ALL IN THE DARK. A Notc1. BY J. SHERIDAN LE FANU, AUTHOR OF "GUY DEVERELL," "UNCLE SILAS," ETC., ETC. HARPER & NEW YORK: BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 18 6 6. Stereotyped by W. B. Cordier & Co. TO MY DEAR BROTHER, WILLIAM RICHARD LE FANU, ebis eale is i norribez WITH GREAT AFFECTION AND ADMIRATION. Tj I IN m-,"E DARK., CHAPTER I. GILROYD HALL AND ITS MSTRESS NEAR the ancient and pretty village of Saxton, with its gabled side to the road, stands an old red-brick house of moderate dimensions, called Gilroyd Hall, with some tall elms of very old date about it; and an ancient brick-walled garden, overtopping the road with standard fruit trees, that have quite outgrown the common stature of such timber, and have acquired a sylvan and venerable appearance. Here dwelt my aunt, an old maid, Miss Dinah Perfect by name; and here my cousin William Maubray, the nephew whom she had in effect adopted, used to spend his holidays. I shall have a good deal to say of her byand-by, though my story chiefly concerns William Maubray, who was an orphan, and very nearly absolutely dependent upon the kindness of his aunt. Her love was true, but crossed and ruffled now and then by temper and caprice. Not an ill temper was hers, but whimsical and despotic, and excited oftenest upon the absurdities which she liked letting into.her active and perverse little head, which must have been the proper nidus of all odd fancies, they so prospered and multiplied there. On the whole, Gilroyd Hall and -the village of Saxton were rather slow quarters for the holidays. Besides his aunt, William had but one companion under that steep and hospitable roof. This was little Violet Darkwell, a child of about eleven years, when he had attained to the matured importance of seventeen, and was in the first eleven at Rugby, had his cap, and was, in fact, a person with a career td look back upon, and who had long leff childish things behind him. This little 'girl was-in some round-about way, which, as a lazy man, I had rather take for granted than investigate-a kinswoman; and Miss Dinah Perfect had made her in some sort h6r property, and had her at least eight months out of the twelve down at Gilroyd Hall. Little Violet was lonely at home-an only daughter, with a father working sternly at the bar, not every day seen by her, and who seemed like a visitor in his own househurried, reserved unobtrusive, and a little awful. To the slim, prettily-formed little girl, with the large dark eyes, brown hair, and delicate bright tints, the country was delightful-the air, the flowers, the liberty;,and old Aunt Dinah, though with a will and a temper, still so much kindlier and pleasanter than Miss Placey, her governess, in town; and good old Winnie Dobbs was so cosy and good-nlatured. To this little maid, in her pleasant solitude, the arrival of William Maubray for the holidays, was an event full of interest and even of excitement.,Shy as he was, an'd much in awe "of all young lady-kind, she was far too young to be in his way. Her sparkling fuss and silvery prattle were even pleasant to him. There was life and something of comicality in her interruptions and unreasonableness. She made him visit her kittens and kiss them all round, and learn and recite their names; whistle after tea for her bulfinch, dig in her garden, mend and even nurse her doll, and perform many such tasks, quite beneath his dignity as a " swell" at Rugby, which, however, the gentle fellow did very merrily.and industriously for the imperious little woman, with scant thanks, but some liking for his guerdon. So, in his fancy, she grew to be mixed up with the pleasant influences of Gilroyd H~.L with the flowers and the birds, with the freaks of the little dog Pixie, with the stories he read there, and with his kindly welcomls and good-byes. Sitting, after breakfast, deep in his novel in the " study," with his white flannel cricket trousers on, for he was to play against Winderbroke for the town of Saxton that day, he received a smart tweak by the hair, at the back of his head, and, looking round, saw little Vi, perched on the rung of his old fashioned chair, and dimly recollected having received several gentler tweaks in succession, without evincing the due attention. " Pert little Vi I what's all this?" said the stalworth Rugby boy, turning round with a little shake of his head, and his sweet smile, and leaning on his elbow. The sunny landscape from the window, which was clustered round with roses, and a slanting sunbeam that just touched her hair, helped to make tho picture very pretty. " Great, big, old bear I you never listen to one word I say." "Don't you call names, Miss,' said Aunt Dinah, who had just glided into the room. " What was little silver-hair saying? What does she want?" he replied, laughing at the child's indignation, and pursuing the nomenclature of Southey's pleasant little nursery talc. "Golden hair, I must call. you, though," he said, looking on her sun-lit head; " and not 8 ALL IN THE DARK. quite golden either; it is brown, and very pretty brown, too. Who called you Violet?" He was holding the tip of her pretty chin between his fingers, and looking in her large deep eyes. " Who called you Violet?" " How should I know, Willie?" she replied, disengaging her chin with a little toss. ' " Why, your poor mamma called you Violet. I told you so fifty times," said Aunt Dinah sharply. " You said it was my godfathers and godmothers in my baptism, grannie 1" said Miss Vi, not really meaning to be pert. " Don't answer me, Miss--that's of course, your catchism--we're speaking of your poor mamma. 'Twas her mamma who called her Violet. What about it?" " Nothing," answered William, gently looking up at his aunt, " only it is such a pretty name;" and glancing again at the child, " it does so well with her eyes. She is a jolly little creature." "She has some good features, I suppose, like every other child, and you should not try to turn- her head. Nothing extraordinary. There's vanity enough in the world, and I insist, William, you don't try to spoil her." "And what do you want of me, little woman?" asked William. " You come out and sow my lupins for me." " Why, foolish little woman, it isn't the season; they would not grow." " Yes, they would though-you say that just because you don't like I you story l" " Violet 1" exclaimed Aunt Dinah, tapping the table with the seal end of her silver pencil-case. " Well, but he is, grannie, very disobliging. You do nothing now but read your tiresome old books, and never do anything I bid you." "Really I WeM that's very bad; I really must do better," said William, getting up with a smile; " I will sow the lupins." " What folly I" murmured Aunt Dinah, grimly. " We'll get the hoe and trowel. But-but what's to be done? I forgot I'm to play for the town to-day; and I don't think I have time-no, certainly-no time to-day; for the lupins;;" and William shook his head, smiling disconsolately. ", Then I'll never ask you to do anything for me again as long as I live-never--nevernever!" she vowed with a tiny stamp. " Yes you shaPl-you shall, indeed, and I'll do ever so much; and may she come and look at the cricket?" So, leave granted, she did, under old Winnie's care; and when she returned, and for days after, she boasted of Willie's long score and how he caught the ball. When he returned at the end of next "half" he found old Miss Dinah Perfect with her spectacles on, in her comfortable old drawingroom, in the cheer of a Christmas fire, with her head full of the fancies and terrors of a certain American tome, now laid with its face. downwards upon the table-as she jumped up full of glee and affection, to greet him at the threshold. It was about this period, as we all remember, that hats began to turn and heads with them, and tables approved themselves the most intelligent of quadrupeds; chests of drawers and other grave pieces of furniture babbled of family secrets, and houses resounded with those creaks and cracks with which Bacon, Shakespeare, and Lord Byron communicated their several inspirations in detestable grammar, to all who please to consult them. Aunt Dinah was charmed. Her rapid genius loved a short-cut, and here was, by something better than a post-office, a direct gossiping intimacy opened between her and the people on t'other side of the Styx. She ran into this as into her other whimsies, might and main, with all her heart and soul. She spent money very wildly for her, upon the gospels of the new religion, with which the transatlantic press was teeming; and in her little green-papered dressing-room was accumulating a library upon her favourite craze, which might have grown to the dimensions of Don Quixote's. She had been practising for a year, however, and all the minor tables in her house had repeatedly prophesied before she disclosed her conversion to her nephew, or to anyone else except old Winnie. It was no particular business of his if his aunt chose to converse with ghosts and angels by the mediation of her furniture. So, except that he now and then assisted at a seance, the phenomena of which were not very clear to him, though perfectly so to his aunt, and acquiesced in dimly and submissively by good old Winnie, things went on in their old course; and so, for some three or four years more, during which William Maubray read a great deal of all sorts of lore, and acquired an erudite smattering of old English authors, dramatists, divines, poets, and essayists, and time was tracing fine wrinkles about Aunt Dinah's kind eyes and candid forehead, and adding graceful inches to the lithe figure of Violet Darkwell, and the great law of decay and renewal was asserting itself everywhere, and snows shrouding the dead world in winter, and summer fragrance, and glow of many hues in the gardens and fields succeeding, and births and deaths in all the newspapers every morning. CHAPTER II A LETTER. THE following letter, posted at Saxton, reached a rather solitary student in - College, Cambridge. " DEAR WILLIAM, - You will be sorry-- I know you will-to hear that poor old auntie is not long for this world; I don't know ALL IN THE DARK. 9 exactly what is wrong, but something I am certain very bad. As for Doctor Drake, I have no faith in him, or, indeed, in medicine, and don't mean to trouble him except as a friend. I am quite happy in the expectation of the coming change, and have had within the last week, with the assistance of good old Winnie Dobbs some very delightful communications, you know, I dare say what I mean. Bring with you, foryou musX;63me immediately, if you care to see poor Aunt Dinah before she departs---a basket-bottle of eau de Cologne, like the former, you know the kind I mean, and buy it at the same place. You need not get the cameo ring for Doctor Drake, I shan't make him a pfesent---in fact, we are not now on terms. I had heard from many people of his incivility and want of temper; God forgive him his ingratitude, however, as I do. The basket-bottle holds about a pint, remember. I want to tell you exactly what I can do for you by my will; I always told you, dear William, it was very small; still, as the people used to say, 'every little makes a muckle,' and though little, it will be a help. I cannot rest till you come; I know, and am sure you love poor old auntie, and would like to close her eyes when the hour comes; therefore, dear Willie, come without delay. Also bring with you half a pound of the snuff, the same mixture as before; they make it up at Figgs's -get it there--not in paper, observe; in a canister, and rolled in lead, as will be poor auntie before long I Old Dobbs will have your room and bed comfortable, as usual; come by the cross coach, at eight o'clock. Tea, and anything else you like, will await you. " Ever your fond old " AUNTIE. " P.S.-I send you, to guard against mistakes, the exact proportions of the mixture-the snuff I mean, of course. I quite forgot a new collar for Psyche, plated. Make them engrave ' Mrs. Perfect, Gilroyd Hall,' upon it. Heaven bless you. We are all progressing upward. Amen I says your poor old Aunt Dinah, who loves you.") It was in his quiet college room by candlelight that William Maubray read this letter from his kind, wild, preposterous, old aunt, who had been to him as a mother from his early days. Aunt Dinah I was it possible that he was about to lose that familiar friend and face, the only person on earth who cared about him. He read the letter over again. A person who did not know Aunt Dinah so well as he, would have argued from the commissions about scents, dog-collars, and snuff, that the old lady had no honest intention of dying. But he knew that incongruous and volatile soul too well to infer reliable consolation from thiose levities. "Yes, yes-I shall lose her-she's gone," said the young man in great distress, laying t5e letter, with the gentleness of despair, upon the table, and looking down upon it in pain and rumination. It would certainly make a change-possibly a fatal one in his prospects. A sudden change. He read the letter through again, and then, with a sinking heart, he opened the window and looked out upon the moonlight prospect. There are times when in her sweetest moods nature seems unkind. Why all this smiling light-this cheer and serenity of sky and earth -when he was stricken only five minutes since, perhaps undone, by the message of that letter-that sorrow-laden burlesque? This sort of suggestion, in such a moment, comes despairingly. The vastness of creation -the inflexibility of its laws, and " What is man, and what am I among men, that the great Projector of all this should look after ephemeral me and my concerns? The human sympathy that I could rely upon, and human power-frail and fleeting-but still enoughis gone, and in this solitary hour, as in the coming one of death, experience fails me, and I must rest all upon that which, according to my light is faith, or theory, or chancel" With a great sigh, and a heavy heart, William Maubray turned away from the window, and a gush of very true affection flooded his heart as he thought of kind old Aunt Dinah. He read the letter once more, to make out what gleams of comfort he could. A handsome fellow was William Maubray -nearly three-and-twenty by this time-good at cricket-great at football: three years ago, in the school days, now, so old, tall, and lithe. A studious man in his own way-a little pale, with broad forehead, good blue eyes, and delicately formed, but somewhat sad features. He looked round his room. He had grown very fond of that homely apartment. His eyes wandered over his few shelves of beloved old books, in all manner of dingy and decayed bindings-some of them two centuries and a half old, very few of later birth than' a hundred years ago. Delightful companionsready at a moment's call-ready to open their minds, and say their best sayings on any subject he might choose-resenting no neglect, obtruding no counsel, always the same serene, cheerful, inalienable friends. The idea of parting with them was insupportable, nearly. But if the break-up came, they must part company, and the world be.a new one for him. The young man spent much of that night in dismal reveries and speculations over his future schemes and chances, all of which I spare the reader. Good Dr. Sprague, whom he saw next day, heard the news with much concern. He had known Miss Perfect long ago, and was decorously sorry on her account. But his real regrets were for the young man. " Well, you go, of course, and see your aunt, and I do trust it mayn't be quite so bad. Stay, you know, as long as she wants you, and don't despond. I could wish your reading had been in a more available direction: but rely on it, you'll find a way to -make a start 10 ALL IN THE DARK. and get into a profession, and with your abili- ye say I said nothing, mind; ties, I've no doubt you'll make your way in fret her, maybe." the world." And the doctor, who was a shrewd as well as a kindly little gentleman, having buttoned - the last button of his gaiter, stood, cap in hand, erect, and smiling confidently, he shook his hand, with a " God bless you, Maubray," CHAPTER III. and a few minutes later William Maubray, with all his commissions stowed away in his MISS DINAH PERFECT AND HE: portmanteau, had commenced his little journey to Gitroyd Hall. "Is she alone?" he asked, pc The moon was up, and the little town of trying moment of seeing her. Saxton very quiet, as Her Majesty's mail, 't No, the Doctor's with her stil dropping a bag at the post office, whirled and Miss Letty, his sister, yo through it, and pulled up at the further end, they're drinkin' a cup o' tea, an( at the gate of Gilroyd Hall, there to drop our pets, and they'll all be right glad friend, an outside passenger. " They ought to go away, don' The tall, florid iron gate, was already lock- mildly suggested William Mau ed. William tugged at the bell, and drew deal shocked. "However, let r back a little to reconnoitre the premises. One room for two or thee minutes, a of the old brick gables overhangs the road, ready then." with only a couple of windows high up, and They passed the drawing-ro( he saw that his summons had put a light in Miss Letty Drake's deliberate tc motion within them. So he rejoined his hat- dible from within. When he h case, and his portmanteau, awaiting him on room he asked Dobbsits end, in front of the white iron gate that "What was the warning yousl looked like lace-work in the moonlight. "Well, dear me! It was the ti "Ha I Tom; glad to see you." me, she makes me sit before he "Welcome, Mr. William, sir; she a weary in and we-well, there is cracks, to see ye, and scarce thought you'd a come to- off I And she puts this an' ti night." and so one way or other-it The wicket beside the great gate was now poor head, how-she does make open, and William shook hands with the old William Maubray was an odi retainer, and glancing anxiously up at the tary young man, and more giv stone-faced windows, as it were to read the and thinking th.n is usual at his countenance of the old house, he asked, "And detested these incantations to w how is she, Tom, to-night?" Miss Perfect, had addicted he "Complainin' an' down-hearted a bit for years, with her usual capricious hr, that is now and again. She cried a good and he was very uncomfortabl bout to-day wi' old Winnie, in the little par- that she was occupying her la lour." these questionable divinations. "She's up, then?" When, in a few minutes, Will " Ooh, ay; she's not a body to lay down to the drawing-room, and with while she's a leg to stan' on. But I do think ticipation opened the door of tha she's nigh her endin'. Gie't to me," this re- rather than imposing chamber, ferrcd to the portmanteau. " I do, poor old figure of his aunt rose up from h girl! and we's all be sorry, Master Willie." beside the fire, for though it was William's heart sank. the fire was pleasant, and the "Where is she?" he inquired, frosty, and with light and wiry 1 "In the drawing-room, I think." across the carpet to meet him By this time they were standing in the oak- energetic face was pale, and t pannelled hall, and some one looked over the used to greet him with was now banister from the lobby, upon them. It was was arrayed from head to foot ir old Winnie, the light of her candle shining ing, in which, particularly as she pleasantly on her ruddy and kindly face. modern embellishment of c "Oh! Master Willie. Thank God, you're looked more slim and tall even come at last. Glad she'll be to see you." The presence of her guest, Old Winnie ambled down the stairs with affected the greeting of the auni the corner cf her apron to her eye, and shook which was very affectionate, and fiim by both hands, and greeted him again though silent. ývery kindly, and even kissed him according " Good Willie, to come so qui to the tradition of a score of years. you would." Miss Perfect nev "Is she very ill, Dobbs?" whispered he, she was very near tears at that looking pale. there was a little silence, durir "Well, not to say very to look at, you'd held his hands, and then recolle say, but she's 'ad a warnin', her and me sittin' dropt them, and continued mor_ in the bedroom, an' she's bin an' made a new " You did not expect to see mc will; the lawyer's bin up from Saxton. Don't everything happens oddly with 'twould only R GUESTS. )stponing the.1-Dr. Drake, u remember; d some crumyou're come." t you think?" ibray, a good me get to my nd I shall be am door, and )nes were auad got to his poke of?" able; she and er, poor thing, sure, on and hat together; Spuzzles my out a deal." 1, rather solion to reading Syears, and he hich his aunt, rself, of late impetuosity; e on hearing ist days with iam ran dowa a chill of anit comfortable Sthe tall slim er arm-chair, early autumn, night-air was tread, stepped. Her kind, he smile she here, and she Sdeep mournSabhorred the rinoline, sho than she was. s in no wise t and nephew, even agitated, ckly-I knew ecr wept, but moment, and ig which she cting hersd!f, Slike herself. Sup and here; me. Here 1 ALL IN THE DARK. 11 am, you see, apparently, I dare say, much as usual. By half-past twelve o'clock to-morrow night I shall be deadI There, don't mind now-I'll tell you all by and by. This is my friend, Miss Drake, you know her." They shook hands, Miss Drake smiling as brisk a smile as in a scene so awful she could hazard. " And this, my kind friend Dr. Drake." William had occasionally seen Dr. Drake in the streets of Saxton, and on the surrounding high roads at a distance, but he had never before had the honour of an interview. The doctor was short and fat, a litle bald, and rather dusty, and somehow, William thought, resembled a jolly old sexton a good deal more than a physician He rose up, with his hands in his trowsers pockets, and some snuff in the wrinkles of his black cloth waistcoat, and bowed, with raised eyebrows and pursed mouth, gravely to his plate of crumpet. William Maubray looked again on his aunt, who was adjusting her black draperies in her chair, and then once more at the doctor, whose little eye he caught for a second, with a curious and even cunning expression in it; but it was averted with a sudden accession of melancholy once more-and William asked" I-I hope, sir, there is nothing very imminent?" The doctor cleared his voice, uneasily, and Aunt Dinah interposed with a nod, a little dryly"It is not quite in his department." And whose department is it in? the student thought. "I dare say Doctor Drake would tell you I'm very well-so perhaps, in a sense, I am; but-Doctor Drake has kindly come here as a friend." Doctor Drake bowed, looking steadfastly into his cup. " As a friend, dear Willie, just as you have come-an old friend." Miss Perfect spoke low, with a little tremor in her voice, and was, I believe, near crying, but braced her resolution. William drew near gently and sat down beside her, and placing her hand upon his, she proceeded, "My dear friend Miss Drake, there, does not agree with me, I'am aware; but Doctor Drake who has read more, and perhaps, thought more, thinks otherwise-at least, so I'm led to suppose." The Doctor coughed a little; Miss Drake raised her long chin, and with raised eyebrows, looked down on her finger tips which were drumming on the table, and my cousin William glanced from one to the other, not quite understanding her drift. " But," she continued, "I've apprised them already, and I tell you of course; it is-you'll remember the name--an intimation from Henbane." " Poison 1" said William, under his breath, with a look of pale inquiry at Doctor Drake, who at the moment was swallowing his tea very fast, and was seized on a sudden with an explosion of couching, sneezing, and strang ling which compelled him to jump to his feet, and stagger about the room with his face in his pocket-handkerchief and his back to the tea-table. "When Da Henbane," said my aunt with severity," I mean a-Doctor Drake-has quite done coughing, I'll go on." There was a little pause. "Confound it," thought William, who was half beside himself, "it's a very odd dying scene 1" The doctor blowing his nose, returned very red and solemn, and explained, still coughing at intervals, that it was a little tea in the trachea; it invariably occured to him when he drank tea in the evening; he must give it up; " you know, Letty." Miss Drake did not deign to assist him. " She does not seem to kaow so much about it as you do," observed Aunt Dinah with an irony. " Owing to my not thinking so much," replied Miss Letty, sarcastically. " Henbane!" murmured William again, in a puzzled horror. " H'm!-yes!-Henbane? you seem to have forgotten; one of those-one of the spirits who have attached themselves to me," and Aunt Dinah shot a quick glance at the doctor who though looking again at his crumpet, seemed to cower awfully under it. " Oh-ay-Henbane 1" exclaimed William in a tone of familarity, which indicated anything but respect for that supernatural acquaintance. "Henbane, to be sure." And he looked on his aunt with a half amused recognition, which seemed to say, "Well-and what about that humbug?" But Aunt Dinah said decisively-- "So much for the present; you shall hear more---every thing by-and-bye." And there followed a silence. "Did you remember the snuff, dear William?" inquired the doomed lady, with rather an abrupt transition. " Certainly;.shall I fetch it?" said William, half rising. Miss Perfect nodded, and away he went, somehow vastly relieved, and with his bedroom candle in his hand, mounted the oak stairs, which were broad and handsome in proportion to the other dimensions of that snug old house. -0.--o--- CHAPTER IV. VIOLET DARKWELL. AT tTe head of the stairs, the topmost step of which had been their bench, there rose to him two female figures. He did not instantly recognise them, for one candle only was burning, and it was on the little table nearly behind them. One was old Winnie Dobbs, the dther Violet Darkwell; she stood up slight and girl 12 ALL IN THE DARK.; ish still, but looking taller that he had expect- please, and treat you like a young lady, and ed, with an old faded silk quilted shawl of you'll never be 'wicked little Vi' any more." Aunt Dinah's about her shoulders, and hood- She was laughing as she leaned back, and wise over her head, for the night was frosty. could see her small teeth, and he bethought -" Ha! Vi-little Vi, I was going to say; him that she was looking really quite lovely; dear me! how you have grown! So glad to so with two fingers he picked up her little see you." hand again,.as it lay at her side, and he said-- He had a girl's slim hand in his, and was "And we are always to be good friends you speaking as he felt, very kindly, know-great friends; and although you've no "We've been waiting here, Winnie and I, more dolls to mend, I'll still be of use. I'm to hear what you thought of dear grannie,"--- going to the bar, and I'll manage all your (grannie was merely a pet name in this case, lawsuits, if you let me; and when you are defining no relationship)-" and what do you going to be married, I'll draw your settlethink, William?" ments, and you are to have me always "I really don't understand it," he answered. for your counsel." t "I--I hope it's all nonsense;0I really think She was still smiling, but said nothing, and so. Shegays she is very well; and the doc- looked wonderfully pretty, with the old grey tor-Drake, you know-I really think he was silk hood wrapped all about her, so that sober laughing, and one thing I'm quite certain of--- old William was on the very point of kissing it is connected in her mind with that foolish the slender hand he held in his. But a new spirit-rapping." feeling of shyness prevented, and he only "And you don't believe in it?" inquired the shook her hand gently once more, and laid it young lady. by her side again, as you replace some precious "All bosh and nonsence. Not a bit of it," thing you have been admiring where you he rplied. found it. "Oh, William, I am so delighted to hear " And you really think we may be happy yousay sol" she exclaimed, much relieved by about dear old grannie again?" she said. the promulgation of so valuable an opinion. The sound of Winnie's footsteps was heard "And you're quite right, I know, about gran- approaching. nie. It is, really-is not it, Winnie?-all "Yes; certainly. I'll try to get a word about thatawful spirit-rapping. Grannie never with Doctor Drake. I can't imagine anything speaks of it to me; I believe she's afraid of serious. Won't you come to the drawingfrightening me; but old Winnie, here-you room now?" must knot tell of her-she tells me all about "No; not to-night; not while those people it-everything; and I am so afraid of it; and are there. I was so wretched about dear it is entirely that. Granny thinks she has got grannie, I could not bear to go in at first; a message! fancy I How awful I And Winnie and now it would be odd, I think, going down does not know what the words were; for gran- when tea is over." nie writes down the letters with a pencil, and " As if I had brought you down from the tells her only what she thinks fit; and I am nursery, as I often did, Vi, on my back. Well, so delighted-you can't think." old Winnie, have you got it?" " You good little Vi, I'm so glad to see you!" "I Here, I think, Master William," answered She laughed a low little laugh-the:first for Winnie. several days--as he shook her hand again; "Yes; all right. So you won't come, Vi?" and he said-- "No." "Winnie, do, like a dear old thing, open "Quite made up your mind,?" my portmanteau-here's the key-and fetch " Quite, Willie." me a canister you'll see at the top, with a "That s right-Willie," said he with a great paper label, blue and red, on it." smile, and a nod of approbation. "I should Away went Winnie Dobbs, with his key and so like to stay here a little longer, as ybu candle, and he said to the pretty girl who won't come, and here all the news, and tell stood leaning lightly against the banister- you mine. But Aunt Dinah would lose " My old friend, Vi I When I went into the patience-I'm afraid she has." drawing-room just now, I looked all round for "Yes, indeed; you had better go. Good you, and could not think what had become of night, bear." you, and was really afraid you had gone away "Good night, wicked little Vi. Remember: to London. I don't think I should ever care we meet at breakfast-shan't we?" to come to Gilroyd Hall again; I should pre- " Oh, certainly. Good night." fer seeing my aunt anywhere else-it would "Good night." not be like itself if you were gone." And so the gray silk hood vanished, with a " So you really missed me, William?" She smile, prettily, round the comer, and William laughed. Maubray descended with his snuff to the "I should think so. And another tTAng- drawing-room, with the pretty oval portrait you are not to call me William. Why don't -ofithat young face still hovering before him you call me Willie, or old bear, as you used to ia.,he air. do? If you change old names, I'll begin an- "- Miss Letty Drake, whose countenance was call you Miss Darkwell." unpleasantly long in proportion to her height, "How awful!" and pallid, and her small figure bony, and "Indeed I will, and be as formal as you I who was dressed on this sad occasion in her ALL IN THE DARK. 13 silk " half-mourning," a sad and, it was thought, a dyed garment, which had done duty during many periods of affliction, as William entered the room, was concluding a sentence with a low pointed asperity, thus" which seems to me hardly compatible with Saint Paul's description of Christian charity," and a short silence followed these words. "I was going to ring the bell William," said the doomed lady of the house. " One would have thought you were making that snuff. Let me see it-h'm. See, get off this cover. Ho! what is this? A lead wrapper 1" "You said, Aunt Dinah, you wished it." "DidI? Well, no matter. Get it open. Thanks. Yes; that's it. Yes; very good. You take snuff, doctor, don't you?" "A yes, certainly; nothing like it, I do believe-where a man is obliged to work his head-aw haw-a stimulus and a sedative." The doctor, it was averred, " worked" his occasionally with brandy and water, and not a great deal of otherwise. "No, many thanks; don't care for perfumes; high toast is my snuff." And Doctor Drake illustrated the fact by a huge pinch, which shed another brown shower over the wrinkles of his waistcoat. "Letty, dear," said Aunt Dinah, turning suddenly to Miss Drake, " we won't quarrel; we can't agree, but I won't quarrel." " Well, dear, I'm glad to hear you say so. I'm sure, for my part, I never quarrel. Be ye angry, and let not the sun go down on your wrath.' |' CHAPTER V. AUNT DINAH IS IN THU HOnRORS, AND DOCTOR DRAKE PUTS HIS NIGHT-CAP IN HIS POCKET. "I wisu to say good-by to you very kindly," said Aunt Dinah, quite sadly and gently, and somehow not like herself, "and-I've tried to keep up; I know it must happen, and I'm sure it is for the best, but--" " I hope and expect, my dear Dinah," interposed Miss Letty, sharply-she was pulling on her worsted " wrists"-" to see you in the enjoyment of many years of your accustomed health and spirits, and I have no doubt humanly speaking, that I shall." Miss Letty was quiet and peremptory, but also a little excited. And the doctor for want of something better to do, cleared his voice, in a grand abstraction, and wound up his watch slowly, and held it to his ear, nobody knew exactly why. " You won't believe me, but I know it, and so will you-too late; to-morrow night at twelve o'clock I shall be dead. I've tried to keep up--I have; I've tried it; but oh! Ho, ho, hoo, ooh," and poor Aunt Dinah quite broke down, and cried and hooted hysterically. Dr. Drake had now before him an intelligible case, and took the command accordingly with desision. Up went the window; cold water was there, and spirit of hartshorn. And when she had a little recovered, the Doctor, who was a good-natured fellow said--- "Now Miss Perfect, ma'am, it won't do, I tell you; it's only right; you may want some assistance; and if as an old friend, you'll allow me to return and remain here for the night, a sofa, or an arm-chair, anything, I'll be most happy, I do assure you. But Aunt Dinah, with many thanks, said, " No," peremptorily, and wilful man or woman, who will contend with? So, like the awful banquet in Macbeth, Miss Dinah Perfect's tea-party broke down and up, and the guests, somewhat scared, got in to their walking wrappers, rather silently, and their entertainer remained behind unstrung and melancholic. But William Maubray, who came down to assist in the rummage for cloaks and umbrellas, asked leave, in his blunt modest way, to accompany Miss Letty and her brother, the doctor, to Saxton. Now there seemed something real and grisly in Aunt Dinah's terror, which a little infected William Maubray; and the little party marched in silence along the frost-hardened road, white in moonlight, with the bare switch-like shadows of the trees across it, on their way to the pretty old town of Saxton. At last the doctor said"She won't miss you, do you think?" "She told me she'd like to be quiet for half an hour and I should be so much obliged if you could tell me, whether you really, that is, still think that she ought to have a medical man in attendance to-night." "Why, you know what hysteria is. " Well, she is in a highly hysterical state. She's a woman who resists; it would be safer, you see, if she gave way and cried a bit now and then, when nature prompts, but she won't, except under awful high pressure, and then it might be serious; those things sometimes run off into fits." And so the doctor lectured William upon his aunt's nerves, until they had arrived at the door of his snug house' in the High Street. Here they shook hands; but William Maubray, who was unhappy about Aunt Dinah, after Miss Letty had mounted to her chamber, very urgently entreated the doctor to return, and see how it might end. With a bottle of valerian, his slippers, and a night-cap in his packet. Docter Drake did consent to return, and he smuggled into Gilroyd Hall. " I don't knoiw what to make of that spiritrapping quite," said the doctor, as side by side they approached the Hall. " There's a quantity of books published on it-very unaccountable if half what they say is true. I suppose you've read it all. You read a lot, Miss Perfect tells me." " I've read very little about it, except in the papers. She fancies she has had a mes ALL IN THE DARK 15 tinctness the word l Henbane!'"-the first nicate. We always want information," said heard on his awakening, the l'ast in his fancy Miss Perfect. 1"William, sit you there; Winas he dropped asleep, and which sounded to nie, there. I'll take pencil and paper and rehim like the apparition'sconsiderate announce- cord." ment of its name on entering the room; he All being prepared, fingers extended, cornechoed "Henbane " in a suppressed diapason, pany intent, Aunt Dinah propounded the first and Aunt Dinah, with an awful ejaculation, questionrepeated the word from the distance, and sank " Is there any spirit present?" into a chair. There was a long wait and no rejoinder. "Henbane!" cried the doctor briskly, hav- " Didn't you hear something?" inquired the ing no other exclamation ready, and reassured doctor. by these evidences of timidity in the spectre, William shook his head. he exclaimed, " Hey, by Jove! what the " I thought I felt it," persisted the doctor. plague!" and for some seconds he did not "What do you say, ma'am?" addressing himknow distinctly where he was. self to W innie, who looked, after her wont, M" Merciful goodness! Doctor Drake, why towards her mistress for help. w-ill you try to frighten people in this manner? " Did you feel anything?" demanded Miss Do you' want to kill me, sir? " Perfect sharply. "I? Ho! Ha, ha! ma'am," replied the " Nothing but a little wind like on the back learned gentleman, incoherently, of my head, as I think," replied Winnie, "What are you doing here, sir? I think driven to the wall. you're mad!" exclaimed Aunt Dinah, fiercely. "Wind on her head! That's odd," said The doctor cleared his voice, and addressed Miss Perfect, looking in the air, as if she himself to explain, and before his first period possessed the porcine gift of seeing it, " very was reached, William and old Winnie, wofully odd!" she continued, with her small hand exsleepy, had arrived. panded in the air. "Not a breath stirring, Luckily the person who approaches such and Winnie has no more imagination than oracles as "Henbane," it is well known, must that sofa pillow. You never fancy anything, do so with a peaceful and charitable soul. So Winnie?" Miss Perfect was appeasable, and apologies " Do I, ma'am?" inquired Winnie Dobbs, being made and accepted, she thus opened mildly. her mind to the doctor-- "Well, do you, I say? No, you don't; of " I don't complain, Doctor Drake-William, course you don't. You know you don't as light the candles over the chimney-piece- well as I do." although you terrified me a great deal more " Well, I did think so, sure, ma'am," anthan in my circumstances I ought to have swered Winnie. been capable of." " "Pity we can't get an answer,". remarked The candles were now lighted, and shone the doctor, and at the same moment William chearf~ully upon the short, fat figure, and rud- felt the pressure of a large foot in a slipperdy, roguish face of Doctor Drake, and as he under the table. It had the air of an intenwas taking one of his huge pinches of snuff, tentional squeeze, andl he looked innocently she added--- at the doctor, who was, however, so entirely " And I won't deny that I did fancy for a unconscious, that it must have been an accimoment you might be a spirit-form, and pos- dent. sibly that of Henbane." 4 I say it is a pity, Mr. Maubray, isn't it? William Maubray, who was looking at the for we might hear something that might interdoctor, as Miss Perfect reverently lowered her est Miss Perfect very much, possibly, I say?" voice at these words, exploded into something "I don't know; I can't say, I've never so like a laugh, though he tried to pass it off heard anything," answered William, who for a cough, that his aunt looked sharply on would have liked to kick the table up to the him in silence for a moment, ceiling and go off to his bed. "And I'm blowed but I was a bit frightened " Suppose, ma'am, we try again," inquired too, ma'am, when I saw you at the door there," Dr. Drake. said the doctor. " Certainly," replied Aunt Dinah, " we must "Well, let us try," said Miss Perfect. have patience." " Come, we are four; let us try who are pre- " Will you ask, ma'am, please, again if sent-what spirits, and seek to communicate, there's a spirit in the room?" solicited the You don't object Dr. Drake?" doctor; and the question being put, there "I? Ho! oh! dear no. I should not desire came an upward heave of the table. better--aw-haw-instruction, ma'am," answer- " Well?" exclaimed the doctor, looking at ed the doctor. Winnie, " did you feel that?" I am afraid he was near saying "fun." " Tilt, ma'am," said Winnie, who knew the " Winnie, place the table as usual. There, intelligence would be welcome. yes. Now. let us arrange ourselves." "What do you say 2" inquired Miss Perfect The doctor sat down, still blinking, and triumphantly of William. with a great yawn inquired- Doctor Drake was changing his position "Do we waw- -haw -wa-w-want any just at the moment, and I perceived no other particular information." motion in the table-nothing but the little "Let us first try whether they will commu- push he gave it," answered William. ALL IN THE DARK. " Oh, pooh! yes, of course, there was that," said the doctor a little crossly; "but I meant a sort of a start--a crack like, in the leaf of the table." "I felt nothing of the kind," said William Maubray. The doctor looking disgusted, and leaning back, took a large pinch of snuff. There was a silence. Aunt Dinah's lips were closed with a thoughtful frown as she looked down upon the top of the table, "It is very strange. I certainly never witnessed in this house more unequivocal evidences--preliminary evidences, of course-of spiritual activity." "I think, ma'am, I have read," said the doctor, with his hands in his pockets, "I thinb, somewhere, that if any one of the manipulators happens to be an unbeliever- " " An unbeliever in the manifestations, of course the spirits won't communicate," interposed Miss Perfect, volubly laying down the law. "Winnie is a believer as much as I. We all know that. Nephew, how are you? Do you believe? You shake your head. Speak out. Yes or no? " " Well, I don't," said he, a little sheepishly. "You don't? And, not believing, you sit here with your fingers on the table, keeping Doctor Drake out of his--his- " She could not say bed, and the doctor relieved her by saying, " Oh, as to me, ma'am, I'm only too happy; but you know it's a pity, all the same." " Very true, doctor. Much obliged. We shall set it to rights, My dear William, you might have told us at starting; but we'll commence again. Sit by the fire, William, and I tritst in a little time you may be convinced." CHAPTER VII THE FAMILIAR SPEAKS. So the excommunicated William, with his feet upon the fender, leaning upon his elbow in the great chair, made himself comfortable by the fire, and heard his aunt propound the questions, and the answers by the previously appointed manifestations, duly noted down. "Is there a spirit present?" "Yes." "Are there more than one?" " No.' " Is it a male or female spirit?" No answer. "Is it Henbane?" "Yes" (emphatically). William was surprised. All was now going smoothly, and he could not for a moment suspect a gentleman of Dr. Drake's respectability of participating in a trick. But there was a monotony in the matter of a quieting kind, and William grew too drowsy to keep his eyes long open. " Did you give Miss Dlinah Perfect a message on Monday last?" " Yes." " Did it concern her death? " Yes." " Is her death to take place at the time then appointed?" Here the table made a positive jump, and in spite of a grasp made at it by the doctor's fingers, it fell flat on the floor, and it must have been a very violent impulse, for Dr. Drake's slipper was off, and he, very red, no doubt from his effort to prevent the wilful fall of the table. " Very extraordinary!" exclaimed he, standing up "Most wonderful!" said my aunt. Good old fat Winnie sat with her fingers raised in the air, looking at the postrate table with placid astonishment. "That's a tilt," said the doctor, "that means no-a very emphatic tilt." " I think it was a jump," said my aunt, sadly. " No, ma'am, no--a tilt, a tilt, I'll take my oath. Besides, a jump has no meaning," urged he with energy. " Pardon me; when a question is received with marked impatience a jump is no unfrequent consequence." " Oh, oh!" groaned the doctor, reflectively. " Then it counts for nothing?" " Nothing," said Miss Perfect in a low tone. " Winnie, get the table up again." " Suppose, ma'am, to avoid mistakes," said the doctor, after reflection, " suppose we put it upon it to express itself in language. Just ask it what about Miss Dinah Perfect's death." " I've no objection," said Miss Perfect; and in the terms prescribed by Dr. Drake the momentous question was put. Hereupon the spelling commencedA-D-J-O-U-R-N-E-D." " Postponed, put off, ma'am!" said the doctor, expounding eagerly. " 1 know; good heaven! I understand," answered Aunt Dinah, faintly. " Give her some water. fiere, ma'am," said he, presenting a glass of water t her pale lips. She sipped a little. "Now we'll ask, ma'am, please, for how long?" suggested the doctor. And this question likewise having been propounded, the table proceeded once more to spell9 S-I-N-E D-I-E." " It ends with die," said my poor aunt, faintly. " Sine die, ma'am. It means indefinitely, ma'am; your death is postponed without a day named-for ever, ma'am! It's all over and I'm very happy it has ended so. What a marvellous thing, ma'am-give her some more water, please-those manifestations are. I ALL IN THE DARK. hope, ma'am, your, mind is quite relievedperfectly, ma'am." Miss Dinah Perfect was taken with a violent shivering, in which her very teeth chattered. Then she cried, and then she laughed; and finally Doctor Drake administered some of his ammonia and valerian, and she became, at last, composed. Witl audible thanksgivings old Winnie accompanied her mistress upstairs to her room, where Aunt Dinah herself, who, notwithstanding her necromancy, was a well-intending, pious churchwoman, descended to her knees at her bedside, and poured forth her gratitude for the reprieve, and then in a loud and distinct voice read to old Winnie Dobbs the twentieth chapter of the Second Book of Kings, in which we read how the good king Hezekiah obtained by prayer ten years more of the light of life. Then old Winnie persuaded her to have a glass of very hot port wine-negus, which agreed with.her so well that she quickly fell asleep; and never did poor lady need repose more, or drink deeper and more tranquil draughts of that Lethe. William Maubray was now wide awake, and he and the doctor, being a little chilly, sat before the study fire. " It's jolly, isn't it?" exclaimed William, for the seventh time. " But is'nt it all very odd, sir, and very unaccountable-I-I think?" "Very, very odd, to be sure," said the doctor, poking the corner of a lump of coal" very, no doubt." " I wish I had been awake. I should like to see one of those things-those seances. I had no idea there really was anything se coherent." " Very lucky for her," replied the doctor with a sly little wink to William. William looked inquringly at the doctor who smiled on the poker's end, and pushed the embers gently with it. " You don't believe in it, sir-do you?' inquired William, puzzled. " I? Well, I don't know exactly what to say, you know. I put my foot in it on Sunday last, when I told her I did not believe a bit o it; nor more I did. Egad, you never saw woman so angry, when I called it all bosh You'd better not vex her that way, my boyd'ye see? She lent me one of those wonderfu queer books from America-very odd they ar( -and I read it to please her. So, you see that's how we stand; very good friends again. " And you are convinced it's true?" urge( William, who, like other young men who si up late, and read wild books, and drink stronp coffee, was, under the rose, addicted to th supernatural. " Why, you see, as Shakespeare says, ther are more bubbles between heaven and earti than are dreamt of by the philosophers, observed the doctor, with a little paraphrasc "I wish to live at peace with my neighbours and I advise you to think over this subjec: old fellow, and not to tease the old lady up stairs about it-that's all.' 2 "'I wish he'd speak out, and tell me what Ihppened to-night, and tell me his real opinion," thought William Maubray. " I've read in some old medical book," he continued aloud, " that the vital electricity escapes and diffuses itself at the finger-tips." " Oh, to be sure! All sorts of theories. The hand's a very mysterious organ. The hand of glory, you may be certain, was not altogether a story. The electric light has been seen at the finger-tips in consumptive cases in the dark; and a patient convulsed, or in a state of extreme nervous exhaustion, will clench the hand so as to prevent the escape of this influence at the finger-points, and then joining hands, in love, you know, or friendship -and in fact it is, sir, a very mysterious organ; and I'm prepared to believe a great deal that's curious about its occult powers. Your aunt told you about the toad she saw climb over her coverlet one night, and turn into a hand and grasp her wrist." " No," said William. "Egad, she's ready to swear to it. Last winter she was so frightened, she was not fit to stand for a week after. She reads too much of those books. Egad, sir, she'll turn her head, and that will be the end of it. However, we've pulled her through this, and I hope she'll give it up, true or false. You see, there's no good in it; and if she goes on, sooner or later she'll frighten herself out of her wits." "'But that toad was a very curious idea," Ssaid William. "What does she make of it? Does she think it was a fancy only, or a real thing?" "Pooh! A spirit of course. She calls it the Skey-spirit that unlocks the spirit world, you see; and from the time it touches you, you, are in report with the invisible world, and subject, as she says she is, to their visitations, you see- ha, ha, ha 1" S William laughed too. " Last winter?" he said. "She never told ' me." " Pooh! All fancies," observed the doctor. S" Better she should not talk of them. Those r American people are all going mad. She'll f get touched in the upper storey if she does not mind." -0-- "', CHAPTER VIII. d WILLIAM MAUBDRAY'S VISION. t g AFTER some more talk of this kind, they e parted, and Williarm Maubray, as he lay down again in his bed, wondered whether the doctor, e whom he had heard described as a shrewd h man, believed in the revelations at which he " had assisted; or, was it possible-could he e. have been accessory to-Oh! no, it could not; be! t, The student, as I have said, had a sort of - liking for the supernatural, and although now 18 ALL IN THE DARK. and then he had experienced a qualm in his solitary college chamber at dead of night, when, as he read a well-authenticated horror, the old press creaked suddently, or the door of the inner room swung slowly open of itself, it yet was " a pleasing terror" that thrilled him; and now as he lay this night awake, with a patch of moonlight spread askance on the floor -for Aunt Dinah insisted on a curfew, and he, " preferring t1ke light that heaven sheds" to no lamp at all, left-the window-shutter a little open, and for a while allowed his eyes to wander over the. old-fashioned and faded furniture of the apartelent, and his fancy to wander among thosedreams of superstition with which he rather liked to try his courage. He conned over his aunt's story of the toad, recounted to him by Dqdtor Drake;t and which he had never heard befoee, until the nodding shadow of the sprig of jessarhine /on the floor took the shape of the spra'w.Mlin~ eptile, and seemed to swagger clumsily\ tolvard his bed and every noise in the curtains suggested, its slimy clamberings. \ Youth, fatigue, pure countryair,Ain a little while overpowered these whimsies, andi William Maubray fell into a deep sleep. I am now going to relate a very extraordinary incident; but upon my honour thp narrative is true. William Maubray dreamqtl that he was in the room in which he actualMy lay; that he was in bed, and that the moonlight crAered the room, just as he had seen it before going to sleep. He thought that he heard a heavy tread traverse the room Qyer his head; he heard the same slow and ponderous step descend the narrow back stair, that was separated from him only by the wall at the back of his bed. He knew intuitively that the person thus approaching' came in quest of him, and he lay expecting, in a state of unaccountable terror. The handle of his door turned, and it seemed that his intending visitor paused, having opened the door about a hand's breadth, and William knew that he had only suspended, not abandoned his purpose, be it what it might. Then the door swung slowly open, and in the deep shadow, a figure, of gigantic stature, entered, paused beside his bed, and seized his wrist with a tremendous gripe. For a time, unable to stir, he remained passive under its pressure. Then with a horrified struggle he awoke. There was no figure visible, but his wrist was actually compressed in a cold grasp, and, with a ghastly ejaculation, he sprang from his bed and was released. He had no means of lighting a candle; he had nothing for it but to bounce to the window, fling curtains and shutters wide, and admit the full flood of moonlight, which revealed the contents of the room, and showed that no figure but his own was there. But tlere were the marks of the grasp that had held him, still visible. He secured his door, and made search, in a state of horror, but was convinced. There was no visible intruder in the chamber. Now William got back into his bed. For the first time in his life he had experienced a paroxysm of that wild fear with which it had been so often his delight to trifle. He heard the clock at the stair-head strike hour after hour, and at last, after having experienced every stage in the subsidence of such horrors, fairly overcome by fatigue, he sunk to sleep. How welcome and how beautiful shone the morning! Slanting by his window, the sunbeam touched the quivering jessamine leaves and the clustering roses, and in the dewy air he heard the chirp and whistle of the happy birds. He threw up his window, and breathed the perfumed air, and welcomed all the pleasant sounds of morning in that pleasant season. " The cock he crew, Away then flew The fiends from the church-door." And so the uncomfortable and odious shadows pf the night winged their foul flight before;these cheerful influences, and William Maubray, though he felt the want of his accus-,)med sleep, ran down the well-known stairs, and heard with a happy heart from Winnie Dobbs that his kind old aunt was ever so mucl better. Doctor Drake had withdrawn from his uncomfortable bivouac, carrying with him his night-cap and slippers, and hastening to his toilet in the pleasant town of Saxton, where, no doubt, Miss Letty cross-questioned him minutely upon the occurrences of the night. I liave said before that the resources of Gilroyd were nothing very remarkable; still, there was the Saxton Cricket Club, who practised zealously, and always welcomed William, whose hit to leg was famous, and even recorded as commendable in the annual volume of t'h. great Mr. Lillywhite; where he was noted, in terms that perplexed A nt Dinah, as a promising young bat, with a go'od defence. He fished a little; and he played at fives with young Trcvor of Revington, whom nobody very much liked-the squire of Saxton, who assumed territorial and other airs that were oppressive, although Revington was only two thousand five hundred pounds a year; but, in that modest neighbourhood, he was a very important person, and knew that fact very well. He had of late distinguished Violet with a slight admiration, that ought to have been gratifying. Once or twice he paid old Miss Perfect a little neighbourly, condescending visit, and loitered a good deal about the garden, and that acre and a half of shrubbery, which she called "the grounds."' He sometimes joined in the walk home from:church, and sometimes in other walks; and Aunt Perfect: was pleased and favourable, and many of the Saxton mothers and daughters were moved to envy and malice. "I played to-day," said William, giving an account of his hours at tea. to the ladies, " two rubbers of fives; with whom do you think?" ALL IN THE DARK. 19 He stopped, smiling slily on Violet, who was steadfastly looking down on Miss Perfect's crest on her tea-spoon. " Well, I'm sure you know, by that unerring instinct that poets speak of," said William; "but it is hardly fair to ask you to name him.'' Violet looked up, having blushed very prettily, but not very well pleased. " Of course I mean Trevor-Vane Trevorof Revington. It sounds very well. Trevor was two years my senior at school; he left at the end of the third half after I came; that makes him nearly twenty-five now. How old are you, Vi,-you'd make a very pretty mistress of Revington; yes, indeed, Vi, or anywhere else. Don't be vexed, but tell me exactly how old you are." He tapped with his pencil on the table to hasten her answer, as he looked at her, smiling a little sadly. "How old?" she repeated. "Well?" "Past seventeen. Why do you want to know?" she added, laughing. " Well, he's not quite five-and-twenty yet; only twenty-four to your seventeen. Seven years is a very pretty difference." ( What are you talking about, William? This kind of thing is thought very funny: it is very disagreeable. If people will talk nonsense, do let it be amusing. You used to be sometimes amusing." " That was long ago, when I told you ' Sinbad the Sailor,' and 'The Romance of the Forest;' before the romance of the shrubbery co3amm.enced." "Folly " exclaimed Violet. -0 -CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH MISS VIOLET SAYS WHAT SHEi THIiKS OF MR. VANE TREVOR, AND IS VIOLET NO LONGER. " Now, I tell you," continued William Maubray, and he glanced at Aunt Dinah; but she was reading, with her gold spectacles on, the second of a series of old letters, which she had in an old stamped letter box beside her, and had forgotten all else. " You really must tell me what you think of Vane Trevor?" Miss Vi fixed her glowing eyes full upon his for a moment, and then dropped them suddenly. His were full of their old, gentle, goodnatured mirth. There was a little pause, and, suddenly looking up, she said, rather petulantly: "Think of him? Why, I suppose I think what every one else does. I think him handsome; I think him agreeable; I think he has an estate; I think he looks like a gentleman; and I think he is the only man who ever appears in this neighbourhood that is not in one way or other a bore. LShall I sing you a song?" And with heightenea colour and bright eyes, this handsome girl sat down to the piano, which had a cracked and ancient voice, like the reedy thrum of a hurdy-gurdy, contrasting quaintly with her own mellow tones, and she sang-nothing to the purpose, nothing with a sly, allegoric satire in it, but the first thing that came into her headsweet and sad as a song of old times; and ancient Miss Perfect, for a verse or so, lowered her letter, and listened, smiling, with a little sigh; and William, listening also, fell into a brown study, as he looked ca the pretty songstress, and her warblings mingled with his dreams. "Thank you, little Vi," said.he, rising with a sudden smile, and standing beside her as the music ceased.." Very pretty - very sweet." " I am glad you like it, William," she said, kindly. " William, again!" he repeated. " Well-yes." "And why.not Willie, as it used to be?" he persisted. "Because.it sounds foolish, somehow. I'm sure you think so. I do." It seemed to him, as, with a sad smile, he looked at her, thinking over the words that sounded so like a farewell, so light and cruel, too, that there yet was wisdom-that precocious wisdom with which nature accomplishes the weaker sex-in her decision; and something of approval lighted up his sad smile, and he said, with a little nod:. "I believe the young lady says wisely; yes, you are a wise little woman, and I submit." Perhaps, she was a. little disappointed at his ready acquiescence; at all events, she wound up with a loud chord on the piano, and standing up, said: "Yes, it sounds foolish, and so, indeed, I think, does William; and people can't go on being children always, and talking nonsense; and you know we are no relations-at least, that I know of-and I'll call you-yes, I will -Mr. MJaubray. People may be just as friendly, and yet-and yet call one ainother by their right names. And now, M4f. Maubray,o will you have some tea?" "No, thanks; no more tea to-night. 'm sure it has lost its flavour. It would not taste like tea." " What's the matter with the tea?" asked Miss Perfect, over the edge of her. letter. " You don't like your tea, William? Is not it strong enough?" "Quite; too much; almost bitter, and a little cold." "Fancy, child," said Aunt Dinah, who apprehended a new attack on, her tea-chest, and hated vaste. "I think it particularly good this evening," and she sipped a little in evidence of her liking, and once more relapsed into reading. " I can add water," said Violet; touching the little ivory handle of the tea-urn with the tip of her finger, and not choosing to apprehend William's allegory. " No, thank you, Vi-Violet, I mean-M-iss ALL IN THE DARK. 21 Bible, and to Aunt Dinah's that of the prayers, likes him, as why should she not? But that's and then the little congregation broke up, and only conjecture, you know, and you are not away went Vi to her bed-room, with old to hint it to him, mind, if he should question Winnie. or poke you on the subject." William was not worse, nor, I dare say, much "Oh, no certainly," answered William, and better than other young Cambridge men of there came a long pause. " But indeed, aunt, his day and College; but he liked these little I don't think Vane Trevor half good enough " services" in which he officiated, and they for her." entered into his serene and pleasant recollec- " Oh! that's for them, my dear, to settle. tions of that sequestered habitation.! There's nothing, in point of prudence, against "Well, William dear, I thank God I am it." spared to be with you a little longer." " No-oh, no. Everything very well. Lucky "Amen," he said, "you dear Aunt, dear fellow, to be able to marry when he likes." dear, old Aunt Dinah." " And-but I forgot you don't mind. You And they kissed very lovingly, and tnere think there's nothing in it. Still I may tell was a silence, which Aunt Dinah in a few you.. I have had-old Winnie and I-some minutes broke by mentioning the very subject answers." at that moment in his mind. " Table-rapping?" said William. "You saw Violet a good deal grown-very "A little s4ance. We sit down together, pretty figure-in fact, I think her lovely; but Winnie ant I; and some responses, in my we must not tell her so, you know. She has mind, can hardly refer to anything else, and been very much admkred, and a good, affection- most sweet and comforting they have been." ate, amiable little soul she is. There's young Once on this subject, my aunt was soon Mr. Trevor. I can tell you people are begin- deep in it, and told her story of the toad ning to talk about it. What do yoz think?" which turned into a hand; whereupon WilWilliam sat down his bedroom candle on the liam related his dream, and the evidences tea table, rubbed the apex of its extinguisher afforded by his waking senses of the reality of with the tip of his fnger, and returned an the visitation. My aunt was at once aweanswer answerless. struck and delighted. " He's very good-looking; isn't he? ut " Now, William, you'll read, I've no doubt, he thinks a lot of himself; and don't you the wonderful. experiences of others, having think it would be an awful pity little Vi should had such remarkable ones of your own. Since be married so soon?' my hand was held in that spirit-hand-no " Then you think he means to ask her?" doubt the same which seized yours-I have said Miss Perfect, her silver-pencil case to her become accessible to impressions from the inchin, her head a little aside, and looking very visible world, such as I had no idea of before. curiously into her nephew's eyes. You need not be uncomfortable or nervous. "I don't know; I haven't a notion. He It is all benevolent-or, at worst, just. I've said yesterday he thought her very pretty; never seen or felt that hand but once; the but Trevor always talks like no end of a swell, relation is established for ever by a single and I really think he fancies a prnicess, or pressure. I have satisfied Dr. Drake-a very something of the sort, would hardly be good intelligent man, and reasonable--convinced enough for him." him, he admits. And now, dear William, " It would, of course, be a very good match there is another link between us; and if, in for Vi," said Miss Perfect, dropping her eyes, the mysterious ways of Providence, you should perhaps a little disappointed, and running her after all be taken first, I shall have the happipencil-case back and forward slowly on the ness of communion with you. Good night, edge of William's plated candlestick, from dear, and God bless you, and be careful to put which they both seemed to look for inspira- out your candle." tion; "but a girl so pretty as she may look So William departed, and notwithstanding higher than Mr Trevor without presumption." Miss Perfect's grisly conversation, he slept SYes, indeed, and there's no hurry, Heaven soundly, and did not dream of the shadowy knows. I don't think Trevor half good enough giant, nor even of Trevor and Violet. for her," said William. Pleasant, listless Gilroyd Hall! thought "Oh, I don't say that; but-but more un- William, as, after breakfast, he loitered up and likely things have happened." down before the rich, red-brick front of the old " Does he-does he make love to her?" said gabled house, with its profusion of small winWilliam who drew altogether upon the cir- dows, with such thick, white sashes, and casculating library for his wisdom in those ings of white stone; and the pointed gables, matters. with stone cornice and glittering weather" He certainly admires her very much; he vane on the summit. That house, somehow, has been very attentive. I'm sure he likes bore a rude resemblance to the old world her, and I can't hear that he is anything but dandyism which reigned in its younger days, a straightforward, honourable young man." and reminded William of the crimson coats, "I suppose he is," said William; "I'm sure the bars of lace and quaint, gable-like cocked he's that. And what does Violet-Miss Dark- hats, which had, no doubt, for many a year well-say?" passed in and out at its deep-poiched door; " Say! Why of course I can't ask her to where I could ' fancy lovers loitering in a say anything till he speaks. I dare say she charmed murmur, in sumn'er shade, for an en 22 ALL IN THE DARK. chanted hour, till old Sir Harry's voice and whistle, and the pound of his crutch-handled cane, and the scamper and yelp of the dogs, were heard in the oak hall approaching. Under the old chestnuts, clustered with ivy, Violet joined him. "Well, how are we to-day? I think we were a little cross last night, weren't we?" said William, with his old trick of lecturing little Vi. "We! One of us may have been, but it was not I," she answered. "I think my watch is wrong. Did you happen to look at the clock as you passed?" "Half-past eleven." "Ah! so I thought. How many hours long, Miss-- " (Vi he was going to say)--- " Darkwell, are contained in half an hour's waiting? The sairit of Mariana has come upon me: 'She only said, " 1My life is dreary," "I He cometh not," she said; She said "I am a-weary, a-weary, I would that I were dead 1"' Can't you a little understand it, too?-not, of course, quite like me, but a little?" Vi was not going to answer, but suddenly she changed her mind, and said" I don't know, but I think you were a great deal more agreeable when you were a schoolboy. I assure you, I'm serious. I think you've grown so tiresome and conceited. I suppose all young men in the universities are. 'A little learning is a dangerous thing,' you used to tell me, and I think I can now agree with you-at least, it seems to make people Svain and disagreeable." Maubray answered looking on her gently, but speaking as if in a pensive soliloquy, and wondering as he went along whether he had really turiied into a coxcomb; for he was one of those sensitive, because diffident souls on whom the lightest reproof tells, and induces self-examination. " I don't know," he said, " that I've even got the little learning that qualifies for danger. I don't think. I am vain-that is, not a bit vainer than I used to be; but I'm sure I'm more disagreeable-that is, to you. My babble and dull jokes were very well for a child, but the child has grown up, and left childish things behind; and a young lady in her teens is more fastidious, and-and, in fact, is a sort of an angel whom I am not formed to talk to with a chance of being anything but a bore. Very unlearned, and yet a book-worm; very young, and yet not very merry; not a bad fellow, I think, and yet, with hardly a friend on earth, and-by Jove! here comes Trevor at last." And Trevor entered the gate, and approachd them. CHAPTER XI. UNDER THE CHESTNUTS. VANE TpEVOR-was rather good-looking; a young gentleman of the slender and delicate type; his dark hair curled, and on his small forehead oile of those tresses, twisted, barber-fashion, into a neat little Ionic volute, and his glossy whiskers were curled on each cheek into little rolls like pistol barrels. There was in his toilet something of elaboration and precision which was uncomfortable, and made one fear to shake hands with him, and wish him back safely again in his band-box. He approached simpering. There was a general air of May Fair-cameo studs, varnished boots, and lavender gloves-that had nothing of the rough and careless country in it. "How do, Miss Darkwell-charming day, is not it? Everything really so fresh; you can't imagine-as I came along, and a-this, now really this little-a--place, it looks quite charming---quite, really, now-a--as you turn off the road, there's every thing you know to make it charming.". This latter period was delivered in a low tone, and with a gracious significance. "How d'ye do, Maubray 2" " Quite well, thank you," said William, with a smile that had a flicker of unconscious amusement in it. Perhaps without knowing it, he was envying him at that moment. "- He's a worse fool, by Jove! than I thought he was," was his mental criticism; but he felt more conscious of his clumsy shoes, and careless get-up. " That's the sort of thing they admire -why should a fellow be vexed-they can't help it-it's pure instinct." "1 What delicious ground for croquet; positively I never say anything so beautiful in my life. Do you play, Miss Darkwell 2" " Sometimes, atthe Rectory-not here. The Miss Mainwarings play, and once or twice I've joined their party." " But they have no ground there,77 insisted IMr. Trevor; "it's all on a slope. I happen to know it very well, because, in fact, it belongs to me. Old Mainwaring pays me a pretty smart rent for it, at least he thinks so. Ha! ha! ha!" and Vane Trevor cackled gaily over his joke, such as it was. " Do you play?" demanded Violet of William. " Croquet?-no, not much-just a littleonce or twice-I'll do to fill a place if you want a very bad player." " Oh, never mind, we'll pull you through, or push you-ha, ha, ha!-we will, indeed. You'll learn it a---in no time, it's so simple-- isn't it, Miss Darkwell? And then if you can get up one of those Miss Mainwaringsawfully slow girls, I'm told, but they'll do to play with youz, Maubray, just by way of ballast, he's such a fast fellow-ha, ha, ha! You'll want a-a slow partner, eh?77" "Yes, and you'll want a clever one, so I surrender Miss Darkwell, just to-to balance ALL IN THE DARK 2: the game," answered William, who was a little combative that morning. " Egad, I should like uncommonly to be balanced that way, I can tell you; much better, I assure you, Miss Darkwell, than the sort of balancing I've been at the last two days, with my Steward's books-ha, ha, ha! Awful slow work, figures. A regular dose of arithmetic. Upon my honour you'd pity me if you knew; you really would." " You really would," echoed William, " if you knew how little he knows of it." " Come, now, old fellow, none of your chaff, but get the balls and hoops, if Miss Darkwell will allow you, and we will choose the ground." "Lots of ground-I'll choose that if you like-only youe'll just run and get the hoops and balls, for we have none here," answered -Maubray. "No croquet!" ejaculated Mr. Trevor, expanding his lavender kid fingers, and elevating his eyebrows. "I thought every one had croquet now-I mean, you know, the malletthings, and hoops, and balls,-and-and those little painted sticks, you know-and what are we to do, Miss Darkwell?" " I really don't know. It's quite true; and besides we have not got Miss Mainwaring, you forget." "Oh! you'll send Maubray, won't you, to fetch her?" " Yes," said Maubray, "I'll go with great pleasure, if Miss Darkwell wishes; but as I never saw the young lady before, I'm not quite sure that she'll come away with me." " Well, no-ha, ha, ha!-I don't think she'd run away with Maubray at first siglt." "Particularly to come to you," replied Maubray. " There now, let's be serious-there's a little fellow I saw at your gate-yes, there he is, Miss Darkwell. Suppose you let me send him to Rievington. I've no end of those things there; and I'll give him a note to Sparks, and we shall have them in no time." " A long time. I'm afraid," objected Violet. " No, I assure you; a mere nothing; not twenty minutes. Do, pray, allow me." And he wrote with a pencil on the back. of a card, an order to Sparks for the croquet apparatus, and away trotted the messenger. " Three can play, you know, or two for that matter, as well as twenty, and so we can do quite well without troubling Miss Mainwaring." There was now a knocking at the drawingroom window, where William had seen dimly through the glass, the form of Aunt Dinah at her knitting, with Psyche in her new collar, seated by her. All looked towards the signal, and Miss Perfect threw up the window and said: " How do you do, Mr. Trevor? what a sweet morning."' "Perfectly charming," responded the master of Revington, with a tender emphasis which Violet could not fail to understand, and smiling toward Miss Perfect with his hat in his hand; and Aunt Dinah smiled and nodded again in return. "William, i want you for a moment-here, dear, you need not come in." The instinct which makes old ladies afford a dole now and then of a few minutes to lovers, is in harmony with the general rule of mercy and mitigation wvhich alleviates every human situation. As soon as Mliss Dinah raised the window, William saw standing in the chiaroscuro of the apartment, a tall and rather handsome old clergyman. A little rusty was his black suit -a little dust was on his gaiters. It must have been he whom William had mistaken for the attorney who was to have visited his aunt that morning. He had seen lhim walk his nag up to the door about an hour ago and dismount. The old clergyman was looking observantly and kindly on William; and, nodding to him, and with her thin hand extended toward her nephew, she said, " This is he!" with a proud smile in her old eyes, for she thought William the handsomest fellow alive. " Happy to make your acquaintance, sir,"7 said the cleric, stepping forward and shaking William's hand. "I knew your father, and grandfather, and your aunt and I are very old friends; and I've just been telling her how happy I shall be"" This is Doctor Waggett, my very good and kind old friend; you may have heard me speak of him often, I dare say," interposed my aunt. " And your reading i, sirhas been rather desultory, your aunt tells me, like my owni sir -ha, ha, ha! We had rather give our time than pay it; read wvhat is not exacted of us than what is. But I don't know, Miss Perfect," continued the Doctor, turning to that lady, as if they were in consultation upon William's case, " reading-that is in the case of a man who thinks, and I am sure our young friend here thinks for himself-resembles the browsing of cattle; they choose their own herbage, and the particular flowers and grasses that answer their special conditions best, eh? and so they thrive. Instinct directs us creatures, in the one as in the other; and so we read, he and I-ha, ha! what best nourishes, you see-what we can assimilate and enjoy. For plodding fellows, that devour the curriculum set before them-neither more nor less -are, you see, stall-fed, bulkier fellows; higher priced in the market; but they haven't our flavour and texture. Oh, no, ha, ha! eh?" The ecclesiastic wais cheery and kindly, and in his manner was a curious, mixture of energy and simplicity, which Williamn Maubray liked, The conclusion of this little harangue he had addressed to William Maubray, and I am afraid that Miss Perfect was more interested by the picture on the lawn, for, without reference to the doctor's subject, she desired to know, looking with a pleased inquisitiveness at the young people, whether they were going to take a walk, or zwhat? And prolonged her little t&te-c-tete with William over the windowstool. When William Maubray looked up again at ALL IN THE DARK. 25 humouredly as any fellow at other games, but he was somehow sore and angry here. He was spited by Violet's partial dealing. Violet, how unnatural! Little Vi! his bird! his property, it seemed, leagued with that coxcomb to whack him about-to make a butt and a fool of him. " I'm not going to play any more. I'll sit down here, if you like, and do"---gooseberry, he was on the point of saying, for he was very angry, and young enough, in his wrath, to talk away like a schoolboy-" and do audience, or rather spectator; or, if you choose, Trevor, to take that walk over the Warran you promised me, I'm ready. I'll do exactly whatever Miss Darkwell prefers. If she wishes to play on with you, I'll remain, and if she has had enough of us, I'll go." I" can't play-there is not time for another game/" said Miss Vi, peeping at her watch. " My aunt will want me in a few minutes about that old women-old Widow Grey. I -I'm afraid I must go. Good-bye." " Awfully sorry! But, perhaps you can? Well, I suppose, no help for it," said Trevor. And they walked slowly to the door, where Miss Vi pronounced the conventional invitation to enter, which was, however, wistfully declined, and Trevor and William Maubray set out upon their walk, and Miss Vi, in the drawing-room, sat down on the old-fashioned window-scat, and looked out, silent, and a little sulkily, after them. Miss Perfect glanced over her spectacles, with a stealthy and grave inquisitiveness, at the pretty girl. " Well, dear, they went away?" she said, after a silence. " Oh! yes; I was tired playing, and, I think, William wanted to go for a walk." " There seemed to be a great deal of fun over the game," said Aunt Dinah, who wanted to hear everything. " Yes, I believe so; but one tires of it. I do, I know," and saying. this, Miss Violet took up her novel, and Aunt Dinah scrutinized her, from time to time, obliquely, over her crochet needles, and silence reigned in the drawing room, " Very pretty Miss Darkwell is. I quite envy you. Your cousin, isn't she?" said Trevor, graciously. He felt that William would be flattered by the envy, even playful, of Vane Trevor, Esq., of Revington. " Cousin, or something, someway or other connected or related, I don't know exactly. Yes, I believe she is very well. She was prettier as a child, though. Isn't there a short way to the Warren?" SYes, I'll take you right. She looks, I'd say, about seventeen." " Yes, I dare say," answered William. " Do you know those Miss Mainwarings-Doctor Mainwaring's daughters?" But it would not do. Vane Trevor would go on talking of Violet Darkwell, in spite of William's dry answers and repeated divergences, unaccountably to that philosophical young gentleman's annoyance. CHAPTER XIII. UNSOCIABLE. AT dinner, in the parlour o. Gilroyd Hall, there was silence for some time. William looked a little gloomy, Violet rather fierce and stately, and Aunt Dinah eyed her two guests covertly, without remark, but curiously. At last she said to William"You took a walk with Mr. Trevor?" " Yes, a tiresome one," he answered. "Where?' " All about and round that stupid Warrensix or seven miles," answered William. "I How very fatiguing!" exclaimed Violet, compassionately, as if to herself. "No, not the exercise; that was the only thing that made it endurable," answered William, a little crossly. "But the place is uglier than I fancied, and Trevor is such a donkey." Aunt Dinah, with her eyes fixed on William's, made a nod and a frown, to arrest that line of remark, which, she felt, might possibly prejudice Vi, and could do no possible good. And Miss Vi, looking all the time on the wing of the chicken on her plate, said, " The salt, please," and nothing -more. "Vi, my dear," said Miss Perfect, endeavouring to be cheery, "he asked my leave last Sunday to send you an Italian greyhound. He has two, he says, at Revington. Did he mention it to-day?" " I-I-perhaps he did. I really forget," said Miss Vi, carelessly, laying down her fork, and leaning back, with a languid defiance, for as she raised her eyes, she perceived that William was smiling. "I know what you mean," she said, with a sudden directness to William. "You want me-that is, I think you want me to think you think-" " Oh! do stop one moment. There are so, many 'thinks' there, I'm quite bewildered among them all. Let's breathe an instant. You think I want to make you think that I think. Yes, now I have it, I think. Pray go on." "Polite " said Miss Vi, and turned toward Aunt Dinah. " Well, no," said William, for the first time laughing a little like himself; "it was not polite, but very rude and ill-bred, and I'm very sorry; and I assure you," he continued more earnestly, " I should be very angry, if any one else had made the stupid speech that I have just made; and, really, I believe it is just this -you have been too patient with me, and allowed me to go on lecturing you like an old tutor- and - and-really, I'm certain I've been a horrid bore." Vi made no reply, but looked, and, no doubt, thought herself more ill-used for his apologies. After tea she played industriously, having avowed a little cold, which prevented her singing. William had asked her. Ie turned over the leaves of a book, as he sat back in 26 ALL IN THE DARK. an elbow-chair, and Aunt Dinah was once more deep in her old box of letters, with her gold spectacles on. They were as silent a party as could be fancied; more silent than at dinner. Still, the pleasant light of fire and candle-the handsome young faces and the kindly old one -and the general air of old-fashioned comfort that pervaded the apartment, made the picture pleasant; and the valses and the nigger ditties, with snatches of Verdi, and who knows what composer beside, made the air ring with a merry medley, which supplied the lack of conversation. To William, with nothing but his book to amuse him, time moved slowly enough. But Miss Violet had many things to think of; and one could see that her eyes saw other scenes, and shapes far away, perhaps, from the music and that she was reading to herself the romance that was unrolled within her pretty girlish head. So prayers came, and William read the chapterl and I am afraid his thoughts wandered, and he felt a little sore and affronted, he could not tell why, for no one had ill-used him; and when their devotions were over, Miss Vi took her candle, and bid Grannie good night, with an embrace and a kiss, and William with a nod and a cold little smile, as he stood beside the door, having opened it for her. He was growing formal in spite of himself, and she quite changed. What heartless, cruel, creatures these pretty girls are! She had quite vanished up the stairs, and he still held the door handle in his fingers, and stood looking up the vacant steps, and, as it were, listening to distant music. Then, with a little sigh, he suddenly closed the door, and sat down drowsily before the fire, and began to think that he ought to return to his Cambridge chambers, his books, and monastic life; and he thought how fortunate those fellow were-who like Trevor 1-were born to idleness, respect, and admiration. " Money!-d-n money-curse it! I wish I had a lot of it" and William clutched the poker, but the fire did not want poking, and he gave it a rather vicious knock upon the bar, which startled Miss Perfect, and recalled his own thoughts from unprofitable speculations upon the preposterous injustice of Fate, and some ultimate state of poetical compensation, in which scholars and men of mind, who, played all sorts of games excellently, and noodles, who never did anything decently-in fact, he and Trevor-would be dealt with discriminately, and with common fairness. " Don't, dear William, pray, make such a clatter I'm so nervous." " I beg a thousand pardons. I'm so stupid." " Well, it does not signify-an accidentbut don't mind touching the fire-irons," said Miss Perfect; " and how did your walk with Mr. Trevor-a-a-proceed? Did he-atalk of anything?" "Oh! didn't he? Fifty things, He's a wonderful fellow to talk, is Trevor," said William, looking with half-closed eyes into the fire. " Oh, yes," persisted Aunt Dinah; " but was there aythng--ang- ything particularanything that could interest us?" "Next to nothing that could interest any one," said William; uncommunicatively " Well, it would interest me, if he talked of Violet," said Aunt Dinah, coming directly to the point. "Didhe?' " Of Violet? Yes, I believe he did," answered William, rather reluctantly. "Well, and why did not you say so? Of course, you knew that's what I meant," said Miss Perfect. "How could I know, Auntie?" "I think, William Maubray, you are a little disagreeable to-night." William at. these words, recollected that there was truth in the reproof. His mood was disagreeable to himself, and, therefore, to others. " My dear Auutie, I'm very sorry. I'm sure I have been-not a little, but very-and I beg your pardon. What was it? Yesabout Violet. He did a great deal. He-in fact-he talked about her untill he quite tired me." "He admires her, evidently! Did he-atalk of her good looks? She is, you kniow, extremely pretty," said Aunt Dinah. " Yes, he thinks her very pretty. She is very pretty. In fact, I don't think-judging by the women who come to church-there is a good-looking girl, except herself, in this part of the world; and she would be considered pretty anywhere-very pretty." ' Revington is a very nice place, and the Trevors a good old family. The-the-connection would'be a very desirable one; and I -though, of course, not knowing, in the least, whether the young man had any serious intentions-I never alluded to the possibility to Vi herself. Yet, I do think she likes him. " I should not wonder," said William. SAnd-and-he talked pretty frankly?" continued Aunt Dinah. "I suppose so. He did not seem to have anything to conceal; and he always talks a great deal, an enormous quantity;" and William yawned, as it seemed, over the recollection. 0----- CHAPTER XIV. A SUNNY MORNING, " I SUPPOSE, if he likes her, there's nothing to conceal in that?" challenged Miss Perfect. " No, of course," replied William, spiritedly; "I think she's a thousand times too good for him, every way-that's what I think; and ALL IN THE DARK. 27 I wonder, young as she is, Vi can be such a fool. What can she see in him? He has got two thousand a-year, and that's all you can say for him." " I don't know that-I can't see-in fact, he strikes me as a very pretty young man, quite apart from his property," said Aunt Dinah, resolutely; " and I could quite understand a young girl's falling in love with him." William, leaning with his elbow on the chimney-piece, smiled a little bitterly, and said, quietly, " I dare say." " I don't say, mind, that she is. I don't, upon my life, know the least, whether she cares twopence about him," said Aunt Dinah. " I hope she doesn't," rejoined William. "And why so?" asked Aunt Dinah. SBecause, I'm perfectly certain he has not the least notion of ever asking her to marry him. He's not thinking seriously about her, and never will," replied he. " Well, it's nothing to vaunt of. You need not talk as if you wished her to be mortified," said Aunt Dinah. " I!-I wish no such thing, I assure you; but, even if she admires and adores the fellow all you say, still I can't wish her his wife-because-because I'm sure he's not the least worthy of her. I assure you lie's no better than a goose. You don't know him-you can't-as the fellows in the same school didand Violet ought to do fifty times better." "You said he does not think seriously about her," said Miss Perfect. " Remember, we are only talking, you and I, together, and -and I assure you I never asked her whether she liked him or not, nor hinted a possibility of anything, as you say, serious coming of it; but what makes you think the young man disposed to trifle?" " I didn't say to trifle," answered William; Sbut every fellow will go on like that where there's a pretty girl, and no one supposes they mean anything. And from what he said today, I would gather that he's thinking of some swell, whenever he marries, which he talks of like a thing so far away as to be nearly out of sight; in fact, nothing could be more contrary to any sign of there being any such notion in his head-and there isn't. I assure you he has no more idea, at present, of marrying than I have." "H'm!" was the only sign of attention which Aunt Dinah emitted, with closed lips, as she looked gloomily into her work-basket, I believe for nothing. William whistled "Rule Britannia," in a low key, to the little oval portrait of the Very Rev. Simeon Lewis Perfect, Dean of Crutch Friars, the sainted and ascetic parent of the eccentric old lady, who was poking in her work-basket, his own maternal grandfather; and a silence ensued, and the conversation expired. Next morning, William, returning from his early saunter in the fields, saw the graceful head of Miss Violet peeping through the open window of the parlour, through the jessamine and,roses that clustered round it. Her eyes glanced on him, and she smiled and nodded. " Uncertain as the weather!" thought he, as he smiled and kissed his hand, approaching, "a lowering evening yesterday, and now so sunny a morning." " How do you do, Miss Violet? you said you wanted a water-lily, so I found two in my morning's ramble, and here they are." How beautiful. Thank you very much. Where did you find them?" said Miss Vi quite glowing. " In the Miller's Tarn," he answered. "I'm so glad you like them." " Quite beautiful! The BMiller's Tarn?" She remembered that she had mentioned it yesterday as a likely place, but it was two miles away; four miles there and back, for a flower. It deserved her thanks, and she did thank him; and reminded him in tone and look of that little Vi of other years, very pleasantly yet somehow sadly. " I mean to return to Cambridge to-morrow," said William, a little regretfully; he had glanced round at the familiar scene; " and I am sorry to leave so soon." "And must you go?" asked Violet. " Not quite must, but I think I ought. If I had brought with me some papers I have been transcribing for Doctor Sprague, I might have stayed a little longer, but they are locked up, and he ovants the copy on Tuesday, and so I can't help it." "It was hardly worth while coming. Poor Grannie will miss you very much." "And you, not at all." "I? Oh, yes, of course we shall all miss you." " Some, but not you, Vi." The old " Vi" passed quite unnoticed. "I, and zkhy not I?" "Because your time is so pleasantly occupied." "I don't know what you mean," said the young lady coldly, with a little toss of her head. " More riddles I suppose." " Mine are poor riddles; very easily found out. Are we to have croquet to-day?" "I'm sure I- can't tell," replied she. "Did not Trevor tell you he was coming here at eleven? " asked William. " I don't recollect that he said anything about coming to-day," she answered carelessly. " I did not say to-day," said William provokingly. " You did. I'm nearly certain. At all events I understood it, and really it does not the least signify." "Don't be vexed - but he told me he had settled with you to come here to-day, at eleven, to play as he did yesterday," said William. " Ho! Then I suppose I have been telling fibs as usual? I remark. I never do anything right when you are here. You can't think how pleasant it is to have some one by you always insinuating that you are about something shabby." " You put it in a very inexcusable light," 28 ALL IN THE DARK. said William, laughing. It may have been a vaunt of Trevor's, for I think he's addicted to boasting a little; or a misapprehension, or -or an indistinctness; there are fibs logical and fibs ethical, and fibs logical and ethical; but you don't read logic, nor care for metaphysics." "Nor metaphysicians," she acquiesced with cruel scorn. "Well," said William, " he says he's coming at eleven, and-- "I think we are going to have prayers," interrupted Miss Violet, turning coldly from the window, through which William saw the little congregation of Gilroyd Hall assembling at the row of chairs by the parlour door, and Aunt Dinah's slight figure gliding to the corner of the chimney-piece, to the right of the Very Rev. Simeon Lewis Perfect, sometime Dean of Crutch Friars, where the bible and prayerbook lay, and in the shadow her golden spectacles glimmered like a saintly glory round her chaste head. So William hastened to do his office of deacon, and read the appointed chapter; and their serene devotions over, the little party of three, with the windows open, and the fragrance and twitterings of that summer-like morning entering through those leafy apertures, sat down to breakfast, and William did his best to entertain the ladies with recollections lively and awful of his college life. " Half-past nine, Miss Violet; don't forget eleven," said William, leaning by the windowframe, and looking out upon the bright and beautiful landscape. "I'll go out just now and put down the hoops." S"Going to play again to-day," enquired Miss Perfect briskly; "charming morning for a game-is he coming, William?" " Yes, at eloven." "i 'm1!" murmured Aunt Dinah, in satisfactory:rumination. And William, not caring to be drawn into another discussion of this interesting situation, jumped from the window upon the sward, and kissing his hand to Aunt Dinah, strolled away toward the river. -0 -CHAPTER XV. DINNER AT REVINGTON. TREvon did appear, and was received smilingly; and Aunt Dinah came out and sat a little apart on the rustic seat, and looked on cheerfully, the day was so very charming. Perhaps she fancied it a case for a Chaperone, and being a little more in evidence, than a seat in the drawing-room window would make her, and with her work, and with Psyche at her feet, she presided very cheerily. When, after two or three games, Trevor was taking his loeve, Miss Violet Darkwell having, notwithstanding various nods and small frowns from Grannie, persisted in announcing that she was tired, and had beside a long letter to write before Tom left for the town, the master of Rcvington said-(he and Maubray were knocking the balls about at random)"I say, Maubray, you must come over to Revington and have a mutton chop, or something. You really must; an old schoolfellow, you know, and I want to talk to you a bit, upon my honour I do. I'm totally alone, you know, at present, and you must eomo." "But I'm going to-morrow, andthis is my last evening here," said William, who felt unaccountably queer and reluctant. What could Trevor want to talk to him about? There was something in Trevor's look and manner a little odd and serious-he fancied even embarrassed. Perhaps it is some nonsense about little Vi. "I want him to come and dine with me, Miss Perfect, and he says you can't spare him," said Trevor, addressing that lady. "I really do. I've no one to talk to. Do tell him to come." "Certainly," said Aunt Dinah, with an imperious little nod to William Maubray. " Go, William, my dear, we shall see you to-night, and to-morrow morning. He'll be very happy I'm sure," said Aunt Dinah, who, like William Maubray, possibly anticipated a revelation. So William, having no excuses, did walk over to Ievington to dine. There was almost a pain at his heart as he paused for a moment at the stile, only one field away, and saw pretty Vi on the dark green grass, looking at the flowers, with little Psyche frisking beside her, and the kindly old front of Gilroyd Hall, and its lofty chestnuts in the sad evening light, and he sighed, thinking-" Why won't things stay as they arc, as they were? What is the drift of this perpetual mutation? Is it really progress? Do we improve? Don't we " (he would have said Violet?) " grow more selfish and less high-minded? It is all a beautiful decay, and the end is death.".Violet was plainly intent on her flowers, she had her hoe and her rake, and her movements somehow were so pretty that, unseen, he paused for another moment. " It is a blessed thing to have so little affection, that pretty creature; old times are nothing for her, and I, like a fool, yearn after them. The future for her no doubt looks all brilliant; for me it is a story, to the cud of which I dare not look, and the pleasant past is a volume shut up and over; she is little Vi and Violet no longer, and even Miss Darkwell will very soon be like the song of a dead bird -a note only remembered; and-and I suppose I shall bring back the news to-night, a message from Mr. Vane Trevor, of Pevington, to say that he lays his heart and his titledeeds at her feet. It's all over; I loe.k on it as all settled." Just at these words the edge of the red sun sank behind the hills, and the last level beams of sunset gave place to the tender gray of twilight, except in the uplands of Pcevington, where they lingered for a few seconds. ALL IN THE DARK. 29 "Ay," said William, allegorizing; "the shade for William Maubray; the golden light of life for Vane Trevor! Vane Trevor of Revington! William Maubray of-nothing at all!-charming contrast." And looking still on Gilroyd Hill, and the fading image of Violet Darkwell and Psyche frisking about, no longer white, but a moving gray spot on the sloping grass, he said, touching his finger-tips to his lip and waving them lightly towards her, "Good-by, little Vi; good-by, wicked little Vi; good-by, dear, old, wicked little Vi, and may God bless you, you darling!" So with a sigh and a sad smile he turned and walked up to Revington. It is a good ancestral looking place, only a little too large for the estate as it now is. The Trevors had parted from time to time with many acres, and a house upon a scale which would have corresponded with three times their income, was rather a tax upon what remained. " I never liked this place," thought William, as the iron gate clanged behind him; " I always thought it gloomy, and stingy, and pompous. I wish he had let this dinner alone, I'd have been pleasanter at home, though it's as well, perhaps, to hear what he has to say. I think he has sdmething to say; but, hang it, why could not he tell it as well at Gilroyd, and to the people it concerns? why need he bring me this stupid walk up his hill?" And William as he talked was switchthe laurel leaves at his side with his cane, and leaving here and there half a leaf or a whole one on the gravel, and sometimes half a dozen-not quite unconsciously; there was something of defiance, I am afraid, in this trespass. William came in; the hall was not lighted; le was received in the dusk 'by a serious and rather broad gentleman in black, who took his hat and cane with a bow, led him through an anteroom, illuminated dismally by a single lamp, and announced his name at the drawing room, where Vane Trevor received him, advancing from the hearth-rug to the middle of the room, in an unexceptionable evening toilet, and in French boots, and shook hands with just a little inclination which implied something of state, though smilingly performed. Mr. Trevor was very conscious of the extent of the mansion of Revington, of the scale of the rooms, of the pictures, and in short of everything that was grand about him. William was a little disgusted and rather uncomfortable, and eat his. soup, and '"cutlets, and kickshaws, gloomily, while Trevor, leaning on his elbow, talked away, with a conscious superiority that was at once depressing and irritating. They had a jug of claret-not the best even in Trevor's cellar, I am afraid-after dinner, and sat facing the fire, and sipping that nectar. " Snug little room this," said Trevor, looking along the ceiling, with his napkin over his knee, and his claret glass in his fingers. " It isn't a parlour, only a sort of breakfastroom. The parlour, you know, is a-it's considered a handsome room. Thirty-five feet by twenty." " Yes, I know," said William, with a dry carelessness. " Ah! well, yes-I dare say. A good many people-it's an old place, rather-do know something about Rivengton." " Especially those who have lived the greater part of their lives within half a mile of it," rejoined William. " Ah, ha!-yes; to be sure; I forgot you have been so constantly at Gilroyd. What a nice little bit of a thing it is. I could fancy growing quite in love with it-isn't it?" " Yes," said William, shortly, and filled his glass, and drank it in a hurry. He fancied that Trevor was about to come to the point. -o0 CHAPTER XVI. OVER THEIR CLARET. "GREAT fun, croquet, isn't it? Awful fun with pretty girls," exclaimed Vane Trevor, rising, and standing on the hearthrug, with lis back to the fire, and his glass in his hand, and simpering agreeably, with his chin in the air. " I think it capital fun, I know. There's so much cheating-ha, ha!-isn't there?-and such lots of-of-whispering and conspiring-and-and -all that sort of thing, you know; and the girls like it awfully. At Torhamipton we had capital games, and such glorious ground. Do you know the Torhamptons?" " The Marquess?-ha-ha!--no, of course I don't; how should I?" said William with a little laugh of disgust. " Oh! well I-I thought a-but Lady Louisa, she is so sweetly pretty, I was told off pretty often to play with her,and we had such fun knocking the fellows about. Capital player and awfully clever-they're all clever-one of the cleverest families in England they're thought; the old lady is so witty-you can't imagineand such a pleasant party staying there. I was almost the only fellow not a swell, by Jove, among them," and he ran his eye along his handsome cornices, with a sort, of smile that seemed to say something different. " I fancy they wish to be civil, however, I-firom something Lady Fanny said-I rather fancy they have an idea of putting up Lord Edward -you know, for the county, but don't let that go further, and I suppose they thought I might be of use. Won't you have some more claret?" SI don't know them-I don't understand these things; I don't care if all the Marquesses in England were up the chimney," said William, cynically, throwing himself back in his chair, with his hands in his pockets, and looking sulkily into the fire. " Well-ha, ha 1--that need not prevent: 30 ALL IN THE DARK. your filling your glass, eh?" laughed Trevor, graciously and indulgently, as though he belonged himself to that order of Marquesses of whom Maubray spoke so slightly, and forgave him. "Thanks; I will," and so he did, and sipped a little; and after a little silence he asked with a surly quietude, " And why don't you marry that lady-what's her name-Louisaif.he liked you?" "It doesn't follow that she likes me, and you know there are difficulties; and even if she did, it does not follow that I like her; don't you see?" and he cackled in gay selfcomplacency; " that is, of course, I mean liking in the way you mean." Again this desultory conversation flagged for a little time, and Trevor, leaning on the chimney-piece, and looking down on William, remarked profoundly" It's odd-isn't it?" when you come to think of it, how few things follow from one another; I've observed it in conversation-almost nothing, by Jove 1" " Nothing from nothing, and nothing remains," said William drowsily, to the fire, repeating his old arithmetical formula. " And about marrying and that sort of thing; seriously, you know-your glass is empty again; do have some more." So William poured a little into his glass and his heart seemed to stop and listen, although he looked as if he only half heard, and was weary of the subject. " And as we were saying, about marryingand by-the-bye, Maubray, it's the sort of thing would just answer you, a quiet fellow-why don't you think about it, old fellow, eh?" It was a way Trevor had of always forgetting those little differences of circumstance which, in contrast, redounded to his importance, and he asked such questions, of course, quite innocently. " You know very well I couldn't," said William, poking the fire, unbidden, with a few angry stabs. " How the devil can a fellow marry in - college, and without a shilling?" "Ah, ah, it isn't quite so bad; come! But, of course, there is a difference, and, as you say, there's lots of time to look about-only if a fellow is really spooney on a girl-I mean awfully spconej, the big wigs say-don't they? The best thing a fellow going to the bar can do is to marry, and have a wife and lots of babbies---it makes them work so hard ---doesn't it? You're going to the bar, you say, and that is the way to get on, eh?" " I'm glad there's any way, but I don't mean to try that," murmured William, a little bitterly, and after a little pause, during which who knows what a dance his fancy led him, "I know that sort of talk very well; but I never could see what right a fellow has to carry off a poor girl to his den, merely that her hunger, and misery, and cries may stimulate him to get on at the bar; and the fact is, some fellows are slaves, and some can do just as they please; and life is damnably bitter for some, and very pleasant for others, and that's the whole story; you can marry whenever you please, and I can't." "I' m afraid it's a true bill," said Trevor, complacently; whereupon there issued a sience, and twice and again was William Maubray moved to break it with a question, and as often his voice seemed to fail him. At last, however, he did say, quite quietly" And why don't you marry, if you think it so good a thing?" Was it something in William's tone and air, although he was trying his best to seem quite unconcerned, that elicited the quick, and somewhat cunning glance that Trevor shot on him? At all events Trevor's manner became a little diplomatic and reserved. " Why don't I? Oh! fifty reasons-a hundred. There are all sorts of difficulties; I don't mean, of course, anything mysteriousor-or that sort of bosh; and-and this house and the property, every one knows, are very well, I've been four years in possession, and I've no fault to find with Revington-either tenants or this," and he nodded towards the ceiling, indicating that he meant the house. " But-but you know, for a fellow like me; we've been here, you know, a long time; there was a Trevor here in Henry the Fifth's time; but you know more history than I do." Trevor considered his family and his domicile as a part of English history, and William, who was in an unpleasant mood just then, said"And tne estate was larger, wasn't it?" " Ah, ha; yes, crtainly; that is, there was another estate," acquiesced Trevor, eagerly, but looking a little put out. " The Torhamptons, by-the-bye, have got it now; a marriage or something." " A purchase, I thought," insisted Maubray. "A purchase! very likely. It does not signify sixpence if the thing's gone, and gone it is. But you see, having been here for a longer time, I'm afraid, than you or I are likely to live; and-and having a sort of place among the people, you understand; a kind of aquite undeserved-only because we have been here so long, that sort of an influence, or what, ever it is, a fellew isn't as free as you'd fancy. By Jove! he's tied up, I can tell you; horribly tied up. A poor devil like me. Egad, he's not like a man with an income out of the funds; there's that sort of thing, I suppose it is the shadow, don't you see, of the old feudal thing, but so it is. There's a sort of rural opinion, a [lind of loyalty, in a very small way, of course; but it is that sort of feeling, and there's no use, you know, in blinking it; and a fellow has to consider, you know, how his tenants and people would receive it; and, ask any one, you can't conceive how a fellow's hampered, reaily hampered, now." " Do you really think they care a farthing?" asked Maubray. "Care! You've no idea," exclaimed his friend. " Well, when I make my fortune, I'll keep it in the funds," said Maubray. ALL IN THE DARK. 31 "I strongly advise you," said Trevor, with the moonlight, and poking about the old trees admirable solemnity. " Have some coffee? of Gilroyd. They had come to a halt under And-and here's curacoa." the mighty clump of beech trees that you can " When will we talk about Vi," thought see against the sky from the distant road to William, as he set down his coffee cup; "he Audminton, and, after a silence, Trevor saidcan't have brought me here to dinner merely "I remember a thing I saw in a play in to hear that pompous lecture." London, about a fellow that married a merAnd, indeed, it seemed to William that maid, or something of the sort; and-and, Trevor had something more to say, but did egad, they got on capitally till her family benot know how to begin it. gan to appear, and-and the situation began to grow too-too fishy, in fact, for him; so, by Jove, he cut and ran; and-and I forget ----o--- how the play ends; but it was awfully funny." " Yes," said William, " they ought to come to us like Aphrodite, from the foam of the CHAPTER XVII, sea, and have no kindred-in utter isolation." " Who?" asked Trevor. MOON-SHINE. " Our beautiful brides i" exclaimed Maubray, a little mockingly. AND now, for they kept early hours at Gilroyd, " It's a confounded world we live in," reWilliam, with a peep at his watch, declared sumed Trevor, after a little silence. "Look he must go, and Trevor popped on his fez and at me, now, for instance, how we are, and all produced his cigars, and he set out with Mau- this belongs to me, and has been ours forbray, in the moonlight, to see his friend out goodness knows how many centuries; and I of the grounds, assure you I sometimes feel I'd rather be a As they walked down the slope, with the simple fellow with a few hundreds a-year, thick chestnuts of Gilroyd Hall and two of its and my way to make in the world, and my chimneys full in view-the misty lights and liberty along with it-than-than all this." impenetrable shadows of moonlight-and all "Suppose we exchange," said William, the familiar distances translated into such soft " I'll take the estate off your hands, and aland airy outline-the landscape threw them, low you three hundred a-year, and your liberty, I dare say, somewhat into musing, and that and wishyou joy of the pleasant excitement sort of sympathy with the pensive moods of of making your way in the world, and apnature which has, time out of mind, made plaud when you get on a bit, and condole moonlight the lamp of lovers. And some when you're in the mud." special associations of the scenery induced Trevor only smiled grandly, and shook his them to smoke on in silence for some time, head at William's waggery. insensibly slackening their pace, the night "But seriously, just consider. You know scene was so well worth lingering over. I'm telling you things, old fellow, that I " And--and your cousin-isn't she?-down wouldn't say to every one, and this won't, I there, how awfully pretty she is." said Trevor, know, go further." He- resumed after a little at last, lowering his cigar between his fingers. interval spent in smoking, " But just think "Cousin; I suppose we're all cousins in now: here's everything, as you see; but the some roundabout way related-I don't know estate owes some money; and I give you my how. Yes, she is-she's very pretty." honour, it does not bring me in, net, when "Darkw'ell; connected, are they, with, the everything's paid, three thousand a-year." Darkwells of Shropshire?' asked Trevor. " Oh, no!" said William, in a tone which "Perhaps-I really don't know-I never unconsciously implied, "a great deal less, as knew there were Darkwells in Shropshire," we all know." said William. ' No, not three thousand-I wish it was," "Oh, dear, yes! I thought every one knew said Trevor, with an eager frankness, that that. Darkwell's the name of the place, too. savoured of annoyance. He had not intended A very old family," said Trevor. to be quite believed. " And there's the-the " I did not know; but her father is a bar- position. You're expected to take a lead in rister, and lives in London, and has some things, you see, as if you had your six thousons, but I never saw them," answered sand a-year, egad, or whatever it is; and how William. the devil are you to manage it? Don't you Trevor sighed. He was thinking what low see. And you tumble in love with a girl; fellows these sons might possibly be. A bar- and-and you find yourself encumbered with rister! He remembered " young Boles's" a pedigree-a confounded family tree, by father visiting Rugby once, a barrister, making Jove! and every one expects you to--to marry fifteen hundred a year, a shabby, lean-looking accordingly. And I don't say they're not fellow, with a stoop, and a seedy black frock right, mind, for, by Jove! on the whole, I coat, and grizzled whiskers, who talkled in a belive they are. So here I am with-with all sharp, dry way, with sometimes a little brow- this about me, and not a soul on earth to beating tendency-not a bit like a gentleman. bully me, and yet I can't do as I like. I don't On the other hand, to be sure, there were lots say, by Jove, that I do want to marry. I dare of swells among them. But still there was say it would not answer at all, at least for a the image of old Boles's father intruding into jolly good number of years, and then, I sup 32 ALL IN THE DARK. pose, I must do as the rest of the world does. I must, you see, have some money, and I must have something of-of, you know, a-a foamily; and that's how I stand. Come along, it's growing awfully late, and--and it's very likely--ha-ha-ha ---I may die an old bachelor." " Well, you know," said William, who thought that Trevor had spoken with extraordinary good sense, " there's no such hurry. Fellows wait, as you say, and look about them; and it's a very serious thing-and, by Jove! here we are at the g&te; and I've had a very pleasant evening-jolly! I did not think two fellows by themselves, could be so jolly, and-and that capital claret!" Poor William was no great judge, nor, for that matter, indeed, was his great friend, Mr. Trevor, who, however, knew its price, and laying his hand on William's arm, said-- "Well, old fellow, I'm glad-I really am-- you enjoyed yourself; and I hope when next you come, you'll have another glass or two with me. There's one thing I say about wine, be it what it may-hiang it, let it be real, and get it from a good house; and give my respects to your ladies-don't forget; and when you come again, we must have more croquet. Let the balls and mallets stay where they are, you know, till then; and God bless you, lMaubray, old boy, and if I can give you a lift, you know, any way, tell me, and I dare say, my solicitor canz give you a lift when you get to the bar. Sends out a lot of briefs, you know. I'll speak to him, if you wish." "A good time before that," laughed William. " Iany thanks, though; I suppose I shall turn up in a few weeks again, and I'm beginning to take to the croquet rather, and we can have lots of play; but, by Jove! I'm keeping you all night-good bye." So they shook hands, each thinking more highly of the other. I'm afraid oar mutual estimates are- seldom metaphysically justifiable. " Well," thought Trevor, as le smoked his way up hill to the house, " no one can say I have not spoken plain enough. I should not like to have to give up that little acquaintance. It's an awfully slow part of the world. And now they know everything. If the old woman was thinking about anything, this will put it quite out of her head; and I can be careful, poor little thing I It would be a devil of a thing if she did grow to like me." And with a lazy smile he let himself in, and had a little sherry and water, and Bell's Life in a drawing-room. William Maubray experienced an unaccountable expansion of spirits and sympathies, as he strode along the pathway that debouches close upon the gate of Gilroyd Hall. Everything looked so beautiful, and so interesting, and so serene. He loitered for a moment to gaze on the moon; and, recollecting how late it was, he rang at the belhl fiercely, hoping to find Violet Darkwell still in the drawing-room. " Well, Tom, my aunt in the drawing-room?" said William, as he confided his coat and hat to that faithful domestic. "Ay, sir, she be." "And Miss Darkwell!" " Gone up wi' Mrs. Winnie some time." " Oh, that's all right, nothing like early sleep for young heads, Tom; and it's rather late," said William Miaubray, disappointed, in a cheerful tone. So he opened the door, and found Aunt Dinah in the drawing-room..--,-----o--- CHAPTER XVIII. SUPPER. " ELIm BDUNG" was open upor the table, also the Bible; and in the latter volume, it is but fair to say, she had been reading as William rang the bell. With her pleasant smile of welcome Miss Perfect greeted him. " Now, sit down, William, and warm yourself at the fire-you are very cold, I dare say." " Oh, no: it's quite a summer night." SAnd, Thomas, tell Mrs. Podgers to send up something for Master William's supper." Vainly William protested he could eat nothing; but Mrs. Podgers had been kept out of her bed-an allusion which was meant to make him feel, too, his late return-for the express purpose of broiling the bonesc with which he was to refresh himself; and Aunt Dinah, who had the military qualities strong within her, ordered Tom to obey her promptly. " Well, dear William, how did you like your dinner. Everything very nice, I dare say. Had h( any one to meet you?" " No, quite alone; everything very good and very pleasant-a very jolly evening, and Trevor very chatty, chiefly about himself, of course. Aunt Dinah looked at him with expectation, and William, who understood her, was not one of those agreeable persons who love to tantalize their neighbours, and force them to put their questions broadly. " Violet has gone to bed?" said William. " Oh, yes, some time." " Yes, so Tom said," pursued William. "Well, I've no great news about Trevor's suit; in fact, I'm quite certain there's nothing in it." Aunt Dinah's countenance fell. " And why?" she enquired. " -Ie mentioned her. He admires her-he thinks her very pretty, and all that," said William. "I should think so," interposes Miss Perfect, with the scorn of one who hears that Queen Ann is dead. " But he made quite a long speech, at the same time-I mean in continuation-and there's nothing-nothing serious-nothing whatever-nothing on earth in it," concluded he. " But what did he say? Come, try and remember. You are young, and don't know how reserved, and--and how hypocritical - all ALL IN THE DARK. lovers are; they affect indifference often merely to conceal their feelings. "I hope she does not like him," began William. " I'm very sure she doesn't," interpolated Aunt Dinah rapidly; "no girl likes a man till she first knows that he likes her." " Because he took care to make it perfectly clear that he could not think of marrying her,"' added William. "Upon my life," exclaimed the old lady briskly, "remarkably civil l To invite her cousin to dinner in order to entertain him with such an uncalled-for impertinence. And what did you say, pray?" " He did not mention her, you see, in connection with all this," said William. " Oh! pooh! then I dare say there's nothing in it," exclaimed Aunt Dinah, vigorously grasping at this straw. "Oh But there is, I assure you. He made a long speech about his-his circumstances," commenced William. " Well, surely he can afford to keep a wife," interrupted Dinah, again. "And the upshot of it was just this-that he could not afford to marry without moneya lot of money and rank." " Money and rank! Pretty well for a young coxcomb like Mr. Vane Trevor, upon my word." This was perhaps a little inconsistent, for Aunt Dinah had of late been in the habit of speaking very highly of the young gentleman. " Yes, I assure you, and he said it all in a very pointed way. It was, you see, a kind of explanation of his position, and although there was nothing-no-no actual connecting of it at all with Violet's name, you know he couldn't do that; yet there was no mistaking what he meant." Aunt Dinah looked with compressed lips on a verse of the Bible which lay open before her. "Well, and what did he mean?" she resumed defiantly. " That he can't marry Violet! And pray who ever asked him? I, for one, never encouraged him? and I can answer for Violet. And you always thought it would be a very disadvantageous thing for her, so young and so extremely beautiful as she unquestionably is; and I really don't know any one here who has the smallest reason to look foolish on the occasion." " Well, I thought I'd tell you," said William, "tell what he said, I mean." " Of course-quite right I" exclaimed she. "And there could be no mistake as to his intention. I know there isn't, and-and really, as it is so, I thought it rather honourable his being so explicit. Don't you?" said William. " That's as it may be," said Aunt Dinah, oracularly shutting the Bible and " Elihu Bung. and putting that volume on the top of the other; "young people now - a - days are fuller a great deal of duplicity and-and worldliness, than old people used to be in my time. That's my opinion, and home goes his 3 croquet in the morning. 've no notion of his coming about here, with his simpering airs and graces, getting my child, I may call her, talked about and sneered at." " But," said William, who instinctively saw humiliation in anything that savoured of resentment, "don't you think any haste like that might connect in his view with what he said to me this evening?" "At seven o'clock to-morrow morning, that's precisely what I wish," exclaimed Aunt Dinah. At this moment Tom entered with the bones and other good things, and William, with the accommodating appetite of youth on second thoughts accepted and honoured the repast. "And, Thomas, mind, at seven o'clock tomorrow morning, let little Billy Willocks bring over those great hammers, and wooden balls, and-and iron things; they're horribly in the way in the hall, with my compliments, to Revington, to Mr. Trevor, and-and don't fail. He'll say-Billy Willocks-that they were forgotten at Gilroyd. At seven o'clock, mind, with Miss Perfect's compliments." " And I'm very glad, on the whole," said Miss Perfect, after about a minute had elapsed "that that matter is quite off my mind." William, who was eating his broiled drumstick, with diligence and in a genial mood, was agreeably abstracted, and made no effort to keep the conversation alive. "He talks very grandly, no doubt, of his family. But he'll hardly venture his high and mighty airs with you or me. The Maubrays are older than the Trevors; and, for my part, I would not change thl,ame of Perfect with any in England. We are Athclstanes, and took the name of Perfect in the civil wars, as I've told you. As to family, William, you could not stand higher. You have, thank God, splendid talents, and, as I am satisfied, excellent-indeed, magnificent prospects. Do you see much of your cousin Winston at Cambridge?" " Nothing," said William, who was, it must be confessed, a little surprised at his aunt's glowing testimony to his genius, and particularly to "his prospects," which he knew to be of a dismal character, and he conjectured that a supernatural light had been thrown upon both by Henbane. " Do you mean to say that Winston Maubray has not sought you out or showed you any kindness 7" " I don't need his kindness, thank goodness. He could not be, in fact, of the least use to me; and I think he's ashamed of me rather." " Ha!" ejaculated Aunt Dinah, with scorn. "I spoke to him but once in my life-when Sir Richard came to Cambridge, and he and Winston called on Dr. Sprague, who presented me to my uncle," and William laughed. "Well?" " Well, he gave me two fingers to shake, and that sort of thing, and he said, ' Winston, here's your cousin,' and Winston smiled, and just took my hand, with a sort of slight bow." 34 ALL IN THE DARK. " A bow! Well, a first cousin, and a bow!" living, he shall appoint and nominate the said "Yes, and he pretended not to know me kinsman; and if there be two or more kinsnext day at cricket. I wish he was anywhere men so qualified, then him that is nearest of else, or that no one knew we were connected." kin; and if there be two of equal consan" Well, never mind. They'll be of use-of guinity, then the elder of them; and if they immense use to you. I'll tell you how," said be of the same age, then either, at the election Aunt Dinah, nodding resolutely to William. of the bishop." Then there was a provision that in case there were no such kinsman the Dean and - - Chapter of the Cathedral of Dawdle-cumDrone should elect a cleric, being of the said diocese, but not of the said chapter, or of kin CHAPTER XIX. to any one of the said chapter; and that the said Richard, or his heir, should nominate the DEBATE. person so elected. And it was also conditioned that his son Richard should procure; S'PD rather work my own way, auntie. It if practicable, a private Act of Parliament to would be intolerable to owe them anything," make these conditions peripanent. said William Maubray. "He must have been a precious odd old "I don't say Winsion, but Sir Richard-he fellow, my grand-uncle, observed William, as can be of the most immense use to you, and he sheathed the document again in the envewithout placing you or me under the slightest lope. obligation." "A conscientious man, anxious-with due This seemed one of Aunt Dinah's paradoxes, regard to his family-to secure a good incumor of her scampish table's promises, and made bent, and to prevent simony. The living is a commensurate impression on William's fifteen hundred a year, and there is this fact mind. about it, that out of the seven last incumbents, "You saw Doctor Waggett here yesterday?' three were made bishops. Three!" "I know-yes-the old clergyman, isn't he " That's a great many," said William with who paid you a visit?" a yawn. "Just so; he is a very old friend, very, and "And you'll make the fourth," said Aunt thinks it a most desirable arrangement." Dinah, spiritedly, and took a pinch of her " What arrangement? I don't quite----" famous snuff. "You shall see," interrupted Aunt Dinah. " I" repeated William, not quite believing "One moment's patience. I must first show his ears. " I am going to the bar." you a-a paper to read." She walked over to " Into the Church you mean, dear William." a little japanned cabinet, and as she fumbled "'But," remonstrated William, " but, 1 asat the lock, continued, "And-and when you sure you, I, without a feeling of fitness-I-when you have read it-you-ah! that's it- in fact, I could not think of it." when you have read it, I'l tell you exactly "Into the Church, sir." Aunt Dinah rose what I mean." up, and, as it were, mounted guard over him, So saying, she presented a large, official- as she sternly spoke these words. looking envelope to William, who found that William looked rather puzzled, and very it contained a letter and a paper, headed, much annoyed. "Extract from the will and testament of the "Into-the--Church I" she repeated, with a late Sir Nathaniel Maubray, of Queen's Mau- terrible deliberation. bray, bearing date -, and proved, &c., on " My dear Aunt," William began. -, 1831." " Yes, the Church!, Listen to me. I-I The letter was simply a courteous attor- have reason to-to know you'll be a bishop. ney's intimation that he enclosed herewith a Now mind, William I'll hear no nonsense on copy, extract of the will, &c., as requested, this subject. Henbane! Is that what you together with a note of the expenses. mutter?" The extract was to the following effect: " Well, speak out. What of Henbane? "And I bequeath to my said son, Richard, Suppose I have been favoured with a-a comthe advowson of, and right of perpetual pre- munication; suppose 1 have tried to learn by sentation to the living and vicarage of St. that most beautiful and innocent communion, Maudlen of Caudley, otherwise Maudlin, in something of the--the expediency of the the diocese of Shovel-on-Headley, now abso- course I proposed, and have succeeded. lutely vestedoin me, and to his heirs for ever, then?" but upon the following conditions, namely, William did not answer the challenge, and that if there be a kinsman, not being a son or after a brief pause she continuedstep-son, of my said son or of his heir, &c., in " Come, come, my dear William, you know possession, then, provided the said kimsman your poor old lhnt loves you; you have been shall bear the name of Maubray, his father's her first, an very nearly her only object, and name having been Maubray, and provided the you won't begin to vex her now, and after all, same kinsman shall be in holy orders at the to-to break her heart about nothing." time of the said living becoming-Vacant, and "But I assure you," William began. shall be a good and religious man, and a pro- " A moment's patience," broke in Aunt per person to be the incumbent of the said Dinah, "you won't let me speak. Of course ALL IN THE DARK. 35 you may argue till doomsday, if you keep all the talk to yourself I say, William, there are not six peers in England can show as good blood as you, and I'11 not hear of your being shut up in a beggarly garret in Westminster Hall, or the Temple, or wherever it is they put the-the paltry young barristers, when you might and must have a bishopric if you choose it, and marry a peer's daughter. And choose what you will, I choose that, and into the Church you go; yes, into the Church, the Church, sir, the Church! and that's enough, I hope." Willi am was stunned, and looked helplessly at his aunt, whom he loved very much. But the idea of going into the Church, the image of his old friend Dykes turned into a demure curate as he had seen him three weeks ago. The form of stout Doctor Dalrymple, with his pimples and shovel hat, and a general sense of simony and blasphemy came sickenly over him; his likings, his conscience, his fears his whole nature rose up against it in one abhorrent protest, and he said, very pale and in the voice of a sick man, gently placing his hand upon his aunt's arm, and looking with en-- treating eyes iato hers: " My dear aunt, to go into the Church without any kind of suitability, is a tremendous thing, for mere gain, a dreadful kind of sin. I know I'm quite unfit. I could not." William did not know for how many years his aunt had been brooding over this one idea, how she had lived in this air-built castle, and what a crash of hopes and darkness of despair was in its downfall. But if he had, he could not help it. Down it must go. Orders were not for him. Deacon, priest, or bishop, William Maubray never could be. Miss Perfect stared at him with pallid face. "I tell you what, William," she exclaimed, " you had better think twice-you had better- " "I have thought-indeed I have-for Doctor Sprague suggested the Church as a profession long ago; but I can't I'm not fit." " You had better grow fit, then, and give up your sins, sir, and save both your soul and your prospects. It can be nothing but wickedness that prevents your taking orders-holy orders. Mercy on us! A blasphemy and a sin to take holy orders! What sort of state can you be in?" "I wish to heaven I were good enough, but I'm not. I may be no worse than many who do go into the Church. Others may, but I couldn't." " You couldn't! You conceited, young, provoking ccoxomb! As if all the world were looking for miracles of piety from you I Who on earth expects you to be one bit more pious than other curates who do their best? Who are you, pray, that anything more should be expected from you? Do your duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call you. That's simple. We expect no more." "But that's everything," said William, with a hopeless shake of his head. " What's everything? I can't see. I don't comprehend you. Of course there's a pleasure in crossing and thwarting me, But of let or hindrance to your entering the Church, there is and can be none, except your secret resolution to lead a wicked life." "I'm not worse than other fellows. I'm better, I believe, than many who do get ordained; but I do assure you, I have thought of it before now, often, and it is quite out of the question." " You won't?" said Aunt Dinah, aghast, in a low tone, and she gaped at him with flashing eyes, her gold spectacles shut up, and tightly grasped like a weapon in her hand. He had never seen her, or any one, look so pallid. And after a pause, she said slowly, in a very low tone" Once more, William-yes or no." " My dear aunt, forgive me; don't be vexed, but I must say no," moaned poor William Maubray thus sorely pressed. Aunt Dinah Perfect looked at him in silence; the same white, bright stare. William was afraid that she was on the point of having a fit. Who' could have imagined the discussion of his profession so convulsive and frightful an ordeal? -0--..-o CHAPTER XX. FAREWELL. Fou a minute or two, I think she could not speak; she closed her lips tightly, and pressed two of her fingers on them, perhaps to hide some tremor there; and she went and placed one of her slender feet on the fender, and looked steadfastly on the macerated countenance of the Very Rev. the Dean of Crutch Friars, who, in his oval frame, over the chimney-piece,, seemed to hear and endure William's perversities with the meekness of a good, sad, suffering Christian. Aunt Dinah sighed twice, two deep, long, laborious sighs, and tapped the steel of her stays ferociously with her finger tips. In his distress and confusion, William rose irresolutely. He would have approached her, but he feared that his doing so would but precipitate an explosion, and he remained standing, with his fingers extended on the table as if on the keys of a piano, and looking wan and sad over his shoulder on the back of Aunt Dinah's natty old-fashioned cap. " Well, young gentleman, you have made up your mind, and so have I," said Aunt Dinah, abruptly returning to the table. " You go your own way. I shall not interfere in your concerns. I shall see your face no morenever! I have done with you, and depend upon it I shan't change. I never change. I put you away from me. I wash my hands of you. I have done with you. I shall send a hundred pounds to Dr. Sprague, when you leave to-morrow, first, to pay college expenses, 36 ALL IN THE DARK and the balance you may take, and that ends all between us. I hate the world, ungrateful, stiff-necked, rebellious, heartless. All I have been to you, you know. What you would have been without me, you also know, a beggar-simply a beggar. I shall now find other objects. You are free, sir, henceforward. I hope you may enjoy your liberty, and that you may never have reason to repent your perversity and ingratitude as bitterly as I now see my folly. Go, sir, good night, and let me see your face no more." William stood looking on his transformed aunt; he felt his ears tingle with the insult of her speech, and a great ball seemed rising in his throat. Her face was darkened by a dismal anger; her look was hard and cold, and it seemed to him that the gates of reconciliation were closed against him for ever, and that he had come into that place of exclusion at whose entrance hope is left behind. William was proud, too, and sensitive. It was no equal battle. His obligations had never before been weighed against his claims, and lie felt the cruel truth of Aunt Dinah's words beating him down into the dust. With her chin in the air, and averted gaze, she sat stiff and upright in her accustomed chair by the fire. William stood looking at her for a time, his thoughts not very clear, and a great vague pain throbbing at his heart. There was that in her countenance which indicated something differenr from anger-a cold alienation. William Maubray silently and softly left the room. ': "He thinks it will be all over in the morning, but he does not know me." So thought 'Aunt Dinah, folding her cold hands together. " Gone to bed; his last night at Gilroyd." Holding her mind stiffly in this attitude, with a corresponding pose and look she sate, and in a minute more William Maubray entered the room very pale, his outside coat was on, and his hat in his hand. His lip trembled a little, and he walked very quickly to the side of her chair, laid his hand softly on her shoulder, and stooping down kissed her check, and without a word left the room. She heard the hall door open, and Tom's voice talking with him as their steps traversed the gravel, and the jarring sound of the iron gate on its hinges. "Good night," said the well-known voice, so long beloved; and 1"Good night, Mr. William, good night, sir," in Tom's gruff voice, and a little more time the gate clanged, and Tom's lonely step came back. " He had no business to open the gate without my order," said Miss Perfect. She was thinking of blowing Tom up, but her pride prevented; and, as Tom entered in reply to her bell, she asked as nearly as she could in her usual way"My nephew did not take away his trunk?" "i No, mum." "Hle gave directions about his things, of course?' " Yes, they're to follow, mum, by the mornin' coach to Cambridge." " I'm! very good; that's all. You had better get to your bed now. Good night." And thus, with a dry and stately air, dismissed, he withdrew, and Aunt Dinah said, "I'm glad that's off my mind; I've done right; I know I have. Who'd have thought? But there's no help, and I'm glad it's over." Aunt Dinah sat for a long time in the drawing-room, uttering short sentences like these, from time to time. Then she read some verses in the Bible; and I don't think she could have told you, when she closed the book, what they were about. She had thoughts of a seance with old Winnie Dobbs, but somehow she was not exactly in the mood. " Master William is not in his room yet," observed that ancient domestic. "Master William has gone to Cambridge to-night," said Miss Perfect, drily and coldly, "and his luggage follows in the morning. I can't find my night-cap." So old Winnie, though surprised, was nothing wiser that night respecting the real character of the movement. And Aunt Dinah said her prayers stiffly; and, bidding old Winnie a peremptory good-night, put out her candle, and re-stated to herself the fact she had already frequently mentioned: " I have acted rightly; I have nothing to regret. William will, I dare say, come to his senses, and recollect all he owes me." "In the mean time-' William, with no very distinct ideas, and only his huge pain and humiliation at his heart, trudged along the solitary road to Saxton. He sat down on the stile, under the great ash tree by the roadside, to gather up his thoughts. Little more than half an hour before, he had been so unusually happy, and now, here he sat shipwrecked, wounded, and forlorn. He looked at his watch again. A dreadful three-quarters of an hour must elapse before the Cambridge coach would draw up at the Golden Posts, in High Street. Had he not better go on, and await its arrival there? Yet,what need he care? What was it to him whether he were late or not? In his outcast desperation he fancied he would rather like to wear out his shoes and his strength in a long march to Cambridge. He would have liked to lift his dusty hat grimly to Violet, as he strode footsore and cheerless on his way. But alas! he was leaving Violet there, among those dark-tufted outlines, and under the high steep roof whose edge he could just discern. There could be no chance meeting. Farewell! Back to Cambridge he was going, and through Cambridge into space, where by those who once liked him he should be found no more; on that he was resolved. So up he got again, without a plan, without a reason, as he had sat down; and he lifted his hat, and, with extended arm, waved his farewell toward Gilroyd. And the old ash tree looked down sadly, murmuring, in the fickle night breeze, over his folly. ALL IN THE DARK. CHAPTER XXI. WILLIAM CONSULTS A SAGE. STARTING afresh, at a pace wholly uncalled for by time or distance, William Maubray was soon in the silent street of Saxton, with the bright moonlight on one side of it, and the houses and half the road black in shadow on the other. There was a light in Doctor Drake's front parlour, which he called his study. The doctor himself was in evidence, leaning upon the sash of the window, which he had lowered, and smoking dreamily from a " churchwarden" toward the brilliant moon. It was plain that Miss Letty had retired, and, in his desolation, human sympathy, some one to talk to, ever so little, on his sudden calamity-a frienly soul, who knew Aunt Dinah long and well, and was even half as wise as Doctor Drake was reputed to be, would be a Godsend. He yearned to shake the honest fellow's hand, and his haste was less, and subsided to a loitering pace, as he approached the window, from which he was hailed, but not in a way to make it quite clear what the learned physician exactly wanted." I shay - shizzy - shizhte - shizh-shizhshizhte -V-V-Viator, I shay," said the Doctor-playfully meaning, I believe, Siste Viator. And Doctor Drake's long pipe, like a shepherd's crook, was hospitably extended, so that the embers fell out on the highway, to arrest the wayfarer. So William stopped and said: " What a sweet night-how beautiful, and I'm so glad to find you still up, Doctor Drake." " Alwayzh - all - alwayzh up," said the Doctor, oracularly, smiling rather at one side of his cheek, and with his eyes pretty nearly closed, and his long pipe swaying gently, horizontally, over the trottoir; " you'll lookinsth'r pleashure-acquaintensh." By this time the doctor, with his disengaged hand, had seized William's, and his pipe had dropped on the pavement, and was smashed. ""Bl- bloke-- bl- bokel " murmured the doctor, smiling celestially, with a little vague wave of his fingers toward the fragments of his churchwarden, from the bowl of which the sparks were flitting lightly along High Street. " Blo-boke-my-p-p-phife!" " I-shay, ole boy, you-come-in," and he beckoned William, grandly, through the window. William glanced at the door, and the doctor comprehending, said, with awful solemnity: "All-thingsh deeshenly-in an-in oror-orrer, I shay. Conme-ole fellow-wone ye?-tooth th'-th' door sh'r-an'-an' you'll norr regresh-no-never." William, though not very sharp on suce points, perceived that Doctor Darke had beer making merry in his study; and the learnec gentleman received him at the hall-door, lay ing his hand lovingly and grandly on hi arm. "Howzhe th' - th' ladle - th' admir'bl womr, over there, Mish Perfek " " My aunt is very well-perfectly well, thanks," answered William. "No thangs-I thang you, sh'r-I thang Prover'l l" and the doctor sank with a comfortable sigh, and his back against the wall, shaking William's hand slowly, and looking piously up at the cornice. " She's quite well, but-but I've something to tell you," said William. " Comle-comle-ong!" said the doctor, encouragingly, and led the way unsteadily into his study. There was a jug of cold water, a " tumbler," and a large black bottle on the table, to which the doctor waved a gracious introduction. "Ole Tom, ole Tom, an' w-wawr hizhl dring the chryshle brook I" The doctor was given to quotation in his cups, and this was his paraphrase of " The Hermit." "Thanks, no," said William; "I have had my glass long ago. I-I'm going back to Cambridge, sir; I'm going to make a push in life. I've been too long a burden on my aunt." "Admiral wom'le sh'r? Wurle-worryno wurrier-ladle!" (worthier lady! I believe he meant) exclaimed the doctor, with growing enthusiasm.. Contented with these evidences of mental vigour, William, who must have spoken to the roadside trees, rather than refrain himself, proceeded to tell' his woeful story--to which Doctor Drake listened, clinging rather to the chimney-piece with his right hand, and in his left sustaining a large glass of his favourite "Old Tom" and water, a little of which occasionally poured upon the hearth-rug. "And, Doctor Drake, you won't mention what I'm going to say? " The doctor intended to say, " silent as the sepulchre," but broke down, and merely nodded, funereally pointing his finger perpendicularly toward the hearthstone; and having let go his hold on the chimney, he made an involuntary wheel backward, and sat down quite unexpectedly, and rather violently, in an elbow-chair. " You promise, really and truly, sir?" pressed SWilliam. " Reel-reel-reelan'-tooral," repeated the docStor as nearly as he could. And upon this assurance William Maubay proceeded to state his case, and feeling relieved as he poured forth his wrongs, waxed voluble; and the doctor sat and heard, looking like Solomon, and refreshing his lips now and, again, as if William's oration parched them. "And what, sir, do you think I had best do?" said William, not very wisely it must Sbe owned, applying to Philip, certainly not I sober-for judgment. " Return to my duty?" repeated William, 1 interpreting as well as he could the doctor's i somewhat vague articulation. "Why, I am I certain I never left it. I have done all I could - to please her; but this you know is what no s one on earth could be expected to do-what no one ought to do." *' "TWrong, sh'r!" exclaimed the doctor with ALL IN THE DARK hardly well enough up in the business for that; but we'll find out something here," and he tapped the Tzmes, which lay open on the table beside him. " I dare say, to suit younot a school, that would not do either-a tutor in a country house. You need not stay away more than six months, and you'll have something to go on with then; and in the mean time you can send your manuscripts round, and try if you can't get into some of the periodicals. " It is very odd, sir, but some months since I spoke of such a plan when I was at Gilroyd, and my aunt was positively horrified; she is full of fancies, you know, and she told me that none of my family had ever done anything of the kind." " I don't know about that; but I've done it, I can tell you, and better men than I," said the doctor. " I only mean that she made such a point of it; she would think I had done it expressly to vex her, or she might come wherever I was, and try to make me leave it." " So she might," said the cleric, and laughed a little to himself, for he knew her, and fancied a scene, " but what can you do? I think you must in fact, and the best way will be to tell her nothing about it. She has cut yon, you know, for the present, and-and you need not, if you think it would vex her, go in your own name, do you see? We'll call you MIr. Herbert, you're descended maternally, you know, from Herberts; now-not for a moment, now, just hear me out; there shall be no deception, of course. I'll tell them that for certain family reasons I have advised you to take that measure. I'll take it all on myself, and say all I think of you, and know of you, and I saw, just now, in this very paper, something that I think would answer very nicely. Yes, yes, I'll make it all quite straight and easy. But you must do as I say." The kind little gentleman was thinking that eccentric and fierce Miss Perfect might never forgive his engaging himself as a tutor, without at least that disguise, and he looked forward as he murmured varizem et mutabile semper, to a much carrier, redintegratio amoris than William dreamed of. " It's unlucky her having made a point of it. But what is the poor fellow to do? She must not, however, be offended more than we can help, and that will show a wish as far as was practicable, to consult her feelings." Doctor Sprague looked along a column in the Times, and said he, after his scrutiny"I think there's just one of these you'll like-say which you prefer, and I'll tell you if it's the one I think." So William conned over the advertisements, and, in Aunt Dinah's phrase, put on his considering cap, and having pondered a good while, "This one, I think?" he half decided and half inquired. " The very thing!" said Dr. Sprague, cheerily. " One boy-country-house-just the thing; he'll be in his bed early, you know, and you can take your books and write away till twelve at night; and now you had better drop them a line-or stay, I'll do it; you can't sign your name, you know." So, communications being opened, in a day or two it turned out that Doctor Sprague knew the gentleman who advertised. It was a very old and long interrupted acquaintance. " He's a quiet, kind fellow, and Kincton Hall, they say, a pretty place and old. I'll write to Knox." The Knoxes of Kincton Hall Wll liam had heard Trevor occasionally mention, but tried in vain to recollect what he used to say of them; six months, however, was no great venture, and the experiment could hardly break down very badly in that time. " Maubray, your cousin, has quarrelled with his father, you heard?" SNo." "Oh, yes, just about the time when you left this-a few days ago. Young Maubray has some little property from his mother, and chooses to take his own way; and Sir Richard was in here with me yesterday, very angry and violent, poor man, and vows (the doctor would not say " swears " which would have described the procedure more accurately) he'll cut him off with a shilling; but that's all moonshine. The estates are under settlement, and the young fellow knows it, and that's at the bottom of his independence; and he's gone abroad, I believe, to amuse himself: and he has been no credit to his college, from all I hear." -0--o---- CHAPTER XXIII. KINCTON HALL. IN the parlour of Kincton Hall the family were assembled at breakfast; Mrs. Kincton Knox dispensed tea and coffee in a queenlike way, hardly called for, seeing that her husband, daughter, and little son, formed the entire party. Mrs. Kincton Knox was what some people call a clever woman-that is, she did nearly everything with an object, but somehow she had not succeeded. Mr. Kincton Knox was not Deputy Lieutenant or a Member for his county. Her daughter Clara-with blue eyes and golden hair-a handsome girl, now leaning back in her chair and looking listlessly through the window across the table-was admitted confidentially to be near five-andtwenty, and was in fact past eight-and-twenty, and unmarried still. There was not that intimacy between the Croydon family and the Kincton Knoxes for which she had laboured so cleverly and industriously. She was not among the patronesses, and only one of the committee, of the great county ball, at which the Prince figured, and which, on the plea of illness, she had with proper dignity declined attending. She blamed her daughter, she 40 ALL IN THE DARK. blamed her husband, she blamed the envy and combination of neighbours, for her failures. There was nothing that the wit and industry of woman could do she had not done. She was the best bred and most far-seeing woman in the country round, radiant with a grave sort of fascination, always in supreme command, never for a moment losing sight of her object, yet, great or small, somehow never compassing it-a Vanderdecken, thwarted invisibly, and her crew growing old around her. Was ever admirable woman so persecuted by fortune? Perhaps if the accomplished Mrs. Kincton Knox had been some twenty years before bereft of her brilliant intellect and shut up in a remote mad-house, or consigned under an unexceptionable epitaph to the family vault in Smolderton Church, the afflicted family might have prospered; for Miss Clara was really pretty, and could draw and sing better than most well-married young ladies of her rank in life. And, though he was not very bright, no man was more inoffensive and genial than portly old Kincton Knox, if only she had permitted his popularity to grow, and had left him and his belongings a little to nature. "Hollo! what are those fellows doing?" exclaimed Kincton Knox, attracted by a sound of chopping from without. "Hollo! ho!" and with his arms extended, he made a rush at the window, which he threw up, shouting, ' Hollo there! stop that." A man stood erect with an axe in his hand, by the trunk of one of the great walnut trees. "What the devil are you doing, sir, cutting down my tree?'" ried the old gentleman, his handsome face flushed with wrath, and his silver fork, with a bit of ham on the end of it, grasped fiercely in his left hand. " Who the devil ordered you, sir, to-to how-pow-cut down my trees, sir?" " I've spoken to you till I'm tired, Kincton, about that tree; it buries us in perfect damp and darkness, and P'-began the dignified lady in purple silk, and lace coif. " Don't you presume, sir, to cut down a tree of mine without my orders; don't you dare, sir; don't-don't attempt it, sir, or it will be worse for you; take that hatchet away, sir, and send Wall the gardener here this moment, sir, to see what can be done, and I've a mind to send you about your business, and egad if I find you've injured the tree, I will tbo, sir; send him this moment; get out of my sight, sir. It was not more than once in two years that Mr. Kincton Knox broke out in that way, and only on extraordinary and sudden provocation. He returned to the table and sat down in his chair, having shut the windows with an unnecessary display of physical force. His countenance was red and lowering, and his eyes still staring and blinking rapidly, and his white waistcoat heaving, and even the brass buttons of his blue coat uneasy. You might have observed the tremulous shuffle of his fingers as his fist rested on the tablecloth, while he gazed through the window and mut tered and puffed to the agitation of his chops. Upon such unusual occasions Mrs. Kincton Knox was a little alarmed and even crestfallen. It was a sudden accession of mania in an animal usually perfectly docile, and therefore it was startling, and called not for chastisement so much as management. " I may be permitted to mention, now that there's a little quiet, that it was I who ordered that tree to be removed-of course if it makes you violent to take it down, let it stand; let the house be darkened and the inhabitants take the ague. I've simply endeavoured to do what I thought right. I'm never thanked; I don't expect thanks; I hope I know my duty, and do it from higher motives. But this I know, and you'll see it when I'm in my grave, that if it were not for me, every single individual thing connected with you and yours would be in a state of the most inextricable neglect and confusion, and I may say ruin." "I object to the place being denuded. There is not much in that," blustered Mr. Kincton Knox, plaintively. He was now subsiding; and she, availing herself of this frame of mind, proceeded with even more force, and dignity, till interrulted by Miss Clara, who observed serenely" Mamma, that greedy little pig will choke himself with apricot-stones, if you allow him." Master Howard Scymore Knox-a stunted and billious boy-scowled at Miss Clara, with muddy eyes, his mouth being too full for convenient articulation, and clutched his plate with both hands. "M y precious rosebud, be careful," remonstrated his mamma with gentle fervour. Stooping over his plate, a clatter of fruitstones was heard upon it, and Master Howard ejaculated" You lie, you do, you tell-tale-tit P " Oh I my love," remonstrated Mrs. Kincton. "Briggs shall box your ears for that, my fine fellow," said Miss Clara. " There's another cram! I'd like to see her," retorted the youth. " Greedy little beast I" observed Clara. "Clara, my love!" suggested her mamma. " Not half so greedy as you. Who took the woodcock pie up to her bedroom? Ah-ha " vociferated the young gentleman. SNow I'll do it myself " exclaimed the languid young lady, rising with sudden energy. SI'll fling these in your ugly face, if you come near me," cried he, jumping up, and behind his mamma's chair, with a knife and fork in his right hand, covered with Savory pie. " I won't have this; I won't have it," said Mrs. Kincton Knox with peremptory dignity. "Howard, be quiet, my love; Clara, sit down." " The imp! he'll never stop till he murders some one," exclaimed Miss Clara, with intense feeling, as she sat down with brilliant cheeks and flashing eyes. " Look at him, mamma; he's saying ha-ha, and shaking his knife and ALL IN THE DARK. 41 fork at me, the little murderer; and the liar!" SClara, I insist," interposed Mrs. Kincton Knox. " Yes, I do believe he's an actual devil," persisted the young lady. "I won't have this," continued the mater familias, peremptorily. " Ha, ha I" whispered the imp obliquely, from the other side, wagging his head, and clutching his knife and fork, while he touched the points of the fork, with a horrid significance, with the finger tip of his disengaged hand. Miss Clara raised her hand, and opened her mouth to exclaim; but at this moment the servant entered with the letters, and the current of conversation was diverted.,--o--- CHAPTER XXIV. wVIAIXM Is SiUMONED. Mus. KINCTON KNOX had no less than seven notes and letters, her husband one, and Miss Clara two crossed manuscripts, which engrossed her speedily; and, possibly, these figures would have indicated pretty accurately their relative influence in the household. The matron deigned no account of her letters to mortal, and exacted from all others an habitual candour in this respect, and so much had it grown to be a matter of conscience with her husband, that I don't think he could have slept in his bed if he had failed to submit any one such communication to her inspection. Her own were now neatly arranged, one over the other, like the discarded cards in piquet, beside her plate. "Well, my dear, what is it?" she said to her husband, accompanying the inquiry with a little motion, like a minature beckoning, of her fore-finger. " Something about the Times-the tutor," he began. " Oh!" said Mrs. Kincton Knox, interrupting, with a warning nod and an awful look, and a glance at Master Howard, who was fortunately so busy in tying bits of paper, in imitation of a kite-tail, on the string of the window-blind, that he had heard nothing. " Oh I" murmured Mr. Kincton Knox, prolonging the interjection softly--ie was accustomed, with a guilty and abject submission, every now and then, to receive that sort of awful signal-" I did not know." And he whistled a little through his round mouth, and looked a little frightened, and ashamed of his clumsiness, though he seldom knew in what exactly the danger consisted. "Howard, my precious rosebud, I've told Rogers he may fire the pistol for you three times this morning; he says he has powder, and you may go now2' So away ran Master Howard to plague 1loger the footman; and Mrs. Kincton Knox said with a nod" Now." " Here," said he, mildly pushing the letter towards her, "you'll understand it better;" and she read aloud" MY DEAR SIR,--I venture to renew an old acquaintance at the instance of a young friend of mine, who has seen your advertisement in the Times, for a tutor, and desires to accept that office. He is capitally qualified, as your advertisement says, 'to prepare a boy of twelve for school.' He is a fair scholar, and a gentleman, and for his character, I can undertake to answer almost as for my own. I feel pretty certain that you will like him. There is but one condition, to which I am sure you will not object." "He shan't smoke or sit up all night, if that's it," said the lady loftily, by way of i gloss. " He and I agree," she read on, " that he should be received under the name of William Herbert." This paragraph she read twico over very deliberately. "As I have pressed upon him, for reasons which, you will readily believe, are not dishonourable-what strikes me as a strong objection to his accepting the position you offer under his own name." "That's very odd, it strikes me. Why shouldn't he tell his name?" observed Mrs. Kincton Knox, with grim curiosity. "I dare say he's a low person, and his name is not pretty," sneered Miss Clara, carelessly. " Who is that Mr. Edmund-Edward Sprague?" inquired the matrdb. Mr. Kincton Knox testified to his character. "But, just stop a moment-it is very odd. Why should he be, if he is a fit person to be received at Kincton - why should he be ashamed of his name?" repeated Mrs. Kincton Knox, grandly. " Perhaps it may be as well to let it drop," suggested Kincton Knox, in the hope that he was enticipating his wife's wishes. But that grave lady raised her nose at his remark, and turned away, not vouchsafing an answer. " Of course; I don't say it is not all quite proper; but say what you may, and take it how you please, it is a very odd condition." There was a pause here. Clara did not care enough to engage in the discussion, and old Kincton Knox rumpled his Times uneasily, not knowing whether he was called on for a solution, and not caring to hazard one, for he was seldom lucky. " Well, and what do you propose to do?" demanded his wife,who thus sometimes cruelly forced the peaceable old gentleman into debate. "Why," said he, cautiously, "whatever you think best, my dear." " I'm not likely to receive much assistance from you, Mr. Kincton Knox. However, provided I'm not blamed for doing my best, and my servants stormed at for obeying me-- " Mr. Kincton Knox glanced unconsciously and penitently at. the waLnut tree. 42 ALL IN THE DARK "I suppose, as something must be done, and nothing will be done otherwise, I may as well take this trouble and responsibility upon myself." "And what am I to say to Sprague?" murmured Mr. Kincton Knox. " I suppose the young man had better come. Mr. Sprague, you say, is a proper person, and I suppose we may rely upon what he says. I holpe so, I'm sure, and if he does not answer, why he can go about his business." In due course, therefore, Mr. Kincton Knox's reply, which he had previougly read aloud to his wife, was despatched. So Fate had resolved that William Maubray should visit Kincton Hall, while Aunt Dinah was daily expecting the return of her prodigal to Gilroyd. "If I don't hear from William Maubray before Sunday, I shall write on Monday morning to Doctor Sprague " said she, after a long silence at breakfast. She looked at Miss Violet, but the young lady was looking on the cloth, and with her finger-tips stirring hither and thither some flowers that lay there-not her eyes, only her long eyelashes were visible-and the invitation to say something conveyed in Aunt Dinah's glance, miscarried. " And I think it very strange-not what I should have expected from William-that he has not written. I don't mean an apology, that's a matter between his own conscience and his Maker. I mean some little inquiry. Affection of course we cannot command, but respect and courtesy we may." " I had thought better of William. I think Doctor Sprague will be surprised," she resumed. "I did not think he could have parted on the terms he did, and never written a line after, for nearly a week. He seems to me quite aa changed person." " Just at that age," said Miss Violet, in a low tone, looking nearer to her flowers, and growing interested in a rose whose rumpled leaves she was adjusting with her finger-tips, " some one says-I read it lately somewhere-I forget who-they grow weary of home, and home faces, and want change and adventure, that is action and danger, of one kind or another, what they are sent into the world for, I suppose -that and liberty." She spoke very low, as if to her flowers, and when she ceased, Miss Perfect listened still, and finding she had no niore to say, Aunt Dinah added" And a wise business they make of itfifty blunders in as many days, and begin looking out for wives before they know how to earn a guinea." Miss Violet looked up and smiled, and popped her nose gently into the water glass beside her, and went on adjusting her flowers. "Wives, indeed! Yes-just what his poor father did before him, and his grandfather, old Sir Everard, he was married privately, at twenty! It runs in the blood, my dear, like gaming or drinking; and the next I shall hear of William, I dare say, will be a note to ask my blessing on his marriage!" Again Miss Violet laughed softly, and smiling for a moment, with a pretty slip of verbena in her fingers, she added it to the growing bouquet in the glass. " You may laugh, my dear, but it is what I'm afraid of. I assure you I am serious." " But it may turn out very happy, or very splefdid, you know; he may meet with a young lady more foolish than himself, and with a great dot." "No, my dear, he's a soft romantic goose, and I really think if it were not imprudent, the romance would lose all its attraction. I tell you, it runs in the family, and he's not a bit wiser than his father, or his grandfather before him." " This will never do without a bit of blue. May I run out to the flowers?" " Certainly, dear;" and Aunt Dinah peered through her spectacles at the half made-up bouquet in the glass. " Yes, it does-it wants blue. Isn't there blue verbena?" And away ran Violet, and her pretty figure and gay face flitted before the windows in the early sun among the flowers. And Aunt Dinah looked for a moment with a smile and a sigh. Perhaps she was thinking of the time when it was morning sun and opening flowers for her, and young fellows-one of whom, long dead in India, was still a dream for her-used to talk their foolish flatteries, that sounded now like muffled music in the distant air; and she looked down dreamily on the back of her slim wrinkled hand that lay on the table. 0---F--~ CHAPTER XXV. W. MAUBRAY ARRIVES. WIEN, a few days later, Maubray, who was a shy man, stepped down from his fly, as the vehicle which conveyed him from the neighbouring railway station, though it more resembled a snail, was called, and found hiinself under the cold, grey, Ionic colonnade which received people at Kincton with a dismal and exclusive hospitality, his heart sank, a chilly shadow descended upon him, and in the silent panic of the moment he felt tempted to reenter the vehicle, return to Dr. Sprague, and confess that he wanted nerve to fulfil his engagement. William was conducted through the hall, up the great stairs, over a sombre lobby and up a second and narrower stair, to a gallery cold and dim, from which his room-door opened. Upon this floor the quietude of desertion reigned. He looked from his low window into a small court-yard, formed on three sides by the house itself, and on the fourth by a rear of the offices, behind which a thick mass of autumnal foliage showed itself in the distance. The circumscribed viewwas dreary and formal. How different from ALL IN THE DARK. 43 homely, genial old Gilroydl But that was a dream, and this reality; and so his toilet proceeded rapidly, and he descended, looking by no means like a threadbare domine, but handsome and presentable, and with the refinement of his good birth and breeding in his features. " Can I see Mr. Kincton Knox?" inquired William of the servant in the hall. " I'll inquire, sir." And William was left in that tesselated and pillared apartment, while the servant entered his master's study, and speedily returning, informed him with a superciliousness which was new to William, and decidedly uncomfortable, that he might enter. It was a handsome study, stored with handsome books and sundry busts, one of the deceased Horace Kincton Knox, in porphyry, received William on a pedestal near the door, and looked alarmingly like a case of smallpox. The present master of Kincton, portly, handsome, though threescore years had not passed over him in vain, with a bald forehead, and a sort of simple dignity, as William fancied, rose smiling, and came to meet him with his hand extended, and with a cordial glow about him, as though he had known him for years. " You are very welcome, sir-very happy to see you-very happy to make your acquaintance; and how is my good friend, Sprague? a very old friend of mine, though we have dropped out of sight a good deal; and I correspond very little-so-so we loose sight of one another; but he's well, and doing well too? I'm very happy to see you." There was something homely and reassuring in this kind old man, which was very pleasant to William. " Dr. Sprague was very well when I left him, and gave me this note, sir, for you," replied William, presenting it to his host, who took it, and glanced at it as they stood on the hearthrug together; and as he read it he observed: "Very cold the weather is. I don't remember-very cold-at this time of year. You've had a cold drive. Not had luncheon yet? Two o'clock, you know: yes, about a quarter to two now, in a quarter of an hour." He had by this time laid Doctor Sprague's note on the'table. " And the little boy, sir, where is he?" suggested William. " Oh, oh! little Howard I I-I suppose we shall see him at lunch." "I should wish very much to hear any directions or suggestions, and to know something as to what he has been doing," said William. " Very true-very right, Mr.-Mr.," and old Kincton Knox groped towards the note, intending to refresh his memory. " Herbert," interposed William, colouring a little. " Doctor Sprague made a point of the name, and I believe, sir, wrote particularly about it." " Quite so-very right, sir. It is Herbert. I quite approve-quite, sir. He did-perfectly explicit; and about the boy. The fact is, Mr. Herbert, I leave him very much to his mother. She can tell you much more what he has been doing-very young, you know, still-andand she'll tell you all about him; and I hope you will be happy, I'm sure; and don't fail to tell the people whatever you want, you know; I live very much to myself-quiet room this -fond of books, I suppose? Well, I shall be always very happy to see you here; in fact it will be a great pleasure. We may as well sit down, do, pray; for you know ladies don't care very much for this sort of reading;" and he waved his short white hand towards the bookcases; " and sometimes one feels a little lonely; and Sprague tells me you have a turn for reading." The door opened, and a servant announced that Mrs. Kincton Knox wished to see Mr. Herbert in the schoolroom. "Ho!" exclaimed the master of Kincton, with a grave countenance and a promptitude which savoured of discipline. "Well, at lunch I shall see you, Mr. Herbert; we'll meet in ten minutes or so; and, Edward, you'll show Mr.-a----Herbert to the schoolroom." Across the hall was he conaucted, to a room in which were some sporting prints and two dingy oil paintings of " sometime," favourite hunters who sniffed and heard their last of field and bugle a century ago. There were also some guns and fishing rods; and, through this to the school-room, where Mrs. Kincton Knox, in purple silk, with a turban on her head, loomed awfully before him as he entered, and made him a slight and rustling courtesy, which rather warned him off than greeted him. " Mr.-a-a-Herbert?' said the lady of the prominent black eyes, with a lofty inquiry. "I-a-Doctor Sprague-told me he had written very fully about the-the," stammered William, who began to feel like a concealed ticket-of-leave man. "The name, yes," said Mrs. Kincton Knox, looking steadily on him, and then ensued a silence. "He informed me that having explained the circumstances fully, and also that it was his not my particular wish, you had seen no difficulty in it," said William. " Difficulty-none-there can be no difficulty when there's no constraint," replied Mrs. Kincton Knox, laying down a metaphysical axiom, as she sometimes did, which William could not quite clearly understand; "and although I have always maintained the position that where there's mystery there is guilt; yet feeling a confidence in Doctor Sprague's character and profession-of both of which Mr. Kincton Knox happened to know something-we have endeavoured to overcome our objection." " I understood there was no objection," interposed William, flushing "Pray allow me. An objection satisfied is 44 ALL IN THE DARK. not necessarily an objection foregone; in this case, however, you are at liberty to treat it in that light. We waive our objectionand we have every reasonable confidence that we shall not have occasion to repent having done so."! This was spoken graciously and condescendingly, for she thought that a person who looked so decidedly like a gentleman Would rather conduce to the dignity of the Kincton " household." But it did not seem to strike the young man at all in that light. " You are about, Mr.-a-sir, to undertake the -charge of my precious child-sensitive, delicate-too delicate and too impressionable to have permitted his making all the progress I could have wished in the rudiments-you understand-of future-a-a-education and accomplishment; a little wild, but full of affection, and-and of natural docility-but still unused-from the causes I have mentionedto restraint or coercion. Your duty will therefore be a delicate one. I need not say that nothing of the nature of punishment will be permitted or endured. You will bear in mind the illustration of the sacred writerthe sun and the tempest, and the traveller's cloak" At this point William coughed slightly into his handkerchief. " Mild influences, in my mind, effect more than ever was accomplished by harshness; and such is the system under which our precious Howard must learn. Am I understood?" " Quite," said William. " I should not myself undertake the task of punishing any child; but I'm afraid, unless the parents are prepared to pull him up now and then, for idleness or inattention, you will find his progress far from satisfactory." " That is a question quite for them," said Mrs. Kincton Knox, in her queen-like way. William bowed. " What I want chiefly in a person-in a gentlemen in your capacity-is that he shall begin to-a--my precious child shall begin to associate with a superior mind, and imbibe rather by contact than task-work. Do I make myself clear? The-a-the-you know, of course the kind of thing." William did not apprehend quite so clearly the nature of his duties as he would have wished, but said nothing. " You and he will breakfast with us at halfpast nine. I regret I cannot ask you to lunch. But you and Howard will dine at three o'clock in this room, and have tea-and-and any little thing that Mrs. Ridgeway, the housekeeper, may send you at six. The boy goes to his bed at half-past nine, and I conclude you already know your own room." "And where is your-my pupil?" inquired William. Mrs. Kincton Knox rang the bell. "He shall be with you presently, Mr. Herbert, and you will please to bear in mind that the dear boy's health is just at present our first object, and that he must not be pressed to study more than he wishes." Master Howard Seymour Knox entered, eyeing the tutorsuspiciously and loweringly. He had, perhaps, heard confidently of possible canings, and viewed William Maubray with a sheepish kind of malevolence. CHAPTER XXVI. WILLIA IMAUBRAY BEGINS TO EXCITE AN INTEREST. TIERE was positively nothing to interest William Maublrra in his pupil, and a great deal to irritate and disgust him. What can be more sterile than the nature of a selfish child spoiled by indulgence. It was one comfort, however, that he was not expected to accomplish a miracle, that is, to teach a boy who had the option of learning nothing, and often for two hours or more at a time he was relieved altogether of his company, when he went out to drive Mrs. Kincton Knox, or to have a ride on his pony with the groom But the monotony and solitude grew dreadful. At breakfast he sat with, but not of, the party. Except, indeed, the kindly old gentleman, who lived in a monastic seclusion among his books and trees and flowers, and to whom William's occasional company was a cheer and a happiness, no one at the breakfast table seemed, after the first slight and silent salutation was over, conscious of his presence. Miss Clara and her mamma talked of matters that interested them-their neighbours, and the fashions, and the peerage, and even the furniture, as if William were a picture, or nothing at all. He could not fail, notwithstanding his exclusion, to perceive that Clara was handsome -very handsome, indeed-quite a brilliant blonde, and with that confident and haughty air of-was it fashion-was. it blood-was it the habit of being adored with incense and all sorts of worship-he could not tell. He only knew that it became her, and helped to overpower him. We are not to suppose that all this time female curiosity at Kincton slumbered and slept over such a problem as William Maubray. Treat him how they.might in his presence, he was a topic both of interest and inquiry in his absence. The few letters that reached him afforded no clue; they were addressed with uniform exactitude to " W. Herbert, Esq." The books` he had brought with him to Kincton conti'ibuted no light; for William had not inscribed,his name in his books. Miss Clara's maid, who was intensely interested in the investigation, brought a pocket handkerchief of the tutor's to her young mistress's room, where both she and her mamma conned over the initials " W.M." in a small but florid arabesque in the corner. It was, no doubt, a condescension such as William ought to have been proud of. " There's five on 'em so, Miss-the rest ALL IN THE DARK. 45 unmarked, and nothing else marked, except three old shirts." 1" Why, you goose, what can I care?" laughed Miss Clara. " I'm not his nurse, or his seamstress. Take it away this moment. What a pretty discussion!" This " W.M.," however, was not without its interest, and two days later the maid exhibited an old copy of FIeltham's " Resolves," abstracted from William's little file of books, with " William Martin" neatly inscribed on the fly-leaf, but in a hand so quaint and ancient, and with ink so brown, that even M3iss Clara " pooh-poohed" the discovery. Now, the young lady could not help in some sort requiting William's secret estimate of her good looks. She thought the young tutor decidedly handsome; in fact, there could be no question about it. He was well formed, too; and with that undefinable grace which people are apt to refer to gentle blood. There was, moreover, a certain refinement and sensitiveness in his countenance utterly incofpatible with the idea of vulgarity of any kind. Now, a tutor might be anything-a decayed nobleman or a chandler's son. Was not Louis Philippe an usher in a school? All you were to assume was that he could teach Latin grammar, and was in want of money. There were some little signs of superfluity, too, in William's valuables. The butler, who was a native of Geneva, presuming oni William's tutorship, had, on a fitting opportunity, begged leave to inspect his watch, and appraised it at twenty guineas among his fellowservants. This and the massive gold chain, which also excited his admiration, were gifts from Miss Perfect, as was also that glorious dressing-case, presented on his attaining his twenty-first year, resplendent with gold and mother-o' pearl, and which the same competent authority valued at seventy guineas at least. Now, those things, though little, and some not at all seen outside the walls of his own little bedroom, emitted, like the concealed relics of a saint, so to speak, a glory and a fragrance which permeated the house. It was quite impossible, then, that want of money had driven this Mr. Herbert, or whoever he was, into his present position. On the plate on top of this resplendent dressing-case the maid, who, fired by Monsieur Drouet's report, had visited the treasure clandestinely, were inscribed, as she reported to Miss Clara, the same mysterious characters " W.M." " I like the old gentleman-kind old man. What wonderful things books are; nourishment for all sorts and sizes of minds-poor old Mr. Kincton Knox. How he reads and positively enjoys them. Yet the best things in them might just as well never have been written or th6ught, for any real perception he has of them! A kind man; I like him so much; I feel so obliged to him. And what ill-bred, insupportable persons the ladies are; that pompous, strong-willed, stupid old woman; her magnificence positively stifles me; and the young lady, how disagreeably hand some she is, and how impertinent. It must be a love of inflicting pain and degradationhow cruel, how shabby, how low 1" Such was William's review of the adult members of the family among whom he had come to reside, as he lay down with his fair hair on the pillow, and his sad eyes long open in the dark, looking at scenes and forms of the past, crossed and troubled by coming sorrows and apprehensions. The ice and snow spread crisp and hard, and the frosty sun has little heat, but yet the thaw will come. And the radiance emitted by William' s dressing-case, watch and other glories, began imperceptibly to tell upon the frozen rigour of his first reception. There was a word now and then about the weather, he was asked more graciously to take some more tea. The ladies sometimes smiled when they thus invited him, and Miss Clara began to take an interest in her brother, and even one day in her riding habit, in which she looked particularly well, looked into the school-room for a moment, just to give Howard a little box of bon-bons she had promised him before she went out. " May I, Mr. Hererbert? asked Miss Clara, with that smile which no one could resist. "Certainly," said William, bowing very low, and she thought there was something haughty in his grave humility. So she thanked him, smiling more, and made her present to Howard, who broke out with" This ain't the one you said. You've been and eat it, you greedy I" " Now?" pleaded Miss Clara, whose fingers tingled to box his ears, though she prolonged the word in her most coaxing tone, " Howard! Howard I could you? your own poor Clara! You shall come up and have any two others you like best, when I come back, if Mr. Herbert allows it," and with a smile, and a light kiss on the boy's forehead, who plunged away from her muttering, that brilliant vision vanished, leaving William standing for a moment wondering, and thinking how graceful and pretty she looked in that becoming get-up. " Well," thought William, that night compunctiously and pleased, " I believe I have done them an injustice. I forgot that I was a total stranger, and expected a reception different perhaps from what I was entitled to. But this perhaps is better; people whose likings and confidence move slowly, and whose friendship bestowed gradually is not suddenly withdrawn." And so he went to sleep more happily. --0 -CHAPTER XXVII. FOM EINCTON TO GILROYD. A MONTrH passed away with little change. Thanks to the every explicit injunction, con ALL IN THE DARK. stantly repeated, to teach his pupil no more than his pupil wished to learn, William Maubray got on wonderfully well with that illconditioned brat, who was " the hope of the house of Kincton Knox." Still,notwithstanding this, and all those flattering evidences of growing favour vouchsafed by the ladies of the mansion, the weeks were very long. Miss Clara, although now and then she beamed on him with a transient light, yet never actually conversed; and magnificent and dreary Mrs. Kincton Knox, whether gracious' or repellant,. was nearly equally insupportable. Every time he walked out, and pausing on the upland, looked long and mournfully in the direction in which he fancied lay Gilroyd, with its sunset blush of old red brick, its roses, deep green sward, and chestnut shadows, a sort of home sickness overcame him. Beyond that horizon there was affection, and in old times the never-failing welcome, the smile, the cordial sympathy, and the liberty that knew not Kincton. And with a pain and swelling at his heart came the scene of his expulsion-a mute, hurried leave-taking; the clang of the iron gate, never to open more for him; and Aunt Dinah's fierce and cruel gaze, like the sword of fire in the way, forbidding his return. How was it with fierce and cruel Aunt Dinah all this time,? " The boy will come to his senses," she was constantly repeating to herself, as she closed her book from which her thoughts had been straying, upon her finger, with a short sigh and a proud look. Or when she looked up from her work, with the same little sigh, on the pretty flower landscape, with its back ground of foliage, seen so sunnily through the jessamine and rose clusters, " Time will bring him to reason; a little time, a very little time." But when a little time passed away, and no signs came with the next week of returning reason, Aunt Dinah grew fiercer and more warlike. " Sulky and obstinate! 1Ungrateful young man! Well, so be it. We'll see who can maintain silence longest. Let him cool; let him take his own time. Iwon't hurry him, I promise him," and so forth. But another week passed, still in silence, and Miss Perfect "presented her compliments to Dr. Sprague, and begged to inquire whether her nephew, William Maubray, had returned to Cambridge a little more than a fortnight since. Not that she had the least right or wish to enquire minutely henceforward into his plans, place of residence, pursuits, or associates; but simply that having for so long a time taken an interest in him, and,as she hoped, been of some little use to him-if supporting and educating him entirely might so be deemed --she thought she had a claim to be informed how he was, whether well or ill. Beyond that -she begged to be excused from asking, and requested that Doctor Sprague would be so good as to confine himself to answering that simple inquiry, and abstain from mentioning anything further about William Maubray." In reply to this, Doctor Sprague "begged to inform Miss Perfect that when he last saw him, about ten days since, when he left Cambridge, her nephew, William Maubray, was very well. On his return from his recent visit to Gilroyd, he had remained but a week in his rooms, and had then left to prosecute a plan by which he hoped to succeed in laying a foundation for future efforts and success. Doctor Sprague was not. very well, and had been ordered to take a little exceptional holiday abroad, and Miss Perfect's letter had reached him just on the eve of his departure for the Continent. Unobserved, almost to herself, there had been before Aunt Dinah's eyes, as she read her book, or worked at her crochet, or looked out wearied on the lawn, a little vignette, representing a college tutor's chamber, Gothic in character, and a high-backed oaken chair, antiquated and carved, in which like Faust philosophising to the respectful Vagner, sat Doctor Sprague, with his finger on the open letter she had sent him, exhorting and reproving the contumacious William Maubray, and in the act of despatching him, in a suit of sackcloth, with peas in his shoes, on a penitential pilgrimage to Gilroyd. This- pleasing shadow, like an illusion of the magic lantern, vanished in pitch darkness, as Miss Perfect read the good doctor's answer. With a pallid, patient smile, and feeling suddenly cold from her head to her feet, she continued to gaze in sore distress upon the letter. Had William enlisted, or had he embarked as steward on board an American steamer? Was he about working his passage to New Zealand, or had he turned billiard marker? NeighbourN dropped in now and then to.pay a visit, and Violet had such conversation as the vicinity afforded, and chatted and laughed all she could. But Miss Perfect was very silent for some days after the arrival of Dr. Sprague's letter. She was more gentle, and smiled a good deal, but was wan, and sighed from time to time, and her dinner was a mere make belief. And looking out of her bedroom window in the evening, toward Saxton, she did not hear old Winnie Dobbs who had thrice accosted her. But after a little she turned to the patient old handmaid, and said" Pretty the old church looks in the sun; I sometimes wish I were there."' Old Winnie followed the direction of her eyes, and gazed also, saying mildly" Good sermons, indeed, ma'am, and a good parson, kind to the poor; and very comfortable it is, sure, if they did not raise the stove so high. I think 'twas warmer before they raised it." " For a hundred and fifty years the Gilroyd people have been all buried there," continued Aunt Dinah, talking more to the old church than to Winnie. " Well, I should not wonder," said Winnie, " there is a deal o' them lies there. My grandmother minded the time old Lady Maubray was buried yonder, with that fine marble thing ALL IN THE DARK. outside o' the church. The rails is gone very rusty now, and that coat of arms, and the writing, it's wearing out---it is worn, the rain or something, and indeed I sometimes do think where is the good of grandeur, when we die it's all equal, the time being so short as it is. Master Willie asked me show it him last Sunday three weeks coming out o' church, and even his young eyes--" "Don't name him, don't mention him," said Aunt Dinah suddenly in a tone of cold decision. Winnie's guileless light blue eyes looked up in helpless wonder in her mistress' face. "Don't name his name, Winnie Dobbs. He's gone," said she in the same severe tone. " Gone!" repeated Winnie. "Yes, sure I but-but he'll come back." " No, he shan't, Winnie; he'll darken my doors no more. Come what may, that shan't be. I-I'11, perhaps, I may assist him occasionally still, but see him, never He-he has renounced me, and I-I wash my hands of him." She was answering Winnie's look of consternation. " Let him go his own way as he chooses it-I've done with him." There was a long pause here, during which ancient Winnie Dobbs stared with an imbecile incredulity at her mistress, who was looking still at the old church. Then old Winnie sighed. Then she shook her head, touching the tip of her tongue with a piteous little "tick, tick, tick," to the back of her teeth. And Aunt Dinah continued drearily" And Miss Violet must find this very dull -very. I've no right to keep her here. She would be happier in some other home, poor child. I'm but a dismal companion-very; and how long is it since young Mr. Trevor was here? You don't remember-there, don't try, but it must be three weeks or more, and -and I do think he was very attentive. I mean Winnie, but you are to say nothing below stairs, you know-I mean, I really think he was in love with Miss Vi." "Well, indeed, they did talk about it-the neighbours; there was talk, a deal o' talk, and I don't know, but I often thought she liked him." "Well, that's off too, quite, I think; you know it is very rude, impertinent, in fact, his never having called here once, or done more than just raise his hat to us in the church door on Sundays, ever since William Maubray went away. I look upon his conduct as altogether outrageous, and being the kind of person he is, I'm very glad he disclosed himself so early, and certainly it would have been a thousand pities the girl should have ever thought of him. So that's over too, and all the better it is, and I begin to grow tired of the whole thing-very tired, Winnie; and I believe the people over there," and she nodded toward the churchyard, "are best provided for, and it's time, Winnie, I should be thinking of joining them where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." "God forbid, ma'am!" remonstrated old Winnie, mildly, and they turned together from the window to accomplish Aunt Dinah's toilet, CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PIPING BULLFINClc, sEXT Sunday Mr. Vane Trevor, after church, happened to be carried in one of the converging currents of decently-dressed Christianity into the main channel through the porch, almost side by side with the two Gilroyd ladies then emerging. Mr. Vane Trevor, in pursuance of his prudent reserve, would have avoided this meeting. But so it was. In the crowded church porch, out of which the congregation emerges so slowly, with a sort of decent crush, almost pressed inconveniently against good Miss Perfect, the young gentleman found himself, and in a becoming manner, with a chastened simper, inquiring after their health, and making the properremarks about the weather. Aunt Dinah received these attentions very drily; but Miss Vi, in such an arch, becoming little shell-like bonnet, looked perfectly lovely; and to do her justice, was just as friendly as usual. It was no contrivance of his, the meeting with this bewitching little bonnet where he did. How could he help the strange little thrill with which he found himself so nearand was it in human nature, or even in good manners, to deny himself a very little walk, perhaps only to the church-yard gate, beside Miss Violet Darkwell? "How is my friend MTaubray?" inquired Trevor of Miss Perfect, whom he found himself next. "I really don't know-I have not heard-I suppose he is very well," she answered, with an icy severity that rather surprised the young man, who had heard nothing of the quarrel. " I must write. I ought to have asked him when he meant to return. I am so anxious for an excuse to renew our croquet on the lawn at Gilroyd." This little speech was accompanied with a look which Violet could hardly mistake. "I don't think it likely," said Miss Perfect, in the same dry tone. " Any time within the next three weeks. The weather will answer charmingly," continued Trevor, addressing Miss Darkwell. " But I rather think Miss Darkwell will have to make her papa a little visit. He's to return on the eighteenth, you remember, my dear; and he says, you know, you are to meet him at Richmond." So said Aunt Dinah, who had no notion of this kind of trifling. Trevor again saw the vision of a lean, vulgar, hard-voiced barrister, trudging beside him with a stoop, and a seedy black frock coat; and for a minute was silent. But he looked across at pretty Miss Vi, so naturally elegant, and in another moment the barrister had melted into air, and he saw only that beautiful nymph. " I want to look at old Lady Mlaubray's monument round the east end here, of the church. You would not dislikedear, to come -only a step. I must have any repairs done 48 ALL IN THE DARK. that may be needed. Good morning, Mr. Trevor." But Mr. Trevor begged leave to be of the party, knowing exactly where the monument stood. There is a vein of love-making with which a country church-yard somehow harmonizes very tenderly. Among the grass-grown graves the pretty small feet, stepping lightly and reverently, the hues and outlines of beauty and young life; the gay faces shadowed with a passing sadness-nothing ghastly, nothing desolate-only a sentiment of the solemn and the melancholy, and underlying that tender sadness, the trembling fountains of life and gladness, the pulses of youth and hope. " Yes; very, very much neglected," said Miss Perfect. We can do nothing with that marble, of course," she observed, nodding toward tpe arched cornice at top, which time and weather had sadly worn and furrowed. " It was her wish, my dear father often told me; she would have it outside, not in the church; but the rails, and this masonry-we must have that set to rights--es." And so, stepping lightly among weeds and long grass, and by humble headstones and time-worn tombs, they came forth under the shadow of the tall elms by the church-yard gatý, and again Miss Perfect intimated a farewell to Trevor, who, however, said he would go home by the stile-a path which would lead him by the gate of Gilroyd; and before he had quite reached that he had begun to make quite a favourable impression once more on the old lady; insomuch that, in her forgetfulness, she asked him at the gate of Gilroyd to come in, which very readily he did; and the little party sat down together in the drawing-room of Gilroyd, and chatted in a very kindly and agreeable way; and Vane Trevor, who like Aunt Dinah, was a connoisseur in birds, persuaded her to accept a bullfinch, which he would send her next morning in a new sort of cage, which had just come out, He waited in vain, however, for one of those little momentary absences which, at other times, had left him and Violet alone. Miss Perfect, though mollified, sat him out very determinedly. So at last, having paid a very long visit, Mr. Vane Trevor could decently prolong it no further, and he went away with an unsatisfactory and disappointed feeling, not quite reasonable, considering the inflexible rule he had imposed upon himself in the matter of Gilroyd Hall and its inhabitants. " Maubray has told her all I said," thought Vane Trevor, as he pursued the solitary path along the uplands of Revington. " The old woman-what a bore she is-was quite plainly vexed at first; but-but that jolly little creature-Violet-Violet, it is a pretty name-she was exactly as usual. By Jove! I'thought she'd have been a bit vexed; but she's an angel," he dreamed on, disappointed. " I don't think she can have even begun to care for me the least bit in the world-I really don't." He was looking down on the path, his hands in his pockets, and his cane under his arm; and he kicked a little stone out of his way at the emphatic word, rather fiercely. "And so much the better; there's no need of all that caution. Stuff I They know quite well I've no idea of marrying; and what more? And there's no danger of her, for she is plainly quite content with those terms, and does not care for me-now, that's all right." It is not always easy to analyze one's own motives; but beneath that satisfaction, there was very considerable soreness, and something like a resolution to make her like him, in spite of her coldness. The pretty, little, impertinent, cold, bewitching gipsy. It was so absurd. She did not seem the least flattered by the distinction of his admiration. Next morning, after breakfast, he drove down in his dog-cart, instead of sending the bird as he had proposed. There were some ingenious contrivances in this model cage which required explanation. The oddest thing about the present was that the piping bullfinch sang two of Miss Violet's favourite airs. Trevor had no small difficulty, and a diffuse correspondence, in his search for one so particularly accomplished. When in the drawing-room at Gilroyd, he waved a feather before its eyes, and the little songster displayed his acquirements. Trevor stole a glance at Miss Vi; but she looked perfectly innocent, and smiled with a provoking simplicity on the bird. Miss Perfect was, however, charmed, and fancied she knew the airs, but was, honestly, a little uncertain. " It is really too good of you, Mr. Trevor," she exclaimed. " On the contrary, I'm much obliged by your accepting the charge. I'm a sort of-of wandering Arab, you know, and I shall be making the tour of my friends' country houses; so poor little Pipe would have been very lonely, perhaps neglected; and I should very likely have had a letter some day announcing his death, and that, for fifty reasons, would have half broken my heart;" whereat he laughed a little, for Aunt Dinah, and glanced one very meaning and tender ogle on Miss Violet. " Well, Mr. Trevor, disguise it how you may, you are very good-natured," said Miss Perfect, much pleased with her new pet; "and I'm very much obliged,?' -0----------- CHAPTER XXIX. A MESSAGE IN THE " TIMES." WITn this little speech, Aunt Dinah, thinking for the moment of nothing but her bird, and very much pleased with Mr. Trevor, carried the little songster away to her room, leaving the young people together at the open parlour window. "I hope you like him?" Trevor said, in a a low tone. ALL IN THE DARK. 49 " Oh, charming V" replied BMiss Vi. SI should not for all the world--you'll never know the reason why, perhaps-have let him go to any place else, but here-upon my honour," said Mr. Vane Trevor, speaking very much in earnest. "Miss Perfect, I can see, is charmed," said Miss Vlolet. "Ah, yes you think so-very happy, I'm sure; but--but I shall miss, him very much. I-I-you've no idea what company he has been to me; and-and what a lot of trouble I had in finding one to-in fact, the sort of one I wanted." "They are very pretty, very sweet;.but, after all, don't you think the natural song the best. I should be afraid of the repetition; I should tire of the same airs," said MIiss Darkwell. " Of others-yes, perhaps, I should, but of those, never," said Mlr. Vane Trevor eloquently. No romantic young gentleman, who means to walk in the straight and narrow path of prudence, does well in falling into such a dialogue of covert-meanings with so very pretty a girl as BMiss Violet Darkwell. It is like going up in a baloon, among invisible and irresistible currents, and the prince of the powers of the air alone can tell how long a voyage you are in for, and in what direction you may come down. The flattering tongues of men I sweet airy music atuned to love and vanity, to woman's pride and weakness, half despised, half cherished. Long after-a phrase-a-fragment of a sentence, like a broken bar or halfremembered cadence of some sweet old air, that sounded in your young ears, in dances and merry-makings, now far and filmy as byegone dreams, turns up unbidden-comes back upon rememberance, and is told with a saddened smile, to another generation. Drink in the sweet music at your pretty ears; it will not last always. There is a day for enjoyment, and a day for rememberance, and then the days of darkness. A little blush-the glory, too, of ever so faint a smile! the beautiful flush of beauty's happy triumph was on the fair face of the girl, as she listened for a moment, with downcast eyes; and Vane Trevor, conceited young" man as he was, had never felt so elated as when he saw that transient, but beautiful glow, answering to his folly. I may look on her with different eyes, like the Choragus of an old play, and wonder and speculate which it is she likes-the flattery or the lover-or each for sake of the other; or the flattery only, caring not that bullfinch's feather on the carpet for him? There's not much in her face to guide me; I can only see, "for certain, that she is pleased. " I-I shall never forget those airs; theyyou know, you sang them the first time I heard you sing; and I'am afraid I have been awfully unreasonable about them, asking you to sing them for me every time nearly I had an opportunity; and I-I assure you, I don't know what I shall do without my poor bird; and--" 4 Exactly at this point Aunt Dinah returned, and Mr. Vane Trevor, with admirable presence of mind, said: " I was just saying to Miss Darkwell, I am sure I have heard her sing those little songs the bird whistles." "So she does," interrupted Miss Perfect. " I could not think where I heard them. You know those airs, Vi?" "Yes-I think they aCe among my songs," answered Violet, carelessly. " It would be very good of you, liss Perfect -now that I've parted with my-mymusician, you know-if you would allow mejust perhaps once before I leave Eevington-I shall be away probably some months-to look in some evening, when Miss Darkwell is at her music-it is very impertinent I'm afraid to ask -but knowing those airs so well, I should like so much to hear them sung, if you happened to -to be able to find them." The concluding words were to Violet. " Oh, dear yes-won't you, Vi-certainly, any evening, we shall be very happy; but you know we are very early people, and our tea hour seven o'clock." " Oh, quite deligthful," exclaimed the accomodating Vane Trevor, " I have no hours at all at Pevington; when I'm alone there, I just.eat when I'm hungry and sleep when I'm sleepy." " The certain way to loose your health I" exclaimed 3Miss Perfect. "Very much obliged-I'll certainly turn up, you know, seven o'clock, some evening. And so he took his leave, and was haunted day and night by Violet Darkwell's beautiful down-cast face, as he had seen it that morning. " I knew I'd make her like me-by Jove, I knew I should-she does, I'm quite sure of it, she's beginning to like me, and if I choose I'll make her like me awfully. Now, all the rest of that day, Trevor thought a great deal less than he had ever done before, of the pomps and vanities of Revington, and the vain glories of the Trevors of that Ilk. Wrestling with love is sometimes like wrestling with an angel, and when the struggle seems well nigh over, and the athlete sure of his victory, one unexpected touch of the angelic hand sets him limping again for many a day. Little did he fancy that the chance meeting in the shadowy porch of Saxton church would rivet again the sightless chains which it had taken some time and trouble to unclasp, and send him maundering and spiritless in his fetters among the woods and lonely paths of Revington; not yet, indeed, bewailing in vain his captivity, but still conscious of the invisible influence in which he was again intangled, and with no very clear analysis of the present, or thoughts for the future. Time had brought no tidings of William Maubray, and except on occasions, Aunt Dinah's fits of silence were growing longer, and her old face more wan and sad. "Ungrateful creature!" said she, unconsciously aloud. "Who, ma'am?" asked old Winnie, mildly. Her mistress was disrobing for bed. 50 ALL IN THE DAEK "Eh, who? repeated Miss Perfect. "1My nephew, William Maubray, to think of his never once 'sending me a line, or a message 1 we might all be dead here and he never know. Not that I care for his indifference and heartless ingratitude, for as I told you before, I shall never see his face again. You need not stare, you need not say a word, Winnie; it is quite fixed. You may go to see him at Cambridge, if he's there, or wherever he is, but the door of Gilroyd he shall never enter more while I live, and he and his concerns shall trouble me just as little as I and mine do him." It was about this time that William '.iaubray,.who was permitted regularly to look into the Times, saw the following notification among its advertisements:"If the young gentleman who abruptly left his old relative's house, under displeasure, on the night of--, is willing to enter the Church, a path to reconciliation may be opened; but none otherwise. If he needs pecuniary assistance it will be supplied to the extent of ~50, on his applying through his tutor, Doctor S--, but not directly." "! How insulting-how severe and unforgiving," murmured William. "How could;:he fancy it possible that I could accept the insult of her gift?" With a swelling heart he turned to another part of the paper, and tried to read. But the odious serpent coiled and hissing at him from its little tabulated compartment, was too near, and he could tUhih of aiiing elJae CHAPTER XXX. T~E LORD OF BURLEIGH. ONe morning at breakfast, the Kincton letters having arrived, Miss Clara, who had only one, tossed it carelessly to her mainma, who, having just closed one of her own, asked-- SWho is it?" "Vane; he's coming here he says on Thursday, instead of Wednesday," answered the young lady. "Cool young gentleman 1" observed Mrs. Kincton Knox. " He ought to know that people don't invite themselves to Kinctonany news?" " Yes; there has been an awful battle, and young Maubray has gone off, no one knows where, and everyone curious to find outquite irreconcileable, they say." "Does he say what about?" inquired the old lady, taking up the letter. "No, nothing; only that," answered Clara. "Mamma, Mr. Herbert's blushing all over, like fun," cried Master Howard from the other side of the table, with a great grin on his jambedaubed mouth, and his spoon pointed at poor William's countenance. The ladies involuntarily glahced at William, who blushed more fiercely than ever, and began to fiddle with his knife and fork. Miss Clara's glance only, as it were, touched him, and was instantly fixed on the view through the window, in apparent abstraction. Mrs. Kincton Knox's prominent dark eyes rested gravely a little longer on poor William's face, and the boy, waving his spoon, and kicking his chair, cried, " Ha, ha!" "Don't, sir, that's extremely rude - lay down spoon; you're never to point at any one, sir. Mr. Herbert's quite ashamed of you, and so am I." "Come here," said William. " May he come to me?" asked William. "Oh, no! you all want me to hold my tongue. It's always so, and that great beast of a Clara," bawled " the hope of the house," as his mamma was wont to call him. "Come to me," said poor William, mildly. "Or, if you permit me, M3r. Hebert," said Mrs. Kincton Knox. "rHoward! I can't tolerate this. You are to sit quiet, and eat your breakfast-do you hear-and do you like sardines? - Mr. Hebert, may I trouble you-thanks; and no personalities, mind - never! Mr. Hebert, a little more tea? " The ladies fell into earnest conference that morning after breakfast, so soon as William and his pupil had withdrawn. "W. M.! Everything marked with W. 1. -Wynston Maubray. Don't you see?" said the old lady, with a nod, and her dark and prominent eyes fixed suddenlyon her daughter. "Yes, of course; and did you look at his face when I mentioned the quarrel with Sir Pichard?" said the young lady. "Did you ever see anything like it?" exclaimed her mother. Miss Clara smiled mysteriously, andnodded her acquiescence. " Why, my dear, it was the colour of that," continued Mrs. Kincton Knox, pointing her finger fiercely at the red leather back of the chair that stood by them. "I don't think there can be a doubt. I know there's none in my mind." "'It is very curious-very romantic. I only hope that we have not been using him very ill," said Miss Clara, and she laughed more heartily than was her wont. " Ill! I don't know what you mean. I trust, Clara, no one is ever ill-used at Kincton. It certainly would rather surprise me to hear anything of the kind," retorted the lady of Kincton, loftily. " Well, I did not mean ill, exactly. I ought to have said rudely. I hope we have not been treating him like a-a--what shall I say?all this time," and the young lady laughed again. " We have shown him, Clara, all the kindness and consideration which a person entering this house in the capacity he chose to assume could possibly have expected. I don't suppose he expected us to divine by witchcraft who and what he was; and I am very certain that he would not have thought as-as ALL IN THE DARK. 51 highly of us, if we had acted in the slightest " B quiet, sir," said William, in o? ster a degree differently." tone, and with so angry a flash of his blue But though she spoke so confidently, Mirs. eyes, that the young gentleman was actually Kincton Knox, that perfect woman, was se- overawed, and returned lowering and muttercretly troubled with misgivings of the same ing to the ship he had been rigging, only uncomfortable kind, and would have given a making an ugly grimace over his shoulder, good deal to be able to modify the past, or and uttering the word "crocodile!" even distinctly to call its incidents to mind. Though Miss Clara smiled plaintively down "Of course, Clara, I shan't observe upon upon the copy of Tennyson which lay open those odd coincidences to Mr-r.- r. Herbert on the table, and turned over a page or two himself. It is his wish to be private for the with her finger-tip, serenely, she inwardly present. We have no right to pry. But there quaked while Howard declaimed, and in her is certainly justifiable-I may say, even called soul wished him the fate of Cicero; and when for-some little modification of our own de- she got to her room planted her chair before meanour toward him, in short; and knowing the cheval glass with a crash, and exclaimed, now-as I feel confident we do-who he is, "I do believe that the fiendish imp is.raised there is no need of the same degree of reserve up expressly to torture me! Other parents and-and distance; and I am very glad, if for would beat such a brat into mummy, and this reason only, that you may more frequent- knock his head off rather than their daughter ly, my dear Clara, look in and see your little should be degraded by him; but mine seem brother, who is so much hut up; it would be to like it positively. I wish-oh! don't I, only kind." just." And the aposiopesis and the look were In fact this old warrior, with the Roman eloquent. nose and eagle eye, surveying the position, But she had not yet left the school-room, felt, in Cromwell's phrase, that the " Lord had and as she looked down on the open pages, delivered him into her hand." There he was she murmured, sadly, " The Lord of Burleigh F domesticated, in what she might regard as a And looking up she said to William, " I see romantic incognito, without parental author- you read my poet and my favourite poem, too, ity to impede or suspicion to alarm him! only I think it too heart-rending. I can't read Could a more favourable conjuncture be it. I lose my spirits for the whole day after, fancied? How a little real kindness would and I wonder whether the story is really true." tell just now upon his young heart; and he She paused with a look of sad inquiry, and would have such an opportunity in his dis- William answered that he had read it was so. guise of estimating and being touched by the And she said, with a little sigh, " That only real amiability of the Kincton Knoxes; and makes it sadder," and she seemed to have the Maubray estates and an old baronetage something more to say, but did not; and after would close Miss Clara's campaigning with a moment, with a little smile and a nod, she eclat. went from the room. And William thought The young lady did look into the school- he had never seen her look so handsome, and room. had not before suspected her of so muchmind "I'm afraid, Mr. Herbert. you'll think me and so much feeling, and he took the book up very tiresome," she said. and read the poem through, and dreamed over W/illiam had risen as she entered, with a it till the servant came with a knock at the bow. door, and his mistress' compliments, to Imow "But mamma is thinking of taking foward if Master Howard might go now. a drive, if you approve, and Howard, we are going to Bolton Priorr. Mamma wishes so much to know whether you will allow him to come." " I-I can have no objection. He's not now at his lessons. I'm sure it will do him a great CHAPTER XXXI. deal of good." Miss Clara, in a pretty attitude, leaning with A FRIEND APPEARS. one hand on the table, was smiling down on Master Howard, and caressingly running her WILLIAM IMAUBanY's harmless self love was taper fingers through his curls, flattered by the growing consideration with " Let my head be-will you,'! he bawled, which he was treated. The more they saw of disengaging himself, with a bounce and a him plainly the better they liked him, and thump at her hand. William began, too, dimly to fancy that there The young lady smiled and shrugged plain- must be something very engaging about him. tively at William, who said, " Howard, I shall A night or two later, his pupil having just tell your mamma, if you are rude to Miss gone to bed, a footman came with a little Knox, and I'll ask her not to take you out scrap of pink paper, pencilled over, in Mrs. to-day." Kincton Knox's hand, on a salver, for William. " That's just it," retorted Master Howard. who found these words: " That's the-way you men always take her part " It has just struck me that I might possibly against me, because you think she's young prevail upon your good-nature, to look in and pretty. Ah-ha! I wish you'd ask her upon our solitude for half an hour; though maid-Winter." i we don't like abridging yourn ours of liberty, ALL IN THE DARK. it would really be quite a kindness to indulge me; and if you can lay your hand upon your volume of Tennyson, pray bring it with you." Up got William, and with his book in his hand followed the servant, who announced Mr. Herbert at the drawing-room door, and William found himself in that vast apartment, the lights of which were crowded about the fire, and the rest comparatively dim. " So good of you, Mr. Herbert," said Mrs. Kincton Knox, with a superb smile, and even extending her fingers in the solemn exuberance of her welcome. "It is so very kind of you tocome; so unreasonable, I fear; we had a debate, I assure you," and she smiled with awful archness toward Miss Clara, "but my audacity carried it-you've brought the book too-he has brought the book, Clara: how very kind, is not it?" Miss Clara answered by a glance at their visitor, almost grateful, and a smile at her mother, who continued" You have no idea, Mr. Herbert-pray sit where we can both hear and see you-how very lonely we are in these great rooms, when wo are tete-d-tete, as you see." William's remarks in reply were not very original or very many, but such as they iere nothing could be more successful, and the ladies exchanged smiles of approbation over the timid little joke, which had all but broken down. So William ead aloud, and the ladies each in her way, were charmed, and next night he was invited again, and there was more conversation and rather less reading, and so he grew much more easy and intimate, and began to look forward to these little reunions with a very pleasant interest; and Miss Clara's brilliant beauty and some little indications of a penchant very flattering began to visit his fancy oftener than I should have supposed likely; although it is hard to say when the way-side flowers on the longest journey quite lose their interest; or how much care and fatigue are needed to make a man cease to smile now and then, or whistle a stave on his way. William and his pupil were walking down the thick fir wood that lies on the slope between Kincton and the Old London road, when just at a curve in the path, within twenty yards, whom should he come upon suddenly in this darksome by-way but Mr. Vane Trevor. They both stopped short. " By Jove! Maubray?" exclaimed Trevor, after a pause, and he cackled one of his agreeable laughs. " Did not expect to see you here, Trevor," replied William, looking on the whole rather dismally surprised. " Why, what are you afraid of, old Maubray? I'm not going to do you any harm, upon my honour," and he laughed again, approacling his friend, who likewise advanced to meet him, smiling, with rather an effort. "Very glad to see you, and-and I've a lot to tell you," said lhe, " I don't mean any 1nesena but-but really serious things." " All well at home 7" asked William eagerly. " Oh, dear, yes, quite well-all flourishing. It is not-it's nothing unpleasant, you know, only I mean something, I-I, it's of importance to me, by Jove I and to-to, I fancy, otherpeople also; and I-I see you're puzzled. Can we get rid of that little wretch for a minute or two?" and he glanced at Howard Seymour Knox, to whom, he just remembered, he had not yet spoken. "And how do you do, Howard, my boy? Flourishing, I see. Would you like to have a shot with my revolver? I left it at the game-keeper's down there. Well, give them this card, and they'll give it to you-and we'll try and shoot a rabbit-eh?" Away went Master Howard, and Trevo> said" And do tell me, what are you doing here, of all places in the world?" " I'm a resident tutor-neither more no? less," said William Maubray, with a bitter gaiety. " You mean you've come here to Kincton to teach that little cur-I hope you lick him a trifle?" inquired Trevor. " Yes; but I don't lick him, and in fact the! situation-that's the right word, isn't it?-ivery, what's the word? We get on quietly and they're all very civil to me, and it's ver,, good of a swell like you to talk so to a pool devil of a pedagogue." " Come, Maubray, none of your chaff. I knew by your aunt's manner there was a screw loose somewhere-something abolft a living, was'nt there?" It was plain, however, that Trevor was thinking of something that concerned him more nearly than William Maubray's squabble with his aunt. " It's a long story," said William; " she wants me to go into the Church, and I won't, and so there's a quarrel, and that's all." "And the supplies stopped? " exclaimed Trevor. " Well, I think she would not stop them; she is very generous-but I could not, you know, it's time I should do something; and I'm here-Dr. Sprague thought it rightunder the name of Herbert. They know it's an assumed name-we took care to tell them that-so there's no trick, you know, and please don't say my name's Maubray, it would half break my aunt's heart." " Secret as the tomb, Herbert, I'll remember, and-and I hope that nasty little dog won't be coming back in a minute-it's a good way though-and, by Jove I it's very comical, though, and almost providential this, meeting you here, for I did want a friend to talk a bit to, awfully, and, you know, Maubray, I really have always looked on you ýn the light of a friend. There was a consciousness ef the honour which such a distinction conferred in the tone in which this was spoken, and William, in the cynical irony which, in this interview, he had used with Trevor, interposed with"Alanmble friend and very muchjiattered." ALL IN THE DARBK. 53 "You're no such thing, upon my honour, and I think you're joking. But I really do regard you as a friend, and I want to tell you no end of things, that I really think will surprise you." William Maubray looked in Trevor's face, gravely and dubiously, and said he, with the air of a man of the world, "Well, I should like to hear-and any advice I can offer, it is not of any great value I fear, is quite at your service." " Let's sit down here," said Trevor, and side by side they seated themselves on a rustic seat, and in the golden shade of the firs and pines, Vane Trevor began to open his case to William. --1-.o..---- CHAPTER XXXII. A CONFIDENCE. SI DON'T know what you'll think of it after all I've said, but I'm going to marry your cousin, Violet Darkwell," said Vane Trevor, after a little pause, and with a kind of effort, and a rather deprecatory smile. " Oh?" exclaimed William Maubray, cheerily, and with a smile. But the smile was wan, and the voice sounded ever so far away. SThere's no use, Maubray, in a fellow resisting his destiny; and there's an old saying, you know, about marriages being made in heaven. By Jove I when it comes to a certain point with a fellow, it's all over; no good struggling, and he may as well accomplish his -his destiny-by Jove, with a good grace. And-and I know, Maubray, you'll be glad to hear, and-and I really believe it's the best, and wisest thing I could have done-don't you think so?" "I'm sure of that," said William, in the same tone, with the same smile. " You'reeveryone says it's better to marry, when a fellow can afford it; but-but, I did not think you had a notion; that is, for ever so long; and then, some-some great lady." "No more I had," answered Trevor. " By Jove a month ago, you weren't a more unlikely man; but how can I help it? You never were spoony on a girl in all your life, and of course you can't tell; but you've no idea how impossible it is for a fellow, when once he comes to be really in-in love-toto make himself happy, and be content to lose her. Ican't 1 know." " No, of course," answered William, with the same smile and an involuntary sigh. " And then, you know, money and that sort of thing, it's all very fine, all very good in a wife; but by Jove! there's mdre, than you think in-in fascination and beauty, and manner, and that sort of thing. There's Sir John Sludgeleigh-old family, capital fellow -he chose to marry a woman from some of those cotton mill. places, with no end of money, and by Jove, I think heh has been ashamed to show ever since; you never saw such a brute. He's ashamed of her, and they say he'd give his right hand he had never set eyes on her. I can quite understand, of course, a fellow that has not a guinea left; but, by Jove, if you saw her, you could conceive such a thing. And there's old Lord Ricketts, he married quite a nobody. Sweetly pretty, to be sure, but out of a boarding school, and so clever, you know, but no money, and no family, and he so awfully dipt; and she set herself to work and looked after everything, awfully clever, and at this moment the estate does not owe a guinea, and she found it with a hundred and twenty thousand pounds mortgage over it; and when he married her every one said it was all up, and his ruin certain, and by Jove it wav that marriage that saved him." "Very curious " said William, dismally. "To be sure it is; there's no subject, I ten you, there's so much nonsense talked about as marriage;, if, a woman brings you a fortune or connexion, by Jove, she'll make you pay for it. I could tell you half a dozen who have been simply ruined by making what all the world thought wonderfully good marriages." "I dare say," said William, in a dream. "And then about family and connexion, really the thing, when you examine it, there's wonderfully little in it; the good blood of England isn't in the peerage at all, it is really, as a rule, all in the landed gentry. Now, look at us, for example, I give you leave to search the peerage through, and you'll not findfozr houses-I don't speak of titles, but families-older than we. Except four, there is not one as old. And really, if people are nice, and quite well bred, what more do you want?" "Oh, nothing," sighed William. " And do you know, I've rather a prtjudice against barristers, I mean as being generally an awfully low, vulgar set; and I assure you, I-I know I may say whatever I think to you; but I, when I was thinking about all this thing, you know, I could not get the idea out of my head. I knew her father was a barrister, and he was always turning up in my mind; you know the sort of thing, as-as a sort of fellow one could not like." " But he's a particularly gentlemanlike man," broke in William, to whom Sergeant Darkwell had always been very kind. "Oh! you need not tell me, for I walked with him home to Gilroyd, last Sunday, from church. I did not know who he was-stupid of me not to guess-and you can't think what an agreeable-really nice fellow." "I know him; he has been always very kind to me, and very encouraging about the bar," said Maubray. " Yes," interrupted Trevor, "and they say, certain to rise, and very high, too. Chancery, you know, and that-and-and such a really gentleman-like fellow, might be anything, and so-and so clever, I'm sure." "Come down to draw the settlements," ALL IN THE DARK. thought William, with a pang. But he could not somehow say it. There are events to which you can submit, but the details of which you shrink from. Here was for William, in some sort, a death. A familiar face gone. The rest was the undertaker's business. The stretching and shrouding, and screwing down, he had rather not hear of. " You are going to tell the people here?" said William Maubray, not knowing well what to say. "Tell them here, at Kincton! Not if I knows it. Why, I know pretty well, for fifty reasons, how they'll receive it. Oh I no, I'll just send them the prettiest little bit of a note in a week or two, when everything is quite settled, and I'll not mind seeing them again for some timne, I can tell you, Here's this little wretch coming again. Well, Howard, have you got the revolver?" Master Ioward's face was swollen with tears and fury? " No, they wouldn't give it me. You knew right well they would not, without mamma told 'em. I wished mamma was hanged; I do; she's always a plaguing every one; her and that great brute, Clara." This explosion seemed to divert Mr. Trevor extremely; but William was, of course, obliged to rebuke his pupil. "If you say that again, Master Howard, I'll tell your mamma." " I don't care." " Yery well, sir." " I say, come with me," said Trevor. " We'll ask mamma about the pistol. May he come? and I shall be here again in half an hour." "Very well, do so, and just remember, though I don't much care," said Maubray, in an under tone, " they don't know my name here." " All right," said Trevor; "I shan't forget," and he' and his interesting companion took their departure, leaving William to his meditations. " So! going tobe married-little Vi-pretty little Vi-little Vi, that used to climb up at the back of my chair. I'll try and remember her always the same little wayward, beautiful darling. I've seen my last of her, at least for a long time, a very long time. I wonder-I wonder-Gilroyd-I'll never see it again." And thoughts, vague and sad, came swelling up the stormy channels of his heart, breaking wildly and mournfully one over the other, and poor William Maubray, in his solitude, wept some bitter tears. -0--C---- CHAPTER XXXIII. -THE LADIES MAKE INQUISITION. ON the steps Vane Trevor was encountered by Mr. Kincton Knox, in his drab gaiters and portly white waistcoat, and white hat, and smiling in guileless hospitality, with both hands extended. " Very glad, Vane, my dear boy-very happy-now we've got you, we'll keep you three weeks at least. You must not be running away as usual. We11 not let you off this time, mind." Vane knew that the hospitable exuberances of the worthy gentleman were liable to be overruled by another power, and did not combat the hospitable seizure, as vigorously as if there had been no appeal. But he chatted a while with the old gentleman, and promised to walk down and see the plantations, and the new road with him. By a sort of silent compromise, this out-door department was abandoned to Mr. Kincton Knox, who seldom invaded the interior administration of the empire, and in justice, it must be alleged that the empress seldom interfered directly with the ' woods and forests,' and contented herself with now and then lifting up her fine eyes, and mittened hands, as she surveyed his operations from the window in a resigned horror, and wondered how iMr. Kincton Knox could satisfy his conscience in wasting money the way he did! She had learned, however, that his walks, trees, and roads, were points on which he might be raised to battle; and as she knew there was little harm in the pursuit, and really little, if anything done, more than was needed, and as some one must look after it, she conceded the point without any systematic resistance, and confined herself to the sort of silent protest I have mentioned. While Vane Trevor lingered for a few minutes with the old gentleman, Master Howard Seymour Knox, who was as little accustomed to wait as Louis XIV., stumped into the drawing-room, to demand an order upon the gamekeeper's-wife for Vane Trevor's revolver. " Vane Trevor come?" exclaimed Clara. "I want a note," cried Howard. " We shall hear all about the quarrel," observed the old lady emphatically, and with a mysterious nod, to her daughter. " I won't be kept here all day," cried Master Howard, with a stamp. " Well, wait a moment," cried Clara, "and you shall have the other box of bon-bons. I'll ring and send Brooks; but you've to tell me where Vane Trevor is." " No I won't till I get the bon-bons." Miss Clara was on the point of bursting forth into invective, but being curious, she did not choose a rupture, and only said "And why not, pray?" "Because you cheated me of the shilling you promised me the same way, and I told all the servants, and they all said you were a beast." " I don't know what you mean, sir." " You do, right well," he replied, "you asked me to tell you all about the tutor, and when I did you said it was not worth a farthing, and you would not give the shilling you promised, that was cheating; you cheat? " " Do you hear him, mamma?" ALL IN THE DARK. " Howard, my dear! whats all this? Tut, tut!" exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox. The arrival of the bon-bons, however, did more to re-establish peaceful relations; and the boy, who was anxious to get away, delivered his news as rapidly as he could. "Yes, Vane Trevor's come. When I and Herbert were in the long larch walk he met us, and they seemed very glad to meet." " Ah! Like people who knew one another before?" asked Miss Clara, eagerly, in tones little above a whisper. "Yes, and Vane called Herbert, Maubrayyes he did." "I Maubray? Are you quite sure of that?" demanded the elder lady, peering into his face and forgetting her dignity in the intensity of her curiosity. "Yes, that I am, quite sure," replied the boy wagging his head, and then spinning himself round on his heel. " Be quiet, sir," hissed Miss Clara, clutching him by the arm; " answer me,-now do be a good boy and we'll let you away in a minute. How do you remember the name was Maubray, and not some other name like Maubray?" " Because I remember Sir Richard Maubray that you and mamma's always talking about." "We're not always talking about him," said Clara. " No, sir, we're not," repeated the matron, severely. " I'll tell you no more, if your both so cross. I won't," retorted Master Howard, as distinctly as the bonbons would allow him. " Well, well, will you have done, and answer my question? Did he call him Maubray often?" repeated Clara. "Yes-no. He did, though-he called him Maubray twice. I'm sure of that." Mother and daughter exchanged glances at this point, and Mrs. Kincton made a very slow little bow with compressed lips, and her dark eyes steadily fixed on her daughter, and then there was a little "h'm!" " And they seemed to know one another before? " said Mrs. Kincton Knox. "Yes, I told you that before." "And glad to meet?" she continued. " Yes, that is, Vane. I don't think Herbert waS." Again the ladies interchanged a meaning glance. "T Where is Vane Trevor now?" inquired the elder lady, gathering up her majestic manner again. " He was talking to the governor at the halldoor." " Oh! then we shall see him in a moment," said Mrs. Kincton Knox. "Mind now, Howard, you're not to say one word to Mr. Herbert or to Vane Trevor about your telling us anything," added Miss Clara. " Ain't I tholgh? I just will, both of them; my man, unless you pay me my shilling," replied Master Howard. " Mamma do you hear hi'.. 1 exclaimed Miss Clara in a piteous fury. " What do you' mean, sir?" interposed his mamma vigorously, for she was nearly as much frightened as the young lady. " I mean I'll tell them; yes I will, I'm going," and he skipped with a horrid grimace, and his thumb to his nose, toward the door. Come back, sir; how dare you?" almost screamed Miss Clara. "Here, sir, take your shilling," cried Mrs. Kincton Knox, with a stamp on the. floor and flashing eye, fumbling hurriedly at her purse to produce the coin in question. " There it is, sir, and remember." Whether the oracular "remember" was a menace or an entreaty I know not; but the young gentleman fixed the coin in his eye after the manner of an eyeglass, and with some horrid skips and a grin of triumph at Miss Clara, he made his exit. " Where can he learn those vile, low tricks?" exclaimed Miss Clara. " I don't believe there is another such boy in England. He'll disgrace us, you'll find, and he'll kill me, I know." "He has been extremely troublesome; and I'll speak to him by-and-bye," said the matron. " Speak, indeed; much he cares!" SI'll make him care, though." There was a little silence, and the ladies mentally returned to the more momentous topic from which the extortion of Howard Seymour had for a moment diverted them. " What do you think of it?" murmured Mrs. Kincton Knox. " Oh I think there's but one thing to think," answered Miss Clara. " I look upon it as perfectly conclusive; and, in fact, his appearance tallies so exactly with the descriptions we have heard that we hardly needed all this corroboration. As it is, I am satisfied." At this moment the door opened, and Vane Trevor was announced. -----o---- CHAPTER XXXIV. TREVOR AND MAUBRAY IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. VANE TREVon was a remote cousin, and so received as a kinsmen; he entered and was greeted smilingly. " We have secured such a treasure since we saw you, a tutor for my precious Howard; and such a young man-I can't tell you half what I think of him." (That, perhaps, was true.) " He's so accomplished." " Accomplished-is he?" said Trevor. " Well, not perhaps in the common acceptation of the term, that I know of, but I referred particularly to that charming accomplishment of reading aloud with feeling and point, you know, so sadly neglected, and yet so conducive to real enjoyment and one's appreciation of good authors, when cultivated. You would 56 ALL IN THE DARKo hardly believe what a resource it is to us poor "About a week ago. He know some peosolitaries. I am quite in love with Mr. Her- ple yesterday; but they say he's awfully bert; and I will answer for Clara there; she shaken, and his face all-you know--pulled is as nearly so as a young lady ought to be." up on one side, and hanging down at the othPlayfulness was not Mrs. Kincton Knox's cr; old Sprague says, a horrible object; by happiest vein. She was tall, tragic, and un- Jove, you can't help pitying him, though he gainly; and her conscious graciousness made was a fearful old screw." one uncomfortable, and her smile was intimi- "1Melancholy!-and he iwas such a handdating. ' He certainly does read charmingly," some man! Dear me! Is his son like him?" threw in iiss Clara. said Mrs Kincton Knox ruefully, " We have grown, I fear," continued Mrs. " Why, not particularly just now. They Kincton Knox, " almost too dependent on him say the two sides of his face are pretty much for the enjoyment of our evenings; and I alike; and his right limbs are about as lively sometimes say, quite seriously to my girl as his left;" and Vane Trevor cackled very there, Clara, I do trust we are not spoiling agreeably over this sally. Mr. Herbert." " So I should hope, Mr. Trevor," said the " He does not look like a spoiled child- matron of the high nose and dark brows with rather sad and seedy, doesn't he?" replied a gloomy superiority, "and if there is any Vane Trevor. objection to answering my question, I should " Tut-does he?" said Miss Clara. rather not hear itjested upon,especially with so "You've seen him, then?" supplemented shocking a reference to Sir Richard's calamity her mother. -whom I knew, poor maan! when he was as "Yes; had that honour as I mounted the strong and as good-looking as you are." steep walk-how charming that walk is- "But seriously," said Miss Clara,:wvho saw among the fir-trees. But I did not see any- that her mother had not left herself room to thing very unusual about him." repeat her question, " What is he like?" is he "I can only say I like him elxremaely," oh- light or dark, or tall or short-or what?" served Mrs. Kincton Knox, in a tone which " Well, he's dark at night, you know, when.concluded debate, he's put out his candle, and light enough in "And what do you say, Miss Knox?" in- the daytime, when the sun's shining, and he's quired Vane Trevor, with one of his arch decidedly short sometimes-in his temper, I cackles. mean-he, he, he!-and tall in his talk al" No; young ladies are not to say all they ways,/ replied Vane Trevor, and he enjoyed a think, like us old people," interposed Mrs. very exhilarating laugh at his witty conceits. Knox; "but he's a very agreeable young " Yo- used to be capable of a little converman." sation," said the matron grandly. " You seem "Is lhe?" said Vane Trevor, with irrepressi- to have abandoned yourself to-to-- " ble amazement. "That's the first time by " To clhaf you were going to say," suggested Jove! I ever heard poor Marubray"-and here- Vane, waggishly. upon he stopped, remembering that Mau- "No, certainly not, that's a slang phrase bray's identity was a secret, and he looked, such as is not usual among ladies; nor ever perhaps, a little foolish. spoken at Kincton," retorted the old lady. Mrs. Kincton Knox coughed a little, though "Well, it is though, whenever I'm here," she was glad to be quite sure that Mr. Wyn- he replied agreeably. "But I'll really tell ston M aubray was safe under her roof, and did you all I can: there's nothing very remarknot want him or Vane Trevor to know that able in his appearance; he's rather tall, very she knew it. She therefore coughed a little light; he has lighthair, blue eyes, pretty good grandly, and also looked a little put out. bat." But Miss Clara, with admirable coolness, said "What's that?" demanded the elder lady. quite innocently- "He handles the willow pretty well, and " What of Mr. Maubray? What have you would treat you to a tolerably straight, well heard of him? do tell us. How is poor Sir pitched slow underhand." Richard? We never saw his son, you know, " I think you intimated that you were about here; and is the quarrel made up?". making yourself intelligible?" interposed Mrs. " That's just what I was going to tell you Kincton Knox. about," said Vane Trevor, scrambling rather " And don't you understand me?" inquired clumsily on his legs again after his tumble. Vane Trevor of Miss Clara. "Not the least chance-none in the world- "Yes, I think its cricket, ain't it?" she of a reconciliation. And the poor old follow, replied. in one of his fits of passion, got a fit, by Jove, " Well, you see I was intelligible; yes, and old Sprague at Cambridge told me one cricket, of course," replied Vane. half his body is perfectly dead, paralytic, you "I can't say, I'm sure, where Miss Kincton know, and he can't last; so Wynston, you see, Knox learned those phrases; it certainly was is more eligible than ever'" not in this drawing- room," observed her " Poor old man! you ought not to speak mamma, with a gloomy severity. with so much levity," said Mrs. Kincton " Well, I mean he's a tolerable good crickKnox. " I did not hear a word of it-how eter, and he reads poetry, and quarrels with horrible I And when had poor Sir Richard his his father, and he's just going to step into paralytic stroke?" the poor old fellow's shoes, for, jesting apart, ALL IN THE DAEF he really is in an awful state from all I can hear." "Is it thought he may linger long?" inquired Mrs. Kincton Knox; "though, indeed, poor man, it is hardly desirable he should, from all you say." a Anything but desirable. I fancy he's very shaky indeed, not safe for a week-may go any day-that's what Sprague says, and he's awfully anxious his son should come and see him; don't you think he ought?" said Mr. Vane Trevor. " That depends," said the old lady thoughtfully, for the idea of her bird in the hand flitting suddenly away at Old Sprague's whistle, to the bush of uncertainty, was uncomfortable and alarming. "I have always understood that in a case like poor Sir Richard's nothing can be more unwise, and, humanely speaking, more certain to precipitate a fatal catastrophe than a-a-adopting any step likely to be attended with agitation. Nothing of the kind, at least, ought to be hazarded for at least six weeks or so, I should say, and not even then unless the patient has rallied very decidedly, and in such a state as the miserable man now is, a reconciliation would be a mere delusion. I should certainly say no to a:*y such proposition, and I can't think how Dr. Sprague could contemplate such an experiment in any other light than as a possible murder." At this moment the drawing-room door opened, and William Maubray's pale and sad face appeared at it. " Howard says you wished to see me?" said he. "We are very happy, indeed, to see you," replied the old lady, graciously. "Pray come in and join us, Mr. Herbert. Mr. Herbert, allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr. Trevor. You have heard us speak of Mr. Vane Trevor, of IRevington?" " I had the pleasure-I met him on his way here, and we talked--and-and-I know him quite well," said William, blushing, but coming out with his concluding sentence quite stoutly, for before Vane Trevor's sly gaze he would have felt like a trickster if he had not. But the ladies were determined to supect nothing, and Mrs. Knox observed"We make acquaintance very quickly in the country-a ten, minutes' walk together. Mr. Herbert, would you object tQ poor Howard's having a holiday?-and, pray, join us at lunch, and you really must not leave us now." " I-oh 1 very happy-yes-a holiday-cersainly," replied he, like a man whose thoughts were a little scattered, and he stood leaning on the back of a chair, and showing, as both ladies agreed, by his absent manner and pale and saddened countenance, that Vane Trevor had been delivering Doctor Sprague's message, desiring his presence at the death-bed of the departing baronet. CHAPTER XXXV. THEY CONVERSE. "WzE were discussing a knotty point, Mr. Herbert, when you arrived," said Mrs. Kincton Knox. " I say that nothing can warrant an agitating intrusion upon a sick bed. Mr. Trevor here was mentioning a case-a patient in a most critical state-who had an unhappy quarrel with his son. The old gentleman, a baronet, is now in a most precarious state." Miss Clara stole a glance at William, who was bearing it like a brick. " A paralytic stroke; and they talked of sending for his son! Was ever such madness heard of? If they want to kill the old man outright, they could not go more direct to their object. I happen to know something of that awful complaint. Miy darling Clara's grandfather, my beloved father, was taken in that way-a severe paralytic attack, from which he was slowly recovering, and a servant stupidly dropped a china cup containing my dear father's gruel, and broke it-a kind of thing which always a little excited him-and not being able to articulate distinctly, or in any way adequately to express his irritation, he had, in about twenty minutes after the occurrence, a second seizure, which quite prostrated him, and in fact he never spoke intelligibly after, nor were we certain that he recognised one of his immediate family. So trifling are the ways, so mysterious-hhem!-and apparently inadequate the causes, which of course, under Divine regulation, in paralytic affections, invariably overpower the patient. Now, what I say is this, don't you think a son, in such a case, instead of obtruding himself at the sick man's bedside, ought to wait quietly for a month or two-quietly, I would say, in France or wherever he is, and to allow his father just to rally?" Wiilliam had been looking rather 0drearily on the carpet during this long statement, and I am afraid he had hardly listened to it as closely as he ought, and on being appealed to on the subject he did the best he couild, aud answered"It's an awful pity these quarrels." " He knows something of the case, too/' interposed Vane Trevor. The ladies looked, one upon the flowers in the vase, and the other out of the window, in painful expectation of an immediate eclai/eissement. But William only nodded a little frown at Trevor, to warn him off the dangerous ground he was treading,,nd he went on. " The blame is always thrown on the young fellows; it isn't fair." William spoke a little warmly. "It's the fault of the old ones a great deal oftener, they are so dictatorial and unreasonable, and expect you to have no will or conscience, or body or soul, except as they please. They forgot that they were young themselves once, and would not have submitted to it; and then they talk of you as a rebel, by Jove! and a-a parricide almost, for presuming to have either a thought or a scruple, or " On a sudden William perceived that, 58 ALL IN THE DARK. fired with his subject, he was declaiming a little more vehemently than was usual in drawing-rooms, and his inspiration failed him. " Hear, hear, hear!" cried Trevor, with a tiny clapping of his hands, and a laugh. Miss Clara looked all aglow with his eloquence, and her mama said grandly" There's truth, I'm sorry to say, in your remarks. Heaven knows I've suffered from unreasonableness, if ever mortal has. Here we sit in shadow of that great ugly, positively ugly tree there, and there it seems it must stand I daren't remove it;'" and Mrs. Kincton Knox lifted her head and her chin, and looked round like a queen shorn of her regalities, and inviting the indignant sympathy of the well affected. " There is, no question of it, a vast deal of unreasonableness and selfishness among the old. We all feel it," and she happened to glance upon Miss Clara, who was smiling a little cynically on the snowy ringlets of her little white dog, Bijou. She continued fiercely, " And to return to the subject. I should think no son, who did not wish to kill his father, and to have the world believe so, would think of such a thing." SKilling's a serious business," 'observed Trevor. " A man killed," observed Mrs. Kincton Knox, " is a man lost to society. His place knows him no more. All his thoughts perish." " And they're not often any great loss," moralized Trevor. " Very true!" acquiesced Mrs. Kincton Knox, with alacrity, recollecting how little rational matter her spouse ever contributed to the counicil board of Kincton. " Still, I maintain, a son would not like to be supposed to have caused the death of his father. That is, unless my views of human nature are much too favourable. What do you think, Mr. Herbert?" and the lady turned her prominent dark eyes, with their whites so curiously veined, encouragingly upon the young man. " I think if I were that fellow," he replied, and Mrs. Kincton Knox admired his diplomacy, " I should not run the risk." " Quite right!" approved the lady radiantly. Trevor looked at his watch and stood up. " Your trunk and things, gone up to your room, Vane?" inquired Mrs. Kincton Knox. " I've no trunk; ha, ha! and no thingshe, he, he! no, upon my honour. I can't stay, really; I'm awfully sorry; but my plans were all upset, and I'm going back to the station, and must walk at an awful pace too; only half an hour-a very short visit; well, yes, but I could not deny myself-short as it isand I hope to look in upon you again soon." " It's very ill-natured, I think," said Miss Clara. "Very," said Mrs. Kincton'Knox, y.et both ladies were very well pleased to be relieved of Vane Trevor's agreeable society. He would have been in the way-unutterably de trop. His eye upon their operations would have been disconcerting; he would have been taking the --the tutor long walks, or trying, perhaps, to flirt with Clara, as he did two years ago, and never leaving her to herself. So the regrets and upbraidings with which they followed Vane Trevor, who had unconsciously been helping to mystify them, were mild and a little hypocritical --o-- CHAPTER XSSXXI. THE EVENING. WILLIAM MAUBIAY was bidden to luncheon, and was sad and abstemious at that pleasant refection, and when it was over Mrs. Kincton Knox said" My dear Clara, it's quite out of the question my going with you to-day, I'm suffering so-that horrid neuralgia." " Oh i darling! how sorry I am I" exclaimed Miss Clara, with a look of such" beautiful pity and affection as must have moved William Maubray if he had the slightest liking for ministering angels. "What can I do for you? You must, you know, try something." " No, love, no; nature-nature and rest. I shall lie down for a little; but you must have your ride all the same to Coverdale, and I am certain Mr. Herbert will be so kind as to accompany you. William Maubray would have given a great deal for a solitary ramble;but, of course, he was only too happy, and the happy nair scampered off on their ponies side by side, and two hours after Miss. Clara walked into her mamma's room, looking cross and tired, and sat down silently in a chair, before the cheval glass. " Well, dear?" inquired her mother, inquisitively. "Nothing, mamma. I hope your head's better! "My head? Oh! yes, better, thanks. But -a-how did you like your ride?" "Very stupid," answered the young lady. SI suppose you've been in one of your tempers, and never spoke a word-and you' know he's so shy? Will you ever learn, Miss Kincton Knox, to command your miserable temper?" exclaimed her mother very grimly, but the young lady only flapped the folds of her skirt lazily with her whip. " You quite mistake, mamma, I'm not cross; I'm only tired. I'm sorry you did not let him go off to the sick old man. He's plainly pining to go and give him his gruel and his medicine." " Did he speak of him?" asked the old lady. "No, nor of anything else; but he's plainly thinking of him and thinks he has murdered him-at least he looks as if he was going to be hanged, and I don't care if he was," answered Miss Clara. "You must make allowances, my dear Clara, said she. " You forget that the circumstances are very distressing. " Very cheerful I should say. Why, he ALL IN THE DARK. 09 hates his father, I dare say. Did not you hear the picture he drew of him, and it's all hypocrisy, and I don't believe his father has really anything to do with his moping." " And what do you suppose is the cause of it?" inquired Mrs. Kincton Knox. " I really can't tell; perhaps he's privately married, or in love with a milliner, perhaps, and that has been the cause of this quarrrel," she said with an indolent mockery that might be serious, and, at all events, puzzled the elder lady. "l Ho stuff, my dear child I" exclaimed her mother with an uneasy scorn. "You had better call Brookes and get your habit off. And where did you leave him? "At the hall door," replied Miss Clara, as she walked out of the room. "H'm, stuff I" repeated Mrs. Kincton Knox, still more uneasily, for she knew that Clara had her wits about her. " Married, indeed I It's probable just this-Vane Trevor has come here with a foolish long exhortation from Doctor-what's his name?-Sprague-and upset the young man a little, and perhaps agitated him. He'll be quite a different person to-morrow." And so indeed it proved. Whatever his secret feelings, William Maubray was externally a great deal more like himself. In the state which follows such a shock as William had experienced before the monotony of sadness sets in, there is sometimes an oscillation of spirits from extreme depression to an equally morbid hilarity, the symbol of excitement only. So in along ride, which William took with the youn lady to-day, accompanied by his pupil, who, on'his pony, entertained himself by pursuing the sheep on the hill side, Miss Clara found him very agreeable, and also ready at times to philosophize, eloquently and sadly, in, the sort of Byronic vein into which bitter young lovers will break. So the sky was brightening, and William who suspected nothing of the peculiar interest with which his varying moods were observed, was yet flattered by the gradual but striking improvement of his relations, accepted the interest displayed by the ladies as a feminine indication of compassion and appreciation, and expressed a growing confidence and gratitude, the indirect expressions of which they, perhaps, a little misapprehended. In the evening Mrs. Kincton Knox called again for the " Lord of Burleigh," not being fertile in resource-Miss Clara turned her chair toward the fire, and with her feet on a boss, near the fender, leaned back, with a handscreen in her fingers, and listened. "That is what I call poetry I" exclaimed the matron with the decision of a brigadier, and a nod of intimidating approbation, toward William, " and so charmingly read I" ".I'm afraid Miss Kincton Knox must have grown a little tired of it," suggested William. ",One can never tire of poetry so true to nature," answered Miss Clara. "She's all romance, that creature," confidentially. murmured her mamma, with a compassionating smile. "What is it?" inquired Miss Clara. "You're not to hear, but we were saying, weren't we, Mr. Herbert? that she has not a particle of romance in her nature," replied her mamma with her gloomy pleasantry. " No romance certainly, and I'm afraid no common sense either," replied the young lady naively. " Do you write poetry?" asked the old lady of William. " You need not ask him, he could not read as he did, if lie did not write," said Miss Clara turning round in an eager glow, which momentary enthusiasm some other feeling overpowered, and she turned away again a little bashfully. "You do write, I see it confessed in your eyes," exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox. "1He does, Clara, you're right. I really think sometimes she's a-a-fairy." " Ask him, mamma, to read us some of his verses," pleaded Clara, just a little timidly. "You really must, Mr. Herbert-no, no, I'll hear of no excuses; our sex has its privileges, you know, and where we say must, opposition vanishes." "iReally," urged William, "any little attempts of mine are so unworthy ""We must, and will have them to-morrow evening; dear me, how the hours do fly. You have no idea, Clara dear, how late it is, quite dreadful. I'm really angry with you, Mr. Herbert, for beguiling us into such late hours." So the party broke up, and when Mrs. Kincton Knox entered her daughter's room where she was in a dishevelled stage of preparation for bed; she said, her maid being just despatched on a message"I really wish, mamma, you'd stop about that Lord of Burleigb; I saw him look quite oddly when you asked for it again to-night, and he must know, unless he's a fool, tnat you don't care two pence about poetry, and you'll just make him think we know wvho he is." " Pooh I nonsense, Clara I don't be ridiculous," said her mother, a little awkwardly, for she had a secret sense of Clara's superiority. "I don't want you to teach me what I'm to do, I hope, and who brought him here, pray, and investigated, and, in fact-here's Brookes back again-and you know we are to have his own verses to-morrow night, so we don't want that, nor any more, if you'd rather not, and you can't possibly be more sick of it than I am." So, on the whole well pleased, the ladies betook themselves to their beds, and Mrs. Kincton Knox lay long awake, constructing her clumsy castles in the air. CHAPTER XXXVII. VANE TEVOR AT THE GATE OP GILROYD. NEXT morning, at breakfast, as usual, the postbag brought its store of letters and news, and GO ALL IN THE DARK. Mrs. Kincton Knox dispensed its contents in her usual magisterial manner. There were two addressed in Vane Trevor's handwriting; one to the tutor, which the matron recognized, as she sent it round to him in Howard's hand, the other to herself. " Pray, no ceremony with us," said the lady of the house, with a gorgeous complacency; "read your letter here, Mr. JIerbert: we are all opening ours, you see." " So William Maubray, with an odd little flutter at his heart, opened the letter, which he knew would speak of those of whom it agitated him to think. It was dated from Revington, whither, with a sort of home sickness new to him, Trevor had returned almost directly after his visit to Kincton. Vane Trevor had, without intending it, left, perhaps, on Maubray's mind an impression, that a little more had occurred than the progress of the drama could actually show. He had not yet committed himself irrevocably; but he had quite made up his mind to take the decisive ptep, and only awaited the opportunity. The day after his arrival he joined the Gilroyd ladies as they left the Rectory, wherefor the great law of change and succession is at work continually and everywhere--the Mainwarings were no more, and good old Doctor Wagget was now installed, and beginning to unpack and get his books into their shelves, and he and old Miss Wagget were still nodding, and kissing their hands, and smiling genially on the door-steps on their departing visitors.. Just here Vane Trevor lighted upon them. How lovely Miss Violet Darkwell looked! Was not that a blush, or only the rosy shadow under her bonnet? "A blush, by Jove!" thought Vane Trevor, and he felt as elated as, a few weeks before, he would have been had he got a peerage. So they stopped in a little group on the road under the parsonage trees; and, the usual greeting accomplished, the young man accompanied them on their way toward Gilroyd, and said he" I looked in the other day, on my way back from Lowton, on my cousins, the Kincton Knoxes, at Kincton, you know, and, by Jove! I met--who do you think?" " I haven't an idea," replied Miss Darkwell, to whom he had chiefly addressed himself. " Anne Dowlass, I dare say, my roguish, runaway little girl," suggested Miss Perfect inquisitively. SOh. no not a girl," answered Trevor. "Well, it was the Bishop of Shovel-onHeadly," said she firmly. " No; by Jove! I don't think you'd guess in half an hour. Upon my honour! He! he! he! Well, what do you think of Maubray? " " Wiiliam?" repeated Miss Perfect, faintly, and in a tone such as would indicate sudden pain. "Yes, by Jove! the very man, upon my honour-as large as life. He's--" Suddenly, Vane Trevor recollected that he was not to divulge the secret of his being there in the office of tutor. " Well, he's-what is he doing?" urged Annt Dinah. " He's-he's staying there; and, upon my honour-you won t tell, I know, but, upon my honour-the old lady, and-he I he! he!-the young one are both-I give you my honourin love with him 1" And Trevor laughed shrilly. " But, I really ain't joking-I'm quite serious, I do assure you. The old woman told me, in so many words almost, that Clara's in love with him-awfully in love, by Jove P" Trevor's narrative was told in screams of laughter. " And you know, she's really, awfully pretty: a stunning girl she was a year or two ago and-and-you know that kind of thing could not be-both in the same house-and the girl in love with him-and nothing come of it. It's a case, I assure you; and it will be a match, as sure as I'm walking beside you." "H'm!" ejaculated Aunt Dinah, with a quick little nod and closed lips, looking straight before her. " How pretty that light is, breaking on the woods; how splendid the colours;" said Miss Darkwell. "Yes-well. It really is now, jolly I" responded Vane Trevor; and he would have made a pretty little speech on that text; but the presence of Miss Perfect, of course, put that out of the question. Miss Perfect was silent duringnearly all the rest of the walk; and the conversation remained to the young people, and Vane Trevor was. as tenderly outspoken as a lunatic in his case dare be under restraint and observation. They had reached the poplars, only a stone's throw from the gate of Gilroyd, when Miss Perfect asked abruptly, " How was the young man looking 7" Vane Trevor had just ended a description of old Puttles the keeper of the "Garter," whom he had seen removed in a drunken appoplexy to the hospital yesterday; and Aunt Dinah's question for a moment puzzled him, but he quickly recovered the thread of the by-gone allusion. " Oh I Maubray? I beg pardon. Maubray was looking very well, I think; a little like a hero in love, of course, you know, but very well. He was just going to lunch with the ladies when I left, and looked precious hungry, I can tell you. I don't think you need trouble yourself about Maubray, Miss Perfect, I assure you you needn't, for he's taking very good care of himself, every way, by Jove." "I don't trouble myself," said Aunt Dinah, rather sternly, interrupting Trevor's agreeable cackle. "He has quite broken with me, as I already informed you-quite, and I don't care who knows it. I shall never interfere with him or his concerns more. He shall never enter that gate, or see myface more; that's no ALL IN THE DARK. 61 great privation, of course; but I don't wish his death or destruction, little as he deserves of me, and that's the reason I asked how he looked; and, having heard, I don't desire to hear more about him or to mention his name again." And Miss Perfect stared on Vane Trevor with a grim decision, which the young man was a little puzzled how to receive, and, with the gold head of his cane to his lip, looked up at a cloud, with a rueful and rather vacant countenance, intended to express something of a tragic sympathy. He walked with them to the pretty porch; but Aunt Dinah was still absent and grim; and bid him good-bye, and shook hands at the door, without asking him in; and though he seemed to linger a little, there was nothing for it, but to take his departure, rather vexed. That evening was silent and listless at Gilroyd, and though Miss Perfect left the parlour early, I think there was a sdance, for, as she lay in her bed, Violet heard signs of life in the study beneath her, and Miss Perfect was very thoughtful, and old Winnie Dobbs very sleepy, all next day. It was odd, now that Vane rrevor had come to set his heart upon marrying Violet Darkwell, that his confidence in his claims, which he would have thought it simple lunacy to question a few weeks ago, began to waver. He began to think how that gentlemanlike Mr. Sergeant Darkwell, with the bright and thoughtful face, who was, no doubt, ambitious, would regard the rental and estate of Revington with those onerous charges upon it; how Miss Perfect, with her whims and fancios,andpositive temper, might view the whole thing; and, lastly, whether he was he was quite so certain of'the young lady's "inclinations," as the old novels have it, as he felt a little time before: and so he lay awake in an agitation of modesty, quite new to him. -----O--- CHAPTER XXXVIII. VANE TREVOR WALKS DOWN TO SEE MISS VIOLET. LOOKING at himself in his glass next morning, Vane Trevor pronounced the coup d'ceil awfully seedy. This sort of thing, by Jove, it will never do, it would wear out any fellow; where's the good in putting off? there's no screw loose, there's nothing against me; I hope I stand pretty well here-hang it-I'll walk down to-day," and he looked over the slopes to sunny Gilroyd, "and if a good opportunity turns up, I'll speak to Miss Darkwell." And though he had taken care, in secret mercy to his nerves, to state his resolve hypothetically, his heart made two or three strange throbs, and experienced a kind of sinking like that said to attend, on the eve of battle, an order to prepare for action. Accordingly, before twelve o'clock, Vane Trevor walked into the porch of Gilroyd, and rang the bell beside the open door, and stood with the gold head of his cane to his chin, looking on the woodlands toward Revington, and feeling as he might have felt in an ominous dream. "Miss Perfect at home?" he inquired of the maid, with a haggard simper. " She was in the drawing-room," into which room, forgetting the preliminary of announcement, hle pushed his way. She was not there, but he heard her talking to Winnie Dobbs' in the gallery. "Just passing by; afraid I'm very troublesome, but I could not resist," pleaded Vane Trevor, as he glanced over Miss Perfect's gray silk shoulder, and somewhat old-fashioned collar, toward the door, expecting, perhaps, another apparition. " I'm very glad you've come, Mr. Trevor.Shall we sit down, for I-I want to ask you to satisfy me upon a point." This was a day of agitations for Trevor, and his heart made an odd little dance, and a sudden drop, and though he smiled, he felt his cheek grow a little pale. "By Jove!" thought Trevor as he placed himself near Aunt Dinah, " she'll save me a lot of trouble and open the subject all in a sentence." He was leaning against the window case, and the damask curtains, though somewhat the worse of the sun, made a gorgeous drapery about him, as with folded arms, and trying to look perfectly serene, he looked down on Miss Perfect's face. The lady seemed to have some little difficulty about speaking, and cleared her voice, and looked out of the window for help, and all the time the young man felt very oddly. -At last she said"I had made up my mind not to allude to the subject, but I-I-last night, in fact, something occurred which has induced me just to ask a question or two." Aunt Dinah paused; and with rather pale lips, Vane Trevor smiled an assurance that he would be too happy to answer any question which Miss Perfect might please to ask. Again a little silence-again the odd sensation in Vane's heart, and the same sickening sense of suspense, and he felt he could not stand it much longer. "I-I said I would not allude again to William Maubray, but I-I have altered that resolution. I mean, however, to ask but a question or two." " Oh? " was all that Trevor uttered, but he felt that he could have wished the old woman and William Maubray in a sack at the bottom of his best pond at Revington. "I-I wish to know, the Kincton Knoxes, aren't they a leading people rather, in their part of the world?" " Oh, dear, yes. Kincton is one of the best places in the county," ejaculated Trevor, who being a kinsman, ore a handsome testimony. " And-and-the young lady, Miss Clara Knox, she, I suppose, is-is admired? " ALL IN THE DARK. 63 ment in that look, and Trevor waxed eloquent. " I-I wish I could-I wish I dare-I-I think her so beautiful. I-I can't express all I think, and I-there's nothing I would not do to make her friends approve--a-a-in fact I should be so much obliged if I thought you would wish me well, and be my friendand-and--" And Vane Trevor for want of anything dis tinct to add to all this, came to a pause. And Miss Perfect, with a very honest surprise in her face, said: " Am I to.understand, Mr. Vane Trevor?" and she too came to a stop. But with those magical words the floodgates of his eloquence were opened once more. " Yes, I do. I do indeed. I mean to-to propose for Miss Darkwell, if-if I were sure that her friends liked the idea, and that I. could think really, she liked me. I-I came to-day with the intention of speaking to her."' He was now standing erect, no longer leaning against the window shutter, and:holding his walking-cane very hard in both hands, and impressing Miss Perfect with a conviction of his being thoroughly in earnest. " I-I tell you frankly, Mr. Trevor," said Aunt Dinah, a little flushed with a sympathetic excitement, and evidently much pleased, "I did not expect this. I-I had fancied that you were not a likely person to marry, and to say truth, I sometimes doubted whether I ought to have allowed your visits here so frequently, at least as you have made them for the last few weeks. Of course'I can see nothing that is not desirable, in fact.highly advantageous in the proposal you make. Am I at liberty to write to Sergeant Darkwell on the subject?" " Oh! certainly, exactly what I should wish." "I'm very sure he will see it in the same light that I do. We all know the Trevors of Revington, the position they have always held; and though I detest the line they took in the great civil war, and think your poor. father had no business helping to introduce machinery into this part of the world as he did, and I always said so, I yet can see 'the many amiable qualities of his son, and I have no doubt that you will make a kind and affectionate husband. I must, however, tell you candidly, that I have never spoken of you to Violet Darkwell as a-in fact, in any other light than that of an acquaintance, and I cannot throw any light upon her feelings. You can ascertain them best for yourself. My belief is, that a girl should be left quite free to accept or decline in such a case, and I know that her father thinks exactly as I do." " I-I may write to Miss Darkwell, do you think? I suppose I had better?" " No, said Miss Perfect, with decision; " were I you I should much prefer speaking. Depend upon it, there's more to be done by speaking. But as you are acquainted With her father, don't you think you might write to him. Violet may return in three days, but will not, I think, quite so soon; and meanwhile you will have, heard from him." "I think so. I'll do it, certainly; and I-I feel that you're my friend, Miss Perfect;" and he took her hand, and she took his very kindly. "I've said my say, I highly approve, and I'm quite certain her father will also; he agrees with me on most points; he's a very superior man." Vane Trevor, there and then, with Aunt Dinah's concurrence, wrote his letter to Mr. Sergeant Darkwell; and then he walked with Aunt Dinah in the garden, talking incessantly of Violet, and it must be added, very much pleased with Miss Perfect's evident satisfaction and elation; and he remained to dinner, a situation which two months ago would have appeared the most ludicrous and dismal in nature, and he gabbled of his lady love, asking questions and starting plans of all sorts. And time flew so in this tete-a-tete, that they were surprised by the entrance of the household with the Bible and Prayer-book; and Mr. Vane Trevor, though not a particularly sober minded youth, could not avoid accepting the role of the absent William Maubray, and officiated, much to the edification of the maids, in whose eyes the owner of Revington was a very high personage indeed; and, "the chapter " for that evening delighted and overawed them, and they could hardly believe their eyes that the great squire of Revington was pent up with them in that small drawingroom, and kneeling and saying "amen," and repeating the Lord's Prayer after Miss Perfect, " as mild and humble" as one of themselves. When he got home to Revington, not being able to tranquilize his mind, 14e yented his excitement upon the two letters Which I have mentioned as having reached the family of Kincton, at the breakfast-table. "Read that, Clara, my dear," said Mrs. Kincton Knox, with a funereal nod and in a cautious under-tone. Miss Clara read the letter, and when she came to the passage which related that poor old Sir Richard Maubray had had a second and nluch severer paralytic stroke, and was now in articulo, she raised her eyes for a moment to her mother's, and. both for a moment looked with a soleinn shrewdness into the other's, Miss Clara dropped hers again to the letter, and then stole a momentary glance at William, who looked as if he were very ill. As a man who receives a letter announcing that judgment is marked, and bailiffs on his track, will hide away the awful crumpled note in his pocket, and try to beguile his friends by a pallid smile, and a vague and incoherent attempt to join in the conversation, so William strove to seem quite unconcerned, and the more he tried the more conscious was he, of his failure. 64 ALL INs~ THE DARKAnH CHAPTER XL. this house-who fancy that no one can speak anything but they-I'm not disposed to flatter MRS. INCTON KNOX PROPOSES A WALK WITH you-I never did flatter you, but I think the WILLIAM. young man (her voice was lowered here) likes you-I do. I'm sure he does. It can't possiIs fact William Maubray had received a con- bly be for my sake that he likes coming every ceited and exulting letter from Trevor, writ- evening to read all that stuff for us. You ten in the expansion of his triumph once make no allowance for the position he is in, more as the Lord of Revington, the represen- his father dying, in the very crisis of a paintative of the historic Trevors, the man of tra- ful domestic quarrel, it must be most uncomditions and prestige, before whom the world fortable; and then he's here in a position bowed down and displayed its treasures, and which precludes his uttering any sentiments who, being restored to reason and self-estima- except such as should be found on the lips of tion by his conversation with Miss Perfect, a resident teacher. I've frequently observed knew well what a prize he was-what a sacri- him on the point of speaking in his real charfice he was making, and yet bore and gave actor, and chilled in a moment by the recolaway all with a splendid magnanimity. lection of the apparent distance between us; So as he says, "it is all virtually settled. I but I think I know something of countenance, have talked fully with Miss Perfect, a very and tones, and those indications of feeling, intelligent and superior woman, who looks which are more and more significant than upon the situation just as I could wish; and words." I have written announcing my intentions to Miss Clara made no sign by looK, word, or her father, and under such auspices, and with motion; and after a little pause her mamma the evidence I hope I have, of not being quite went on sturdily. indifferent where I most wished to please, I " Yes, I ought, at my time of life, and havalmost venture to ask for your congratula- ing been, I may say, a good deal admired in tions," &e. my day, and married, not quite as I might have " He is quite right, it is all over, she likes been perhaps, but-but still pretty well. I him, I saw that long ago, I fancied she would ought to know something more of such mathave been a little harder to please; they fall ters than my daughter, I think, and I can't be in love with any fellow that's tall, and pink, mistaken. I don't say passion, I say a liking-aand white, and dresses absurdly, and talks like fancy, and that there is I'll stake my life. If afool, provided he has money-money-d- you only take the trouble to think you'll see, money!" I hold it quite impossible that a young man Such were the mutterings of William Mau- should be as he is, alone for several weeks in bray, as he leaned dismally on the window a country-house with a person. I will say, of of the school-room, and looked out upon the your advantages and-and attractions without sear and thinning foliage of the late autumn. some such feeling, imn-possible." "This is very important-this about unfor- Miss Kincton Knox looked indolently on tunate Sir Richard; his son will succeed im- her fair image in the mirror at the further end mediately; but he seems a good deal, indeed of the room. very much agitated, however, it's a-a great "In those rides he and Howard have taken point in his favor otherwise." So said Mrs. with you, I venture to say he has said things Kincton Knox to her daughter, so soon as which I should have understood had I been being alone together they could safely talk by." over the missives of the breakfast table. "I told you he never said anything-any" I rather think he has been summoned to thing particular-anything he might not have -to the dying man, and he'll go-he 'must- said to any one else," said the young lady, and we shall never see more of him," said wearily. " He is evidently very shy, I allow." MIiss Clara, with superb indifference. " Very! extremely shy," aequieced her "Yes, of course it mnay have been, I was mamma, eagerly; " and when all these things going to say so," said her mother, who, how- are considered, I don't think in the time you ever, had not seen that view. "I'll make him could possibly have expected more." come out and walk up and down the terrace I never expected anything," said Miss with me a little, poor young man." Clara, with another weary sneer. " You'll do him no good by that," said the "Didn't you? then I did," answered the young lady, with a sneer, matron. " We'll see that, Miss Kincton Knox; at Miss Clara simply yawned. all events, it will do no good sitting here, and " You are in one of your unfortunan temsneering into the fire; please sit a little away pers. Don't you think, Miss Kinetoa.nox, and raise the hand-screen, unless you really even on the supposition that he is about leavwish to ruin your complexion." ing our house, that you may as well commnand "It can't be of the least importance to any your-your spirit of opposition and-and ill one whether I do or not, certainly not to mne," temper, which has uniformly defeated overy said the young lady, who, however, took her endeavour of mine to-to be of use to you, and advice peevishly. here you are at eight-and-twenty." T'he " You are one of those conceited young young lady looked round alarmed, iba there persons; pray allow me to speak, I'm your was no listner, "and you seem to hav leared mother, and have a right I hope to speak in nothing." ALL IN THE DARK. 65: Ill write all round the country, and tell the people I'm eight-and-twenty or thirty, for anything I know, if you have no objection. I don't see any harm it can do, telling truth perhaps mayn't do one much good; but if I've learned nothing else, I've learned this at all events, that there's absolutely no good in the other course." " I don't know what you mean by courses. No one I hope has been committing any fraud in this house. If you please to tell people you are thirty, which is perfectly contrary to fact, you must only take the consequences. Your miserable temper, Clara, has been the ruin of you, and when I'm in my grave you'll repent it." So saying she left the room, and coming down in a few minutes in a black velvet garment, trimmed with ermine, and with a muff of the same judicial fur, she repaired to the schoolroom, where, much to William's relief, she graciously begged a holiday for Howard, and then asked William with, at the end of her invitation, a great smile which plainly said, "I know you can hardly believe your ears, but it's true notwithstanding," to lend an old woman his arm in a walk up and down the terrace. William was of course at her service, though the honour was one which at that moment was almost oppressive. -3....-----. CHAPTER XLI. HOW THEY TALKED. AFTER a few turns, and some little talk, Mrs. Kincton Knox said: "I'm afraid, Mr. Herbert, like most of us, young as you are, you have your troubles. You will excuse an old woman, old enough to be your mother, and who likes you, who really feels a very deep interest in you, for saying so. I wish-I wish, in fact, there was a little more confidence, but all in good time. I said you were-you were-it's perhaps impertinent of me to say I observed it, but my motive is not curiosity, nor, you will believe, unkind. I did see you were distressed thiT morning by the letter that reached you. I trust there was no illness, nor----" N No, nothing-that is which I had notwhich was not," he replied. " Nothing very unexpected." " For if there was any necessity, any wish to leave Kincton for a little, I should offer my poor services as a substitute with your pupil, if you would trust him to me." Although her graciousness was oppressive, and her playfulness awful, there were welcome signs of sympathy in this speech, and William Maubray greeted them with something like confidence, and, said he:"It's awfully kind of you, Mrs. Kincton 5 Knox, to think about me. I-I don't know exactly what to say, except that I am very grateful, and-and it's quite true I've had a great deal of vexation and suffering-a kind of quarrel-a very bad quarrel, indeed, at home, as I call it, and-and some other things." " Other things! -no doubt. There is one trouble to which the young are exposed, and from which old people are quite exempt. The course of true love, you know, as our great moralist says, never did run smooth." Her prominent eyes were fixed with an awful archness upon Maubray, and, conscious as he was, he blushed and paled under her gaze, and, was dumb. " My maxim in all such cases is, never despair. When a young man is endowed, like you, with good looks, and a-a refinement. You see I am talking to you almost as I would to a son, that darling boy of mine is such a link, and one grows so soon to know a guest, and those delightful evenings, and I think-I think, Mr. Herbert, I can see a little with my old eyes, and I've divined your secret." "I may-that is; I think it may have been -afancy, just. I don't know," said William, very much put out. '" But I know. You may be perfectly certain you are in love, if you ain't quite certain that you are zot. Trust an old woman who'has seen something of life-that is, of human nature," insisted Mrs. Kincton Knox. " I-I don't know, I did not know it myself until, I think, within the last few days. I dare say I'm a great fool. I'm sure I am, in fact, and I ought not to have allowed-but I really did not know." He suspected that Trevor had told all he knew of his story, and that the women, with the sagacity of their sex, had divined the rest. "You see, Mr. Herbert, I have not guessed amiss. When I see a young person very much dejected and distrait, I. at once suspect a romance; and now let me say a word of aconmfort, derived from observation. As I said before-I've known such things happennever despair. There is a spark of romance in our sex as well as in yours. I think I may be of use to you. I dare say things are not quite so desperate-as they appear. But do trust me -do be frank." "I will. I'll tell you everything. I-I don't know where to begin. But I'm so much obliged. I've no one to speak to, and--" At this moment the "darling boy" Howard bounced from behind a thick shrub, with a shriek which was echoed by his fond mother, who, if anything so dignified could jump, did jump, and even William's manly heart made an uncomfortable bounce in his breast. At the same time Master Howard Seymour turned his ankle, and tumbled with a second horrid roar on the walk, from which his mother and his instructor lifted him, not much hurt, but bellowing in a fury, and requiring to be conducted for comfort to the house. " I shall call upon you again, Mr. Herbert, when my poor darling is better, and we canthere, there.my rosebud," began Mrs. Kinc 66 ALL IN THE DARK. ton Knox, distracted between her curiosity and her compassion. "Shall I take him on my back? Get up. May he?" And so, with the lady's approval, he took the urchin, who was hopping round them in circles with hideous uproar, in' his arms, and bore him away beside his anxious parent towards the house, where, having ministered to the sufferer, Mrs. Kincton Knox looked into the drawing-room, and found Miss Clara seated by the fire, with her slender feet as usual, on a boss, reading her novel. Mrs. Kincton Knox, stooping over her, kissed her, and Miss Clara, knowing that the unusual caress indicated something extraordinary, looked up with a dreary curiosity into her mother's face. When they were tite-a-tete, these ladies did not trouble one another much with smiles or caresses. Still her mother was smiling with a mysterious triumph, and nodded encouragingly upon her. "Well?" asked Miss Clara. "I think you'll find that I was right, and that somebody will ask you a question before long," answered her mother, with an oracular smile. Miss Clara certainly did look a little interested at this intimation, and sat up with comparative energy, looking rather earnestly into her mother's prominent, hard brown eyes. "He's been talking very, I may say, frankly to me, and although we were interrupted by a -an accident, yet, there was no mistaking him. At least that's my opinion." And Mrs. Kincton Knox sat down, and with her imposing coiffureýiodding over her daughter's ear, recounted, with perhaps some little colouring, her interesting conversation with William Maubray. While this conference was proceeding, the door opened, and Mr. Kincton Knox, his gloves, white hat, and stick in his hand, walked in. It was one of Mrs. Kincton Knox's unpublished theories that her husband's presence in the drawing-room was a trespass, as that of a cow among the flower-bedsunder the windows. As that portly figure in the gray woollen suit and white waistcoat entered mildly, the matron sat erect, and eyed him with a gaze of astonishment, which, however, was quite lost upon him, as he had not his spectacles on. "I hope, Mr. Kincton Knox, your shoes are not covered with mud?-unless you are prepared to buy another carpet," she paid, glancing at the clumsy articles in question. "Oh, dear 1 no-I haven't been out-just going, but I want you and Clara to look over there" and he pointed with his stick, at which Mrs. Kincton Knox winced with the ejaculation, " the China 1" " You see those three trees," he continued, approaching the window with his stick extended. "Yes, you needn't go on, perfectly," she answered. " Well, the one to the right is, in fact, I think it's an ugly tree; I've been for a long time considering it. You see it there, Clara, on the rising ground, near the paling?" She did. " Well, I'm thinking of taking him down; what do you say?" " Do lower your stick, Mr. Kincton Knox, pray, we can see perfectly without brealcing anything," expostulated his wife. " Well, what do you say?" he repeated, pointing with his hand instead. "Do you want my opinion as to what trees should come down?" said Mrs. Knox, with admirable perseverance, "I shall be happy to give it with respect to all-as to that particular tree it is so far away, I really don't think the question worth debating." " Take it down, papa," said Miss Clara, who rather liked her father, and encouraged him when too much put down. "I really think you're always right about trees. I think you've such wonderful taste, I do indeed, and judgment about all those things." The old man gave her a hearty kiss on the cheek, and smiling ruddily, said"Well, I think I ought; I've read something, and thought something on the subject, and as you don't dissent, my dear, and Clara says it's to come down-downit comes. She's looking very pretty; egad she is-wonderfully pretty she is to-day." "Folly 1" exclaimed Miss Clara, pleased notwithstanding. " Other people think her good-looking too, I can tell you," exclaimed her mother, whose thoughts were all in that channel, and who could not forbear saying something on the subject; "I think, even you, Mr. Kincton Knox, will see that I have done my duty by our child, and have been the means under Providence of promoting her happiness." "And what is it?" said Mr. Kincton Knox, looking solemnly on his daughter. "I don't know that there is anything at all," replied she quietly. Mrs. Kincton Knox beckoned him imperiously, and they drew near the window, while the young lady resumed her novel. "He's in love with her"/ she murmured. " Who, my dear?" "Mr. Maubray." " Oh I is he?-what, Mr. Maubray," inquired the old gentleman. " Wynston Maubray-probably Sir Wynston Maubray, at this moment, his father, you know, is dying; if not dead." "Sir Richard, you mean?" " Of course, I mean Sir Richard. "Yes, he is; he wasn't a bad fellow, poor Maubray. Butit's a long time-thirthirty-thirtyeight years-yes-since we were at Oxford." "And his son's in the house." "Here?" " Yes, this house, here." "Very happy to see him, I'm sure, very happy-we'll do all in our power," said Mr. Kincton Knox, very much at sea as to the cause of his arrival. "You know Mr. Herbert?" " Yes." " Well, that's he-Mr. Herbert is Mr. Wynston Maubray. If you were. to stare till 68 ALL IN THE DARK. "nothing, begging the old lady's pardon, could be more absurd-you're not fit of course, nor is it fit for you-there is no fitness whatever. There's the Very Rev. the Earl of Epsom, and the Rev. Sir James St. Leger, and many others I could name. Can anything be more ridiculous? They both have their estates, and-and position to' look after; and their ordination vow pledges them to give their entire thoughts to their holy calling. I and Mr. Kincton Knox have had many arguments upon the subject; as you see, I'm quite with you. Mr.-Mr. Herbert, you must allow me still to call you by that name-that dear old name. I was going to say"-- William could only acquiesce--a little puzzled at her general exuberance; she seemed, in fact, quite tipsy with good nature. How little one can judge of character at first sight! " And, of course, it is not for me to saybut your reserve about your name-I suppose that is at an end. Since the-the melancholy termination of your hopes and fears-I mean there can hardly be-now that you apprize me of your domestic loss"-- " It was entirely in deference to my aunt's prejudices, that I-Doctor Sprague,'in fact," began William. "I know, an old friend of poor Sir Richard's; but whatever else you do, I suppose we must make up our minds to lose you for a week or so; your absence would be of course remarked upon, in fact, those feelings never survive the grave, and there are sacrifices to decorum. Your friends, and you know there are those here who feel an interest; no one could advise your staying away." " My aunt is not ill?" said William with a sudden and horrible misgiving, for the lady's manner was unmistakably funeral. "Ill?-I haven't heard. I have not the honour of knowing Miss Purity," said Mrs. Kincton Knox. " Perfect," interrupted William--I' thank God I mean that she's not ill." "I was thinking not of your aunt, but of your poor father; there are things to be looked after; you are of age." " Yes, three-and-twenty," said William, with a coolness that under so sudden a bereavement, was admirable. " Not quite that, two-and-twenty last May," said the Student of the Peerage. Williani knew he was right, but the point, an odd one for Mrs. Kincton Knox to raisewas not worth disputing. " And, considering the circumstances under which, although you will not admit the-the estrangement, poor Sir Richard Maubray has been taken "" Sir Richard! Is Sir Richard dead?" exclaimed William. "Dead! of course he is dead. Why you told me so yourself, this moment." "I-I couldn't; I-I didn't know-I-if I said anything like that, it was the merest slip." "He's either dead or alive, sir, I suppose; and, whether intentionally or by slip, it is for you to determine; but I'm positive you did tell me that he's dead; and if he be so, pray, as between friends, let there be an end of concealments, which can have no object or effect but a few hours' delay in making known a fact which must immediately appear in all the newspapers," expostulated Mrs. Kincton Knox as nearly offended as it was possible to be with so very eligible a young man, so opportunely placed, and in so docile a mood. " He's dying, at all events," she added. " That I know," said William, with that coolness which had before struck Mrs. Kincton Knox, during this interview, as a new filial phenomenon. "And although we shall miss you, some of us very much, yet, of couse, knowing all, we have no claim-no right-only you must pledge me your honour-you really must." She was holding his hand and pressed it impressively between both hers, " that you won't forget your Kincton friends-that so soon as you can, you will return, and give us at least those weeks on which we reckon." " It is very kind-it's very good of you. It is very odd, but I had such a wish to go, just for a day or two-only to see Dr. Spragueand-and to consult him about writing to Gilroyd before finally determining on a course of life. I was thinking of-in fact going away and leaving England altogether." Mrs. Kincton Knox stared, and at last asked: " Who is Gilroyd?" " My aunt's house, a small place, Gilroyd Hall." " I was merely thinking of your attending poor Sir Richard's obsequies." "The funeral? I-I should not like to attend it uninvited," answered William. "I don't know that I should be a welcome guest; in fact, I know I should not-young Maubray-- " " Your brother?" inquired the lady, who did not remember any such incumbrance in the record she had consulted. "No, my cousin." " Cousin? And what right could a cousin pretend to exclude you from your father's funeral?" exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, unfeignedly amazed. "I'm speaking of Sir Richard Maubray, my uncle. My father has been a long time deadwhen I was a mere child." " Oh, yes, of course-dead a long timi,"' repeated Mrs. Kincton Knox, slowly, as the horrible bewilderment in which she had been lost began to clear away. "Oh, yes, your uncle, Sir Richard Maubray; of course-of course that would alter-1-I was spcaki)ng of your father-I did not know you had lost him so long ago-it, of course, it's quite another thing, and-a-and-you wish to go to Mrs. Purity?" "No-a-Perfect--not to go there-not to Gilroyd, only to Cambridge, to see Doctor Sprague." "Very well-a-very well-I don't see, I shall mention il to Mr. Kincton Knox; haive ALL IN THE DARK. Knox, as you asked me what you shall do, you may as well, in this instance, as usual, do nothing. I'll write. I'll do it myself. Come, Clara." So suspending questions until the apartment up stairs was reached, the young lady, in silence and with a very grave face, accompatied her mother. " Charming day-sweet day-we shall soon have the storms, though-they must come; we had them ten days earlier last year. Will you come with me to the Farm-road plantation, and give me your ideas about what I'm going to do?" And the old gentleman came down the two steps from the glass door upon the closelyshorn- grass, looking a little red, but emiling kindly, for he saw no reason for what his wife intended, and thought the young man was about to be treated unfairly, and felt a liking for him. "No;. she can't come down again; I know her mother wants her, so you may as well come with me." So off they set together, and I dare say William liked that ramble better than he would have done the other. The old man was sociable, genial, and modest, and had taken rather late in life, tempted thereto, no doubt, by solitude, to his books, some of which, such as "Captain Lemuel Gulliver's Travels," were enigmatical, and William was able to throw some lights which were new to the elderly student, who conceived a large and honest admiration for his young friend, and would have liked to see a great deal more of him than he was quita sure Mrs. Kincton Knox would allow. In the course of their walk, William Mnaubray observed that he seemed even more than usually kindly, and once or twice talked a little mysteriously of women's caprices, and told him not to mind them; and told him also when he was at Oxford he had got once or twice a little dipped-young fellows always do-and he wanted to know-he was not, of course, to say a word about it-if fifty pounds would be of any use to him-he'd be so happy, and he could pay him any time, in ten years or twenty for that matter, for the old gentleman dimly intended to live on indefinitely. But William did not need this kindly help, and when his pleasant ramble with the old man and his dogs was over, and he returned to tfie "school-room," William found a note awaiting him on the table, in the large-hand of Mrs. Kincton Knox. -0o-- CHAPTER XLIV. BACK TO CAMBRIDGE. Tim letter upon the table was thus:"-- October, -- 1860. " Mrs. Kincton Knox understanding from Mr. Herbert that he wishes to visit Cambridge upon business, begs to say that she will oppose no difficulty to his departing on tomorrow morning with that view; she begs also to mention that Mr. Kincton Knox will write by an early post to the Rev. Dr. Sprague upon the subject of Mr. Herbert's engagement. A carriage will be at the door at eight o'clock, A.M., to convey Mr. Herbert to the railway station." " What have I done. I've certainly offended her-she who wrote all those friendly little notes; I can't think of anything, unless that boy Howard has been telling lies. She'll give me an opportunity of explaining, I suppose, and it will all be right; it can't be much." Glad he was to get away even for two or three days to his old haunts, and to something like his old life. He made his preparations early for his next morning's journey, and late in the evening with his ingenious pupil, wondering whether a change of mood might not bring him a relenting note on the usual pink paper, inviting him to visit them in the drawing-room, and debating whether it might not be a wholesome lesson to the capricious old lady to excuse himself, and so impose on her the onus of explanation. "I say, old chap, listen. What do you think?" said Master Howard, who had been whistling, and on a sudden, being prompted to speak, poked the point of his pen uncomfortably into the.back of William's hand. " Stop that, young un. I told you before you're not to do that. What have you got to say? Come." " I say, I heard mamma say to Clara this afternoon, that you ain't to to be trusted; and I told Clara I'd tell you, because she teazed me; and mamma said you deceived papa. I heard every word." " She could not have said that, because I never did anything of the kind," said William, flushing a little. " Yes, but she did. I heard her, I'd swear; and Clara said, he's a low person. I told her I'd tell you. She did, upon my word-a low person and I said I'd tell you; and I'll tell you ever so much more." " Not now, please, nor ever. I don't want to hear that sort of thing, even if it was said. I'd rather not, I think, unless it was said to myself." "And I heard Clara say, let him go about his business. I did, upon my honour." " I say, young un, this is one of your fibs to vex Miss Knox."' Master Howard began to vociferate. " Quiet, sir! If your mamma had any complaint to make, she'd make it to me, I suppose; and if you say a word more on the subject, I'll go in and mention the matter ALL IN THE DARK. to your 2namma,' said William, growing angry. " Catch me telling you anything ever again, as long as I live, that's all," said Master Howard, and broke into matterings; and then whistled a tune as loud as he could, with his hands in his pockets, and his heels on the table. But he did not succeed in disturbing William. Thoughts that are thoroughly unpleasant hold fast like bull-dogs. It is only the pleasant ones that take wing at noise, like a flight of birds. Away in due time went Master Howardno sign appeared from the drawing-roomand William Maubray, who in his elevation and his fall had experienced for the second time something of the uncertainty of human affairs, went to his bed mortified and dismal, and feeling that, go where he would, repulse and insult awaited him. His early breakfast despatched-William mounted the dog cart, which, in her official letter, Mrs. Kincton Knox had dignified with the title of carriage, and drove at a rapid pace away from Kincton, with a sense of relief and hope as the distance increased, and a rising confidence that somehow he was to see that abode of formality and caprice no more. Doctor Sprague was now at Cambridge, and greeted him very kindly. He had not much news to tell. It was true Sir Richard Maubray was actually dead at Gilston, whence the body was to be removed that day to Wyndelston, where in about a week would be the funeral. "No, William would not go-he was not recognised, it would not do-Sir Wynston, as he now was, would take care to let him know he was not wanted." So said William in reply to the Doctor's question, and having related his experience of Kincton, Doctor Sprague told him frankly, that although Kincton Knox was a very good fellow, and very kind, though a little weak, you know, that he had always heard his wife was a particularly odious woman. "Well, and what of Miss Perfect; any conciliatory symptoms in that quarter?" asked Doctor Sprague. "Oh, none; she is very inflexible, sir; her dislikes never change." While they were talking some letters arrived, one of which was actually from Kincton, and in the hand of its mistress. "I ey? Haw! ha-ha! I protest, Maubray, the lady has cut you-read," and he threw the letter across the table to William. ------0-- CHAPTER XLV. VIOLET DARKWELL AT GILROYD AGAIN. " as. KINOTON KNOX" it said, "presents her compliments to the Rev. W. H. Sprague, and as Mr. Kincton Knox is suffering from gout in his hand, which though slight, prevents his writing, she is deputed to apprise him that the gentleman calling himself Mr. Herbert, who has been acting as tutor at Kincton, need not return to complete his engagement. Mr. Kincton Knox desires to remit to him, through your hands, the enclosed cheque, payable to you, and for the full amount of the term he was to have completed. Should the young man feel that under the circumstances, he can have no right to retain the entire amount, he will be so good as to return that portion of the sum to which he feels himself unentitled. We wish to mention that we part with him not in consequence of any specific fault, so much as from a feeling, upon consideration,, that we could no longer tolerate the practice of a concealment at Kincton, the character and nature of which-although we impute nothing-might not consist with our own ideas upon the subject." " She begins in the third person and ends in the first," said Doctor Sprague, " otherwise it is a very fine performance. What am I to do about the cheque?" "I will not touch a farthing," said William. " Tut, tut; I think you've a right to it all, but if you object, we'll send them back all that represents the unexpired part of your engagement, but I'll have no Quixotism. I'm half sorry, Maubray, we ever thought of tuitions; we must think of some other way. You're quite right in resolving not to vex Miss Perfect more than you can help, I'm clear upon that; but I've been thinking of quite another thing-I have not time now to tell you all." He glanced at his watch. " But you can speak French, and you would have to reside in Paris. I think it would answer you very nicely, and I think you ought to let Miss Perfect know something of your plans, considering all she has done. I'll see you here again in an hour." And William took his leave. That evening Miss Violet Darkwell arrived at Gilroyd. She did not think old "grannie " looking well-was it a sadness or a feebleness -there was something unusual in her look that troubled her. She thought her Violet looking quite beautiful-more so than everso perhaps she was. And she asked her all sorts of questions about4 all sorts of things, and how the Mainwarings had arranged tl-.' rooms, for Aunt Dinah had known the house long ago, and whether the paint had ever been taken off that covered the old oak wainscot in the parlour, and ever so many other particulars besides. And at last she said"Great news Mr. Trevor tells me of William." She had already resolved against opening the Trevor budget to its more interesting recesses. "William Maubray-he's going to marry-to make a great match in some respects-money, beauty-" " Oh!" said Violet with a smile. "Yes; a Miss Kincton Knox. He has been residing in the house; an only daughter. Kincton is the place." Something of this Violet had heard before ALL IN THE DARK. 73 For three years he would sojourn in Paris. He preferred that distant exile to one at the gates of the early paradise from which he had been excluded. From thence he would send to his good friend, Doctor Sprague, those little intimations of his doings and his prosperings, which he, according to his wisdom, might trasmit for inspection to the old lady at Gilroyd, who might, if she pleased, re-open a distant correspondence with the outcast. Doctor Sprague, at William's desire, had written to accept and arrange, and would hear by the return of post, or nearly, and then William might have to leave at a day's notice. Three years! It was a long time, and Aunt Dinah old! He might never see her or Gilroyd more, and a kind of home-sickness fell upon him. At Gilroyd that morning, Aunt Dinah and Vi sat at breakfast tete-a-tete. The spirits of the old lady were not altogether so bright, the alacrity was gone, and though she smiled there was a sadness and a subsidence. William was banished. The pang of that sharp decision was over. Some little help he should have circuitously through Doctor Sprague; but meet again on earth they never should. So that care was over; and now her other tie, pretty Violet Darkwell, she, too, was going; and although she sat beside her at the little breakfast-table, prattling pleasantly, and telling her all the news of her friends, the Mainwarings and their new neighbours, yet her voice sounded already faint in distance, and the old lady's cares were pretty well over. Our business here is work of some sort, and not for ourselves; and when that is ended it is time, as Fuller says, to put out the candle and go to bed. "I'm going to see old Mrs. Wagget to-day. I promised her the day before I went to the Mainwarings," said Vi, recalling this engagement. "But, my dear, some one may call here. Your friends and mine will be looking in," said Aunt Dinah, who knew that Trevor would arrive at about twelve o'clock. "Well, I can return their visits all the same, and see them in their own houses," said Vi, 'just as well." "And what need to go to Mrs. Wagget today-to-morrow I fancy would answer," said Miss Perfect. " But I promised, you know, and she wrote to remind me." " Promised to leave your old Granny alone again the day after your return!" she exclaimed, a little huffed. "Why, darling, it was you who made me promise, don't you recollect?" pleaded Miss Violet, " the day we paid them our last visit." " H'm-did I? Well, if there really was a promise, and I suppose you remember, we must keep it I sutppose.' Aunt Dinah had made that kind of scrupulousness an emphatic point in Violet's simple education, and of course it could not now be trifled with. And now she did recollect the appointment, and something about walking to the. school house together at twelve o'clock-could anything be more unlucky? Aunt Dinah looked up at the sky; but no, it was not threatening -clear blue, with a pleasant white cloud or two, and a sea of sunshine. "I'm so sorry, Granny, we settled, it would have been so much pleasanter to have staid with you to-day, and I'm afraid it's very wicked; but that school, except to very good people, it is really insupportable," said Miss Vi, whose inflexible estimate of such appointments rather vexed Aunt Dinah, and not the less that she could not deny that it was her own work. "It's right in the main," thought she. " But there are distinctions-there's danger, however, in casuistry, and so let it be," There was an odd little sense of relief too in the postponement of the crisis. At about half-past eleven Vane Trevor arrived. He came by the path, and from the drawing-room window Miss Perfect, sitting there at her work, saw him, and knocked and beckoned with her slender mittened hand. " He looks pale, poor young man," he was smiling as he approached, " and haggard too," she pronounced, notwithstanding. " HeI-I's anxious I dare say," and she pushed up the window as he approached. "What a sweet morning," she said, taking off her gold spectacles, and smiling with that soft look of sympathy which in such cases makes even old women's faces so pretty again. " Charming morning-quite-really-quite charming." She saw him peeping into the shadow of the room for a second figure. Aunt Dinah's hand was now within reach, and they exchanged a friendly greeting. " My little Violet has returned," she said, still holding Trevor's hand kindly, "quite well-looking so well-and most unluckily I quite forgot; but I had made an appointment for her this morning with Mrs. Wagget, andand in fact I have always made the keeping of appointments so much a moral duty with her, that unless I had opened the subject on which you talked with me, and told her plainly that I expected: your call, and that she must wait-which would hale been a-anot a favourable way of proceeding; and in fact I should have been obliged to say very badly what you would say, probably, very well; and indeed it is a thing that makes me nervous-always did. When my dear sister was proposed for, I refused to take the message, in fact-I could not-and-he spoke for himself-poor Charles Maubray-like a man and -and a very happy"- Suddenly she stopped, and Trevor saw that tears were trickling slowly down her cheeks; and her lips were resolutely closed; and she fumbled for a minute or two among her silks and worsteds; and the young man felt that he liked her better than ever he did before; and he sat on the window-stone outside, and they chatted kindly for a long time. Then they took a little walk together among the flowers, and under the chesnuts till it grew to be near two o'clock, ALL IN THE DARK. more, and all the world of loving thoughts lie in dust and silence. "I am going to give you the silver tobaccobox that was on Marston Moor-it is the most valuable thing I have-it has the inscription on the inside of the cover. It was in my foolish old head to send it to Doctor Sprague for you. It was your ancestor's. The I Warwickshire Knight,' we called him-Sir Edwin. He joined the Parliament, you know, and took the name of Perfect. I always intended the tobacco-box for you, Willie, even when I was offended-come in-come, my darling." And she drew in the prodigal with her arm in his, and her hand on his fingers, liking to feel as well as to see and to hear him-to be quite sure of him! " Dinner, Tom, this minute," said she to old Tom, who griinning spoke his hearty word of welcome in the hall, " Master William is very hungry-he has come ever so far-tell Mrs. Podgers-come Willie-are you cold?" So before the bright fire,which was pleasant that clear red, frosty evening, they sat -and looking fondly on him-her hand on his, she said" A little thin-certainly, a little thin-have you been quite well, Willie-quite well?" " Yes, quite well-all right-and how have you been?" he answered and asked. " Very well-that is, pretty well-indeed I can't say I have-I've not been well-but time enough about that. And tell me-and tell me about this news-about Miss Kincton Knox-is it true-is there really an engagement?" "I ve left them-I came from Cambridge. Engagement! by Jove! I-I don't know exactly what you mean." So said William, who was struck by something more in Aunt Dinah's look and tone than could possibly arise from the contemplation merely of that engagement he had been fulfilling at Kincton. "1I-1 heard-I thought-was not thereisn't there"-Aunt Dinah paused, gazing dubiously on William-" I mean--something ofof-she's very handsoie-I'm told." "Going to be married to Miss Kincton Knox!-I assure you, if you knew her, such an idea would strike you as the most absurdly incredible thing the people who invented it could possibly have told you"-and William actually laughed. " Ha!" exclaimed she, rather dismally"that's very odd-that is really very odd-it must have been a mistake-people do make such mistakes-it must-and you have heard of--Vi-it seems so odd-little Vi! There's no mistake there, for Mr. Trevor has had a long conversation with me, and has written to her father, and we both approve highly. But -but about Miss Kincton Knox-it was an odd mistake, though I can't say I'm sorry, because-but it does not signify now; you would never have waited, and so sure as you sit there, if you had not, you'd have regretted your precipitation all the days of your life.' And thrice she nodded darkly on William, in such a way as to assure him that Henbane had been looking after his interests. After dinner she ordered Tom to call Winnie Dobbs, who had already had her chat with William. " Winnie," said she, producing a large key from her bag, "you must go to the store room and fetch one of the three bottles on the shelf." " We dust them every week, old Winnie and I," said she as soon as Dobbs had gone. " They have been there fifteen years-Frontignac-the doctor ordered it-sillabubs in the morning, when I was recovering, and I don't think they did me a bit of good; and we must open one of them now." William protested in vain. " Yes, it's the kind of wine young people like-they like it-sweet wine-you must. I hear her coming. What are you dawdling there for, Winnie? Come in-bring it inwhy don't you?" So, sitting side by side, her hand on his, and looking often in his face as they talked, they sipped their wine; and old Winnie, standing by, had her glass, and drank their healths, and declared it was " a beautiful sight to see them." And Aunt Dinah sent Tom to Saxton for some muffins for tea. Mr. William liked muffins" be quiet-you know you do." "I'm so sorry Violet should have been out, drinking tea at the,ectory; but you're to stay to-night; you say you'll be in time at Mr. Clever's chambers at five to morrow evening; and you have a London up train at half-past eleven at our station: and you must sleep at Gilroyd; it would not be like the old times if you didn't." CHAPTER XLIX. " AFTER DEATH MY GHOST SHALL HAUNT TOU." IT was a clear, frosty moonlight night, and the stars blinking and staring fiercly in the dark sky, as William Maubray peeped between the drawing-room shutters, and listened in vain for the" ring of the wheels of the promised brougham; and Aunt Dinah returned just as he let the curtains fall together, having in her hand a little card-board box tied round with a little blue ribbon. " Blue, you see, for loyality-not to princes, but to right-I tied it with blue ribbon," said Aunt Dinah, sitting down beside him, and untying the knot, and,taking out the silver box, with embossed windmills, trees, dogs, and Dutchmen upon it. " Here it is-the tobaccobox; it is yours, mind and your eldest boy's to have it-an heirloom," said she, with a gentle smile, looking into that din but sunny vista, and among the golden haired and blue ALL IN THE DARK. ous, nor your hat; but there they are, facts! that's all. I'm glad you say you have no present intention of marrying, in fact, dear William, the idea has caused me the most extreme anxiety, having the warning I have; as for me, however, my course is taken. I expect to be what we call a mocking spirityes a mocking spirit-and I'll play you such tricks as will make you think twice, if such an idea should be in your head. Mind I told you, though I be dead you shan't escape me," and she smiled oddly, and nodded her head, and then frowned a little bit. "But I dare say it won't happen. Now that this Kincton Knox business has turned out a mistake-thank God-a canard. There's no hurry; you are too young. Remember it was on the 28th of September the warning came, five years, and you count from that; but goodness knows you have time enough. I think I hear the brougham." William was already at the window and the gate-bell ringing. " And William, remember, not a word to Violet about Mr. Trevor-not a hint." "Oh! certainly,/"cried he, and he was at the hall door in time to open the carriage door, and take little Violet's hand. " Oh! you come?" said she, smiling, and descending lightly with a bouquet of old Miss Wagget's best flowers in her fingers. " I had not an idea-only just come, I suppose?" " Yes, this evening; and you quite well, Violet?" SQuite well, flourishing, Grannie in the drawing-room? And I'm glad you've come to Gilroyd, poor old Grannie, I think she has been in very low spirits; let us go to her." ------0-o--- CHAPTER L. VIOLET AND WILLIAM IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. VIOLET seemed merry and good-natured, William thought, but somewhat cold. No one else would have perceived it; but this little chill, hardly measurable by the moral thermometer, was for him an Icelandic frost, in which his very heart ached. This pretty girl kissed Aunt Dinah, and put off her bonnet, and out gushed her beautiful dark brown hair, but kept her other mufflers on, and said smilingly towards William, "I was so surprised to see him at the door, I could scarcely believe my eyes." "And looking very well-a little thin perhaps, but very well," added Aunt Dinah. "And how is Mr. Wagget?" asked William, who did not care to come formally under critical discussion. " Oh, very well, and Miss Wagget too; but 1 don't know that you've made her acquaintance. She's quite charming, and I doubt very much whether so susceptible a person as you would do wisely in putting himself in her way." She has been hearing that nonsense about Miss Kincton Knox, thought William, and he said rather drily, " I'm not a bit susceptible. How did I ever show it? I'd like to know who I ever was in love with in my life. Susceptible, by Jove! but I see you're laughing. Miss Vi looked curiously at him for a moment, and then she said, 1 We heard quite another account of him, didn't we, Grannie?" "It was all a mistake though, it seems," said Aunt Dinah. "I should like to know who the kind person is who cares enough about me to invent all these lies." "The ladies there liked you extremely, we have the best authority for believing that," said Miss Perfect. "I don't know; I'm sure they detest me now, and I really don't know. any reason they have ever had for doing either." "Detest you, my dearl" exclaimed Aunt Dinah. " Mrs. Kincton Knox is awfully offended with me, I don't know for what. I've nothing on earth to charge myself with, and I really don't care two pence, and I hate to think about them," said William testily; "and I'd rather talk about anything else." Miss Vi looked at William, and glanced at Aunt Dinah, and then laughed, with a pleasant little silvery cadence. "Dear me! Grannie, what a disappointment. We simple people in this part of the world have been lost for weeks in wonder and respect-we heard such stories of your prowess, and here comes the lady-killer home, harmless William Maubray, as he went." "Just so," said he. '"Not William the Conqueror-nothing of the kind; and I don't think it likely I shall ever try to kill a lady, nor a lady ever kill me. Weapons of iron won't do now-a-days, and a knight-errant of that sort must arm himself with the precious metals, and know how to talk the modern euphuism, and be a much finer man than ever I can hope to be; and even so, when all's done, it's a poor prof'ession enough. By Jove! I don't envy them their adventures, and their exploits, and their drubbings and their Dulcineas-the best among them is often laid on his back; and I'm not ashamed to say I have more of Sancho Panza than of the Don in my nature." " He rails like a wounded knight-doesn't he, Grannie?" laughed Violet. "I'd like to know who wounded me" said he. "IVe'll take your own account, William," said Aunt Dinah, who saw that he was vexed and sore, " and whoever is to blame, I'm very glad-Oh! prayers," and the little household of Gilroyd trooped solemnly into the room, and the family devotions were performed, William officiating in his old capacity. 80 ALL IN THE DARK. gawky, goose. What on earth can she see in him? Such rot?" " Yes, she is-there's no use in disputing it -she's the prettiest girl I ever saw, in all my life," he went on, putting himself down and overbearing his affected indifference with honest vehemence. Aunt Dinah has promised me her carte de- visite. I'll have it copied in large the first money I have, in Paris, at that great fellow's there-and tinted; and I'll make old Winnie get me a lock of her hair; I have the one safe when she was nine years old-so bright-who would have thovght it would ever have grown so dark? Old Winnie will get it for me. If I asked her she'd only refuse, or put me off some way. I'll hang up her picture and the little drawing of Gilroyd in my garret in Paris, and I'll be a jolly old bachelor. Marry in five years, indeed? My poor aunt might easily find something more likely to fret about. Yes, I'll be the most tremendous, dry old quiz of a bachelor; and when she and her precious husband come to Paris, as they will some day, I'11 get a peep at her, perhaps, in the theatres and places, from some dark corner, and I wonder what she will be like then-always handsome, those eyes, and her lips so scarlet, and her beautiful hair; and I'll compare her with little Vi of Gilroyd. She may be handsomer and more showy, but the little Vi of Gilroyd will always be the brightest and best." In this mood William rambled over many old recollections of the place and people he was leaving, and he laid his waistcoat on the chair much more gently than his coat; and he thought how Aunt Dinah had taught him to say his prayers long ago, under that friendly roof, and so down he knieeled and said them with a sadder heart, and rose up with a great sigh, and a sense of leave-taking that made his heart ache. And now his candle was out, and he soon fast asleep; and again he had a dream so strange that I must relate it. The scenery of his dream, as before, presented simply the room in which he lay, with the flickering firelight in which he had gone to sleep. He lay, in his vision, in his bed, just as he really did, with his back to the fire and looking toward the curtains, which were closed on the side between him and the door, when he heard a sound of naked feet running up to his chamber door, which was flung open with a precipita in which made the windows rattle and his bLd curtain was drawn aside, and; Miss Perfect, with only a sheet, as it seemed, wrapt over her night dress, and with a face white, and fixed with horror, said, " Oh, my God! William, I'm dead-don't let me go!" and under the clothes she clasped his wrist with a hand that felt like cold metal. The figure crouched, with its features advanced towards his, and William Maubray could neither speak nor move, and lay so for some time, till with a " Ho!" he suddenly recovered the power of motion, and sprang out of bed at the side farthest from the visionary Aunt Dinah; and as he did so, he distinctly felt the grasp of a cold hand upon his wrist, which just as before, vanished as he recovered the full possession of his waking faculties, leaving, however, its impression there. William lighted his candle at the fire, and listened for a long time before he could find courage to look to the other side of the bed. When he did, however, no sign of Aunt Dinah, sane or mad, was there. The door was shut, and the old fashioned furniture stood there prim and faded as usual, and everything maintained its old serenity. On his wrist, however, were the marks of a recent violent pressure, and William was seized with an uncontrollable anxiety about aunt Dinah which quite overcame his panic; and getting on his clothes, and making a preliminary survey of the gallery, which was still and empty, he hurried to Aunt Dinah door, and knocked. "It's I-William. How are you, aunt? are you quite well?" asked he, in reply to her. " Who's there? what's all that?" " I, William." "Come in, child; you may. I'm in my bed; what takes you out of yours?" " I had a dream, and fancied you were in my room, and-and ill." " Pooh, pooh, my dear William, get back to your room. It is all a fancy. I've been here in bed for an hour or more, reading my dear fathers's sermon on the Woman of Endor." There she was, sitting up in a flannel dressing gown, with the sometime dean's large and legible manuscript before her, and no doubt investigating, with the lights thrown by Elihu Bung, the phenomena in which the witch of those remote times dealt. " I heard you talk a little time ago," said Aunt Dinah, after a short and curious stare at William's pallid countenance. " No," said William, "I didn't; I heard it too. It was that in fact that partly alarmed me. It is very odd." " Were there knockings? inquired she. "No, no knocking," said William; " it opened with a push." " WVhat, my dear?" demanded Aunt Dinah, sitting very erect as she gazed with a dark curiosity in William's face, and abandoned the dean's manuscript on the coverlet. "The door," he answered. "It is very odd. It's the most horrid thing I ever heard of. I'm.sorry I slept in that room." -0 -CHAPTER LII NEXT MORNING. AUNT DINAH leaned on her thin hand, looking with something like fear at William fixed and silently. "What o'clock is it, aunt?" asked he. " Three minutes to four," she replied, consulting her broad old gold watch, and then holding it to her ear. " Yes; three minutes 82 ALL IN THE DARK. ought to say minutes-are so precious. I go at half-past ten, and I hardly saw or heard you last night, you were so anxious to be off." "You forget how wise we all were, and wisdom, though it's a very good thing, is not lively; and its chief use, I suppose, is thata sort of lullaby, for I'm sure nobody ever minds it. You don't, nor I, nor darling Grannie; and I think if you wanted to be put to sleep there would be nothing like having a tranquil old sage, like Winnie Dobbs, at your bedside to repeat a string of her sayings, like 'early to bed and early to rise make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise;' and besides being very wise, I think you were just, if it is not very disrespectful to say so, ever so little cross, so that altogether I thought it best to go to bed and to sleep as fast as I could." "I quite forget. Was I cross? I dare say I was. I think ill-temper is one expression of suffering; and I have not been very happy lately," said William. " You have been strangely misrepresented, then," said the young lady, slily. "So I have; and I do so wish you'd stop about that nonsense. You can't conceive unless you knew the people---- "II thought she was very pretty," interrupted Miss Darkwell, innocently. " So she is-perhaps-I dare say; but pretty or plain, as I said before, I'm not in love with her. I'm not in love, thank heaven, with any one, and I---" "Come in to prayers, William dear," Aunt Dinah called aloud from the parlour door. "I've had breakfast early, expressly for you, and you must not delay it.",--o---- CHAPTER LIIL THE FLOWER. AT breakfast the little party had a great deal to talk about, topics of hope, and topics of regret, glanced at in all sorts of spirits, sad and cheerful, black spirits and white, blue spirits and grey but on the whole one would have said, looking on and a stranger to all that was possibly passing within, that it was a cheerful meal. "Five miles and a half to the Station, and the up train at 'eleven forty-five.' The cab, or whatever it is, will be here at hdlf-past ten, and then good-by. Farewell, perhaps, for three years to Gilroyd," so said William, as he and Violet Darkwell stood side by side, looking out from the window, upon the glowing autumnal landscape. " Three years! you don't mean to say you'd stay away all that time, without ever coming to see Grannie" " Of course if she wants me I'll come; but should she not, and should she at the same time continue, as I hope she will, quite well, and should I be kept close to my work, as I expect, it's sure to turn out as I say. Three years-yes, it is a long time-room for plenty of changes, and changes enough, great ones, there will be, no doubt." The uplands of Revington formed the background of the pretty prospect before him, and it needed the remembrance of the promise he had made to Aunt Dinah to prevent his wpeaking with less disguise, for he always felt of late. an impetuous longing, almost fierce, to break through conventional hypocrisies, and lay bare his wounded heart, and upbraid, and implore, in the wildest passion before Violet Darkwell. To be alone with her, and yet say nothing of all that was swelling and rolling at his heart-was pain. And yet to be alone with her, even in this longing and vain anguish, and near her was a strange despairing delight. " Oh, yes, everyone changes every day almost, except dear Grannie and old Winnie Dobbs. I'm sure 1 change, and so do you, and what won't three years do? You've changed very much, and not for the better," and saying this Miss Violet laughed. " My changes, be they what they may, don't seem to trouble you much," replied William. " Trouble?-not at all. I dare say they are improvements, though I don't like them," laughedshe. "I don't think I'm a bit changed. I know I'm not, in fact. Tell me any one thing in which I am changed." "Well, it is generally; you have grown so disagreeable, that's all-it is not much to me, but I dare say it will be to other people," said she. "I'm disagreeable-yes, of course-oecause I have my opinion about men and things, and fools and nonsense. I don't know anything I've said to you, at least since I came yesterday, that could annoy you. I have not mentioned a single subject that could possibly even interest you. I dare say it is tiresome my talking so much as Aunt Dinah makes me, about myself. But I couldn't help it." " It won't do, William; you know very well how cross you always are now, at least with me, not that I mind it much, but there's no denying." " You accused me of that before, and I said I was sorry. I-perhaps I am. I'm going away, and everything breaking up, you know, and you must make allowances. I used not to be cross long ago, and I'm not changed. No-I'm the same-I never said an unkind word to you, Vi, all the time when you were a little thing, and if I ever speak differently now, it is not from unkindness, only that things have gone wrong with me, and I've seen something of the world; and things happen to sour one, and-I don't know-but I'm not changed. You mustn't think it now that I'm going away. I'm such a fool, I'm such a beast, I can't help talking bitterly sometimes, and sometimes I think I am a-a fiend almost, but I hope I am not as bad as I seem." So spoke this Penruddock, who fancied himself soured for life, and soliloquized at ALL IN THE DARK. 83 times in the vein of Elshender of Mucklestane Muir, but still cherished at the age of three-and-twenty some sparks of his original humanity. "There goes Tom with my things to the gate. Yes, it ought to be here now," said William, looking at his watch. "I'll sendyou something pretty from Paris if you let me; nothing very splendid, you know, only a little reminder such as a poor beggar like me can offer," and he laughed, not very merrily. 1 And I shall hear all the news from Aunt Dinah, and send her all mine; and I like flowers. I always remember the Gilroyd flowers along with you. You were always among them, you know, and will you give me that little violet--a namesake. No one ever refuses a flower, it is the keepsake every one gets for the asking." "Here it is," said Violet, with a little laugh, but looking not mockingly, but a little downward and oddly, and William placed it very carefully in a recess of his complicated purse, that was a cardcase also, and I know not what else beside. He was on the point of saying something very romantic and foolish, but suddenly recollected himself, and pulled up at the verge just before he went over. " This is a souvenir of very old days, you know," said William, remembering Trevor, how humiliating because vain any love-making of his own must prove, " of a very early friend-one of your earliest. Wasn't I?" "Yes, so you were, a very good-natured friend, and very useful. Sometimes a little bit prosy, you know, always giving me excellent advice; and I think I always, often, at least, listened to yofir lectures with respect. But why is it, will you tell me who know everything, that gentlemen always ask for a rose or a violet, or a flower of some sort, as a keepsake? Nothing so perishable. Would not a thimble or even a slipper be better? I suppose you have us all in what you used to call a hortus siccus, brown roses, and yellow violets, and venerable polyanthuses, thoroughly dried up and stiff as chips, and now and then with a sort of triumph review your prisoners, and please yourselves with these awful images of old maidhood. How can we tell what witchcrafts go on over our withering types and emblems. Give me back my violet and you shall have a hair-pin instead." " Many thanks; I'll keep my violet, however. It may grow dry and brown to other eyes to mine it will never change. Just because it is an enchanted violet, and there is a spell upon my eyes as often as I look on it, and the glow and fragrance will never pass away." " Very good song, and very well sung! only I suspect that's the usual speech, and you asked for the violet for an opportunity of making it." At this moment Aunt Dinah entered the room, accompanied by old Winnie Dobbs, supporting a small hamper, tray fashion. William recognised the old commissariat of Gilroyd in this nutritious incumbrance, against which he had often and vainly protested, as he now did more faintly by a smile and lifting his hands. " Now there's really very little in this; just a fowl cut up, half a ham, one of the Saxton plumcakes, and a pint bottle with a little sherry. You'll find bread by itself, and some salt in white paper, and a few Ripston pippins, and it is really no weight at all; is it, Winnie?" " No, nothing to them porter fellows. What else be they paid for, if it baint to carry loads; what's a hamper like this here to one of them? and he'll want something on the way. You'll be hungry, you will, Master William." " And whatever's left will be of use to you when you reach your destination," said Aunt Dinah, repeating her ancient formula on similar occasions. " Now, William, you promise me you'll not leave this behind. Surely you can't be such a fool as to be ashamed to take a little refreshment before the passengers. Well-bred people won't stare at you, and I know you won't vex me by refusing the little provision." So William laughed and promised, and Miss Vi looked as if she could have quizzed him, but at this moment the Saxton vehicle from the Golden Posts pulled up at the iron gate of Gilroyd, and William glanced at his watch, and though he smiled, it was with the pale smile of a man going to execution, and trying to cheer his friends rather than being of good comfort himself. --0 -CHAPTER LIV. DOCTOR DRAKE GOES TO GILROYD. SAND now I must say farewell, and if I can, or if you want me, I'll come soon and see you again; and God bless you, Violet; and goodbye, my darling Aunt. I'll write from London this evening, and let you know what my Paris address will be." "God Almighty bless you, my precious man, Willie; and I'm very glad-" and here Aunt Dinah's sentence broke short, and tears were in her eyes, and she bit her lips. "I am, my darling, Willie, that we met; and you'll really come soon, if I write for you; and you won't forget your Bible and your prayers; and, oh! goodness gracious 1 have you forgot the tobacco-box?" It was safe in his dressing-case. So another hurried farewell, and a smiling and kissing of hands. "Good-by, good-by 1" from the cab window; and away it rattled, and William was gone; and the two ladies, and old Winnie in the rear, stood silently looking for a minute or so where the carriage had been, and then they turned, with the faded smile of farewell still on their faces, and slowly re-entered old Gilroyd Hall, which all in a moment had grown so lonely. 84 ALL IN THE DARK. In the drawing-room they were silent. Violet was looking through the window, but not, I think, taking much note of the view, pretty as it is. " I'm going away, and everything breaking up, and you must make allowances"--William's words were in her lonely ears now. A break-up had partly come, and a greater was coming. William's words sounded like a prophecy. " Breaking-up." Poor Gilroyd! Many a pleasant summer day and winter evening had she known in that serene old place. Pleasant times, no doubt, were before hera more splendid home, perhaps. Still memory would always look back regretfully on those early times, and the familiar view of Gilroyd; its mellow pink-tinted brick, and windowpanes/flashing in the setting sun, half seen through the stooping branches of the old chestnuts, would rise kindly and quaint before her' better beloved than the new and colder glories that might await her. Had the breakup indeed come? There was a foreboding of change, a presage as of death at her heart. When she looked at Miss Perfect she saw that she had been crying, and it made her heart heavier. "Remember, he said he'd come to you whenever you write. You can bring him back whenever you please; and really Paris is no distance at all." "I don't know, little Violet, I'm very low, It's all very true, what you say, but I've a misgiving. I've looked my last on my fine fellow-my boy. If I did as I am prompted, I think I should follow him to London, just to have one look more." "You're tired, Grannie, dar.ing, and you look pale; you must have a little wine." "Pooh, child-no - nothing," said Aunt Dinah, with a flicker of her usual manner; but there was a fatigue and feebleness in her look which Violet did not like. " Give me my desk, like a darling," said Miss Perfect; and she wrote a note, pondering a good while over it; and she leaned back, tired, when she had completed it. "I did my duty by him, I hope. I think he does me credit-a handsome fellow I don't see anywhere-" There was a pause here, and a kind of groan, and, coming near, Violet Darkwell saw that she had fainted. Great commotion was there in Gilroyd Hall. Miss Perfect's seizure did not pass away like a common swoon. Away went Tom for Doctor Drake, and Vi and the servants got poor Aunt Dinah, cold, and breathing heavily, and still insensible, to her bed. Dr. Drake arrived quickly, and came up to her room, with his great coat buttoned up to his chin, looking rather stern, in a reserved but friendly sort of fuss. " Hey-yes, yes-there it is. How long ago did this happen, my dear?" "Not quite half an hour-in the drawingroom. Oh, Doctor Drake, is it anything very bad?" answered Violet. " Well, my dear, it's-it's serious -but I hope it will be all right; it's a smart, little attack of apoplexy-upon my word it is. There was no convulsion-that's right. It was very well he came when he did-just caught me at the door. Open the window and door. Mrs. Dobbs, give me cold water. Have you a scissors? We'll cut the strings of her dress and stay-lace. One of you run down and bring up a kettleful of hot water. Her feet are a little cold. Get her head up a little more. We'll get her sitting up, if you please, in this armchair here. We'll bathe her feet, and you'll see she'll do very well, presently. It's not a case for bleeding; and bring up mustard. Ithink you'll see she'll come round in a little time." And so on the doctor talked; and directed, and actively treated his patient; and in a little time consciousness returned, and there was time at last, to think of William Maubray. " Shall we telegraph a message to London?" asked Violet. "Not a bit; she's going on as nicely as possible. He'd only be in the way here, and it would frighten her. She's doing capitally; and she may never have a return, if she just takes care. She must take care, you know, and I'll give you full directions how to treat her." And so he did; Miss Vi being accurate and intelligent, and rising with the occasion, so that Doctor Drake that evening celebrated Miss Darkwell to his friend Dignum, of the Golden Posts, as a 'trump and a brick, and the nicest little creature he ever saw, almost. Mr. Vane. Trevor, who had called at Gilroyd that morning, but found all things in confusion arid panic, called again in the evening, and had the pleasure of an interview with Winnie Dobbs; but he could not see Miss Darkwell. The young lady had given peremptory directions respecting all visitors, and would not leave Miss Perfect's room. Doctor Drake was honoured that evening by a call from the proprietor of Revington, and gave him a history of the case; and Trevor accompanied him back again to Gilroyd, where he was about to make his evening visit, and awaited his report in the little gravel court-yard, stealing, now and then, a wastful glance up to the old-fashioned stonefaced windows. But Violet did not appear. It might have been different-I can't say-had she known all that had passed between Miss Perfect and Vane Trevor respecting her. As it was, the young gentleman's long wait was rewarded only by the return of Doctor Drake, and a saunter with him back again to Saxton. Pretty nearly the same was the routine of several subsequent days. Fruits and vegetables, too, with messages came down from Revington; and in his interviews with old Winnie Dobbs he betrayed a great solicitude that the young lady should not wear herself out with watching and attendance. On Sunday he was in the church-yard almost as early as the doors opened, and loitered there till the bell ceased ringing; and sat ALL IN THE DARK. 85 in his pew so as to command an easy view of arrival. But there came at last a short one the church door, and not a late arrival escaped from Doctor Drake, which mentioned that he his observation. But Violet Darkwell did not had seen the ladies at Gilroyd that morningappear; and Vane Trevor walked home with both as well as he could desire; and that Miss little comfort from the Rev. Dr. Wagget's Perfect had got into a troublesome dispute learned sermon; and made his usual calls at with some tenants, which might delay her Gilroyd and at Doctor Drake's, and began letter a little longer, and then it passed to to think seriously of writing to Violet, and shooting anecdotes and village news. Such as begging an interview, or even penning the it was, he welcomed it fondly-enclosing as it promptings of his ardent passion in the most did the air of Gilroyd-passing, as it must intelligible terms. And I have little doubt have done, in its Town-ward flight from Saxthat had he had a friend by him, to counsel ton, the tall gait of Gilroyd, penned by the him ever so little in that direction, he would hand which had touched Violet DarkwelPs have done so. that very day, and conned over by eyes on whose retinas her graceful image lingered still. Even tipsy Dr. Drake's letter was inexpressibly interesting, and kept all the poetry of his soul in play for that entire evening. Miss Violet consulted with Miss Wagget, CHAPTER LV. and agreed that in a day or two they might write a full account of Miss Perfect's attack SUSPENSE. and recovery to William, whom it had been judged best, while there was still any anxiety, ONE day Trevor actually made up his mind to to spare the suspense of a distant and doubtful bring about the crisis; and, pale as a man illness. about to be hanged, and with the phantom of But this is an uncertain world. The mesa smile upon his lips, after his accustomed in- sage, when it did go, went not by post but by quiries, he told Mrs. Podgers, the cook, who, in telegraph, and was not of the cheery kind they the absence of Winnie Dobbs, officiated as contemplated. hall-porter, to ask Miss Violet Darkwell if she When William returned to his lodgings that would be so good as to give him just a moment. evening, oddly enough projecting a letter to And on getting through his message his heart Aunt Dinah, in the vein of the agreeable Baron made two or three such odd jumps and rolls, de Grimm, whose correspondence he had been that he was almost relieved when she told him studying, he found upon his table" a telegram, that old Doctor Wagget had come by appoint- only half an hour arrived. ment, and that Miss Violet and Winnie were It was sent " from the Rev. J. Wagget, Saxreceiving the sacrament with the mistress, ton Rectory, to M. William Maubray," &c., &c., who, thank God, was getting on better every and said simplyday. " Miss Perfect is dangerously ill. Come to " It's wiser for me to wait," thought Trevor, Gilroyd immediately." as he walked away, determined to take a long.A few hours later William was speeding ride through the Warren, and over Calston northward in the dark, for a long time the only Moor, and to tire himself effectually. " They occupant of his carriage, looking out from time never think what they're doing, girls are so to time from the window, and wondering hand-over-head-by Jove, if she had not Miss whether train had ever dragged so tediously Perfect to talk to she might refuse me, and be before-thinking every moment of Gilroyd and awfully sorry for it in a day or two. I must dear old Aunt Dinah-reading the telegram only have patience, and wait till the old over and over, and making for it sometimes a woman is better. I forget how the woman cheery, and sometimes the most portentous said she is to-day. No matter-old Drake interpretation; then leaning back with closed will tell me. It's hanged unlucky, I know. I eyes, and picturing a funereal groupe receiving suppose she eat too much dinner with that him with tears, on the door-steps at home. great fellow, Maubray; or some nonsense- Then again looking out on the gliding landhowever, I'll think it over in my ride; or, by scape, and in his dispairing impatience pressJove, I'll take my gun and have a shot at the ing his foot upon the opposite seat as if to imrabbits." pel the lagging train. Miss Perfect was, indeed, better, and Doctor When William reached London he found at Drake, though a little reserved, spoke on the his old lodgings two letters, one from Doctor whole, cheerily about her. And she saw a Sprague, the other from Miss.Perfect, which good deal of her kind old friend, Parson Wag- had been lying there for some days. Having get; and also, was pronounced well enough to a wait of two hours for his train he was glad see her lawyer, Mr. Jones, not that Doctor to find even this obsolete intelligence. That Drake quite approved of business yet, but he which, of course, interested him most was thought that so eager a patient as Miss Perfect written with a very aged tremble in the hand, might suffer more from delay and disappoint- and was very short, but bore the signature of ment. So there were a few quiet interviews "poor old auntie." It was as followson temporal matters. William was a little disquieted at receiving "MY DEAR WILLIE, no letter from Gilroyd for some days after his "I suppose they given you some account 86 AL;L IN THE PARK. of my indisposition-not much, and need not Dinah was dead. Yes, she was dead. And not you be disquieted. My old head is a little three or four dark shadows, deeper and deeper, confused, some medicine I dare say, but shall seemed to fall on all around him, and William well again in a day or two two. This note is Maubray went into the parlour, and leaning under the rose. The doctor says I must not on the chimney-piece, wept bitterly, with his write, so you need not it. I have eaten a face to the wall. morsel for three days-so the pen a little. Do remember, dear boy, all told you, dear, about the five years. I dreamed much since. --o If you think of such a thing, I must do it. Willie, sorry I should be you shoul fear or dislike me. I should haunt torment Willie. CHAPTER LVI. But you will do right. When you go go to France, I will send ~4 to amuse yourself with soME PARTICULARS. sights, &c. And Heaven bless and guard my precious Willie by every and influence, says Tim air is forlorn--tLe house is vocal no morr his fond -love is gone. "poor old AUNTIE. "When was it, Tom, at what hour?" asked " Better." he. " Late cock-crow, just the gray of the mornWilliam Maubray's trouble increased on ing. She was always early, poor little thing reading this letter. The slips and oddities of -somewhere betwixt five and six-it must'a' style instinctively alarmed him. There was bin. Will you please have something a'ter something very bad the matter, he was sure. your ride?" The letter was eight days old, the telegram "Nothing, Tom, nothing, thanks, but Id scarce four-and-twenty hours. But however like very much to see Winnie. Call her, ill she might be, it was certain she was living Tom, and I'll wait here-or no-I'll be in the when the message was despatched. So he drawing-room, tell her." went on assuring himself, although there lay And to that room he went, standing for a on his mind a dreadful misgiving that he was while at the threshold, and making his desosummoned not to a sick bed, nor even to a late survey; and then to the window, and death-bed, but to a funeral, then from place to place. Early that evening William drove from the The small table at which she used to sit in station toward Gilroyd. The people at Dol- the evenings stood in its old place by the sofa. worth had heard nothing of Miss Perfect's ill- Her little basket of coloured worsted balls, ness. How should they living so far away, the unfinished work with the ivory crotchetand hardly ever seeing a Saxton face, and not needles stuck through it, were there awaiting caring enough about her to be very likely to the return that was not to be. There lay the inquire, old piano open. How well he knew that little At last, at the sudden turn in the road, as oval landscape over the notes mellow by time, it crosses the brow of Drindle Hill, the pretty the lake and ruined tower, and solitary fisherlittle place, the ruddy brick and tall chestnuts, man-poor enough, I dare say, as a work of touched with the golden smile of sunset, and art; but to William's mind always the sweetthrowing long gray shadows over the undula- est and saddest little painting the world conting grass, revealed themselves. The small tained. Under that roofless tower that lonely birds were singing their pleasant vespers, and fisherman there had heard all Violet's pretty the crows sailing home to the woods of Wyn- music, and before it poor Aunt Dinah's grand dleford, mottled the faint green sky, and filled and plaintive minutes, until, years ago, she the upper air with their mellowed cawings. had abdicated the music-stool in favour of the The very spirit of peace seemed dreaming lighter finger and the rich young voice. there I Pretty Gilroyd! He remembered dear Aunt Dinah's face as Now he was looking on the lawn, and could she, sitting by that little table there, would see the hall-door. Were the blinds down? lower her book or letter and listen to the He was gazing at Aunt Dinah's windows, but pretty girl's song, sadly, in some untold poetry a cross-shadow prevented his seeing distinctly, of memory. Oh, Aunt Dinah!-He did not There was no one on the steps, no one at the know till now how much you were to himdrawing-room window, not a living thing on how much of Gilroyd itself was in your kindly the lawn. And now that view of Gilroyd was old face. The walls of Gilroyd speak and smile hidden from his eyes, and they were driving no more. round the slope of the pretty road to the old He heard old Winnie Dobbs talking to Tom iron gate, where, tunder the long shadow of in the passage, and her slow foot approaching. the giant ash tree opposite, they pulled up. Poor Aunt Dinah's light step and pleasant The driver had already run at the gateway. tones would come no more on stair or lobby. Pushing his way through the wicket, Wil- Such a welcome at Gilroyd, or anywhere, as liam Maubray had reached the porch before the old one, for him would be no more-no, any sign of life encountered him. There he nowhere-never. was met by honest Tom. He looked awfully In came old Winnie. Could old Winnie be dismal and changed, as if he had not eaten, quite old Winnie, and Aunt Dinah gone? The or slept, or spoken for ever so long. Aunt yearnings of love were strong within him, and ALL IN THE DARK. he hugged good old Dobbs on the threshold, and her fat arms were round him, and her fat fingers were grotesquely patting his back, and the sounds of sobbing were heard by the servants in the kitchen through the silent house. At last old Winnie, drying her eyes, related all she had to tell. "It happened, early this morning, a little before sunrise, she went very quit-like a child. She talked a deal about Master William, when she was well enough, an' more loving-like than ever. She did not wish to live; but she thought she would though-ay, she thought she'd do well, poor thing. Miss Vi was with her all the time-she was breaking her heart like about it; and Miss Wagget came down in the carriage, and took her away wi' her-and better, sure it was. This was no place for her-poor Miss Vi. Doctor Drake was very kind, and sat up all the night wi' her. And sure was Winnie, if doctors could a' saved her she would a' bin on her feet still; but everyone has their time. It's right, of course, to have the doctors in; but, dear me, we all know 'tis no more use than nothinkthere's a time you know and all is one, first or last. I have mine, and you yours, and she had hers-the dear mistress; and time and tide Waits for no man; and as the tree falleth so it lieth; and man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward-and, indeed, that's true, dear knows. Would you like to see her, Master William?" " Does she look happy-does she look like herself?" inquired William. "Ah! that she does-asleep like, you'd say. You never saw quieter-just her own face. She is a very pretty corpse-poor little thing, she is." "Perhaps, by-and-by--not yet. I could not now. You'll come with me to her room, perhaps, in a little while, perhaps. But oh! Winnie, I don't think I could bear it." " It is not in her room," said Winnie Dobbs. "She was very particular, you know, poor little thing, and would have her way; and she left a note in the looking-glass drawer for the Rector-Mr. Wagget, you know, that now is; and she made him promise it should be done as ordered, and so he did-only a scrap of a note, no bigger than a playing card; and I don't think you knew, unless she told you, but she had her coffin in the house this seven years-nigh eight a'most-upright in the little press be the left of the bed, in her room-the cupboard-like in the wall. Dearie me! 'twas an odd fancy, poor little thing, and she'd dust it, and take it out, she would, wi' the door locked, her and me, once a month. She had a deal o' them queer fancies, she had; but she was very good, she was-very good to every one, and a great many will miss her." And old Winnie cried again. " I knew it must a' happened some time for certain-her or me must go-but who'd a thought'twas to be so soon?-who'd a' thought it ever? There's a great plate, silvered over wi' her name on't, as Doctor Wagget too]k away to get her years and date put on; 'twill be back again to-morrow--poor thing-and she's not in her room-out in the gardene's house." This was a disused out-building; for it was many a year since Gilroyd had boasted a gardener among its officers. "Do you mean to say she has been carried out there.?" inquired William, in unfeigned astonishment. "Them was her directions-the little note as I told you-and Doctor Wagget went by her orders strict, as he said he would; and sure 'twas right he should, for she would not be denied." So this odd conversation proceeded, and, indeed, with this strange direction of poor Aunt Dinah's, whose coffin lay on tressels in the little tiled room in the small two-storied cubical brick domicile, which stood even with the garden wall, old Winnie's revelations ended. William walked down to Saxton, and had a long talk with Doctor Drake, who was always sober up to nine o'clock, about poor Aunt Dinah's case; and he wrote to Doctor Wagget, not caring to present himself at the Rectory so late, to report his arrival. And in the morning Doctor Wagget came down and saw him at Gilroyd, when a conversation ensued, which I am about to relate. ----0---. CHAPTER LVII. DOCTOR WAGGETT: FURTHER PARTICULARS. DecToR WAGGETT found William in the study at Gilroyd; he met him without the conventional long face, and with a kindly look, and a little sad, and shaking his hand warmly, he said, "Ah, sir, your good aunt, my old friend, Miss Perfect, we've lost her. My loss is small compared with yours, but I can grieve with you." The Doctor laid his hat, and gloves, and cane upon the table, and fixing his earnest eyes on William, he went on"We had a great deal of conversation in her last illness which will interest you. On religious subjects I found her views-poor lady-all very sound; indeed, if it had not been for that foolish spirit-rapping, which a little led her away-that is, confused her-I don't think there was anything in her opinions to which exception could have been taken. She had the sacrament twice, and I visited and prayed with her constantly, and very devout and earnest she was, and indeed her mind was in a very happy state-very serene and hopeful." " Thank you, sir, it is a great comfort." " And about that spiritualism, mind you, I,don't say there's nothing in it," continued the Rector, "there may be a great deal-in fact, a I great deal too much-but take it what way 83 ALL IN THE DARK we may, to my mind, it is too like what Scripture deals with as witchcraft to be tampered with. If there be no familiar spirit, it's nothmng, and if there be, what is it? I talked very fully with the poor lady the last day but one I saw her on this subject, to which indeed she led me. I hope you don't practise it-no-that's right; nothing would induce me to sit at a seance, I should as soon think of praying to the devil. I don't say, of course, that every one who does is as bad as I should be; it depends in some measure on the view you take. The spirit world is veiled from us, no doubt in mercy-in mercy, sir, and we have no right to lift that veil; few do with impunity; but of that another time. She made a will, you know?" "No, I did not hear." "Oh, yes; Jones drew it; it's in my custody; it leaves you everything. It is not a very great deal, you know; two annuities die with her; but it's somewhere about four hundred a year, Jones says, and this house. So it makes you quite easy, you see." To William, who had never paid taxes, and knew nothing of servants' wages, four hundred a year and a house was Alladdin's lamp. The pale image of poor Aunt Dinah came with a plaintive smile, making him this splendid gift, and he burst into years. " I wish, sir, I had been better to her. She was always so good to me. Oh, sir, I'd give anything, I would, for a few minutes to tell her how much I really loved her I'm afraid she did not know." "Pooh! she knew very well. You need not trouble yourself on that point. You were better to her than a son to a mother. You are not to trouble yourself about that littlea-a-difference of opinion about taking orders; for I tell you plainly, she was wrong, and you were right; one of her fancies, poor little thing. But that's not a matter to be trifled with, it's a very awful step; I doubt whether we make quite solemnity enough about it; there are so few things in life irrevocable; but however that may be, you are better as you are, and there's nothing to reproach yourself with on that head. When I said, by-the-bye, that she had left you everything, I ought to have excepted her little jewellery, which she has left to Miss Darkwell, and a few books to me, that mad fellow, Bung, you know, among them, and an old silver salver to Saxton church, which there was a tradition was stolen by a Purita4 tenant of Sir-what's-his name-that had the tobacco-box, you know, from some church, she did not know what, in this county, when his troop was quartered at Hentley Towers. And-and she had a fancy it was that spirit, Henbane, you know, that told her to restore it to the church-any church-and there are a few trifling legacies, you know, and that's all." Then their conference diverged into the repulsive details of the undertaker, where we need not follow, and this over, the Rector said:"You must come down and see us at the Rectory; Miss Darkwell, you know, is with us at present; something likely to be in that quarter very soon, you are aware," he added, significantly; " very advantageous, everything, but all this, you know, delays it for a time; you'll come over and see us, as often as you like; a very pretty walk across the fields -nothing to a young athlete like you, sir, and we shall always be delighted to see you." Well, this dreadful week passed over, and another, and William Maubray resigned his appointment at Paris, and resolved on the bar; and with Mr. Sergeant Darkwell's advice, ordered about twenty pounds' worth of lawbooks, to begin with, and made arrangements to enter his name at Lincoln's Inn, which was the learned Sergeant's, and to follow in the steps of that, the most interesting of all the sages of the law, past or present. Vane Trevor looked in upon William very often. Gilroyd, William Maubray, even the servants, interested him; for there it was, and thus surrounded, he had seen Miss Violet Darkwell. There, too, he might talk of her; and William, too, with a bitter sort of interest, would listen, an angry contempt of Vane rising at his heart; yet he did not quite hate him, though he would often have been glad to break his head. Trevor, too, had his grounds for vexation. "I thought she'd have gone to church last Sunday," he observed to Maubray, and I must allow that he had made the same statement in various forms of language no less than five times in the course of their conversation. " I think she might; don't you? I can't see why she should not; can you? The relationship between hr and poor Miss Perfect was a very round-about affair; wasn't it?" "Yes, so it was; but it isn't that-I told you before it couldn't be that; its just that she was so fond of her; and really, here, I don't see any great temptation to come out.; do you?" "No-perhaps-no, of course, there may not; but I don't see any great temptation to shut one's self up either. I called at the Rectory yesterday, and did not see her. I have not seen her since poor Miss Perfect's death, in fact." " So did I; I've called very often," answered William; " as often as you, I dare say, and I have not seen her; and that's odder, don't you think? and I gather from it, I suppose, pretty much what you do." "Very likely; what is it?" said Vane. "I mean that she doesn't expect much comfort or pleasure from our society." William had a fierce and ill-natured pleasure in placing his friend Trevor in the same boat with himself, and then scuttling it. Vane remarked that the rain was awfully tiresome, and then looking from the window, whistled an air froi 1 " I Puritani" abstractedly, and he said suddenly" There's a lot of affectation, I think, about grief-particularly among women-they like making a fuss about it." "To be sure they do," replied William 90 ALL IN THE DARK. that view; Gilroyd looks so pretty from it; but I could not go in yet. I feel as if I never could go into the house again." " And about friends," she resumed, " I sometimes think one has more than one suspects. Of course you like them differently in degree -and differently even in the-the kind of liking, I reckon little Psyche among my friends." "And the bird?" said William. "Yes, the bullfinch," said Miss Vi, firmly; and at this moment Miss Wagget entered the room with a great bouquet in her hand, and exclaimed" Isn't this perfectly beautiful; it's positively wonderful for this time of year; look at it, my dear, all from the conservatory. It's a very nice taste. I wonder how he keeps it so beautifully, and very kind, I'm sure, to think of us; these are Revington flowers, Mr. Maubray. It is very kind of Mr. Trevor; you'll arrange them, won't you dear?" This was addressed to the young lady, and at the same time she held the bouquet toward William, to gaze on, and he stooped over and smelled at the flowers, which were really odourless, in some confusion, and then turned his eyes on Violet, who blushed first a little, and then in a brilliant glow all over her face, and William looked down and smelled at the flowers again, and then he recollected it was time for him to go; so he bid Miss Wagget good-bye, and took his leave of Violet, whose large eyes he thought, looked vexed, and on whose cheeks the fading scarlet still hovered; had he ever beheld her so handsome before, or with a sadder gaze; and he took her hand extended to him rather' coldly, he fancied, and with a pale smile left the room, feeling as if he had just heard his sentence read. So he stood on the steps for a moment, bewildered, and answered good Doctor Wagget's cheery salutation and pleasantry that issued from the study window, rather confusedly. ---0 CHAPTER LIX. VANE TREVOR SEES MISS VIOLET. Nnxr morning William was surprised by a visit from Vane Trevor. " Just dropped in to see how you are, old fellow, this morning." " Very good of you," rejoined William with ironical gravity. " Well, but are you well-is there anything wrong?" inquired Vane, who was struck by his friend's savage and distracted looks. " Nothing-I'm quite well; what could go wrong with a fellow so magnificently provided for? The Lord of Gilroyd, with such lots of small talk, and fine friends, and lavender gloves, and clothes cut so exquisitely in the fashion," and William laughed rather horribly. " Well, I admit you might get better traps, and if you like decent clothes, why the devil don't you?" Trevor could perceive that the whole of William's ironical sally was inspired by envy of him, and was gratified accordingly; and thought within himself, " Your shy, gawky, ill-dressed men always hate a jolly fellow with a good coat to his back just because the women know the difference, and I wonder where poor Maubray has been trying his arts and fascinations, he has been awfully shut up, that's clear," so thought Vane Trevor, as he added aloud" If you're going to London, as you say, I'll give you a note with pleasure to my man, if you like the sort of things he makes," said Trevor; " but I give you notice he won't do his best unless you seem to-to take an interest, you know." " Thanks-no," laughed William, a little fiercely, the tailor might do his office, but I should still want too many essentials. Where would be the good in that sort of thing without the rest, and I never could go the whole animal-the whole brute, and if I could I would not. You may smile-" "I am not smiling." "But I swear to you I wouldn't." " Oh, you're very well," said Trevor, encouragingly. "Quiet man. What good could that sort of thing do you at the bar, for instance? And when you're Lord Chancellor with your peerage and your fortune up in London, I shall be still plain Trevor of Revington down here, vegetating, by Jove 1" " I'll never be that, but I may do some good -a little, perhaps. Enough to interest me in life, and that's all I want," said William, who was fiercely resolved on celibacy. " I am going over to see the people at the Rectory-jolly old fellow old Wagget is; and I thought I'd just look in on you. You're not for a walk, are you?" "iNo, thanks," said William very shortly, and added, I'm sorry I can't, but I've letters this morning, and must be ready for the post." "Well, good-bye then," said Trevor, and shook hands like a man going a long journey; and William glanced in his eyes, and saw what he was about, and thought, "He'll be sure to see her this morning." So William took leave of him, and stood for a while in a troubled brown study on the steps, with a great weight at his heart, and after a while recollecting himself he said, "Pish! Pshaw 1" and lifting his head defiantly, he strode into the parlour, and sat himself down grimly to write, but could not get on; and took a walk instead in the direction of the London railway, with his back to the Rectory and to Revington. Our friend Vane Trevor had made up his mind to see Miss Darkwell this day, and speak, and in fact arrange everything; and as usual the crisis being upon him, his confidence in himself and his surroundings began to wane and he experienced the qualms of doubt and the shiver of suspense. So as there was ALL IN THE DARK. 91 usually between the prison and the gallowstree a point at which the gentleman on the hurdle drew up and partook of a glass of something comfortable, Mr. Vane Trevor halted on his way at Gilroyd and had his word or two, and shake of the hand with William Maubray, and went on. On he went looking much as usual, except for a little pallor, but feeling strange sensations at his heart, and now and then rehearsing his speech, and more and more agitated inwardly as he drew near the door of the Rectory. It was early, but Miss Wagget and Miss Darkwell were at home, and Vane Trevor, wondering whether an opportunity would occur, crossed the hall and was announced. Miss Darkwell was sitting near a window copying music, and he went over and shook hands and felt very oddly; and after a word or two, she looked down again and resumed her work. Old Miss Wagget led the conversation, and began with a speech on her flowers, and was eloquent in admiration and acknowledgements. Now, poor Miss Perfect had told Miss Wagget the whole story of the Revington courtship, and the Rector's sister had quite taken Aunt Dinah's view of the case, and agreed that it was better the subject should be opened by the suitor himself; and, willing to make the opportunity desired at once, and dreaded, she recollected, on a sudden, that she had a word to say to her brother before he went out, and, with apologies, left the room and shut the door. Miss Violet raised her eyes and looked after her a little anxiously, as if she would have liked to stop her. I think the young lady guessed pretty well what was in Vane Trevor's mind; but there was no averting the scene now, and she went on writing in a bar of crochets in the treble, but placed the minim wrong in the bass. There was a silence, during which the little French clock over the chimneypiece ticked very loud, and Miss Wagget's lap-dog yawned and chose a new place on the hearth-rug, and the young lady was looking more closely at her music, and, though with a little blush, very gravely industrious. Trevor looked through the window, and down at the dog, and round the room, and up at the clock, but for the life of him he could not think of anything to say. The silence was growing insupportable, and at last he stood up, smiling the best he could, and drew near the window where Miss Violet was sitting, and tapped his chin with his cane, and said:"Music-a ha!-copying music!-I-I-a -I used to copy music pretty well; they said I did it uncommonly well; but I used to make those pops round like the copperplate, you know; you make them oval. They have a bookful of my copying at Kincton. They said-Clara did-they could read it just like print-and-and I wish you could give me some employment that way-I really wish you would. Im afraid you find it awfully slow-- don't you?" "No-thanks; no, indeed-Im very much obliged though, but I rather like it; I don't think it tiresome work at all." "I-I should so like-and I was so glad to hear from Miss Wagget that you thought the flowers pretty-yesterday, I mean. These are beginning to look a little seedy--aren't they? I'll send over more to-day-I only wish, Miss Darkwell, I knew your pet fowers, that I might send a lot of them-I-I assure you I do." Miss Dar&awell here looked closer at her work, and drew two parallel lines connecting the stems of her semi-quavers very nicely. -------- CHAPTER LX THE MOMENTOUS QUESTIO " I-I REALLY Twould be so very much obliged if you would," resumed Trevor. "Do now, pray-tell me any one you like particularly 1" " I like all flowers so well," said Miss Violet. compelled to speak, "that I could hardly choose a favourite--at least, without thinking a great deal; and I should feel then as if I had slighted the rest." "And awfully jealous I'm sure they'd be-I should-I know I should, indeed-I should, indeed. If I-if you-if I were a flower-I mean, the-the ugliest flower in the garden, by Tove, and that you preferred-a-a anything-I-I think I'd almost wither away-I -I swear to you I do-I'd tear my leaves out -I would, indeed-and-and-I'm in earnest, I assure you-I am indeed, Miss DarkwellI'm-I'm awfully in love with you-I'm-I'm -I've been waiting this long time to tell you. I wrote to your father for leave to speak to you-and poor Miss Perfect also-I-she was very kind; and I've come to-to say-thatthat I hope you can like me enough-that if a life of the greatest devotion to your happiness-and-and the greatest devotion to your happiness,"-he was trying here a bit of the speech he had prepared, but it would not come back, and so he shook himself free of it, and went on: " I'll-Ill try always to make you happy-I will, indeed-and you shall do just as you please-and there's no one-I don't care what her birth or rank, I should be prouder to see in the-the-as-as mistress of Revington than you; and I-I hope-I-I hope very much you can like me enough t6 give me some encouragement to-to-hope." And Miss Darkwell answered very low"I-I'm so sorry, Mr. Trevor-I'm very sorry; but I couldn't-I can't, indeed, say anything but-but just how sorry I am, and how much obliged for your liking me-and I -it could not be." And Miss Violet Darkwell, with a very beautiful and bright colour, and eyes that looked darker than ever, stood up to go. 92 IALL IN THE DARK. "I-pray don't-I-I'm sure you misunderstood me-I think I could-I-do pray-just a minute," said Vane Trevor, awfully confounded. Miss Darkwell waited where she stood, looking down upon the carpet. "I-I don't want you to answer me now; I-I'd rather you did'nt. I-I-you'll not answer me for a week. I-I'd rather you thought it over just a little-pray." "It would make no difference, I assure you, Mr. Trevor. It would merely prolong what is very painful to me. It is very kind of you to think so well of me, and I'm very much obliged; but I think I'll go." And she extended her hand to take leave, aud was on the point of going. "But really, Miss Darkwell," said Mr. Trevor, who began to a little feel insulted, and to remember the Trevors, the Vanes, and the historic fame of Revington " I-I don t quite see-I think I-I-I do think I have a right to-to some explanation. "There's nothing to explain; I've said everything," said Miss Vi very quietly. "That's very easy, of course to say; but I -I don't think it's using a fellow quite"--- "Did I ever lead you to think I thought otherwise?" exclaimed Miss Violet with a grave but fearless glance. There was a pause. Trevor was angry, and looked it. At last he said"I did not say that, but-but I know-I know I'm not a mere nobody here. The Trevors of Revington are pretty well known, and they have alw ays married in-in a certain rank; and I think when I've spoken to you as I hr.ve done, I might have expected something more than a simple no, and-and I think, if you did not appear to like me-at all events there was nothing to make me think you didn't, and that's why I say I think I've a right to ask for an explanation?" " You can have no right to make me say one word more than I please. I've said all I mean to say-more than I need have saidand I won't say more," said Miss Violet Darkwell, with eyes that glowed indignantly, for there was an implied contrast in the lordly marriages of the Trevors with his own tender of his hand to the young lady which fired her pride. Before he recovered she had reached the door, and with her fingers upon the handle she paused, and returned just a step or two, and said, extending her hand"And I think we might part a little more kindly, for you have no cause to blame me, and when you think a little you'll say so yourself. Good-bye." Trevor did not well know how he shook hands with her. But she was gone. It was all over. Grief-rage-dissappointment--something like insult! He could not say that he had been insulted. But Revington was. The Trovors were. What a resource in such states of mind-denied to us men-are tears. Good furious weeping-the thunder and the rain-. and then the air refreshed and the sky serene. Mr. Vane Trevor felt as if he had been drinking too much brandy and water, and had been beaten heavily about the head; he was confounded and heated, and half blind. He walked very fast, and did not think where he was going until he stopped close to the gate of Gilroyd. He went in, and rang the bell at the halldoor, which stood open. William came into the hall. "Come in, Trevor," said he. He had taken his walk of a couple of miles, and was more serene. "No. Come out and have a walk with me, will you?" answered Vane. "Where?" asked William. " Any where. Wherever you like-here among the trees." "I don't care if I do," said William, who saw that in Trevor's countenance which excited his curiosity; and out he came with his wide-awake on, and Trevor walked beside him, looking very luridly on the ground, and marching very fast. William walked beside him, quietly waiting till the oracle should speak. At last, wheeling round by the trunk of a huge old chestnut, he came suddenly to a full stop, and confronted his companion. " Well, that's off my mind; all over; the best thing I dare say could happen me, and I think she's a bit of a-a-I think she has a temper of her own. I didn't like any more shilly-shally, you know, in that undecided way, and?I thought I might as well tell you that it's all off, and that I'm very well pleased it is. She's very pretty, and all that; but, hang it, there are other things, and it never would have done. I have not much of a temper of own, I believe." (Trevor was really a good-humoured fellow, but chose to charge himself with this little failing for the occasion), "and I could not get on with that kind of thing. It wouldn't have done-it couldn't-I thought I'd just come down and tell you; and I think I'll run up to town; they want me to go to Kincton, but it's too slow; and-and Revington's such a wilderness. I wish some one would take it. I don't want to marry for ever so long. I don't know what put it in my head." Mr. Vane Trevor resumed his walk at a slower pace, and he whistled a low and contemplative air, looking down on the grass with his hands in his pocket, and then he said again" I thought I'd just come down and tell you; and you're not to mention it, you know-not to that fellow Drake, or any one, mind-not that I much care, but it would not do to be talked about, and you won't I know, thanks, and the Waggets are honourable people, they won't talk either I suppose; and-and I depend on you; and-and you know you and I are friends all the same." "Certainly no worse," said William, very truly, shaking his hand cordially. ALL IN THE DARK. 93 "And I'll be off to-day. I'll go to the opera, or something to-night. I've been too long shut up; a fellow grows rusty, you know, in this tiresome corner. I wish some fool of a fellow would take a lease of it. Gcod-bye, old fellow; you must come up to town and see me when I'm settled, mind.') And so they parted. -0-- CHAPTER LXI. A DOUBT TROUBLES MAUBiAY. I coaE now to some incidents, the relation of which partakes, I can't deny, of the marvellous. I can, however, vouch for the literal truth of the narrative; so can William Maubray; so can my excellent friend Doctor Wagget; so also can my friend Doctor Drake, a shrewd and sceptical physician, all thoroughly cognizant of the facts. If therefore, anything related in the course of the next two or three chapters should appear to you wholly incredible, I beg that you will not ascribe the prodigious character of the narrative to any moral laxities on the part of the writer. I believe William Maubray liked Vane Trevor very honestly, and that he was as capable of friendship as any man I have ever met with; but this I will aver, that he had not been so cheerful since poor Aunt Dinah's death as for the remainder of the day on which he had heard the authentic report of his friend's overthrow. Down to the town of Saxton that evening, walked William, for in his comfortable moods he required human society, as he yearned for sympathy in his affections. He visited his hospital friend Doctor Drake, now in his pardonable elation on the occasion of his friend's downfall, as he had done when writhing under the thunderbolts of poor Aunt Dinah. In this case, however, he could not disclose what lay nearest to his heart. It would not have done to commit poor Trevor's little secret to Doctor Drake, nor yet to tell him how wildly in love he was, and how the events of this day had lighted up his hopes. In fact, Doctor Drake had long ceased to be the sort of doctor whom a gay fellow suffering from one of Cupid's bow-shot wounds would have cared to consult, and William visited him-on this occasion simply because he was elated, excited, and could not do without company of some sort. At about half past nine o'clock Doctor Drake was called away to visit Mr. Thomas, the draper. " Gouty pain in the duodenum-there's a man, now, wansh-a-kill himself. He is killing himself. Advice! You might as well advise that ub-bottle. You might, a bilious fellow-lithic acid-gouty-'sgouty a fellow, by Jove, sir, as you'd like to see, and all I can do he wone 'rink his-his little-whatever it is, anyway but hot-hot, sir, and with sugar -sugar, and you know that's poison, simple p-poison. You see me, any liT' thing I take. -sometimes a liddle she'y, sometimes a lii'' ole Tom, or branle; I take it cole, withoutquite innocent-rather usefle-shlight impulse -all the organs-never affec' the head-never touch the liver-that's the way, sir; that's. how you come to live long-lots o' waw'r, cole waw'r, and just sprinkle over, that's your sort, sir, stick a' that, sir; cole, cole waw'r-lots o' waw'r, sir; never make too stiff, you know, an' you may go on all nigh'--don' go, you know, I mayn be half 'n hour, all nigh, sir, an' no harm done-no harm, sir, rather usefle." By this time the Doctor had got himself into his surtout, and selecting Mr. Thomas's gouty cordials,' ether and both bottles from his drawer, he set forth on his sanitary expedition, and the symposium ended. So William walked musingly homeward. What a tender melancholy oyer everything! What a heavenly night! What a good, honest, clever fellow Doctor Drake was! By Jove, he had forgotten to ask for Miss Drake, who was no doubt in the drawing-room-a jolly old creature was Miss Drake! Should he go back and drink some of her tea? He halted and turned, not right about, but right face, and hesitated in the moonlight. No, it was 'too late-he forgot how late it was. But he'd go down specially to drink tea with Miss Drake another evening. And so he resumed that delicious walk homewards. There was no use in denying it any longer to himself-none-he knew it-he felt it-he was in love with.Violet Darkwell-awfully in love! And as every lover is an egotist, and is diposed on the whole to think pretty well of himself. The hypothesis did cross his fancy frequently, that the downfall of his friend Trevor was somehow connected with the fortunes of William Maubray. Was theremight there not be-did he not remember signs and tokens, such as none but lover's eyes can read or see, that seemed to indicate a--a preference; might there not be a pre-occupation? What a charm in the enigmatic conditions of a lover's happiness! How beautiful the castles in the air in which his habitation is! How she stands at the open portal, or leans from the casement, in beautiful shadow, or golden light divine I How he reads his fate in air-drawn characters, in faintest signs, remembered looks, light words, atone! How latent meanings hover in all she says, or sings, or looks, or does; and how imagination is enthralled by the mystery, and he never tires of exploring, and guessing, and wondering, and sighing. Those deep reserves and natural wiles of girls are given to interest us others, with those sweet doubts and trembling hopes that constitute the suspense and excitement of romance. William Maubray sat himself down in a delightful melancholy, in his great chair by the drawing-room fire, and ordered tea, and told old Winnie that she must come and have 94 ALL IN THE DARK. a cup, and keep him company; and so she did very gladly, and William made her talk a great deal about poor Aunt Dinah, and this retrospect went on with a stream of marginal anecdote about Miss Violet, to every syllable of which, though maundered over in honest Winnie's harum-scarum prose, he listened breathlessly, as to the far-off music of angels. And when all was told out, led her back artfully, and heard the story bit by bit again, and listened to her topsy-turvey praises of Violet in a delightful dream, and would have kept her up all night narrating, but honest Homer nodded at last, and William was fain to let the muse take flight to her crib. Then, leaning back in his chair, he mused alone, revolving sweet and bitter fancies, thinking how well Sergeant Darkwell thought of him, how near Violet still was, what easy access to the Rectory, how sure he was of the old people's good word, how miserable he should be, what a failure his life without her. How she had refused Vane Trevor-refused Revington. Was that a mere motiveless freak? Was there no special augury to his favour discernable in it? He had the Bar before him now-could not Sergeant Darkwell bring him forward, put him in the way of business? He was not afraid of work-he liked jt. Anything-everything, for sake of her. Besides, he was no longer penniless. He could make a settlement now. Thanks to poor dear Aunt Dinah, Gilroyd was his. Aunt Dinah 1 And here the thought of her odd threatenings and prohibition crossed his brain. Five years! Nonsense 1Madness I That would never do. Five years befor9 so young a man, looks like fifty. In a lover's chronicle it is an age. Quite impracticable. He would lay the ease before Sergeant Darkwell and Doctor Wagget. He well knew how they, conscientious, good, clear-headed men would treat it. But, alas! it troubled him-it vexed him. The menace was in his ear-a shadow stood by him. There were memoranda in his desk, and poor Aunt Dinah's last letter. He would read them over. He had fancied, very likely, that she meant more, and more seriously, than a re-perusal would support. So eagerly he opened his desk, and got out those momentous papers. --0* CHAPTER LXII. THE FURNITURE BEGINS TO TALK. HE read Aunt Dinah's letters over again, and marked the passage with his pencil, and read again. " Do you remember, dear boy, all told you, dear, about the five years. I dreamed much since. If you think of such a thing I must do it." This last sentence he underlined, " If you think of such a thing, I must do it. Sorry I shoul" (she meant should) "fear or dislike me. I should haunt, torment Willie. But you will do right." Do right. She meant wait for five years, of course. My poor darling aunt 1 I wish you had never seen one of those odious books of American bosh-Elihu Bung! I wish Elihu Bung was sunk in a barrel at the bottom of the sea. Then William looked to his diary, for about that period of his life he kept one for two years and seven months, and he read these entries: " -- Dear Aunt Dinah pressed me very much to give her a distinct promise not to marry for five years-marry indeed! I, poor, penniless William Maubray! I shall never marry-yet I can't make this vow-and she threatened me, saying, 'If I'm dead there's nothing that spirit can do, if you so much as harbour the thought, be I good, or evil, or mocking, I'llnot do to prevent it. I'll trouble you, I'll torment you, I'll pick her eyes out, but I won't suffer you to ruin yourself.' And she said very often that she expected to be a mocking spirit; and said again, ' Mind I told you, though I be dead, you shan't escape me.' 'That night I had an odious night-mare. An apparition like my aunt came to my bedside, and caught my arm with its hand, and said, quite distinctly, " Oh! my God! William, I am dead; don't let me go." I fancied I saw the impression of fingers on my arm; and I think I never was so horfified in my life. And afterwards in her own bedroom, my aunt having heard my dream, returned to the subject of her warning, and said, " If I die before the time, " I'll watch you as an old gray cat watches a mouse, if you so much as think of ft. I'll plague you; I'll save you in spite of yourself, and mortal was never haunted and tormented as you shall be, till you give it up."' And saying this she laughed." " The whole of this new fancy turns out to be one of the Henbane delusions. How I wish all those cursed books of spiritualism were with Don Quixote's library!" William had now the facts pretty well before him. He had, moreover, a very distinct remembrance of that which ho other person had imagined or seen-the face of the apparition of Aunt Dinah, and the dark and pallid stare she had actually turned upon him, as he recounted the particulars of his vision. It had grown very late, and he was quite alone, communing in these odd notes, and with these strange remembrances with the dead. Perhaps all the strong tea he had drunk with old Winnie that night helped to make him nervous. One of his candles had burnt out by this time, and as he raised his eyes from these curious records, the room looked dark and indistinct, and the slim, black cabinet that stood against the wall at the further end of the room startled him, it looked so like a big, muffled man. I dare say he began to wish that he had postponed his scrutiny of his papers until the morning. At all events he began to experi ALL IN THE DARK. 101 CHAPTER LXVII. THE PHANTOM IS TRACKED. As the Doctor made this motion, the figure in white crossed the hall swiftly, and stood at the study door. It-looked potentiously tall, and was covered with a white drapery, a corner of which hung over its face. It entered the room, unlocked William Maubray's desk, from which it took some papers: then locked the desk, carrying away which, it left the room. "Follow, with the light," whispered the Doctor, himself pursuing on tiptoe. Barefoot, the figure walked towards the kitchen, then turning to the left, it mounted the back stair; the Doctor following pretty closely, and Tom with his candle in the rear. Oh a peg in the galery opposite to the door of William Maubray's bed-room, hung an old dressing-gown of his, into the pocket of which the apparition slipped the papers it had taken from his desk. Then it opened William's door, as easily as if he had not ocked it upon the inside. The Doctor and Tom followed, and saw the figure approach the bed and place the desk very neatly under the bolster, then return to the door, and shut and lock it on the inside. Then the figure marched in a stately way to the far side of the bed, drew both curtains, and stood at the bedside, like a ghost, for about a minute; after which it walked in the same stately way to the door, unlocked it, and walked forth again upon the gallery; the Doctor still following, and Tom behind, bearing the light. Down the stairs it glided, and halted on the lobby, where it seemed to look from the window fixedly. " Come along," said the Doctor to Tom; and down the stairs he went, followed by the torch-bearer, and, on reaching the lobby, he clapped the apparition on the back, and shook it lustily by the arm. 'With the sort of gasp and sob which accompany sudden immersion in cold water, William Maubray, for the ghost was he, awakened, dropped the coverlet which formed his drapery, on the floor, and stood the picture of bewilderment and horror, in his night-shirt, staring at his friends and repeating-"Lord have mercy on us!" "It's only Tom and I. Shake yourself up a bit, man. Doctor Drake-here we are-all old friends." And the Doctor spoke very cheerily, and all sorts of encouraging speeches; but it was long before William got out of his horror, and even then he seemed for a good while on the point of fainting. "I'll never be myself again," groaned William, in his night-shirt, seating himself, half dead, upon the lobby table. Tom stood by, 'holding the candle aloft, and staring in his face and praying in short sentences, with awful unction; while the Doctor kept all the time laughing and patting William on the shoulder and repeating, " Nonsense!-nonsense,! -nonsense!" When William had got again into his room, and had some clothes on, he broke again into talk: " Somnambulism!--walk in my sleep. I could not have believed it possible. I-I never perceived the slightest tendency-I-the only thing was that catching my own wrist in my sleep and thinking it was another person who held me; but-but actually walking in my sleep, isn't it frightful?" "I don't think you'll ever do it again-ha, ha, ha I" said the Doctor. "And why not?" asked William. SThe fright of being wakened as you were, cures it. That's the reason I shook you out of your doldrum," chuckled the Doctor. "I'm frightened - frightened out of my wits." "Glad of it," said the Doctor. " Be the less likely to do it again." " Do you think I-I'm really cured? " aked William. "Yes, I do; but you must change your h'abits a bit. You've let yourself get into a dyspeptic, nervous, state, and keep working your brain over things too much. You'll be quite well in a,s ~ i wo and I really do think you're cured of this trick. They seldom do it again-hardly ever-after the shock of being wakened. I've met half a dozen cases -always cured." The Doctor stayed with him the greater part of that night, which they spent so cheerfully that Drake's articulation became indistinct, though his learning and philosophy, as usual, shone resplendent. It was hot till he was alone, and the bright morning sun shone round him, that William Maubray quite apprehended the relief his spirits had experienced. For several days he had lived in an odious dream. It was now all cleared up, and his awful suspicions gone. As he turned from the parlour window to the breakfast table, the old Bible lying on the little book-shelf caught his eye. He took it down, and laid it beside him on the table. Poor Aunt Dinah had kept it by her during her illness, preferring it to any other. "I'll read a chapter every day-by Jove, I will," resolved William, in the grateful sense of his deliverance. "It's only decent-it's only the old custom. It may make me good some day, and hit or miss, it never did any man harm." So he turned over the leaves, and lighted on an open sheet of note paper. It was written over in poor Miss Perfect's hand, with a perceptible tremble; and he read the following lines, bearing date only two days before her death:"DEAR WILLIE, "To-day I am not quite so, but trust to be better; and wish you to know, that having convers much with Doctor, my friend, the Rector, I make for future the Bible my only. guide, and you are not to mind what I said about waiting five--only do all things-- things-with prayer, and marry whenever you see goo seeking first God's blessing by pra----. ALL IN THE DARK. 103 his promise to allow Violet to return to the Rectory for another little visit. It was so long delayed that William grew not only melancholy, but anxious. What might not be going on in London? Were there no richer fellows than he, none more-more-what should he say?-more that style of man who is acceptable in feminine eyes? Was not Violet peerless, go where she might? Could such a treasure remain long unsought? and if sought, alas! who could foresee the event? And here he was alone, at Gilroyd, well knowing that distance, silence, absence, are sure at last to kill the most vigorous passion; and how could a mere fancy, of the filmiest texture -such as his best hopes could only claim, by way of interest in her heart or in her head -survive these agencies of decay and death? "Next week I think I shall run up to town. I must arrange about attending an equity draughtsman's. I'm determined, sir, to learn my business thoroughly," said William. " Right, sir! I applaud you," replied the Rector, to whom this was addressed. " I see you mean work, and are resolved to master your craft. It's a noble profession. I had an uncle at it who, everybody said, whould have done wonders, but he died of small-pox in the Temple, before he had held a brief, I believe, though he had been some years called; but it would have come. Macte virtute. I may live to see you charge a jury, sir." CHAPTER LXIX wILLIAM MAUBRAY IN LONDON. VIOLET DARKWELL'S stay in London lengthened. Saxton was growing intolerable. William began to despond. He ran up to town, and stayed there for a few weeks. He eat his dinner in Lincoln's Inn Hall for two terms, and dined every Sunday, and twice beside, at the 'Darkwells.' The Sergeant was so busy that, on these occasions, he appeared 'like a guest-an unexpected presence, and wes still evidently haunted by briefs-fatigued and thoughtful; but very kind to William. In their short after-dinner sittings I do not think that William ever opened the subject that was nearest his heart. He had, I think, and with a great deal better reason than poor Vane Trevor of Revington, whose pale phantom sometimes flitted warningly before his imagination - horrible qualms about his money qualification. After one of these Sunday dinners William and Sergeant Darkwell tMte-a-tete, the barrister, in his quiet cheery way, had been counselling the student on some points, and relating bar stories, always pleasant to hear when told by bright and accurate men like him; and said he,- as they rose, "ahd the first term you make a hundred pounds I give you leave to marry," William looked hard at his host. But his countenance was thoughtful, he had wandered away already to some other matter. In fact he looked quite innocent, and I believe he was, of thought of Violet. "I give you leave to marry." Of course it was quite out of the question that he could have meant what the young man fancied he might mean. Still he thought he might lay down this general rule, and leave it to him to make the particular inference. " I see," said William, in conference with himself, as he trudged home that night, dejectedly. " He wishes me to understand that I shan't have his consent till then. A hundred pounds in a term! iHe had been seven years called before he made that? Could William hope to succeed so well? Not quite, he rather thought." And then grasping his stick hard he swore it was like Jacob's service for Rachel -a seven years' business; and all for a Rachel, who had no thought of waiting. On all these occasions he saw Violet. But was there not a change, a sense of distance, and above all, was there not that awful old "she-cousin" (to borrow Sam Papy's convenient phrase), of Sergeant Darkwell, silent, vigilant, in stiff silk, whose thin face smiled not, and whose cold gray eyes followed him steadily everywhere and who exercised an authority over Violet more than aunt-like?" William called again and again, but never saw pretty Violet without this prudent and dreadful old lady. Her indeed he twice saw alone. In a tete-a-tete she was not more agreeable. She listened to what few things, with a piteous ransacking of his invention and his memory he could bring up, and looked upon him with a silent suspicion and secret aversion under which his spirit gradually despaired and died within him. Glimpses of Violet, under the condition of this presence, were tantalizing, even agonizing sometimes. The liberty of speech so dear to Englishmen was denied him, life was gliding away in this speechless dream, the spell of that lean and silent old lady was upon him. How he yearned for the easy country life with its kindly chaperons and endless opportunities. Love, as we all know, is a madness, and it is the property of madmen to imagine conspiracies, and William began to think that there was an understanding between Sergeant Darkwell and the "she-cousin," and that she was there to prevent his ever having an opportunity of saying one confidential word in Violet's ear. It seemed to him, moreover, that this was unspeakably worse, that Violet was quite happy in this state of things. He began to suspect that he had been a fool, that his egotism had made him, in a measure, mad, and that it was time for him to awake and look the sad truth in the face. William left London. He wavered in his allegiance to the Bar. He doubted his fitness for it. Had he not money enough for all his wants? Why should he live a town life, and grieve his soul over contingent remainders, and follow after leading cases in objectless