. "I don't think--think, mind, for we cannot -be sure--that the post-office is the right quarter to look to. You see -the letters were left here on your desk, while we were occupied with -Mr. Paul in his room. About two minutes, I suppose, we stayed with him; -perhaps three. Did anyone come in during that time, Hanborough, and take -the letter?" - -Mr. Hanborough drew off his spectacles, which he wore out of doors as -well as in; he was sure to take them off when anything disturbed him. - -"But who would do such a thing?" he asked. - -Tom laughed a little. "You wouldn't, old friend, and I wouldn't; but -there may be people in the neighbourhood who would." - -Doubts were presenting themselves to Michael Hanborough's mind: he did -not "see" this, as the saying runs. "Why should anyone single out that -one particular letter to take, and leave the rest?" he resumed. - -"That point puzzles me," remarked Tom. "If the letter was singled out, -as you put it, from the rest, I should say the thief must have known it -contained money: and who could, or did, know that? I wish I had carried -the letters in with me when Mr. Paul called to me!" - -"If the letters had been left alone for a whole day in our office, -I should never have supposed they were not safe," said the clerk, -impulsively. "But, now that my attention has been drawn to this, I -must mention something, Mr. Chandler." - -"Yes. Go on." - -"When the master called me in after you, I followed you in through that -door," he began, pointing to the door of communication between the two -rooms. "But I left it by the other, the passage door, chancing to be -nearest to it at the moment. As I went out, I saw the green baize door -swinging, and supposed that someone had come in; MacEveril, perhaps, -from his tea. But he had not done so. I found neither him nor anyone -else; the room here was vacant as when I left it." - -The green baize door stood in the passage, between the street door, -always open in the daytime, and the door that led into the front office. - -"Seeing no one here, I concluded I was mistaken; and I have never -thought of it from that hour to this," continued the clerk. "No, not -even when it came out that a letter had been lost with a bank-note in -it." - -Tom nodded his head several times, as much as to say that was when the -thief must have come in. "And now, Hanborough, I'll tell you something -in turn," he went on. "Dale put the letters into my hand that afternoon, -as you know; and I laid them on your desk here while showing you that -clause in the mortgage deed. Later, when I took up the letters to carry -them to Mr. Paul, an idea struck me that the packet felt thinner. It did -indeed. I of course supposed it to be only fancy, and let it slip from -my mind. I have never thought of it since--as you say by the green -door--until this afternoon." - -Michael Hanborough, who had put his spectacles on again, turned them -upon his young master, and dropped his voice to a whisper. - -"Who is it that--that we may suspect, sir?" - -"Say yourself, Hanborough." - -"I'm afraid to say. Is it--MacEveril?" - -"It looks like it," replied Tom, in the same low tone. "But while there -are reasons for suspecting him, there are also reasons against it," he -added, after a pause. "MacEveril was in debt, petty little odds and -ends of things which he owes about the place and elsewhere; that's one -reason why money would be useful to him. Then his running away looks -suspicious; and another reason is that there's positively no one else to -suspect. All that seems to tell against him; but on the other hand, -MacEveril, though random and heedless, is a gentleman and has a -gentleman's instincts, and I do _not_ think he would be guilty of such -a thing." - -"Well, and I can't think it, either," said Michael Hanborough; "despite -his faults and his saucy tongue, I liked him. He did not come in again -that afternoon till half-past five, I remember. I told him he was late; -he answered, laughing, that he had dropped asleep over his tea--though I -didn't believe a word of it." - -"If MacEveril really took the letter, how had he ascertained that it -contained money?" mused Tom Chandler. "Hanborough, at present I think -this suspicion had better lie entirely between ourselves." - -"Yes, Mr. Chandler, and so do I. Perhaps a few days may bring forth -something to confirm or dispel it." - - -II - -Preen was a great deal too anxious and restless to let the following day -pass over quietly; and on that Sunday afternoon when we were all sitting -in the garden at Crabb Cot, under the scent and shade of the large -syringa trees, he walked in. His little dark face looked darker than -ever, the scowl of pain on his brow deeper. - -"No, I can't take anything," he said, in answer to the Squire's -hospitable offers of having wine, or ale, or lemonade brought out. -"Thirsty? Yes, I am thirsty, Squire, but it is with worry, not with the -walk. Wine and lemonade won't relieve that." - -And, sitting down to face us, in a swinging American chair, which Tod -had brought out for his own benefit, Gervais Preen surprised us with the -history of his mysterious loss, and inquired whether the Squire could -give him the number of the note. - -"Yes, I can," replied the Squire; "my name is on the note also; you made -me write it, you know. How on earth has it got lost?" - -"It is just one of those things there's no accounting for," said Preen, -bending forward in his earnestness. "The letter left Duck Brook in -safety; I posted it myself, and Mrs. Sym took notice of it when she -shut it up in the bag. That is as far as it can be traced. The Islip -post-office, though not remembering it in particular, have no doubt -it reached them, as it could not have been lost from the bag, or that -they sent it out for delivery to Mr. Paul by Dale, who is cautious and -trustworthy. Paul declares it never reached him; and of course _he_ is -trustworthy. Dale says, and it is a fact, that he delivered the letters -that afternoon into Mr. Chandler's own hands. One cannot see where to -look for a weak point, you perceive, Todhetley." - -The Squire was rubbing his face, the account having put it into a white -heat. "Bless my heart!" cried he. "It reminds me of that five-pound note -of mine which was changed in the post for a stolen one! You remember -_that_, Johnny." - -"Yes, sir, that I do." - -"Wednesday, the sixteenth, was the day it ought to have reached old -Paul!" exclaimed Tod, who was balancing himself on the branch of a tree. -"Why, that was the day before the pic-nic!" - -"And what if it was?" retorted Preen, enraged that everybody should -bring up that pic-nic in conjunction with his loss. "The pic-nic had -nothing to do with my bank-note and letter." - -"Clearly not," agreed Tod, laughing at his ire. - -"I should advertise, Preen," said the Squire, "and I should call in the -detectives. They----" - -"I don't like detectives," growled Preen, interrupting him, "and I think -advertising might do more harm than good. I must get my money back -somehow; I can't afford to lose it. But as to those detectives---- Mercy -upon us!" - -In the ardour of declamation, Mr. Preen had bent a little too forward. -The chair backed from under him, and he came down upon the grass, hands -and knees. Tod choked with laughter, and dashed off to get rid of it. -The man gathered himself up. - -"Nasty tilting things, those chairs are!" he exclaimed. "Please don't -trouble, ma'am," for Mrs. Todhetley had sprung forward; "there's no harm -done. And if you don't mind giving me the number of the note to-day, -Squire, I shall be much obliged." - -He declined to stay for tea, saying he wanted to get back home. When -he and the Squire went indoors, we talked of the loss; Mrs. Todhetley -thought it strangely unaccountable. - -As the days went on, and the bank-note did not turn up, Mr. Preen fell -into the depths of gloom. He had lost no time in proceeding to the Old -Bank, at Worcester--from whence Mr. Todhetley had drawn the note, in -conjunction with other notes--recounting to its principals the history -of its loss, and giving in its number, together with the information -that Mr. Todhetley's name was written on it. The bank promised to make -inquiries of other banks, and to detain the note should it be paid in. - -"As if _that_ were likely!" groaned Preen. "A rogue filching a note -would not go and pay it into the place it came from." - -Thomas Chandler was gazetted the partner of Mr. Paul, the firm to be -known henceforth as Paul and Chandler. In the first private conference -that the young man held with his partner, he imparted to him the -suspicions which he and Hanborough held of Dick MacEveril. For as that -erratic gentleman continued to absent himself, and the time was going -on without bringing a shadow of doubt upon anyone else, the new partner -felt that in duty he must speak to his chief and elder. Old Paul was -overwhelmed. - -"What a dreadful thing!" he exclaimed testily. "And why couldn't you or -Hanborough mention this before?" - -"Well," said Tom, "for one thing I was always expecting something might -crop up to decide it one way or another; and, to tell the truth, sir, -I cannot bring myself to believe that MacEveril did it." - -"He is a villainous young dog for impudence, but--to do such a thing as -that? No, I can hardly think it, either," concluded the lawyer. - -That same evening, after his dinner, Mr. Paul betook himself to Oak -Mansion, to an interview with his old friend, Captain MacEveril. Not -to accuse that scapegrace nephew of the Captain's to his face, but to -gather a hint or two about him, if any might be gathered. - -The very first mention of Dick's name set the old sailor off. His right -foot was showing symptoms of gout just then; between that and Dick he -had no temper at all. Calming down presently, he called his man to -produce tobacco and grog. They sat at the open window, smoking a pipe -apiece, the glasses on a stand between them, and the lame foot upon a -stool. For the expost-captain made a boast that he did not give in to -that enemy of his any more than he had ever given in to an enemy at a -sea-fight. The welcome evening breeze blew in upon them through the open -bow window, with the sweet-scent of the July roses; and the sky was -gorgeous with the red sunset. - -"Where is Dick, you ask," exploded the Captain. "How should I know where -he is? Hang him! When he has taken his fill of London shows with that -Australian companion of his, he'll make his way back again here, I -reckon. Write? Not he. He knows he'd get a letter back from me, Paul, if -he did." - -Leading up to it by degrees, talking of this and that, and especially -of the mysterious loss of Preen's note, the lawyer spoke doubtingly of -whether it could have been lost out of his own office, and, if so, who -had taken it. "That young rascal would not do such a thing, you know, -MacEveril," he carelessly remarked. - -"What, Dick? No, no, he'd not do that," said the Captain, promptly. -"Though I've known young fellows venture upon queer things when they -were hard up for money. Dick's honest to the backbone. Had he wanted -money to travel with, he'd have wormed it out of my wife by teasing, but -he wouldn't steal it." - -"About that time, a day or so before it, he drew out the linings of his -pockets as he sat at his desk, and laughingly assured Hanborough, that -he had not a coin of ready money in the world," remarked Mr. Paul. - -"Like enough," assented the Captain. "Coin never stays in _his_ -pockets." - -"I wonder where he found the money to travel with?" - -"Pledged his watch and chain maybe," returned the Captain with -composure. "He would be quite equal to _that_. Stockleigh, the fellow -he is with in London, had brought home heaps of gold, 'twas said; he -no doubt stands treat for Dick." - -John Paul did not, could not, say anything more definite. He thought -of nothing else as he walked home; now saying to himself that Dick had -stolen the money, now veering over to the Captain's opinion that Dick -was incapable of doing so. The uncertainty bothered him, and he hated -to be bothered. - -The man to whom the money was owing, Robert Derrick, was becoming very -troublesome. Hardly a day passed but he marched into Mr. Paul's office, -to press for payment, threatening to take steps if he did not get it -shortly. The morning following the lawyer's visit to Captain MacEveril, -he went in again, vowing it was for the last time, for that he should -cite Mr. Preen before the County Court. - -"And mark you this," he added to Hanborough, with whom the colloquy was -taking place, "some past matters will come out that Preen wants kept in. -He'll wish he had paid me, then." - -Now, old Paul overheard this, for the door was partly open. Rugged in -look, and in manner too when he chose to be, he was not rugged at heart. -He was saying to himself that if this money had really been lost out of -his office, stolen possibly by one of his clerks, he might replace it -from his own pocket, to ward off further damage to Preen. Preen had not -at present a second ten-pound note to give, could not find one anyway; -Preen wished he could. Ten pounds would not affect the lawyer's pocket -at all: and his resolution was taken. Ringing his bell, which was -answered by Batley, he bade him show Derrick to his room. - -The man came in with a subdued face. He supposed he had been overheard, -and he did not care to offend Mr. Paul. - -"I cannot have you coming here to disturb my clerks, Derrick," said the -lawyer, with authority. "If you write out a receipt, I will pay you." - -"And sure enough that's all I want, sir," returned Derrick, who was -Irish. "But I can't let the thing go on longer--and it's Preen I'd like -to disturb, Lawyer Paul, not you." - -"Sit down yonder and write the receipt," said the lawyer, shortly. "You -know how to word it." - -So Derrick wrote the receipt and went off with the ten pounds. And -Gervais Preen said a few words of real thanks to Mr. Paul in a low tone, -when he heard of it. - -On Tuesday morning, the thirteenth of July, exactly four weeks to the -day since the bank-note left Mr. Preen's hands, he had news of it. The -Old Bank at Worcester wrote to him to say that the missing note had been -paid in the previous day, Monday, by a well-known firm of linen-drapers -in High Street. Upon which the bank made inquiry of this firm as to -whence they received the note, and the answer, readily given, was -that they had had it from a neighbour opposite--the silversmith. The -silversmith, questioned in his turn, replied with equal readiness that -it had been given him in payment of a purchase by young Mr. Todhetley. - -Preen, hardly believing his eyes, went off with all speed to Islip, and -laid the letter before Lawyer Paul. - -"What does it all mean?" he asked. "How can young Todhetley have had the -note in his possession? I am going on to Crabb Cot to show the Squire -the letter." - -"Stop, stop," said the far-seeing lawyer, "it won't do to take this -letter to Todhetley. Let us consider, first of all, how we stand. There -must be some mistake. The bank and the silversmith have muddled matters -between them; they may have put young Todhetley's name into it through -seeing his father's on the bank-note. I will write at once to Worcester -and get it privately inquired into. You had better leave it altogether -in my hands, Preen, for the present." A proposal Preen was glad to agree -to. - -Lawyer Paul wrote to another lawyer in Worcester with whom he was on -friendly terms, Mr. Corles; stating the particulars of the case. That -gentleman lost no time in the matter; he made the inquiries himself, and -speedily wrote back to Islip. - -There had been no mistake, as Mr. Paul had surmised. The linen-drapers, -a long-established and respectable firm, as Paul knew, had paid the -note into the Old Bank, with other monies, in the ordinary course of -business; and the firm repeated to Mr. Corles that they had received it -from their neighbour, the silversmith. - -The silversmith himself was from home at this time; he was staying at -Malvern for his health, going to Worcester on the market days only, -Saturdays and Wednesdays, when the shop expected to be busy. He had one -shopman only, a Mr. Stephenson, who took charge in his master's absence. -Stephenson assured Mr. Corles that he had most positively taken the note -from Squire Todhetley's son. Young Mr. Todhetley had gone into the shop, -purchased some trifling article, giving the note in payment, and -received the change in gold. Upon referring to his day-book, Stephenson -found that the purchase was made and the note paid to him during the -morning of Thursday, the seventeenth of June. - -When this communication from Mr. Corles reached Islip, it very much -astonished old Paul. "Absurd!" he exclaimed, flinging it upon his table -when he had read it; then he took it up and read it again. - -"Here, Chandler," said he, calling his new partner to him, "what do you -make of this?" - -Tom Chandler read it twice over in his turn. "If Joseph Todhetley did -change the note," he observed, "he must have done it as a practical -joke, and be keeping up the joke." - -"It is hardly likely," returned Mr. Paul. "If he has, he will have a bad -quarter of an hour when the Squire hears of it." - - * * * * * - -On this same morning, Thursday, we were preparing for Worcester; the -Squire was going to drive us in--that is, myself and Tod. The phaeton -was actually being brought round to the gate and we were getting our -hats, when Tom Chandler walked in, saying he had come upon a little -matter of business. - -"No time to attend to it now, Tom," said the Squire, all in a bustle; -"just starting for Worcester. You look hot." - -"I am hot, for I came along at a trotting pace," said Tom; "the matter -I have come upon makes me hot also. Mr. Todhetley, I must explain it, -short as your time may be; it is very important, and--and peculiar. Mr. -Paul charged me to say that he would have come himself, but he is -obliged to stay at home to keep an appointment." - -"Sit down, then," said the Squire, "and make it as brief as you can. -Johnny, lad, tell Giles to drive the horses slowly about." - -When I got back, after telling Giles, Tom Chandler had two letters in -his hand; and was apologising to the Squire and to Tod for what he was -obliged to enter upon. Then he added, in a few words, that the lost -bank-note had come to light; it had been changed at Worcester, at the -silversmith's in High Street, by, it was asserted, young Mr. Todhetley. - -"Why, what d'ye mean?" cried the Squire sharply. - -To explain what he meant, Tom Chandler read aloud the two letters he -held; the short one, which had been first addressed to Mr. Preen by the -Old Bank, and then the longer one written by Mr. Corles. - -"Edward Corles must be a fool to write that!" exclaimed the Squire in -his hot fashion. - -"Well, he is not that, you know," said Tom Chandler. "The question is, -Squire, what the grounds can be upon which they so positively state it. -According to their assertion, young Mr. Todhetley changed the note at -the silversmith's on the morning of Thursday, the seventeenth of June." - -"Young Mr. Todhetley" in a general way was just as hot as his father, -apt to fly out for nothing. I expected to see him do so now. Instead -of which, he had a broad smile on his face, evidently regarding the -accusation as a jest. He had perched himself on the arm of the sofa, -and sat there grinning. - -This struck Tom Chandler. "Did you do it for a joke?" he asked promptly. - -"Do what?" rejoined Tod. - -"Change the note." - -"Not I." - -"The only conclusion Mr. Paul and I could come to was, that--if you -had done it--you did it to play a practical joke upon Preen, and were -keeping it up still." - -The Squire struck his hand in anger upon the table by which he sat. - -"What is the meaning of this, Joe? A practical joke? Did you do the -thing, or didn't you? Speak out seriously. Don't sit there, grinning -like a Chinese image." - -"Why of course I did not do it, father. How should Preen's bank-note get -into my hands? Perhaps Johnny there got it and did it. He is sometimes -honoured by being put down as your son, you know." - -He was jesting still. The Squire was not in a mood for jesting; Tom -Chandler either. A thought struck me. - -"Did you say the note was changed on Thursday, the seventeenth of June?" -I asked him. - -"They say so," answered Tom Chandler. - -"Then that was the day of the picnic at Mrs. Cramp's. Neither I nor Tod -left the house at all until we went there." - -"Why bless me, so it was! the seventeenth," cried the Squire. "I can -prove that they were at home till four o'clock: the Beeles were spending -the day here from Pigeon Green. Now, Chandler, how has this false report -arisen?" - -"I am as much at sea as you can be, sir," said Tom Chandler. "Neither -I nor Paul can, or do, believe it--or understand why the other people -stick to it so positively. You are going into Worcester, Squire; make -your own inquiries." - -"That I will," said the Squire. "You had better drive in with us, -Chandler, if you can. Giles can stay at home." - -It was thus decided, and we started for Worcester, Chandler sitting -beside the Squire. And the way the Squire touched up Bob and Blister, -and the pace we flew along at, was a sight for the road to see. - - -III - -Thursday morning, the seventeenth of June--for we have to go back to -that day. High Street was basking in the rays of the hot sun; foot -passengers, meeting each other on the scorching pavement, lifted their -hats for a moment's air, and said what a day it was going to be. The -clean, bright shops faced each other from opposite sides. None of their -wares looked more attractive than those displayed in the two windows of -the silversmith. - -Mr. Stephenson--a trustworthy, civil little man of thirty, with a plain -face and sandy hair that stood upright on his head--was keeping guard -over his master's goods, some of them being very valuable. The shop was -a long one and he was far down in it, behind the left-hand counter. -Before him lay a tray of small articles of jewellery, some of which he -was touching up with a piece of wash-leather. He did not expect to be -busy that day; the previous day, Wednesday, had been a busy one, so many -country people came into town for the market. - -While thus engaged a gentleman, young, good looking, and well dressed, -entered the shop. Mr. Stephenson went forward. - -"I have called for Mrs. Todhetley's brooch," said the stranger. "Is it -ready?" - -"What brooch, sir?" returned Stephenson. - -"The one she left with you to be mended." - -The shopman felt a little puzzled. He said he did not remember that any -brooch had been left by that lady to be mended. - -"Mrs. Todhetley of Crabb Cot," explained the applicant, perhaps thinking -the man was at fault that way. - -"Oh, yes, sir, I know who you mean; I know Mrs. Todhetley. But she has -not left any brooch here." - -"Yes, she has; she left it to be mended. I was to call to-day and ask -for it." - -Stephenson turned to reach the book in which articles left to be mended -were entered, with their owners' names. Perhaps his master might have -taken in the brooch and omitted to tell him. But no such entry was -recorded in it. - -"I am afraid it is a mistake, sir," he said. "Had Mrs. Todhetley left a -brooch, or anything else, for repair, it would be entered here. She may -have taken it to some other shop." - -"No, no; it is yours I was to call at. She bought it here a few -months ago," added the young man. "She came in to ask you about the -polishing-up of an old silver cake-basket, and you showed her the -brooches, some you had just had down from London, and she bought one of -them and gave four guineas for it." - -Stephenson remembered the transaction perfectly. He had stood by while -his principal showed and sold the brooch to Mrs. Todhetley. Four only of -these brooches had been sent to them on approval by their London agent, -they were something quite new. Mrs. Todhetley admired them greatly; -said she wanted to make a wedding present to a young lady about to be -married, but had not meant to give as much as four guineas. However, the -beauty of the brooch tempted her; she bought it, and took it home. - -Stephenson's silence, while he was recalling this to his memory, caused -the gentleman to think his word was doubted, and he entered into further -particulars. - -"It was last March, I think," he said. "The brooch is a rather large -one; a white cornelian stone, or something of that sort, with a raised -spray of flowers upon it, pink and gold; the whole surrounded by a -border of gold filagree work. I never saw a nicer brooch." - -"Yes, yes, sir, it was just as you say; I recollect it all quite well. -Mrs. Todhetley bought it to give away as a wedding present." - -"And the wedding never came off," said the young man, with ease. "Before -she had time to despatch the brooch, news came to her of the -rupture.--So she had to keep it herself: and the best thing too, the -Squire said. Well, it is that brooch I have come for." - -"But I assure you it has not been left with us, Mr. Todhetley," said -Stephenson, presuming he was speaking to the Squire's son. - -"The little pink flower got broken off last week as Mrs. Todhetley was -undoing her shawl; she brought it in at once to be mended," persisted -the young man. - -"But not here indeed, sir," reiterated Stephenson. "I'm sorry to hear it -is broken." - -"She wouldn't take it anywhere but to the place it was bought at, would -she? I'm sure it was here I had to come for it." - -Stephenson felt all abroad. He did not think it likely the brooch would -be taken elsewhere, and began to wonder whether his master had taken it -in, and forgotten all about it. Opening a shallow drawer or two in the -counter, in one of which articles for repair were put, in the other the -repaired articles when finished, he searched both, but could not see the -brooch. This took him some little time, as most of the things were in -paper and he had to undo it. - -Meanwhile the applicant amused himself by looking at the articles -displayed under the glass frame on the counter. He seemed to be rather -struck with some very pretty pencils. - -"Are those pencils gold?" he inquired of Stephenson, when the latter -came forward with the news that the brooch was certainly not in the -shop. - -"No, sir; they are silver gilt." - -Lifting the glass lid, Stephenson took out the tray on which the pencils -and other things lay, and put it right under the young man's nose, in -the persuasive manner peculiar to shopmen. The pencils were chased -richly enough for gold, and had each a handsome stone at the end, which -might or might not be real. - -"What is the price?" - -"Twelve shillings each, sir. We bought them a bargain; from a bankrupt's -stock in fact; and can afford to sell them as such." - -"I should like to take this one, I think," said the young man, choosing -out one with a pink topaz. "Wait a bit, though: I must see if I've -enough change to pay for it." - -"Oh, sir, don't trouble about that; we will put it down to you." - -"No, no, that won't do. One, two, four, six. Six shillings; all I -have in the world," he added laughing, as he counted the coin in his -porte-monnaie, "and that I want. You can change me a ten-pound note, -perhaps?" - -"Yes, sir, if you wish it." - -The purchaser extracted the note from a secret pocket of his -porte-monnaie, and handed it to the shopman. - -"The Squire's name is on it," he remarked. - -Which caused Stephenson to look at the back. Sure enough, there it -was--"J. Todhetley," in the Squire's own handwriting. - -"Give me gold, if you can." - -Stephenson handed over nine pounds in gold and eight shillings in -silver. He then wrapped the pencil in soft white paper, and handed over -that. - -Wishing the civil shopman good morning, the young man left. He stood -outside the door for a minute, looking about him, and then walked -briskly up the street. While Stephenson locked up the ten-pound note in -the cash-box. - -There it lay, snug and safe, for two or three weeks. One day Stephenson, -finding he had not enough change for a customer who came in to pay a -bill, ran over to the draper's opposite and got change for it there. -These were the particulars which Stephenson had furnished, and furnished -readily, upon inquiries being made of him. - - * * * * * - -Squire Todhetley drove like the wind, and we soon reached Worcester, -alighting as usual at the Star-and-Garter. The Squire's commotion had -been growing all the way; that goes without telling. He wanted to -take the bank first; Tom Chandler recommended that it should be the -silversmith's. - -"The bank comes first in the way," snapped the Squire. - -"I know that, sir; but we can soon come back to it when we have heard -what the others say." - -Yet I think he would have gone into the bank head-foremost, as we passed -it, but chance had it that we met Corles, the lawyer, at the top of -Broad Street. Turning quickly into High Street, on his way from his -office, he came right upon us. The Squire pinned him by the button-hole. - -"The very man I wanted to see," cried he. "And now you'll be good enough -to tell me, Edward Corles, what you meant by that rigmarole you wrote to -Paul yesterday about my son." - -"I cannot tell what was meant, Squire, any more than you can; I only -wrote in accordance with my information," said Mr. Corles, shaking hands -with the rest of us. "You have done well to come over; and I will -accompany you now, if you like, to see Stephenson." - -The Squire put his arm within the younger man's, and marched on down -High Street to the silversmith's, never so much as looking at the bank -door. Stephenson was in the shop alone: such a lot of us, it seemed, -turning in! - -The Squire, hot and impulsive, attacked him as he had attacked Edward -Corles. What did Stephenson mean by making that infamous accusation -about his son? - -It took Stephenson aback, as might be seen; his eyes opened and his hair -stood on end straighter than ever. Looking from one to the other of us, -he last looked at Mr. Corles, as if seeking an explanation. - -"The best thing you can do, to begin with, Stephenson, is to relate -to Squire Todhetley and these gentlemen the particulars you gave -me yesterday morning," said Mr. Corles. "I mean when you took the -bank-note, a month ago." - -Without more ado, Stephenson quietly followed the advice; he seemed of -as calm a temperament as the Squire was the contrary, and recited the -particulars just given. The Squire's will was good to interrupt at every -second word, but Mr. Corles begged him to listen to the end. - -"Oh, that's all very well," cried he at last, "all true, I dare say; -what I want to know is, how you came to pitch upon that customer as -being my son." - -"But he was your son, sir. He was young Mr. Todhetley." - -"Nonsense!" retorted the Squire. "Was this he?" drawing Tod forward. - -"No, sir; certainly not." - -"Well, this is my only son; except a little who is not yet much more -than out of his petticoats. Come! what do you say now?" - -Stephenson looked again at one and the other of us. His pale face took a -sort of thoughtful haze as if he had passed into a fog. - -"It must have been young Mr. Todhetley," spoke he; "everything seemed to -uphold the fact." - -"Now don't you turn obstinate and uphold what is _not_ the fact," -reproved the Squire. "When I tell you this is my only son, except the -child, how dare you dispute my word?" - -It should be stated that Stephenson had been with the silversmith since -the beginning of the year only, and had come from Birmingham. He knew -Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley by sight, from their coming sometimes to the -shop, but he had never yet seen Tod or me. - -"I don't suppose you want Squire Todhetley's word confirmed, Stephenson, -but I can do so if necessary," said Mr. Corles. "This is his only -grown-up son." - -"No, no, sir, of course I don't," said Stephenson. "This gentleman," -looking at Tod, "does not bear any resemblance to the one who changed -the note." - -"What was he like?" said Tom Chandler, speaking for the first time; and -he asked it because his thoughts were full. - -"He was fair, sir," replied Stephenson. - -"What height?" - -"About middle height. A young, slender man." - -"Well dressed? Spoke like a gentleman?" - -"Oh, quite like a gentleman, and very well dressed indeed." - -"Just as MacEveril was that morning, on the strength of getting to the -picnic," ran through Tom Chandler's thoughts. "Did he come off here -first, I wonder?" - -"He seemed to know all about you, sir, just as though he lived at your -house," said Stephenson to the Squire; "and Mrs. Todhetley sent him for -her brooch that day. Perhaps you may know, sir, who it was she sent?" - -"Sent! why, nobody," spluttered the Squire. "It must have been a planned -thing. The brooch is not broken." - -"He said the little pink flower had got broken off, and that Mrs. -Todhetley did it with her shawl," persisted Stephenson, unable to stare -away his perplexity. And I think we were all feeling perplexed too. - -"He knew what the brooch cost, and that it was bought for a wedding -present, and that Mrs. Todhetley kept the brooch for herself because the -wedding did not come off," went on Stephenson. "How could I suppose, -sir, it was anybody but your own son? Why once I called him 'Mr. -Todhetley;' I remember it quite well; and he did not tell me I was -mistaken. Rely upon it, if you'll excuse me for saying so, Squire -Todhetley, that it is some young gentleman who is intimate at your house -and familiar with all its ways." - -"Hang him for a young rogue!" retorted the Squire. - -"And your own name was on the note, sir, which he bade me notice, and -all! And--and I don't see how it was possible to _help_ falling into the -mistake that he came from you," concluded Stephenson, with a slightly -injured accent. - -Upon which the Squire, having had time to take in the bearings of the -matter, veered round altogether to the same opinion, and said so, and -shook hands with Stephenson when we departed. - -Tom Chandler let us go on, remaining behind for a minute or two. He -wanted to put quietly a few questions about the appearance of the young -man who had changed the note. He also examined the silver-gilt pencils, -finally buying one which was precisely similar, stone and all, to the -one which had been sold that other morning. - -Stephenson answered the questions to the best of his ability and -recollection. And Tom Chandler found that while on some points the -description would have served very well for that of Richard MacEveril, -on other points it did not seem to fit in with it at all. - - - - -A TRAGEDY - - -IV.--OLIVER - - -I - -Dinner was over. Emma Paul had gone out to stroll in the shady garden -and wait for the evening breeze that would soon come on, and was so -delightful after the heat of the day. Her father remained at the table. -He was slowly sipping at his one glass of port wine, which he took in a -large claret glass, when the door opened and Thomas Chandler entered. - -"Oh," said Mr. Paul. "So you _are_ back, are you, young man!" - -"I went on to Worcester, sir," explained Tom; who though he was now -made Mr. Paul's partner, could not get rid all at once of the old mode -of addressing him. Managing clerks in these days, who are qualified -solicitors, do not condescend to say "Sir" to their chief, no matter -though he be their elder by half a life-time; but they did in the days -gone by. - -"When I got to Crabb Cot this morning, sir, Mr. Todhetley was on the -point of starting for Worcester in the phaeton with his son and Johnny -Ludlow," went on Tom. "After listening to the news I took him, he -naturally wished me to go also, and I did so. He was in a fine way about -it." - -"But you need not have stayed at Worcester all day." - -"Well, being there, I thought--after I had conferred with Corles at his -office upon this other matter--I should do well to go on to Oddingley -and see William Smith about that troublesome business of his; so I hired -a gig and went there; and I've just got back by train, walking from -Crabb," answered Tom Chandler. - -"Had any dinner?" - -"Oh, yes, thank you; and some tea also at Shrub Hill station, while -waiting for the train: this weather makes one thirsty. No, thank you, -sir," as Mr. Paul pushed the decanter towards him; "wine would only make -me still more thirsty than I am." - -"I never saw you looking so hot," remarked the old lawyer. - -Tom laughed, and rubbed his face. The walk from Crabb was no light one: -and, of course, with Miss Emma at the end of it, he had come at a -steaming pace. - -"Well, and what did you and Todhetley make of the matter?" - -It was the day, as may readily be understood, when we had gone to -Worcester to have it out at the silversmith's. Tom Chandler recounted -all that passed, and repeated the description given to himself by -Stephenson of the fellow who had changed the bank-note. Mr. Paul -received it with an impatient and not at all orthodox word, meant for -Richard MacEveril. - -"But I cannot feel sure, no, nor half sure, that it was MacEveril," said -Tom Chandler. - -"What have your feelings got to do with it?" asked old Paul, in his -crusty way. "It seems to me, the description you give would be his very -picture." - -"Stephenson says he had blue eyes. Now Dick's are brown." - -"Eyes be sugared," retorted the lawyer. "As if any man could swear to -a chance customer's eyes after seeing them for just a minute or two! It -was Dick MacEveril; he caught up the letter as it lay on Hanborough's -desk in the office and decamped with it; and went off the next day to -Worcester to get the note changed, as bold as though he had been Dick -Turpin!" - -Still Tom was not convinced. He took out the pencil he had bought and -showed it to Mr. Paul. - -"Ay," said the old gentleman, "it's a pretty thing, and perhaps he may -get traced by it. Do you forget, Mr. Thomas, that the young rascal -absented himself all that day from the office on pretext of going to -the picnic at Mrs. Cramp's, and that, as you told me, he never made -his appearance at the picnic until late in the afternoon?" - -"I know," assented Tom. "He said he had been to the pigeon match." - -"If he said he had been to the moon, I suppose you'd believe it. Don't -tell me! It was Dick MacEveril who stole the note; every attendant -circumstance helps to prove it. There: we'll say no more about the -matter, and you can be off to the garden if you want to; I know you are -on thorns for it." - -From that day the matter dropped into oblivion, and nothing was allowed -to transpire connecting MacEveril with the theft. Mr. Paul enjoined -silence, out of regard for his old friend the captain, on Tom Chandler -and Mr. Hanborough, the only two, besides himself, who suspected Dick. -Some letters arrived at Islip about this time from Paris, written by -Dick: one to Captain MacEveril, another to Mr. Paul, a third to his -cousin Mary. He coolly said he was gone to Paris for a few weeks with -Jim Stockleigh, and they were both enjoying themselves amazingly. - -So, the ball of gossip not being kept up, the mysterious loss of the -letter containing the bank-note was soon forgotten. Mr. Paul was too -vexed to speak of it; it seemed a slur on his office; and he shielded -Dick's good name for his uncle's sake; whilst Preen was silent because -he did not wish the _debt_ talked about. - -We left Crabb Cot for Dyke Manor, carrying our wonder with us. The next -singular point to us was, how the changer of the note could have been -so well acquainted with the circumstances attending the buying of the -brooch. Mrs. Todhetley would talk of it by the hour together, suggesting -now this person and now that; but never seeming to hit upon a likely -one. - -July passed away, August also, and September came in. On the Thursday in -the first week of the latter month, Emma Paul was to become Emma -Chandler. - -All that while, through all those months and weeks, poor Oliver Preen -had been having a bad time of it. No longer able to buoy himself up with -the delusive belief that Emma's engagement to Chandler was nothing but a -myth, he had to accept it, and all the torment it brought him. He had -grown pale and thin; nervous also; his lips would turn white if anyone -spoke to him abruptly, his hot hand trembled when in another's grasp. -Jane thought he must be suffering from some inward fever; she did not -know much about her brother's love for Emma, or dream that it could be -so serious. - -"I'm sure I wish their wedding was over and done with; Oliver might come -to his proper senses then," Jane told herself. "He is very silly. _I_ -don't see much in Emma Paul." - -September, I say, came in. It was somewhat singular that we should again -be for just that one first week of it at Crabb Cot. Sir Robert Tenby had -invited the Squire to take a few days' shooting with him, and included -Tod in the invitation--to his wild delight. So Mr. and Mrs. Todhetley -went from Dyke Manor to Crabb Cot for the week, and we accompanied -them. - -On the Monday morning of this eventful week--and terribly eventful it -was destined to be--Mr. Paul's office had a surprise. Richard MacEveril -walked into it. He was looking fresh and blooming, as if he had never -heard of such a thing as running away. Mr. Hanborough gazed up at him -from his desk as if he saw an apparition; Tite Batley's red face seemed -illumined by sudden sunshine. - -"Well, and is nobody going to welcome me back?" cried Dick, as he put -out his hand, in the silence, to Mr. Hanborough. - -"The truth is, we never expected to see you back; we thought you had -gone for good," answered Hanborough. - -Dick laughed. "The two masters in there?" he asked, nodding his head at -the inner door. - -Hearing that they were, he went in. Old Paul, in his astonishment, -dropped a penful of ink upon a letter he was writing. - -"Why, where do you spring from?" he cried. - -"From my uncle's now, sir; got home last night. Been having a rare time -of it in Paris. I suppose I may take my place at the desk again?" added -Dick. - -The impudence of this supposition drove all Mr. Paul's wisdom out of -him. Motioning to Tom Chandler to close the doors, he avowed to Dick -what he was suspected of, and accused him of taking the letter and the -bank-note. - -"Well, I never!" exclaimed Dick, meeting the news with equanimity. "Go -off with a letter of yours, sir, and a bank-note! _Steal_ it, do you -mean? Why, you cannot think I'd be capable of such a dirty trick, Mr. -Paul. Indeed, sir, it wasn't me." - -And there was something in the genuine astonishment of the young fellow, -a certain honesty in his look and tone, that told Mr. Paul his suspicion -might be a mistaken one. He recounted a brief outline of the facts, Tom -Chandler helping him. - -"I never saw the letter or the note, sir," persisted Dick. "I remember -the Wednesday afternoon quite well. When I went out to get my tea I met -Fred Scott, and he persuaded me into the Bull for a game at billiards. -It was half-past five before I got back here, and Mr. Hanborough blew me -up. He had not been able to get out to his own tea. Batley was away that -afternoon. No, no, sir, I wouldn't do such a thing as that." - -"Where did you get the money to go away to London with, young man?" -questioned old Paul, severely. - -Dick laughed. "I won it," he said; "upon my word of honour, sir, I did. -It was the day of the picnic, and I persisted in going straight to it -the first thing--which put the office here in a rage, as it was busy. -Well, in turning out of here I again met Scott. He was hastening off -to the pigeon-shooting match. I went with him, intending to stay only -half an hour. But, once there, I couldn't tear myself away. They were -betting; I betted too, though I had only half a crown in my pocket, -and I won thirty shillings; and I never got to Mrs. Cramp's till the -afternoon, when it was close upon tea-time. Tom Chandler knows I -didn't." - -Tom Chandler nodded. - -"But for winning that thirty shillings I could not have got up to -London, unless somebody had lent me some," ran on Dick, who, once set -going, was a rare talker. "You can ask anyone at that pigeon match, sir, -whether I was not there the whole time: so it is impossible I could have -been at Worcester, changing a bank-note." - -The words brought to Mr. Paul a regret that he had _not_ thought to ask -that question of some one of the sportsmen: it would have set the matter -at rest, so far as MacEveril was concerned. And the suspicion had been -so apparently well grounded, as to prevent suspicion in other quarters. - -Tom Chandler, standing beside Dick at Mr. Paul's table, quietly laid a -pencil upon it, as if intending to write something down. Dick took it -up and looked at it. - -"What a pretty pencil!" he exclaimed. "Is it gold?" - -It should be understood that in those past days, these ornamental -pencils were rare. They may be bought by the bushel now. And Tom -Chandler would have been convinced by the tone, had he still needed -conviction, that Dick had not seen any pencil like it before. - -"Well," struck in old Paul, a little repentant for having so surely -assumed Dick's guilt, and thankful on the captain's account that it -was a mistake: "if you promise to be steady at your work, young man, I -suppose you may take your place at the desk again. This gentleman here -is going a-roving this week," pointing the feather-end of his pen at Tom -Chandler, "for no one knows how long; so you'll have to stick to it." - -"I know; I've heard," laughed Dick. "I mean to get a few minutes to dash -into the church and see the wedding. Hope you'll not dismiss me for it, -sir!" - -"There, there; you go to your desk now, young man, and ask Mr. -Hanborough what you must do first," concluded the lawyer. - -It was not the only time on that same day that Thomas Chandler displayed -his pencil. Finding his theory, that Dick MacEveril possessed the fellow -one, to be mistaken, he at once began to take every opportunity of -showing it to the world--which he had not done hitherto. Something might -possibly come of it, he thought. And something did. - -Calling in at Colonel Letsom's in the evening, I found Jane Preen there, -and one or two more girls. The Squire and Tod had not appeared at home -yet, neither had Colonel Letsom, who made one at the shooting-party; we -decided that Sir Robert must be keeping them to an unceremonious dinner. -Presently Tom Chandler came in, to bring a note to the Colonel from Mr. -Paul. - -Bob Letsom proposed a round game at cards--Speculation. His sister, -Fanny, objected; speculation was nothing but screaming, she said, and we -couldn't sit down to cards by daylight. She proposed music; she thought -great things of her singing: Bob retorted that music might be shot, -and they talked at one another a bit. Finally we settled to play at -"Consequences." This involves, as everyone knows, sitting round a table -with pencils and pieces of writing-paper. - -I sat next to Tom Chandler, Jane Preen next to me. Fanny was on the -other side of Tom--but it is not necessary to relate how we all sat. -Before we had well begun, Chandler put his pencil on the table, -carelessly, and it rolled past me. - -"Why, that is Oliver's pencil!" exclaimed Jane, picking it up. - -"Which is?" quietly said Tom. "That? No; it is mine." - -Jane looked at it on all sides. "It is exactly like one that Oliver -has," she said. "It fell out of a drawer in his room the other day, when -I was counting up his collars and handkerchiefs. He told me he brought -it from Tours." - -"No doubt," said Tom. "I bought mine at Worcester." - -In taking the pencil from Jane, Tom's eye caught mine. I did feel queer; -he saw I did; but I think he was feeling the same. Little doubt now who -had changed the note! - -"You will not talk of it, will you?" I whispered to Tom, as we were -dispersing about the room when the game was over. - -"No," said he, "it shall not come out through me. I'm afraid, though, -there's no mistake this time, Johnny. A half doubt of it has crossed my -mind at odd moments." - -Neither would I talk of it, even to Tod. After all, it was not proof -positive. I had never, never thought of Oliver. - -The Letsoms had a fine old garden, as all the gardens at Crabb were, and -we strolled out in the twilight. The sun had set, but the sky was bright -in the west. Valentine Chandler, for he had come in, kept of course by -Jane Preen's side. Anyone might see that it was, as Tod called it, a -gone case with them. It was no end of a pity, Val being just as unsteady -and uncertain as the wind. - -People do bolder things in the gloaming than in the garish daylight; -and we fell to singing in the grotto--a semi-circular, half-open space -with seats in it, surrounded at the back by the artificial rocks. Fanny -began: she brought out an old guitar and twanged at it and sang for us, -"The Baron of Mowbray;" where the false knight rides away laughing from -the Baron's door and the Baron's daughter: that far-famed song of sixty -years ago, which was said to have made a fortune for its composer. - -The next to take up the singing was Valentine Chandler: and in listening -to him you forgot all his short-comings. Never man had sweeter voice -than he; and in his singing there was a singular charm impossible to be -described. In his voice also--I mean when he spoke--there was always -melody, and in his speech, when he chose to put it forth, a persuasive -eloquence. This might have been instrumental in winning Jane Preen's -heart; we are told that a man's heart is lost through his eye, a -woman's through her ear. Poor Valentine! he might have been so nice -a fellow--and he was going to the bad as fast as he could go. - -The song he chose was a ridiculous old ditty all about love; it went to -the tune of "Di tanti palpiti." Val chose it for Miss Jane and sung it -to her; to her alone, mind you; the rest of us went for nothing. - - "Here we meet, too soon to part, - Here to part will raise a smart, - Here I'd press thee to my heart, - Where none are set above thee. - - Here I'd vow to love thee well; - Could but words unseal the spell, - Had but language power to tell, - I'd tell thee how I've loved thee. - - Here's the rose that decks the door, - Here's the thorn that spreads the moor, - Here's the willow of the bower, - And the birds that rest above thee. - - Had they power of life to see, - Sense of souls, like thee--and me, - Then would each a witness be - How dotingly I love thee. - - Here we meet, too soon to part, - Here to part will raise a smart, - Here I'd press thee to my heart, - None e'er were there but thee." - -Now, as you perceive, it is a most ridiculous song, foolish as -love-songs in general are. But had you been sitting there with us in -all the subtle romance imparted by the witching hour of twilight, the -soft air floating around, the clear sky above, one large silver star -trembling in its blue depths, you would have felt entranced. The -wonderful melody of the singer's voice, his distinct enunciation, the -tender passion breathing through his soft utterance, and the slight yet -unmistakable emphasis given to the avowal of his love, thrilled us all. -It was as decided a declaration of what he felt for Jane Preen as he -could well make in this world. Once he glanced at her, and only once -throughout; it was where I have placed the pause, as he placed it -himself, "like thee--and me." As if his glance drew hers by some -irresistible fascination, Jane, who had been sitting beneath the rock -just opposite to him, her eyes cast down--as he made that pause and -glanced at her, I say, she lifted them for a moment, and caught the -glance. I may live to be an old man, but I shall never forget Val's song -that night, or the charm it held for us. What, then, must it have held -for Jane? And it is because that song and its charm lie still fresh on -my memory, though many a year has since worn itself out, that I inscribe -it here. - -As the singing came to an end, dying softly away, no one for a moment or -two broke the hushed silence that ensued. Valentine was the first to do -it. He got up from his seat; went round to a ledge of rock and stood -upon it, looking out in the distance. Had the sea been near, one might -have thought he saw a ship, homeward bound. - - -II - -Had the clerk of the weather been bribed with a purse of gold, he could -not have sent a finer day than Thursday turned out to be. The sun shone, -the air sparkled, and the bells of Islip church rang out from the old -steeple. Islip was much behind other churches in many respects; so -primitive, indeed, in some of its ways, that had an edifice of advanced -views come sailing through the air to pay it a visit, it would have -turned tail again and sailed away; but Islip could boast of one thing -few churches can boast of--a delightful peal of bells. - -The wedding took place at eleven o'clock, and was a quiet one. Its -attendants were chiefly confined to the parties themselves and their -immediate relatives, but that did not prevent other people from flocking -in to see it. - -I and Dick MacEveril went in together, and got a good place close up; -which was lucky, for the old church is full of pillars and angles -that obstruct the view. Emma was in white silk; her bridesmaid, Mary -MacEveril, the same; it was the custom in those days. Tom looked -uncommonly well; but he and she were both nervous. Old Paul gave her -away; and a thin aunt, with a twisted nose, who had come on a visit to -superintend the wedding, in place of Emma's dead mother, did nothing but -weep. She wore an odd gown, pink one way, blue another; you might have -thought she had borrowed its colours from their copper teakettle. Mrs. -Chandler, Tom's mother, in grey silk, was smarter than she had ever -been in her life; and his aunt, Mrs. Cramp, was resplendent in a dress -bordering upon orange. - -The ceremony came to an end very quickly, I thought--you do think so -at most simple weddings; and Tom and his wife went away together in -the first carriage. Next came the breakfast at Mr. Paul's; the aunt -presiding in a gentle stream of tears. Early in the afternoon the bride -and bridegroom left for London, on their way to the Continent. - - * * * * * - -Everyone does not care to dash to a church to see a marriage: some would -as soon think of running to look on at a funeral. Mr. Preen was one of -these insensible people, and he, of course, did not care to go near it. -He made game of Jane for doing so; but Jane wanted to see the dresses -and the ceremony. Oliver had not the opportunity of going; and would not -have gone though he had had it. Just about eleven o'clock, when the gay -doings were in full swing, Mr. Preen took Oliver off to Worcester in the -gig. - -About a fortnight before, Mr. Preen had appointed a saddler in Worcester -to be his agent for the new patent agricultural implements, for which he -was himself agent-in-chief. Until this under agency should be well in -hand, Mr. Preen considered it necessary to see the saddler often: for -which purpose he drove into Worcester at least three times a week. Once, -instead of going himself, he had sent Oliver, but this day was the first -time the two had gone together. It might have been--one cannot tell--but -it might have been that Mr. Preen discerned what this wedding of Emma -Paul's must be to his son, and so took him out to divert his mind a bit. - -Now, upon entering Worcester, to get to the saddler's it was necessary -to drive through High Street and turn into Broad Street. At least, that -was the straightforward route. But Oliver had not taken it the day he -drove in alone; he had preferred the more roundabout way of the back -streets. After driving through Sidbury, he--instead of going forward up -College Street and so into High Street--went careering along Friar -Street, along the whole length of New Street, turned up St. Swithin -Street, or Goose Lane, or one of those dingy thoroughfares, made a dash -across the top of High Street, and so into his destination, Broad -Street. In returning he took the same way. What his objection to the -better streets could be, he alone knew. To-day, however, Mr. Preen held -the reins. - -Mr. Preen was driving quietly up College Street, when Oliver spoke. - -"I wish you'd put me down here, father." - -"Put you down here!" repeated Mr. Preen, turning to look at him. "What -for?" - -"I want to get a little book for Jane," answered Oliver, glancing -towards Mr. Eaton's house. "I shall be up in Broad Street nearly as soon -as you are, if you want me there." - -"I don't particularly want you," said Mr. Preen, crustily, "but you -needn't be long before you come." And, drawing up to the side, he let -Oliver get out. - -Driving on to the saddler's, Mr. Preen transacted his business with him. -When it was over, he went to the door, where his gig waited, and looked -up and down the street, but saw nothing of Oliver. - -"Hasn't given himself the trouble to come up! Would rather put his lazy -legs astride one of those posts opposite the college, and watch for my -passing back again!" - -Which was of course rather a far-fetched idea of Mr. Preen's; but -he spoke in a temper. Though, indeed, of late Oliver had appeared -singularly inert; as if all spirit to move had gone out of him. - -Mr. Preen got into his gig at the saddler's door and set off again. -Turning into High Street, he drove gently down it, looking out on all -sides, if truth must be told, for Oliver. This caused him to see -Stephenson standing at the silversmith's door, the silversmith himself, -back now for good at his business, being behind the counter. Now and -then, since the bank-note was traced, Mr. Preen had made inquiries of -Stephenson as to whether any news had been heard of its changer, but he -had not done so lately. Not being in a hurry, he pulled up against the -curb-stone. Stephenson crossed the flags to speak. - -"Nothing turned up yet, I suppose?" said Mr. Preen. - -"Well, I can hardly say it has," replied Stephenson; "but I've seen the -gentleman who paid it in to us." - -"And who is it? and where was he?" cried Preen, eagerly. - -Stephenson had stepped back a pace, and appeared to be looking -critically at the horse and gig. - -"It was last Saturday," he said, coming close again. "I had to take a -parcel into Friar Street for one of our country customers, a farmer's -wife who was spending the day with some people living down there, and I -saw a gig bowling along. The young fellow in it was the one who changed -the note." - -"Are you sure of it?" returned Mr. Preen. - -"Quite sure, sir. I had no opportunity of speaking to him or stopping -him. He was driving at a good pace, and the moment he caught sight of -me, for I saw him do that, he touched the horse and went on like a -whirlwind." - -Mr. Preen's little dark face took a darker frown. "_I_ should have -stopped him," he said, sternly. "You ought to have rushed after him, -Stephenson, and called upon the street to help in the pursuit. You -might, at least, have traced where he went to. A gig, you say he was -in?" - -"Yes," said Stephenson. "And, unless I am greatly mistaken, it was this -very gig you are in now." - -"What do you mean by that?" retorted Preen, haughtily. - -"I took particular notice of the horse and gig, so as to recognise them -again if ever I got the chance; and I say that it was this gig and this -horse, sir. There's no mistake about it." - -They stared into one another's eyes, one face looking up, and the other -looking down. All in a moment, Stephenson saw the other face turn -ghastly white. It had come into Mr. Preen's recollection amidst his -bewilderment, that Oliver had gone into Worcester last Saturday -afternoon, driving the horse and gig. - -"I can't understand this! Who should be in my gig?" he cried, calling -some presence of mind to his aid. "Last Saturday, you say? In the -afternoon?" - -"Last Saturday afternoon, close upon four o'clock. As I turned down Lich -Street, I saw the lay-clerks coming out of College. Afternoon service is -generally over a little before four," added Stephenson. "He was driving -straight into Friar Street from Sidbury." - -Another recollection flashed across Mr. Preen: Oliver's asking just now -to be put down in College Street. Was it to prevent his passing through -High Street? Was he afraid to pass through it? - -"He is a nice-looking young fellow," said Stephenson; "has a fair, mild -face; but he was the one who changed the note." - -"That may be; but as to his being in my gig, it is not---- Why, I was -not in town at all on Saturday," broke off Mr. Preen, with a show of -indignant remonstrance. - -"No, Mr. Preen; the young man was in it alone," said Stephenson, who -probably had his own thoughts upon the problem. - -"Well, I can't stay longer now; I'm late already," said Mr. Preen. "Good -morning, Stephenson." And away he drove with a dash. - -Oliver was waiting in College Street, standing near the Hare and Hounds -Inn. Mr. Preen pulled up. - -"So you did not chose to come on!" he said. - -"Well, I--I thought there'd be hardly time, and I might miss you; I went -to get my hair cut," replied Oliver, as he settled himself in his place -beside his father. - -Mr. Preen drove on in silence until they were opposite the Commandery -gates in the lower part of Sidbury. Then he spoke again. - -"What made you drive through Friar Street on Saturday last, instead of -going the direct way?" - -"Through--Friar Street?" stammered Oliver. - -"Through Friar Street, instead of High Street," repeated Mr. Preen, in a -sharp, passionate accent. - -"Oh, I remember. High Street is so crowded on a market day; the back -streets are quiet," said Oliver, as if he had a lump in his throat, and -could not make his voice heard. - -"And in taking the back streets you avoid the silversmith's, and the -risk you run of being recognised; is that it?" savagely retorted Mr. -Preen. - -Not another word did he speak, only drove on home at a furious pace. -Oliver knew all then: the disgrace for which he had been so long waiting -had come upon him. - -But when they got indoors, Mr. Preen let loose the vials of his wrath -upon Oliver. Before his mother, before Jane, he published his iniquity. -It was he, Oliver, who had stolen the ten-pound note; it was he who had -so craftily got it changed at Worcester. Oliver spoke not a word of -denial, made no attempt at excuse or defence; he stood with bent head -and pale, meek face, his blue eyes filled with utter misery. The same -look of misery lay in Mrs. Preen's eyes as she faintly reproached him -amid tears and sobs. Jane was simply stunned. - -"You must go away now and hide yourself; I can't keep you here to be -found and pounced upon," roared Mr. Preen. "By the end of the week you -must be gone somewhere. Perhaps you can pick up a living in London." - -"Yes, I will go," said Oliver, meekly. And at the first lull in the -storm he crept up to his room. - -He did not come down to dinner; did not come to tea. Jane carried up -a cup of tea upon a waiter and some bread-and-butter, and put it down -outside the chamber door, which he had bolted. - -Later, in passing his room, she saw the door open and went in. Cup and -plate were both empty, so he had taken the refreshment. He was not in -the house, was not in the garden. Putting on her sun-bonnet and a light -shawl, she ran to the Inlets. - -Oliver was there. He sat, gazing moodily at the brook and the melancholy -osier-twigs that grew beside it. Jane sat down and bent his poor -distressed face upon her shoulder. - -"Dear Oliver! Don't take it so to heart. I know you must have been -sorely tempted." - -Bending there upon her, her arms clasping him, yielding to the loving -sympathy, so grateful after those harsh reproaches, he told her all, -under cover of the gathering shades of evening. Yes, he had been -tempted--and had yielded to the temptation. - -He wanted money badly for necessary things, and things that he had -learned to deem necessaries, and he had it not. A pair of new gloves -now and again, a necktie to replace his shabby ones, a trifle of loose -silver in his pocket. He owed a small sum to MacEveril, and wanted to -repay him. Once or twice he had asked a little money of his father, and -was refused. His mother would give him a few shillings, when pressed, -but grumbled over it. So Oliver wrote to a friend at Tours, whom he had -known well, asking if he would lend him some. That was the first week in -June. His friend wrote back in answer that he could lend him some after -quarter day, the 24th, but not before; he would send him over ten pounds -then, if that would do. - -Never a thought had presented itself to Oliver of touching the ten -pounds in his father's letter to Mr. Paul, which he had sealed and saw -posted. But on the following afternoon, Wednesday, he saw the letter -lying on Mr. Hanborough's desk; the temptation assailed him, and he took -it. - -It may be remembered that Mr. Preen had gone out that hot day, leaving -Oliver a lot of work to do. He got through it soon after four o'clock, -and went dashing over the cross route to Islip and into Mr. Paul's -office, for he wanted to see Dick MacEveril. The office was empty; not -a soul was in it; and as Oliver stood, rather wondering at that unusual -fact, he saw a small pile of letters, evidently just left by the -postman, lying on the desk close to him. The uppermost of the letters -he recognised at once; it was the one sent by his father. "If I might -borrow the ten pounds inside that now, I should be at ease; I would -replace it with the ten pounds coming to me from Tours, and it might -never get known," whispered Satan in his ear, with plausible cunning. - -Never a moment did he allow himself for thought, never an instant's -hesitation served to stop him. Catching up the letter, he thrust it into -his breast pocket, and set off across country again at a tearing pace, -not waiting to see MacEveril. - -He seemed to have flown over hedges and ditches and to be home in no -time. Little wonder that when he was seen sitting under the walnut tree -in the garden and was called in to tea, his mother and sister exclaimed -at his heated face. They never suspected he had been out. - -All that night Oliver lay awake: partly wondering how he should -dispose of his prize to make it available; partly telling himself, in -shame-faced reproach, that he would not use it, but send it back to old -Paul. It came into his mind that if he did use it he might change it at -the silversmith's as if for the Todhetleys, the Squire's name on the -back suggesting the idea to him. It would not do, he thought, to go into -a shop, any shop, purchase some trifling article and tender a ten-pound -note in payment. That might give rise to suspicion. Some months before, -when at Crabb Cot, he had heard Mrs. Todhetley relate the history of her -brooch, where she bought it, what she paid for it, and all about it, to -Colonel Letsom's wife and other people, for it happened that several -callers had come in together. The brooch had been passed round the -company and admired. Oliver remembered this, and resolved to make use of -it to disarm suspicion at the silversmith's. He knew the principal shops -in Worcester very well indeed, and Worcester itself. He had stayed for -some time, when sixteen, with an uncle who was living there; but he had -not visited the city since coming to Duck Brook. - -Thursday, the day following that on which he took the money, was the day -of the picnic. Oliver started with Jane for it in the morning, as may be -remembered, the ten-pound note hidden safely about him. Much to Oliver's -surprise his mother put seven shillings into his hand. "You'll not want -to use it, and must give it me back to-morrow," she said, "but it does -not look well to go to a thing of this sort with quite empty pockets." -Oliver thanked her, kissed her, and they drove off. Before reaching -Mrs. Jacob Chandler's, after passing Islip Grange--the property of Lady -Fontaine, as may be remembered, who was first cousin to John Paul--they -overtook Sam, walking on to take back the gig. "We may as well get out -here," said Oliver, and he pulled up. Getting out, and helping out Jane, -he sent Sam and the gig back at once. He bade his sister walk on alone -to Mrs. Chandler's, saying he wanted to do a little errand first. But -he charged her not to mention that; only to say, if questioned, that -he would join them by-and-by. He ran all the way to the station, -regardless of the heat, and caught a train for Worcester. - -The rest is known. Oliver changed the note at the silversmith's, bought -himself a pair of dandy gloves, with one or two other small matters, and -made the best of his way back again. But it was past the middle of the -afternoon when he got to the picnic: trains do not choose our time for -running, but their own. Jane wondered where he had been. Hearing of the -pigeon-match, she thought it was there. She asked him, in a whisper, -where he had found those delicate gloves; Oliver laughed and said -something about a last relic from Tours. - -And there it was. He had taken the note; he, Oliver Preen; and got the -gold for it. That day of the picnic was in truth the worst he had ever -experienced, the one hard day of all his life, as he had remarked to -Jane. Not only had he committed a deed in it which might never be -redeemed, but he also learnt that Emma Paul's love was given not to him, -but to another. It was for her sake he had coveted new gloves and money -in his pockets, that he might not look despicable in her sight. - -The dearest and surest of expectations are those that fail. While -Oliver, as the days went on, was feverishly looking out, morning after -morning, for the remittance from Tours, he received a letter to say it -was not coming. His friend, with many expressions of regret, wrote to -the effect that he was unable to send it at present; later, he hoped to -do so. Of course, it never came. And Oliver had not been able to replace -the money, and--this was the end of it. - -In a whispering, sobbing tone, he told these particulars by degrees to -Jane as they sat there. She tried to comfort him; said it might never -be known beyond themselves at home; rather advocated his going away for -a short time, as proposed, while things righted themselves, and their -father's anger cooled down. But Oliver could not be comforted. Then, -leaving the unsatisfactory theme, she tried another, and began telling -him of the wedding at Islip that morning, and of how Tom and Emma -looked---- - -"Don't, Jane," he interrupted; and his wailing, shrinking tone seemed to -betray the keenest pain of all. - -They walked home together in silence, Jane clinging to his arm. The -night shades lay upon the earth, the stars were shining in the sky. -Oliver laid his hand upon the garden gate and paused. - -"Do you remember, Jane, when I was coming in here for the first time, -how a strange shiver took me, and you thought I must have caught a -chill. It was a warning, my dear; a warning of the evil that lay in -store for me." - -He would not go into the parlour to supper, but went softly up to his -room and shut himself in for the night. Poor Oliver! Poor, poor Oliver! - -The following day, Friday, Mr. Preen, allowing himself the unwonted -luxury of a holiday for a day's shooting, was away betimes. For the -afternoon and evening, Mrs. Jacob Chandler's daughters, Clementina, -Georgiana, and Julietta, had organised a party to celebrate their cousin -Tom's wedding; Miss Julietta called it a "flare-up." - -Jane Preen had promised, for herself and for Oliver, to be there by -three o'clock. For Oliver! She made herself ready after dinner; and -then, looking everywhere for her brother, found him standing in the road -just outside the garden gate. He said he was not going. Jane reproached -him, and he quite laughed at her. _He_ go into company now! she might -know better. But Jane had great influence over him, and as he walked -with her along the road--for she was going to walk in and walk back -again at night--she nearly persuaded him to fetch her. Only nearly; not -quite. Oliver finally refused, and they had almost a quarrel. - -Then the tears ran down Jane's cheeks. Her heart was aching to pain for -him; and her object in pressing him to come was to take him out of his -loneliness. - -"Just this one evening, Oliver!" she whispered, clinging to him and -kissing him. "I don't ask you a favour often." - -And Oliver yielded. "I'll come for you, Janey," he said, kissing her -in return. "That is, I will come on and meet you; I cannot go to the -house." - -With that, they parted. But in another minute, Jane was running back -again. - -"You will be _sure_ to come, Oliver? You won't disappoint me? You won't -go from your word?" - -Oliver felt a little annoyed; the sore heart grows fretful. "I swear -I'll come, then," he said; "I'll meet you, alive or dead." - -I was at the party. Not Tod; he had gone shooting. We spent the -afternoon in the garden. It was not a large party, after all; only the -Letsoms, Jane Preen, and the Chandler girls; but others were expected -later. Jane had a disconsolate look. Knowing nothing of the trouble at -Duck Brook, I thought she was sad because Valentine had not come early, -according to promise. We knew later that he had been kept by what he -called a long-winded client. - -At five o'clock we went indoors to tea. Those were the days of real, -old-fashioned teas, not sham ones, as now. Hardly had we seated -ourselves round the table, and Mrs. Jacob Chandler was inquiring who -took sugar and who didn't, when one of the maids came in. - -"If you please, Miss Preen, the gig is come for you," she said. - -"The gig!" exclaimed Jane. "Come for me! You must be mistaken, Susan." - -"It is at the gate, Miss Jane, and Sam's in it. He says that his master -and missus have sent him to take you home immediate." - -Jane, all astonishment, followed by some of us, went out to see what -Sam could mean. Sam only repeated in a stolid kind of way the message he -had given to Susan. His master and mistress had despatched him for Miss -Jane and she must go home at once. - -"Is anything the matter?--anyone ill?" asked Jane, turning pale. - -Sam, looking more stolid than before, professed not to know anything; he -either did not or would not. Miss Jane had to go, and as quick as she -could, was all he would say. - -Jane put on her things, said good-bye in haste, and went out again to -the gig. Sam drove off at a tangent before she had well seated herself. - -"Now, Sam, what's the matter?" she began. - -Sam, in about three stolid words, protested, as before, he couldn't say -_what_ was the matter; except that he had been sent off for Miss Jane. - -Jane noticed, and thought it odd, that he did not look at her as he -spoke, though he was frank and open by habit; he had never looked in any -of their faces since coming to the door. - -"Where's Mr. Oliver?" she asked. But Sam only muttered that he "couldn't -say," and drove swiftly. - -They went on in silence after that, Jane seeing it would be useless to -inquire further, and were soon at Duck Brook. She felt very uneasy. What -she feared was, that her father and Oliver might have quarrelled, and -that the latter was about to be turned summarily out of doors. - -"Why, there's Mr. Oliver!" she exclaimed. "Pull up, Sam." - -They were passing the first Inlet. Oliver stood at the top of it, facing -the road, evidently looking out for her, as Jane thought. His gaze was -fixed, his face white as death. - -"I told you to pull up, Sam; how dare you disobey me and drive on in -that way?" cried Jane; for Sam had whipped up the horse instead of -stopping. Jane, looking at his face saw it had gone white too. - -"There he is! there he is again! There's Mr. Oliver!" - -They had approached the other Inlet as Jane spoke. Oliver stood at the -top of it, exactly as he had stood at the other, his gaze fixed on her, -his face ghastly. Not a muscle of his face moved; a dead man could not -be more still. Sam, full of terror, was driving on like lightning, as if -some evil thing were pursuing him. - -And now Jane turned pale. What did it mean? these two appearances? It -was totally impossible for Oliver to be at the last Inlet, if it was -he who stood at the other. A bird of the air might have picked him up, -carried him swiftly over the trees and dropped him at the second Inlet; -nothing else could have done it in the time. What did it mean? - -Mr. Preen was waiting at the door to receive Jane. He came a little way -with slow steps down the path to meet her as the gig stopped. She ran in -at the gate. - -"What has happened, papa?" she cried. "Where's Oliver?" - -Oliver was upstairs, lying upon his bed--dead. Mr. Preen disclosed it to -her as gently as he knew how. - - * * * * * - -It was all too true. Oliver had died about two hours before. He had shot -himself at the Inlets, close by the melancholy osiers that grew over the -brook. - -Oliver had accompanied Jane to the end of Brook Lane. There, at the -Islip Road, they parted; she going on to Crabb, Oliver walking back -again. Upon reaching the Inlets, that favourite spot of his, he sat down -on the bench that faced the highway; the self-same bench Jane had sat on -when she was watching for his arrival from Tours, in the early days of -spring. He had not sat there above a minute when he saw his father, with -one or two more gentlemen, get over the gate from the field opposite. -They were returning from shooting, and had their guns in their hands. -Mr. Preen walked quickly over the road to Oliver. - -"Take my gun indoors," he said; "I am not going in just yet. It is -loaded." - -He walked away down the road with his friends, after speaking. Oliver -took the gun, walked slowly down one of the Inlets, and placed himself -on the nearest bench there, lodging the gun against the end. In a few -minutes there arose a loud report. - -Sam was in the upper part of the field on the other side the brook with -the waggon and waggoner. He turned to look where the noise came from, -and thought he saw some one lying on the ground by the bench. They both -came round in haste, he and the waggoner, and found Oliver Preen lying -dead with the gun beside him. Running for assistance, Sam helped to -carry him home, and then went for the nearest doctor; but it was all of -no avail. Oliver was dead. - -Was it an accident, or was it intentional? People asked the question. At -the coroner's inquest, Mr. Preen, who was so affected he could hardly -give evidence, said that, so far as he believed, Oliver was one of the -last people likely to lay violent hands on himself; he was of too calm -and gentle a temperament for that. The rustic jury, pitying the father -and believing him, gave Oliver the benefit of the doubt. Loaded guns -were dangerous, they observed, apt to go off of themselves almost; and -they brought it in Accidental Death. - -But Jane knew better. I thought I knew better. I'm afraid Mr. Preen knew -better. - -And what of that appearance of Oliver which Jane saw? It could not have -been Oliver in the flesh, but I think it must have been Oliver in the -spirit. Many a time and oft in the days that followed did Jane recount -it over to me; it seemed a relief to her distress to talk of it. "He -said he would come, alive or dead, to meet me; and he came." - -And I, Johnny Ludlow, break off here to state that the account of this -apparition is strictly true. Every minute particular attending it, even -to the gig coming with Sam in it to fetch Jane from the tea-table, is a -faithful record of that which occurred. - -I took an opportunity of questioning Sam, asking whether he had seen -the appearance. It was as we were coming away from the grave after the -funeral. Oliver was buried in Duck Brook churchyard, close under the -clock which had told him the time when he stood with his father posting -the letters that past afternoon at Dame Sym's window. "We are too late, -father," he had said. But for being too late the tragedy might never -have happened, for the letter, which caused all the trouble and -commotion, would have reached Mr. Paul's hands safely the next morning. - -"No, sir," Sam answered me, "I can't say that I saw anything. But just -as Miss Jane spoke, calling out that Mr. Oliver was there, a kind of -shivering wind seemed to take me, and I turned icy cold. It was not her -words that could have done it, sir, for I was getting so before she -spoke. And at the last Inlet, when she called it out again, I went -almost out of my mind with cold and terror. The horse was affrighted -too; his coat turned wet." - - * * * * * - -That was the tragedy: no one can say I did wrong to call it one. For -years and years it has been in my mind to write it. But I had hoped to -end the paper less sadly; only the story has lengthened itself out, and -there's no space left. I meant to have told of Jane's brighter fate in -the after days with Valentine, the one lover of her life. For Val pulled -himself up from his reckless ways, though not at Islip; and in a distant -land they are now sailing down the stream of life together, passing -through, as we all have to do, its storms and its sunshine. All this -must be left for another paper. - - - - -IN LATER YEARS - - -I - -I think it must have been the illness he had in the summer that tended -to finally break down Valentine Chandler. He had been whirling along all -kinds of doubtful ways before, but when a sort of low fever attacked -him, and he had to lie by for weeks, he was about done for. - -That's how we found it when we got to Crabb Cot in October. Valentine, -what with illness, his wild ways and his ill-luck, had come to grief and -was about to emigrate to Canada. His once flourishing practice had run -away from him; no prospect seemed left to him in the old country. - -"It is an awful pity!" I remarked to Mrs. Cramp, having overtaken her in -the Islip Road, as she was walking towards home. - -"Ay, it is that, Johnny Ludlow," she said, turning her comely face to -me, the strings of her black bonnet tied in a big bow under her chin. -"Not much else was to be expected, taking all things into consideration. -George Chandler, Tom's brother, makes a right good thing of it in -Canada, farming, and Val is going to him." - -"We hear that Val's mother is leaving North Villa." - -"She can't afford to stay in it now," returned Mrs. Cramp, "so has let -it to the Miss Dennets, and taken a pretty little place for herself in -Crabb. Georgiana has gone out as a governess." - -"Will she like that?" - -"Ah, Master Johnny! There are odd moments throughout all our lives when -we have to do things we don't like any more than we like poison--I hate -to look at the place," cried Mrs. Cramp, energetically. "When I think of -Mrs. Jacob's having to turn out of it, and all through Val's folly, it -gives me the creeps." - -This applied to North Villa, of which we then were abreast. Mrs. Cramp -turned her face from it, and went on sideways, like a crab. - -"Why, here's Jane Preen!" - -She was coming along quietly in the afternoon sunshine. I thought her -altered. The once pretty blush-rose of her dimpled cheeks had faded; -in her soft blue eyes, so like Oliver's, lay a look of sadness. He had -been dead about a year now. But the blush came back again, and the eyes -lighted up with smiles as I took her hand. Mrs. Cramp went on; she was -in a hurry to reach her home, which lay between Islip and Crabb. Jane -rang the bell at North Villa. - -"Shall I take a run over to Duck Brook to-morrow, Jane, and sit with you -in the Inlets, and we'll have a spell of gossip together?" - -"I never sit in the Inlets now," she said, in a half whisper, turning -her face away. - -"Forgive me, Jane," I cried, repenting my thoughtlessness; and she -disappeared up the garden path. - -Susan opened the door. Her mistress was out, she said, but Miss -Clementina was at home. It was Clementina that Jane wanted to see. - -Valentine, still weak, was lying on the sofa in the parlour when Jane -entered. He got up, all excitement at seeing her, and they sat down -together. - -"I brought this for Clementina," she said, placing a paper parcel on -the table. "It is a pattern which she asked me for. Are you growing -stronger?" - -"Clementina is about somewhere," he observed; "the others are out. Yes, -I am growing stronger; but it seems to me that I am a long while about -it." - -They sat on in silence, side by side, neither speaking. Valentine took -Jane's hand and held it within his own, which rested on his knee. It -seemed that they had lost their tongues--as we say to the children. - -"Is it all decided?" asked Jane presently. "Quite decided?" - -"Quite, Jane. Nothing else is left for me." - -She caught her breath with one of those long sighs that tell of inward -tribulation. - -"I should have been over to see you before this, Jane, but that my legs -would not carry me to Duck Brook and back again without sitting down by -the wayside. And you--you hardly ever come here now." - -A deep flush passed swiftly over Jane's face. She had not liked to call -at the troubled house. And she very rarely came so far as Crabb now: -there seemed to be no plea for it. - -"What will be the end, Val?" she whispered. - -Valentine groaned. "I try not to think of it, my dear. When I cannot put -all thought of the future from me, it gives me more torment than I know -how to bear. If only----" - -The door opened, and in came Clementina, arresting what he had been -about to say. - -"This is the pattern you asked me for, Clementina," Jane said, rising -to depart on her return home. For she would not risk passing the Inlets -after sunset. - - * * * * * - -A week or two went by, and the time of Valentine Chandler's departure -arrived. He had grown well and strong apparently, and went about to say -Good-bye to people in a subdued fashion. The Squire took him apart when -Val came for that purpose to us, and talked to him in private. Tod -called it a "Curtain Lecture." Valentine was to leave Crabb at daybreak -on the Saturday morning for London, and go at once on board the ship -lying in the docks about to steam away for Quebec. - -It perhaps surprised none of us who knew the Chandler girls that they -should be seen tearing over the parish on the Friday afternoon to invite -people to tea. "It will be miserably dull this last evening, you know, -Johnny," they said to me in their flying visit; "we couldn't stand it -alone. Be sure to come in early: and leave word that Joseph Todhetley is -to join us as soon as he gets back again." For Tod had gone out. - -According to orders, I was at North Villa betimes: and, just as on that -other afternoon, I met Jane Preen at the gate. She had walked in from -Duck Brook. - -"You are going to spend the evening here, Jane?" - -"Yes, it is the last evening," she sighed. "Valentine wished it." - -"The girls have been to invite me; wouldn't let me say No. There's to -be quite a party." - -"A party!" exclaimed Jane, in surprise. - -"If they could manage to get one up." - -"I am sure Valentine did not know that this morning." - -"I daresay not. I asked the girls if Valentine wanted a crowd there on -his last evening, and they exclaimed that Valentine never knew what was -good for him." - -"As you are here, Johnny," she went on, after a silence, "I wonder if -you would mind my asking you to do me a favour? It is to walk home with -me after tea. I shall not be late this evening." - -"Of course I will, Jane." - -"I _cannot_ go past the Inlets alone after dark," she whispered. "I -never do so by daylight but a dreadful shiver seizes me. I--I'm afraid -of seeing something." - -"Have you ever seen it since that first evening, Jane?" - -"Never since. Never once. I do not suppose that I shall ever see it -again; but the fear lies upon me." - -She went on to explain that the gig could not be sent for her that -evening, as Mr. Preen had gone to Alcester in it and taken Sam. Her mode -and voice seemed strangely subdued, as if all spirit had left her for -ever. - -In spite of their efforts, the Miss Chandlers met with little luck. One -of the Letsom girls and Tom Coney were all the recruits they were able -to pick up. They came dashing in close upon our heels. In the hall stood -Valentine's luggage locked and corded, ready for conveyance to the -station. - -There's not much to relate of that evening: I hardly know why I allude -to it at all--only that these painful records sometimes bring a sad sort -of soothing to the weary heart, causing it to look forward to that other -life where will be no sorrow and no parting. - -Tod came in after tea. He and Coney kept the girls alive, if one might -judge by the laughter that echoed from the other room. Tea remained on -the table for anyone else who might arrive, but Mrs. Jacob Chandler had -turned from it to put her feet on the fender. She kept me by her, asking -about a slight accident which had happened to one of our servants. -Valentine and Jane were standing at the doors of the open window in -silence, as if they wanted to take in a view of the garden. And that -state of things continued, as it seemed to me, for a good half-hour. - -It was a wild night, but very warm for November. White clouds scudded -across the face of the sky; moonlight streamed into the room. The fire -was low, and the green shade had been placed over the lamp, so that -there seemed to be no light but that of the moon. - -"Won't you sing a song for the last time, Valentine?" I heard Jane ask -him with half a sob. - -"Not to-night; I'm not equal to it. But, yes, I will; one song," he -added, turning round. "Night and day that one song has been ever -haunting me, Jane." - -He was sitting down to the piano when Mrs. Cramp came in. She said she -would go up to take her bonnet off, and Mrs. Chandler went with her. -This left me alone at the fire. I should have made a start for the next -room where the laughing was, but that I did not like to disturb the song -then begun. Jane stood listening just outside the open window, her hands -covering her bent face. - -Whether the circumstances and surroundings made an undue impression on -me, I know not, but the song struck me as being the most plaintive one -I had ever heard and singularly appropriate to that present hour. The -singer was departing beyond seas, leaving one he loved hopelessly behind -him. - - "Remember me, though rolling ocean place its bounds 'twixt thee - and me, - Remember me with fond emotion, and believe I'll think of thee." - -So it began; and I wish I could recollect how it went on, but I can't; -only a line here and there. I think it was set to the tune of Weber's -Last Waltz, but I'm not sure. There came a line, "My lingering look from -thine will sever only with an aching heart;" there came another bit -towards the end: "But fail not to remember me." - -Nothing in themselves, you will say, these lines; their charm lay in the -singing. To listen to their mournful pathos brought with it a strange -intensity of pain. Valentine sang them as very few can sing. That his -heart was aching, aching with a bitterness which can never be pictured -except by those who have felt it; that Jane's heart was aching as she -listened, was all too evident. You could feel the anguish of their -souls. It was in truth a ballad singularly applicable to the time and -place. - -The song ceased; the music died away. Jane moved from the piano with -a sob that could no longer be suppressed. Valentine sat still and -motionless. As to me, I made a quiet glide of it into the other room, -just as Mrs. Cramp and Mrs. Jacob Chandler were coming in for some tea. -Julietta seized me on one side and Fanny Letsom on the other; they were -going in for forfeits. - - * * * * * - -Valentine Chandler left the piano and went out, looking for Jane. Not -seeing her, he followed on down the garden path, treading on its dry, -dead leaves. The wind, sighing and moaning, played amidst the branches -of the trees, nearly bare now; every other minute the moon was obscured -by the flying clouds. Warm though the night was, and grand in its -aspect, signs might be detected of the approaching winter. - -Jane Preen was standing near the old garden arbour, from which could be -seen by daylight the long chain of the Malvern Hills. Valentine drew -Jane within, and seated her by his side. - -"Our last meeting; our last parting, Jane!" he whispered from the depth -of his full heart. - -"Will it be for ever?" she wailed. - -He took time to answer. "I would willingly say No; I would _promise_ it -to you, Jane, but that I doubt myself. I know that it lies with me; and -I know that if God will help me, I may be able to----" - -He broke down. He could not go on. Jane bent her head towards him. -Drawing it to his shoulder, he continued: - -"I have not been able to pull up here, despite the resolutions I have -made from time to time. I was one of a fast set of men at Islip, -and--somehow--they were stronger than I was. In Canada it may be -different. I promise you, my darling, that I will strive to make it so. -Do you think this is no lesson to me?" - -"If not----" - -"If not, we may never see each other again in this world." - -"Oh, Valentine!" - -"Only in Heaven. The mistakes we make here may be righted there." - -"And will it be _nothing_ to you, never to see me again here?--no sorrow -or pain?" - -"_No sorrow or pain!_" Valentine echoed the words out of the very depths -of woe. Even then the pain within him was almost greater than he could -bear. - -They sat on in silence, with their aching hearts. Words fail in an -hour of anguish such as this. An hour that comes perhaps but once in -a lifetime; to some of us, never. Jane's face lay nestled against his -shoulder; her hand was in his clasp. Val's tears were falling; he was -weak yet from his recent illness; Jane's despair was beyond tears. - - * * * * * - -We were in the height and swing of forfeits when Valentine and Jane came -in. They could not remain in the arbour all night, you see, romantic and -lovely though it might be to sit in the moonlight. Jane said she must be -going home; her mother had charged her not to be late. - -When she came down with her things on, I, remembering what she had asked -me, took my hat and waited for her in the hall. But Valentine came out -with her. - -"Thank you all the same, Johnny," she said to me. And I went back to the -forfeits. - -They went off together, Jane's arm within his--their last walk, perhaps, -in this world. But it seemed that they could not talk any more than they -did in the garden, and went along for the most part in silence. Just -before turning into Brook Lane they met Tom Chandler--he who was doing -so much for Valentine in this emigration matter. He had come from Islip -to spend a last hour with his cousin. - -"Go on, Tom; you'll find them all at home," said Valentine. "I shall not -be very long after you." - -Upon coming to the Inlets, Jane clung closer to Valentine's arm. It was -here that she had seen her unfortunate brother Oliver standing, after -his death. Valentine hastily passed his arm round her to impart a sense -of protection. - -At the gate they parted, taking their farewell hand-shake, their last -kiss. "God help you, my dear!" breathed Valentine. "And if--if we never -meet again, believe that no other will ever love you as I have loved." - -He turned back on the road he had come, and Jane went in to her desolate -home. - - -II - -"Aunt Mary Ann, I've come back, and brought a visitor with me!" - -Mrs. Mary Ann Cramp, superintending the preserving of a pan of morella -cherries over the fire in her spacious kitchen, turned round in -surprise. I was perched on the arm of the old oak chair, watching the -process. I had gone to the farm with a message from Crabb Cot, and Mrs. -Cramp, ignoring ceremony, called me into the kitchen. - -Standing at the door, with the above announcement, was Julietta -Chandler. She had been away on a fortnight's visit. - -"Now where on earth did you spring from, Juliet?" asked Mrs. Cramp. -"I did not expect you to-day. A visitor? Who is it?" - -"Cherry Dawson, Aunt Mary Ann; and I didn't think it mattered about -letting you know," returned Juliet. They had given up the longer name, -Julietta. "You can see her if you look through the window; she is -getting out of the fly at the gate. Cherry Dawson is the nicest -and jolliest girl in the world, and you'll all be in love with -her--including you, Johnny Ludlow." - -Sure enough, there she was, springing from the fly which had brought -them from Crabb station. A light, airy figure in a fresh brown-holland -dress and flapping Leghorn hat. The kitchen window was open, and we -could hear her voice all that way off, laughing loudly at something and -chattering to the driver. She was very fair, with pretty white teeth, -and a pink colour on her saucy face. - -Mrs. Cramp left Sally to the cherries, went to the hall door and opened -it herself, calling the other maid, Joan, to come down. The visitor flew -in with a run and a sparkling laugh, and at once kissed Mrs. Cramp on -both cheeks, without saying with your leave or by your leave. I think -she would not have minded kissing me, for she came dancing up and shook -my hand. - -"It's Johnny Ludlow, Cherry," said Juliet. - -"Oh, how delightful!" cried Miss Cherry. - -She was really very unsophisticated; or--very much the other way. One -cannot quite tell at a first moment. But, let her be which she might, -there was one thing about her that took the eyes by storm. It was her -hair. - -Whether her rapid movements had unfastened it, or whether she wore it -so, I knew not, but it fell on her shoulders like a shower of gold. Her -small face seemed to be set in an amber aureole. I had never before seen -hair so absolutely resembling the colour of pure gold. As she ran back -to Mrs. Cramp from me, it glittered in the sunlight. The shower of -gold in which Jupiter went courting Danae could hardly have been more -seductive than this. - -"I know you don't mind my coming uninvited, you dear Mrs. Cramp!" she -exclaimed joyously. "I did so want to make your acquaintance. And -Clementina was growing such a cross-patch. It's not Tim's fault if he -can't come back yet. Is it now?" - -"I do not know anything about it," answered Mrs. Cramp, apparently not -quite sure what to make of her. - -With this additional company I thought it well to come away, and wished -them good morning. At the gate stood the fly still, the horse resting. - -"Like to take a lift, Mr. Johnny, as far as your place?" asked the man -civilly. "I am just starting back." - -"No, thank you, Lease," I answered. "I am going across to Duck Brook." - -"Curious young party that, ain't it, sir?" said Lease, pointing the whip -over his shoulder towards the house. "She went and asked me if Mrs. -Cramp warn't an old Image, born in the year One, and didn't she get her -gowns out of Noah's Ark? And while I was staring at her saying that, she -went off into shouts of laughter enough to frighten the horse. Did you -see her hair, sir?" - -I nodded. - -"For my part, I don't favour that bright yaller for hair, Mr. Johnny. I -never knew but one woman have such, and she was more deceitful than a -she-fox." - -Lease touched his hat and drove off. He was cousin in a remote degree to -poor Maria Lease, and to Lease the pointsman who had caused the accident -to the train at Crabb junction and died of the trouble. At that moment, -Fred Scott came up; a short, dark young fellow, with fierce black -whiskers, good-natured and rather soft. He was fond of playing billiards -at the Bell at Islip; had been doing it for some years now. - -"I say, Ludlow, has that fly come with Juliet Chandler? Is she back -again?" - -"Just come. She has brought some one with her: a girl with golden hair." - -"Oh, bother _her_!" returned Fred. "But it has been as dull as -ditchwater without Juliet." - -He dashed in at Mrs. Cramp's gate and up the winding path. I turned -into the Islip Road, and crossed it to take Brook Lane. The leaves -were beginning to put on the tints of autumn; the grain was nearly all -gathered. - -Time the healer! As Mrs. Todhetley says, it may well be called so. -Heaven in mercy sends it to the sick and heavy-laden with healing on its -wings. Nearly three years had slipped by since the departure for Canada -of Valentine Chandler; four years since the tragic death of Oliver -Preen. - -There are few changes to record. Things and people were for the most -part going on as they had done. It was reported that Valentine had -turned over a new leaf from the hour he landed over yonder, becoming -thoroughly staid and steady. Early in the summer of this year his -mother had shut up her cottage at North Crabb to go to Guernsey, on -the invitation of a sister from whom she had expectations. Upon this, -Julietta, who lived with her mother, went on a long visit to Mrs. Cramp. - -Clementina had married. Her husband was a Mr. Timothy Dawson, junior -partner in a wholesale firm of general merchants in Birmingham; they had -also a house in New York. Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Dawson lived in a white -villa at Edgbaston, and went in for style and fashion. At least she did, -which might go without telling. The family in which her sister Georgiana -was governess occupied another white villa hard by. - -Close upon Juliet's thus taking up her residence with her aunt, finding -perhaps the farm rather dull, she struck up a flirtation with Fred -Scott, or he with her. They were everlastingly together, mooning about -Mrs. Cramp's grounds, or sauntering up and down the Islip Road. Juliet -gave out that they were engaged. No one believed it. At present Fred -had nothing to marry upon: his mother, just about as soft as himself, -supplied him with as much pocket-money as he asked for, and there his -funds ended. - -Juliet had now returned from a week or two's visit she had been paying -Clementina, bringing with her, uninvited, the young lady with the golden -hair. That hair seemed to be before my eyes as a picture as I walked -along. She was Timothy Dawson's young half-sister. Both the girls had -grown tired of staying with Clementina, who worried herself and everyone -about her just now because her husband was detained longer than he had -anticipated in New York, whither he had gone on business. - - * * * * * - -Mr. Frederick Scott had said "Bother" in contempt when he first heard of -the visitor with the golden hair. He did not say it long. Miss Cherry -Dawson cast a spell upon him. He had never met such a rattling, laughing -girl in all his born days, which was how he phrased it; had never seen -such bewildering hair. Cherry fascinated him. Forgetting his allegiance -to Juliet, faithless swain that he was, he went right over to the enemy. -Miss Cherry, nothing loth, accepted his homage openly, and enjoyed the -raging jealousy of Juliet. - -In the midst of this, Juliet received a telegram from Edgbaston. Her -sister Clementina was taken suddenly ill and wanted her. She must take -the first train. - -"Of course you are coming with me, Cherry!" said Juliet. - -"Of course I am not," laughed Cherry. "I'm very happy here--if dear Mrs. -Cramp will let me stay with her. You'll be back again in a day or two." - -Not seeing any polite way of sending her away in the face of this, Mrs. -Cramp let her stay on. Juliet was away a week--and a nice time the other -one and Fred had of it, improving the shining hours with soft speeches -and love-making. When Juliet got back again, she felt ready to turn -herself into a female Bluebeard, and cut off Cherry's golden head. - -Close upon that Mrs. Cramp held her harvest-home. "You may as well come -early, and we'll have tea on the lawn," she said, when inviting us. - -It was a fine afternoon, warm as summer, though September was drawing to -its close. Many of the old friends you have heard of were there. Mary -MacEveril and her cousin Dick, who seemed to be carrying on a little -with one another, as Tod called it; the Letsoms, boys and girls; Emma -Chandler, who looked younger than ever, though she could boast of two -babies: and others. Jane Preen was there, the weary look which her mild -and pretty face had gained latterly very plainly to be seen. We roamed -at will about the grounds, and had tea under the large weeping elm tree. -Altogether the gathering brought forcibly to mind that other gathering; -that of the picnic, four summers ago, when we had sung songs in -light-hearted glee, and poor Oliver Preen must have been ready to die -of mortal pain. - -The element of interest to-day lay in Miss Cherry Dawson. In her -undisguised assumption of ownership in Fred Scott, and in Juliet -Chandler's rampant jealousy of the pair. You should have seen the girl -flitting about like a fairy, in her white muslin frock, the golden -shower of curls falling around her like nothing but threads of -transparent amber. Fred was evidently very far gone. Juliet wore white -also. - -Whether things would have come that evening to the startling pass they -did but for an unfortunate remark made in thoughtless fun, not in -malice, I cannot tell. It gave a sting to Juliet that she could not -bear. A ridiculous pastime was going on. Some of them were holding hands -in a circle and dancing round to the "House that Jack Built," each one -reciting a sentence in turn. If you forgot your sentence, you paid a -forfeit. The one falling to Juliet Chandler was "This the maiden all -forlorn." "Why, that's exactly what you are, Juliet!" cried Tom Coney, -impulsively, and a laugh went round. Juliet said nothing, but I saw her -face change to the hue of death. The golden hair of the other damsel -was gleaming just then within view amidst the trees, accompanied by the -black head and black whiskers of Mr. Fred Scott. - -"That young man must have a rare time of it between the two," whispered -Tod to me. "As good as the ass between the bundles of hay." - -At dusk began the fun of the harvest-home. Mrs. Cramp's labourers and -their wives sat in the large kitchen at an abundant board. Hot beef, -mutton and hams crowded it, with vegetables; and of fruit pies and tarts -there was a goodly show. Some of us helped to wait on them, and that was -the best fun of all. - -They had all taken as much as they could possibly eat, and were in the -full flow of cider and beer and delight; a young man in a clean white -smock-frock was sheepishly indulging the table with a song: "Young Roger -of the Valley," and I was laughing till I had to hold my sides; when -Mrs. Cramp touched me on the back. She sat with the Miss Dennets in the -little parlour off the kitchen, in full view of the company. I sat on -the door-sill between them. - -"Johnny," she whispered, "I don't see Juliet and Cherry Dawson. Have -they been in at all?" - -I did not remember to have seen them; or Fred Scott either. - -"Just go out and look for the two girls, will you, Johnny. It's too late -for them to be out, though it is a warm night. Tell them I say they are -to come in at once," said Mrs. Cramp. - -Not half a stone's throw from the house I found them--quarrelling. Their -noisy voices guided me. A brilliant moon lighted up the scene. The young -ladies were taunting one another; Juliet in frantic passion; Cherry in -sarcastic mockery. Fred Scott, after trying in vain to throw oil upon -the troubled waters, had given it up as hopeless, and stood leaning -against a tree in silent patience. - -"It's quite true," Cherry was saying tauntingly when I got up. "We _are_ -engaged. We shall be married shortly. Come!" - -"You are not," raved Juliet, her voice trembling with the intense rage -she was in. "He was engaged to me before you came here; he is engaged to -me still." - -Cherry laughed out in mockery. "Dear me! old maids do deceive themselves -so!" - -Very hard, that, and Juliet winced. She was five or six years older than -the fairy. How Fred relished the bringing home to him of his sins, I -leave you to judge. - -"I say, can't you have done with this, you silly girls?" he cried out -meekly. - -"In a short time you'll have our wedding-cards," went on Cherry. "It's -all arranged. He's only waiting for me to decide whether it shall take -place here or at Gretna Green." - -Juliet dashed round to face Fred Scott. "If this be true; if you do -behave in this false way to me, I'll not survive it," she said, hardly -able to bring the words out in her storm of passion. "Do you hear me? -I'll not live to see it, I say; and my ghost shall haunt her for her -whole life after." - -"Come now, easy, Juliet," pleaded Fred uncomfortably. "It's all -nonsense, you know." - -"I think it is; I think she is saying this to aggravate me," assented -Juliet, subsiding to a sort of calmness. "If not, take you warning, -Cherry Dawson, for I'll keep my word. My apparition shall haunt you for -ever and ever." - -"It had better begin to-night, then, for you'll soon find out that it's -as true as gospel," retorted Cherry. - -Managing at last to get in a word, I delivered Mrs. Cramp's message: -they were to come in instantly. Fred obeyed it with immense relief and -ran in before me. The two girls would follow, I concluded, when their -jarring had spent itself. The last glimpse I had of them, they were -stretching out their faces at each other like a couple of storks. -Juliet's straw hat had fallen from her head and was hanging by its -strings round her neck. - -"Oh, they're coming," spoke up Fred, in answer to Mrs. Cramp. "It's very -nice out there; the moon's bright as day." - -And presently I heard the laugh of Cherry Dawson amidst us. Her golden -hair, her scarlet cheeks and her blue eyes were all sparkling together. - - -III - -It was the next morning. We were at breakfast, answering Mr. and Mrs. -Todhetley's questions about the harvest home, when old Thomas came in, -all sad and scared, to tell some news. Juliet Chandler was dead: she had -destroyed herself. - -Of course the Squire at once attacked Thomas for saying it. But a sick -feeling of conviction arose within me that it was true. One of the -servants, out of doors on an errand, had heard it from a man in the -road. The Squire sat rubbing his face, which had turned hot. - -Leaving the breakfast table, I started for Mrs. Cramp's. Miss Susan -Dennet was standing at her gate, her white handkerchief thrown over her -head, her pale face limp with fright. - -"Johnny," she called to me, "have you heard? Do you think it can be -true?" - -"Well, I hope not, Miss Susan. I am now going there to see. What I'm -thinking of is this--if it is not true, how can such a report have -arisen?" - -Tod caught me up, and we found the farm in distress and commotion. It -was all true; and poor Mrs. Cramp was almost dumb with dismay. These -were the particulars: The previous evening, Juliet did not appear at the -late supper, laid in the dining-room for the guests; at least, no one -remembered to have seen her. Later, when the guests had left, and Mrs. -Cramp was in the kitchen busy with her maids, Cherry Dawson looked in, -bed-candle in hand, to say good-night. "I suppose Juliet is going up -with you," remarked Mrs. Cramp. "Oh, Juliet went up ages ago," said -Cherry, in answer. - -The night passed quietly. Early in the morning one of the farm men went -to the eel-pond to put in a net, and saw some clothes lying on the -brink. Rushing indoors, he brought out Sally. She knew the things at -once. There lay the white dress and the pink ribbons which Juliet had -worn the night before; the straw hat, and a small fleecy handkerchief -which she had tied round her neck at sundown. Pinned to the sash and -the dress was a piece of paper on which was written in ink, in a large -hand--Juliet's hand: - -"I SAID I WOULD DO IT; AND I WILL HAUNT HER FOR EVERMORE." - -Of course she had taken these things off and left them on the bank, with -the memorandum pinned to them, to make known that she had flung herself -into the pond. - -"I can scarcely believe it; it seems so incredible," sighed poor Mrs. -Cramp, to the Squire, who had come bustling in. "Juliet, as I should -have thought, was one of the very last girls to do such a thing." - -The next to appear upon the scene, puffing and panting with agitation, -was Fred Scott. He asked which of the two girls it was, having heard -only a garbled account; and now learned that it was Juliet. As to Cherry -Dawson, she was shut up in her bedroom in shrieking hysterics. Men were -preparing to drag the pond in search of----well, what was lying there. - -The pond was at the end of the garden, near the fence that divided it -from the three-acre field. Nothing had been disturbed. The white frock -and pink ribbons were lying with the paper pinned to them; the hat -was close by. A yard off was the white woollen handkerchief; and near -it I saw the faded bunch of mignonette which Juliet had worn in her -waistband. It looked as if she had flung the things off in desperation. - -Standing later in the large parlour, listening to comments and opinions, -one question troubled me--Ought I to tell what I knew of the quarrel? -It might look like treachery towards Scott and the girl upstairs; but, -should that poor dead Juliet---- - -The doubt was suddenly solved for me. - -"What I want to get at is this," urged the Squire: "did anything happen -to drive her to this? One doesn't throw oneself into an eel-pond for -nothing in one's sober senses." - -"Miss Juliet and Miss Dawson had a quarrel out o' doors last night," -struck in Joan, for the two servants were assisting at the conference. -"Sally heard 'em." - -"What's that?" cried Mrs. Cramp. "Speak up." - -"Well, it's true, ma'am," said Sally, coming forward. "I went out to -shake a tray-cloth, and heard voices at a distance, all in a rage like; -so I just stepped on a bit to see what it meant. The two young lasses -was snarling at one another like anything. Miss Juliet was----" - -"What were they quarrelling about?" interrupted the Squire. - -"Well, sir, it seemed to be about Mr. Scott--which of 'em had him for a -sweetheart, and which of 'em hadn't. Mr. Johnny Ludlow ran up as I came -in: perhaps he heard more than I did." - -After that, there was nothing for it but to let the past scene come out; -and Mrs. Cramp had the pleasure of being enlightened as to the rivalry -which had been going on under her roof and the ill-feeling which had -arisen out of it. Fred Scott, to do him justice, spoke up like a man, -not denying the flirtation he had carried on, first with Juliet, next -with Cherry, but he declared most positively that it had never been -serious on any side. - -The Squire wheeled round. "Just say what you mean by that, Mr. -Frederick. What do you call serious?" - -"I never said a word to either of them which could suggest serious -intentions, sir. I never hinted at such a thing as getting married." - -"Now look here, young man," cried Mrs. Cramp, taking her handkerchief -from her troubled face, "what right had you to do that? By what right -did you play upon those young girls with your silly speeches and your -flirting ways, if you meant nothing?--nothing to either of them?" - -"I am sorry for it now, ma'am," said Scott, eating humble pie; "I -wouldn't have done it for the world had I foreseen this. It was just a -bit of flirting and nothing else. And neither of them ever thought it -was anything else; they knew better; only they became snappish with one -another." - -"Did not think you meant marrying?" cried the Squire sarcastically, -fixing Scott with his spectacles. - -"Just so, sir. Why, how could I mean it?" went on Scott in his simple -way. "I've no money, while my mother lives, to set up a wife or a house; -she wouldn't let me. I joked and laughed with the two girls, and they -joked and laughed back again. I don't care what they may have said -between themselves--they _knew_ there was nothing in it." - -Scott was right, so far. All the world, including the Chandlers and poor -Juliet, knew that Scott was no more likely to marry than the man in the -moon. - -"And you could stand by quietly last night when they were having, it -seems, this bitter quarrel, and not stop it?" exclaimed Mrs. Cramp. - -"They would not listen to me," returned Scott. "I went between them; -spoke to one, spoke to the other; told them what they were quarrelling -about was utter nonsense--and the more I said, the more they wrangled. -Johnny Ludlow saw how it was; he came up at the end of it." - -Cherry Dawson was sent for downstairs, and came in between Sally and -Joan, limp and tearful and shaking with fright. Mrs. Cramp questioned -her. - -"It was all done in fun," she said with a sob. "Juliet and I teased one -another. It was as much her fault as mine. Fred Scott needn't talk. I'm -sure _I_ don't want him. I've somebody waiting for me at Edgbaston, if I -choose. Scott may go to York!" - -"Suppose you mind your manners, young woman: you've done enough mischief -in my house without forgetting _them_," reproved Mrs. Cramp. "I want to -know when you last saw Juliet." - -"We came in together after the quarrel. She ran up to her room; I joined -the rest of you. As she did not come down to supper, I thought she had -gone to bed. O-o-o-o-o!" shivered Cherry; "and she says she'll haunt me! -I shall never dare to be alone in the dark again." - -Mr. Fred Scott took his departure, glad no doubt to do so, carrying with -him a hint from Mrs. Cramp that for the present his visits must cease, -unless he should be required to give evidence at the inquest. As he went -out, Mr. Paul and Tom Chandler came in together. Tom, strong in plain -common-sense, could not at all understand it. - -"Passion must have overbalanced her reason and driven her mad," he said -aside to me. "The taunts of that Dawson girl did it, I reckon." - -"Blighted love," said I. - -"Moonshine," answered Tom Chandler. "Juliet, poor girl, had gone in for -too many flirtations to care much for Scott. As to that golden-haired -one, _her_ life is passed in nothing else: getting out of one love -affair into another, month in, month out. Her brother Tim once told her -so in my presence. No, Johnny, it is a terrible calamity, but I shall -never understand how she came to do it as long as I live." - -I was not sure that I should. Juliet was very practical: not one of your -moaning, sighing, die-away sort of girls who lose their brains for love, -like crazy Jane. It was a dreadful thing, whatever might have been the -cause, and we were all sorry for Mrs. Cramp. Nothing had stirred us like -this since the death of Oliver Preen. - -Georgiana Chandler came flying over from Birmingham in a state of -excitement. Cherry Dawson had gone then, or Georgie might have shaken -her to pieces. When put up, Georgie had a temper of her own. Cherry had -disappeared into the wilds of Devonshire, where her home was, and where -she most devoutly hoped Juliet's ghost would not find its way. - -"It is an awful thing to have taken place in your house, Aunt Mary Ann. -And why unhappy, ill-fated Juliet should have--but I can't talk of it," -broke off Georgie. - -"I know that I am ashamed of its having happened here, Georgiana," -assented Mrs. Cramp. "I am not alluding to the sad termination, but to -that parcel of nonsense, the sweethearting." - -"Clementina is more heartless than an owl over it," continued Georgie, -making her remarks. "She says it serves Juliet right for her flirting -folly, and she hopes Cherry will be haunted till her yellow curls turn -grey." - -The more they dragged, the less chance there seemed of finding Juliet. -Nothing came up but eels. It was known that the eel-pond had a hole or -two in it which no drags could penetrate. Gloom settled down upon us -all. Mrs. Cramp's healthy cheeks lost some of their redness. One day, -calling at Crabb Cot, she privately told us that the trouble would lie -upon her for ever. The best word Tod gave to it was--that he would go a -day's march with peas in his shoes to see a certain lady hanging by her -golden hair on a sour apple tree. - - * * * * * - -It was a bleak October evening. Jane Preen, in her old shawl and garden -hat, was hurrying to Dame Sym's on an errand for her mother. The cold -wind sighed and moaned in the trees, clouds flitted across the face of -the crescent moon. It scarcely lighted up the little old church beyond -the Triangle, and the graves in the churchyard beneath, Oliver's amidst -them. Jane shivered, and ran into Mrs. Sym's. - -Carrying back her parcel, she turned in at the garden gate and stood -leaning over it for a few moments. Tears were coursing down her cheeks. -Life for a long time had seemed very hard to Jane; no hope anywhere. - -The sound of quick footsteps broke upon her ear, and a gentleman came -into view. She rather wondered who it was; whether anyone was coming to -call on her father. - -"Jane! Jane!" - -With a faint cry, she fell into the arms opened to receive her--those -of Valentine Chandler. He went away, a ne'er-do-well, three years ago, -shattered in health, shaken in spirit; he had returned a healthy, hearty -man, all his parts about him. - -Yes, Valentine had turned over a new leaf from the moment he touched the -Canadian shores. He had put his shoulder to the wheel in earnest, had -persevered and prospered. And now he had a profitable farm of his own, -and a pretty house upon it, all in readiness for Jane. - -"We have heard from time to time that you were doing well," she said, -with a sob of joy. "Oh, Valentine, how good it is! To have done it all -yourself!" - -"Not altogether myself, Jane," he answered. "I did my best, and God sent -His blessing upon it." - -Jane no longer felt the night cold, the wind bleak, or remembered that -her mother was waiting for the parcel. They paced the old wilderness of -a garden, arm locked within arm. There was something in the windy night -to put them in mind of that other night: the night of their parting, -when Valentine had sung his song of farewell, and bade her remember -him though rolling ocean placed its bounds between them. They had been -faithful to one another. - -Seated on the bench, under the walnut tree, the very spot on which poor -Oliver had sat after that rush home from his fatal visit to Mr. Paul's -office at Islip, Jane ventured to say a word about Juliet, and, to her -surprise, found that Valentine knew nothing. - -"I have not heard any news yet, Jane," he said. "I came straight to you -from the station. Presently I shall go back to astonish Aunt Mary Ann. -Why? What about Juliet?" - -Jane enlightened him by degrees, giving him one particular after -another. Valentine listening in silence to the end. - -"I don't believe it." - -"Don't believe it!" exclaimed Jane. - -"Not a syllable of it." - -"But what do you mean? What don't you believe?" - -"That Juliet threw herself into the pond. My dear, she is not the kind -of girl to do it; she'd no more do such a thing than I should." - -"Oh, Val! It is true the drags brought up nothing but eels; but----" - -"Of course they didn't. There's nothing but eels there to bring up." - -"Then where can Juliet be?--what is the mystery?" dissented Jane. "What -became of her?" - -"That I don't know. Rely upon it, Janey, she is not there. She'd never -jump into that cold pond. How long ago is this?" - -"Nearly a month. Three weeks last Thursday." - -"Ah," said Valentine. "Well, I'll see if I can get to the bottom of it." - -Showing himself indoors to Mr. and Mrs. Preen for a few minutes, -Valentine then made his way to Mrs. Cramp's, where he would stay. He -knew his mother was away, and her house shut up. Mrs. Cramp, recovering -from her surprise, told him he was welcome as the sun in harvest. -She had been more grieved when Valentine went wrong than the world -suspected. - -Seated over the fire, in her comfortable parlour, after supper, -Valentine told her his plans. He had come over for one month; could not -leave his farm longer; just to shake hands with them all, and to take -Jane Preen back with him. That discussed, Mrs. Cramp entered gingerly -upon the sad news about Juliet--not having thought well to deluge him -with it the moment he came in. Valentine refused to believe it--as he -had refused with Jane. - -"Bless the boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Cramp, staring. "What on earth makes him -say such a thing?" - -"Because I am sure of it, Aunt Mary Ann. Fancy strong-minded Juliet -throwing herself into an eel pond! She is gadding about somewhere, deep -already, I daresay, in another flirtation." - -Mrs. Cramp, waiting to collect her scattered senses, shook her head -plaintively. "My dear," she said, "I don't pretend to know the fashion -of things in the outlandish world in which you live, but over here it -couldn't be. Once a girl has been drowned in a pond--whether eel, duck, -or carp pond, what matters it?--she can't come to life again and go -about flirting." - - * * * * * - -To us all Valentine was, as Mrs. Cramp had phrased it, more welcome than -the sun in harvest, and was made much of. When a young fellow has been -going to the bad, and has the resolution to pull up and to persevere, -he should be honoured, cried the Squire--and we did our best to honour -Val. For a week or two there was nothing but visiting everywhere. He was -then going to Guernsey to see his mother, when she wrote to stop him, -saying she was coming back to Crabb for his wedding. - -And while Valentine was reading his mother's letter at the -tea-table--for the Channel Islands letters always came in by the -second post--Mrs. Cramp was opening one directed to her. Suddenly -Valentine heard a gurgle--and next a moan. Looking up, he saw his aunt -gasping for breath, her face an indescribable mixture of emotions. - -"Why, Aunt Mary Ann," he cried; "are you ill?" - -"If I'm not ill, I might be," retorted Mrs. Cramp. "Here's a letter from -that wretched girl--that Juliet! She's not dead after all. She has been -in Guernsey all this time." - -Valentine paused a moment to take in the truth of the announcement, -and then burst into laughter deep and long. Mrs. Cramp handed him the -letter. - - "DEAR AUNT MARY ANN,--I hope you will forgive me! Georgie writes - word that you have been in a way about me. I thought you'd be - _sure_ to guess it was only a trick. I did it to give a thorough - fright to that wicked cat; you can't think how full of malice she - is. I put on my old navy-blue serge and close winter bonnet, which - no one would be likely to miss or remember, and carried the other - things to the edge of the pond and left them there. While you were - at supper I stole away, caught the last train at Crabb Junction, - and surprised Clementina at Edgbaston. She promised to be - secret--she hates that she-cat--and the next morning I started for - Guernsey. Clementina did not tell Georgie till a week ago, after - she heard that Valentine would not believe it, and then Georgie - wrote to me and blew me up. I am enchanted to hear that the toad - passes her nights in horrid fear of seeing my ghost, and that her - yellow hair is turning blue; Georgie says it is.--Your ever - affectionate and repentant niece, - - "JULIETTA. - - "P.S.--I hope you will believe I am very sorry for paining you, - dear Aunt Mary Ann. And I want to tell you that I think it likely I - shall soon be married. An old gentleman out here who has a - beautiful house and lots of money admires me very much. Please let - Fred Scott know this." - -And so, there it was--Julietta was in the land of the living and had -never been out of it. And we had gone through our fright and pain -unnecessarily, and the poor eels had been disturbed for nothing. - - * * * * * - -They were married at the little church at Duck Brook; no ceremony, -hardly anyone invited to it. Mr. Preen gave Jane away. Tom Chandler and -Emma were there, and Mrs. Jacob Chandler and Mrs. Cramp. Jane asked me -to go--to see the last of her, she said. She wore a plain silk dress -of a greyish colour, and a white straw bonnet with a bit of orange -blossom--which she took off before they started on their journey. For -they went off at once to Liverpool--and would sail the next day for -their new home. - -And Valentine is always steady and prospering, and Jane says Canada is -better than England and she wouldn't come back for the world. - -And Juliet is married and lives in Guernsey, and drives about with her -old husband in his handsome carriage and pair. But Mrs. Cramp has not -forgiven her yet. - - - - -THE SILENT CHIMES - - -I.--PUTTING THEM UP - - -I - -The events of this history did not occur within my own recollection, -and I can only relate them at second-hand--from the Squire and others. -They are curious enough; especially as regard the three parsons--one -following upon another--in their connection with the Monk family, -causing no end of talk in Church Leet parish, as well as in other -parishes within earshot. - -About three miles' distance from Church Dykely, going northwards across -country, was the rural parish of Church Leet. It contained a few -farmhouses and some labourers' cottages. The church, built of grey -stone, stood in its large graveyard; the parsonage, a commodious house, -was close by; both of them were covered with time-worn ivy. Nearly half -a mile off, on a gentle eminence, rose the handsome mansion called -Leet Hall, the abode of the Monk family. Nearly the whole of the -parish--land, houses, church and all--belonged to them. At the time I -am about to tell of they were the property of one man--Godfrey Monk. - -The late owner of the place (except for one short twelvemonth) was -old James Monk, Godfrey's father. Old James had three sons and one -daughter--Emma--his wife dying early. The eldest son (mostly styled -"young James") was about as wild a blade as ever figured in story; the -second son, Raymond, was an invalid; the third, Godfrey, a reckless -lad, ran away to sea when he was fourteen. - -If the Monks were celebrated for one estimable quality more than -another, it was temper: a cross-grained, imperious, obstinate temper. -"Run away to sea, has he?" cried old James when he heard the news; "very -well, at sea he shall stop." And at sea Godfrey did stop, not disliking -the life, and perhaps not finding any other open to him. He worked his -way up in the merchant service by degrees, until he became commander and -was called Captain Monk. - -The years went on. Young James died, and the other two sons grew to be -middle-aged men. Old James, the father, found by signs and tokens that -his own time was approaching; and he was the next to go. Save for a -slender income bequeathed to Godfrey and to his daughter, the whole of -the property was left to Raymond, and to Godfrey after him if Raymond -had no son. The entail had been cut off in the past generation; for -which act the reasons do not concern us. - -So Raymond, ailing greatly always, entered into possession of his -inheritance. He lived about a twelvemonth afterwards, and then died: -died unmarried. Therefore Godfrey came into all. - -People were curious, the Squire says, as to what sort of man Godfrey -would turn out to be; for he had not troubled home much since he ran -away. He was a widower; that much was known; his wife having been a -native of Trinidad, in the West Indies. - -A handsome man, with fair, curling hair (what was left of it); proud -blue eyes; well-formed features with a chronic flush upon them, for he -liked his glass, and took it; a commanding, imperious manner, and a -temper uncompromising as the grave. Such was Captain Godfrey Monk; now -in his forty-fifth year. Upon his arrival at Leet Hall after landing, -with his children and one or two dusky attendants in their train, he -was received by his sister Emma, Mrs. Carradyne. Major Carradyne had -died fighting in India, and his wife, at the request of her brother -Raymond, came then to live at Leet Hall. Not of necessity, for Mrs. -Carradyne was well off and could have made her home where she pleased, -but Raymond had liked to have her. Godfrey also expressed his pleasure -that she should remain; she could act as mother to his children. - -Godfrey's children were three: Katherine, aged seventeen; Hubert, aged -ten; and Eliza, aged eight. The girls had their father's handsome -features, but in their skin there ran a dusky tinge, hinting of other -than pure Saxon blood; and they were every whit as haughtily self-willed -as he was. The boy, Hubert, was extremely pretty, his face fair, his -complexion delicately beautiful, his auburn hair bright, his manner -winning; but he liked to exercise his own will, and appeared to have -generally done it. - -A day or two, and Mrs. Carradyne sat down aghast. "I never saw children -so troublesome and self-willed in all my life, Godfrey," she said to her -brother. "Have they ever been controlled at all?" - -"Had their own way pretty much, I expect," answered the Captain. "I was -not often at home, you know, and there's nobody else they'd obey." - -"Well, Godfrey, if I am to remain here, you will have to help me manage -them." - -"That's as may be, Emma. When I deem it necessary to speak, I speak; -otherwise I don't interfere. And you must not get into the habit of -appealing to me, recollect." - -Captain Monk's conversation was sometimes interspersed with sundry light -words, not at all orthodox, and not necessarily delivered in anger. In -those past days swearing was regarded as a gentleman's accomplishment; a -sailor, it was believed, could not at all get along without it. Manners -change. The present age prides itself upon its politeness: but what of -its sincerity? - -Mrs. Carradyne, mild and gentle, commenced her task of striving to tame -her brother's rebellious children. She might as well have let it alone. -The girls laughed at her one minute and set her at defiance the next. -Hubert, who had good feeling, was more obedient; he did not openly defy -her. At times, when her task pressed heavily upon her spirits, Mrs. -Carradyne felt tempted to run away from Leet Hall, as Godfrey had run -from it in the days gone by. Her own two children were frightened at -their cousins, and she speedily sent both to school, lest they should -catch their bad manners. Henry was ten, the age of Hubert; Lucy was -between five and six. - -Just before the death of Raymond Monk, the living of Church Leet became -vacant, and the last act of his life was to present it to a worthy young -clergyman named George West. This caused intense dissatisfaction to -Godfrey. He had heard of the late incumbent's death, and when he arrived -home and found the living filled up he proclaimed his anger loudly, -lavishing abuse upon poor dead Raymond for his precipitancy. He had -wanted to bestow it upon a friend of his, a Colonial chaplain, and -had promised it to him. It was a checkmate there was no help for now, -for Mr. West could not be turned out again; but Captain Monk was not -accustomed to be checkmated, and resented it accordingly. He took up, -for no other reason, a most inveterate dislike to George West, and -showed it practically. - -In every step the Vicar took, at every turn and thought, he found -himself opposed by Captain Monk. Had he a suggestion to make for the -welfare of the parish, his patron ridiculed it; did he venture to -propose some wise measure at a vestry meeting, the Captain put him and -his measure down. Not civilly either, but with a stinging contempt, -semi-covert though it was, that made its impression on the farmers -around. The Reverend George West was a man of humility, given to much -self-disparagement, so he bore all in silence and hoped for better -times. - - * * * * * - -The time went on; three years of it; Captain Monk had fully settled down -in his ancestral home, and the neighbours had learnt what a domineering, -self-willed man he was. But he had his virtues. He was kind in a general -way, generous where it pleased him to be, inordinately attached to his -children, and hospitable to a fault. - -On the last day of every year, as the years came round, Captain Monk, -following his late father's custom, gave a grand dinner to his tenants; -and a very good custom it would have been, but that he and they got -rather too jolly. The parson was always invited--and went; and sometimes -a few of Captain Monk's personal friends were added. - -Christmas came round this year as usual, and the invitations to the -dinner went out. One came to Squire Todhetley, a youngish man then, and -one to my father, William Ludlow, who was younger than the Squire. It -was a green Christmas; the weather so warm and genial that the hearty -farmers, flocking to Leet Hall, declared they saw signs of buds -sprouting in the hedges, whilst the large fire in the Captain's -dining-room was quite oppressive. - -Looking from the window of the parsonage sitting-room in the twilight, -while drawing on his gloves, preparatory to setting forth, stood Mr. -West. His wife was bending over an easy-chair, in which their only -child, little Alice, lay back, covered up. Her breathing was quick, her -skin parched with fever. The wife looked sickly herself. - -"Well, I suppose it is time to go," observed Mr. West, slowly. "I shall -be late if I don't." - -"I rather wonder you go at all, George," returned his wife. "Year after -year, when you come back from this dinner, you invariably say you will -not go to another." - -"I know it, Mary. I dislike the drinking that goes on--and the free -conversation--and the objectionable songs; I feel out of place in it -all." - -"And the Captain's contemptuous treatment of yourself, you might add." - -"Yes, that is another unwelcome item in the evening's programme." - -"Then, George, why _do_ you go?" - -"Well, I think you know why. I do not like to refuse the invitation; -it would only increase Captain Monk's animosity and widen still further -the breach between us. As patron he holds so much in his power. Besides -that, my presence at the table does act, I believe, as a mild restraint -on some of them, keeping the drinking and the language somewhat within -bounds. Yes, I suppose my duty lies in going. But I shall not stay late, -Mary," added the parson, bending to look at the suffering child; "and if -you see any real necessity for the doctor to be called in to-night, I -will go for him." - -"Dood-bye, pa-pa," lisped the little four-year-old maiden. - -He kissed the little hot face, said adieu to his wife and went out, -hoping that the child would recover without the doctor; for the living -of Church Leet was but a poor one, though the parsonage house was so -handsome. It was a hundred-and-sixty pounds a year, for which sum the -tithes had been compounded, and Mr. West had not much money to spare for -superfluities--especially as he had to substantially help his mother. - -The twilight had deepened almost to night, and the lights in the mansion -seemed to smile a cheerful welcome as he approached it. The pillared -entrance, ascended to by broad steps, stood in the middle, and a raised -terrace of stone ran along before the windows on either side. It was -quite true that every year, at the conclusion of these feasts, the -Vicar resolved never to attend another; but he was essentially a man of -peace, striving ever to lay oil upon troubled waters, after the example -left by his Master. - -Dinner. The board was full. Captain Monk presided, genial to-day; genial -even to the parson. Squire Todhetley faced the Captain at the foot; Mr. -West sat at the Squire's right hand, between him and Farmer Threpp, -a quiet man and supposed to be a very substantial one. All went on -pleasantly; but when the elaborate dinner gave place to dessert and -wine-drinking, the company became rather noisy. - -"I think it's about time you left us," cried the Squire by-and-by to -young Hubert, who sat next him on the other side: and over and over -again Mr. Todhetley has repeated to us in later years the very words -that passed. - -"By George, yes!" put in a bluff and hearty fox-hunter, the master of -the hounds, bending forward to look at the lad, for he was in a line -with him, and breaking short off an anecdote he was regaling the company -with. "I forgot you were there, Master Hubert. Quite time you went to -bed." - -"I daresay!" laughed the boy. "Please let me alone, all of you. I don't -want attention drawn to me." - -But the slight commotion had attracted Captain Monk's notice. He saw his -son. - -"What's that?--Hubert! What brings you there now, you young pirate? I -ordered you to go out with the cloth." - -"I am not doing any harm, papa," said the boy, turning his fair and -beautiful face towards his father. - -Captain Monk pointed his stern finger at the door; a mandate which -Hubert dared not disobey, and he went out. - -The company sat on, an interminable period of time it seemed to the -Vicar. He glanced stealthily at his watch. Eleven o'clock. - -"Thinking of going, Parson?" said Mr. Threpp. "I'll go with you. My -head's not one of the strongest, and I've had about as much as I ought -to carry." - -They rose quietly, not to disturb the table; intending to steal away, if -possible, without being observed. Unluckily, Captain Monk chanced to be -looking that way. - -"Halloa! who's turning sneak?--Not you, surely, Parson!--" in a -meaningly contemptuous tone. "And _you_, Threpp, of all men! Sit down -again, both of you, if you don't want to quarrel with me. Odds fish! has -my dining-room got sharks in it, that you'd run away? Winter, just lock -the door, will you; you are close to it, and pass up the key to me." - -Mr. Winter, a jovial old man and the largest tenant on the estate, rose -to do the Captain's behest, and sent up the key. - -"Nobody quits my room," said the host, as he took it, "until we have -seen the old year out and the new one in. What else do you come for--eh, -gentlemen?" - -The revelry went on. The decanters circulated more quickly, the glasses -clinked, the songs became louder, the Captain's sea stories broader. Mr. -West perforce made the best of the situation, certain words of Holy Writ -running through his memory: - -"_Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth its colour -in the cup, when it moveth itself aright!_" - -Well, more than well, for Captain Monk, that he had not looked upon the -red wine that night! - -In the midst of all this, the hall clock began to strike twelve. The -Captain rose, after filling his glass to the brim. - -"Bumpers round, gentlemen. On your legs. Ready? Hooray! Here's to the -shade of the year that's gone, and may it have buried all our cares with -it! And here's good luck to the one setting in. A happy New Year to you -all; and may we never know a moment in it worse than the present? -Three-times-three--and drain your glasses." - -"But we have had the toast too soon!" called out one of the farmers, -making the discovery close after the cheers had subsided. "It wants some -minutes yet to midnight, Captain." - -Captain Monk snatched out his watch--worn in those days in what was -called the fob-pocket--its chain and bunch of seals at the end hanging -down. - -"By Jupiter!" he exclaimed. "Hang that butler of mine! He knew the -hall clock was too fast, and I told him to put it back. If his memory -serves him no better than this, he may ship himself off to a fresh -berth.--Hark! Listen!" - -It was the church clock striking twelve. The sound reached the -dining-room room very clearly, the wind setting that way. "Another -bumper," cried the Captain, and his guests drank it. - -"This day twelvemonth I was at a feast in Derbyshire; the bells of a -neighbouring church rang in the year with pleasant melody; chimes they -were," remarked a guest, who was a partial stranger. "Your church has no -bells, I suppose?" - -"It has one; an old ting-tang that calls us to service on a Sunday," -said Mr. Winter. - -"I like to hear those midnight chimes, for my part. I like to hear them -chime in the new year," went on the stranger. - -"Chimes!" cried out Captain Monk, who was getting very considerably -elated, "why should we not have chimes? Mr. West, why don't we have -chimes?" - -"Our church does not possess any, sir--as this gentleman has just -remarked," was Mr. West's answer. - -"Egad, but that parson of ours is going to set us all ablaze with his -wit!" jerked out the Captain ironically. "I asked, sir, why we should -not get a set of chimes; I did not say we had got them. Is there any -just cause or impediment why we should not, Mr. Vicar?" - -"Only the expense," replied the Vicar, in a conciliatory tone. - -"Oh, bother expense! That's what you are always wanting to groan over. -Mr. Churchwarden Threpp, we will call a vestry meeting and make a rate." - -"The parish could not bear it, Captain Monk," remonstrated the -clergyman. "You know what dissatisfaction was caused by the last extra -rate put on, and how low an ebb things are at just now." - -"When I will a thing, I do it," retorted the Captain, with a meaning -word or two. "We'll send out the rate and we'll get the chimes." - -"It will, I fear, lie in my duty to protest against it," spoke the -uneasy parson. - -"It may lie in your duty to be a wet blanket, but you won't protest -me out of my will. Gentlemen, we will all meet here again this time -twelvemonth, when the chimes shall ring-in the new year for you.---- -Here, Dutton, you can unlock the door now," concluded the Captain, -handing the key to the other churchwarden. "Our parson is upon thorns -to be away from us." - -Not the parson only, but several others availed themselves of the -opportunity to escape. - - -II - -It perhaps did not surprise the parish to find that its owner and -master, Captain Monk, intended to persist in his resolution of -embellishing the church-tower with a set of chiming-bells. They knew him -too well to hope anything less. Why! two years ago, at the same annual -feast, some remarks or other at table put it into his head to declare -he would stop up the public path by the Rill; and his obstinate will -carried it out, regardless of the inconvenience it caused. - -A vestry meeting was called, and the rate (to obtain funds for the -bells) was at length passed. Two or three voices were feebly lifted in -opposition; Mr. West alone had courage to speak out; but the Captain put -him down with his strong hand. It may be asked why Captain Monk did not -provide the funds himself for this whim. But he would never touch his -own pocket for the benefit of the parish if he could help it: and it was -thought that his antagonism to the parson was the deterring motive. - -To impose the rate was one thing, to collect it quite another. Some of -the poorer ratepayers protested with tears in their eyes that they could -not pay. Superfluous rates (really not necessary ones) were perpetually -being inflicted upon them, they urged, and were bringing them, together -with a succession of recent bad seasons, to the verge of ruin. They -carried their remonstrances to their Vicar, and he in turn carried them -to Captain Monk. - -It only widened the breach. The more persistently, though gently, Mr. -West pleaded the cause of his parishioners, asking the Captain to be -considerate to them for humanity's sake, the greater grew the other's -obstinacy in holding to his own will. To be thus opposed roused all the -devil within him--it was his own expression; and he grew to hate Mr. -West with an exceeding bitter hatred. - -The chimes were ordered--to play one tune only. Mr. West asked, when the -thing was absolutely inevitable, that at least some sweet and sacred -melody, acceptable to church-going ears, might be chosen; but Captain -Monk fixed on a sea-song that was a favourite of his own--"The Bay of -Biscay." At the end of every hour, when the clock had struck, the Bay of -Biscay was to burst forth to charm the parish. - -The work was put in hand at once, Captain Monk finding the necessary -funds, to be repaid by the proceeds of the rate. Other expenses were -involved, such as the strengthening of the belfry. The rate was not -collected quickly. It was, I say, one of those times of scarcity that -people used to talk so much of years ago; and when the parish beadle, -who was the parish collector, went round with the tax-paper in his hand, -the poorer of the cottagers could not respond to it. Some of them had -not paid the last levy, and Captain Monk threatened harsh measures. -Altogether, what with one thing or another, Church Leet that year was -kept in a state of ferment. But the work went on. - - * * * * * - -One windy day in September, Mr. West sat in his study writing a sermon, -when a jarring crash rang out from the church close by. He leaped from -his chair. The unusual noise had startled him; and it struck on every -chord of vexation he possessed. He knew that workmen were busy in the -tower, but this was the first essay of the chimes. The bells had clashed -in some way one upon the other; not giving out The Bay of Biscay or any -other melody, but a very discordant jangle indeed. It was the first and -the last time that poor George West heard their sound. - -He put the blotting-paper upon his sermon; he was in no mind to continue -it then; took up his hat and went out. His wife spoke to him from the -open window. - -"Are you going out now, George? Tea is all but ready." - -Turning back on the path, he passed into the sitting-room. A cup of tea -might soothe his nerves. The tea-tray stood on the table, and Mrs. West, -caddy in hand, was putting the tea into the tea-pot. Little Alice sat -gravely by. - -"Did you hear dat noise up in the church, papa?" she asked. - -"Yes, I heard it, dear," sighed the Vicar. - -"A fine clashing!" cried Mrs. West. "I have heard something else this -afternoon, George, worse than that: Bean's furniture is being taken -away." - -"What?" cried the Vicar. - -"It's true. Sarah went out on an errand and passed the cottage. The -chairs and tables were being put outside the door by two men, she says: -brokers, I conclude." - -Mr. West made short work of his tea and started for the scene. Thomas -Bean was a very small farmer indeed, renting about thirty acres. What -with the heavy rates, as he said, and other outgoings and bad seasons, -and ill-luck altogether, he had been behind in his payments this long -while; and now the ill-luck seemed to have come to a climax. Bean and -his wife were old; their children were scattered abroad. - -"Oh, sir," cried the old lady when she saw the Vicar, the tears raining -from her eyes, "it cannot be right that this oppression should fall upon -us! We had just managed--Heaven knows how, for I'm sure I don't--to pay -the Midsummer rent; and now they've come upon us for the rates, and have -took away things worth ten times the sum." - -"For the rates!" mechanically spoke the Vicar. - -She supposed it was a question. "Yes, sir; two of 'em we had in the -house. One was for putting up the chimes; and the other--well, I can't -just remember what the other was. The beadle, old Crow, comes in, sir, -this afternoon. 'Where be the master?' says he. 'Gone over to t'other -side of Church Dykely,' says I. 'Well,' says he, upon that, 'you be -going to have some visitors presently, and it's a pity he's out.' -'Visitors, for what, Crow?' says I. 'Oh, you'll see,' says he; 'and then -perhaps you'll wish you'd bestirred yourselves to pay your just dues. -Captain Monk's patience have been running on for a goodish while, and -at last it have run clean out.' Well, sir----" - -She had to make a pause; unable to control her grief. - -"Well, sir," she went on presently, "Crow's back was hardly turned, when -up came two men, wheeling a truck. I saw 'em afar off, by the ricks -yonder. One came in; t'other stayed outside with the truck. He asked me -whether I was ready with the money for the taxes; and I told him I was -not ready, and had but a couple of shillings in the house. 'Then I must -take the value of it in kind,' says he. And without another word, he -beckons in the outside man to help him. Our middle table, a mahogany, -they seized; and the handsome oak chest, which had been our pride; and -the master's arm-chair---- But, there! I can't go on." - -Mr. West felt nearly as sorrowful as she, and far more angry. In his -heart he believed that Captain Monk had done this oppressive thing in -revenge. A great deal of ill-feeling had existed in the parish touching -the rate made for the chimes; and the Captain assumed that the few who -had not yet paid it _would_ not pay--not that they could not. - -Quitting the cottage in an impulse of anger, he walked swiftly to Leet -Hall. It lay in his duty, as he fully deemed, to avow fearlessly to -Captain Monk what he thought of this act of oppression, and to protest -against it. The beams of the setting sun, sinking below the horizon in -the still autumn evening, fell across the stubbled fields from which the -corn had not long been reaped; all around seemed to speak of peace. - -To accommodate two gentlemen who had come from Worcester that day to -Leet Hall on business, and wished to quit it again before dark, the -dinner had been served earlier than usual. The guests had left, but -Captain Monk was seated still over his wine in the dining-room when Mr. -West was shown in. In crossing the hall to it, he met Mrs. Carradyne, -who shook hands with him cordially. - -Captain Monk looked surprised. "Why, this is an unexpected pleasure--a -visit from you, Mr. Vicar," he cried, in mocking jest. "Hope you have -come to your senses! Sit down. Will you take port or sherry?" - -"Captain Monk," returned the Vicar, gravely, as he took the chair the -servant had placed, "I am obliged for your courtesy, but I did not -intrude upon you this evening to drink wine. I have seen a very sad -sight, and I am come hoping to induce you to repair it." - -"Seen what?" cried the Captain, who, it is well to mention, had been -taking his wine very freely, even for him. "A flaming sword in the sky?" - -"Your tenants, poor Thomas Bean and his wife, are being turned out of -house and home, or almost equivalent to it. Some of their furniture has -been seized this afternoon to satisfy the demand for these disputed -taxes." - -"Who disputes the taxes?" - -"The tax imposed for the chimes was always a disputed tax; and----" - -"Tush!" interrupted the Captain; "Bean owes other things as well as -taxes." - -"It was the last feather, sir, which broke the camel's back." - -"The last feather will not be taken off, whether it breaks backs or -leaves them whole," retorted the Captain, draining his glass of port -and filling it again. "Take you note of that, Mr. Parson." - -"Others are in the same condition as the Beans--quite unable to pay -these rates. I pray you, Captain Monk--I am here to _pray_ you--not to -proceed in the same manner against them. I would also pray you, sir, to -redeem this act of oppression by causing their goods to be returned to -these two poor, honest, hard-working people." - -"Hold your tongue!" retorted the Captain, aroused to anger. "A pretty -example _you'd_ set, let you have your way. Every one of the lot shall -be made to pay to the last farthing. Who the devil is to pay, do you -suppose, if they don't?" - -"Rates are imposed upon the parish needlessly, Captain Monk; it has -been so ever since my time here. Pardon me for saying that if you put up -chimes to gratify yourself, you should bear the expense, and not throw -it upon those who have a struggle to get bread to eat." - -Captain Monk drank off another glass. "Any more treason, Parson?" - -"Yes," said Mr. West, "if you like to call it so. My conscience tells -me that the whole procedure in regard to setting up these chimes is so -wrong, so manifestly unjust, that I have determined not to allow them -to be heard until the rates levied for them are refunded to the poor -and oppressed. I believe I have the power to close the belfry-tower, -and I shall act upon it." - -"By Jove! do you think _you_ are going to stand between me and my will?" -cried the Captain passionately. "Every individual who has not yet paid -the rate shall be made to pay it to-morrow." - -"There is another world, Captain Monk," interposed the mild voice of the -minister, "to which, I hope, we are all----" - -"If you attempt to preach to me----" - -At this moment a spoon fell to the ground by the sideboard. The Vicar -turned to look; his back was towards it; the Captain peered also at the -end of the rapidly-darkening room: when both became aware that one of -the servants--Michael, who had shown in Mr. West--stood there; had stood -there all the time. - -"What are you waiting for, sirrah?" roared his master. "We don't want -_you_. Here! put this window open an inch or two before you go; the -room's close." - -"Shall I bring lights, sir?" asked Michael, after doing as he was -directed. - -"No: who wants lights? Stir the fire into a blaze." - -Michael left them. It was from him that thus much of the conversation -was subsequently known. - -Not five minutes had elapsed when a commotion was heard in the -dining-room. Then the bell rang violently, and the Captain opened the -door--overturning a chair in his passage to it--and shouted out for a -light. More than one servant flew to obey the order: in his hasty moods -their master brooked not delay: and three separate candles were carried -in. - -"Good lack, master!" exclaimed the butler, John Rimmer, who was a native -of Church Dykely, "what's amiss with the Parson?" - -"Lift him up, and loosen his neck-cloth," said Captain Monk, his tone -less imperious than usual. - -Mr. West lay on the hearthrug near his chair, his head resting close to -the fender. Rimmer raised his head, another servant took off his black -neck-tie; for it was only on high days that the poor Vicar indulged in a -white one. He gasped twice, struggled slightly, and then lay quietly in -the butler's arms. - -"Oh, sir!" burst forth the man in a horror-stricken voice to his master, -"this is surely death!" - -It surely was. George West, who had gone there but just before in the -height of health and strength, had breathed his last. - -How did it happen? How could it have happened? Ay, how indeed? It was -a question which has never been entirely solved in Church Leet to this -day. - -Captain Monk's account, both privately and at the inquest, was this: As -they talked further together, after Michael left the room, the Vicar -went on to browbeat him shamefully about the new chimes, vowing they -should never play, never be heard; at last, rising in an access of -passion, the Parson struck him (the Captain) in the face. He returned -the blow--who wouldn't return it?--and the Vicar fell. He believed his -head must have struck against the iron fender in falling: if not, if the -blow had been an unlucky one (it took effect just behind the left ear), -it was only given in self-defence. The jury, composed of Captain Monk's -tenants, expressed themselves satisfied, and returned a verdict of -Accidental Death. - -"A false account," pronounced poor Mrs. West, in her dire tribulation. -"My husband never struck him--never; he was not one to be goaded -into unbecoming anger, even by Captain Monk. _George struck no blow -whatever_; I can answer for it. If ever a man was murdered, he has -been." - -Curious rumours arose. It was said that Mrs. Carradyne, taking the air -on the terrace outside in the calmness of the autumn evening, heard the -fatal quarrel through the open window; that she heard Mr. West, after he -had received the death blow, wail forth a prophecy (or whatever it might -be called) that those chimes would surely be accursed; that whenever -their sound should be heard, so long as they were suffered to remain in -the tower, it should be the signal of woe to the Monk family. - -Mrs. Carradyne utterly denied this; she had not been on the terrace at -all, she said. Upon which the onus was shifted to Michael: who, it was -suspected, had stolen out to listen to the end of the quarrel, and had -heard the ominous words. Michael, in his turn, also denied it; but he -was not believed. Anyway, the covert whisper had gone abroad and would -not be laid. - - -III - -Captain Monk speedily filled up the vacant living, appointing to it -the Reverend Thomas Dancox, an occasional visitor at Leet Hall, who -was looking out for one. - -The new Vicar turned out to be a man after the Captain's heart, a -rollicking, jovial, fox-hunting young parson, as many a parson was -in those days--and took small blame to himself for it. He was only -a year or two past thirty, good-looking, of taking manners and -hail-fellow-well-met with the parish in general, who liked him and -called him to his face Tom Dancox. - -All this pleased Captain Monk. But very soon something was to arrive -that did not please him--a suspicion that the young parson and his -daughter Katherine were on rather too good terms with one another. - -One day in November he stalked into the drawing-room, where Katherine -was sitting with her aunt. Hubert and Eliza were away at school, also -Mrs. Carradyne's two children. - -"Was Dancox here last night?" began Captain Monk. - -"Yes," replied Mrs. Carradyne. - -"And the evening before--Monday?" - -Mrs. Carradyne felt half afraid to answer, the Captain's tone was -becoming so threatening. "I--I think so," she rather hesitatingly said. -"Was he not, Katherine?" - -Katherine Monk, a dark, haughty young woman, twenty-one now, turned -round with a flush on her handsome face. "Why do you ask, papa?" - -"I ask to be answered," replied he, standing with his hands in the -pockets of his velveteen shooting-coat, a purple tinge of incipient -anger rising in his cheeks. - -"Then Mr. Dancox did spend Monday evening here." - -"And I saw him walking with you in the meadow by the rill this morning," -continued the Captain. "Look here, Katherine, _no sweethearting with Tom -Dancox_. He may do very well for a parson; I like him as such, as such -only, you understand; but he can be no match for you." - -"You are disturbing yourself unnecessarily, sir," said Katherine, her -own tone an angry one. - -"Well, I hope that is so; I should not like to think otherwise. Anyway, -a word in season does no harm; and, take you notice that I have spoken -it. You also, Emma." - -As he left the room, Mrs. Carradyne spoke, dropping her voice: -"Katherine, you know that I had already warned you. I told you it would -not do to fall into any particular friendship with Mr. Dancox; that your -father would never countenance it." - -"And if I were to?--and if he did not?" scornfully returned Katherine. -"What then, Aunt Emma?" - -"Be silent, child; you must not talk in that strain. Your papa is -perfectly right in this matter. Tom Dancox is not suitable in any -way--for _you_." - -This took place in November. Katherine paid little heed to the advice; -she was not one to put up with advice of any sort, and she and Mr. -Dancox met occasionally under the rose. Early in December she went with -Mr. Dancox into the Parsonage, while he searched for a book he was about -to lend her. That was the plea; the truth, no doubt, being that the two -wanted a bit of a chat in quiet. As ill-luck had it, when she was coming -out again, the Parson in attendance on her as far as the gate, Captain -Monk came by. - -A scene ensued. Captain Monk, in a terrible access of passion, vowed by -all the laws of the Medes and Persians, which alter not, that never, in -life or after death, should those two rebellious ones be man and wife, -and he invoked unheard-of penalties on their heads should they dare to -contemplate disobedience to his decree. - -Thenceforth there was no more open rebellion; upon the surface all -looked smooth. Captain Monk understood the folly to be at an end: that -the two had come to their senses; and he took Tom Dancox back into -favour. Mrs. Carradyne assumed the same. But Katherine had her father's -unyielding will, and the Parson was bold and careless, and in love. - - * * * * * - -The last day of the year came round, and the usual banquet would come -with it. The weather this Christmas was not like that of last; the white -snow lay on the ground, the cold biting frost hardened the glistening -icicles on the trees. - -And the chimes? Ready these three months past, they had not yet -been heard. They would be to-night. Whether Captain Monk wished the -remembrance of Mr. West's death to die away a bit first, or that he -preferred to open the treat on the banqueting night, certain it was that -he had kept them silent. When the church clock should toll the midnight -knell of the old year, the chimes would ring out to welcome the new one, -and gladden the ears of Church Leet. - -But not without a remonstrance. That morning, as the Captain sat in his -study writing a letter, Mrs. Carradyne came to him. - -"Godfrey," she said in a low and pleading tone, "you will not suffer the -chimes to play to-night, will you? Pray do not." - -"Not suffer the chimes to play?" cried the Captain. "But indeed I shall. -Why, this is the special night they were put up for." - -"I know it, Godfrey. But--you cannot think what a strangely strong -feeling I have against it: an instinct, it seems to me. The chimes have -brought nothing but discomfort and disaster yet; they may bring more in -the future." - -Captain Monk stared at her. "What d'ye mean, Emma?" - -"_I would never let them be heard_," she said impressively. "I would -have them taken down again. The story went about, you know, that poor -George West in dying prophesied that whenever they should be heard woe -would fall upon this house. I am not superstitious, Godfrey, but----" - -Sheer passion had tied, so far, Godfrey Monk's lips. "Not -superstitious!" he raved out. "You are worse than that, Emma--a fool. -How dare you bring your nonsense here? There's the door." - -The banquet hour approached. Nearly all the guests of last year were -again present in the warm and holly-decorated dining-room, the one -notable exception being the ill-fated Parson West. Parson Dancox came in -his stead, and said grace from the post of honour at the Captain's right -hand. Captain Monk did not appear to feel any remorse or regret: he was -jovial, free, and grandly hospitable; one might suppose he had promoted -the dead clergyman to a canonry instead of to a place in the churchyard. - -"What became of the poor man's widow, Squire?" whispered a gentleman -from the neighbourhood of Evesham to Mr. Todhetley, who sat on the left -hand of his host; Sir Thomas Rivers taking the foot of the table this -year. - -"Mrs. West? Well, we heard she opened a girls' school up in London," -breathed the Squire. - -"And what tale was that about his leaving a curse on the chimes?--I -never heard the rights of it." - -"Hush!" said the Squire cautiously. "Nobody talks of that here. Or -believes it, either. Poor West was a man to leave a blessing behind him; -never a curse." - -Hubert, at home for the holidays, was again at table. He was fourteen -now, tall of his age and slender, his blue eyes bright, his complexion -delicately beautiful. The pleated cambric frill of his shirt, which hung -over the collar of his Eton jacket after the fashion of the day, was -carried low in front, displaying the small white throat; his golden hair -curled naturally. A boy to admire and be proud of. The manners were -more decorous this year than they ever had been, and Hubert was allowed -to sit on. Possibly the shadow of George West's unhappy death lay -insensibly upon the party. - -It was about half-past nine o'clock when the butler came into the room, -bringing a small note, twisted up, to his master from Mrs. Carradyne. -Captain Monk opened it and held it towards one of the lighted branches -to read the few words it contained. - - "_A gentleman is asking to speak a word to Mr. Dancox. He says it - is important._" - -Captain Monk tore the paper to bits. "_Not to-night_, tell your -mistress, is my answer," said he to Rimmer. "Hubert, you can go to your -aunt now; it's past your bed-time." - -There could be no appeal, as the boy knew; but he went off unwillingly -and in bitter resentment against Mrs. Carradyne. He supposed she had -sent for him. - -"What a cross old thing you are, Aunt Emma!" he exclaimed as he entered -the drawing-room on the other side the hall. "You won't let Harry go in -at all to the banquets, and you won't let me stay at them! Papa meant--I -think he meant--to let me remain there to hear the chimes. Why need you -have interfered to send for me?" - -"I neither interfered with you, Hubert, nor sent for you. A gentleman, -who did not give his name and preferred to wait outside, wants to see -Mr. Dancox; that's all," said Mrs. Carradyne. "You gave my note to your -master, Rimmer?" - -"Yes, ma'am," replied the butler. "My master bade me say to you that his -answer was _not to-night_." - -Katherine Monk, her face betraying some agitation, rose from the piano. -"Was the message not given to Mr. Dancox?" she asked of Rimmer. - -"Not while I was there, Miss Katherine. The master tore the note into -bits, after reading it; and dropped them under the table." - -Now it chanced that Mr. Dancox, glancing covertly at the note while the -Captain held it to the light, had read what was written there. For a few -minutes he said nothing. The Captain was busy sending round the wine. - -"Captain Monk--pardon me--I saw my name on that bit of paper; it caught -my eye as you held it out," he said in a low tone. "Am I called out? Is -anyone in the parish dying?" - -Thus questioned, Captain Monk told the truth. No one was dying, and he -was not called out to the parish. Some gentleman was asking to speak to -him; only that. - -"Well, I'll just see who it is, and what he wants," said Mr. Dancox, -rising. "Won't be away two minutes, sir." - -"Bring him back with you; tell him he'll find good wine here and jolly -cheer," said the Captain. And Mr. Dancox went out, swinging his napkin -in his hand. - -In crossing the hall he met Katherine, exchanged a hasty word with her, -let fall the serviette on a chair as he caught up his hat and overcoat, -and went out. Katherine ran upstairs. - -Hubert lay down on one of the drawing-room sofas. In point of fact, that -young gentleman could not walk straight. A little wine takes effect -on youngsters, especially when they are not accustomed to it. Mrs. -Carradyne told Hubert the best place for him was bed. Not a bit of it, -the boy answered: he should go out on the terrace at twelve o'clock; -the chimes would be fine, heard out there. He fell asleep almost as he -spoke; presently he woke up, feeling headachy, cross and stupid, and of -his own accord went up to bed. - -Meanwhile, the dining-room was getting jollier and louder as the time -passed on towards midnight. Great wonder was expressed at the non-return -of the parson; somebody must be undoubtedly grievously sick or dying. -Mr. Speck, the quiet little Hurst Leet doctor, dissented from this. -Nobody was dying in the parish, he affirmed, or sick enough to need a -priest; as a proof of it, _he_ had not been sent for. - -Ring, ring, ring! broke forth the chimes on the quiet midnight air, as -the church clock finished striking twelve. It was a sweet sound; even -those prejudiced against the chimes could hear that: the windows had -been opened in readiness. - -The glasses were charged; the company stood on their legs, some of them -not at all steady legs just then, bending their ears to listen. Captain -Monk stood in his place, majestically waving his head and his left hand -to keep time in harmony with The Bay of Biscay. His right hand held his -goblet in readiness for the toast when the sounds should cease. - -Ring, ring, ring! chimed the last strokes of the bells, dying away to -faintness on the still evening air. Suddenly, amidst the hushed silence, -and whilst the sweet melody fell yet unbroken on the room, there arose -a noise as of something falling outside on the terrace, mingled with a -wild scream and the crash of breaking glass. - -One of the guests rushed to the window, and put his head out of it. So -far as he could see, he said (perhaps his sight was somewhat obscured), -it was a looking-glass lying further up on the terrace. - -Thrown out from one of the upper windows! scornfully pronounced the -Captain, full of wrath that it should have happened at that critical -moment to mar the dignity of his coming toast. And he gave the toast -heartily; and the new year came in for them all with good wishes and -good wine. - -Some little time yet ere the company finally rose. The mahogany frame of -the broken looking-glass, standing on end, was conspicuous on the white -ground in the clear frosty night, as they streamed out from the house. -Mr. Speck, whose sight was rather remarkably good, peered at it -curiously from the hall steps, and then walked quickly along the snowy -terrace towards it. - -Sure enough, it was a looking-glass, broken in its fall from an -open window above. But, lying by it in the deep snow, in his white -night-shirt, was Hubert Monk. - -When the chimes began to play, Hubert was not asleep. Sitting up in bed, -he disposed himself to listen. After a bit they began to grow fainter; -Hubert impatiently dashed to the window and threw it up to its full -height as he jumped on the dressing-table, when in some unfortunate -way he overbalanced himself, and pitched out on the terrace beneath, -carrying the looking-glass with him. The fall was not much, for his room -was in one of the wings, the windows of which were low; but the boy had -struck his head in falling, and there he had lain, insensible, on the -terrace, one hand still clasping the looking-glass. - -All the rosy wine-tint fading away to a sickly paleness on the Captain's -face, he looked down on his well-beloved son. The boy was carried -indoors to his room, reviving with the movement. - -"Young bones are elastic," pronounced Mr. Speck, when he had examined -him; "and none of these are broken. He will probably have a cold from -the exposure; that's about the worst." - -He seemed to have it already: he was shivering from head to foot now, -as he related the above particulars. All the family had assembled round -him, except Katherine. - -"Where is Katherine?" suddenly inquired her father, noticing her -absence. - -"I cannot think where she is," said Mrs. Carradyne. "I have not seen her -for an hour or two. Eliza says she is not in her room; I sent her to -see. She is somewhere about, of course." - -"Go and look for your sister, Eliza. Tell her to come here," said -Captain Monk. But though Eliza went at once, her quest was useless. - -Miss Katherine was not in the house: Miss Katherine had made a moonlight -flitting from it that evening with the Reverend Thomas Dancox. - - - - -THE SILENT CHIMES - - -II.--PLAYING AGAIN - - -I - -It could not be said the Church Leet chimes brought good when they rang -out that night at midnight, as the old year was giving place to the -new. Mrs. Carradyne, in her superstition, thought they brought evil. -Certainly evil set in at the same time, and Captain Monk, with all his -scoffing obstinacy, could not fail to see it. That fine young lad, his -son, fell through the window listening to them; and in the self-same -hour the knowledge reached him that Katherine, his eldest and dearest -child, had flown from his roof in defiant disobedience, to set up a home -of her own. - -Hubert was soon well of his bruises; but not of the cold induced by -lying in the snow, clad only in his white night-shirt. In spite of all -Mr. Speck's efforts, rheumatic fever set in, and for some time Hubert -hovered between life and death. He recovered; but would never again be -the strong, hearty lad he had been--though indeed he had never been very -physically strong. The doctor privately hoped that the heart would be -found all right in future, but he would not have answered for it. - -The blow that told most on Captain Monk was that inflicted by Katherine. -And surely never was disobedient marriage carried out with the -impudent boldness of hers. Church Leet called it "cheek." Church Leet -(disbelieving the facts when they first oozed out) could talk of nothing -else for weeks. For Katherine had been married in the church hard by, -that same night. - -Special licenses were very uncommon things in those days; they cost too -much; but the Reverend Thomas Dancox had procured one. With Katherine's -money: everybody guessed that. She had four hundred a-year of her own, -inherited from her dead mother, and full control over it. So the special -license was secured, and their crafty plans were laid. The stranger -who had presented himself at the Hall that night (by arrangement), -asking for Mr. Dancox, thus affording an excuse for his quitting the -banquet-room, was a young clergyman of Worcester, come over especially -to marry them. When tackled with his deed afterwards, he protested that -he had not been told the marriage was to be clandestine. Tom Dancox went -out to him from the banquet; Katherine, slipping on a bonnet and shawl, -joined them outside; they hastened to the rectory and thence into the -church. And while the unconscious master of Leet Hall was entertaining -his guests with his good cheer and his stories and his hip, hip, hurrah, -his Vicar and Katherine Monk were made one until death should them part. -And death, as it proved, intended to do that speedily. - -At first Captain Monk, in his unbounded rage, was for saying that a -marriage celebrated at ten o'clock at night by the light of a solitary -tallow candle, borrowed from the vestry, could not hold good. Reassured -upon this point, he strove to devise other means to part them. Foiled -again, he laid the case before the Bishop of Worcester, and begged his -lordship to unfrock Thomas Dancox. The Bishop did not do as much as -that; though he sent for Tom Dancox and severely reprimanded him. But -that, as Church Leet remarked, did not break bones. Tom had striven to -make the best of his own cause to the Bishop, and the worst of Captain -Monk's obdurate will; moreover, stolen marriages were not thought much -of in those days. - -An uncomfortable state of things was maintained all the year, Hall Leet -and the Parsonage standing at daggers drawn. Never once did Captain Monk -appear at church. If he by cross-luck met his daughter or her husband -abroad, he struck into a good fit of swearing aloud; which perhaps -relieved his mind. The chimes had never played again; they pertained to -the church, and the church was in ill-favour with the Captain. As the -end of the year approached, Church Leet wondered whether he would hold -the annual banquet; but Captain Monk was not likely to forego that. -Why should he? The invitations went out for it; and they contained an -intimation that the chimes would again play. - -The banquet took place, a neighbouring parson saying grace at it in the -place of Tom Dancox. While the enjoyment was progressing and Captain -Monk was expressing his marvel for the tenth time as to what could have -become of Speck, who had not made his appearance, a note was brought in -by Rimmer--just as he had brought in one last year. This also was from -Mrs. Carradyne. - - "_Please come out to me for one moment, dear Godfrey. I must say a - word to you._" - -Captain Monk's first impulse on reading this was to send Rimmer back to -say she might go and be hanged. But to call him from the table was so -very extreme a measure, that on second thoughts he decided to go to her. -Mrs. Carradyne was standing just outside the door, looking as white as a -sheet. - -"Well, this is pretty bold of you, Madam Emma," he began angrily. "Are -you out of your senses?" - -"Hush, Godfrey! Katherine is dying." - -"What?" cried the Captain, the words confusing him. - -"Katherine is dying," repeated his sister, her teeth chattering with -emotion. - -In spite of Katherine's rebellion, Godfrey Monk loved her still as the -apple of his eye; and it was only his obstinate temper which had kept -him from reconciliation. His face took a hue of terror, and his voice a -softer tone. - -"What have you heard?" - -"Her baby's born; something has gone wrong, I suppose, and she is dying. -Sally ran up with the news, sent by Mr. Speck. Katherine is crying aloud -for you, saying she cannot die without your forgiveness. Oh, Godfrey, -you will go, you will surely go!" pleaded Mrs. Carradyne, breaking down -with a burst of tears. "Poor Katherine!" - -Never another word spoke he. He went out at the hall-door there and -then, putting on his hat as he leaped down the steps. It was a wretched -night; not white, clear, and cold as the last New Year's Eve had been, -or mild and genial as the one before it; but damp, raw, misty. - -"You think I have remained hard and defiant, father," Katherine -whispered to him, "but I have many a time asked God's forgiveness on my -bended knees; and I longed--oh, how I longed!--to ask yours. What should -we all do with the weight of sin that lies on us when it comes to such -an hour as this, but for Jesus Christ--for God's wonderful mercy!" - -And, with one hand in her father's and the other in her husband's, both -their hearts aching to pain, and their eyes wet with bitter tears, poor -Katherine's soul passed away. - -After quitting the parsonage, Captain Monk was softly closing the garden -gate behind him--for when in sorrow we don't do things with a rush and -a bang--when a whirring sound overhead caused him to start. Strong, -hardened man though he was, his nerves were unstrung to-night in company -with his heartstrings. It was the church clock preparing to strike -twelve. The little doctor, Speck, who had left the house but a minute -before, was standing at the churchyard fence close by, his arms leaning -on the rails, probably ruminating sadly on what had just occurred. -Captain Monk halted beside him in silence, while the clock struck. - -As the last stroke vibrated on the air, telling the knell of the old -year, the dawn of the new, another sound began. - -Ring, ring, ring! Ring, ring, ring! - -The chimes! The sweet, soothing, melodious chimes, carolling forth -The Bay of Biscay. Very pleasant were they in themselves to the ear. -But--did they fall pleasantly on Captain Monk's? It may be, not. It may -be, a wish came over him that he had never thought of instituting them. -But for doing that, the ills of his recent life had never had place. -George West's death would not have lain at his door, or room been made -by it for Tom Dancox, and Katherine would not be lying as he had now -left her--cold and lifeless. - -"Could _nothing_ have been done to save her, Speck?" he whispered to -the doctor, whose arms were still on the churchyard railings, listening -to the chimes in silence--though indeed he had asked the same question -indoors before. - -"Nothing; or you may be sure, sir, it would have been," answered Mr. -Speck. "Had all the medical men in Worcestershire been about her, they -could not have saved her any more than I could. These unfortunate cases -happen now and then," sighed he, "showing us how powerless we really -are." - -Well, it was grievous news wherewith to startle the parish. And Mrs. -Carradyne, a martyr to belief in ghosts and omens, grew to dread the -chimes with a nervous and nameless dread. - - -II - -It was but the first of February, yet the weather might have served for -May-day: one of those superb days that come once in a while out of their -season, serving to remind the world that the dark, depressing, dreary -winter will not last for ever; though we may have half feared it means -to, forgetting the reassuring promise of the Divine Ruler of all things, -given after the Flood: - -"_While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, -and summer and winter, and day and night, shall not cease._" - -The warm and glorious sunbeams lay on Church Leet, as if to woo the bare -hedges into verdant life, the cold fields to smiling plains. Even the -mounds of the graveyard, interspersed amidst the old tombstones, looked -green and cheerful to-day in the golden light. - -Turning slowly out of the Vicarage gate came a good-looking clergyman of -seven-or-eight-and-twenty. A slender man of middle height, with a sweet -expression on his pale, thoughtful face, and dark earnest eyes. It was -the new Vicar of Church Leet, the Reverend Robert Grame. - -For a goodish many years have gone on since that tragedy of poor -Katherine's death, and this is the second appointed Vicar since that -inauspicious time. - -Mr. Grame walked across the churchyard, glancing at the inscriptions on -the tombs. Inside the church porch stood the clerk, old John Cale, keys -in hand. Mr. Grame saw him and quickened his pace. - -"Have I kept you waiting, Cale?" he cried in his pleasant, considerate -tones. "I am sorry for that." - -"Not at all, your reverence; I came afore the time. This here church -is but a step or two off my home, yonder, and I'm as often out here as -I be indoors," continued John Cale, a fresh-coloured little man with -pale grey eyes and white hair. "I've been clerk here, sir, for -seven-and-thirty years." - -"You've seen more than one parson out then, I reckon." - -"More than one! Ay, sir, more than--more than six times one, I was going -to say; but that's too much, maybe. Let's see: there was Mr. Cartright, -he had held the living I hardly know how many years when I came, and he -held it for many after that. Mr. West succeeded him--the Reverend George -West; then came Thomas Dancox; then Mr. Atterley: four in all. And now -you've come, sir, to make the fifth." - -"Did they all die? or take other livings?" - -"Some the one thing, sir, and some the other. Mr. Cartright died, he -was old; and Mr. West, he--he----" John Cale hesitated before he went -on--"he died; Mr. Dancox got appointed to a chaplaincy somewhere over -the seas; he was here but about eighteen months, hardly that; and Mr. -Atterley, who has just left, has had a big church with a big income, -they say, given to him over in Oxfordshire." - -"Which makes room for me," smiled Robert Grame. - -They were inside the church now; a small and very old-fashioned church, -with high pews, dark and sombre. Over the large pew of the Monks, -standing sideways to the pulpit, sundry slabs were on the wall, their -inscriptions testifying to the virtues and ages of the Monk family dead -and gone. Mr. Grame stood to read them. One slab of white marble, its -black letters fresh and clear, caught especially his eye. - -"Katherine, eldest child of Godfrey Monk, gentleman, and wife of the -Reverend Thomas Dancox," he read out aloud. "Was that he who was Vicar -here?" - -"Ay, 'twas. She married him again her father's wish, and died, poor -thing, just a year after it," replied the clerk. "And only twenty-three, -as you see, sir! The Captain came down and forgave her on her dying -bed, and 'twas he that had the stone put up there. Her baby-girl was -taken to the Hall, and is there still: ten years old she must be now; -'twas but an hour or two old when the mother died." - -"It seems a sad history," observed Mr. Grame as he turned away to enter -the vestry. - -John Cale did the honours of its mysteries: showing him the chest for -the surplices; the cupboard let into the wall for the register; the -place where candles and such-like stores were kept. Mr. Grame opened a -door at one end of the room and saw a square flagged place, containing -grave-digging tools and the hanging ropes of the bell which called -people to church. Shutting the door again, he crossed to a door on the -opposite side. But that he could not open. - -"What does this lead to?" he asked. "It is locked." - -"It's always kept locked, that door is, sir; and it's a'most as much as -my post is worth to open it," said the clerk, his voice sinking to a -mysterious whisper. "It leads up to the chimes." - -"The chimes!" echoed the new parson in surprise. "Do you mean to say -this little country church can boast of chimes?" - -John Cale nodded. "Lovely, pleasant things they be to listen to, sir, -but we've not heard 'em since the midnight when Miss Katherine died. -They play a tune called 'The Bay o' Biscay.'" - -Selecting a key from the bunch that he carried in his hand, he opened -the door, displaying a narrow staircase, unprotected as a ladder and -nearly perpendicular. At the top was another small door, evidently -locked. - -"Captain Monk had all this done when he put the chimes up," remarked -he. "I sweep the dust off these stairs once in three months or so, but -otherwise the door's not opened. And that one," nodding to the door -above, "never." - -"But why?" asked the clergyman. "If the chimes are there, and are, as -you say, melodious, why do they not play?" - -"Well, sir, I b'lieve there's a bit of superstition at the bottom of -it," returned the clerk, not caring to explain too fully lest he should -have to tell about Mr. West's death, which might not be the thing to -frighten a new Vicar with. "A feeling has somehow got abroad in the -parish (leastways with a many of its folk) that the putting-up of its -bells brought ill-luck, and that whenever the chimes ring out some -dreadful evil falls on the Monk family." - -"I never heard of such a thing," exclaimed the Vicar, hardly knowing -whether to laugh or lecture. "The parish cannot be so ignorant as that! -How can the putting-up of chimes bring ill-luck?" - -"Well, your reverence, I don't know; the thing's beyond me. They were -heard but three times, ringing in the new year at midnight, three years, -one on top of t'other--and each time some ill fell." - -"My good man--and I am sure you are good--you should know better," -remonstrated Mr. Grame. "Captain Monk cannot surely give credence to -this?" - -"No, sir; but his sister up at the Hall does--Mrs. Carradyne. It's said -the Captain used to ridicule her finely for it; he'd fly into a passion -whenever 'twas alluded to. Captain Monk, as a brave seaman, is too bold -to tolerate anything of the sort. But he has never let the chimes play -since his daughter died. He was coming out from the death-scene at -midnight, when the chimes broke forth the third year, and it's said he -can't abear the sound of 'em since." - -"That may well be," assented Mr. Grame. - -"And finding, sir, year after year, year after year, as one year gives -place to another, that they are never heard, we have got to call 'em -amid ourselves, the Silent Chimes," spoke the clerk, as they turned to -leave the church. "The Silent Chimes, sir." - -Clinking his keys, the clerk walked away to his home, an ivy-covered -cottage not a stone's-throw off; the clergyman lingered in the -churchyard, reading the memorials on the tombstones. He was smiling at -the quaintness of some of them, when the sound of hasty footsteps caused -him to turn. A little girl was climbing over the churchyard-railings (as -being nearer to her than the entrance-gate), and came dashing towards -him across the gravestones. - -"Are you grandpapa's new parson?" asked the young lady; a pretty child -of ten, with a dark skin, and dusky-violet eyes staring at him freely -out of a saucy face. - -"Yes, I am," said he. "What is your name?" - -"What is yours?" boldly questioned she. "They've talked about you at -home, but I forgot it." - -"Mine is Robert Grame. Won't you tell me yours?" - -"Oh, it's Kate.--Here's that wicked Lucy coming! She's going to groan at -me for jumping here. She says it's not reverent." - -A charming young lady of some twenty years was coming up the path, -wearing a scarlet cloak, its hood lined with white silk; a straw hat -shaded her fair face, blushing very much just now; in her dark-grey eyes -might be read vexation, as she addressed Mr. Grame. - -"I hope Kate has not been rude? I hope you will excuse her heedlessness -in this place. She is only a little girl." - -"It's only the new parson, Lucy," broke in Kate without ceremony. "He -says his name's Robert Grame." - -"Oh, Kate, don't! How shall we ever teach you manners?" reprimanded the -young lady, in distress. "She has been very much indulged, sir," turning -to the clergyman. - -"I can well understand that," he said, with a bright smile. "I presume -that I have the honour of speaking to the daughter of my patron--Captain -Monk?" - -"No; Captain Monk is my uncle: I am Lucy Carradyne." - -As the young clergyman stood, hat in hand, a feeling came over him that -he had never seen so sweet a face as the one he was looking at. Miss -Lucy Carradyne was saying to herself, "What a nice countenance he has! -What kindly, earnest eyes!" - -"This little lady tells me her name is Kate." - -"Kate Dancox," said Lucy, as the child danced away. "Her mother was -Captain Monk's eldest daughter; she died when Kate was born. My uncle -is very fond of Kate; he will hardly have her controlled at all." - -"I have been in to see my church! John Cale has been doing its honours -for me," smiled Mr. Grame. "It is a pretty little edifice." - -"Yes, and I hope you will like it; I hope you will like the parish," -frankly returned Lucy. - -"I shall be sure to do that, I think. As soon, at least, as I can -feel convinced that it is to be really mine," he added, with a quaint -expression. "When I heard, a week ago, that Captain Monk had presented -me--an entire stranger to him--with the living of Church Leet, I -could not believe it. It is not often that a nameless curate, without -influence, is spontaneously remembered." - -"It is not much of a living," said Lucy, meeting the words half -jestingly. "Worth, I believe, about a hundred and sixty pounds a-year." - -"But that is a great rise for me--and I have a house to myself large -and beautiful--and am a Vicar and no longer a curate," he returned, -laughingly. "I cannot _imagine_, though, how Captain Monk came to give -it me. Have you any idea how it was, Miss Carradyne?" - -Lucy's face flushed. She could not tell this gentleman the truth: -that another clergyman had been fixed upon, one who would have been -especially welcome to the parishioners; that Captain Monk had all but -nominated him to the living. But it chanced to reach the Captain's ears -that this clergyman had expressed his intention of holding the Communion -service monthly, instead of quarterly as heretofore, so he put the -question to him. Finding it to be true, he withdrew his promise; he -would not have old customs broken in upon by modern innovation, he said; -and forthwith he appointed the Reverend Robert Grame. - -"I do not even know how Captain Monk heard of me," continued Mr. Grame, -marking Lucy's hesitation. - -"I believe you were recommended to him by one of the clergy attached -to Worcester Cathedral," said Lucy.--"And I think I must wish you -good-morning now." - -But there came an interruption. A tall, stately, haughty young woman, -with an angry look upon her dark and handsome face, had entered the -churchyard, and was calling out as she advanced: - -"That monkey broken loose again, I suppose, and at her pranks here! What -are you good for, Lucy, if you cannot keep her in better order? You know -I told you to go straight on to Mrs. Speck, and----" - -The words died away. Mr. Grame, who had been hidden by a large upright -tombstone, emerged into view. Lucy, with another blush, spoke to cover -the awkwardness. - -"This is Miss Monk," she said to him. "Eliza, it is the new clergyman, -Mr. Grame." - -Miss Monk recovered her equanimity. A winning smile supplanted the anger -on her face; she held out her hand, grandly gracious. For she liked the -stranger's look: he was beyond doubt a gentleman--and an attractive man. - -"Allow me to welcome you to Church Leet, Mr. Grame. My father chances -to be absent to-day; he is gone to Evesham." - -"So the clerk told me, or I should have called this morning to pay my -respects to him, and to thank him for his generous and most unexpected -patronage of me. I got here last night," concluded Mr. Grame, standing -uncovered as when he had saluted Lucy. Eliza Monk liked his pleasant -voice and taking manners: her fancy went out to him there and then. - -"But though papa is absent, you will walk up with me now to the Hall to -make acquaintance with my aunt, Mrs. Carradyne," said Eliza, in tones -that, gracious though they were, sounded in the light of a command--just -as poor Katherine's had always sounded. And Mr. Grame went with her. - -But now--handsome though she was, gracious though she meant to be--there -was something about Eliza Monk that seemed to repulse Robert Grame, -rather than attract him. Lucy had fascinated him; she repelled. Other -people had experienced the same kind of repulsion, but knew not where it -lay. - -Hubert, the heir, about twenty-five now, came forward to greet the -stranger as they entered the Hall. No repulsion about _him_. Robert -Grame's hand met his with a warm clasp. A young man of gentle manners -and a face of rare beauty--but oh, so suspiciously delicate! Perhaps it -was the extreme slenderness of the frame, the wan look in the refined -features and their bright hectic that drew forth the clergyman's -sympathy. An impression came over him that this young man was not long -for earth. - -"Is Mr. Monk strong?" he presently asked of Mrs. Carradyne, when Hubert -had temporarily quitted the room. - -"Indeed, no. He had rheumatic fever some years ago," she added, "and has -never been strong since." - -"Has he heart disease?" questioned the clergyman. He thought the young -man had just that look. - -"We fear his heart is weak," replied Mrs. Carradyne. - -"But that may be only your fancy, you know, Aunt Emma," spoke Miss Monk -reproachfully. She and her father were both passionately attached to -Hubert; they resented any doubt cast upon his health. - -"Oh, of course," assented Mrs. Carradyne, who never resented anything. - -"We shall be good friends, I trust," said Eliza, with a beaming smile, -as her hand lay in Mr. Grame's when he was leaving. - -"Indeed I hope so," he answered. "Why not?" - - -III - -Summer lay upon the land. The landscape stretched out before Leet Hall -was fair to look upon. A fine expanse of wood and dale, of trees in -their luxuriant beauty; of emerald-green plains, of meandering streams, -of patches of growing corn already putting on its golden hue, and of -the golden sunlight, soon to set and gladden other worlds, that shone -from the deep-blue sky. Birds sang in their leafy shelters, bees were -drowsily humming as they gathered the last of the day's honey, and -butterflies flitted from flower to flower with a good-night kiss. - -At one of the windows stood, in her haughty beauty, Eliza Monk. Not, -surely, of the lovely scene before her was she thinking, or her face -might have worn a more pleasing expression. Rather did she seem to gaze, -and with displeasure, at two or three people who were walking in the -distance: Lucy Carradyne side by side with the clergyman, and Miss Kate -Dancox pulling at his coat-tails. - -"Shameful flirt!" - -The acidity of the tone was so pronounced that Mrs. Carradyne, seated -near and busy at her netting, lifted her head in surprise. "Why, Eliza, -what's the matter? Who is a flirt?" - -"Lucy," curtly replied Eliza, pointing with her finger. - -"Nonsense," said Mrs. Carradyne, after glancing outwards. - -"Why does she persistently lay herself out to attract that man?" was the -passionate rejoinder. - -"Be silent, Eliza. How can you conjure up so unjust a charge? Lucy is -not capable of _laying herself out_ to attract anyone. It lies but in -your imagination." - -"Day after day, when she is out with Kate, you may see him join -her--allured to her side." - -"The 'allurer' is Kate, then. I am surprised at you, Eliza: you might be -talking of a servant-maid. Kate has taken a liking for Mr. Grame, and -she runs after him at all times and seasons." - -"She ought to be stopped, then." - -"Stopped! Will you undertake to do it? Could her mother be stopped in -anything she pleased to do? And the child has the same rebellious will." - -"I say that Robert Grame's attraction is Lucy." - -"It may be so," acknowledged Mrs. Carradyne. "But the attraction must -lie in Lucy herself; not in anything she does. Some suspicion of the -sort has, at times, crossed me." - -She looked at them again as she spoke. They were sauntering onwards -slowly; Mr. Grame bending towards Lucy, and talking earnestly. Kate, -dancing about, pulling at his arm or his coat, appeared to get but -little attention. Mrs. Carradyne quietly went on with her work. - -And that composed manner, combined with her last sentence, brought gall -and wormwood to Eliza Monk. - -Throwing a summer scarf upon her shoulders, Eliza passed out at the -French window, crossed the terrace, and set out to confront the -conspirators. But she was not in time. Seeing her coming, or not seeing -her--who knew?--Mr. Grame turned off with a fleet foot towards his home. -So nobody remained for Miss Monk to waste her angry breath upon but -Lucy. The breath was keenly sharp, and Lucy fell to weeping. - - * * * * * - -"I am here, Grame. Don't go in." - -The words fell on the clergyman's ears as he closed the Vicarage gate -behind him, and was passing up the path to his door. Turning his head, -he saw Hubert Monk seated on the bench under the may tree, pink and -lovely yet. "How long have you been here?" he asked, sitting down beside -him. - -"Ever so long; waiting for you," replied Hubert. - -"I was only strolling about." - -"I saw you: with Lucy and the child." - -They had become fast and firm friends, these two young men; and the -minister was insensibly exercising a wonderful influence over Hubert for -good. Believing--as he did believe--that Hubert's days were numbered, -that any sharp extra exertion might entail fatal consequences, he gently -strove, as opportunity offered, to lead his thoughts to the Better Land. - -"What an evening it is!" rapturously exclaimed Hubert. - -"Ay: so calm and peaceful." - -The rays of the setting sun touched Hubert's face, lighting up its -extreme delicacy; the scent of the closing flowers filled the still air -with sweetness; the birds were chanting their evening song of praise. -Hubert, his elbow on the arm of the bench, his hand supporting his chin, -looked out with dreamy eyes. - -"What book have you there?" asked Mr. Grame, noticing one in his other -hand. - -"Herbert," answered the young man, showing it. "I filched it from your -table through the open window, Grame." - -The clergyman took it. It chanced to open at a passage he was very fond -of. Or perhaps he knew the place, and opened it purposely. - -"Do you know these verses, Hubert? They are appropriate enough just now, -while those birds are carolling." - -"I can't tell. What verses? Read them." - - "Hark, how the birds do sing, - And woods do ring! - All creatures have their joy, and man hath his, - Yet, if we rightly measure, - Man's joy and pleasure - Rather hereafter than in present is. - - Not that we may not here - Taste of the cheer; - But as birds drink and straight lift up the head, - So must he sip and think - Of better drink - He may attain to after he is dead." - -"Ay," said Hubert, breaking the silence after a time, "it's very true, I -suppose. But this world--oh, it's worth living for. Will anything in the -next, Grame, be more beautiful than _that_?" - -He was pointing to the sunset, marvellously and unusually beautiful. -Lovely pink and crimson clouds flecked the west; in their midst shone a -dazzling golden light too glorious to look upon. - -"One might fancy it the portals of heaven," said the clergyman; "the -golden gate of entrance, leading to the pearly gates within, and to the -glittering walls of precious stones." - -"Ay! And it seems to take the form of an entrance-gate!" exclaimed -Hubert; for it really did so. "Look at it! Oh, Grame, surely the very -gate of Heaven cannot be more wonderful than that!" - -"And if the gate of entrance is so unspeakably beautiful, what will the -City itself be?" murmured Mr. Grame. "The Heavenly City! the New -Jerusalem!" - -"It is beginning to fade," said Hubert presently, as they sat watching; -"the brightness is going. What a pity!" - -"All that's bright must fade in this world, you know; and fade very -quickly. Hubert! it will not in the next." - - * * * * * - -Church Leet, watching its neighbours' doings sharply, began to whisper -that the new clergyman, Mr. Grame, was likely to cause unpleasantness to -the Monk family, just as some of his predecessors had caused it. For no -man having eyes in his head (still less any woman) could fail to see -that the Captain's imperious daughter had fallen desperately in love -with him. Would there be a second elopement, as in the days of Tom -Dancox? Would Eliza Monk set her father at defiance as Katherine did? - -One of the last to see signs and tokens, though they took place under -her open eyes, was Mrs. Carradyne. But she saw at last. The clergyman -could not walk across a new-mown field, or down a shady lane, or be -hastening along the dusty turnpike road, but by some inexplicable -coincidence he would be met by Miss Monk; and when he came to the -Hall to pass an hour with Hubert, she generally made a third at the -interview. It had pleased her latterly to take to practising on the old -church organ; and if Mr. Grame was not wiled into the church with her -and her attendant, the ancient clerk, who blew the bellows, she was sure -to alight upon him in going or returning. - -One fine evening, dinner over, when the last beams of the sun were -slanting into the drawing-room, Eliza Monk was sitting back on a sofa, -reading; Kate romped about the room, and Mrs. Carradyne had just rung -the bell for tea. Lucy had been spending the afternoon with Mrs. Speck, -and Hubert had now gone to fetch her home. - -"Good gracious, Kate, can't you be quiet!" exclaimed Miss Monk, as the -child in her gambols sprang upon the sofa, upsetting the book and its -reader's temper. "Go away: you are treading on my flounces. Aunt Emma, -why do you persist in having this tiresome little reptile with us after -dinner?" - -"Because your father will not let her be sent to the nursery," said Mrs. -Carradyne. - -"Did you ever know a child like her?" - -"She is only as her mother was; as you were, Eliza--always rebellious. -Kate, sit down to the piano and play one of your pretty tunes." - -"I won't," responded Kate. "Play yourself, Aunt Emma." - -Dashing through the open glass doors, Kate began tossing a ball on the -broad gravel walk below the terrace. Mrs. Carradyne cautioned her not -to break the windows, and turned to the tea-table. - -"Don't make the tea yet, Aunt Emma," interrupted Miss Monk, in tones -that were quite like a command. "Mr. Grame is coming, and he won't care -for cold tea." - -Mrs. Carradyne returned to her seat. She thought the opportunity had -come to say something to her niece which she had been wanting to say. - -"You invited Mr. Grame, Eliza?" - -"I did," said Eliza, looking defiance. - -"My dear," resumed Mrs. Carradyne with some hesitation, "forgive me if I -offer you a word of advice. You have no mother; I pray you to listen to -me in her stead. You must change your line of behaviour to Mr. Grame." - -Eliza's dark face turned red and haughty. "I do not understand you, Aunt -Emma." - -"Nay, I think you do understand me, my dear. You have incautiously -allowed yourself to fall into--into an undesirable liking for Mr. Grame. -An _unseemly_ liking, Eliza." - -"Unseemly!" - -"Yes; because it has not been sought. Cannot you see, Eliza, how he -instinctively recedes from it? how he would repel it were he less the -gentleman than he is? Child, I shrink from saying these things to you, -but it is needful. You have good sense, Eliza, keen discernment, and -you might see for yourself that it is not to you Mr. Grame's love is -given--or ever will be." - -For once in her life Eliza Monk allowed herself to betray agitation. She -opened her trembling lips to speak, but closed them again. - -"A moment yet, Eliza. Let us suppose, for argument's sake, that Mr. -Grame loved you; that he wished to marry you; you know, my dear, how -utterly useless it would be. Your father would not suffer it." - -"Mr. Grame is of gentle descent; my father is attached to him," disputed -Eliza. - -"But Mr. Grame has nothing but his living--a hundred and sixty pounds a -year; _you_ must make a match in accordance with your own position. It -would be Katherine's trouble, Katherine's rebellion over again. But this -was mentioned for argument's sake only; Mr. Grame will never sue for -anything of the kind; and I must beg of you, my dear, to put all idea -of it away, and to change your manner towards him." - -"Perhaps you fancy he may wish to sue for Lucy!" cried Eliza, in fierce -resentment. - -"That is a great deal more likely than the other. And the difficulties -in her case would not be so great." - -"And pray why, Aunt Emma?" - -"Because, my dear, I should not resent it as your father would. I am not -so ambitious for her as he is for you." - -"A fine settlement for her--Robert Grame and his hundred----" - -"Who is taking my name in vain?" cried a pleasant voice from the open -window; and Robert Grame entered. - -"I was," said Eliza readily; her tone changing like magic to sweet -suavity, her face putting on its best charm. "About to remark that the -Reverend Robert Grame has a hundred faults. Aunt Emma agrees with me." - -He laughed lightly, regarding it as pleasantry, and inquired for Hubert. - -Eliza stepped out on the terrace when tea was over, talking to Mr. -Grame; they began to pace it slowly together. Kate and her ball sported -on the gravel walk beneath. It was a warm, serene evening, the silver -moon shining, the evening star just appearing in the clear blue sky. - -"Lucy being away, you cannot enjoy your usual flirtation with her," -remarked Miss Monk, in a light tone. - -But he did not take it lightly. Rarely had his voice been more serious -than when he answered: "I beg your pardon. I do not flirt--I have never -flirted with Miss Carradyne." - -"No! It has looked like it." - -Mr. Grame remained silent. "I hope not," he said at last. "I did not -intend--I did not think. However, I must mend my manners," he added more -gaily. "To flirt at all would ill become my sacred calling. And Lucy -Carradyne is superior to any such trifling." - -Her pulses were coursing on to fever heat. With her whole heart she -loved Robert Grame: and the secret preference he had unconsciously -betrayed for Lucy had served to turn her later days to bitterness. - -"Possibly you mean something more serious," said Eliza, compressing her -lips. - -"If I mean anything, I should certainly mean it seriously," replied the -young clergyman, his face blushing as he made the avowal. "But I may -not. I have been reflecting much latterly, and I see I may not. If my -income were good it might be a different matter. But it is not; and -marriage for me must be out of the question." - -"With a portionless girl, yes. Robert Grame," she went on rapidly with -impassioned earnestness, "when you marry, it must be with someone who -can help you; whose income will compensate for the deficiency of yours. -Look around you well: there may be some young ladies rich in the world's -wealth, even in Church Leet, who will forget your want of fortune for -your own sake." - -Did he misunderstand her? It was hardly possible. She had a large -fortune; Lucy none. But he answered as though he comprehended not. It -may be that he deemed it best to set her ill-regulated hopes at rest -for ever. - -"One can hardly suppose a temptation of that kind would fall in the way -of an obscure individual like myself. If it did, I could only reject it. -I should not marry for money. I shall never marry where I do not love." - -They had halted near one of the terrace seats. On it lay a toy of -Kate's, a little wooden "box of bells." Mechanically, her mind far away, -Eliza took it up and began, still mechanically, turning the wire which -set the bells playing with a soft but not unpleasant jingle. - -"You love Lucy Carradyne!" she whispered. - -"I fear I do," he answered. "Though I have struggled against the -conviction." - -A sudden crash startled them; shivers of glass fell before their feet; -fit accompaniment to the shattered hopes of one who stood there. Kate -Dancox, aiming at Mr. Grame's hat, had sent her ball through the window. -He leaped away to catch the culprit, and Eliza Monk sat down on the -bench, all gladness gone out of her. Her love-dream had turned out to -be a snare and a delusion. - -"Who did that?" - -Captain Monk, frightened from his after-dinner nap by the crash, came -forth in anger. Kate got a box on the ear, and was sent to bed howling. - -"You should send her to school, papa." - -"And I will," declared the Captain. "She startled me out of a sleep. Out -of a dream, too. And it is not often I dream. I thought I was hearing -the chimes again." - -"Chimes which I have not yet been fortunate enough to hear at all," said -Mr. Grame with a smile. Eliza recalled the sound of the bells she had -set in motion, and thought it must have reached her father in his sleep. - -"By George, no! You shall, though, Grame. They shall ring the new year -in when it comes." - -"Aunt Emma won't like that," laughingly commented Eliza. She was trying -to be gay and careless before Robert Grame. - -"Aunt Emma may _dis_like it!" retorted the Captain. "She has picked up -some ridiculously absurd notion, Grame, that the bells bring ill-luck -when they are heard. Women are so foolishly superstitious." - -"That must be a very far-fetched superstition," said the parson. - -"One might as well believe in witches," mocked the Captain. "I have -given in to her fancies for some years, not to cross her, and allowed -the bells to be silent: she's a good woman on the whole; but be hanged -if I will any longer. On the last day of this year, Grame, you shall -hear the chimes." - - * * * * * - -How it came about nobody exactly knew, unless it was through Hubert, but -matters were smoothed for the parson and Lucy. - -Mrs. Carradyne knew his worth, and she saw that they were as much -in love with one another as ever could be Hodge and Joan. She liked -the idea of Lucy being settled near her--and the vicarage, large and -handsome, could have its unused rooms opened and furnished. Mr. Grame -honestly avowed that he should have asked for Lucy before, but for his -poverty; he supposed that Lucy was poor also. - -"That is so; Lucy has nothing of her own," said Mrs. Carradyne to this. -"But I am not in that condition." - -"Of course not. But--pardon me--I thought your property went to your -son." - -Mrs. Carradyne laughed. "A small estate of his father's, close by here, -became my son's at his father's death," she said. "My own money is at my -disposal; the half of it will eventually be Lucy's. When she marries, I -shall allow her two hundred a year: and upon that, and your stipend, you -will have to get along together." - -"It will be like riches to me," said the young parson all in a glow. - -"Ah! Wait until you realise the outlets for money that a wife entails," -nodded Mrs. Carradyne in her superior wisdom. "Not but that I'm sure -it's good for young people, setting up together, to be straitened at -the beginning. It teaches them economy and the value of money." - -Altogether it seemed a wonderful prospect to Robert Grame. Miss Lucy -thought it would be Paradise. But a stern wave of opposition set in from -Captain Monk. - -Hubert broke the news to him as they were sitting together after dinner. -To begin with, the Captain, as a matter of course, flew into a passion. - -"Another of those beggarly parsons! What possessed them, that they -should fix upon _his_ family to play off their machinations upon! Lucy -Carradyne was his niece: she should never be grabbed up by one of them -while he was alive to stop it." - -"Wait a minute, father," whispered Hubert. "You like Robert Grame; I -know that: you would rather see him carry off Lucy than Eliza." - -"What the dickens do you mean by that?" - -Hubert said a few cautious words--hinting that, but for Lucy's being in -the way, poor Katherine's escapade might have been enacted over again. -Captain Monk relieved his mind by some strong language, sailor fashion; -and for once in his life saw he must give in to necessity. - -So the wedding was fixed for the month of February, just one year after -they had met: that sweet time of early spring, when spring comes in -genially, when the birds would be singing, and the green buds peeping -and the sunlight dancing. - -But the present year was not over yet. Lucy was sewing at her wedding -things. Eliza Monk, smarting as from an adder's sting, ran away to visit -a family who lived near Oddingly, an insignificant little place, lying, -as everybody knows, on the other side of Worcester, famous only for its -dullness and for the strange murders committed there in 1806--which have -since passed into history. But she returned home for Christmas. - -Once more it was old-fashioned Christmas weather; Jack Frost freezing -the snow and sporting his icicles. The hearty tenants, wending their way -to the annual feast in the winter twilight, said how unusually sharp the -air was, enough to bite off their ears and noses. - -The Reverend Robert Grame made one at the table for the first time, -and said grace at the Captain's elbow. He had heard about the freedom -obtaining at these dinners; but he knew he was utterly powerless -to suppress it, and he hoped his presence might prove some little -restraint, just as poor George West had hoped in the days gone by: not -that it was as bad now as it used to be. A rumour had gone abroad that -the chimes were to play again, but it died away unconfirmed, for Captain -Monk kept his own counsel. - -The first to quit the table was Hubert. Captain Monk looked up angrily. -He was proud of his son, of his tall and graceful form, of his handsome -features, proud even of his bright complexion; ay, and of his estimable -qualities. While inwardly fearing Hubert's signs of fading strength, he -defiantly refused to recognise it or to admit it openly. - -"What now?" he said in a loud whisper. "Are _you_ turning renegade?" - -The young man bent over his father's shoulder. "I don't feel well; -better let me go quietly, father; I have felt pain here all -day"--touching his left side. And he escaped. - -There was present at table an elderly gentleman named Peveril. He had -recently come with his wife into the neighbourhood and taken on lease a -small estate, called by the odd name of Peacock's Range, which belonged -to Hubert and lay between Church Dykely and Church Leet. Mr. Peveril put -an inopportune question. - -"What is the story, Captain, about some chimes which were put up in the -church here and are never allowed to ring because they caused the death -of the Vicar? I was told of it to-day." - -Captain Monk looked at Mr. Peveril, but did not speak. - -"One George West, I think. Was he parson here?" - -"Yes, he was parson here," said Farmer Winter, finding nobody else -answered Mr. Peveril, next to whom he sat. He was a very old man now, -but hale and hearty still, and a steadfast ally of his landlord. "Given -that parson his way and we should never have had the chimes put up at -all. Sweet sounding bells they are, too." - -"But how could the chimes kill him?" went on Mr. Peveril. "Did they kill -him?" - -"George West was a quarrelsome, mischief-making meddler, good for -nothing but to set the parish together by the ears; and I must beg of -you to drop his name when at my table, Peveril. As to the chimes, you -will hear them to-night." - -Captain Monk spoke in his sternest tones, and Mr. Peveril bowed. Robert -Grame had listened in surprise. He wondered what it all meant--for -nobody had ever told him of this phase of the past. The table clapped -its unsteady hands and gave a cheer for the chimes, now to be heard -again. - -"Yes, gentlemen," said the Captain, not a whit more steady than his -guests. "They shall ring for us to-night, though it brought the parson -out of his grave." - -A few minutes before twelve the butler, who had his orders, came into -the dining-room and set the windows open. His master gave him another -order and the man withdrew. Entering the drawing-room, he proceeded to -open those windows also. Mr. Peveril, and one or two more guests, sat -with the family; Hubert lay back in an easy-chair. - -"What are you about, Rimmer?" hastily cried out Mrs. Carradyne in -surprise. "Opening the windows!" - -"It is by the master's orders, ma'am," replied the butler; "he bade me -open them, that you and the ladies might get a better hearing of the -chimes." - -Mrs. Carradyne, superstitious ever, grew white as death. "_The chimes!_" -she breathed in a dread whisper. "Surely, surely, Rimmer, you must be -mistaken. The chimes cannot be going to ring again!" - -"They are to ring the New Year in," said the man. "I have known it this -day or two, but was not allowed to tell, as Madam may guess"--glancing -at his mistress. "John Cale has got his orders, and he'll set 'em going -when the clock has struck twelve." - -"Oh, is there no one who will run to stop it?" bewailed Mrs. Carradyne, -wringing her hands in all the terror of a nameless fear. "There may yet -be time. Rimmer! can you go?" - -Hubert came out of his chair laughing. Rimmer was round and fat now, -and could not run if he tried. "I'll go, aunt," he said. "Why, walking -slowly, I should get there before Rimmer." - -The words, "walking slowly," may have misled Mrs. Carradyne; or, in the -moment's tribulation, perhaps she forgot that Hubert ought not to be the -one to use much exertion; but she made no objection. No one else made -way, and Hubert hastened out, putting on his overcoat as he went towards -the church. - -It was the loveliest night; the air was still and clear, the landscape -white and glistening, the moon bright as gold. Hubert, striding along -at a quick walk, had traversed half the short distance, when the church -clock struck out the first note of midnight. And he knew he should not -be in time--unless---- - -He set off to run: it was such a very little way! Flying along without -heed to self, he reached the churchyard gate. And there he was -forced--forced--to stop to gather up his laboured breath. - -Ring, ring, ring! broke forth the chimes melodiously upon Hubert's ear. -"Stop!" he shouted, panting; "stop! stop!"--just as if John Cale could -hear the warning: and he began leaping over the gravestones in his path, -after the irreverent fashion of Miss Kate Dancox. - -"Stop!" he faintly cried in his exhaustion, dashing through the vestry, -as the strains of "The Bay of Biscay" pursued their harmonious course -overhead, sounding louder here than in the open air. "Sto----" - -He could not end the word. Pulling the little door open, he put his foot -on the first step of the narrow ladder of a staircase: and then fell -prone upon it. John Cale and young Mr. Threpp, the churchwarden's son, -who had been the clerk's companion, were descending the stairs, after -the chimes had chimed themselves out, and they had locked them up again -to (perhaps) another year, when they found some impediment below. - -"What is it?" exclaimed young Mr. Threpp. The clerk turned on his -lantern. - -It was Hubert, Captain Monk's son and heir. He lay there with a face of -deadly whiteness, a blue shade encircling his lips. - - - - -THE SILENT CHIMES - - -III.--RINGING AT MIDDAY - - -I - -It was an animated scene; and one you only find in England. The stubble -of the cornfields looked pale and bleak in the departing autumn, the -wind was shaking down the withered leaves from the trees, whose thinning -branches told unmistakably of the rapidly-advancing winter. But the day -was bright after the night's frost, and the sun shone on the glowing -scarlet coats of the hunting-men, and the hounds barked in every variety -of note and leaped with delight in the morning air. It was the first run -of the season, and the sportsmen were fast gathering at the appointed -spot--a field flanked by a grove of trees called Poachers' Copse. - -Ten o'clock, the hour fixed for the throw-off, came and went, and still -Poachers' Copse was not relieved of its busy intruders. Many a gentleman -fox-hunter glanced at his hunting-watch as the minutes passed, many -a burly farmer jerked his horse impatiently; while the grey-headed -huntsman cracked his long whip amongst his canine favourites and -promised them they should soon be on the scent. The delay was caused -by the non-arrival of the Master of the Hounds. - -But now all eyes were directed to a certain quarter, and by the -brightened looks and renewed stir, it might be thought that he was -appearing. A stranger, sitting his horse well and quietly at the edge of -Poachers' Copse, watched the newcomers as they came into view. Foremost -of them rode an elderly gentleman in scarlet, and by his side a young -lady who might be a few years past twenty. - -"Father and daughter, I'll vow," commented the stranger, noting that -both had the same well-carved features, the same defiant, haughty -expression, the same proud bearing. "What a grandly-handsome girl! And -he, I suppose, is the man we are waiting for. Is that the Master of the -Hounds?" he asked aloud of the horseman next him, who chanced to be -young Mr. Threpp. - -"No, sir, that is Captain Monk," was the answer. "They are saying -yonder that he has brought word the Master is taken ill and cannot hunt -to-day"--which proved to be correct. The Master had been taken with -giddiness when about to mount his horse. - -The stranger rode up to Captain Monk; judging him to be regarded--by the -way he was welcomed and the respect paid him--as the chief personage -at the meet, representing in a manner the Master. Lifting his hat, he -begged grace for having, being a stranger, come out, uninvited, to join -the field; adding that his name was Hamlyn and he was staying with Mr. -Peveril at Peacock's Range. - -Captain Monk wheeled round at the address; his head had been turned -away. He saw a tall, dark man of about five-and-thirty years, so dark -and sunburnt as to suggest ideas of his having recently come from a -warmer climate. His hair was black, his eyes were dark brown, his -features and manner prepossessing, and he spoke as a man accustomed to -good society. - -Captain Monk, lifting his hat in return, met him with cordiality. The -field was open to all, he said, but any friend of Peveril's would be -doubly welcome. Peveril himself was a muff, in so far as that he never -hunted. - -"Hearing there was to be a meet to-day, I could not resist the -temptation of joining it; it is many years since I had the opportunity -of doing so," remarked the stranger. - -There was not time for more, the hounds were throwing off. Away dashed -the Captain's steed, away dashed the stranger's, away dashed Miss -Monk's, the three keeping side by side. - -Presently came a fence. Captain Monk leaped it and galloped onwards -after the other red-coats. Miss Eliza Monk would have leaped it next, -but her horse refused it; yet he was an old hunter and she a fearless -rider. The stranger was waiting to follow her. A touch of the angry -Monk temper assailed her and she forced her horse to the leap. He had -a temper also; he did not clear it, and horse and rider came down -together. - -In a trice Mr. Hamlyn was off his own steed and raising her. She was -not hurt, she said, when she could speak; a little shaken, a little -giddy--and she leaned against the fence. The refractory horse, unnoticed -for the moment, got upon his legs, took the fence of his own accord -and tore away after the field. Young Mr. Threpp, who had been in some -difficulty with his own steed, rode up now. - -"Shall I ride back to the Hall and get the pony-carriage for you, Miss -Eliza?" asked the young man. - -"Oh, dear, no," she replied, "thank you all the same. I should prefer -to walk home." - -"Are you equal to walking?" interposed the stranger. - -"Quite. The walk will do away with this faintness. It is not the first -fall I have had." - -The stranger whispered to young Mr. Threpp--who was as good-natured a -young fellow as ever lived. Would he consent to forego the sport that -day and lead his horse to Mr. Peveril's? If so, he would accompany the -young lady and give her the support of his arm. - -So William Threpp rode off, leading Mr. Hamlyn's horse, and Miss Monk -accepted the stranger's arm. He told her a little about himself as -they walked along. It might not have been an ominous commencement, but -intimacies have grown sometimes out of a slighter introduction. Their -nearest way led past the Vicarage. Mr. Grame saw them from its windows -and came running out. - -"Has any accident taken place?" he asked hurriedly. "I hope not." - -Eliza Monk's face flushed. He had been Lucy's husband several months -now, but she could not yet suddenly meet him without a thrill of -emotion. Lucy ran out next; the pretty young wife for whom she had been -despised. Eliza answered Mr. Grame curtly, nodded to Lucy, and passed -on. - -"And, as I was telling you," continued Mr. Hamlyn, "when this property -was left to me in England, I made it a plea for throwing up my post in -India, and came home. I landed about six weeks ago, and have been since -busy in London with lawyers. Peveril, whom I knew in the days gone by, -wrote to invite me to come to him here on a week's visit, before he and -his wife leave for the South of France." - -"They are going to winter there for Mrs. Peveril's health," observed -Eliza. "Peacock's Range, the place they live at, belongs to my cousin, -Harry Carradyne. Did I understand you to say that you were not an -Englishman?" - -"I was born in the West Indies. My family were English and had settled -there." - -"What a coincidence!" exclaimed Eliza Monk with a smile. "My mother was -a West Indian, and I was born there.--There's my home, Leet Hall!" - -"A fine old place," cried Mr. Hamlyn, regarding the mansion before him. - -"You may well say 'old,'" remarked the young lady. "It has been the -abode of the Monk family from generation to generation. For my part, I -sometimes half wish it would tumble down that we might move to a more -lively locality. Church Leet is a dead-alive place at best." - -"We always want what we have not," laughed Mr. Hamlyn. "I would give all -I am worth to possess an ancestral home, no matter if it were grim and -gloomy. We who can boast of only modern wealth look upon these family -castles with an envy you have little idea of." - -"If you possess modern wealth, you possess a very good and substantial -thing," she answered, echoing his laugh.--"Here comes my aunt, full of -wonder." - -Full of alarm also. Mrs. Carradyne stood on the terrace steps, asking if -there had been an accident. - -"Nothing serious, Aunt Emma. Saladin refused the fence at Ring Gap, and -we both came down together. This gentleman was so obliging as to forego -his day's sport and escort me home. Mr.--Mr. Hamlyn, I believe?" she -added. "My aunt, Mrs. Carradyne." - -The stranger confirmed it. "Philip Hamlyn," he said to Mrs. Carradyne, -lifting his hat. - -Gaining the hall-door with slow and gentle steps came a young man, whose -beautiful features were wasting more perceptibly day by day, and their -hectic growing of a deeper crimson. "What is wrong, Eliza?" he cried. -"Have you come to grief? Where's Saladin?" - -"My brother," she said to Mr. Hamlyn. - -Yes, it was indeed Hubert Monk. For he did not die of that run to the -church the past New Year's Eve. The death-like faint proved to be -a faint, nothing more. Nothing more _then_. But something else was -advancing with gradual steps: steps that seemed to be growing almost -perceptible now. - -Now and again Hubert fainted in the same manner; his face taking a -death-like hue, the blue tinge surrounding his mouth. Captain Monk, -unable longer to shut his eyes to what might be impending, called in -the best medical advice that Worcestershire could afford; and the -doctors told him the truth--that Hubert's days were numbered. - -To say that Captain Monk began at once to "set his house in order" would -not be quite the right expression, since it was not he himself who was -going to die. But he set his affairs straight as to the future, and -appointed another heir in his son's place--his nephew, Harry Carradyne. - -Harry Carradyne, a brave young lieutenant, was then with his regiment in -some almost inaccessible fastness of the Indian Empire. Captain Monk -(not concealing his lamentation and the cruel grief it was to himself -personally) wrote word to him of the fiat concerning poor Hubert, -together with a peremptory order to sell out and return home as the -future heir. This was being accomplished, and Harry might now be -expected almost any day. - -But it may as well be mentioned that Captain Monk, never given to be -confidential about himself or his affairs, told no one what he had done, -with one exception. Even Mrs. Carradyne was ignorant of the change in -her son's prospects and of his expected return. The one exception was -Hubert. Soon to lose him, Captain Monk made more of his son than he had -ever done, and seemed to like to talk with him. - -"Harry will make a better master to succeed you than I should have made, -father," said Hubert, as they were slowly pacing home from the -parsonage, arm-in-arm, one dull November day, some little time after the -meet of the hounds, as recorded. It was surprising how often Captain -Monk would now encounter his son abroad, as if by accident, and give him -his arm home. - -"What d'ye mean?" wrathfully responded the Captain, who never liked to -hear his own children disparaged, by themselves or by anyone else. - -Hubert laughed a little. "Harry will look after things better than I -ever should. I was always given to laziness. Don't you remember, father, -when a little boy in the West Indies, you used to tell me I was good for -nothing but to bask in the heat?" - -"I remember one thing, Hubert; and, strange to say, have remembered it -only lately. Things lie dormant in the memory for years, and then crop -up again. Upon getting home from one of my long voyages, your mother -greeted me with the news that your heart was weak; the doctor had told -her so. I gave the fellow a trimming for putting so ridiculous a notion -into her head--and it passed clean out of mine. I suppose he was right, -though." - -"Little doubt of that, father. I wonder I have lived so long." - -"Nonsense!" exploded the Captain; "you may live on yet for years. I -don't know that I did not act foolishly in sending post-haste for Harry -Carradyne." - -Hubert smiled a sad smile. "You have done quite right, father; right in -all ways; be sure of that. Harry is one of the truest and best fellows -that ever lived: he will be a comfort to you when I am gone, and the -best of all successors later. Just--a--moment--father!" - -"Why, what's the matter?" cried Captain Monk--for his son had suddenly -halted and stood with a rapidly-paling face and shortened breath, -pressing his hands to his side. "Here, lean on me, lad; lean on me." - -It was a sudden faintness. Nothing very much, and it passed off in a -minute or two. Hubert made a brave attempt at smiling, and resumed his -way. But Captain Monk did not like it at all; he knew all these things -were but the beginning of the end. And that end, though not with actual -irreverence, he was resenting bitterly in his heart. - -"Who's that coming out?" he asked, crossly, alluding to some figure -descending the steps of his house--for his sight was not what it used to -be. - -"It is Mr. Hamlyn," said Hubert. - -"Oh--Hamlyn! He seems to be always coming in. I don't like that man -somehow, Hubert. Wonder what he's lagging in the neighbourhood for?" - -Hubert Monk had an idea that he could have told. But he did not want to -draw down an explosion on his own head. Mr. Hamlyn came to meet them -with friendly smiles and hand-shakes. Hubert liked him; liked him very -much. - -Not only had Mr. Hamlyn prolonged his stay beyond the "day or two" he -had originally come for, but he evinced no intention of leaving. When -Mr. Peveril and his wife departed for the south, he made a proposal -to remain at Peacock's Range for a time as their tenant. And when the -astonished couple asked his reasons, he answered that he should like to -get a few runs with the hounds. - - -II - -The November days glided by. The end of the month was approaching, and -still Philip Hamlyn stayed on, and was a very frequent visitor at Leet -Hall. Little doubt that Miss Monk was his attraction, and the parish -began to say so without reticence. - -The parish was right. One fine, frosty morning Mr. Hamlyn sought an -interview with Captain Monk and laid before him his proposals for Eliza. - -One might have thought by the tempestuous words showered down upon him -in answer that he had proposed to smother her. Reproaches, hot and fast, -were poured forth upon the suitor's unlucky head. - -"Why, you are a stranger!" stormed the Captain; "you have not known her -a month! How dare you? It's not commonly decent." - -Mr. Hamlyn quietly answered that he had known her long enough to love -her, and went on to say that he came of a good family, had plenty of -money, and could make a liberal settlement upon her. - -"That you never will," said Captain Monk. "I should not like you for -my son-in-law," he continued candidly, calming down from his burst of -passion to the bounds of reason. "But there can be no question of it in -any way. Eliza is to become Lady Rivers." - -Mr. Hamlyn opened his eyes in astonishment. "Lady Rivers!" he echoed. -"Do you speak of Sir Thomas Rivers?--that old man!" - -"No, I do not, sir. Sir Thomas Rivers has one foot in the grave. I speak -of his eldest son. He wants her, and he shall have her." - -"Pardon me, Captain, I--I do not think Miss Monk can know anything of -this. I am sure she did not last night. I come to you with her full -consent and approbation." - -"I care nothing about that. My daughter is aware that any attempt to -oppose her will to mine would be utterly futile. Young Tom Rivers has -written to me to ask for her; I have accepted him, and I choose that she -shall accept him. She'll like it herself, too; it will be a good match." - -"Young Tom Rivers is next door to a simpleton: he is not half-baked," -retorted Mr. Hamlyn, his own temper getting up: "if I may judge by what -I've seen of him in the field." - -"Tom Rivers is a favourite everywhere, let me tell you, sir. Eliza would -not refuse him for you." - -"Perhaps, Captain Monk, you will converse with her upon this point?" - -"I intend to give her my orders--if that's what you mean," returned the -Captain. "And now, sir, I think our discussion may terminate." - -Mr. Hamlyn saw no use in prolonging it for the present. Captain Monk -bowed him out of the house and called his daughter into the room. - -"Eliza," he began, scorning to beat about the bush, "I have received an -offer of marriage for you." - -Miss Eliza blushed a little, not much: few things could make her do that -now. Once our blushes have been wasted, as hers were on Robert Grame, -their vivid freshness has faded for ever and aye. "The song has left the -bird." - -"And I have accepted it," continued Captain Monk. "He would like the -wedding to be early in the year, so you may get your rattle-traps in -order for it. Tell your aunt I will give her a blank cheque for the -cost, and she may fill it in." - -"Thank you, papa." - -"There's the letter; you can read it"--pushing one across the table to -her. "It came by special messenger last night, and I have sent my answer -this morning." - -Eliza Monk glanced at the contents, which were written on rose-coloured -paper. For a moment she looked puzzled. - -"Why, papa, this is from Tom Rivers! You cannot suppose I would marry -_him_! A silly boy, younger than I am! Tom Rivers is the greatest goose -I know." - -"How dare you say so, Eliza?" - -"Well, he is. Look at his note! Pink paper and a fancy edge!" - -"Stuff! Rivers is young and inexperienced, but he'll grow older--he is a -very nice young fellow, and a capital fox-hunter. You'd be master and -mistress too--and that would suit your book, I take it. I want to have -you settled near me, Eliza--you are all I have left, or soon will be." - -"But, papa----" - -Captain Monk raised his hand for silence. - -"You sent that man Hamlyn to me with a proposal for you. Eliza; you -_know_ that would not do. Hamlyn's property lies in the West Indies, his -home too, for all I know. He attempted to tell me that he would not take -you out there against my consent; but I know better, and what such -ante-nuptial promises are worth. It might end in your living there." - -"No, no." - -"What do you say 'no, no' for, like a parrot? Circumstances might compel -you. I do not like the man, besides." - -"But why, papa?" - -"I don't know; I have never liked him from the first. There! that's -enough. You must be my Lady Rivers. Poor old Tom is on his last legs." - -"Papa, I never will be." - -"Listen, Eliza. I had one trouble with Katherine; I will not have -another with you. She defied me; she left my home rebelliously to enter -upon one of her own setting-up: what came of it? Did luck attend her? Do -you be more wise." - -"Father," she said, moving a step forward with head uplifted; and the -resolute, haughty look which rendered their faces so much alike was very -conspicuous on hers, "do not let us oppose each other. Perhaps we can -each give way a little? I have promised to be the wife of Philip Hamlyn, -and that promise I will fulfil. You wish me to live near you: well, he -can take a place in this neighbourhood and settle down in it; and on my -part, I will promise you not to leave this country. He may have to go -from time to time to the West Indies; I will remain at home." - -Captain Monk looked steadily at her before he answered. He marked the -stern, uncompromising expression, the strong will in the dark eyes -and in every feature, which no power, not even his, might unbend. He -thought of his elder daughter, now lying in her grave; he thought of his -son, so soon to be lying beside her; he did not care to be bereft of -_all_ his children, and for once in his hard life he attempted to -conciliate. - -"Hark to me, Eliza. Give up Hamlyn--I have said I don't like the man; -give up Tom Rivers also, as you will. Remain at home with me until a -better suitor shall present himself, and Leet Hall and its broad lands -shall be yours." - -She looked up in surprise. Leet Hall had always hitherto gone in the -male line; and, failing Hubert, it would be, or ought to be, Harry -Carradyne's. Though she knew not that any steps had already been taken -in that direction. - -"Leet Hall?" she exclaimed. - -"Leet Hall and its broad lands," repeated the Captain impatiently. "Give -up Mr. Hamlyn and it shall all be yours." - -She remained for some moments in deep thought, her head bent, revolving -the offer. She was fond of pomp and power, as her father had ever been, -and the temptation to rule as sole domineering mistress in her -girlhood's home was great. But at that very instant the tall fine form -of Philip Hamlyn passed across a pathway in the distance, and she turned -from the temptation for ever. What little capability of loving had been -left to her after the advent of Robert Grame was given to Mr. Hamlyn. - -"I cannot give him up," she said in low tones. - -"What moonshine, Eliza! You are not a love-sick girl now." - -The colour dyed her face painfully. Did her father suspect aught of the -past; of where her love _had_ been given--and rejected? The suspicion -only added fuel to the fire. - -"I cannot give up Mr. Hamlyn," she reiterated. - -"Then you will never inherit Leet Hall. No, nor aught else of mine." - -"As you please, sir, about that." - -"You set me at defiance, then!" - -"I don't wish to do so, father; but I shall marry Mr. Hamlyn." - -"At defiance," repeated the Captain, as she moved to escape from his -presence; "Katherine secretly, you openly. Better that I had never had -children. Look here, Eliza: let this matter remain in abeyance for six -or twelve months, things resting as they are. By that time you may have -come to your senses; or I (yes, I see you are ready to retort it) to -mine. If not--well, we shall only then be where we are." - -"And that we should be," returned Eliza, doggedly. "Time will never -change either of us." - -"But events may. Let it be so, child. Stay where you are for the -present, in your maiden home." - -She shook her head in denial; not a line of her proud face giving way, -nor a curve of her decisive lips: and Captain Monk knew that he had -pleaded in vain. She would neither give up her marriage nor prolong the -period for its celebration. - -What could be the secret of her obstinacy? Chiefly the impossibility of -tolerating opposition to her own indomitable will. It was her father's -will over again; his might be a very little softening with years and -trouble; not much. Had she been in desperate love with Hamlyn one could -have understood it, but she was not; at most it was but a passing fancy. -What says the poet? I daresay you all know the lines, and I know I have -quoted them times and again, they are so true: - - "Few hearts have never loved, but fewer still - Have felt a second passion. _None_ a third. - The first was living fire; the next a thrill; - The weary heart can never more be stirred: - Rely on it the song has left the bird." - -Very, very true. Her passion for Robert Grame had been as living fire in -its wild intensity; it was but the shadow of a thrill that warmed her -heart for Philip Hamlyn. Possibly she mistook it in a degree; thought -more of it than it was. The feeling of gratification which arises from -flattered vanity deceives a woman's heart sometimes: and Mr. Hamlyn did -not conceal his rapturous admiration of her. - -She held to her defiant course, and her father held to his. He did not -continue to say she should not marry; he had no power for that--and -perhaps he did not want her to make a moonlight escapade of it, as -Katherine had made. So the preparation for the wedding went on, Eliza -herself paying for the rattletraps, as they had been called; Captain -Monk avowed that he "washed his hands of it," and then held his peace. - -Whether Mr. Hamlyn and his intended bride considered it best to get the -wedding over and done with, lest adverse fate, set afoot by the Captain, -should after all circumvent them, it is impossible to say, but the day -fixed was a speedy one. And if Captain Monk had deemed it "not decent" -in Mr. Hamlyn to propose for a young lady after only a month's -knowledge, what did he think of this? They were to be married on the -last day of the year. - -Was it fixed upon in defiant mockery?--for, as the reader knows, it -had proved an ominous day more than once in the Monk family. But no, -defiance had no hand in that, simply adverse fate. The day originally -fixed by the happy couple was Christmas Eve: but Mr. Hamlyn, who had to -go to London about that time on business connected with his property, -found it impossible to get back for the day, or for some days after it. -He wrote to Eliza, asking that the day should be put off for a week, if -it made no essential difference, and fixed the last day in the year. -Eliza wrote word back that she would prefer that day; it gave more time -for preparation. - -They were to be married in her own church, and by its Vicar. Great -marvel existed at the Captain's permitting this, but he said nothing. -Having washed his hands of the affair, he washed them for good: had the -bride been one of the laundry-maids in his household he could not have -taken less notice. A Miss Wilson was coming from a little distance to be -bridesmaid; and the bride and bridegroom would go off from the church -door. The question of a breakfast was never mooted: Captain Monk's -equable indifference might not have stood that. - -"I shall wish them good luck with all my heart--but I don't feel -altogether sure they'll have it!" bewailed poor Mrs. Carradyne in -private. "Eliza should have agreed to the delay proposed by her father." - - -III - -Ring, ring, ring, broke forth the chimes on the frosty midday air. Not -midnight, you perceive, but midday, for the church clock had just given -forth its twelve strokes. Another round of the dial, and the old year -would have departed into the womb of the past. - -Bowling along the smooth turnpike road which skirted the churchyard -on one side came a gig containing a gentleman, a tall, slender, -frank-looking young man, with a fair face and the pleasantest blue eyes -ever seen. He wore a white top-coat, the fashion then, and was driving -rapidly in the direction of Leet Hall; but when the chimes burst forth -he pulled up abruptly. - -"Why, what in the world----" he began--and then sat still listening to -the sweet strains of "The Bay of Biscay." The day, though in mid-winter, -was bright and beautiful, and the golden sunlight, shining from the -dark-blue sky, played on the young man's golden hair. - -"Have they mistaken midday for midnight?" he continued, as the chimes -played out their tune and died away on the air. "What's the meaning of -it?" - -He, Harry Carradyne, was not the only one to ask this. No human being -in and about Church Leet, save Captain Monk and they who executed his -orders, knew that he had decreed that the chimes should play that day at -midday. Why did he do it? What could his motive be? Surely not that they -should, by playing (according to Mrs. Carradyne's theory), inaugurate -ill-luck for Eliza! At the moment they began to play she was coming out -of church on Mr. Hamlyn's arm, having left her maiden name behind her. - -A few paces more, for he was driving gently on now, and Harry pulled up -again, in surprise, as before, for the front of the church was now in -view. Lots of spectators, gentle and simple, stood about, and a handsome -chariot, with four post-horses and a great coat-of-arms emblazoned on -its panels, waited at the church gate. - -"It must be a wedding!" decided Harry. - -The next moment the chariot was in motion; was soon about to pass him, -the bride and bridegroom within it. A very dark but good-looking man, -with an air of command in his face, he, but a stranger to Harry; she, -Eliza. She wore a grey silk dress, a white bonnet, with orange blossoms -and a veil, which was quite the fashionable wedding attire of the day. -Her head was turned, nodding its farewells yet to the crowd, and she did -not see her cousin as the chariot swept by. - -"Dear me!" he exclaimed, mentally. "I wonder who she has married?" - -Staying quietly where he was until the spectators should have dispersed, -whose way led them mostly in opposite directions, Harry next saw the -clerk come out of the church by the small vestry door, lock it and cross -over to the stile: which brought him out close to the gig. - -"Why, my heart alive!" he exclaimed. "Is it Captain Carradyne?" - -"That's near enough," said Harry, who knew the title was accorded him by -the rustic natives of Church Leet, as he bent down with his sunny smile -to shake the old clerk's hand. "You are hearty as ever, I see, John. And -so you have had a wedding here?" - -"Ay, sir, there have been one in the church. I was not in my place, -though. The Captain, he ordered me to let the church go for once, and to -be ready up aloft in the belfry to set the chimes going at midday. As -chance had it, the party came out just at the same time; Miss Eliza was -a bit late in coming, ye see; so it may be said the chimes rang 'em out. -I guess the sound astonished the people above a bit, for nobody knew -they were going to play." - -"But how was it all, Cale? Why should the Captain order them to chime at -midday?" - -John Cale shook his head. "I can't tell ye that rightly, Mr. Harry; the -Captain, as ye know, sir, never says why he does this or why he does -t'other. Young William Threpp, who had to be up there with me, thought -he must have ordered 'em to play in mockery--for he hates the marriage -like poison." - -"Who is the bridegroom?" - -"It's a Mr. Hamlyn, sir. A gentleman who is pretty nigh as haughty as -the Captain himself; but a pleasant-spoken, kindly man, as far as I've -seen: and a rich one, too." - -"Why did Captain Monk object to him?" - -"It's thought 'twas because he was a stranger to the place and has lived -over in the Indies; and he wanted Miss Eliza, so it's said, to have -young Tom Rivers. That's about it, I b'lieve, Mr. Harry." - -Harry Carradyne drove away thoughtfully. At the foot of the slight -ascent leading to Leet Hall, one of the grooms happened to be standing. -Harry handed over to him the horse and gig, and went forward on foot. - -"Bertie!" he called out. For he had seen Hubert before him, walking at a -snail's pace: the very slightest hill tried him now. The only one left -of the wedding-party, for the bridesmaid drove off from the church door. -Hubert turned at the call. - -"Harry! Why, Harry!" - -Hand locked in hand, they sat down on a bench beside the path; face -gazing into face. There had always been a likeness between them: in -the bright-coloured, waving hair, the blue eyes and the well-favoured -features. But Harry's face was redolent of youth and health; in the -other's might be read approaching death. - -"You are very thin, Bertie; thinner even than I expected to see you," -broke from the traveller involuntarily. - -"_You_ are looking well, at any rate," was Hubert's answer. "And I am so -glad you are come: I thought you might have been here a month ago." - -"The voyage was unreasonably long; we had contrary winds almost from -port to port. I got on to Worcester yesterday, slept there, and hired -a horse and gig to bring me over this morning. What about Eliza's -wedding, Hubert? I was just in time to see her drive away. Cale, with -whom I had a word down yonder, says the master does not like it." - -"He does not like it and would not countenance it: washed his hands of -it (as he told us) altogether." - -"Any good reason for that?" - -"Not particularly good, that I see. Somehow he disliked Hamlyn; and Tom -Rivers wanted Eliza, which would have pleased him greatly. But Eliza -was not without blame. My father gave way so far as to ask her to delay -things for a few months, not to marry in haste, and she would not. She -might have conceded as much as that." - -"Did you ever know Eliza concede anything, Bertie?" - -"Well, not often." - -"Who gave her away?" - -"I did: look at my gala toggery"--opening his overcoat. "He wanted -to forbid it. 'Don't hinder me, father,' I pleaded; 'it is the last -brotherly service I can ever render her.' And so," his tone changing to -lightness, "I have been and gone and done it." - -Harry Carradyne understood. "Not the last, Hubert; don't say that. I -hope you will live to render her many another yet." - -Hubert smiled faintly. "Look at me," he said in answer. - -"Yes, I know; I see how you look. But you may take a turn yet." - -"Ah, miracles are no longer wrought for us. Shall I surprise you very -much, cousin mine, if I say that were the offer made me of prolonged -life, I am not sure that I should accept it?" - -"Not unless health were renewed with it; I can understand that. You have -had to endure suffering, Bertie." - -"Ay. Pain, discomfort, fears, weariness. After working out their -torment upon me, they--why then they took a turn and opened out the -vista of a refuge." - -"A refuge?" - -"The one sure Refuge offered by God to the sick and sorrowful, the -weary and heavy-laden--Himself. I found it. I found _Him_ and all His -wonderful mercy. It will not be long now, Harry, before I see Him face -to face. And here comes His true minister, but for whom I might have -missed the way." - -Harry turned his head, and saw, advancing up the drive, a good-looking -young clergyman. "Who is it?" he involuntarily cried. - -"Your brother-in-law, Robert Grame. Lucy's husband." - -It was not the fashion in those days for a bride's mother (or one acting -as her mother) to attend the bride to church; therefore Mrs. Carradyne, -following it, was spared risk of conflict with Captain Monk on that -score. She was in Eliza's room, assisting at the putting on of the -bridal robes (for we have to go back an hour or so) when a servant came -up to say that Mr. Hamlyn waited below. Rather wondering--for he was to -have driven straight to the church--Mrs. Carradyne went downstairs. - -"Pardon me, dear Mrs. Carradyne," he said, as he shook hands, and she -had never seen him look so handsome, "I could not pass the house without -making one more effort to disarm Captain Monk's prejudices, and asking -for his blessing on us. Do you think he will consent to see me?" - -Mrs. Carradyne felt sure he would not, and said so. But she sent Rimmer -to the library to ask the question. Mr. Hamlyn pencilled down a few -anxious words on paper, folded it, and put it into the man's hand. - -No; it proved useless. Captain Monk was harder than adamant; he sent -Rimmer back with a flea in his ear, and the petition torn in two. - -"I feared so," sighed Mrs. Carradyne. "He will not this morning see even -Eliza." - -Mr. Hamlyn did not sigh in return; he spoke a cross, impatient word: he -had never been able to see reason in the Captain's dislike to him, and, -with a brief good-morning, went out to his carriage. But, remembering -something when crossing the hall, he came back. - -"Forgive me, Mrs. Carradyne; I quite forgot that I have a note for you. -It is from Mrs. Peveril, I believe; it came to me this morning, enclosed -in a letter of her husband's." - -"You have heard at last, then!" - -"At last--as you observe. Though Peveril had nothing particular to write -about; I daresay he does not care for letter writing." - -Slipping the note into her pocket, to be opened at leisure, Mrs. -Carradyne returned to the adorning of Eliza. Somehow, it was rather -a prolonged business--which made it late when the bride with her -bridesmaid and Hubert drove from the door. - -Mrs. Carradyne remained in the room--to which Eliza was not to -return--putting up this, and that. The time slipped on, and it was close -upon twelve o'clock when she got back to the drawing-room. Captain Monk -was in it then, standing at the window, which he had thrown wide open. -To see more clearly the bridal party come out of church, was the thought -that crossed Mrs. Carradyne's mind in her simplicity. - -"I very much feared they would be late," she observed, sitting down near -her brother: and at that moment the church clock began to strike twelve. - -"A good thing if they were _too_ late!" he answered. "Listen." - -She supposed he wanted to count the strokes--what else could he be -listening to? And now, by the stir at the distant gates, she saw that -the bridal party had come out. - -"Good heavens, what's that?" shrieked Mrs. Carradyne, starting from her -chair. - -"The chimes," stoically replied the Captain. And he proceeded to -hum through the tune of "The Bay of Biscay," and beat a noiseless -accompaniment with his foot. - -"_The Chimes_, Emma," he repeated, when the melody had finished itself -out. "I ordered them to be played. It's the last day of the old year, -you know." - -Laughing slightly at her consternation, Captain Monk closed the window -and quitted the room. As Mrs. Carradyne took her handkerchief from her -pocket to pass it over her face, grown white with startled terror, the -note she had put there came out also, and fell on the carpet. - -Picking it up, she stood at the window, gazing forth. Her sight was not -what it used to be; but she discerned the bride and bridegroom enter -their carriage and drive away; next she saw the bridesmaid get into the -carriage from the Hall, assisted by Hubert, and that drive off in its -turn. She saw the crowd disperse, this way and that; she even saw the -gig there, its occupant talking with John Cale. But she did not look at -him particularly; and she had not the slightest idea but that Harry was -in India. - -And all that time an undercurrent of depression was running riot in her -heart. None knew with what a strange terror she had grown to dread the -chimes. - -She sat down now and opened Mrs. Peveril's note. It treated chiefly of -the utterly astounding ways that untravelled old lady was meeting with -in foreign parts. "If you will believe me," wrote she, "the girl that -waits on us wears carpet slippers down at heel, and a short cotton -jacket for best, and she puts the tea-tray before me with the handle of -the tea-pot turned to me and the spout standing outwards, and she comes -right into the bed-room of a morning with Charles's shaving-water -without knocking." But the one sentence that arrested Mrs. Carradyne's -attention above any other was the following: "I reckon that by this time -you have grown well acquainted with our esteemed young friend. He is a -good, kindly gentleman, and I'm sure never could have done anything to -deserve his wife's treatment of him." - -"Can she mean Mr. Hamlyn?" debated Mrs. Carradyne, all sorts of ideas -leaping into her mind with a rush. "If not--what other 'esteemed friend' -can she allude to?--_she_, old herself, would call _him_ young. But Mr. -Hamlyn has not any wife. At least, had not until to-day." - -She read the note over again. She sat with it open, buried in a reverie, -thinking no end of things, good and bad: and the conclusion she at last -came to was, that, with the unwonted exercise of letter-writing, poor -old Mrs. Peveril's head had grown confused. - -"Well, Hubert, did it all go off well?" she questioned, as her nephew -entered the room, some sort of excitement on his wasted face. "I saw -them drive away." - -"Yes, it went off well; there was no hitch anywhere," replied Hubert. -"But, Aunt Emma, I have brought a friend home with me. Guess who it is." - -"Some lady or other who came to see the wedding," she returned. "I can't -guess." - -"You never would, though I were to give you ten guesses; no, though je -vous donne en mille, as the French have it. What should you say to a -young man come all the way over seas from India? There, that's as good -as telling you, Aunt Emma. Guess now." - -"Oh, Hubert!" clasping her trembling hands. "It cannot be Harry! What is -wrong?" - -Harry brought his bright face into the room and was clasped in his -mother's arms. She could not understand it one bit, and fears assailed -her. Come home in _this_ unexpected manner! Had he left the army? What -had he done? _What_ had he done? Hubert laughed and told her then. - -"He has done nothing wrong; everything that's good. He has sold out at -my father's request and left with honours--and is come home the heir of -Leet Hall. I said all along it was a shame to keep you out of the plot, -Aunt Emma." - -Well, it was glorious news for her. But, as if to tarnish its delight, -like an envious sprite of evil, deep down in her mind lay that other -news, just read--the ambiguous remark of old Mrs. Peveril's. - - -IV - -The walk on the old pier was pleasant enough in the morning sun. Though -yet but the first month in the year, the days were bright, the blue -skies without a cloud. Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn had enjoyed the fine weather -at Cheltenham for a week or two; from that pretty place they had now -come to Brighton, reaching it the previous night. - -"Oh, it is delightful!" exclaimed Eliza, gazing at the waves. She had -not seen the sea since she crossed it, a little girl, from the West -Indies. Those were not yet the days when all people, gentle and simple, -told one another that an autumn tour was essential to existence. "Look -at the sunbeams sparkling on the ripples and on the white sails of the -little boats! Philip, I should like to spend a month here." - -"All right," replied Mr. Hamlyn. - -They were staying at the Old Ship, a fashionable hotel then for ladies -as well as gentlemen, and had come out after breakfast; and they had -the pier nearly to themselves at that early hour. A yellow, gouty -gentleman, who looked as if he had quarrelled with his liver in some -clime all fire and cayenne, stood at the end leaning on his stick, -alternately looking at the sea and listlessly watching any advancing -stragglers. - -There came a sailor, swaying along, a rope in his hand; following him, -walked demurely three little girls in frocks and trousers, with their -French governess; then came two eye-glassed young men, dandified and -supercilious, who appeared to have more money than brains--and the -jaundiced man went into a gaping fit of lassitude. - -Anyone else coming? Yes; a lady and gentleman arm-in-arm: quiet, -well-dressed, good-looking. As the invalid watched their approach, a -puzzled look of doubt and surprise rose to his countenance. Moving -forward a step or two on his gouty legs, he spoke. - -"Can it be possible, Hamlyn, that we meet here?" - -Even through his dark skin a red flush coursed into Mr. Hamlyn's face. -He was evidently very much surprised in his turn, if not startled. - -"Captain Pratt!" he exclaimed. - -"Major Pratt now," was the answer, as they shook hands. "That wretched -climate played the deuce with me, and they graciously gave me a step and -allowed me to retire upon it. The very deuce, I assure you, Philip. Beg -pardon, ma'am," he added, seeing the lady look at him. - -"My wife, Mrs. Hamlyn," spoke her husband. - -Major Pratt contrived to lift his hat, and bow: which feat, what with -his gouty hands and his helpless legs and his great invalid stick, was a -work of time. "I saw your marriage in the _Times_, Hamlyn, and wondered -whether it could be you, or not: I didn't know, you see, that you were -over here. Wish you luck; and you also, ma'am. Hope it will turn out -more fortunate for you, Philip, than----" - -"Where are you staying?" broke in Mr. Hamlyn, as if something were -frightening him. - -"At some lodgings over yonder, where they fleece me," replied the Major. -"You should see the bill they've brought me in for last week. They've -made me eat four pounds of butter and five joints of meat, besides -poultry and pickles and a fruit pie! Why, I live mostly upon dry toast; -hardly dare touch an ounce of meat in a day. When I had 'em up before -me, the harpies, they laid it upon my servant's appetite--old Saul, you -know. _He_ answered them." - -Mrs. Hamlyn laughed. "There are two articles that are very convenient, -as I have heard, to some of the lodging-house keepers: their lodgers' -servant, and their own cat." - -"By Jove, ma'am, yes!" said the Major. "But I've given warning to this -lot where I am." - -Saying au revoir to Major Pratt, Mr. Hamlyn walked down the pier again -with his wife. "Who is he, Philip?" she asked. "You seem to know him -well." - -"Very well. He is a sort of connection of mine, I believe," laughed -Mr. Hamlyn, "and I saw a good deal of him in India a few years back. -He is greatly changed. I hardly think I should have known him had he -not spoken. It's his liver, I suppose." - -Leaving his wife at the hotel, Mr. Hamlyn went back again to Major -Pratt, much to the lonely Major's satisfaction, who was still leaning on -his substantial stick as he gazed at the water. - -"The sight of you has brought back to my mind all that unhappy business, -Hamlyn," was his salutation. "I shall have a fit of the jaundice now, I -suppose! Here--let's sit down a bit." - -"And the sight of you has brought it to mine," said Mr. Hamlyn, as he -complied. "I have been striving to drive it out of my remembrance." - -"I know little about it," observed the Major. "She never wrote to me at -all afterwards, and you wrote me but two letters: the one announcing the -fact of her disgrace; the other, the calamity and the deaths." - -"That is quite enough to know; don't ask me to go over the details to -you personally," said Mr. Hamlyn in a tone of passionate discomfort. "So -utterly repugnant to me is the remembrance altogether, that I have never -spoken of it--even to my present wife." - -"Do you mean you've not told her you were once a married man?" cried -Major Pratt. - -"No, I have not." - -"Then you've shown a lack of judgment which I wouldn't have given you -credit for, my friend," declared the Major. "A man may whisper to his -girl any untoward news he pleases of his past life, and she'll forgive -and forget; aye, and worship him all the more for it, though it were -the having set fire to a church: but if he keeps it as a bonne bouchee -to drop out after marriage, when she has him fast and tight, she'll -curry-comb his hair for him in style. Believe that." - -Mr. Hamlyn laughed. - -"There never was a hidden skeleton between man and wife yet but it came -to light sooner or later," went on the Major. "If you are wise, you will -tell her at once, before somebody else does." - -"What 'somebody?' Who is there here that knows it?" - -"Why, as to 'here,' I know it, and nearly spoke of it before her, as you -must have heard; and my servant knows it. That's nothing, you'll say; we -can be quiet, now I have the cue: but you are always liable to meet with -people who knew you in those days, and who knew _her_. Take my advice, -Philip Hamlyn, and tell your wife. Go and do it now." - -"I daresay you are right," said the younger man, awaking out of a -reverie. "Of the two evils it may be the lesser." And with lagging -steps, and eyes that seemed to have weights to them, he set out to walk -back to the Old Ship Hotel. - - - - -THE SILENT CHIMES - - -IV.--NOT HEARD - - -I - -That oft-quoted French saying, a mauvais-quart-d'heure, is a pregnant -one, and may apply to small as well as to great worries of life: most of -us know it to our cost. But, rely upon it, one of the very worst is that -when a bride or bridegroom has to make a disagreeable confession to the -other, which ought to have been made before going to church. - -Philip Hamlyn was finding it so. Standing over the fire, in their -sitting-room at the Old Ship Hotel at Brighton, his elbow on the -mantelpiece, his hand shading his eyes, he looked down at his wife -sitting opposite him, and disclosed his tale: that when he married her -fifteen days ago he had not been a bachelor, but a widower. There was -no especial reason for his not having told her, save that he hated and -abhorred that earlier period of his life and instinctively shunned its -remembrance. - -Sent to India by his friends in the West Indies to make his way in -the world, he entered one of the most important mercantile houses in -Calcutta, purchasing a lucrative post in it. Mixing in the best society, -for his introductions were undeniable, he in course of time met with a -young lady named Pratt, who had come out from England to stay with her -elderly cousins, Captain Pratt and his sister. Philip Hamlyn was caught -by her pretty doll's face, and married her. They called her Dolly: and -a doll she was, by nature as well as by name. - -"Marry in haste and repent at leisure," is as true a saying as the -French one. Philip Hamlyn found it so. Of all vain, frivolous, heartless -women, Mrs. Dolly Hamlyn turned out to be about the worst. Just a year -or two of uncomfortable bickering, of vain endeavours on his part, now -coaxing, now reproaching, to make her what she was not and never would -be--a reasonable woman, a sensible wife--and Dolly Hamlyn fled. She -decamped with a hair-brained lieutenant, the two taking sailing-ship -for England, and she carrying with her her little one-year-old boy. - -I'll leave you to guess what Philip Hamlyn's sensations were. A calamity -such as that does not often fall upon man. While he was taking steps -to put his wife legally away for ever and to get back his child, and -Captain Pratt was aiding and abetting (and swearing frightfully at the -delinquent over the process), news reached them that Heaven's vengeance -had been more speedy than theirs. The ship, driven out of her way by -contrary winds and other disasters, went down off the coast of Spain, -and all the passengers on board perished. This was what Philip Hamlyn -had to confess now: and it was more than silly of him not to have done -it before. - -He touched but lightly upon it now. His tones were low, his words when -he began somewhat confused: nevertheless his wife, gazing up at him with -her large dark eyes, gathered an inkling of his meaning. - -"Don't tell it me!" she passionately interrupted. "Do not tell me that -I am only your second wife." - -He went over to her, praying her to be calm, speaking of the bitter -feeling of shame which had ever since clung to him. - -"Did you divorce her?" - -"No, no; you do not understand me, Eliza. She died before anything could -be done; the ship was wrecked." - -"Were there any children?" she asked in a hard whisper. - -"One; a baby of a year old. He was drowned with his mother." - -Mrs. Hamlyn folded her hands one over the other, and leaned back in her -chair. "Why did you deceive me?" - -"My will was good to deceive you for ever," he confessed with emotion. -"I hate that past episode in my life; hate to think of it: I wish I -could blot it out of remembrance. But for Pratt I should not have told -you now." - -"Oh, he said you ought to tell me?" - -"He did: and blamed me for not having told you already." - -"Have you any more secrets of the past that you are keeping from me?" - -"None. Not one. You may take my honour upon it, Eliza. And now let -us----" - -She had started forward in her chair; a red flush darkening her pale -cheeks. "Philip! Philip! am I legally married? Did you describe yourself -as a _bachelor_ in the license?" - -"No, as a widower. I got the license in London, you know." - -"And no one read it?" - -"No one save he who married us: Robert Grame, and I don't suppose he -noticed it." - -Robert Grame! The flush on Eliza's cheeks grew deeper. - -"Did you _love_ her?" - -"I suppose I thought so when I married her. It did not take long to -disenchant me," he added with a harsh laugh. - -"What was her Christian name?" - -"Dolly. Dora, I believe, by register. My dear wife, I have told you all. -In compassion to me let us drop the subject, now and for ever." - -Was Eliza Hamlyn--sitting there with pale, compressed lips, sullen eyes, -and hands interlocked in pain--already beginning to reap the fruit she -had sown as Eliza Monk by her rebellious marriage? Perhaps so. But not -as she would have to reap it later on. - -Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn spent nearly all that year in travelling. In -September they came to Peacock's Range, taking it furnished for a term -of old Mr. and Mrs. Peveril, who had not yet come back to it. It stood -midway, as may be remembered, between Church Leet and Church Dykely, so -that Eliza was close to her old home. Late in October a little boy was -born: it would be hard to say which was the prouder of him, Philip -Hamlyn or his wife. - -"What would you like his name to be?" Philip asked her one day. - -"I should like it to be Walter," said Mrs. Hamlyn. - -"_Walter!_" - -"Yes. I like the name to begin with, but I once had a dear little -brother named Walter, just a year younger than I. He died before we came -home to England. Have you any objection to the name?" - -"Oh, no, no objection," he slowly said. "I was only thinking whether you -would have any. It was the name given to my first child." - -"That can make no possible difference--it was not my child," was her -haughty answer. So the baby was named Walter James; the latter name -also chosen by Eliza, because it had been old Mr. Monk's. - -In the following spring Mr. Hamlyn had to go to the West Indies. Eliza -remained at home; and during this time she became reconciled to her -father. - -Hubert brought it about. For Hubert lived yet. But he was a mere shadow -and had to take entirely to the house, and soon to his room. Eliza came -to see him, again and again; and finally over Hubert's sofa peace was -made--for Captain Monk loved her still, just as he had loved Katherine, -for all her rebellion. - -Hubert lingered on to the summer. And then, on a calm evening, when one -of the glorious sunsets that he had so loved to look upon was illumining -the western sky, opening up to his dying view, as he had once said, the -very portals of Heaven, he passed peacefully away to his rest. - - -II - -The next change that set in at Leet Hall concerned Miss Kate Dancox. -That wilful young pickle, somewhat sobered by the death of Hubert in the -summer, soon grew unbearable again. She had completely got the upper -hand of her morning governess, Miss Hume--who walked all the way from -Church Dykely and back again--and of nearly everyone else; and Captain -Monk gave forth his decision one day when all was turbulence--a resident -governess. Mrs. Carradyne could have danced a reel for joy, and wrote to -a governess agency in London. - -One morning about this time (which was already glowing with the tints of -autumn) a young lady got out of an omnibus in Oxford Street, which had -brought her from a western suburb of London, paid the conductor, and -then looked about her. - -"There!" she exclaimed in a quaint tone of vexation, "I have to cross -the street! and how am I to do it?" - -Evidently she was not used to the bustle of London streets or to -crossing them alone. She did it, however, after a few false starts, and -so turned down a quiet side street and rang the bell of a house in it. -A slatternly girl answered the ring. - -"Governess-agent--Mrs. Moffit? Oh, yes; first-floor front," said she -crustily, and disappeared. - -The young lady found her way upstairs alone. Mrs. Moffit sat in state -in a big arm-chair, before a large table and desk, whence she daily -dispensed joy or despair to her applicants. Several opened letters and -copies of the daily journals lay on the table. - -"Well?" cried she, laying down her pen, "what for you?" - -"I am here by your appointment, made with me a week ago," said the young -lady. "This is Thursday." - -"What name?" cried Mrs. Moffit sharply, turning over rapidly the leaves -of a ledger. - -"Miss West. If you remember, I----" - -"Oh, yes, child, my memory's good enough," was the tart interruption. -"But with so many applicants it's impossible to be certain as to faces. -Registered names we can't mistake." - -Mrs. Moffit read her notes--taken down a week ago. "Miss West. Educated -in first-class school at Richmond; remained in it as teacher. Very good -references from the ladies keeping it. Father, Colonel in India." - -"But----" - -"You do not wish to go into a school again?" spoke Mrs. Moffit, closing -the ledger with a snap, and peremptorily drowning what the applicant was -about to say. - -"Oh, dear, no, I am only leaving to better myself, as the maids say," -replied the young lady, smiling. - -"And you wish for a good salary?" - -"If I can get it. One does not care to work hard for next to nothing." - -"Or else I have--let me see--two--three situations on my books. Very -comfortable, I am instructed, but two of them offer ten pounds a-year, -the other twelve." - -The young lady drew herself slightly up with an involuntary movement. -"Quite impossible, madam, that I could take any one of them." - -Mrs. Moffit picked up a letter and consulted it, looking at the young -lady from time to time, as if taking stock of her appearance. "I -received a letter this morning from the country--a family require a -well-qualified governess for their one little girl. Your testimonials as -to qualifications might suit--and you are, I believe, a gentlewoman----" - -"Oh, yes; my father was----" - -"Yes, yes, I remember--I've got it down; don't worry me," impatiently -spoke the oracle, cutting short the interruption. "So far you might -suit: but in other respects--I hardly know what to think." - -"But why?" asked the other timidly, blushing a little under the intent -gaze. - -"Well, you are very young, for one thing; and they might think you too -good-looking." - -The girl's blush grew red as a rose; she had delicate features and it -made her look uncommonly pretty. A half-smile sat in her soft, dark -hazel eyes. - -"Surely that could not be an impediment. I am not so good-looking as all -that!" - -"That's as people may think," was the significant answer. "Some families -will not take a pretty governess--afraid of their sons, you see. This -family says nothing about looks; for aught I know there may be no sons -in it. 'Thoroughly competent'--reading from the letter--'a gentlewoman -by birth, of agreeable manners and lady-like. Salary, first year, to be -forty pounds.'" - -"And will you not recommend me?" pleaded the young governess, her -voice full of entreaty. "Oh, please do! I know I should be found fully -competent, and promise you that I would do my best." - -"Well, there may be no harm in my writing to the lady about you," -decided Mrs. Moffit, won over by the girl's gentle respect--with which -she did not get treated by all her clients. "Suppose you come here again -on Monday next?" - -The end of the matter was that Miss West was engaged by the lady -mentioned--no other than Mrs. Carradyne. And she journeyed down into -Worcestershire to enter upon the situation. - -But clever (and generally correct) Mrs. Moffit made one mistake, -arising, no doubt, from the chronic state of hurry she was always in. -"Miss West is the daughter of the late Colonel William West," she wrote, -"who went to India with his regiment a few years ago, and died there." -What Miss West had said to her was this: "My father, a clergyman, died -when I was a little child, and my uncle William, Colonel West, the only -relation I had left, died three years ago in India." Mrs. Moffit somehow -confounded the two. - -This might not have mattered on the whole. But, as you perceive, it -conveyed a wrong impression at Leet Hall. - -"The governess I have engaged is a Miss West; her father was a military -man and a gentleman," spake Mrs. Carradyne one morning at breakfast to -Captain Monk. "She is rather young--about twenty, I fancy; but an older -person might never get on at all with Kate." - -"Had good references with her, I suppose?" said the Captain. - -"Oh, yes. From the agent, and especially from the ladies who have -brought her up." - -"Who was her father, do you say?--a military man?" - -"Colonel William West," assented Mrs. Carradyne, referring to the letter -she held. "He went to India with his regiment and died there." - -"I'll refer to the army-list," said the Captain; "daresay it's all -right. And she shall keep Kate in order, or I'll know the reason why." - - * * * * * - -The evening sunlight lay on the green plain, on the white fields from -which the grain had been reaped, and on the beautiful woods glowing with -the varied tints of autumn. A fly was making its way to Leet Hall, and -its occupant, looking out of it on this side and that, in a fever of -ecstasy, for the country scene charmed her, thought how favoured was the -lot of those who could live out their lives amidst its surroundings. - -In the drawing-room at the Hall, watching the approach of this same fly, -stood Mrs. Hamlyn, a frown upon her haughty face. Philip Hamlyn was -still detained in the West Indies, and since her reconciliation to her -father, she would go over with her baby-boy to the Hall and remain there -for days together. Captain Monk liked to have her, and he took more -notice of the baby than he had ever taken of a baby yet. For when Kate -was an infant he had at first shunned her, because she had cost -Katherine her life. This baby, little Walter, was a particularly forward -child, strong and upright, walked at ten months old, and much resembled -his mother in feature. In temper also. The young one would stand -sturdily in his little blue shoes and defy his grandpapa already, and -assert his own will, to the amused admiration of Captain Monk. - -Eliza, utterly wrapt up in her child, saw her father's growing love for -him with secret delight; and one day when he had the boy on his knee, -she ventured to speak out a thought that was often in her heart. - -"Papa," she said, with impassioned fervour, "_he_ ought to be the heir, -your own grandson; not Harry Carradyne." - -Captain Monk simply stared in answer. - -"He lies in the _direct_ succession; he has your own blood in his veins. -Papa, you ought to see it." - -Certainly the gallant sailor's manners were improving. For perhaps the -first time in his life he suppressed the hot and abusive words rising to -his tongue--that no son of that man, Hamlyn, should come into Leet -Hall--and stood in silence. - -"_Don't_ you see it, papa?" - -"Look here, Eliza: we'll drop the subject. When my brother, your uncle, -was dying, he wrote me a letter, enjoining me to make Emma's son the -heir, failing a son of my own. It was right it should be so, he said. -Right it is; and Harry Carradyne will succeed me. Say no more." - -Thus forbidden to say more, Eliza Hamlyn thought the more, and her -thoughts were not pleasant. At one time she had feared her father might -promote Kate Dancox to the heirship, and grew to dislike the child -accordingly. Latterly, for the same reason, she had disliked Harry -Carradyne; hated him, in fact. She herself was the only remaining child -of the house, and her son ought to inherit. - -She stood this evening at the drawing-room window, this and other -matters running in her mind. Miss Kate, at the other end of the room, -had prevailed on Uncle Harry (as she called him) to play a game at toy -ninepins. Or perhaps he had prevailed on her: anything to keep her -tolerably quiet. She was in her teens now, but the older she grew -the more troublesome she became; and she was remarkably small and -childish-looking, so that strangers took her to be several years -younger than she really was. - -"This must be your model governess arriving, Aunt Emma," exclaimed Mrs. -Hamlyn, as the fly came up the drive. - -"I hope it is," said Mrs. Carradyne; and they all looked out. "Oh, yes, -that's an Evesham fly--and a ramshackle thing it appears." - -"I wonder you did not send the carriage to Evesham for her, mother," -remarked Harry, picking up some of the nine-pins which Miss Kate had -swept off the table with her hand. - -Mrs. Hamlyn turned round in a blaze of anger. "Send the carriage to -Evesham for the governess. What absurd thing will you say next, Harry?" - -The young man laughed in good humour. "Does it offend one of your -prejudices, Eliza?--a thousand pardons, then. But really, nonsense -apart, I can't see why the carriage should not have gone for her. We are -told she is a gentlewoman. Indeed, I suppose anyone else would not be -eligible, as she is to be made one of ourselves." - -"And think of the nuisance it will be! Do be quiet, Harry! Kate ought to -have been sent to school." - -"But your father would not have her sent, you know, Eliza," spoke Mrs. -Carradyne. - -"Then----" - -"Miss West, ma'am," interrupted Rimmer, the butler, showing in the -traveller. - -"Dear me, how very young!" was Mrs. Carradyne's first thought. "And what -a lovely face!" - -She came in shyly. In her whole appearance there was a shrinking, timid -gentleness, betokening refinement of feeling. A slender, lady-like girl, -in a plain, dark travelling-suit and a black bonnet lined and tied with -pink, a little lace border shading her nut-brown hair. The bonnets in -those days set off a pretty face better than do these modern ones. -That's what the Squire tells us. - -Mrs. Carradyne advanced and shook hands cordially; Eliza bent her -head slightly from where she stood; Harry Carradyne stood up, a -pleasant welcome in his blue eyes and in his voice, as he laughingly -congratulated her upon the ancient Evesham fly not having come to grief -en route. Kate Dancox pressed forward. - -"Are you my new governess?" - -The young lady smiled and said she believed so. - -"Aunt Eliza hates governesses; so do I. Do you expect to make me obey -you?" - -The governess blushed painfully; but took courage to say she hoped she -should. Harry Carradyne thought it the very loveliest blush he had ever -seen in all his travels, and she the sweetest-looking girl. - -And when Captain Monk came in he quite took to her appearance, for he -hated to have ugly people about him. But every now and then there was a -look in her face, or in her eyes, that struck him as being familiar--as -if he had once known someone who resembled her. Pleasing, soft, dark -hazel eyes they were as one could wish to see, with goodness in their -depths. - - -III - -Months passed away, and Miss West was domesticated in her new home. It -was not all sunshine. Mrs. Carradyne, ever considerate, strove to render -things agreeable; but there were sources of annoyance over which she had -no control. Kate, when she chose, could be verily a little elf, a demon; -as Mrs. Hamlyn often put it, "a diablesse." And she, that lady herself, -invariably treated the governess with a sort of cool, indifferent -contempt; and she was more often at Leet Hall than away from it. The -Captain, too, gave way to fits of temper that simply terrified Miss -West. Reared in the quiet atmosphere of a well-trained school, she had -never met with temper such as this. - -On the other hand--yes, on the other hand, she had an easy place of it, -generous living, was regarded as a lady, and--she had learnt to love -Harry Carradyne for weal or for woe. - -But not--please take notice--not unsolicited. Tacitly, at any rate. -If Mr. Harry's speaking blue eyes were to be trusted and Mr. Harry's -tell-tale tones when with her, his love, at the very least, equalled -hers. Eliza Hamlyn, despite the penetration that ill-nature generally -can exercise, had not yet scented any such treason in the wind: or there -would have blown up a storm. - -Spring was to bring its events; but first of all it must be said that -during the winter little Walter Hamlyn was taken ill at Leet Hall when -staying there with his mother. The malady turned out to be gastric -fever, and Mr. Speck was in constant attendance. For the few days -that the child lay in danger, Eliza was almost wild. The progress to -convalescence was very slow, lasting many weeks; and during that time -Captain Monk, being much with the little fellow, grew to be fond of him -with an unreasonable affection. - -"I'm not sure but I shall leave Leet Hall to him after all," he suddenly -observed to Eliza one day, not noticing that Harry Carradyne was -standing in the recess of the window. "Halloa! are you there, Harry? -Well, it can't be helped. You heard what I said?" - -"I heard, Uncle Godfrey: but I did not understand." - -"Eliza thinks Leet Hall ought to go in the direct line--through her--to -this child. What should you say to that?" - -"What could he say to it?" imperiously demanded Eliza. "He is only your -nephew." - -Harry looked from one to the other in a sort of bewildered surprise: and -there came a silence. - -"Uncle Godfrey," he said at last, starting out of a reverie, "you have -been good enough to make me your heir. It was unexpected on my part, -unsolicited; but you did do it, and you caused me to leave the army in -consequence, to give up my fair prospects in life. I am aware that this -deed is not irrevocable, and certainly you have the right to do what you -will with your own property. But you must forgive me for saying that you -should have made quite sure of your intentions beforehand: before taking -me up, if it be only to throw me aside again." - -"There, there, we'll leave it," retorted Captain Monk testily. "No -harm's done to you yet, Mr. Harry; I don't know that it will be." - -But Harry Carradyne felt sure that it would be; that he should be -despoiled of the inheritance. The resolute look of power on Eliza's -face, bent on him as he quitted the chamber, was an earnest of that. -Captain Monk was not the determined man he had once been; that was over. - -"A pretty kettle of fish, this is," ruefully soliloquised Harry, as he -marched along the corridor. "Eliza's safe to get her will; no doubt of -that. And I? what am I to do? I can't repurchase and go back amongst -them again like a returned shilling; at least, I won't; and I can't turn -Parson, or Queen's Counsel, or Cabinet Minister. I'm fitted for nothing -now, that I see, but to be a gentleman-at-large; and what would the -gentleman's income be?" - -Standing at the corridor window, softly whistling, he ran over ways and -means in his mind. He had a pretty house of his own, Peacock's Range, -formerly his father's, and about four hundred a-year. After his -mother's death it would not be less than a thousand a-year. - -"That means bread and cheese at present. Later---- Heyday, young lady, -what's the matter?" - -The school room door, close by, had opened with a burst, and Miss Kate -Dancox was flying down the stairs--her usual progress the minute lessons -were over. Harry strolled into the room. The governess was putting the -littered table straight. - -"Any admission, ma'am?" cried he quaintly, making for a chair. "I should -like to ask leave to sit down for a bit." - -Alice West laughed, and stirred the fire by way of welcome; he was a -very rare visitor to the school-room. The blaze, mingling with the rays -of the setting sun that streamed in at the window, played upon her sweet -face and silky brown hair, lighted up the bright winter dress she wore, -and the bow of pink ribbon that fastened the white lace round her -slender, pretty throat. - -"Are you so much in need of a seat?" she laughingly asked. - -"Indeed I am," was the semi-grave response. "I have had a shock." - -"A very sharp one, sir?" - -"Sharp as steel. Really and truly," he went on in a different tone, as -he left the chair and stood up by the table, facing her; "I have just -heard news that may affect my whole future life; may change me from a -rich man to a poor one." - -"Oh, Mr. Carradyne!" Her manner had changed now. - -"I was the destined inheritor, as you know--for I'm sure nobody has been -reticent upon the subject--of these broad lands," with a sweep of the -hand towards the plains outside. "Captain Monk is now pleased to inform -me that he thinks of substituting for me Mrs. Hamlyn's child." - -"But would not that be very unjust?" - -"Hardly fair--as it seems to me. Considering that my good uncle obliged -me to give up my own prospects for it." - -She stood, her hands clasped in sympathy, her face full of earnest -sadness. "How unkind! Why, it would be cruel!" - -"Well, I confess I felt it to be so at the first blow. But, standing -at the outside window yonder, pulling myself together, a ray or two -of light crept in, showing me that it may be for the best after all. -'Whatever _is_, is right,' you know." - -"Yes," she slowly said--"if you can think so. But, Mr. Carradyne, should -you not have anything at all?--anything to live upon after Captain -Monk's death?" - -"Just a trifle, I calculate, as the Americans say--and it is calculating -I have been--so that I need not altogether starve. Would you like to -know how much it will be?" - -"Oh, please don't laugh at me!"--for it suddenly struck the girl that he -was laughing, perhaps in reproof, and that she had spoken too freely. -"I ought not to have asked that; I was not thinking--I was too sorry -to think." - -"But I may as well tell you, if you don't mind. I have a very pretty -little place, which you have seen and heard of, called by that -delectable title Peacock's Range----" - -"Is Peacock's Range yours?" she interrupted, in surprise. "I thought it -belonged to Mr. Peveril." - -"Peacock's Range is mine and was my father's before me, Miss Alice. It -was leased to Peveril for a term of years, but I fancy he would be glad -to give it up to-morrow. Well, I have Peacock's Range and about four -hundred pounds a-year." - -Her face brightened. "Then you need not talk about starving," she said, -gaily. - -"And, later, I shall have altogether about a thousand a-year. Though I -hope it will be very long before it falls to me. Do you think two people -might venture to set up at Peacock's Range, and keep, say, a couple of -servants upon four hundred a-year? Could they exist upon it?" - -"Oh, dear, yes," she answered eagerly, quite unconscious of his drift. -"Did you mean yourself and some friend?" - -He nodded. - -"Why, I don't see how they could spend it all. There'd be no rent to -pay. And just think of all the fruit and vegetables in the garden -there!" - -"Then I take you at your word, Alice," he cried, impulsively, passing -his arm round her waist. "You are the 'friend.' My dear, I have long -wanted to ask you to be my wife, and I did not dare. This place, Leet -Hall, encumbered me: for I feared the opposition that I, as its heir, -should inevitably meet." - -She drew away from him, with doubting, frightened eyes. Mr. Harry -Carradyne brought all the persuasion of his own dancing blue ones to -bear upon her. "Surely, Alice, you will not say me nay!" - -"I dare not say yes," she whispered. - -"What are you afraid of?" - -"Of it altogether; of your friends. Captain Monk -would--would--perhaps--turn me out. And there's Mrs. Carradyne!" - -Harry laughed. "Captain Monk can have no right to any voice in my -affairs, once he throws me off; he cannot expect to have a finger in -everyone's pie. As to my mother--ah, Alice, unless I am much mistaken, -she will welcome you with love." - -Alice burst into tears: emotion was stirring her to its depths. -"_Please_ to let it all be for a time," she pleaded. - -"If you speak it would be sure to lead to my being turned away." - -"I _will_ let it be for a time, my darling, so far as speaking about -it goes: for more reasons than one it may be better. But you are my -promised wife, Alice; always recollect that." - -And Mr. Harry Carradyne, bold as a soldier should be, took a few kisses -from her unresisting lips to enforce his mandate. - - -IV - -Some time rolled on, calling for no particular record. Mr. Hamlyn's West -Indian property, which was large and lucrative, had been giving him -trouble of late; at least, those who had the care of it gave it, and he -was obliged to go over occasionally to see after it in person. Between -times he stayed with his wife at Peacock's Range; or else she joined him -in London. Their town residence was in Bryanston Square; a pretty house, -but not large. - -It had been an unfavourable autumn; cold and wet. Snow had fallen in -November, and the weather continued persistently dull and dreary. One -gloomy afternoon towards the close of the year, Mrs. Hamlyn, shivering -over her drawing-room fire, rang impatiently for more coal to be piled -upon it. - -"Has Master Walter come in yet?" she asked of the footman. - -"No, ma'am. I saw him just now playing in front there." - -She went to the window. Yes, running about the paths of the Square -garden was the child, attended by his nurse. He was a sturdy little -fellow. His mother, wishing to make him hardy, sent him out in all -weathers, and the boy throve upon it. He was three years old now, but -looked older; and he was as clever and precocious as some children are -at five or six. Her heart thrilled with a strange joy only at the sight -of him: he was her chief happiness in life, her idol. Whether he would -succeed to Leet Hall she knew not; since that one occasion, Captain Monk -had said no more upon the subject, for or against it. - -Why need she have longed for it so fervently? to the setting at naught -the express wishes of her deceased uncle and to the detriment of Harry -Carradyne? It was simply covetousness. As his father's eldest son (there -were no younger ones yet) the boy would inherit a fine property, a large -income; but his doting mother must give him Leet Hall as well. - -Her whole heart went out to the child as she watched him playing there. -A few snowflakes were beginning to fall, and twilight would soon be -drawing on, but she would not call him in. Standing thus at the window, -it gradually grew upon her to notice that something was standing back -against the opposite rails, looking fixedly at the houses. A young, fair -woman apparently, with a profusion of light hair; she was draped in a -close dark cloak which served to conceal her figure, just as the thick -veil she wore concealed her face. - -"I believe it is _this_ house she is gazing at so attentively--and at -_me_," thought Mrs. Hamlyn. "What can she possibly want?" - -The woman did not move away and Mrs. Hamlyn did not move; they remained -staring at one another. Presently Walter burst into the room, laughing -in glee at having distanced his nurse. His mother turned, caught him -in her arms and kissed him passionately. Wilful though he was by -disposition, and showing it at times, he was a lovable, generous child, -and very pretty: great brown eyes and auburn curls. His life was all -sunshine, like a butterfly's on a summer's day; his path as yet one of -roses without their thorns. - -"Mamma, I've got a picture-book; come and look at it," cried the eager -little voice, as he dragged his mother to the hearthrug and opened the -picture-book in the light of the blaze. "Penelope bought it for me." - -She sat down on a footstool, the book on her lap and one arm round him, -her treasure. Penelope waited to take off his hat and pelisse, and was -told to come for him in five minutes. - -"It's not my tea-time yet," cried he defiantly. - -"Indeed, then, Master Walter, it is long past it," said the nurse. "I -couldn't get him in before, ma'am," she added to her mistress. "Every -minute I kept expecting you'd be sending one of the servants after us." - -"In five minutes," repeated Mrs. Hamlyn. "And what's _this_ picture -about, Walter? Is it a little girl with a doll?" - -"Oh, dat bootiful," said the eager little lad, who was not yet as -advanced in speech as he was in ideas. "It says she----dere's papa!" - -In came Philip Hamlyn, tall, handsome, genial. Walter ran to him and was -caught in his arms. He and his wife were just a pair for adoring the -child. - -But nurse, inexorable, appeared again at the five minutes' end, and -Master Walter was carried off. - -"You came home in a cab, Philip, did you not? I thought I heard one -stop." - -"Yes; it is a miserable evening. Raining fast now." - -"Raining!" she repeated, rather wondering to hear it was not snowing. -She went to the window to look out, and the first object her eyes caught -sight of was the woman; leaning in the old place against the railings, -in the growing twilight. - -"I'm not sorry to see the rain; we shall have it warmer now," remarked -Mr. Hamlyn, who had drawn a chair to the fire. "In fact, it's much -warmer already than it was this morning." - -"Philip, step here a minute." - -His wife's tone had dropped to a half-whisper, sounding rather -mysterious, and he went at once. - -"Just look, Philip--opposite. Do you see a woman standing there?" - -"A woman--where?" cried he, looking of course in every direction but -the right one. - -"Just facing us. She has her back against the railings." - -"Oh, ay, I see now; a lady in a cloak. She must be waiting for some -one." - -"Why do you call her a lady?" - -"She looks like one--as far as I can see in the gloom. Does she not? -Her hair does, any way." - -"She has been there I cannot tell you how long, Philip; half-an-hour, -I'm sure; and it seems to me that she is _watching_ this house. A lady -would hardly do that." - -"This house? Oh, then, Eliza, perhaps she's watching for one of the -servants. She might come in, poor thing, instead of standing there in -the rain." - -"Poor thing, indeed!--what business has any woman to watch a house in -this marked manner?" retorted Eliza. "The neighbourhood will be taking -her for a female detective." - -"Nonsense!" - -"She has given me a creepy feeling; I can tell you that, Philip." - -"But why?" he exclaimed. - -"I can't tell you why; I don't know why; it is so. Do not laugh at me -for confessing it." - -Philip Hamlyn did laugh; heartily. "Creepy feelings" and his -imperiously strong-minded wife could have but little affinity with one -another. - -"We'll have the curtains drawn, and the lights, and shut her out," said -he cheerily. "Come and sit down, Eliza; I want to show you a letter I've -had to-day." - -But the woman waiting outside there seemed to possess for Eliza Hamlyn -somewhat of the fascination of the basilisk; for she never stirred from -the window until the curtains were drawn. - -"It is from Peveril," said Mr. Hamlyn, producing the letter he had -spoken of from his pocket. "The lease he took of Peacock's Range is not -yet out, but he can resign it now if he pleases, and he would be glad to -do so. He and his wife would rather remain abroad, it seems, than return -home." - -"Yes. Well?" - -"Well, he writes to me to ask whether he can resign it; or whether I -must hold him to the promise he made me--that I should rent the house -to the end of the term. I mean the end of the lease; the term he holds -it for." - -"Why does he want to resign it? Why can't things go on as at present?" - -"I gather from an allusion he makes, though he does not explicitly state -it, that Mr. Carradyne wishes to have the place in his own hands. What -am I to say to Peveril, Eliza?" - -"Say! Why, that you must hold him to his promise; that we cannot give -up the house yet. A pretty thing if I had no place to go down to at -will in my own county!" - -"So far as I am concerned, Eliza, I would prefer to stay away from the -county--if your father is to continue to treat me in the way he does. -Remember what it was in the summer. I think we are very well here." - -"Now, Philip, I have _said_. I do not intend to release our hold on -Peacock's Range. My father will be reconciled to you in time as he is -to me." - -"I wonder what Harry Carradyne can want it for?" mused Philip Hamlyn, -bowing to the imperative decision of his better half. - -"To live in it, I should say. He would like to show his resentment to -papa by turning his back on Leet Hall. It can't be for anything else." - -"What cause for resentment has he? He sent for him home and made him his -heir." - -"_That_ is the cause. Papa has come to his senses and changed his mind. -It is our darling little Walter who is to be the heir of Leet Hall, -Philip--and papa has so informed Harry Carradyne." - -Philip Hamlyn gazed at his wife in doubt. He had never heard a word of -this; instinct had kept her silent. - -"I hope not," he emphatically said, breaking the silence. - -"_You hope not?_" - -"Walter shall never inherit Leet Hall with my consent, Eliza. Harry -Carradyne is the right and proper heir, and no child of mine, as I hope, -must or shall displace him." - -Mrs. Hamlyn treated her husband to one of her worst looks, telling of -contempt as well as of power; but she did not speak. - -"Listen, Eliza. I cannot bear injustice, and I do not believe it ever -prospers in the long run. Were your father to bequeath--my dear, I beg -of you to listen to me!--to bequeath his estates to little Walter, to -the exclusion of the true heir, rely upon it the bequest would _never -bring him good_. In some way or other it would not serve him. Money -diverted by injustice from its natural and just channel does not carry -a blessing with it. I have noted this over and over again in going -through life." - -"Anything more?" she contemptuously asked. - -"And Walter will not need it," he continued persuasively, passing her -question as unheard. "As my son, he will be amply provided for." - -A very commonplace interruption occurred, and the subject was dropped. -Nothing more than a servant bringing in a letter for his master, just -come by hand. - -"Why, it is from old Richard Pratt!" exclaimed Mr. Hamlyn, as he turned -to the light. - -"I thought Major Pratt never wrote letters," she remarked. "I once heard -you say he must have forgotten how to write." - -He did not answer. He was reading the note, which appeared to be a short -one. She watched him. After reading it through he began it again, a -puzzled look upon his face. Then she saw it flush all over, and he -crushed the note into his pocket. - -"What is it about, Philip?" - -"Pratt wants a prescription for gout that I told him of. I'm sure I -don't know whether I can find it." - -He had answered in a dreamy tone with thoughts preoccupied, and quitted -the room hastily, as if in search of it. - -Eliza wondered why he should flush up at being asked for a prescription, -and why he should have suddenly lost himself in a reverie. But she had -not much curiosity as to anything that concerned old Major Pratt--who -was at present staying in lodgings in London. - -Downstairs went Mr. Hamlyn to the little room he called his library, -seated himself at the table under the lamp, and opened the note again. -It ran as follows:-- - - "DEAR PHILIP HAMLYN,--The other day, when calling here, you spoke - of some infallible prescription to cure gout that had been given - you. I've symptoms of it flying about me--and be hanged to it! - Bring it to me yourself to-morrow; I want to see you. _I suppose - there was no mistake in the report that that ship did go - down?_--and that none of the passengers were saved from it? - - "Truly yours, - "RICHARD PRATT." - -"What can he possibly mean?" muttered Philip Hamlyn. - -But there was no one to answer the question, and he sat buried in -thought, trying to answer it himself. Starting up from the useless task, -he looked in his desk, found the infallible prescription, and then -snatched his watch from his pocket. - -"Too late," he decided impatiently; "Pratt would be gone to bed. He goes -at all kinds of unearthly hours when out of sorts." So he went upstairs -to his wife again, the prescription displayed in his hand. - -Morning came, bringing the daily routine of duties in its train. Mrs. -Hamlyn had made an engagement to go with some friends to Blackheath, to -take luncheon with a lady living there. It was damp and raw in the early -portion of the day, but promised to be clear later on. - -"And then my little darling can go out to play again," she said, hugging -the child to her. "In the afternoon, nurse; it will be drier then; it is -really too damp this morning." - -Parting from him with fifty kisses, she went down to her comfortable and -handsome carriage, her husband placing her in. - -"I wish you were coming with me, Philip! But, you see, it is only ladies -to-day. Six of us." - -Philip Hamlyn laughed. "I don't wish it at all," he answered; "they -would be fighting for me. Besides, I must take old Pratt his -prescription. Only picture his storm of anger if I did not." - -Mrs. Hamlyn was not back until just before dinner: her husband, she -heard, had been out all day, and was not yet in. Waiting for him in the -drawing-room listlessly enough, she walked to the window to look out. -And there she saw with a sort of shock the same woman standing in the -same place as the previous evening. Not once all day long had she -thought of her. - -"This is a strange thing!" she exclaimed. "I am _sure_ it is this house -that she is watching." - -On the impulse of the moment she rang the bell and called the man who -answered it to the window. He was a faithful, attached servant, had -lived with them ever since they were married, and previously to that in -Mr. Hamlyn's family in the West Indies. - -"Japhet," said his mistress, "do you see that woman opposite? Do you -know why she stands there?" - -Japhet's answer told nothing. They had all seen her downstairs, -yesterday evening as well as this, and wondered what she could be -watching the house for. - -"She is not waiting for any of the servants, then; not an acquaintance -of theirs?" - -"No, ma'am, that I'm sure she's not. She is a stranger to us all." - -"Then, Japhet, I think you shall go over and question her," spoke his -mistress impulsively. "Ask her who she is and what she wants. And tell -her that a gentleman's house cannot be watched with impunity in this -country--and she will do well to move away before the police are called -to her." - -Japhet looked at his mistress and hesitated; he was an elderly man and -cautious. "I beg your pardon, madam," he began, "for venturing to say as -much, but I think it might be best to let her alone. She'll grow tired -of stopping there. And if her motive is to attract pity, and get alms -sent out, why the fact of speaking to her might make her bold enough to -ask for them. If she comes there to-morrow again, it might be best for -the master to take it up himself." - -For once in her life Mrs. Hamlyn condescended to listen to the opinion -of an inferior, and Japhet was dismissed without orders. Close upon -that, a cab came rattling down the square, and stopped at the door. Her -husband leaped out of it, tossed the driver his fare--he always paid -liberally--and let himself in with his latch-key. To Mrs. Hamlyn's -astonishment she had seen the woman dart from her standing-place to the -middle of the road, evidently to look at or to accost Mr. Hamlyn. But -his movements were too quick: he was within in a moment and had closed -the outer door. She then walked rapidly away, and disappeared. - -Eliza Hamlyn stood there lost in thought. The nurse came in to take the -child; Mr. Hamlyn had gone to his room to dress for dinner. - -"Have you seen the woman who has been standing out there yesterday -evening and this, Penelope?" she asked of the nurse, speaking upon -impulse. - -"Oh, yes, ma'am. She has been there all the blessed afternoon. She came -into the garden to talk to us." - -"Came into the garden to talk to you?" repeated Mrs. Hamlyn. "What did -she talk about?" - -"Chiefly about Master Walter, ma'am. She seemed to be much taken with -him; clasped him in her arms and kissed him, and said how old was he, -and was he difficult to manage, and that he had his father's beautiful -brown eyes----" - -Penelope stopped abruptly. Mistaking the hard stare her mistress was -unconsciously giving her for one of displeasure, she hastened to excuse -herself. The fact was, Mrs. Hamlyn's imagination was beginning to run -riot. - -"I couldn't help her speaking to me, ma'am, or her kissing the child; -she took me by surprise. That was all she said--except that she asked -whether you were likely to be going into the country soon, away from the -house here. She didn't stay five minutes with us, but went back to stand -by the railings again." - -"Did she speak as a lady or as a common person?" quite fiercely demanded -Mrs. Hamlyn. "Is she young?--good-looking?" - -"Oh, I think she is a lady," replied the girl, her accent decisive. "And -she's young, as far as I could see, but she had a thick veil over her -face. Her hair is lovely, just like threads of pale gold," concluded -Penelope, as Mr. Hamlyn's step was heard. - -He took his wife into the dining-room, apologising for being late. She, -giving full range to the fancies she had called up, heard him in silence -with a hardening haughty face. - -"Philip, you know who that woman is," she suddenly exclaimed during a -temporary absence of Japhet from the dining-room. "What is it that she -wants with you?" - -"I!" he returned, in a surprise very well feigned if not real. "What -woman? Do you mean the one who was standing out there yesterday?" - -"You know I do. She has been there again--all the blessed afternoon, -as Penelope expresses it. Asking questions of the girl about you--and -me--and Walter; and saying the child has your beautiful brown eyes. -_I ask you who is she?_" - -Mr. Hamlyn laid down his knife and fork to gaze at his wife. He looked -quite at sea. - -"Eliza, I assure you I know nothing about it. Or about her." - -"Indeed! Don't you think it may be some acquaintance, old or new? -Possibly someone you knew in the days gone by--come over seas to see -whether you are yet in the land of the living? She has wonderful hair, -which looks like spun gold." - -All in a moment, as the half-mocking words left her lips, some idea -seemed to flash across Philip Hamlyn, bringing with it distress and -fear. His face turned to a burning red and then grew white as the hue -of the grave. - - - - -THE SILENT CHIMES - - -V.--SILENT FOR EVER - - -I - -Breakfast was on the table in Mr. Hamlyn's house in Bryanston Square, -and Mrs. Hamlyn waited, all impatience, for her lord and master. Not -in any particular impatience for the meal itself, but that she might -"have it out with him"--the phrase was hers, not mine, as you will see -presently--in regard to the perplexity existing in her mind connected -with the strange appearance of the damsel watching the house, in her -beauty and her pale golden hair. - -Why had Philip Hamlyn turned sick and faint--to judge by his changing -countenance--when she had charged him at dinner, the previous evening, -with knowing something of this mysterious woman? Mysterious in her -actions, at all events; probably in herself. Mrs. Hamlyn wanted to -know that. No further opportunity had then been given for pursuing the -subject. Japhet had returned to the room, and before the dinner was at -an end, some acquaintance of Mr. Hamlyn had fetched him out for the -evening. And he came home with so fearful a headache that he had lain -groaning and turning all through the night. Mrs. Hamlyn was not a model -of patience, but in all her life she had never felt so impatient as -now. - -He came into the room looking pale and shivery; a sure sign that he was -suffering; that it was not an invented excuse. Yes, the pain was better, -he said, in answer to his wife's question; and might be much better -after a strong cup of tea; he could not imagine what had brought it on. -_She_ could have told him, though, had she been gifted with the magical -power of reading minds, and have seen the nervous apprehension that was -making havoc with his. - -Mrs. Hamlyn gave him his tea in silence, and buttered a dainty bit of -toast to tempt him to eat. But he shook his head. - -"I cannot, Eliza. Nothing but tea this morning." - -"I am sorry you are ill," she said, by-and-by. "I fear it hurts you to -talk; but I want to have it out with you." - -"Have it out with me!" cried he, in real or feigned surprise. "Have what -out with me?" - -"Oh, you know, Philip. About that woman who has been watching the house -these two days; evidently watching for you." - -"But I told you I knew nothing about her: who she is, or what she is, or -what she wants. I really do not know." - -Well, so far that was true. But all the while a sick fear lay on his -heart that he did know; or, rather, that he was destined to know very -shortly. - -"When I told you her hair was like threads of fine, pale gold, you -seemed to start, Philip, as if you knew some girl or woman with such -hair, or had known her." - -"I daresay I have known a score of women with such hair. My dear little -sister who died, for instance." - -"Do not attempt to evade the subject," was the haughty reprimand. -"If----" - -Mrs. Hamlyn's sharp speech was interrupted by the entrance of Japhet, -bringing in the morning letters. Only one letter, however, for they -were not as numerous in those days as they are in these. - -"It seems to be important, ma'am," Japhet remarked, with the privilege -of an old servant, as he handed it to his mistress. She saw it was from -Leet Hall, in Mrs. Carradyne's handwriting, and bore the words: "In -haste," above the address. - -Tearing it open Eliza Hamlyn read the short, sad news it contained. -Captain Monk had been taken suddenly ill with inward inflammation. Mr. -Speck feared the worst, and the Captain had asked for Eliza. Would she -come down at once? - -"Oh, Philip, I must not lose a minute," she exclaimed, passing the -letter to him, and forgetting the pale gold hair and its owner. "Do -you know anything about the Worcestershire trains?" - -"No," he answered. "The better plan will be to get to the station as -soon as possible, and then you will be ready for the first train that -starts." - -"Will you go down with me, Philip?" - -"I cannot. I will take you to the station." - -"Why can't you?" - -"Because I cannot just now leave London. My dear, you may believe me, -for it is the truth. _I cannot do so._ I wish I could." - -And she saw it was true: for his tone was so earnest as to tell of pain. - -Making what haste she could, kissing her boy a hundred times, and -recommending him to the special care of his nurse and of his father -during her absence, she drove with her husband to the station, and -was just in time for a train. Mr. Hamlyn watched it steam out of the -station, and then looked up at the clock. - -"I suppose it's not too early to see him," he muttered. "I'll chance -it, at any rate. Hope he will be less suffering than he was yesterday, -and less crusty, too." - -Dismissing his carriage, for he felt more inclined to walk than to -drive, he went through the park to Pimlico, and gained the house of -Major Pratt. - -This was Friday. On the previous Wednesday evening a note had been -brought to Mr. Hamlyn by Major Pratt's servant, a sentence in which, -as the reader may remember, ran as follows:-- - - "_I suppose there was no mistake in the report that that ship did - go down?--and that none of the passengers were saved from it?_" - -This puzzled Philip Hamlyn: perhaps somewhat troubled him in a hazy kind -of way. For he could only suppose that the ship alluded to must be the -sailing-vessel in which his first wife, false and faithless, and his -little son of a twelvemonth old had been lost some five or six years -ago--the _Clipper of the Seas_. And the next day (Thursday) he had gone -to Major Pratt's, as requested, to carry the prescription for gout he -had asked for, and also to inquire of the Major what he meant. - -But the visit was a fruitless one. Major Pratt was in bed with an attack -of gout, so ill and so "crusty" that nothing could be got out of him -excepting a few bad words and as many groans. Mr. Hamlyn then questioned -Saul--of whom he used to see a good deal in India, for he had been the -Major's servant for years and years. - -"Do you happen to know, Saul, whether the Major wanted me for anything -in particular? He asked me to call here this morning." - -Saul began to consider. He was a tall, thin, cautious, slow-speaking -man, honest as the day, and very much attached to his master. - -"Well, sir, he got a letter yesterday morning that seemed to put him -out, for I found him swearing over it. And he said he'd like you to see -it." - -"Who was the letter from? What was it about?" - -"It looked like Miss Caroline's writing, sir, and the postmark was -Essex. As to what it was about--well, the Major didn't directly tell me, -but I gathered that it might be about----" - -"About what?" questioned Mr. Hamlyn, for the man had come to a dead -standstill. "Speak out, Saul." - -"Then, sir," said Saul, slowly rubbing the top of his head, and the few -grey hairs left on it, "I thought--as you tell me to speak--it must be -something concerning that ship you know of; she that went down on her -voyage home, Mr. Philip." - -"The _Clipper of the Seas_?" - -"Just so, sir; the _Clipper of the Seas_. I thought it by this," added -Saul: "that pretty nigh all day afterwards he talked of nothing but that -ship, asking me if I should suppose it possible that the ship had not -gone down and every soul on board, leastways of her passengers, with -her. 'Master,' said I, in answer, 'had that ship not gone down and all -her passengers with her, rely upon it, they'd have turned up long before -this.' 'Ay, ay,' stormed he, 'and Caroline's a fool.'--Which of course -meant his sister, you know, sir." - -Philip Hamlyn could not make much of this. So many years had elapsed now -since news came out to the world that the unfortunate ship, _Clipper of -the Seas_, went down off the coast of Spain on her homeward voyage, and -all her passengers with her, as to be a fact of the past. Never a doubt -had been cast upon any part of the tidings, so far as he knew. - -With an uneasy feeling at his heart, he went off to the city, to call -upon the brokers, or agents, of the ship: remembering quite well who -they were, and that they lived in Fenchurch Street. An elderly man, -clerk in the house for many years, and now a partner, received him. - -"The _Clipper of the Seas_?" repeated the old gentleman, after listening -to what Mr. Hamlyn had to say. "No, sir, we don't know that any of her -passengers were saved; always supposed they were not. But lately we have -had some little cause to doubt whether one or two might not have been." - -Philip Hamlyn's heart beat faster. - -"Will you tell me why you think this?" - -"It isn't that we think it; at best 'tis but a doubt," was the reply. -"One of our own ships, getting in last month from Madras, had a sailor -on board who chanced to remark to me, when he was up here getting his -pay, that it was not the first time he had served in our employ: he had -been in that ship that was lost, the _Clipper of the Seas_. And he went -on to say, in answer to a remark of mine about all the passengers having -been lost, that that was not quite correct, for that one of them had -certainly been saved--a lady or a nurse, he didn't know which, and also -a little child that she was in charge of. He was positive about it, he -added, upon my expressing my doubts, for they got to shore in the same -small boat that he did." - -"Is it true, think you?" gasped Mr. Hamlyn. - -"Sir, we are inclined to think it is not true," emphatically spoke the -old gentleman. "Upon inquiring about this man's character, we found that -he is given to drinking, so that what he says cannot always be relied -upon. Again, it seems next to an impossibility that if any passenger -were saved we should not have heard of it. Altogether we feel inclined -to judge that the man, though evidently believing he spoke truth, was -but labouring under an hallucination." - -"Can you tell me where I can find the man?" asked Mr. Hamlyn, after a -pause. - -"Not anywhere at present, sir. He has sailed again." - -So that ended it for the day. Philip Hamlyn went home and sat down to -dinner with his wife, as already spoken of. And when she told him that -the mysterious lady waiting outside must be waiting for him--probably -some acquaintance of his of the years gone by--it set his brain working -and his pulses throbbing, for he suddenly connected her with what he had -that day heard. No wonder his head ached! - -To-day, after seeing his wife off by train, he went to find Major Pratt. -The Major was better, and could talk, swearing a great deal over the -gout, and the letter. - -"It was from Caroline," he said, alluding to his sister, Miss Pratt, who -had been with him in India. "She lives in Essex, you know, Philip." - -"Oh, yes, I know," answered Philip Hamlyn. "But what is it that Caroline -says in her letter?" - -"You shall hear," said the Major, producing his sister's letter and -opening it. "Listen. Here it is. 'The strangest thing has happened, -brother! Susan went to London yesterday to get my fronts recurled at the -hairdresser's, and she was waiting in the shop, when a lady came out of -the back room, having been in there to get a little boy's hair cut. -Susan was quite struck dumb when she saw her: _she thinks it was poor -erring Dolly_; never saw such a likeness before, she says; could almost -swear to her by the lovely pale gold hair. The lady pulled her veil over -her face when she saw Susan staring at her, and went away with great -speed. Susan asked the hairdresser's people if they knew the lady's -name, or who she was, but they told her she was a stranger to them; had -never been in the shop before. Dear Richard, this is troubling me; I -could not sleep all last night for thinking of it. Do you suppose it -is possible that Dolly and the boy were not drowned? Your affectionate -sister, Caroline.' Now, did you ever read such a letter?" stormed the -Major. "If that Susan went home and said she'd seen St. Paul's blown up, -Caroline would believe it. Who's Susan, d'ye say? Why, you've lost your -memory, Philip. Susan was the English maid we had with us in Calcutta." - -"It cannot possibly be true," cried Mr. Hamlyn with quivering lips. - -"True, no! of course it can't be, hang it! Or else what would you do?" - -That might be logical though not satisfactory reasoning. And Mr. Hamlyn -thought of the woman said to be watching for him, and her pale gold -hair. - -"She was a cunning jade, if ever there was one, mark you, Philip Hamlyn; -that false wife of yours and kin of mine; came of a cunning family on -the mother's side. Put it that she _was_ saved: if it suited her to let -us suppose she was drowned, why, she'd do it. _I_ know Dolly." - -And poor Philip Hamlyn, assenting to the truth of this with all his -heart, went out to face the battle that might be coming upon him, -lacking the courage for it. - - -II - -The cold, clear afternoon air touching their healthy faces, and Jack -Frost nipping their noses, raced Miss West and Kate Dancox up and down -the hawthorn walk. It had pleased that arbitrary young damsel, who was -still very childish, to enter a protest against going beyond the grounds -that fine winter's day; she would be in the hawthorn walk, or nowhere; -and she would run races there. As Miss West gave in to her whims for -peace' sake in things not important, and as she was young enough -herself not to dislike running, to the hawthorn walk they went. - -Captain Monk was recovering rapidly. His sudden illness had been caused -by drinking some cold cider when some out-door exercise had made him -dangerously hot. The alarm and apprehension had now subsided; and Mrs. -Hamlyn, arriving three days ago in answer to the hasty summons, was -thinking of returning to London. - -"You are cheating!" called out Kate, flying off at a tangent to cross -her governess's path. "You've no right to get before me!" - -"Gently," corrected Miss West. "My dear, we have run enough for to-day." - -"We haven't, you ugly, cross old thing! Aunt Eliza says you _are_ ugly. -And--" - -The young lady's amenities were cut short by finding herself suddenly -lifted off her feet by Mr. Harry Carradyne, who had come behind them. - -"Let me alone, Harry! You are always coming where you are not wanted. -Aunt Eliza says so." - -A sudden light, as of mirth, illumined Harry Carradyne's fresh, frank -countenance. "Aunt Eliza says all those things, does she? Well, Miss -Kate, she also says something else--that you are now to go indoors." - -"What for? I shan't go in." - -"Oh, very well. Then that dandified silk frock for the new year that -the dressmaker is waiting to try on can be put aside until midsummer." - -Kate dearly loved new silk frocks, and she raced away. The governess -followed more slowly, Mr. Carradyne talking by her side. - -For some months now their love-dream had been going on; aye, and the -love-making too. Not altogether surreptitiously; neither of them would -have liked that. Though not expedient to proclaim it yet to Captain -Monk and the world, Mrs. Carradyne knew of it and tacitly sanctioned it. - -Alice West turned her face, blushing uncomfortably, to him as they -walked. "I am glad to have this opportunity of saying something to -you," she spoke with hesitation. "Are you not upon rather bad terms -with Mrs. Hamlyn?" - -"She is with me," replied Harry. - -"And--am _I_ the cause?" continued Alice, feeling as if her fears were -confirmed. - -"Not at all. She has not fathomed the truth yet, with all her -penetration, though she may have some suspicion of it. Eliza wants to -bend me to her will in the matter of the house, and I won't be bent. -Old Peveril wishes to resign the lease of Peacock Range to me; I wish -to take it from him, and Eliza objects. She says Peveril promised her -the house until the seven years' lease was out, and that she means to -keep him to his bargain." - -"Do you quarrel?" - -"Quarrel! no," laughed Harry Carradyne. "I joke with her, rather than -quarrel. But I don't give in. She pays me some left-handed compliments, -telling me that I am no gentleman, that I'm a bear, and so on; to which -I make my bow." - -Alice West was gazing straight before her, a troubled look in her eyes. -"Then you see that I _am_ the remote cause of the quarrel, Harry. But -for thinking of me, you would not care to take the house on your own -hands." - -"I don't know that. Be very sure of one thing, Alice: that I shall not -stay an hour longer under the roof here if my uncle disinherits me. That -he, a man of indomitable will, should be so long making up his mind is -a proof that he shrinks from committing the injustice. The suspense it -keeps me in is the worst of all. I told him so the other evening when -we were sitting together and he was in an amiable mood. I said that any -decision he might come to would be more tolerable than this prolonged -suspense." - -Alice drew a long breath at his temerity. - -Harry laughed. "Indeed, I quite expected to be ordered out of the room -in a storm. Instead of that, he took it quietly, civilly telling me to -have a little more patience; and then began to speak of the annual new -year's dinner, which is not far off now." - -"Mrs. Carradyne is thinking that he may not hold the dinner this year, -as he has been so ill," remarked the young lady. - -"He will never give that up, Alice, as long as he can hold anything; and -he is almost well again, you know. Oh, yes; we shall have the dinner and -the chimes also." - -"I have never heard the chimes," she said. "They have not played since I -came to Church Leet." - -"They are to play this year," said Harry Carradyne. "But I don't think -my mother knows it." - -"Is it true that Mrs. Carradyne does not like to hear the chimes? I seem -to have gathered the idea, somehow," added Alice. But she received no -answer. - -Kate Dancox was changeable as the ever-shifting sea. Delighted with the -frock that was in process, she extended her approbation to its maker; -and when Mrs. Ram, a homely workwoman, departed with her small bundle in -her arms, it pleased the young lady to say she would attend her to her -home. This involved the attendance of Miss West, who now found herself -summoned to the charge. - -Having escorted Mrs. Ram to her lowly door, and had innumerable -intricate questions answered touching trimmings and fringes, Miss Kate -Dancox, disregarding her governess altogether, flew back along the road -with all the speed of her active limbs, and disappeared within the -churchyard. At first Alice, who was growing tired and followed slowly, -could not see her; presently, a desperate shriek guided her to an -unfrequented corner where the graves were crowded. Miss Kate had come -to grief in jumping over a tombstone, and bruised both her knees. - -"There!" exclaimed Alice, sitting down on the stump of an old tree, -close to the low wall. "You've hurt yourself now." - -"Oh, it's nothing," returned Kate, who did not make much of smarts. And -she went limping away to Mr. Grame, then doing some light work in his -garden. - -Alice sat on where she was, reading the inscriptions on the tombstones; -some of them so faint with time as to be hardly discernible. While -standing up to make out one that seemed of a rather better class than -the rest, she observed Nancy Cale, the clerk's wife, sitting in the -church-porch and watching her attentively. The poor old woman had been -ill for a long time, and Alice was surprised to see her out. Leaving the -inscriptions, she went across the churchyard. - -"Ay, my dear young lady, I be up again, and thankful enough to say it; -and I thought as the day's so fine, I'd step out a bit," she said, in -answer to the salutation. An intelligent woman, and quite sufficiently -cultivated for her work--cleaning the church and washing the parson's -surplices. "I thought John was in the church here, and came to speak to -him; but he's not, I find; the door's locked." - -"I saw John down by Mrs. Ram's just now; he was talking to Nott, the -carpenter," observed Alice. "Nancy, I was trying to make out some of -those old names; but it is difficult to do so," she added, pointing to -the crowded corner. - -"Ay, I see, my dear," nodded Nancy. "_His_ be worn a'most right off. I -think I'd have it done again, an I was you." - -"Have what done again?" - -"The name upon your poor papa's gravestone." - -"The _what_?" exclaimed Alice. And Nancy repeated her words. - -Alice stared at her. Had Mrs. Cale's wits vanished in her illness? "Do -you know what you are saying, Nancy?" she cried; "I don't. What had papa -to do with this place? I think you must be wandering." - -Nancy stared in her turn. "Sure, it's not possible," she said slowly, -beginning to put two and two together, "that you don't know who you are, -Miss West? That your papa died here? and lies buried here?" - -Alice West turned white, and sat down on the opposite bench to Nancy. -She did know that her father had died at some small country living he -held; but she never suspected that it was at Church Leet. Her mother had -gone to London after his death, and set up a school--which succeeded -well. But soon she died, and the ladies who took to the school before -her death took to Alice with it. The child was still too young to be -told by her mother of the serious past--or Mrs. West deemed her to be -so. And she had grown up in ignorance of her father's fate and of where -he died. - -"When we heard, me and John, that it was a Miss West who had come to the -Hall to be governess to Parson Dancox's child, the name struck us both," -went on Nancy. "Next we looked at your face, my dear, to trace any -likeness there might be, and we thought we saw it--for you've got your -papa's eyes for certain. Then, one day when I was dusting in here, I let -fall a hymn-book from the Hall pew; in picking it up it came open, and -the name writ in it stared me in the face, '_Alice_ West.' After that, -we had no manner of doubt, him and me, and I've often wished to talk -with you and tell you so. My dear, I've had you on my knee many a time -when you were a little one." - -Alice burst into tears of agitation. "I never knew it! I never knew it. -Dear Nancy, what did papa die of?" - -"Ah, that was a sad piece of business--he was killed," said Nancy. And -forthwith, rightly or wrongly, she, garrulous with old age, told all the -history. - -It was an exciting interview, lasting until the shades of evening -surprised them. Miss Kate Dancox might have gone roving to the other -end of the globe, for all the attention given her just then. Poor -Alice cried and sighed, and trembled inwardly and outwardly. "To think -that it should just be to this place that I should come as governess, -and to the house of Captain Monk!" she wailed. "Surely he did not -_kill_ papa!--intentionally!" - -"No, no; nobody has ever thought that," disclaimed Nancy. "The Captain -is a passionate man, as is well-known, and they quarrelled, and a hot -blow, not intentional, must have been struck between 'em. And all -through them blessed chimes, Miss Alice! Not but that they be sweet -to listen to--and they be going to ring again this New Year's Eve." - -Drawing her warm cloak about her, Nancy Cale set off towards her -cottage. Alice West sat on in the sheltered porch, utterly bewildered. -Never in her life had she felt so agitated, so incapable of sound and -sober thought. _Now_ it was explained why the bow-windowed sitting-room -at the Vicarage would always strike her as being familiar to her memory; -as though she had at some time known one that resembled it, or perhaps -seen one like it in a dream. - -"Well, I'm sure!" - -The jesting salutation came from Harry Carradyne. Despatched in search -of the truants, he had found Kate at the Vicarage, making much of the -last new baby there, and devouring a sumptuous tea of cakes and jam. -Miss West? Oh, Miss West was sitting in the church porch, talking to -old Nancy Cale, she said to Harry. - -"Why! What is it?" he exclaimed in dismay, finding that the burst of -emotion which he had taken to be laughter, meant tears. "What has -happened, Alice?" - -She could no more have kept the tears in than she could -help--presently--telling him the news. He sat down by her and held her -close to him, and pressed for it. She was the daughter of George West, -who had died in the dispute with Captain Monk in the dining-room at -the hall so many years before, and who was lying here in the corner of -the churchyard; and she had never, never known it! - -Mr. Carradyne was somewhat taken to; there was no denying it; chiefly by -surprise. - -"I thought your father was a soldier, Alice--Colonel West; and died when -serving in India. I'm sure it was said so when you came." - -"Oh, no, that could not have been said," she cried; "unless Mrs. Moffit, -the agent, made a mistake. It was my uncle who died in India. No one -here ever questioned me about my parents, knowing they were dead. Oh, -dear," she went on in agitation, after a silent pause, "what am I to do -now? I cannot stay at the Hall. Captain Monk would not allow it either." - -"No need to tell him," quoth Mr. Harry. - -"And--of course--we must part. You and I." - -"Indeed! Who says so?" - -"I am not sure that it would be right to--to--you know." - -"To what? Go on, my dear." - -Alice sighed; her eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the fast-falling -twilight. "Mrs. Carradyne will not care for me when she knows who I am," -she said in low tones. - -"My dear, shall I tell you how it strikes me?" returned Harry: "that my -mother will be only the more anxious to have you connected with us by -closer and dearer ties, so as to atone to you, in even a small degree, -for the cruel wrong which fell upon your father. As to me--it shall be -made my life's best and dearest privilege." - -But when a climax such as this takes place, the right or the wrong thing -to be done cannot be settled in a moment. Alice West did not see her way -quite clearly, and for the present she neither said nor did anything. - -This little matter occurred on the Friday in Christmas week; on the -following day, Saturday, Mrs. Hamlyn was returning to London. Christmas -Day this year had fallen on a Monday. Some old wives hold a superstition -that when that happens, it inaugurates but small luck for the following -year, either for communities or for individuals. Not that that fancy has -anything to do with the present history. Captain Monk's banquet would -not be held until the Monday night: as was customary when New Year's Eve -fell on a Sunday. He had urged his daughter to remain over New Year's -Day; but she declined, on the plea that as she had been away from her -husband on Christmas Day, she would like to pass New Year's Day with -him. The truth being that she wanted to get to London to see after that -yellow-haired lady who was supposed to be peeping after Philip Hamlyn. - -On the Saturday morning Mrs. Hamlyn was driven to Evesham in the close -carriage, and took the train to London. Her husband, ever kind and -attentive, met her at the Paddington terminus. He was looking haggard, -and seemed to be thinner than when she left him nine days ago. - -"Are you well, Philip?" she asked anxiously. - -"Oh, quite well," quickly answered poor Philip Hamlyn, smiling a warm -smile, that he meant to look like a gay one. "Nothing ever ails me." - -No, nothing might ail him bodily; but mentally--ah, how much! That -awful terror lay upon him thick and threefold; it had not yet come to -any solution, one way or the other. Major Pratt had taken up the very -worst view of it; and spent his days pitching hard names at misbehaving -syrens, gifted with "the deuce's own cunning" and with mermaids' shining -hair. - -"And how have things been going, Penelope?" asked Mrs. Hamlyn of the -nurse, as she sat in the nursery with her boy upon her knee. "All -right?" - -"Quite so, ma'am. Master Walter has been just as good as gold." - -"Mamma's darling!" murmured the doting mother, burying her face in his. -"I have been thinking, Penelope, that your master does not look well," -she added after a minute. - -"No, ma'am? I've not noticed it. We have not seen much of him up here; -he has been at his club a good deal--and dined three or four times with -old Major Pratt." - -"As if she would notice it!--servants never notice anything!" thought -Eliza Hamlyn in her imperious way of judging the world. "By the way, -Penelope," she said aloud in light and careless tones, "has that woman -with the yellow hair been seen about much?--has she presumed again to -accost my little son?" - -"The woman with the yellow hair?" repeated Penelope, looking at -her mistress, for the girl had quite forgotten the episode. "Oh, -I remember--she that stood outside there and came to us in the -square-garden. No, ma'am, I've seen nothing at all of her since that -day." - -"For there are wicked people who prowl about to kidnap children," -continued Mrs. Hamlyn, as if she would condescend to explain her -inquiry, "and that woman looked like one. Never suffer her to approach -my darling again. Mind that, Penelope." - -The jealous heart is not easily reassured. And Mrs. Hamlyn, restless and -suspicious, put the same question to her husband. It was whilst they -were waiting in the drawing-room for dinner to be announced, and she had -come down from changing her apparel after her journey. How handsome she -looked! a right regal woman! as she stood there arrayed in dark blue -velvet, the firelight playing upon her proud face, and upon the diamond -earrings and brooch she wore. - -"Philip, has that woman been prowling about here again?" - -Just for an imperceptible second, for thought is quick, it occurred to -Philip Hamlyn to temporize, to affect ignorance, and say, What woman? -just as if his mind was not full of the woman, and of nothing else. But -he abandoned it as useless. - -"I have not seen her since; not at all," he answered: and though his -words were purposely indifferent, his wife, knowing all his tones and -ways by heart, was not deceived. "He is afraid of that woman," she -whispered to herself; "or else afraid of _me_." But she said no more. - -"Have you come to any definite understanding with Mr. Carradyne in -regard to Peacock's Range, Eliza?" - -"He will not come to any; he is civilly obstinate over it. Laughs in -my face with the most perfect impudence, and tells me: 'A man must be -allowed to put in his own claim to his own house, when he wants to do -so.'" - -"Well, Eliza, that seems to be only right and fair. Peveril made no -positive agreement with us, remember." - -"_Is_ it right and fair? That may be your opinion, Philip, but it is -not mine. We shall see, Mr. Harry Carradyne!" - -"Dinner is served, ma'am," announced the old butler. - -That evening passed. Sunday passed, the last day of the dying year; and -Monday morning, New Year's Day, dawned. - -New Year's Day. Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn were seated at the breakfast-table. -It was a bright, cold, sunny morning, showing plenty of blue sky. Young -Master Walter, in consideration of the day, was breakfasting at their -table, seated in his high chair. - -"Me to have dinner wid mamma to-day! Me have pudding!" - -"That you shall, my sweetest; and everything that's good," assented -his mother. - -In came Japhet at this juncture. "There's a little boy in the hall, sir, -asking to see you," said he to his master. "He----" - -"Oh, we shall have plenty of boys here to-day, asking for a new year's -gift," interposed Mrs. Hamlyn, rather impatiently. "Send him a shilling, -Philip." - -"It's not a poor boy, ma'am," answered Japhet, "but a little gentleman: -six or seven years old, he looks. He says he particularly wants to see -master." - -Philip Hamlyn smiled. "Particularly wants a shilling, I expect. Send -him in, Japhet." - -The lad came in. A well-dressed beautiful boy, refined in looks and -demeanour, bearing in his face a strange likeness to Mr. Hamlyn. He -looked about timidly. - -Eliza, struck with the resemblance, gazed at him. Her husband spoke. -"What do you want with me, my lad?" - -"If you please, sir, are you Mr. Hamlyn?" asked the child, going forward -with hesitating steps. "Are you my papa?" - -Every drop of blood seemed to leave Philip Hamlyn's face and fly to his -heart. He could not speak, and looked white as a ghost. - -"Who are you? What is your name?" imperiously demanded Philip's wife. - -"It is Walter Hamlyn," replied the lad, in clear, pretty tones. - -And now it was Mrs. Hamlyn's turn to look white. Walter Hamlyn?--the -name of her own dear son! when she had expected him to say Sam Smith, -or John Jones! What insolence some people had! - -"Where do you come from, boy? Who sent you here?" she reiterated. - -"I come from mamma. She would have sent me before, but I caught cold, -and was in bed all last week." - -Mr. Hamlyn rose. It was a momentous predicament, but he must do the best -he could in it. He was a man of nice honour, and he wished with all his -heart that the earth would open and engulf him. "Eliza, my love, allow -me to deal with this matter," he said, his voice taking a low, tender, -considerate tone. "I will question the boy in another room. Some -mistake, I reckon." - -"No, Philip, you must put your questions before me," she said, resolute -in her anger. "What is it you are fearing? Better tell me all, however -disreputable it may be." - -"I dare not tell you," he gasped; "it is not--I fear--the disreputable -thing you may be fancying." - -"Not dare! By what right do you call this gentleman 'papa'?" she -passionately demanded of the child. - -"Mamma told me to. She would never let me come home to him before -because of not wishing to part from me." - -Mrs. Hamlyn gazed at him. "Where were you born?" - -"At Calcutta; that's in India. Mamma brought me home in the _Clipper of -the Seas_, and the ship went down, but quite everybody was not lost in -it, though papa thought so." - -The boy had evidently been well instructed. Eliza Hamlyn, grasping the -whole truth now, staggered in terror. - -"Philip! Philip! is it true? Was it _this_ you feared?" - -He made a motion of assent and covered his face. "Heaven knows I would -rather have died." - -He stood back against the window-curtains, that they might shade his -pain. She fell into a chair and wished he _had_ died, years before. - -But what was to be the end of it all? Though Eliza Hamlyn went straight -out and despatched that syren of the golden hair with a poison-tipped -bodkin (and possibly her will might be good to do it), it could not make -things any the better for herself. - - -III - -New Year's Night at Leet Hall, and the banquet in full swing--but not, -as usual, New Year's Eve. - -Captain Monk headed his table, the parson, Robert Grame, at his right -hand, Harry Carradyne on his left. Whether it might be that the world, -even that out-of-the-way part of it, Church Leet, was improving in -manners and morals; or whether the Captain himself was changing: certain -it was that the board was not the free board it used to be. Mrs. -Carradyne herself might have sat at it now, and never once blushed by -as much as the pink of a seashell. - -It was known that the chimes were to play this year; and, when midnight -was close at hand, Captain Monk volunteered a statement which astonished -his hearers. Rimmer, the butler, had come into the room to open the -windows. - -"I am getting tired of the chimes, and all people have not liked them," -spoke the Captain in slow, distinct tones. "I have made up my mind to do -away with them, and you will hear them to-night, gentlemen, for the last -time." - -"_Really_, Uncle Godfrey!" cried Harry Carradyne, in most intense -surprise. - -"I hope they'll bring us no ill-luck to-night!" continued Captain Monk -as a grim joke, disregarding Harry's remark. "Perhaps they will, though, -out of sheer spite, knowing they'll never have another chance of it. -Well, well, they're welcome. Fill your glasses, gentlemen." - -Rimmer was throwing up the windows. In another minute the church clock -boomed out the first stroke of twelve, and the room fell into a dead -silence. With the last stroke the Captain rose, glass in hand. - -"A happy New Year to you, gentlemen! A happy New Year to us all. May it -bring to us health and prosperity!" - -"And God's blessing," reverently added Robert Grame aloud, as if to -remedy an omission. - -Ring, ring, ring! Ah, there it came, the soft harmony of the chimes, -stealing up through the midnight air. Not quite as loudly heard perhaps, -as usual, for there was no wind to waft it, but in tones wondrously -clear and sweet. Never had the strains of "The Bay of Biscay" brought -to the ear more charming melody. How soothing it was to those enrapt -listeners; seeming to tell of peace. - -But soon another sound arose to mingle with it. A harsh, grating sound, -like the noise of wheels passing over gravel. Heads were lifted; glances -expressed surprise. With the last strains of the chimes dying away in -the distance, a carriage of some kind galloped up to the hall door. - -Eliza Hamlyn alighted from it--with her child and its nurse. As -quickly as she could make opportunity after that scene enacted in -her breakfast-room in London in the morning, that is, as soon as her -husband's back was turned, she had quitted the house with the maid and -child, to take the train for home, bringing with her--it was what she -phrased it--her shameful tale. - -A tale that distressed Mrs. Carradyne to sickness. A tale that so -abjectly terrified Captain Monk, when it was imparted to him on Tuesday -morning, as to take every atom of fierceness out of his composition. - -"Not Hamlyn's wife!" he gasped. "Eliza!" - -"No, not his wife," she retorted, a great deal too angry herself to be -anything but fierce and fiery. "That other woman, that false first wife -of his, was not drowned, as was set forth, and she has come to claim him -with their son." - -"His wife; their son," muttered the Captain as if he were bewildered. -"Then what are you?--what is your son? Oh, my poor Eliza." - -"Yes, what are we? Papa, I will bring him to answer for it before his -country's tribunal--if there be law in the land." - -No one spoke to this. It may have occurred to them to remember that -Mr. Hamlyn could not legally be punished for what he did in innocence. -Captain Monk opened the glass doors and walked on to the terrace, as -if the air of the room were oppressive. Eliza went out after him. - -"Papa," she said, "there now exists all the more reason for your making -my darling _your_ heir. Let it be settled without delay. He must succeed -to Leet Hall." - -Captain Monk looked at his daughter as if not understanding her. "No, -no, no," he said. "My child, you forget; trouble must be obscuring your -faculties. None but a _legal_ descendant of the Monks could be allowed -to have Leet Hall. Besides, apart from this, it is already settled. I -have seen for some little time now how unjust it would be to supplant -Harry Carradyne." - -"Is _he_ to be your heir? Is it so ordered?" - -"Irrevocably. I have told him so this morning." - -"What am I to do?" she wailed in bitter despair. "Papa, what is to -become of me--and of my unoffending child?" - -"I don't know: I wish I did know. It will be a cruel blight upon us all. -You will have to live it down, Eliza. Ah, child, if you and Katherine -had only listened to me, and not made those rebellious marriages!" - -He turned away as he spoke in the direction of the church, to see that -his orders were being executed there. Harry Carradyne ran after him. -The clock was striking midday as they entered the churchyard. - -Yes, the workmen were at their work--taking down the bells. - -"If the time were to come over again, Harry," began Captain Monk as they -were walking homeward, he leaning upon his nephew's arm, "I wouldn't -have them put up. They don't seem to have brought luck somehow, as the -parish has been free to say. Not but that it must be utter nonsense." - -"Well, no, they don't, uncle," assented Harry. - -"As one grows in years, one gets to look at things differently, lad. -Actions that seemed laudable enough when one's blood was young and hot, -crop up again then, wearing another aspect. But for those chimes, poor -West would not have died as he did. I have had him upon my mind a good -bit lately." - -Surely Captain Monk was wonderfully changing! And he was leaning heavily -upon Harry's arm. - -"Are you tired, uncle? Would you like to sit down on this bench and -rest?" - -"No, I'm not tired. It's West I'm thinking about. He lies on my mind -sadly. And I never did anything for the wife or child to atone to them! -It's too late now--and has been this many a year." - -Harry Carradyne's heart began to beat a little. Should he say what -he had been hoping to say sometime? He might never have a better -opportunity than this. - -"Uncle Godfrey," he spoke in low tones, "would you--would you like to -see Mr. West's daughter? His wife has been dead a long while; but--would -you like to see her--Alice?" - -"Ay," fervently spoke the old man. "If she be in the land of the living, -bring her to me. I'll tell her how sorry I am, and how I would undo the -past if I could. And I'll ask her if she'll be to me as a daughter." - -So then Harry Carradyne told him all. It was Alice West who was -already under his roof, and who, fate and fortune permitting, _Heaven_ -permitting, would sometime be Alice Carradyne. - -Down sat Captain Monk on a bench of his own accord. Tears rose to his -eyes. The sudden revulsion of feeling was great: and truly he was a -changed man. - -"You spoke of Heaven, Harry. I shall begin to think it has forgiven me. -Let us be thankful." - -But Captain Monk found he had more to thank Heaven for ere many minutes -had elapsed. As Harry Carradyne sat by him in silence, marvelling at the -change, yet knowing that the grievous blow which was making havoc of -Eliza had effected the completeness of the subduing, he caught sight of -an approaching fly. Another fly from the railway station at Evesham. - -"How dare you come here, you villain!" shouted Captain Monk, rising in -threatening anger, as the fly's inmate called to the driver to stop and -began to get out of it. "Are you not ashamed to show your face to me, -after the evil you have inflicted upon my daughter?" - -Philip Hamlyn, smiling kindly and calmly, caught Captain Monk's lifted -hands. "No evil, sir," he said, soothingly. "It was all a mistake. Eliza -is my true and lawful wife." - -"Eh? What's that?" said the Captain quite in a whisper, his lips -trembling. - -Quietly Philip Hamlyn explained. He had taken the previous day to -investigate the matter, and had followed his wife down by a night train. -His first wife _was_ dead. She had been drowned in the _Clipper of the -Seas_, as was supposed. The child was saved, with his nurse: the only -two passengers who were saved. The nurse made her way to a place in the -south of France, where, as she knew, her late mistress's sister lived, -Mrs. O'Connett, formerly Miss Sophia Pratt. Mrs. O'Connett, a young -widow, had just lost her only child, a boy about the age of the little -one rescued from the cruel seas. She seized on him with feverish -avidity, adopted him as her own, quitted the place for another -Anglo-French town where she was not previously known, taught the child -to call her "Mamma," and had never let it transpire that the boy was not -hers. But now, after the lapse of a few years, Mrs. O'Connett was on the -eve of marriage with an Irish Major. To him she told the truth; and, as -he did not want to marry the child as well as herself, he persuaded her -to return him to his father. Mrs. O'Connett brought the child to London, -ascertained Mr. Hamlyn's address, and all about him, and watched about -to speak to him, alone if possible, unknown to his wife. Remembering -what had been the behaviour of the child's mother, she was by no means -sure of a good reception from Philip himself, or what adverse influence -might be brought to bear by the new ties he had formed. Mrs. O'Connett -had the same remarkable and lovely hair that her sister had had, whom -she very much resembled; she had also a talent for underhand ways. - -That was the truth--and I have had to tell it in a nutshell, space -growing limited. Philip Hamlyn had ascertained it all beyond possibility -of dispute, had seen Mrs. O'Connett, and had brought down the good -tidings. - -Of all the curious sights this record has afforded, perhaps the most -surprising was to see Captain Monk pass his arm lovingly within that of -Philip Hamlyn and march off with him to Leet Hall as if he were a prize -to be coveted. "Here he is, Eliza," said he; "he has come to cheer both -you and me." - -For once in her life Eliza Hamlyn was subdued to meekness. She kissed -her husband and shed happy tears. She was his lawful wife, and the -little one was his lawful child. True, there was an elder son; but, -compared with what had been feared, that was a slight evil. - -"We must make them true brothers, Eliza," whispered Philip Hamlyn. "They -shall share alike all I have and all I leave behind me. And our own -little one must be called James in future." - -"And you and I will be good friends from henceforth," cried Captain Monk -warmly, clasping Philip Hamlyn's ready hand. "I have been to blame in -more ways than one, giving the reins unduly to my arbitrary temper. -It seems to me, however, that life holds enough of real angles for us -without creating any for ourselves." - -And surely it did seem, as Mrs. Carradyne would have liked to point out -aloud, that those chimes had been fraught with messages of evil. For had -not all these blessings set in with their removal?--even in the very -hour that their fate was sealed! - -Harry Carradyne had drawn his uncle from the room; he now came in again, -bringing Alice West. Her face was a picture of agitation, for she had -been made known to Captain Monk. Harry led her up to Mrs. Hamlyn, with a -beaming smile and a whisper. - -"Eliza, as we seem to be going in generally for amenities, won't you -give just a little corner of your heart to _her_? We owe her some -reparation for the past. It is her father who lies in that grave at -the north end of the churchyard." - -Eliza started. "Her father! Poor George West her father?" - -"Even so." - -Just a moment's struggle with her rebellious spirit and Mrs. Hamlyn -stooped to kiss the trembling girl. "Yes, Alice, we do owe you -reparation amongst us, and we must try to make it," she said heartily. -"I see how it is: you will reign here with Harry; and I think he will -be able, after all, to let us keep Peacock's Range." - -There came a grand wedding, Captain Monk himself giving Alice away. But -Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn did not retain Peacock's Range; they and their boys, -the two Walters, had to look out for another local residence; for Mrs. -Carradyne retired to Peacock's Range herself. Now that Leet Hall had a -young mistress, she deemed it policy to quit it; though it should have -as much of her as it pleased as a visitor. And Captain Godfrey Monk made -himself happier in these peaceful days than he had ever been in his -stormy ones. - -And that's the history. If I had to begin it again, I don't think -I should write it; for I have had to take its details from other -people--chiefly from the Squire and old Mr. Sterling, of the Court. -There's nothing of mine in it, so to say, and it has been only a bother. - -And those unfortunate chimes have nearly passed out of memory with the -lapse of years. The "Silent Chimes" they are always called when, by -chance, allusion is made to them, and will be so called for ever. - - -THE END - - - LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS LIMITED, - STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. - - - - -MRS. HENRY WOOD'S NOVELS - -_SALE TWO AND A HALF MILLIONS._ - -EXTRACTS FROM THE PRESS. - - -1. - -EAST LYNNE. - -_FOUR HUNDRED AND EIGHTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"'East Lynne' is so full of incident, so exciting in every page, and so -admirably written, that one hardly knows how to go to bed without -reading to the very last page."--THE OBSERVER. - -"A work of remarkable power which displays a force of description and a -dramatic completeness we have seldom seen surpassed. The interest of the -narrative intensifies itself to the deepest pathos. The closing scene -is in the highest degree tragic, and the whole management of the story -exhibits unquestionable genius and originality."--THE DAILY NEWS. - -"'East Lynne' has been translated into the Hindustani and Parsee -languages, and the success of it has been very great."--DANIEL -BANDMANN'S JOURNAL. - -"I was having a delightful conversation with a clever Indian officer, -and listening to his reminiscences of being sent out to serve in -China with Gordon. He gave me an account of how he tried to keep the -regimental library together under difficulties, and how 'East Lynne' was -sent to them from England. Gordon got hold of it, and was fascinated. He -used to come riding from a distance, at some risk, to get hold of the -volumes as they were to be had."--EXTRACT FROM A LETTER. - - -2. - -THE CHANNINGS. - -_TWO HUNDREDTH THOUSAND._ - -"'The Channings' will probably be read over and over again, and it can -never be read too often."--THE ATHENAEUM. - - -3. - -MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES. - -_ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"The boldness, originality, and social scrutiny displayed in this work -remind the reader of Adam Bede. It would be difficult to place beside -the death of Edgar Halliburton anything in fiction comparable with its -profound pathos and simplicity. It is long since the novel-reading world -has had reason so thoroughly to congratulate itself upon the appearance -of a new work as in the instance of 'Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles.' It is -a fine work; a great and artistic picture."--THE MORNING POST. - - -4. - -THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. - -_ONE HUNDRED AND TENTH THOUSAND._ - -"'The Shadow of Ashlydyat' is very clever, and keeps up the constant -interest of the reader. It has a slight supernatural tinge, which gives -the romantic touch to the story which Sir Walter Scott so often used -with even greater effect; but it is not explained away at the end as -Sir Walter Scott's supernatural touches generally, and inartistically, -were."--THE SPECTATOR. - -"The genius of Mrs. Henry Wood shines as brightly as ever. There is a -scene or two between Maria Godolphin and her little girl just before she -dies, which absolutely melt the heart. The death-bed scene likewise is -exquisitely pathetic."--THE COURT JOURNAL. - - -5. - -LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS. - -_ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"The story is admirably told."--THE SPECTATOR. - - -6. - -VERNER'S PRIDE. - -_EIGHTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"'Verner's Pride' is a first-rate novel in its breadth of outline and -brilliancy of description. Its exciting events, its spirited scenes, and -its vivid details, all contribute to its triumph. The interest this work -awakens, and the admiration it excites in the minds of its readers, -must infallibly tend to the renown of the writer, while they herald the -welcome reception of the work wherever skill in construction of no -ordinary kind, or a ready appreciation of character, which few possess, -can arouse attention or win regard."--THE SUN. - - -7. - -ROLAND YORKE. - -_ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"In all respects worthy of the hand that wrote 'The Channings' and 'East -Lynne.' There is no lack of excitement to wile the reader on, and from -the first to the last a well-planned story is sustained with admirable -spirit and in a masterly style."--THE DAILY NEWS. - - -8. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -+The First Series.+ - -_FIFTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"We regard these stories as almost perfect of their kind."--THE -SPECTATOR. - -"Fresh, lively, vigorous, and full of clever dialogue, they will meet -with a ready welcome. The Author is masterly in the skill with which she -manages her successive dramas."--STANDARD. - -"It is an agreeable change to come upon a book like Johnny -Ludlow."--SATURDAY REVIEW. - -"Vigour of description and a strong grasp of character."--ATHENAEUM. - -"The Author has given proof of a rarer dramatic instinct than we had -suspected among our living writers of fiction."--NONCONFORMIST. - -"Tales full of interest."--VANITY FAIR. - -"Fresh, clear, simple, strong in purpose and in execution, these stories -have won admiration as true works of inventive art. Without a single -exception they maintain a powerful hold upon the mind of the reader, and -keep his sympathies in a continued state of healthy excitement."--DAILY -TELEGRAPH. - - -9. - -MILDRED ARKELL. - -_EIGHTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Henry Wood certainly possesses in a wholly exceptional degree the -power of uniting the most startling incident of supernatural influence -with a certain probability and naturalness which compels the most -critical and sceptical reader, having once begun, to go on reading.... -He finds himself conciliated by some bit of quiet picture, some accent -of poetic tenderness, some sweet domestic touch telling of a heart -exercised in the rarer experiences; and as he proceeds he wonders more -and more at the manner in which the mystery, the criminality, the -plotting, and the murdering reconciles itself with a quiet sense of the -justice of things; and a great moral lesson is, after all, found to lie -in the heart of all the turmoil and exciting scene-shifting. It is this -which has earned for Mrs. Wood so high a place among popular novelists, -and secured her admittance to homes from which the sensational novelists -so-called are excluded."--THE NONCONFORMIST. - - -10. - -SAINT MARTIN'S EVE. - -_SEVENTY-SIXTH THOUSAND._ - -"A good novel."--THE SPECTATOR. - -"Mrs. Wood has spared no pains to accumulate the materials for a -curiously thrilling story."--THE SATURDAY REVIEW. - - -11. - -TREVLYN HOLD. - -_Sixty-fifth Thousand._ - -"We cannot read a page of this work without discovering a graphic force -of delineation which it would not be easy to surpass."--THE DAILY NEWS. - - -12. - -GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. - -_SIXTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"The name of Mrs. Henry Wood has been familiar to novel-readers for many -years, and her fame widens and strengthens with the increase in the -number of her books."--THE MORNING POST. - - -13. - -THE RED COURT FARM. - -_EIGHTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"When we say that a plot displays Mrs. Wood's well-known skill in -construction, our readers will quite understand that their attention -will be enchained by it from the first page to the last."--THE WEEKLY -DISPATCH. - - -14. - -WITHIN THE MAZE. - -_ONE HUNDRED AND TWELFTH THOUSAND._ - -"The decided novelty and ingenuity of the plot of 'Within the Maze' -renders it, in our eyes, one of Mrs. Henry Wood's best novels. It -is excellently developed, and the interest hardly flags for a -moment."--THE GRAPHIC. - - -15. - -ELSTER'S FOLLY. - -_SIXTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Wood fulfils all the requisites of a good novelist: she interests -people in her books, makes them anxious about the characters, and -furnishes an intricate and carefully woven plot."--THE MORNING POST. - - -16. - -LADY ADELAIDE. - -_SIXTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"One of Mrs. Henry Wood's best novels."--THE STAR. - -"Mme. Henry Wood est fort celebre en Angleterre, et ses romans--tres -moraux et tres bien ecrits--sont dans toutes les mains et revivent dans -toutes les memoires. _Le serment de lady Adelaide_ donneront a nos -lecteurs une idee tres suffisante du talent si eleve de mistress Henry -Wood."--L'INSTRUCTION PUBLIQUE. - - -17. - -OSWALD CRAY. - -_SIXTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Wood has certainly an art of novel-writing which no rival -possesses in the same degree and kind. It is not, we fancy, a common -experience for anyone to leave one of these novels unfinished."--THE -SPECTATOR. - - -18. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -+The Second Series.+ - -_THIRTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"The author has given proof of a rarer dramatic instinct than we had -suspected among our living writers of fiction. It is not possible by -means of extracts to convey any adequate sense of the humour, the -pathos, the dramatic power and graphic description of this book."--THE -NONCONFORMIST. - -"Mrs. Henry Wood has made a welcome addition to the list of the works of -contemporary fiction."--ATHENAEUM (_second notice_). - -"These most exquisite studies."--NONCONFORMIST (_second notice_). - -"The tales are delightful from their unaffected and sometimes pathetic -simplicity."--STANDARD (_second notice_). - -"To write a short story really well is the most difficult part of the -art of fiction; and 'Johnny Ludlow' has succeeded in it in such a manner -that his--or rather her--art looks like nature, and is hardly less -surprising for its excellence than for the fertility of invention on -which it is founded."--GLOBE. - -"Freshness of tone, briskness of movement, vigour, reality, humour, -pathos. It is safe to affirm that there is not a single story which will -not be read with pleasure by both sexes, of all ages."--ILLUSTRATED -LONDON NEWS. - - -19. - -ANNE HEREFORD. - -_FORTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Wood's story, 'Anne Hereford,' is a favourable specimen of her -manner, the incidents are well planned, and the narrative is easy and -vigorous."--ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS. - - -20. - -DENE HOLLOW. - -_SIXTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"Novel-readers wishing to be entertained, and deeply interested in -character and incident, will find their curiosity wholesomely gratified -by the graphic pages of 'Dene Hollow,' an excellent novel, without the -drawbacks of wearisome digressions and monotonous platitudes so common -in the chapters of modern fiction."--THE MORNING POST. - - -21. - -EDINA. - -_FORTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"The whole situation of the book is clever, and the plot is well -managed."--ACADEMY. - -"Edina's character is beautifully drawn."--THE LITERARY WORLD. - - -22. - -A LIFE'S SECRET. - -_SIXTY-FIFTH THOUSAND._ - -"Now that the rights of capital and labour are being fully inquired -into, Mrs. Wood's story of 'A Life's Secret' is particularly opportune -and interesting. It is based upon a plot that awakens curiosity and -keeps it alive throughout. The hero and heroine are marked with -individuality, the love-passages are finely drawn, and the story -developed with judgment."--THE CIVIL SERVICE GAZETTE. - -"If Mrs. Wood's book does not tend to eradicate the cowardice, folly, -and slavish submission to lazy agitators among the working men, all we -can say is that it ought to do so, for it is at once well written, -effective, and truthful."--THE ILLUSTRATED TIMES. - - -23. - -COURT NETHERLEIGH. - -_FORTY-SIXTH THOUSAND._ - -"We always open one of Mrs. Wood's novels with pleasure, because we are -sure of being amused and interested."--THE TIMES. - -"Lisez-le; l'emotion que vous sentirez peu a peu monter a votre coeur -est saine et fortifiante. Lisez-le; c'est un livre honnete sorti d'une -plume honnete et vous pourrez le laisser trainer sur la table."--LE -SIGNAL (_Paris_). - - -24. - -LADY GRACE. - -_TWENTY-FIRST THOUSAND._ - -"'Lady Grace' worthily continues a series of novels thoroughly English -in feeling and sentiment, and which fairly illustrate many phases of our -national life."--MORNING POST. - - -25. - -BESSY RANE. - -_FORTY-SECOND THOUSAND._ - -"The power to draw minutely and carefully each character with -characteristic individuality in word and action is Mrs. Wood's especial -gift. This endows her pages with a vitality which carries the reader to -the end, and leaves him with the feeling that the veil which in real -life separates man from man has been raised, and that he has for once -seen and known certain people as intimately as if he had been their -guardian angel. This is a great fascination."--THE ATHENAEUM. - - -26. - -THE UNHOLY WISH. - -_FIFTEENTH THOUSAND._ - -"The characters and situations of which the author made her books are, -indeed, beyond criticism; their interest has been proved by the -experience of generations."--PALL-MALL GAZETTE. - - -27. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -+Third Series.+ - -_TWENTY-THIRD THOUSAND._ - -"The peculiar and unfailing charm of Mrs. Wood's style has rarely been -more apparent than in this succession of chronicles, partly of rustic -life, some relating to the fortunes of persons in a higher class, but -all remarkable for an easy simplicity of tone, true to nature."--MORNING -POST. - - -28. - -THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS. - -_FIFTIETH THOUSAND._ - -"A book by Mrs. Wood is sure to be a good one, and no one who opens -'The Master of Greylands' in anticipation of an intellectual treat will -be disappointed. The keen analysis of character, and the admirable -management of the plot, alike attest the clever novelist."--JOHN BULL. - - -29. - -ORVILLE COLLEGE. - -_THIRTY-EIGHTH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Wood's stories bear the impress of her versatile talent and -well-known skill in turning to account the commonplaces of daily life as -well as the popular superstitions of the multitude."--THE LITERARY -WORLD. - - -30. - -POMEROY ABBEY. - -_FORTY-EIGHTH THOUSAND._ - -"All the Pomeroys are very cleverly individualised, and the way in which -the mystery is worked up, including its one horribly tragic incident, is -really beyond all praise."--THE MORNING POST. - - -31. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -+Fourth Series.+ - -_FIFTEENTH THOUSAND._ - -"Fresh, clear, simple, strong in purpose and in execution, these stories -have won admiration as true works of inventive art. Without a single -exception they maintain a powerful hold upon the mind of the reader, and -keep his sympathies in a continual state of healthy excitement."--DAILY -TELEGRAPH. - - -32. - -ADAM GRAINGER. - -_FIFTEENTH THOUSAND._ - -"Mrs. Wood fulfils all the requisites of a good novelist; she interests -people in her books, makes them anxious about the characters, and -furnishes an intricate and carefully woven plot."--MORNING POST. - - -33. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - -+Fifth Series.+ - -_FIFTEENTH THOUSAND._ - -"Freshness of tone, briskness of movement, vigour, reality, humour, -pathos. It is safe to affirm that there is not a single story which will -not be read with pleasure by both sexes, of all ages."--ILLUSTRATED -LONDON NEWS. - - -34. - -JOHNNY LUDLOW. - - +Sixth Series.+ +New Edition.+ - - -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. - -A few errors in punctuation were corrected silently. Also the following -corrections were made, on page - - 152 "TRAGDEY" changed to "TRAGEDY" (In chapter header) - 170 "Todhetly" changed to "Todhetley" (from Mr. Todhetley. That was) - 188 "bank-notes" changed to "bank-note" (the bank-note did not turn - up) - 223 "by-and-bye" changed to "by-and-by" (would join them by-and-by.) - 239 "Danaee" changed to "Danae" (Jupiter went courting Danae) - 284 "I" added (Section header) - 324 "an" changed to "as" (give up Tom Rivers also, as you will) - 349 "a" added (than he had ever taken of a baby yet). - -Otherwise the original was preserved, including inconsistent spelling -and hyphenation. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Johnny Ludlow, Sixth Series, by Mrs. Henry Wood - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHNNY LUDLOW, SIXTH SERIES *** - -***** This file should be named 40963.txt or 40963.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/9/6/40963/ - -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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